“For always, Kenn? When you are meeting the fine ladies of London will you love a Highland lassie that cannot make eyes and swear choicely?”
“Forever and a day, dear.”
Aileen referred to the subject again two hours later when we arose from the table at the Manchester ordinary. It was her usual custom to retire to her room immediately after eating. To-night when I escorted her to the door she stood for a moment drawing patterns on the lintel with her fan. A fine blush touched her cheek.
“Were you meaning all that, Kennie?”
“All what, dear heart?”
“That—nonsense—in the forest.”
“Every bit of it.”
Her fan spelt Kenneth on the door.
“Sometimes,” she went on softly, “a fancy is built on moonlight and laughing eyes and opportunity. It iss like sunshine in winter on Raasay—just for an hour and then the mists fall.”
“For our love there will be no mists.”
“Ah, Kenn, you think so now, but afterward, when you take up again your London life, and I cannot play the lady of fashion, when you weary of my simpleness and are wishing me back among the purple heather hills?”
“That will be never, unless I wish myself there with you. I am no London Mohawk like Volney. To tramp the heather after muircocks or to ride to hounds is more my fancy. The Macaronis and I came long since to the parting of the ways. I am for a snug home in the country with the woman I love.”
I stepped to the table, filled a glass with wine, and brought it to her.
“Come, love! We will drink together. How is it old Ben Jonson hath it?
“‘Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth seek a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup
I would not change from thine.’
“Drink, sweetheart.”
She tasted, then I drained the glass and let it fall from my fingers to shiver on the floor.
Before we parted Aileen had one more word for me, “Kennie.”
“Yes, dear heart,” I cried, and was back at her side in a moment.
“What you said in the woods—I am knowing it all true. It is great foolishness, but my heart is singing the same song,” and with that she whipped the door to in my face.
I sauntered into the common room, found a seat by the fireplace, and let my eye wander over the company. There were present some half dozen yokels, the vicar’s curate, a country blood or two, and a little withered runt of a man in fustian with a weazened face like a wrinkled pippin. The moment I clapped eyes on him there came to my mind the dim recollection of a former acquaintance and the prescient fear of an impending danger. That I had seen him I was ready to take oath, yet I could not put my finger upon the circumstances. But the worst of it was that the old fellow recognized me, unless I were much mistaken, for his eyes never left me from the first.
From my mother I have inherited a Highland jauntiness which comes stealing over me when sobriety would set me better. Let the situation be a different one, uncertain of solution, with heads tipping in the balance, and an absurd spirit of recklessness straightway possesses me. But now, with this dear child on my hands, carelessness and I were far apart as the poles. Anxiety gripped me, and I sweated blood. Yet I must play the careless traveller, be full of good stories, unperturbed on the surface and apparently far from alarm. I began to overdo the part, recognized the fact, and grew savage at myself. Trying to conciliate him, I was free with the ale, and again overdid it.
He drank my ale and listened to my stories, but he sat cocking on his seat like an imp of mischief. I rattled on, insouciant and careless to all appearances, but in reality my heart like lead. Behind my smiling lips I cursed him up hill and down dale. Lard, his malicious grin was a thing to rile the gods! More than once I wake up in the night from dreaming that his scrawny hand was clapping the darbies on my wrists.
When we were ready to start next morning the post boy let me know that one of the horses had gone lame. Here was a pretty pickle. I pished and pshawed, but in the end had to scour the town to find another in its place. ’Twas well on toward noon when the boy and I returned to the ordinary with a nag that would serve.
Of other lovers I have scant knowledge, but the one I know was wont to cherish the memory of things his love had said and how she had said them; with what a pretty tilt to her chin, with what a daring shyness of the eyes, with what a fine colour and impetuous audacity she had done this or looked that. He was wont in advance to plan out conversations, to decide that he would tell her some odd brain fancy and watch her while he told it. Many an hour he spent in the fairy land of imagination; many a one he dreamed away in love castles built of fancied rambles in enchanted woods, of sweet talks in which he always said and did the right thing; destined alas! never to pass from mind to speech, for if ever tongue essayed the telling it faltered some fatuous abortion as little like love’s dream as Caliban resembled Ariel. Fresh from the brave world of day-dreams, still smiling happily from some whimsical conceit as well as with anticipation of Aileen’s gladness at sight of me, I passed through the courtyard and into the ordinary.
A hubbub at the foot of the stairway attracted me. A gaping crowd was gathered there about three central figures. My weasened pippin-face of the malicious grin was one of them; a broad-shouldered, fair-faced and very much embarrassed young officer in the King’s uniform stood beside him; and from the stairway some three steps up Aileen, plainly frightened, fronted them and answered questions in her broken English.
“I am desolated to distress you, madam,” the boy officer was saying, “but this man has laid an information with me that there is a rebel in your party, one who was in Manchester with the Pretender’s force some months since. It will be necessary that I have speech with him.”
“There iss no rebel with me, sir. The gentleman with whom I travel iss of most approved loyalty,” she faltered.
“Ah! He will no doubt be able to make that clear to me. May I ask where he is at present?”
Aileen went white as snow. Her distress was apparent to all.
“Sir, I do entreat you to believe that what I say iss true,” she cried whitely.
The little rat in fustian broke out screaming that he would swear to me among ten thousand: as to the girl she must be the rebel’s accomplice, his mistress mayhap. Aileen, her big, anxious eyes fixed on the officer, shrank back against the stair rail at her accuser’s word. The lad commanded him sharply to be quiet, but with the utmost respect let Aileen understand that he must have talk with me.
All this one swift glance had told me, and at this opportune moment I sauntered up, Volney’s snuff-box in my hand. If the doubt possessed me as to how the devil I was to win free from this accusation, I trust
