A Daughter of Raasay - A Tale of the '45

William Macleod Raine

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• Publié par: unyio
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 13
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Daughter of Raasay, by William MacLeod Raine This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Daughter of Raasay A Tale of the '45 Author: William MacLeod Raine Illustrator: Stuart Travis Release Date: September 23, 2008 [EBook #26692] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF RAASAY *** Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net A DAUGHTER OF RAASAY A TALE OF THE ’45 By WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE ILLUSTRATED BY STUART TRAVIS NEW YORK · FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY · PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1901, by FRANK LESLIE P UBLISHING HOUSE Copyright, 1902, by FREDERICK A. S TOKES COMPANY All rights reserved Published in October, 1902 AILEEN TO MR. ELLERY SEDGWICK Contents CHAPTER PAGE I. II III IV THE SPORT OF C HANCE A C RY IN THE N IGHT D EOCH SLAINT AN R IGH! OF LOVE AND WAR 1 19 39 60 V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII THE H UE AND C RY IN THE MATTER OF A KISS MY LADY R AGES C HARLES EDWARD STUART BLUE BONNETS ARE OVER THE BORDER C ULLODEN THE R ED H EATHER H ILLS VOLNEY PAYS A D EBT THE LITTLE GOD HAS AN INNINGS THE AFTERMATH A R EPRIEVE! VOLNEY’ S GUEST THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW THE SHADOW FALLS THE AFTERWORD 79 99 116 133 151 159 180 202 223 231 251 266 278 297 309 The Ladies of St. James’s The ladies of St. James’s Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them With a “Stand by! Clear the way!” But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon. When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James’s! They are so fine and fair, You’d think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers. The ladies of St. James’s! They’re painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,— It wavers like a rose. The ladies of St. James’s! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after raindrops The music of the birds. The ladies of St. James’s! They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you—for seconds; They frown on you—for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From shrovetide unto shrovetide Is always true—and mine. Austin Dobson. FOREWORD When this romance touches history the author believes that it is, in every respect, with one possible exception, in accord with the accepted facts. In detailing the history of “the ‘45’” and the sufferings of the misguided gentlemen who flung away the scabbard out of loyalty to a worthless cause, care has been taken to make the story agree with history. The writer does not of course indorse the view of Prince Charles’ character herein set forth by Kenneth Montagu, but there is abundant evidence to show that the Young Chevalier had in a very large degree those qualities which were lacking to none of the Stuarts: a charming personality and a gallant bearing. If his later life did not fulfil the promise of his youth, the unhappy circumstances which hampered him should be kept in mind as an extenuation. The thanks of the writer are due for pertinent criticism to Miss Chase, to Mr. Arthur Chapman and to Mr. James Rain, and especially to Mr. Ellery Sedgwick, whose friendly interest and kindly encouragement have been unfailing. Acknowledgment must also be made of a copious use of Horace Walpole’s Letters, the Chevalier Johnstone’s History of the Rebellion, and other eighteenth century sources of information concerning the incidents of the times. The author has taken the liberty of using several anecdotes and bon mots mentioned in the “Letters”; but he has in each case put the story in the mouth of its historical originator. W. M. R. A Daughter of Raasay CHAPTER I THE SPORT OF CHANCE “Deep play!” I heard Major Wolfe whisper to Lord Balmerino. “Can Montagu’s estate stand such a drain?” “No. He will be dipped to the last pound before midnight. ’Tis Volney’s doing. He has angled for Montagu a se’nnight, and now he has hooked him. I have warned the lad, but——” He shrugged his shoulders. The Scotchman was right. I was past all caution now, past all restraint. The fever of play had gripped me, and I would listen to nothing but the rattle of that little box which makes the most seductive music ever sung by siren. My Lord Balmerino might stand behind me in silent protest till all was grey, and though he had been twenty times my father’s friend he would not move me a jot. Volney’s smoldering eyes looked across the table at me. “Your cast, Kenn. Shall we say doubles? You’ll nick this time for sure.” “Done! Nine’s the main,” I cried, and threw deuces. With that throw down crashed fifty ancestral oaks that had weathered the storms of three hundred winters. I had crabbed, not nicked. “The fickle goddess is not with you to-day, Kenn. The jade jilts us all at times,” drawled Volney, as he raked in his winnings carelessly. “Yet I have noted that there are those whom she forsakes not often, and I have wondered by what charmed talisman they hold her true,” flashed out Balmerino. The steel flickered into Volney’s eyes. He understood it for no chance remark, but as an innuendo tossed forth as a challenge. Of all men Sir Robert Volney rode on the crest of fortune’s wave, and there were not lacking those who whispered that his invariable luck was due to something more than chance and honest skill. For me, I never believed the charge. With all his faults Volney had the sportsman’s love of fair play. The son of a plain country gentleman, he had come to be by reason of his handsome face, his reckless courage, his unfailing impudence, and his gift of savoir-vivre, the most notorious and fortunate of the adventurers who swarmed at the court of St. James. By dint of these and kindred qualities he had become an intimate companion of the Prince of Wales. The man had a wide observation of life; indeed, he was an interested and whimsical observer rather than an actor, and a scoffer always. A libertine from the head to the heel of him, yet gossip marked him as the future husband of the beautiful young heiress Antoinette Westerleigh. For the rest, he carried an itching sword and the smoothest tongue that ever graced a villain. I had been proud that such a 1 2 3 man had picked me for his friend, entirely won by the charm of manner that made his more evil faults sit gracefully on him. Volney declined for the present the quarrel that Balmerino’s impulsive loyalty to me would have fixed on him. He feared no living man, but he was no hothead to be drawn from his purpose. If Lord Balmerino wanted to measure swords with him he would accommodate the old Scotch peer with the greatest pleasure on earth, but not till the time fitted him. He answered easily: “I know no talisman but this, my Lord; in luck and out of luck to bear a smiling front, content with the goods the gods may send.” It was a fair hit, for Balmerino was well known as an open malcontent and suspected of being a Jacobite. “Ah! The goods sent by the gods! A pigeon for the plucking—the lad you have called friend!” retorted the other. “Take care, my Lord,” warningly. “But there are birds it is not safe to pluck,” continued Balmerino, heedless of his growing anger. “Indeed!” “As even Sir Robert Volney may find out. An eaglet is not wisely chosen for such purpose.” It irritated me that they should thrust and parry over my shoulder, as if I had been but a boy instead of full three months past my legal majority. Besides, I had no mind to have them letting each other’s blood on my account. “Rat it, ’tis your play, Volney. You keep us waiting,” I cried. “You’re in a devilish hurry to be quit of your shekels,” laughed the Irishman O’Sullivan, who sat across the table from me. “Isn’t there a proverb, Mr. Montagu, about a—a careless gentleman and his money going different ways, begad? Don’t keep him waiting any longer than need be, Volney.” There is this to be said for the Macaronis, that they plucked their pigeon with the most graceful negligence in the world. They might live by their wits, but they knew how to wear always the jauntiest indifference of manner. Out came the feathers with a sure hand, the while they exchanged choice bon mots and racy scandal. Hazard was the game we played and I, Kenneth Montagu, was cast for the rôle of the pigeon. Against these old gamesters I had no chance even if the play had been fair, and my head on it more than one of them rooked me from start to finish. I was with a vast deal of good company, half of whom were rogues and blacklegs. “Heard George Selwyn’s latest?”[1] inquired Lord Chesterfield languidly. “Not I. Threes, devil take it!” cried O’Sullivan in a pet. “Tell it, Horry. It’s your story,” drawled the fourth Earl of Chesterfield. “Faith, and that’s soon done,” answered Walpole. “George and I were taking the air down the Mall arm in arm yesterday just after the fellow Fox was hanged for cutting purses, and up comes our Fox to quiz George. Says he, knowing Selwyn’s penchant for horrors, ‘George, were you at the execution of my namesake?’ Selwyn looks him over in his droll way from head to foot and 4 5 says, ‘Lard, no! I never attend rehearsals, Fox.’” “’Tis the first he has missed for years then. Selwyn is as regular as Jack Ketch himself. Your throw, Montagu,” put in O’Sullivan. “Seven’s the main, and by the glove of Helen I crab. Saw ever man such cursed luck?” I cried. “’Tis vile. Luck’s mauling you fearfully to-night,” agreed Volney languidly. Then, apropos of the hanging, “Ketch