“If you can get him abroad, sir,” she addressed Alastair, and her voice was hard as granite, “I think I can promise you that he will not return. My arm is a weak woman’s, but it strikes far. His services will be soon forgotten by Mr. Pelham, but Kitty of Queensberry does not forget his offences. Though I live for fifty years more, I will make it my constant business to keep the rogue in exile.”
The man seemed to meditate. Doubtless he reflected that even the malice of a great lady could not keep him forever out of the country. She might die, or her husband lose his power, and politics would be politics to a Whig Government. One of those who looked on divined his thoughts, for a soft voice spoke.
“I do not think that Greyhouses will ever again be a pleasant habitation for the gentleman. Has he forgotten the case of the laird of Champertoun?”
Kyd started violently.
“Or the goodman of Heriotside?” The voice was gentle and soothing, but it seemed to wake acute terror in one hearer.
“Men die and their memories, but when all of us are dust the Bog-blitters will still cry on Lammermuir. I think that Mr. Kyd has heard them before at Greyhouses. He will not desire to hear them again.”
The Spainneach had risen and stood beside Kyd, and from the back of the room two of the Spoonbills advanced like guardian shadows. The big man in the rich clothes had shrunk to a shapeless bundle in the chair, his face grey and his eyes hot and tragic. “Not that,” he cried, “don’t banish me from my native land. I’ll go anywhere you please in the bounds o’ Scotland—to St. Kilda, like Lady Grange, or to the wildest Hielands, but let me feel that I’m in my own country. I tell you my heart’s buried aneath Scots heather. I’ll die if you twine the Lammermuirs and me. Anything you like, my lady, but let me bide at home.”
He found only cold eyes and silence. Then he seemed to brace himself to self-command. His face was turned to the Duchess, and he sat up in his chair, settled his cravat, and with a shaking hand poured himself a glass of wine. His air was now ingratiating and sentimental, and he wiped a tear from his eye.
“Nos patriae fines et dulcia liquimus arva,” he said. “I’ll have to comfort myself with philosophy, for man’s life is more howes than heights. Heigho, but I’ll miss Scotland. I’m like the old ballad:
‘Happy the craw
That biggs i’ the Totten Shaw
And drinks o’ the Water of Dye,
For nae mair may I.’ ”
The words, the tone, the broken air gave to Alastair a moment of compunction. But in Mr. Johnson they roused another feeling. Half raising himself from his chair, he shook his fist at the speaker.
“Sir,” he cried, “you are worse than a rogue, you are a canting rogue. You would have driven twenty honest men into unmerited exile by your infamies and had no pity on them, but you crave pity for yourself when you are justly banished. I have sympathy with many kinds of rascal, but none with yours. Your crimes are the greater because you pretend to sensibility. With you, sir, patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.”
Alastair picked the saddlebag from below the table, and emptied its remaining contents in the fire.
“Except what I keep for His Highness’s eye, let ashes be the fate of this treason. There is your baggage, sir. You may want it on your long journey.”
The hand that lifted it was Edom’s.
“I’ll get the other pockmantie ready, sir,” he said to Kyd in the grave tone of a good servant. “Your horse is no just in the best fettle for the road, but I ride lichter nor you, and ye can take mine.”
“But you do not propose to continue in his service?” Alastair cried in astonishment. “See, man, you have saved my life, and I will take charge of your fortunes.”
Edom halted at the door. “I thank ye, sir, for your guidwill. But I was born at Greyhouses, and my faither and his faither afore him served the family. It’s no a sma’ thing like poalitics that’ll gar a Kyd and a Lowrie take different roads.”
XVI
Bids Farewell to an English Lady
Duchess Kitty descended from her chair of justice and came to the fireside, where she let her furs slip from her and stood, a figure of white porcelain, warming her feet at the blaze.
“There was some word of a lady,” she said.
Johnson, too, had risen, and though the man’s cheeks were gaunt with hunger he had no eye for the food on the table. His mind seemed to be in travail with difficult thoughts.
“The lady, madam,” he groaned. “She is in her chamber, unsuspecting. Her husband should be here also. He may enter at any moment.”
“He has fled,” said Alastair. “Fled, as I take it, to the Whig Dukes for his reward. The man is revealed at last, and his wife must disown him or be tainted by his guilt.”
The news seemed to affect Johnson painfully. He cast himself into a chair, which creaked under his weight, and covered his eyes with his hands.
“Why in God’s name did you suffer it?” he asked fiercely of Alastair. “I had another plan. … I would have brought the dog to repentance.”
“I will yet bring him to justice,” said Alastair grimly. “I have a forewarning of it, and tomorrow or next week or next year he will stand up before my sword.”
The words gave no comfort to Johnson. He rolled his melancholy eyes and groaned again. “ ’Twill break her heart,” he lamented. “She will know of his infamy—it cannot be hid from her. … Oh, why, why!”
Alastair spoke to the Duchess. “You will tell Lady Norreys that her husband has gone to the Prince. No more. I will make certain that he does not return to Weston, though I
