The Span o' Life: A Tale of Louisbourg & Quebec. William McLennan
lovely face. Another moment and I was beside them, shifting the unconscious lady to my left arm, to the great relief of the maid, who at once recognised my quality in spite of my disguise.
“Spy 'em close, my beauty! Spy 'em close! Only a penny!” shouted a ruffian, holding a perspective-glass before the unhappy lady. “A rebel wench, lads, and must see her lover close!” But I cut his ribaldry short with a blow in the face, and with my foot pushed off a wretched hag busily engaged in trying to find the pocket of my poor charge, and made immediate move to withdraw her from the crowd.
But my efforts were met with a storm of curses and howls from the scum about us, and matters were fast growing serious, when a most genteelly dressed man pushed in beside us, and, with sword in hand, soon cleared a way, which I threaded with a determined countenance. A moment or two concluded the affair, and we were safe.
The lady recovered with surprising spirit, and turning to the new-comer, cried: “Oh, Gaston! It was horrible beyond words!” and she clasped his arm with both her shapely hands.
We hurried on without further speech, looking for a hackney-coach; and when this was found and hailed, the lady turned, and holding out her hand to me, said: “Sir, forgive the discomposure which prevented my sooner acknowledgment of your services. What would have become of me without your aid? I cannot say half what I feel;” and the lovely creature's eyes filled as she spake.
“My dear young lady,” I said, bending over and kissing her hand, “you could say nothing that would heighten the happiness I have had in being of service to you;” and in order not to add to her generous embarrassment I handed her into the coach, whereupon our common rescuer giving a direction to the man, which I did not overhear, she and her maid drove off. Then, not to be behind so fair an original, I turned and complimented the stranger upon his timely succour.
“Sir,” said he, in French, “I perceive, from some sufficient reason, which I can readily divine, it is convenient for you to appear in disguise.”
“Truly, monsieur,” I returned, “I did not hope that a disguise would protect me from a discerning eye such as yours, but it suffices for the crowd. I am certain, though, that I confide in a gentleman when I say I am Hugh Maxwell of Kirkconnel, late captain in Berwick's Foot, and am entitled to qualify myself as Chevalier.”
“And I, Chevalier,” he replied, with equal frankness, “am the Vicomte Gaston de Trincardel, at present on a diplomatic mission towards the Court.”
Being equally satisfied with each other's condition, we repaired to his lodgings in St. James's Street, where we fell into familiar conversation, in the course of which the Vicomte said,
“I suppose I am correct in my belief that you have been engaged in the affair of Charles Edward?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Is there any reliable intelligence of his whereabouts?”
“To be absolutely frank with you, my dear Vicomte, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me where he is, or what becomes of him.”
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I cannot understand such a feeling.”
“Had you seen as much of him as I did, even when he was trying to appear at his best as Fitzjames; had you been a daily spectator of the inconceivable folly with which every chance was mismanaged, every opportunity let slip; of the childish prejudice with which every true friend was estranged, and of the silly vanity which daily demanded new incense during the whole of this miserable affair—you might understand without difficulty,” I returned, with some little heat.
“But, Chevalier,” he inquired, soothingly, “may I ask why you followed his fortunes?”
“From that, Vicomte, which I doubt not has ever guided your own course in life, from the one motive that has alone influenced me—principle. My people followed the fortunes of his grandfather after the Boyne, and on both sides of my house, Maxwells and Geraldines, our name has been synonymous with loyalty to the Stuart cause abroad as well as at home.”
“I know your name and its equivalent, Chevalier. May I ask to which branch you belong?”
“I scarce know how to qualify my standing,” I answered, laughing; “we have been proscribed rebels so long that I have lost touch with those things men most value in regard to family. Just as I am a Chevalier without so much as a steed whereon to mount my knightship, so am I a Maxwell of Kirkconnel without title to a rood of ground or a kinsman within measurable distance; and my father before me held naught he could call his own save his honour, my lady mother, and my unworthy self. No! if there be a Spanish branch, I swear I'll lay claim to that, for 'tis Spain assuredly that must hold my flocks and herds, not to name my chateaux.”
“Chevalier,” he began, earnestly, “I shall esteem it a favour—”
“Not for the world, my dear Vicomte! Money is the one anxiety which seldom causes me a second thought. My habit of life is simple, and my only ambition my profession. But to go back to the happy chance of our meeting, may I inquire, without indiscretion, the name of the young lady whom you rescued?”
“Oh, come, come! Honour where honour is due. I am no more responsible for the rescue than yourself. The young lady is a Miss Grey, living with her aunt in temporary lodgings in Essex Street, off the Strand.”
“I have a suspicion, sir, that the name may be as temporary as her lodging, and that I am fortunate in applying to one who can give me reliable information.”
To this, however, the Vicomte only bowed somewhat stiffly, and being unwilling that any contretemps should arise to mar so promising an acquaintance—though the Lord only knows what umbrage any one could take from my remark—I made my adieux, the Vicomte most obligingly offering me his services should I wish to pass over to France. But of these I could not as yet avail myself, as it was necessary I should know of Lady Jane's intentions more definitely; so, with my acknowledgments, the interview ended.
CHAPTER II
I DISCOVER A NEW INTEREST IN LIFE
On my way back to Soho I turned over matters with interest. I had but little difficulty in placing the Vicomte; he was one of those clear, simple souls, very charming at times in woman, but less acceptable in the man of the world.
No one can admire purity of mind in a woman more than myself, but I have no hesitation in stating that at times I find it positively disconcerting when displayed in too obvious a degree by a man. In woman, it is to be desired above all things, and woman is so far superior to man in the manipulation of the more delicate qualities, that she seldom errs in her concealments, and when she reveals, she does so at the most opportune moment, and so effectively that, though it be no more than a glimpse, it suffices.
And these reflections brought me naturally to Miss Grey; indeed, in fancy I had never been away from her since we met. The Vicomte's manner absolutely confirmed me in my belief that the name was assumed.
Now if a man does not wish to tell you the truth, and the occasion be important, he has just one of two alternatives: the one, is to tell a lie with such assurance and bearing that it carries conviction with it; but, egad! if he won't do that, then the only other is to run you through.
The Vicomte not having been ready for either, I was so far in his confidence that I knew “Miss Grey” was an assumed name; and I shrewdly suspected, from the familiarity of her manner with him, that their mutual relation might be closer than he cared to admit—a suspicion I resolved to put to the touch. Accordingly, the next day I made as careful a toilet as my cursed disguise would admit of, and took my way to Essex Street.