CHAPTER XVII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
There came to me one day a surprise, a marked hour among my weeks struckcalm. Charles, Cloe, and Aileen had been wont to visit me regularly; onceSelwyn had dropped in on me; but I had not before been honoured by a visitfrom Sir Robert Volney. He sauntered into my cell swinging a clouded cane,dressed to kill and point device in every ruffle, all dabbed with scentedpowder, pomatum, and jessamine water. To him, coming direct from thestrong light of the sun, my cell was dark as the inside of Jonah's whale.He stood hesitating in the doorway, groping with his cane for some guideto his footsteps.
For an instant I drew back, thinking he had come to mock me; then I putthe idea from me. However much of evil there was in him, Volney was not asmall man. I stepped forward to greet him.
"Welcome to my poor best, Sir Robert! If I do not offer you a chair it isbecause I have none. My regret is that my circumstances hamper myhospitality."
"Not at all. You offer me your best, and in that lies the essence ofhospitality. Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox andhatred, Egad," returned my guest with easy irony.
All the resources of the courtier and the beau were his. One could butadmire the sparkle and the versatility of the man. His wit was brilliantas the play of a rapier's point. Set down in cold blood, rememberedscantily and clumsily as I recall it, without the gay easy polish of hismanner, the fineness is all out of his talk. After all 'tis acharacteristic of much wit that it is apposite to the occasion only andloses point in the retelling.
He seated himself on the table with a leg dangling in air and lookedcuriously around on the massive masonry, the damp floor, the walls oozingslime. I followed his eye and in some measure his thoughts.
"Stone walls do not a prison make," I quoted gaily.
"Ecod, they make a pretty fair imitation of one!" he chuckled.
I was prodigious glad to see him.
His presence stirred my sluggish blood. The sound of his voice was to melike the crack of a whip to a jaded horse. Graceful, careless, debonair, aman of evil from sheer reckless wilfulness, he was the one person in theworld I found it in my heart to both hate and admire at the same time.
He gazed long at me. "You're looking devilish ill, Montagu," he said.
I smiled. "Are you afraid I'll cheat the hangman after all?"
His eyes wandered over the cell again. "By Heaven, this death's cage isenough to send any man off the hooks," he shivered.
"One gets used to it," I answered, shrugging.
He looked at me with a kind of admiration. "They may break you, Montagu,but I vow they will never bend you. Here are you torn with illness, theshadow of the gallows falling across your track, and never a whimper outof you."
"Would that avail to better my condition?"
"I suppose not. Still, self-pity is the very ecstasy of grief, they tellme."
"For girls and halfling boys, I dare say."
There he sat cocked on the table, a picture of smiling ease, raffish andfascinating, as full of sentimental sympathy as a lass in her teens. Hiscommiseration was no less plain to me because it was hidden under adebonair manner. He looked at me in a sidelong fashion with a question inhis eyes.
"Speak out!" I told him. "Your interest in me as evidenced by this visithas earned the right to satisfy your curiosity."
"I dare swear you have had your chance to save yourself?" he asked.
"Oh, the usual offer! A life for a life, the opportunity to save myself bybetraying others."
"Do you never dally with the thought of it?" he questioned.
I looked up quickly at him. A hundred times I had nursed the temptationand put it from me.
"Are you never afraid, Montagu, when the night falls black and slumber isnot to be wooed?"
"Many a time," I told him, smiling.
"You say it as easily as if I had asked whether you ever took the air inthe park. 'Slife, I have never known you flinch. There was always acertain d----d rough plainness about you, but you play the game."
"'Tis a poor hound falls whining at the whip when there is no avoidingit."
"You will never accept their offer of a pardon on those terms. I know you,man. Y'are one of those fools hold by honour rather than life, and damme!I like you for it. Now I in your place----"
"----Would do as I do."
"Would I? I'm not so sure. If I did it would be no virtue, but anobstinacy not to be browbeat." Then he added, "You would give anythingelse on earth for your life, I suppose?"
"Anything else," I told him frankly.
"Anything else?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "No reservations,Montagu?"
Our eyes crossed like rapiers, each searching into the other's very soul.
"Am I to understand that you are making me an offer, Sir Robert?"
"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. Refuseto give her up, and you die; she is not for you in any case. Give way, andI will move heaven and earth for a pardon. Believe me, never was suchperfect weather before. The birds sing divinely, and Charles tells meMontagu Grange is sorely needing a master."
"Charles will look the part to admiration."
"And doubtless will console himself in true brotherly fashion for the lossof his brother by reciting his merits on a granite shaft and straightwayforgetting them in the enjoyment of the estate."
"I think it likely."
He looked at me gloomily. "There is a way to save you, despite yourobstinacy."
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 yourlife. 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 mostsentimental villain unhung, and I can get along without your liking."
"That's as may be," said he laughing, "but I cannot well get along withoutyou. On my honour, you have become one of my greatest sources ofinterest."
"Do you mean that you would stake my life against her hand?" I demandedwhitely.
He gave me look for look. "I mean just that. By Heaven, I shall win herfair or foul."
I could only keep saying over and over again, "You would never do it. Evenyou would never do that."
"Wouldn't I? You'll see," he answered laughing hardily. "Well, I must begoing. Oh, I had forgot. Balmerino sent you this note. I called on himyesterday at the Tower. The old Scotchman is still as full of smiles as abride."
Balmerino's letter was the friendliest imaginable. He stated that for hima pardon was of course out of the question, but that Sir Robert Volney hadassured him that there was a chance for me on certain conditions; heunderstood 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 makesubmission, 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 wasabout to die.
I was shaken, I confess it. Not that I thought for a moment of giving upmy love, but my heart ached to think of the cruel position into which shewould be cast. To save her lover's life, she must forsake her love, or ifshe elected the other alternative must send him to his death. That Volneywould let this burden of choice fall on her I would scarce let myselfbelieve; and yet--there was never a man more madly, hopelessly in lovethan he. His passion for her was like a whirlwind tossing him hither andthither like a chip on the boiling waters, but I thought it verycharacteristic of the man that he used his influence to have me moved to amore comfortable cell and supplied with delicacies, even while he plottedagainst me with my love.
After that first visit he used to come often and entertain me with thenews and gossip of the town. I have never met a more interesting man. Hewas an onlooker of life rather than an actor, an ironical
cynic, chucklingwith sardonic humour. The secret of his charm lay perhaps in a certainwhimsical outlook and in an original turn of mind.
Once I asked him why he found it worth while to spend so many hours withme when his society was so much sought after by the gayest circle in thetown.
"I acquit you of any suspicion of philanthropy, Sir Robert. I give youcredit for pursuing a policy of intelligent selfishness. You must know bythis time that I will not purchase my life, nor let it be purchased, onthe terms which you propose. Well then, I confess it puzzles me to guesswhat amusement you find in such a hole as this."
"Variety spices life. What's a man to do to keep himself from ennui? Forinstance, I got up this morning at ten, with Selwyn visited Lady Dapperwitwhile she was drinking coffee in her nightrail, talked a vast deal ofscandal with her, strolled in the park with Fritz, from there to White'sin a sedan, two hours at lunch, and an hour with you for the good of mysoul."
"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 andagues and fevers! One would scarce think the subject an inviting one forstudy."
"There you do yourself injustice. Y'are the most interesting man I know. Adozen characters are wrapped up in you. You have the appearance of beingas 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 youa touch both of Selwyn's dry wit and of Balmerino's frostly bluntness; thecool daring of James Wolfe combined with as great a love of life as Murrayhas shown; the chivalry of Don Quixote and the hard-headedness ofCumberland; sometimes an awkward boy, again the grand manner Chesterfieldhimself might envy you; the obstinacy of the devil and----"
"Oh, come!" I broke in laughing. "I don't mind being made a compositeepitome of all the vices of the race, but I object to your crossing theStyx on my behalf."
"And that reminds me of the time we came so near crossing together," hebroke out, diverting the subject in his inconsequent fashion. "D'yeremember that Dr. Mead who dressed our wounds for us after our littleargument? It appears that he and a Dr. Woodward fell into someprofessional dispute as to how a case should be treated, and Lud! nothingwould satisfy them but they must get their toasting forks into action. Thestory goes that they fought at the gate of Gresham College. Mead pinkedhis man. 'Take your life,' quoth he. 'Anything but your medicine,' returnsWoodward just before he faints. Horry Walpole told me the story. I supposeyou have heard Selwyn's story of Lord Wharton. You know what a spendthriftWharton is. Well the Duke of Graftsbury offered him one of his daughtersin marriage, a lady of uncertain age and certain temper. But the lady hasone virtue; she's a devilish fine fortune. A plum, they say! Wharton wroteGraftsbury a note of three lines declining the alliance because, as he putit, the fortune was tied up and the lady wasn't."
"Not bad. Talking of Selwyn, I suppose he gets his fill of horrors thesedays."
"One would think he might. I met him at the Prince's dinner yesterday, andbetween us we two emptied nine bottles of maraschino. Conceive thesplitting headache I'm wearing to-day."
"You should take a course in Jacobitism," I told him gravely. "'Tiswarranted to cure gout, liver trouble, indigestion, drunkenness, andsundry other complaints. I can warrant that one lives simply while hetakes 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 hundredfollowers of it fall victim to an epidemic throat disease," he retorted.Then he added more gravely, "By the way, you need have no fears for yourfriend Miss Flora Macdonald. I learn on the best of authority that she isin no danger whatever."
"And Malcolm?" I asked.
"His name has been put near the foot of the list for trial. Long beforethat time the lust for blood will be glutted. I shall make it a point tosee that his case never comes to trial. One cannot afford to have hisbrother-in-law hanged like a common cutpurse."
Day by day the time drew nearer on which my reprieve expired. I sawnothing of Aileen now, for she had followed the King and his court toBath, intent on losing no opportunity that might present itself in myfavour. For one reason I was glad to have her gone; so long as she was outof 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 precedingMonday Volney, just arrived from the executions of Balmerino andKilmarnock, drove out to New Prison to see me. He was full of admirationfor Balmerino's bold exit from the stage of life and retailed to me withgreat gusto every incident of the last scene on Tower Hill.
"I like your bluff Balmerino's philosophy of life," he told me. "When Icalled on him and apologized for intruding on the short time he had leftthe old Lord said, 'O sir, no intrusion at all. I am in no ways concernedto spend more time than usual at my devotions. I think no man fit to livewho is not fit to die, and to die well is much the easier of the two.' Onthe scaffold no bridegroom could have been more cheerful. He was dressedin his old blue campaign uniform and was as bold and manly as ever. Heexpressed joy that Cromartie had been pardoned, inspected with interestthe inscription on his coffin, and smilingly called the block his pillowof rest. 'Pon honour, the intrepid man then rehearsed the execution withhis headsman, kneeling down at the block to show how he would give thesignal for the blow. He then got up again, made a tender smiling farewellwith his friends, and said to me, 'I fear some will think my behaviourbold, Volney, but remember what I say, that it arises from confidence inGod and a clear conscience.' He reaffirmed his unshaken adherence to thehouse of Stuart, crying aloud, 'God save King James!' and bowed to themultitude. Presently, still cheerfully, he knelt at the block and said ina clear voice, 'O Lord, reward my friends, forgive my enemies, blessPrince Charles and his brother, the Duke, and receive my soul.' His armsdropped for the signal, and Arthur Elphinstone of Balmerino passed to theValhalla 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 saidafter a pause. "You carry it off like gentlemen. Every poor Highlander whohas 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 prayersfor 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. 'Tisloyalty 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 eternalproblem. The mystery of it will perhaps be all clear to you then. 'Tismost strange how at one sweep all a man's turbulent questing life passesinto the quiet of--of what? That is the question: of unending death or ofachieved knowledge?" Then he added, coming abruptly to the issue: "The daydraws near. Do you think better of my offer now?"
"Sir Robert, I have lived a tempestuous life these past months. I haveknown hunger and cold and weariness; I have been at the top of fortune'swave and at the bottom; but I have never found it worth my while to becomedivorced 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 aman 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'shesitation: "There'
s one thing it may be a comfort for you to know. I'vegiven up any thought of putting her on the rack. I'll win fairly or not atall."
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 iswrapped up in her. I thought all women alike until I met this one. Now Iknow better. She could have made a different man of me; sometimes I thinkshe could even yet. I vow to you I would not now injure a hair of herhead, 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 forher?"
He mused. "Ah, Montagu! There your finger falls pat on the pulse of mydoubt. My heart cries aye, my reason gives a negative."
"Don't worry overmuch about it," I answered, railing at him. "She'll neverlook at you, man. My grave will be an insurmountable barrier. She willidealize 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 Iask? Or is the day set?"
He had no need to put into words more clearly the irony of the fate thatencompassed 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 tendermelancholy."
"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 swornpretty vows to you, Montagu? 'At lovers' perjuries, they say, lovelaughs.' Is there nothing to be said for me? Will her heart not alwayswhisper that I deserve gratitude and love, that I perilled my life forher, saved the lives of her brother and her lover, neither of them friendsof mine, again reprieved her lover's life, stood friend to her through allher 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 forsakenswain, faith! I do not pursue."
You may be sure that dashed me. I felt as a trapped fox with the dogsclosing in. The future loomed up clear before me, Aileen hand in hand withVolney scattering flowers on my grave in sentimental mood. The futility ofmy 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 Iget you a pardon--and I'm not sure that I can get it--you'll marry thegirl. I might have you shipped to the Barbadoes as a slave with some ofthe others, but to be frank I had rather see you hanged than give you soscurvy an end. Forswear what is already lost and make an end of it."
I turned away blackly. "You have my answer. Sir Robert, you have playedyour last card. Now let me die in peace."
He shrugged impatiently and left me. "A fool's answer, yet a brave man'stoo," he muttered.
Aileen, heart-broken with the failure of her mission, reached town onThursday and came at once to the prison. Her face was as the face oftroubled waters. I had no need to ask the question on my lips. With asobbing cry she threw herself on my breast. My heart was woe for her.Utter weariness was in her manner. All through the long days and nightsshe had agonized, and now at last despaired. There seemed no tears left toshed.
Long I held her tight, teeth set, as one who would keep his own perforcefrom that grim fate which would snatch his love from him. She shivered tome half-swooning, pale and of wondrous beauty, nesting in my arms as aweary homing-bird. A poignant grief o'erflowed in me.
"Oh, Aileen! At least we have love left," I cried, breaking the longsilence.
"Always! Always!" her white lips answered.
"Then let us regret nothing. They can do with me what they will. What arelife and death when in the balance dwells love?" I cried, rapt inunearthly worship of her.
Her eyes found mine. "Oh, Kenneth, I cannot--I cannot--let you go."
Sweet and lovely she was beyond the dream of poet. I trembled in anecstasy of pain. From the next cell there came to us softly the voice of apoor condemned Appin Stewart. He was crooning that most tender andheart-breaking of all strains. Like the pibroch's mournful sough he wailedit out, the song that cuts deep to a Scotchman's heart in time of exile.
"Lochabar no more, Lochabar no more. We'll maybe return to Lochabar no more."
I looked at Aileen, my face working. A long breath came whistling throughher lips. Her dear face was all broken with emotion. I turned my eyesaside, not daring to trust myself. Through misty lashes again I looked.Her breast lifted and fell in shaking sobs, the fount of tears touched atlast. Together we wept, without shame I admit it, while the Stewart'sharrowing strain ebbed to a close. To us it seemed almost as the keeningof the coronach.
So in the quiet that comes after storm, her dear supple figure still in myarms, Sir Robert Volney came in unexpectedly and found us. He stopped atthe door, startled at her presence, and methought a shadow fell on hisface. Near to death as I was, the quality of his courage was so fine andthe strength of the passion in him so great that he would have changedplaces with me even then.
Aileen went up to him at once and gave him her hand. She was very simple,her appeal like a child's for directness.
"Sir Robert, you have already done much for me. I will be so bold as toask you to do more. Here iss my lover's life in danger. I ask you to saveit."
"That he may marry you?"
"If God wills."
Volney looked at her out of a haggard face, all broken by the emotionswhich stirred him.
A minute passed, two minutes. He fought out his fight and won.
"Aileen," he said at last, "before heaven I fear it is too late, but whatman can do, that will I do."
He came in and shook hands with me. "I'll say good-bye, Montagu. 'Tispossible I'll see you but once more in this world. Yet I will do my best.Don't hope too much, but don't despair."
There was unconscious prophecy in his words. I was to see him but the oncemore, and then the proud, gallant gentleman, now so full of energy, waslying on his deathbed struck out of life by a foul blow.