“I am making you an offer of your life.”
“Respectfully declined.”
“Think again, man! Once you are dead you will be a long time dead. Refuse to give her up, and you die; she is not for you in any case. Give way, and I will move heaven and earth for a pardon. Believe me, never was such perfect weather before. The birds sing divinely, and Charles tells me Montagu Grange is sorely needing a master.”
“Charles will look the part to admiration.”
“And doubtless will console himself in true brotherly fashion for the loss of his brother by reciting his merits on a granite shaft and straightway forgetting them in the enjoyment of the estate.”
“I think it likely.”
He looked at me gloomily. “There is a way to save you, despite your obstinacy.”
I shuffled across to him in a tumult of emotion. “You would never do it, would never be so vile as to trade on her fears for me to win her.”
“I would do anything to win her, and I would do a great deal to save your life. The two things jump together. In a way I like you, man.”
But I would have none of his liking. “Oh, spare me that! You are the most sentimental villain unhung, and I can get along without your liking.”
“That’s as may be,” said he laughing, “but I cannot well get along without you. On my honour, you have become one of my greatest sources of interest.”
“Do you mean that you would stake my life against her hand?” I demanded whitely.
He gave me look for look. “I mean just that. By Heaven, I shall win her fair or foul.”
I could only keep saying over and over again, “You would never do it. Even you would never do that.”
“Wouldn’t I? You’ll see,” he answered laughing hardily. “Well, I must be going. Oh, I had forgot. Balmerino sent you this note. I called on him yesterday at the Tower. The old Scotchman is still as full of smiles as a bride.”
Balmerino’s letter was the friendliest imaginable. He stated that for him a pardon was of course out of the question, but that Sir Robert Volney had assured him that there was a chance for me on certain conditions; he understood that the conditions had to do with the hand of a young woman, and he advised me, if the thing were consistent with honour, to make submission, and let no foolish pride stand in the way of saving my life. The letter ended with a touching reference to the cause for which he was about to die.
I was shaken, I confess it. Not that I thought for a moment of giving up my love, but my heart ached to think of the cruel position into which she would be cast. To save her lover’s life, she must forsake her love, or if she elected the other alternative must send him to his death. That Volney would let this burden of choice fall on her I would scarce let myself believe; and yet—there was never a man more madly, hopelessly in love than he. His passion for her was like a whirlwind tossing him hither and thither like a chip on the boiling waters, but I thought it very characteristic of the man that he used his influence to have me moved to a more comfortable cell and supplied with delicacies, even while he plotted against me with my love.
After that first visit he used to come often and entertain me with the news and gossip of the town. I have never met a more interesting man. He was an onlooker of life rather than an actor, an ironical cynic, chuckling with sardonic humour. The secret of his charm lay perhaps in a certain whimsical outlook and in an original turn of mind.
Once I asked him why he found it worth while to spend so many hours with me when his society was so much sought after by the gayest circle in the town.
“I acquit you of any suspicion of philanthropy, Sir Robert. I give you credit for pursuing a policy of intelligent selfishness. You must know by this time that I will not purchase my life, nor let it be purchased, on the terms which you propose. Well then, I confess it puzzles me to guess what amusement you find in such a hole as this.”
“Variety spices life. What’s a man to do to keep himself from ennui? For instance, I got up this morning at ten, with Selwyn visited Lady Dapperwit while she was drinking coffee in her nightrail, talked a vast deal of scandal with her, strolled in the park with Fritz, from there to White’s in a sedan, two hours at lunch, and an hour with you for the good of my soul.”
“The good of your soul?” I quizzed.
“Yes, I visit you here and then go away deuced thankful for my mercies. I’m not to be hanged next week, you know. I live to marry the girl.”
“Still, I should think you might find more interesting spots than this.”
“I am a student of human nature, Montagu.”
“A condemned prisoner, never a wit at the best of times, full of fears and agues and fevers! One would scarce think the subject an inviting one for study.”
“There you do yourself injustice. Y’are the most interesting man I know. A dozen characters are wrapped up in you. You have the appearance of being as great a rip as the rest of us, and I vow your looks do not belie you, yet at times you have the conscience of a ranting dissenter. I find in you a touch both of Selwyn’s dry wit and of Balmerino’s frostly bluntness; the cool daring of James Wolfe combined with as great a love of life as Murray has shown; the chivalry of Don Quixote and the hard-headedness of Cumberland; sometimes an awkward boy, again the grand manner Chesterfield himself might envy you; the obstinacy of the devil and——”
“Oh, come!” I broke in laughing. “I don’t mind being made a composite epitome of all the vices of the race, but I object to your crossing the Styx on my behalf.”
“And that reminds me of the time we came so near crossing together,” he broke out, diverting the subject in his inconsequent fashion. “D’ye remember that Dr. Mead who dressed our wounds for us after our little argument? It appears that he and a Dr. Woodward fell into some professional dispute as to how a case should be treated, and Lud! nothing would satisfy them but they must get their toasting forks into action. The story goes that they fought at the gate of Gresham College. Mead pinked his man. ‘Take your life,’ quoth he. ‘Anything but your medicine,’ returns Woodward just before he faints. Horry Walpole told me the story. I suppose you have heard Selwyn’s story of Lord Wharton. You know what a spendthrift Wharton is. Well the Duke of Graftsbury offered him one of his daughters in marriage, a lady of uncertain age and certain temper. But the lady has one virtue; she’s a devilish fine fortune. A plum, they say! Wharton wrote Graftsbury a note of three lines declining the alliance because, as he put it, the fortune was tied up and the lady wasn’t.”
“Not bad. Talking of Selwyn, I suppose he gets his fill of horrors these days.”
“One would think he might. I met him at the Prince’s dinner yesterday, and between us we two emptied nine bottles of maraschino. Conceive the splitting headache I’m wearing to-day.”
“You should take a course in Jacobitism,” I told him gravely. “’Tis warranted to cure gout, liver trouble, indigestion, drunkenness, and sundry other complaints. I can warrant that one lives simply while he takes the treatment; sometimes on a crust of bread and a bowl of brose, sometimes on water from the burn, never does one dine over-richly.”
“Yet this course is not conducive to long life. I’ve known a hundred followers
