whatever.”
“And Malcolm?” I asked.
“His name has been put near the foot of the list for trial. Long before that time the lust for blood will be glutted. I shall make it a point to see that his case never comes to trial. One cannot afford to have his brother-in-law hanged like a common cutpurse.”
Day by day the time drew nearer on which my reprieve expired. I saw nothing of Aileen now, for she had followed the King and his court to Bath, intent on losing no opportunity that might present itself in my favour. For one reason I was glad to have her gone; so long as she was out of town Sir Robert could not urge on her the sacrifice which he intended.
The time of my execution had been set for Friday, and on the preceding Monday Volney, just arrived from the executions of Balmerino and Kilmarnock, drove out to New Prison to see me. He was full of admiration for Balmerino’s bold exit from the stage of life and retailed to me with great gusto every incident of the last scene on Tower Hill.
“I like your bluff Balmerino’s philosophy of life,” he told me. “When I called on him and apologized for intruding on the short time he had left the old Lord said, ‘O sir, no intrusion at all. I am in no ways concerned to spend more time than usual at my devotions. I think no man fit to live who is not fit to die, and to die well is much the easier of the two.’ On the scaffold no bridegroom could have been more cheerful. He was dressed in his old blue campaign uniform and was as bold and manly as ever. He expressed joy that Cromartie had been pardoned, inspected with interest the inscription on his coffin, and smilingly called the block his pillow of rest. ’Pon honour, the intrepid man then rehearsed the execution with his headsman, kneeling down at the block to show how he would give the signal for the blow. He then got up again, made a tender smiling farewell with his friends, and said to me, ‘I fear some will think my behaviour bold, Volney, but remember what I say, that it arises from confidence in God and a clear conscience.’ He reaffirmed his unshaken adherence to the house of Stuart, crying aloud, ‘God save King James!’ and bowed to the multitude. Presently, still cheerfully, he knelt at the block and said in a clear voice, ‘O Lord, reward my friends, forgive my enemies, bless Prince Charles and his brother, the Duke, and receive my soul.’ His arms dropped for the signal, and Arthur Elphinstone of Balmerino passed to the Valhalla where brave men dwell as gods.”
“God bring peace to his valiant restless soul,” I said, much moved.
“’Tis a thing to admire, the sturdy loyalty of you Jacobites,” he said after a pause. “You carry it off like gentlemen. Every poor Highlander who has yet suffered has flung out his ‘God save King James’ on the scaffold. Now I’ll wager you too go to death with the grand air—no canting prayers for King George, eh?”
“I must e’en do as the rest,” I smiled.
“Yet I’d bet a pony you don’t care a pinch of snuff for James Stuart. ’Tis loyalty to yourselves that animates you.”
Presently he harked back to the topic that was never closed between us.
“By this time next week you will have touched the heart of our eternal problem. The mystery of it will perhaps be all clear to you then. ’Tis most strange how at one sweep all a man’s turbulent questing life passes into the quiet of—of what? That is the question: of unending death or of achieved knowledge?” Then he added, coming abruptly to the issue: “The day draws near. Do you think better of my offer now?”
“Sir Robert, I have lived a tempestuous life these past months. I have known hunger and cold and weariness; I have been at the top of fortune’s wave and at the bottom; but I have never found it worth my while to become divorced from honour. You find me near dead from privations and disease. Do you think I would pay so much for such an existence? Believe me, when a man has passed through what I have he is empty of fears.”
“I could better spare a better man,” he said.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” I told him grimly.
“I’ faith, I think you’re destined to do that dead or alive.”
“I think I am. You will find me more in your way dead than alive.”
“I’ll outlive your memory, never fear.” Then quietly, after a moment’s hesitation: “There’s one thing it may be a comfort for you to know. I’ve given up any thought of putting her on the rack. I’ll win fairly or not at all.”
I drew a deep free breath. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I mean to marry her though. I swear to you, Montagu, that my heart is wrapped up in her. I thought all women alike until I met this one. Now I know better. She could have made a different man of me; sometimes I think she could even yet. I vow to you I would not now injure a hair of her head, but willy-nilly, in the end I shall marry the girl.”
“To ruin her life?”
“To save mine rather.”
“Do you think yourself able to change the whole course of your life for her?”
He mused. “Ah, Montagu! There your finger falls pat on the pulse of my doubt. My heart cries aye, my reason gives a negative.”
“Don’t worry overmuch about it,” I answered, railing at him. “She’ll never look at you, man. My grave will be an insurmountable barrier. She will idealize my memory, think me a martyr and herself a widowed maid.”
The shot scored. ’Twas plain he must have often thought of that himself.
“It may interest you to know that we are engaged to be married,” I added.
“Indeed! Let me congratulate you. When does the happy event occur, may I ask? Or is the day set?”
He had no need to put into words more clearly the irony of the fate that encompassed us.
“Dead or alive, as you say, I bar your way,” I said tartly.
“Pooh, man! I give you six weeks of violent grief, six months of tender melancholy.”
“You do not know the Scotch. She will die a maid,” I answered.
“Not she! A live lover is more present than a dead one. Has she sworn pretty vows to you, Montagu? ‘At lovers’ perjuries, they say, love laughs.’ Is there nothing to be said for me? Will her heart not always whisper that I deserve gratitude and love, that I perilled my life for her, saved the lives of her brother and her lover, neither of them friends of mine, again reprieved her lover’s life, stood friend to her through all her trouble? You know a woman’s way—to make much of nothing.”
“Forgive, if I prod a lagging memory, Miss Westerleigh?”
Long he laughed and merrily.
“Eloped for Gretna Green with Tony Creagh last night, and I, poor forsaken swain, faith! I do not pursue.”
You may be sure that dashed me. I felt as a trapped fox with the dogs closing in. The future loomed up clear before me, Aileen hand in hand with Volney scattering flowers on my grave in sentimental mood. The futility of my obstinacy made me bitter.
“Come, Montagu! Listen to reason,” urged the tempter. “You get in my way, but I don’t want to let you be sponged out. The devil of it is that if I get you a pardon—and I’m not sure
