"Good relations with the Government of his Most Catholic Majesty must be preserved, and the utmost care should be maintained that no injustice be done, however unwittingly, to any of the subjects of the two countries.
"What is the next case for consideration?"
The petitioners, much gratified, flocked around Murray and his ape-like servant, and I followed Master Juggins from the chamber and out into Whitehall.
"The scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "But 'twas no more than I had expected."
"And what will happen next?" I asked.
"If I know Governor Burnet as well as I think I do, Murray and his French friends will draw slight comfort from their triumph today."
"Why? What can he do?"
"Nothing official, 'tis true; but remember he is three thousand miles from London and therefore able to think for himself. With you to help him——"
I felt something brush against my coat sleeve and looked around. I had just time to see the back of a gaudy red coat and a woolly black head, crowned by an ornate cocked hat, disappearing in the crowd.
"Do you see?" I said.
"Aye," responded Juggins grimly; "I might have known it. Well, 'tis a lesson in time. We will not forget it."
We turned from Whitehall into the crowded Strand.
"Murray will figure that this delay gives him time to bribe and buy his will, either in Governor Burnet's Council or in the Government here," continued Master Juggins, with a watchful eye against the return of the spy. "At the worst he will think that he should be able to withstand the law's execution for several years, and in that time much may be done—aye, much may be done, and in more than one way." he concluded grimly.
"Then doubtless Murray will send at once a swift messenger to New York so that his friends may set to work in his interest," I suggested.
Juggins stopped abruptly in the center of the footway.
"No, he will go himself. 'Tis too important for trusting to another. That was well thought of, Master Harry. We must not let him get ahead of us. You must sail on the first passage available. Do you follow me."
And he started off as fast as his legs could carry him, bumping and prodding his person against all who did not move from his path.
"Whither are we bound now?" I panted.
"To Master Lloyd's Coffee-House, where the ship-owners resort for trade. We shall find news of the sailings there."
We followed the Strand past Temple Bar into Fleet Street, and so trod a path into the labyrinth of the City—that congested hive of humanity whence the mighty energies of England radiated in a constant struggle for control of the world's arteries of trade. Used though I was to the busy life of Paris, I was amazed by the throngs of people hurrying to and fro, the concentration of effort that was everywhere visible, the numbers of different races represented on the sidewalks, the signs and letterings that hung over doorways and in windows, proclaiming the multiplicity of endeavors to which the merchants of the city were committed.
"Mark well what you see around you, Master Harry," Juggins instructed me. "London hath prospered under King George. Here are come traders out of Muscovy, Cathay, the further Indies, the Spanish Main, the country of the Moors, Turkey, our own Western Plantations. And here at last is Master Lloyd's Tavern."
Many men stood on the cobbles outside talking. The coffee-room and taproom also were filled. Master Juggins pushed his way through the shifting groups until he reached a burly, stout man who sat by himself at a table, sucking fragrant Mocha from a bowl.
"And what will you ha', Bob Juggins!" demanded the burly man in a sulky voice.
As he spoke he pushed the bowl of coffee from him and produced a dog-eared record-book, bound in filthy sheepskin, from a pocket in the skirts of his coat.
"A good afternoon to you, Tom Jenkins," returned Juggins. "You gentry are sitting late this afternoon."
"We ha' been making up the subscriptions for the Baltic Fleet," yawned the burly man.
"And how are sailings to the Western Plantations?"
"Ameriky?"
"Aye, New York province."
"From Bristol?"
Master Juggins hesitated, then shook his head.
"No, I must have an early passage," he decided. "'Twould take too long to ride thither."
The burly man consulted his record-book.
"We ha' the shipNew Venture, Abbot, master, sailing from Greenwich the end of the week—say, Saturday post meridian. What's your cargo?"
"'Tis not cargo, but a man I would send on her."
Master Jenkins shook his head forebodingly.
"I fear me she's full up, Bob."
"How does that happen?"
"But yesterday we sold four places on her—and she hath limited quarters for passengers."
Juggins threw me a humorous glance.
"I'll be bound 'tis Master Murray of New York she's to carry," he declared.
"Why, that's true," admitted Jenkins. "And some Frenchy, a friend o' his."
I forgot my role of 'prentice lad, and shoved myself across the table.
"Not de Veulle? The Chevalier de Veulle?" I challenged him.
Jenkins looked at me with mingled amusement and indignation.
"Who's your green lad that hankers for the Frenchies so?" he asked Juggins.
My master sent me spinning to the floor.
"Mind your place, boy," he rebuked me.
Then he continued half-apologetically to Master Jenkins—
"This de Veulle put a slight upon me before the Lords of Trade, and the lad—'tis a good youth and devoted, though fresh come out of Dorset, as you may see—was most indignant on my behalf."
Jenkins blinked his eyes.
"Humph," said he.
"And now about the passage?" resumed Juggins. "I'll pay well. Sure, you can always find room for an extra man on shipboard."
"What will you pay?"
"Three guineas."
"Four," countered Jenkins in a monotonous tone.
"Four, then," agreed Juggins, "and may the extra guinea find a hole in your pocket."
The ship-owner nodded dispassionately, and made an entry in his book.
"Four guineas," he repeated.
Juggins drew the coins from a purse and clinked them on the table.
"You'll never lose a debt, will you, Tom?"
"Not if I can help it," Tom agreed.
"And is it de Veulle sails with Murray?"
"Aye; he goes on some Government mission for Canada."
"But why does he not sail from Havre in a French ship for Quebec?"
"The St. Lawrence is frozen. There will be no French ships for Canada for two months yet."
Juggins pursed his lips in that quaint gesture of a whistle which was a characteristic trait.
"They use our goods," he muttered; "they use our rivers, our trading-posts, our people, the tribes which are friendly to us—and now they use our ships."
"Often," admitted Jenkins disinterestedly. "Since the Peace of Utrecht we ha' done a sight o' shipping business with the Frenchies."
"'Tis to our shame," declared Master Juggins roundly.
"Why, 'tis business," answered Jenkins with his first show of interest. "Would you have a merchant reject the trade that came his way?"
"Aye, if 'twas not to his interest to accept it," rejoined Juggins.
"Show me a heathen, let alone a Frenchy, will pay a farthing more than an Englishman, and I'll show you a better customer," said the ship-owner. "Trade is trade. Leave politics to governments. If I make not my own living, will the gentry at Westminster carry my debts? I think not."
Juggins swelled with indignation.
"God help England when men like you come to rule it, Tom Jenkins!" he declared. "Good afternoon to you."
"One moment," interposed Jenkins. "You ha' not given me the name of my passenger."
"Must you have it?"
"Aye. How else shall I know whom to admit on board?"
"'Tis this youth here."
"He who hath the interest in the Frenchy?" responded Jenkins. "Well, lad, keep your hands off him, despite his insults to your master. And what's your name?"
"Bill," I said in a voice I made as hoarse as I could.
"Bill," he repeated. "'Tis a good plain name. But you must ha' more to it. So the custom officers will say."
"'Tis Juggins," interposed my master. "The lad is a cousin once removed. He goes to seek employment in the New World. To tell the truth, though strong and willing, he is not overburdened with wits. But he can swing an ax as well as any one, and his muscles should bring him good hire on some wilderness farm."
"Aye," agreed Master Jenkins tonelessly.
He wrote the name carefully in his record-book, slipped it back in his coat-tails and returned to his bowl of Mocha. The sucking of his lips was the last sound I heard as we left the table.
In the street Juggins turned upon me indignantly. "Would you ruin us, Master Harry!" he demanded. "Zooks, you were like to plunge yourself into trouble by your forward manner! I'll wager Jenkins is wondering now whether you are a criminal or only a half-wit."
"Not he," I replied confidently. "He hath his four guineas, and a reasonable explanation for the receiving of it, and he will not worry about Government or the character of the man who paid him."
"Mayhap," said Juggins doubtfully. "But for your own sake, lad, mind the playing of your part till you have the Atlantic behind you. Why did you flare up over this de Veulle?"
"Because I know him."
This time 'twas Juggins who forgot our parts, for he stopped me in front of St. Paul's and grasped my arm.
"You know him? But——"
"I know him and I hate him," I answered doggedly.
"Why? What hath he done!"
"Oh, he owes me nothing. Like enough he thinks the obligation is the other way. He is one of the gallants of the Court in Paris. He came out of Canada some three years ago, and made a reputation for gambling, fickleness and daredeviltry of all kinds. I never had the money to mingle with him and his friends, but once in the Toison d'Or I heard him slur the poor young man I then served."
"James!"
"I called him King James in those days," I answered. "Yes, de Veulle was mocking the petty motley of our exiled Court, mocking it as much as anything else because he sought to humiliate the two Englishmen in the room.
"'What is this King but a puppet figure for us to dandle in England's face!' he said. 'And what are his courtiers but other puppets to dress the show?'"
"His toadies all laughed. They laughed so that they did not see the other Englishman and me rise in our seats.
"'And the most comical thing of all,' ended de Veulle, 'is to think of this Puppet King, with a Puppet Court, ruling over a Puppet England while France pulls the strings—as will surely happen some day.'"
"It was then I knocked him out of his chair."
Master Juggins gripped me by the hand with a warmth that surprized me.
"Good lad!" he exclaimed. "I would have done it myself!"
"What! You are no Jacobite!"
"I am no Jacobite," he replied in some confusion, "but no more were you a Jacobite when you struck him. 'Twas for England, Master Harry; and a man's country means more than any king that ever ruled. But what came after?"
"We fought in the upper room of the Toison d'Or—de Veulle and I and a friend of his and my friend. My friend was badly wounded."
"And you?"
"I disarmed my opponent."
"Only that!" remonstrated Juggins whimsically.
"Well, I disarmed him several times. When we began to fence I found he knew little of the small-sword—remember, he had been brought up in Canada—and 'twould not have been pretty to slay a man so at my mercy. Also, to treat him as I did was more humiliating to his pride than death."
"You did well, Master Harry. But granny will be awaiting us. We must hasten."
He walked in silence until we had reached the house in Holborn.
"How comes de Veulle in London?" he asked suddenly as we climbed the stairs.
"He was in some trouble in Paris—what, I know not. The rumor was that he was ordered into exile. But if he sails for Canada, as Master Jenkins says——"
"And on the same ship with Murray," interposed Juggins excitedly, "after appearing in Murray's behalf this afternoon——"
"—then there may be more to his enterprise than the mere punishment of exile from the Court," I concluded.
"'Tis so!" exclaimed Juggins. "Beyond doubt 'tis so. Aye, Master Harry, this will be no ordinary struggle I send you upon. And mayhap de Veulle will recognize you."
I struck him heavily on the shoulder.
"Do you think 'my father's son' will draw back on such excuse at this hour!" I said.
He laughed ruefully, and raised his hail for granny.
"Ho, Goody! Goody, hast lain abed all day! Here are two hungry forest-runners will eat your kitchen bare."
Granny tripped into the hall, a mug of bitter ale in either hand.
"I heard what you said, and Master Harry's answer," she rebuked him. "Think shame on yourself, Robert, to hint that he would hesitate before peril—and you sending him into it, too," she added somewhat illogically, I thought. "Now, do both of you drain these. 'Twill wash the taste of the streets and taverns from your mouths."
We obeyed her.
"And what luck did you have?" she demanded next.
"He leaves us Saturday," said Juggins simply.
She cried out.
"So soon! Must it be, Robert? Sure, the lad should have some respite from toil and fear!"
"If he is to go, he must go then," rejoined Juggins. "'Twas because I felt as you did that I said what you heard, granny."
"And 'twas because he had a sound heart in him that he answered as he did," she snapped. "If he is to go, he should go, I dare say; and the greater the peril, the greater the reward. Now come with me. The meal is made ready."
She plied us with questions as we ate, demonstrating a keenness of mind that continually amazed me.
"So Master Murray hath engaged three berths on his own behalf, aside from the Frenchman," she commented. "Who could he have with him?"
"The negro servant," I hazarded.
"That is true," assented Juggins. "He is Tom, Murray's body-guard. An evil brute, by all accounts."
"But still there is a third place," insisted granny.
"Another servant!" I suggested.
Juggins shook his head.
"I have had our men watched as well as may be, but never have we seen a trace of any other follower or servant."
"Have you done aught towards securing Master Harry's equipment?" she inquired.
"No," he answered. "The less he is cumbered with the better. All he needs for forest work he can find to better advantage in New York."
"But arms!" she pressed.
"There I have somewhat will be of aid to him," he agreed.
And he went to a cupboard, from which he produced a bundle of rolled cloths. Layer after layer was unwound, and finally he drew from the wrappings a gun such as I had never seen before. It was long in the barrel, well-stocked, yet very light and handy.
"You may exclaim over it, Master Harry," remarked Juggins as he surrendered it into my admiring hands; "but you can have no idea of its value until you have seen it tested in the great forests, where a man's life depends upon the swiftness and accuracy with which he can shoot. I learned that in my own youth, and so when I returned to London I had this gun made for me by the King's own gunsmith, after plans I drew for him. There is none other like it."
"And it is for me?" I asked, delighted as a child with a new toy.
"What better use could it have?" he replied. "Oh, yes, and these go with it."
He brought from the same cupboard a shot-pouch of beaded deerskin and a powder-horn, ornamented with dull silver that would not catch the light. Also a belt of hide from which there hung in sheaths a delicately balanced hatchet and a long, broad-bladed knife.
"These you will discover no less useful than the gun," he explained, drawing the weapons from their coverings. "This which you call a hatchet is the tomahawk of the Indians, used for fighting at close quarters and for throwing. This other is the scalping-knife, and a deadly blade it is, too. You will feel them strange at first, but among my friends in New York there is a Dutchman named Corlaer who will instruct you in the ways of the wilderness."
"You will not be letting Master Harry go upon his adventures without smoothing the path for him, will you, Robert?" interposed granny, looking up from the work-table by which she sat.
"No, indeed; he shall have letters to Governor Burnet himself, whom I met before he went overseas, and to Master Cadwalader Colden, the Governor's surveyor-general and a member of his Council, a fine, loyal gentleman with whom I have had some correspondence. They will see to him, more especially because he brings news of value to their plans; and he may be used to thwart the intrigues they struggle against."
Granny Juggins drew my face down to a level with her puckered old lips.
"God preserve you, Master Harry. No, I am not weeping. 'Tis— No matter. Remember always that so long as my heart beats there is room in it for you—and forget not that your mother would be hungry for pride in you if she were but with us."
She drew away anxiously.
"You do not mind that I say that, who was her servant?"
I swept her into my arms.
"I love you for it, granny. Never shall I forget your kindness and the welcome you gave to the stranger from the night."
She kissed me tenderly.
"I am an old woman, Master Harry," she said, "and I may not live to see it; but the day will come when you will be no longer a fugitive from justice. So be not disheartened."
"And how could I be disheartened," I demanded, as I set her down, "with two friends such as I may boast of?"
There was a mist before my eyes, and I was not sorry when Juggins broke in upon our farewells.
"Come, come," says he. "You will be unmanning the lad, granny——"
"'Tis to his credit he hath so much sentiment," she returned, wiping clear her eyes with a shaky hand. "But 'tis time he went, Robert."
"Aye, John Waterman will be waiting us at the Temple Stairs, and we have little time to spare if we are to get aboard before the other passengers. This de Veulle would recognize him, I fear, even in his disguise."
I could not forbear a grimace at the reference to my get-up, a linsey-woolsey shirt, with homespun jacket and breeches and a bobbed scratch-wig, the whole designed to give me a rustic appearance, which there can be no doubt that it did.
"Never mind, Master Harry," admonished Juggins as he clapped an ugly beaver of ancient style upon my head. "In New York you will rig yourself in forest-runner's garb, and forget that you ever played the bumpkin. Give granny a last kiss, and——"
She flew at me, light as a bird; her arms clasped momentarily about my neck; I felt her kiss on my cheek; and then she was gone from the room. I may as well say here that I never saw her again, although many a night as I lay under the stars I was to remember her quaint ways, her sweet, shrill voice and loving smile.
But I had no opportunity for such thoughts as Juggins and I hurried through the streets toward the river, where a wherry was awaiting us. All the way he kept up a running fire of last-minute advice and instructions.
"Guard well the letters I have given you, the one to Corlaer no less than those to Governor Burnet and Master Colden. Corlaer, though he be only a rude, unlettered woodsman, is none the less of importance in the wilderness country. He hath the confidence of the Indians of the Six Nations, a mighty tribe, or rather confederacy of tribes, Master Harry. They were recently but five nations in their league, but the Tuscaroras, after troubles with the colonists in the Carolinas, came north several years ago and were accepted at the Council-Fire at Onondaga."
"Are they friendly to Murray?" I asked as we reached the river and climbed aboard the wherry.
"Nay, I think not. But you will learn beyond question in New York. I have writ as strongly as a man may to Governor Burnet, but I would have you say to him all that you can think of to urge him to a vigorous course. 'Tis no hour for half-way measures. We must crush Murray once and for all. If legal measures may not suffice, then let us go without the bounds of the law."
We came presently to Greenwich reach, and steered a passage through the river traffic to the side of theNew Venture, a slovenly craft of fair burthen, whose loose rope-ends and frazzled rigging emphasized the confusion on her decks.
Master Abbot, her captain, a melancholy man in a tar-stained coat, met us at the rail.
"The young man is not sure of himself afloat, and would seek his berth," said Master Juggins, after the preliminaries had been passed.
"As he pleases," agreed Captain Abbot indifferently "Y'are the first aboard, lad, and may choose your quarters."
"What choice have I?"
"Why, you may bunk with the second mate or one of the other passengers. But no," he corrected himself; "I should have said with one of two of the other passengers. The lady hath a cabin to herself."
"The lady!" I exclaimed.
Master Juggins pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
"So you carry a lady," he commented.
"Aye," replied Abbot, lapsing into his customary manner of indifference, "and a sore nuisance it is, too, although it makes but one in the cabin."
"Who is she?"
"I know not."
He turned to me.
"And now, young sir, what do you say? Will it be the second mate or a passenger for companion!"
"The second mate," I said.
He nodded his head, called a seaman to carry my luggage below and point the way, and walked off.
Master Juggins drew me back to the rail.
"'Tis best I should not wait," he said. "Stay below till you be safe out of Thames mouth, Master Harry. You should be safe enough now, but care is a sure precaution."
"I will not forget," I promised.
"And one thing more, lad. Do not stint your wants for money. Governor Burnet will aid you to draw whatever you may desire through the bankers in New York. Remember, you spend on my behalf. I would willingly use all I have to thwart Murray. You will require trade-goods for the savages, and perhaps equipment for yourself. Purchase the best. Spend—and spare not."
"You are too kind," I mumbled.
"Say rather your father was too kind. 'Tis little enough I have been able to do for you—sending you away, an exile, on a mission of danger. Yet I would have you look upon it as a privilege, if you will, Master Harry. When all is said and done, we are at war with France. 'Tis no war of generals and armies and admirals and fleets, I grant you. But war it is.
"True, there is the Peace of Utrecht, with all its ponderous provisions sullying so many square inches of white parchment. It proclaims peace. And nevertheless I say to you that we are at war."
He smote the rail with his hand by way of emphasis.
"What kind of a war?" I asked.
"Why, a war for the right to grow and to flourish, a war for trade. At other times, mark you, nations clash over questions of honor or territory. So their statesmen say. Actually there is a question of trade or merchantry at the bottom of every war that has been fought since the world began.
"The Romans crushed the Carthaginians—because they wanted another corner of Africa? Never! Because only by so doing could they make the Mediterranean a Roman lake and insure its control by their shipping.
"And so today we are fighting with France for control of the trade of the Atlantic—and control of the Atlantic trade means control of the Western Plantations, America. We are fighting, Master Harry, with laws and tariffs and manufacturing skill and shipping instead of with men and deadly weapons."
"What is the immediate stake for which we fight?" I questioned, interested as always when this extraordinary man unloosed himself in conversation.
"The fur-trade. The country which wins the fur-trade will win control over the greatest number of savages. And the country which is so placed, especially if it be England, will win the military struggle which some day will have to be fought for dominion in America. So I would have you feel yourself a soldier, a general of trade, sent out upon a venture of great danger and importance. It may be, Master Harry, that you carry on your shoulders the future of England and of nations yet unborn."
He fired me so that I forgot my clumsy garments and outward character. I felt, I think, as any young knight who rides forth upon a deed of errantry and adventure.
"All that I can, I will do!" I exclaimed.
"Good. I can not ask more."
He clasped my hand in a wringing grip.
"I see a wherry approaching from up-river. I had best be gone. Good luck to you, lad, and write as occasion serves."
He went over the side with his lips pursed as if to whistle and a look of doleful pleasure on his face. Him, too, as it happened, I was never to see again. In fact, I wonder whether I should not have leaped over the vessel's side at that moment had I realized how complete was to be the severance of my life from all that I had known before.
But I did not know. I walked away from the rail with a light heart, inspired by Master Juggins' parting words and the vision he had called up before my eyes. I cast only a casual glance at the approaching wherry, which was still too far for me to observe whom she contained.
By the cabin entrance under the poop I found the seaman who had collected my scanty baggage, and he escorted me down the shallow stairs into a dark passage, which led to the main cabin, a room at the stern which ran the width of the ship and was lighted by three windows. It was mainly occupied by a table and four benches clamped to the deck. Off the passage itself, opened four doors, two on either side.
"Where do you berth?" the seaman asked me, pausing at the foot of the ladder-stairs.
"With the second mate."
He opened the first door on the right-hand, or starboard, side, revealing a space so tiny that I marveled how two men could force themselves into it at once. It was so low that I could not stand upright, so cramped that there was room only for one person outside the two short, shallow bunks which occupied two-thirds of its area.
"Do all the passengers lodge aft here?" I asked him carelessly as he disposed of my trappings.
"All save the negro; he is to sleep in the galley behind the companionway."
When he had gone I curled up in the lower bunk, which the second mate obviously had surrendered to me, and spent the remainder of the day in dozing and finishing off the shore-food Granny Juggins had prepared for my hours of seclusion. I listened long for the other passengers, but they kept the deck, probably watching the work of getting under way and taking a last look at the shores of England—as I should have liked to do myself.
I had not known my country much in recent years, and truth to tell, she did not seem to care for me. None the less I loved the emerald-green countryside, the soft sunshine through low-hanging clouds, even the turgid reek of smoky, crowded old London.
At last I must have dozed, for I was awakened suddenly by the strangest of sounds—a woman's voice singing. Clear and true, the soprano notes came through the bulkhead at the foot of my bunk. It was a song I had never heard before, with a Scots accent to the words and a wonderful lilting melody that was somehow very sad all the while it was pretending to merriment. I had never been in Scotland—except for the sad venture of the '19; and that had left no pleasant memories, God knows—but the song set me to mourning for the heather-clad moors and the gray bens and the black lochs which its words lamented.
I rose from my bunk, and, stealing to the door, set it open, so that I might hear the better. The passage outside was empty, and the salt sea-air blew down the open companionway an occasional gust of talk. But I paid no attention to that.
I was so interested in the song and the singer's voice that I forgot even to watch the door of the cabin next to mine where she was singing. And judge to my surprize, as I leaned with my head bowed by the low lintel and my eyes fixed on the gently heaving deck, when the singer's door swung open and she stepped into the passage, almost at my side.
Her surprize, as was but natural, was greater than mine. So we stood there a moment within a long yard of each other, gazing mutely into each other's eyes. She was a slim, willowy lass, in a sea-green cloak that clung to her figure in the slight draft that eddied through the passage.
Her face, flower-white in the dim light that came down the companionway, had a sweetness of expression that belied the proud carriage of her head and an air of hauteur such as I had seen about the great ladies of King Louis' Court. Her hair was black and all blown in little wisps that curled at her forehead and neck. Her eyes were dark, too. Afterward I learned that they were of a dark brown that became black in moments of anger or excitement.
"I heard you singing," I said.
She turned and made to reënter her cabin. But I raised my hand involuntarily in a gesture of appeal.
"I am sorry," I went on quickly. "I did not mean to be rude. I—I could not help it."
She regarded me gravely, evidently puzzled by the incongruousness of my voice and my plowboy garments.
"You are never Scots, sir!" she answered finally.
"No, but I know Scotland."
A light dawned in her eyes with the words.
"Ah, then you will be knowing the song that I sang! 'Lochaber No More' 'tis called, and a bitter lament of exiles out of their own homeland."
"No, I never heard it before—but I have a brother buried on a hillside far north of Lochaber, in the Clan Donald country."
The sorrow that came into her face was beautiful to see. None but a person who had Gaelic blood could have sympathized so instantly and so generously with a stranger's grief.
"That will have been the great sadness upon you," she cried in the odd way that the Highland Scots have of using English. "Oh, sir, your woe will have been deep! So far from his own home!"
"Yes," I assented; "and he an exile, too."
In that moment I felt for the last time all the old raging hatred of the Hanoverian usurper, the hatred that springs from blood spilled and unavenged; and even though the reason within me stilled the tempest that memory had stirred, I knew, or something within me knew, that I never could be happy under the immediate rule of King George.
"An exile!"
She leaned toward me, her eyes like stars.
"You will be one of the Good People!"
I did not answer her, too confused in my wits to know what to say; and suddenly my confusion spread to her.
"It is wild I am talking, sir!" she exclaimed. "Never heed my words. Sure, who would be trusting his heart's blood to the stranger that stepped in his path!"
"I think I would trust mine to you," I answered boldly.
She smiled faintly
"From your manner you would be no Englishman, sir, saying such pretty things without consideration."
"I have been long out of England."
"Then your sorrow will not be so great for parting with all you have held dear. Lucky is your lot."
"You have never been to America?" I asked.
"I had never been out of Scotland until I came south to take ship today. Ah, sir, there is a great sorrow at my heart for the country I love."
We said nothing while you might have counted ten, and in the silence she looked away from me.
"I hope you will sing often," I said fatuously.
"I sing as the feeling comes to me," she retorted.
She gathered her cloak around her, and shut her cabin door.
"And you go with us to New York?" I asked—no less fatuously.
Her eyes danced with a glint of humor.
"Pray, sir, will there be any other stopping-place in the ocean!"
I laughed.
"My name," I began—and then I stopped abruptly.
My name at present was William Juggins, and I had a feeling of reluctance at practising deceit upon this girl at our first meeting. But she saved me from my quandary.
"You will not be what you might seem, sir," she said gravely. "That I can see, and perhaps you will not think me indiscreet if I say so much."
"'Tis true," I assented eagerly. "Indeed——"
"But you will be meeting my—" she hesitated ever so little—"my father presently, no doubt, and he will make us known to one another. Now I must go on deck."
And she walked by me with a faint swish of skirts that sounded like an echo of far-off fairy music.
Her father! Who could he be? And then realization smote me.
Plainly, she could not be de Veulle's daughter—nor Captain Abbot's. She was Murray's.
I went back into my cabin and shut the door, feeling not altogether satisfied, despite the fragrance of her person which still lingered in my nostrils, the recollection of her dainty charm, the indefinable tone of high breeding which had emanated from her.
Murray's daughter! I rebelled against the idea. It could not be. It ought not to be. What right had he to a daughter—and such a maid as this? 'Twas absurd! Manifestly absurd!
Why, I must hate the man. I had no other recourse. And he had a daughter! And above all this daughter!
When I came on deck the next morning we were driving down-channel before a smart northwest wind. The sky was blue overhead; the low rollers were just capped with foam; the air was clean and tangy; the brownish, salt-stained canvas shone in the sunlight; the cordage hummed and droned.
Murray stood by the weather rail with the negro, Tom, at his elbow. As I emerged from the companionway Tom leaned forward and whispered something to his master. Murray walked straight across the deck to my side, his eyes fastened upon my face.
"How now, Master Juggins," he said heartily, his hand outstretched, "and did you leave your good uncle—or is it cousin?—well!"
I perceived that he took me for the lout I was dressed to represent, and strove to play up to the disguise.
"Well enough, sir," I answered sullenly, shifting clownishly from foot to foot.
"'Tis good!" he exclaimed. "Faith I am vastly relieved. I have a warm regard for honest Robert Juggins. He has spoken of me, perhaps?"
The question, designed to catch my simple mentality unawares, gave me considerable amusement.
"Oh, aye," I muttered.
"We have been rivals in our ventures, as you doubtless know," continued Murray, taking a pinch of snuff in a manner which the Duc d'Orleans might have envied.
"But he doesn't take it seriously, sir," I assured him gravely.
"Eh! What's that?"
"He laughs about it, sir."
And I goggled at him stupidly. After a moment's inspection of my countenance he seemed constrained to accept the remark as witless innocence, for a grim light of humor appeared in his eyes.
"Laughs, does he! Zooks, I might have known it. He is a merry soul, Robert Juggins, and I should like to see him footing a morris to a right merry tune. Mayhap we shall see it some day. Who knows?"
"Who knows, sir?" I repeated vacantly.
"And you are to cast your fortunes in America, lad!" he resumed.
"Oh, aye, sir."
"What I might have expected from a fine, upstanding young fellow," he applauded me. "We need many of your like. You may count upon my good offices in New York. Faith, I shall be glad to do a favor if I can, for Robert Juggins' nephew—or did you say cousin?"
"I am——"
But he saved me from the lie.
"Ah, here is come one of our fellow passengers," he interrupted.
I turned to see de Veulle approaching us.
"'Tis a French gentleman," pursued Murray, bent upon winning my confidence with his easy manners and glib tongue, "on his way to Canada. He can tell you rare tales of the wilderness and the savages. Ha,chevalier, meet a young countryman of mine. Such is the timber we use to exploit the new plantations. Master Juggins—the Chevalier de Veulle."
All unsuspecting, de Veulle made me a slight bow, a look of indifferent disdain in his face at sight of my plebeian figure. The disguise was good, and I hoped I might cozen him for a time at least. But no man forgets another who has toyed with his life, and his indifference was dissipated the instant his eye met mine.
"Juggins?" he exclaimed in bewilderment. "You said Juggins, Monsieur Murray?"
"Sure, 'tis so," returned Murray urbanely. "Not our friend, the doughty trader, you understand, but——"
"Parbleu!" swore de Veulle. "This man is no more named Juggins than I am!"
In his excitement his English, which was broken enough at best, became almost incoherent. Murray favored me with a brief glance of suspicion.
"Who then?" he demanded.
"Ormerod! 'Tis Harry Ormerod, the Jacobite refugee!"
Murray snapped his fingers to Tom, the negro, who had been a silent witness to our conversation. In an instant he stood beside us, his baleful yellow eyes glaring at me.
"Is this the man who came with Master Juggins to the hearing before the Lords of Trade?" snapped Murray.
"He de man, massa," Tom answered in a husky voice that had a snarl in it.
"You are sure!"
"Yes, massa."
"Tom doesn't make mistakes," remarked Murray with a gesture of dismissal to the negro. "May I ask who you are, sir?" he addressed me.
"I suppose you may," I replied coolly; and with a sense of relief I ripped the bobbed scratch-wig off my head and tossed it into the sea. "Does that help you at all?" I inquired of de Veulle.
He stared back at me, his face all drawn with hatred.
"I knew you with it on," he said savagely. "It became you. Why should a deserter wear the clothes of a gentleman?"
I laughed at him, but Murray intervened quickly.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
De Veulle made a gesture of disgust in my direction.
"This person, who was in the immediate entourage of the Pretender, abandoned his leader not long ago and fled to England to seek a pardon, repudiated and detested by all honorable men in Paris. But in England his protestations of loyalty were refused, for they naturally doubted the sincerity of one who wearied so soon of an unfortunate cause."
"Is this true?" Murray asked me.
"Within reason," I said.
Murray stared from one to the other of us. Plainly he was whimsically amused by our altercation.
"Stap me, but I rejoice to see that we may look forward to an entertaining voyage!" he exclaimed. "I had feared 'twould be most tedious. Are you seeking satisfaction from the gentleman,chevalier?"
"I shall fight him when I choose, on ground of my own choosing," replied de Veulle curtly.
"And by no means with small-swords," I jeered.
He gave me a black look.
"You will pray me to kill you if you ever fall into my power, Ormerod. I can wait until then."
"As you please."
He turned and left us. Murray took snuff very deliberately, first offering the box to me—which he had not done before—and scrutinized me politely from head to foot.
"I fear I have been patronizing in my conduct, sir," he observed. "Pray accept my apologies."
"You are most kind," I said ironically.
"'Twas a perfect disguise," he went on. "And your manner, if I may say so, was well conceived."
"I thank you."
"In short, I find you an opponent of totally different importance. You are an opponent?" he shot at me.
"Sure, sir, that is for you to say," I made answer. "So far as I know at this time we merely happen to be passengers together on this craft."
He laughed.
"I might have known it!" he exclaimed. "'Twas not like Juggins to send a bumpkin to Burnet. He hath been an enemy I might not scorn at any moment. And for a mere merchant he hath extraordinary spirit."
This was said with an air of condescension which irked me.
"You, sir," I remarked, "are no less a merchant. Why pretend to gentrice?"
A remarkable change came over the man. He ceased from tapping on his snuff-box. A wave of color suffused his face and neck; his eyes flashed. He straightened his back and shoulders and frowned upon me.
"Pretend—gentrice!" he rasped. "Sir, you are insulting. I have the blood of kings in my veins. I am of the Murrays of Cobbielaw. I quarter my arms with the Keiths, the Humes, the Morays—with every great family of Scotland. My grandfather four times removed was James V.
"I pretend to gentrice! I tell you there are few families in Europe can boast my lineage."
"It hath a Jacobite color to it," I could not resist observing.
He cooled rapidly at this, and the broad Scots accent which had crept into his speech soon disappeared.
"That is easily said—and easier disproved," he returned. "For myself, there is no more loyal adherent of King George, as you are likely to learn, sir, if you plan to backslide in the Pretender's interest when you reach New York. We provincials may be distant many thousands of miles from Court, but we are none the less careful in our devotion to the sovereign."
"So I have been told," I said dryly. "As for Master Juggins, his grandfather was steward to my father, and still I think him as much entitled to respect as any man, noble or common, who can prattle of sixteen quarterings. Family, sir, is not the more creditable for being talked about."
Murray laughed harshly.
"You have a sour tongue, young sir. I say to you plainly that if 'twere in my interest I might make things uncomfortable for you here. We may yet sight a King's ship."
It was my turn to laugh.
"When that time comes, we will attend to it. I thank you for warning me in advance."
He pocketed his snuff-box, swung around on his heel and strode off across the deck; but he had not reached the mainmast when he seemed to change his intent and returned to my side.
"Master Ormerod," he said, "I was in error to speak as I did of your friend. I crave your pardon."
He spoke so simply and unaffectedly as to take my breath away. There was naught for me to do but accept the apology in the spirit apparently intended.
"Sure, sir," I replied, "let us forget what hath passed."
"Willingly," he agreed. "There is enough contention, without belittling the most sacred thing in the world by needless bickering."
"And what is the most sacred thing in the world?" I asked.
"Good blood," he said quite straightforwardly. "But I must go below now. I have some papers to attend to. And I shall also attempt to induce the Chevalier de Veulle to preserve the amenities of life whilst we are restricted to such confined quarters."
"He shall not have to labor against my hostility," I promised as he departed.
Despite myself, I was taken with the man. His queer vanity, his unmistakable breeding, his ready wit, the assurance of power and self-sufficiency which radiated from him and explained, as I thought, his readiness to admit himself in the wrong, all these joined to inspire respect for his parts, if not admiration for his character.
During the rest of that day I made myself at home about the ship, talking with the seamen and their officers and watching vainly for the lady of the green cloak who had awakened me with her song. But she kept her cabin until the second afternoon, when we were sailing easily with a fair wind abeam. I found her then as I returned from a walk forward, standing with her hand on the poop-railing to steady her.
"I fear you are a poor sailor," I called to her.
She inclined her head for answer.
"Well, I have met your father," I said, coming to her side, "and I make no doubt he would present me were he here, so——"
"Sir," she said stiffly, "I have no desire for your company."
I stared at her, mouth agape.
"If I have offended——" I began.
"I may as well tell you," she interrupted me again, "that I have no personal liking or disliking for anything you have said or done in my presence. But I have heard that about you which will make me have no inclination for your company."
"And I shall ask you to tell me what that is," I retorted with mounting indignation. "It is not fair that you should accept the slurs of an enemy behind my back."
She hesitated.
"That may be so," she admitted, "but you will be willing to answer me two questions?"
"Surely."
"You are Captain Ormerod, formerly chamberlain to King James II?"
"Yes."
"And you not long ago abandoned the King's service and fruitlessly sought a pardon in London?"
"Yes."
I can not very well describe the scorn of voice and manner with which she addressed me.
"That is enough for me," she said. "You are a traitor, a deserter, proven out of your own mouth."
"But——"
"No, sir; there is naught you can say would interest me. I should despise you none the less had you deserted in the same circumstances to my own side. It makes it no less culpable that you deserted from my side because our fortunes were at low ebb. And indeed I think it will be a sure sign there is a God in heaven that such a black traitor as you will be, should be scorned even by the wicked men of the usurper in London."
"But you shall hear me," I protested. "This is absurd, what you say. You have taken two bare statements of fact and twisted into them the implications skilfully made by a personal enemy. You——"
"Last night, sir," she said cuttingly, withdrawing the folds of her cloak so that they might not touch me, "you played upon my sympathies with your tale of exile and a brother buried in the Clan Donald country, and I was all for sympathy with you and sorrow for your sorrow. You as much as told me you were one of the Good People. You let me deceive myself, after you had deceived me first. Oh, you will have acted unspeakably!"
"What I told you was true!"
"It could never have been."
"I swear it was. I was out in the '19; I fled to Scotland with my brother; he died and was buried there; I escaped with the remnants of the expedition; I am an exile at this moment."
"An exile! Phaugh! Think on the honest men can truly say that in their misfortune this day! And you—I could weep for the shame that your dead brother and the mother that bore you will be feeling as they look down upon you!"
With that she was gone, and I was left cursing—cursing de Veulle, whose treacherous tongue had planted the distorted shreds of truth in her mind; cursing Murray, who must have stood by and listened to it all, smugly amused; cursing my cousin who had put me in such a plight, after winning my inheritance; cursing the men and women at St. Germain who repaid years of sacrifice and ungrudging loyalty with such canards; cursing Juggins for having embarked me upon this ship with the girl; cursing myself for getting into such a false position; cursing the girl——
But no. Common sense came to my rescue then. There was something unaccountably fine about her attitude, something I should never have thought to uncover in Murray's daughter, however beautiful and attractive she might be. There was devotion for you, faithfulness to a lost cause, the single-minded truthfulness which only a good woman can possess.
Heir indignation was the index to her personality. By it I might know that she was really worth while, that to win her respect must be an achievement for any man.
And that brought a new thought into my mind. Could the two men she was with have her respect? Could she respect her father, Murray? Aye, perhaps; for if he labored secretly in the Jacobite interest she, with her flaming, misdirected loyalty to the Stuarts, would excuse his deceptions and crimes, if only they brought back her King to the throne.
I was familiar with the way men and women of her persuasion ignored the well-being of their country, apart from their King. They could see no difference between the two. What did it matter if France profited by the issue, so long as James replaced George?
This brought me to de Veulle. Surely she could not respect him! If she knew what I knew— But manifestly she, who had never been out of Scotland before, could know nothing of his career in Paris.
And he had a way with him, there could be no denial of that. He was a handsome devil, with the flair which appeals to all women, good and bad. Aye, he might win her regard for a time; but I was prepared to stake all that she would unmask him in the end.
The twilight faded rapidly, and I found myself with no appetite for the crowded main cabin, where de Veulle and Murray played piquet, or my stuffy berth. I strolled the deck, immersed in thought. There was so much to think about. The episode with this girl, whose name even I did not know, had brought into vivid opposition the events of the past and the uncertain future which lay before me.
I conned over what Juggins had told me, memorized anew many of the messages he had entrusted to me, speculated upon the possible turn of affairs. I planned in some vague way to win a fortune in that unknown New World ahead of me, and with the proceeds in one hand and a pardon in the other, return and reclaim Foxcroft from those abominable Hampshire cousins.
With chin cupped in hand I leaned upon the starboard rail in the black well of shadow which was formed by the overhang of the forecastle, and the towering piles of canvas that clothed the foremast. Somewhere beyond the wastes of watery darkness that veiled my eyes lay England, the home which had disowned me. I——
Without any warning a huge arm was twisted around my shoulders and a hand so huge that my teeth could make no impression in it was clamped down over my mouth. Another arm encircled my waist. My arms were pinned to my sides. My legs kicked feebly at a muscular body which pressed me against the bulwark. Fighting back with all my strength, I was nevertheless lifted gradually from the deck and shoved slowly across the flat level of the fife-rail.
Do what I might, I could not resist the pressure of those tremendous arms which seemed to have a reach and a power twice those of my own. I gasped for breath as they squeezed my lungs—and in gasping I sensed a queer taint in the air, a musky odor which I did not at once associate with the seamen or any one else on board the ship.
It was no use. I could not resist. The snakelike arms mastered me. One shifted swiftly to a grip on my legs. I was whirled into the air and dropped clear of the railing—falling, falling, until the cold waters engulfed me.
I came to the surface, fighting for breath, my hands battling fruitlessly at the slimy side of the ship, which slid past as relentlessly as the passage of time. I tried to cry out, but the salt water choked me. Not a sound came from the decks above. The blackness was absolute, except for the mild gleam of a watch-lanthorn on the poop.
Danger and the peril of death often have been my lot, but never in all my life—no, not even when the Keepers of the Trail had bound me to the torture-stake—have I experienced the abysmal fear which clutched my heart as I struggled to save myself from the chilling waters whose numbing embrace was throttling my vitality no less surely than the long arms which had cast me overboard.
Death was only a brace of minutes away—not death from drowning, but death from the bitter cold that paralyzed my limbs and smote my heart. In the mad desperation of my fear I heaved myself waist-high out of the water, hands clutching and clawing for the support which reason must have denied me to expect.
I was sinking beneath a smooth-running wave along the counter when my fingers came in contact with a dripping rope, which slipped through their grip and lashed me in the face. This time I did contrive to cry out, a brief, choked yell of exultation. My hands possessed themselves of it again, and I rove a loose knot in the end.
Had I dared, I would have rested myself in this loop before beginning to attempt the climbing of the mossy wall of the ship's side; but the coldness of the water forbade it. Only by the utmost power of will could I force myself to the necessary effort. A few moments' delay, and I should be incapable of action.
With teeth clinched I drew myself upward along the rope, thrusting forward with my feet for purchase against the side. Sometimes I slipped on the wet planks, and then I was put to it to hold my position. But after I withdrew my body from the water, what with the urgency of my effort and the stimulation of the exercise, some degree of my strength returned; and presently I was able to pull myself up the rope, hand over hand, until I reached a small projecting structure at the level of the deck to which was fastened the starboard rigging of the mainmast. How I blessed the untidy seamanship of Captain Abbot, which would have aroused the wrath of any true sailor, no doubt.
On this bit of a platform I rested myself, below the level of the bulwarks, one arm thrust round a tautened stay. And now for the first time I gave thought to my experience. I suppose that at the most not more than five minutes had elapsed since I had been heaved overboard, and obviously no one had witnessed the incident, for the deck was as quiet and deserted as it had been when I was attacked.
Who had done it? I accepted as a primary fact the impossibility that it could have been one of the crew. I had speaking acquaintance with only two of them, Captain Abbot, himself, and Master Ringham, the second mate, a taciturn Devon man, whose conversation consisted of curses, grunts and monosyllables. Neither could have any grudge against me.
No, I must seek the assailant in the camp of my known enemies, and those immense, twining arms could belong only to the ape-like negro. With the realization, hot blood drummed in my ears. I scrambled over the bulwark in a flash, and crouched down upon the deck to survey the situation. It was one against three—no, four, I reflected bitterly; for I made no doubt the girl would array herself against me. I must have some weapon.
I looked around me, noting that the watch were all ensconced upon the forecastle or the poop. Then I remembered that ranged around the bottoms of the masts were long handbars of wood, iron-tipped, which were used in making fast the sail-ropes. I ran across to the mainmast and tore one from its slot.
Nobody had yet seen me in the pitch darkness, and I stole across the deck to the door which gave entrance to the poop, my water-soaked shoes quite soundless. The door was ajar, and I opened it very carefully, listening to the murmur of voices in the main cabin. There was no light in the passage which led to the main cabin from the foot of the shallow stairs that descended from the deck level; but the main cabin itself was brilliantly lighted by several lanthorns.
Murray and de Veulle were sitting on the bench which ran across the stern, the table in front of them littered with cards. Murray, a look of placid satisfaction on his face, was pouring rum into two glasses. De Veulle was laughing as if he had listened to the merriest tale in the world. So much I saw when the entrance into the main cabin was darkened by the body of the negro, Tom.
He saw me descending the stairs, and apparently took me to be one of the officers coming off watch. At any rate, he stepped back into the main cabin and stood there, waiting to give me room. The passage was not more than fifteen or sixteen feet long, and as I approached him I smelled again that rancid, musky odor—the body smell, as I afterward discovered, of the savage, black or red—which had overwhelmed my nostrils just before I was pitched over the side.
'Twas that decided me. I took a firm grip on my improvised club, and, stepping into the pool of light in the main cabin, swung square around, face to face with Tom. He threw up both hands and staggered back with a wild scream of terror, eyes popping from his ashen-gray face.
I gave him no time for recovery, but brought down the iron-tipped end of the handbar with all my force across his skull. The blow would have killed any save a black man. I meant it to kill him. As it was, he dropped like a slaughtered ox, and lay in a crumpled heap of tawdry finery on the floor.
Doors banged in the passage, and I stepped to one side, setting my back to the bulkhead, the while I fastened my eyes upon the startled amazement with which Murray and de Veulle regarded me. 'Twas Murray recovered first.
"Zooks," he remarked, taking snuff with his usual precision. "It seems that Tom is growing in the way of making mistakes."
"Aye, and such mistakes are like to react upon others," I replied fiercely.
"If I were a refugee from justice, I should be careful how I threatened law-abiding subjects," he answered calmly. "Well, well, it seems we have more company."
I followed his glance to the passage, where stood the girl of the green cloak, whilst over her shoulder peered the square, puzzled features of my silent cabinmate, Master Ringham.
The girl said nothing, her eyes shifting gravely from one to the other of us. But Master Ringham's official status got the better of his distaste for words.
"What hath happened?" he asked. "Is the negro dead!"
"I think so," I said. "He—"
"Not he," corrected Murray cheerfully. "You know not Tom, good Master Ormerod. He hath a skull on him can only be opened with blasting-powder."
"It matters little," I returned. "The rascal attacked me above, Master Ringham. I pursued him down here. There is naught more to be said. I will settle with his master."
The second mate looked questioningly toward Murray. I hated to compromise so, but I had not missed the veiled threat he had addressed to me nor his use of the name Ormerod. Remember, I was still known to the crew as Juggins.
I was uncertain what attitude the captain might take if he was told that I was a political refugee. There might be a reward at stake—and sailors were human like other men. What was one man's life to them—and he a stranger—if so many hundred pounds would purchase it!
"Why, that is fairly spoken," rejoined Murray, somewhat to my surprize. "I know naught of the circumstances, Master Ringham, but perhaps I may settle with our friend here. As for the negro, I will attend to him."
"And the captain?" questioned the second mate uncertainly.
"Oh, I see no reason why we should bother Master Abbot at this juncture. There will be time enough if we fail to agree upon the issue."
"There must be no more violence," warned Ringham, his eyes on me, his words addressed to all of us.
"Violence!" rejoined Murray jovially. "Let us reject the idea altogether. Why should we disdain sweet reason's rule? Eh? Master Orm—er—Juggins?"
I bowed ironically.
"If there is any further disagreement Captain Abbot shall be called," I said to Ringham. "That I promise you."
Ringham nodded and clumped back to his bunk, doubtless relieved at not being required to surrender more of his time off-watch. But the girl stood her ground, her eyes accusing all of us.
"Well, Marjory," said Murray pleasantly, "and do you plan to join in our debate?"
That was the first time I heard her name, and—why, I can not say—I heard it without surprise, as if I had always known it to be hers. It suited her, as names sometimes express the character and appearance of their possessors.
"What hath happened?" she asked in the same words the second mate had used.
"You have heard," said Murray.
She shook her head.
"That is not all. This—" she hesitated—"gentleman's clothes are wet. Tom does not attack people without orders."
Murray shrugged his shoulders. De Veulle answered her, leaning across the table, his eyes burning with hatred for me.
"You know what this man hath done, mademoiselle," he cried. "You know his record in the past. You know that he comes with us to spy out our plans, to thwart, if may be, what we undertake to do. Is any fate too hard for him? Why should you concern yourself?"
His voice grew coaxing.
"'Tis no matter for ladies' soft hands to dabble in."
"Then there has been fighting?" she asked.
I could stand it no longer.
"Fighting!" I snapped. "Aye, if you call assassination fighting. An attack in the dark upon an unarmed man, throwing him overboard to drown as you might a blind puppy, never a chance for his life!"
"Yet you are here, sir?" she said quietly.
"'Tis only by the intervention of Providence that I was saved—or the untidiness of our captain, who left a rope trailing over the side."
I grew sarcastic.
"You were pleased to say today that it was proof of a God in heaven that I had suffered misfortune. Sure, will you deny that the same God hath protected me against your father's——"
"My father!" she repeated questioningly.
"Well, what is he!" I returned cuttingly. "Mayhap you have some pet name for a parent who practises assassination."
"You have no right to say that, sir," she said with spirit.
"No right! Did not you yourself say Tom never acted without orders!"
"But——"
"And furthermore, if this case is not enough, let me tell you that this man here"—I pointed to Murray; for some reason I disliked to call him her father, even in wrath—"set a gang of ruffians to murder a friend of mine in London."