The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

He pushed the page towards his visitor, and Hector, who had no wish to supervise Mr. MacPhair’s correspondence, but could not well avert the eyes which he was thus specifically invited to cast upon it, did see a few scraps of Finlay MacPhair’s ill-spelt if loyal remarks to that trusted servant of their exiled King’s, something about ‘constant resolucion to venture my owne person’, ‘sincer, true and reale sentiments’, and a desire to be ‘laid at his Majesty and Royal Emenency’s feet’. But he could not think why he should be invited to peruse them.

      The letter upon which he was now engaged on his compatriot’s behalf Finlay did not offer to show the latter, though had Hector looked over the writer’s shoulder he would have been more impressed with its wording than with the vagaries of its orthography, and would certainly have found its contents more arresting than those of the loyal epistle to Rome.

      “Dear Grandpapa,” wrote Finlay MacPhair of Glenshian with a scratching quill to the old gentleman in Government service whom, since he was no relation of his, he must have known very well thus playfully to address, “Dear Grandpapa, Get our ffrind to writ a pass for a Mr. Hector Grant to go to France without delai. Hee’s harmlesse, and my oblidging an oficer of Lord Ogilby’s regt. in this maner will not faile to rayse my creditt with the party, which is a matter I must now pay particular atention tow. Besides, I am in hopes to make some litle use of him leater. And let me know, if you please, when we shall meet to talk of the afair I last wrot of, otherwise I must undow what I have begun. Excuse my ansiety, and belive me most sincerly, with great estime and affection, Your most oblidged humble servt, Alexander Jeanson.”

      And this was addressed, in the same independent spelling, to “The Honble Guin Voughan at his house in Golden Square,” but Hector did not see the direction, for the writer folded and sealed in the letter in an outer sheet on which he wrote, “To Mr. Tamas Jones, at Mr. Chelburn’s, a Chimmist in Scherwood Street.”

      “That is not the real name of my acquaintance, Mr. Grant,” said the scribe with great frankness, handing him the missive. “And yon is the address of an apothecary at whose shop you should leave this letter with as little delay as possible. Call there again by noon to-morrow, and I’ll engage there’ll be somewhat awaiting you that will do what you wish.”

      Hector thanked him warmly, so genuinely grateful that he failed to perceive that he had not wronged the punctilious Mr. MacPhair after all, for he did know someone who could procure useful papers for a Jacobite in difficulties. The benefactor, however, cut short his thanks by asking him a question which somewhat allayed his gratitude.

      “I hope, Mr. Grant,” he said, looking at him meaningly, “that there was nothing of a compromising nature among the papers which were taken from you in the Highlands?”

      Hector reddened, having all along desired to obscure that fact. He fenced.

      “No papers lost in such a manner, Mr. MacPhair, but must, I fear, be regarded as compromising.”

      “But naturally,” replied young Glenshian somewhat impatiently. “As you no doubt found when you were in Fort William. Did they question you much there about them?”

      “No. My papers were not in their hands, as far as I know.”

      “Then why were you?”

      “Oh, ’tis a long story, not worth troubling you with. But the gist of it is that I gave myself up.”

      He had succeeded in astonishing Mr. MacPhair. “Gave yourself up!” exclaimed the latter. “In God’s name, what for? Gave yourself up at Fort William! I fear the knock on your head must have been a severe one!”

      “Perhaps it was,” said Hector shortly. “At any rate I accomplished nothing by doing it, and on Christmas Day I escaped.”

      “My dear Mr. Grant, you astonish me more and more! I took it that you had been released. And after escaping you come to London, of all places!”

      “It was on my way to France,” said the adventurer sulkily. And he then added, in a not very placatory manner, “If you wish to give me to understand that on this account you prefer to withdraw the letter you have written, here it is!” He drew it out of his pocket.

      Finlay MacPhair waved his hand. “Not for worlds, not for worlds! It is the more needed; and your escape shall make no difference, even though it was unknown to me when I penned that request. But I should like to know, Mr. Grant, why you gave yourself up. You must have had some extraordinary reason for so extraordinary a proceeding.” And, as Hector hesitated, foreseeing to what a truthful answer might lead, he added, in a tone which very plainly showed offence, “I have surely earned the right to a little more frankness on your part, Mr. Grant!”

      The claim could not be gainsaid. Hector resigned himself, and in as few words as possible gave that reason. Even then he somehow contrived to keep out Doctor Cameron’s name.

      Glenshian threw himself back in his chair, and looked at the narrator under lowered lids. “So you played this heroic rôle because you considered that you had compromised your brother-in-law by the loss of your papers. Then there was something compromising in them?”

      “No, not to him . . . I see I had best explain the whole matter,” said Hector in an annoyed voice, and being tired of cross-examination, came out bluntly and baldly with everything—the loss of his prematurely written letter to Cluny Macpherson (mostly unintelligible, he hoped, owing to its cipher), Ardroy’s going back to warn Lochdornie, his finding instead Doctor Cameron and bringing him to his house, the search there and Ewen’s arrest. To all this the young chief listened with the most unstirring attention, his hand over his mouth, and those curiously pale hazel eyes of his fixed immovably on the speaker.

      “Dhé, that’s a tale!” said he slowly at the end. “And this letter of yours, with its mention of the arrival of Lochdornie and Doctor Cameron—you never discovered what had become of it?”

      “No. But I am pretty sure, as I say,” replied Hector, “that it never found its way to Fort William. I was, I confess, in despair lest harm should come to either of them through its loss, but I cannot think that any has. ’Tis now more than three months since it was stolen from me, and by this time the Government has probably learnt, from other sources of their presence in Scotland.”

      Frowning over his own confession, and remembering too at that moment how Alison that day at Fort William had spoken of searches made by the military after the Doctor, he did not see the sharp glance which was cast at him.

      “Ay, ’tis very probable they know it,” said Mr. MacPhair drily. “What part your lost letter may have played in their knowledge . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “And indeed,” he went on, with an air of disapproval, “I cannot anyways commend this mission of my kinsman Lochdornie’s and Doctor Cameron’s. Had the Prince taken my advice on the matter when he made it known to me—as, considering my large interests and influence in the Western Highlands, he had done well to—they would not have been sent upon so risky an undertaking. However, since it has been set on foot, I hope my cousin Lochdornie will find means to report to me on his proceedings there; which indeed,” added the future Chief, “it is no less than his duty to do. As yet I have had no word from him. It would be well did I hear from the Doctor also. I only trust he may not be engaged in damping down the ardour of the clans, as he did three years ago.”

      “Doctor Cameron damp down the clans!” exclaimed Hector, thinking he had not heard aright. “My dear Mr. MacPhair, he’s more like, surely, to inflame them with too little cause. . . . And how should the Prince have selected him for this mission if that were his habit?”

      Finlay shrugged his shoulders. “Archie Cameron has always had the Prince’s ear since the day when Lochiel sent him to Arisaig to dissuade His Royal Highness from his enterprise. Moreover, ’twas to the Doctor’s own interest to come to Scotland again. There’s always the treasure of Loch Arkaig, about which he knows even more than Cluny—more than any man alive.” The half-sneering expression habitual to his face leapt into full life as he went on, “That gold is like honey to a bee in his case. He dipped pretty deeply