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St. Ives
By
Robert Louis Stevenson
Contents
CHAPTER
I—A TALE OF A LION RAMPANT.
CHAPTER II—A TA=
LE OF A
PAIR OF SCISSORS
CHAPTER III—MAJ=
OR
CHEVENIX COMES INTO THE STORY, AND GOGUELAT GOES OUT.
CHAPTER IV—ST. =
IVES
GETS A BUNDLE OF BANK NOTES
CHAPTER V—ST. I=
VES IS
SHOWN A HOUSE
CHAPTER VII—SWA=
NSTON
COTTAGE
CHAPTER IX—THRE=
E IS
COMPANY, AND FOUR NONE
CHAPTER XI—THE =
GREAT
NORTH ROAD
CHAPTER XII—I F=
OLLOW A
COVERED CART NEARLY TO MY DESTINATION..
CHAPTER XIII—I =
MEET TWO
OF MY COUNTRYMEN
CHAPTER XIV—TRA=
VELS OF
THE COVERED CART
CHAPTER XV—THE
ADVENTURE OF THE ATTORNEY’S CLERK.
CHAPTER XVI—THE
HOME-COMING OF MR. ROWLEY’S VISCOUNT.
CHAPTER XVIII—M=
R.
ROMAINE CALLS ME NAMES
CHAPTER XIX—THE=
DEVIL
AND ALL AT AMERSHAM PLACE
CHAPTER XXI—I B=
ECOME
THE OWNER OF A CLARET-COLOURED CHAISE.
CHAPTER XXII—CH=
ARACTER
AND ACQUIREMENTS OF MR. ROWLE=
Y
CHAPTER XXIII—T=
HE
ADVENTURE OF THE RUNAWAY COUPLE
CHAPTER XXIV—THE
INN-KEEPER OF KIRKBY-LONSDALE
CHAPTER XXV—I M=
EET A
CHEERFUL EXTRAVAGANT
CHAPTER XXVI—THE
COTTAGE AT NIGHT
CHAPTER XXVII—T=
HE
SABBATH DAY
CHAPTER XXVIII—=
EVENTS
OF MONDAY: THE LAWYER’S PARTY.
CHAPTER XXIX—EV=
ENTS OF
TUESDAY: THE TOILS CLOSING
CHAPTER XXX—EVE=
NTS OF
WEDNESDAY; THE UNIVERSITY OF CRAMOND..
The following tale was taken down from Mr. Stevenson’s dictation by h=
is stepdaughter
and amanuensis, Mrs. Strong, at intervals between January 1893 and October =
1894
(see Vailima Letters, pp. 242–246, 299, 324 and 350. About six weeks before his death h=
e laid
the story aside to take up Weir of Hermiston. The thirty chapters of St. Ives wh=
ich he
had written (the last few of them apparently unrevised) brought the tale wi=
thin
sight of its conclusion, and the intended course of the remainder was known=
in
outline to Mrs. Strong. For t=
he benefit
of those readers who do not like a story to be left unfinished, the delicate
task of supplying the missing chapters has been entrusted to Mr. Quiller-Co=
uch,
whose work begins at Chap. XXXI. {0}
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp; =
[S. C.]
=
=
It was
in the month of May 1813 that I was so unlucky as to fall at last into the
hands of the enemy. My knowle=
dge of
the English language had marked me out for a certain employment. Though I cannot conceive a soldier
refusing to incur the risk, yet to be hanged for a spy is a disgusting busi=
ness;
and I was relieved to be held a prisoner of war. Into the Castle of Edinbur=
gh,
standing in the midst of that city on the summit of an extraordinary rock, I
was cast with several hundred fellow-sufferers, all privates like myself, a=
nd
the more part of them, by an accident, very ignorant, plain fellows. My English, which had brought me i=
nto
that scrape, now helped me very materially to bear it. I had a thousand advantages. I was often called to play the par=
t of
an interpreter, whether of orders or complaints, and thus brought in relati=
ons,
sometimes of mirth, sometimes almost of friendship, with the officers in
charge. A young lieutenant si=
ngled
me out to be his adversary at chess, a game in which I was extremely
proficient, and would reward me for my gambits with excellent cigars. The major of the battalion took le=
ssons
of French from me while at breakfast, and was sometimes so obliging as to h=
ave
me join him at the meal. Chev=
enix
was his name. He was stiff as=
a
drum-major and selfish as an Englishman, but a fairly conscientious pupil a=
nd a
fairly upright man. Little di=
d I suppose
that his ramrod body and frozen face would, in the end, step in between me =
and
all my dearest wishes; that upon this precise, regular, icy soldier-man my
fortunes should so nearly shipwreck!
I never liked, but yet I trusted him; and though it may seem but a
trifle, I found his snuff-box with the bean in it come very welcome.
For it is strange how grown men and seasoned
soldiers can go back in life; so that after but a little while in prison, w=
hich
is after all the next thing to being in the nursery, they grow absorbed in =
the
most pitiful, childish interests, and a sugar biscuit or a pinch of snuff b=
ecome
things to follow after and scheme for!
We made but a poor show of prisoners. The officers had been all offered =
their
parole, and had taken it. They
lived mostly in suburbs of the city, lodging with modest families, and enjo=
yed
their freedom and supported the almost continual evil tidings of the Empero=
r as
best they might. It chanced I=
was
the only gentleman among the privates who remained. A great part were ignorant Italian=
s, of
a regiment that had suffered heavily in Catalonia. The rest were mere diggers of the =
soil, treaders
of grapes or hewers of wood, who had been suddenly and violently preferred =
to
the glorious state of soldiers. We
had but the one interest in common: each of us who had any skill with his
fingers passed the hours of his captivity in the making of little toys and
articles of Paris; and the prison was daily visited at certain hours by a
concourse of people of the country, come to exult over our distress,
or—it is more tolerant to suppose—their own vicarious triumph.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Some moved among us with a decency=
of
shame or sympathy. Others wer=
e the
most offensive personages in the world, gaped at us as if we had been baboo=
ns,
sought to evangelise us to their rustic, northern religion, as though we had
been savages, or tortured us with intelligence of disasters to the arms of =
France. Good, bad, and indifferent, there =
was
one alleviation to the annoyance of these visitors; for it was the practice=
of
almost all to purchase some specimen of our rude handiwork. This led, amongst the prisoners, t=
o a
strong spirit of competition. Some
were neat of hand, and (the genius of the French being always distinguished)
could place upon sale little miracles of dexterity and taste. Some had a more engaging appearanc=
e;
fine features were found to do as well as fine merchandise, and an air of y=
outh
in particular (as it appealed to the sentiment of pity in our visitors) to =
be a
source of profit. Others again
enjoyed some acquaintance with the language, and were able to recommend the
more agreeably to purchasers such trifles as they had to sell. To the first of these advantages I=
could
lay no claim, for my fingers were all thumbs. Some at least of the others I poss=
essed;
and finding much entertainment in our commerce, I did not suffer my advanta=
ges
to rust. I have never despise=
d the
social arts, in which it is a national boast that every Frenchman should
excel. For the approach of
particular sorts of visitors, I had a particular manner of address, and eve=
n of
appearance, which I could readily assume and change on the occasion
rising. I never lost an oppor=
tunity
to flatter either the person of my visitor, if it should be a lady, or, if =
it
should be a man, the greatness of his country in war. And in case my compliments should =
miss
their aim, I was always ready to cover my retreat with some agreeable
pleasantry, which would often earn me the name of an ‘oddity’ o=
r a
‘droll fellow.’ I=
n this
way, although I was so left-handed a toy-maker, I made out to be rather a
successful merchant; and found means to procure many little delicacies and
alleviations, such as children or prisoners desire.
I am scarcely drawing the portrait of a very
melancholy man. It is not ind=
eed my
character; and I had, in a comparison with my comrades, many reasons for
content. In the first place, =
I had
no family: I was an orphan and a bachelor; neither wife nor child awaited m=
e in
France. In the second, I had =
never
wholly forgot the emotions with which I first found myself a prisoner; and
although a military prison be not altogether a garden of delights, it is st=
ill
preferable to a gallows. In t=
he
third, I am almost ashamed to say it, but I found a certain pleasure in our=
place
of residence: being an obsolete and really mediaeval fortress, high placed =
and
commanding extraordinary prospects, not only over sea, mountain, and champa=
ign
but actually over the thoroughfares of a capital city, which we could see
blackened by day with the moving crowd of the inhabitants, and at night shi=
ning
with lamps. And lastly, altho=
ugh I
was not insensible to the restraints of prison or the scantiness of our rat=
ions,
I remembered I had sometimes eaten quite as ill in Spain, and had to mount
guard and march perhaps a dozen leagues into the bargain. The first of my
troubles, indeed, was the costume we were obliged to wear. There is a horrible practice in En=
gland
to trick out in ridiculous uniforms, and as it were to brand in mass, not o=
nly
convicts but military prisoners, and even the children in charity schools.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I think some malignant genius had =
found
his masterpiece of irony in the dress which we were condemned to wear: jack=
et,
waistcoat, and trousers of a sulphur or mustard yellow, and a shirt or
blue-and-white striped cotton. It
was conspicuous, it was cheap, it pointed us out to laughter—we, who =
were
old soldiers, used to arms, and some of us showing noble scars,—like =
a set
of lugubrious zanies at a fair. The
old name of that rock on which our prison stood was (I have heard since the=
n)
the Painted Hill. Well, now i=
t was
all painted a bright yellow with our costumes; and the dress of the soldiers
who guarded us being of course the essential British red rag, we made up
together the elements of a lively picture of hell. I have again and again looked roun=
d upon
my fellow-prisoners, and felt my anger rise, and choked upon tears, to beho=
ld
them thus parodied. The more =
part,
as I have said, were peasants, somewhat bettered perhaps by the drill-serge=
ant,
but for all that ungainly, loutish fellows, with no more than a mere
barrack-room smartness of address: indeed, you could have seen our army now=
here
more discreditably represented than in this Castle of Edinburgh. And I used to see myself in fancy,=
and
blush. It seemed that my more
elegant carriage would but point the insult of the travesty. And I remembered the days when I w=
ore
the coarse but honourable coat of a soldier; and remembered further back how
many of the noble, the fair, and the gracious had taken a delight to tend m=
y childhood.
. . . But I must not recall t=
hese
tender and sorrowful memories twice; their place is further on, and I am now
upon another business. The pe=
rfidy
of the Britannic Government stood nowhere more openly confessed than in one
particular of our discipline: that we were shaved twice in the week. To a man who has loved all his lif=
e to
be fresh shaven, can a more irritating indignity be devised? Monday and Thursday were the days.=
Take the Thursday, and conceive the
picture I must present by Sunday evening!&=
nbsp;
And Saturday, which was almost as bad, was the great day for visitor=
s.
Those who came to our market were of all
qualities, men and women, the lean and the stout, the plain and the fairly
pretty. Sure, if people at all
understood the power of beauty, there would be no prayers addressed except =
to
Venus; and the mere privilege of beholding a comely woman is worth paying
for. Our visitors, upon the w=
hole,
were not much to boast of; and yet, sitting in a corner and very much asham=
ed
of myself and my absurd appearance, I have again and again tasted the fines=
t,
the rarest, and the most ethereal pleasures in a glance of an eye that I sh=
ould
never see again—and never wanted to.=
The flower of the hedgerow and the star in heaven satisfy and delight
us: how much more the look of that exquisite being who was created to bear =
and
rear, to madden and rejoice, mankind!
There was one young lady in particular, about
eighteen or nineteen, tall, of a gallant carriage, and with a profusion of =
hair
in which the sun found threads of gold.&nb=
sp;
As soon as she came in the courtyard (and she was a rather frequent
visitor) it seemed I was aware of it.
She had an air of angelic candour, yet of a high spirit; she stepped
like a Diana, every movement was noble and free. One day there was a strong east wi=
nd;
the banner was straining at the flagstaff; below us the smoke of the city c=
himneys
blew hither and thither in a thousand crazy variations; and away out on the
Forth we could see the ships lying down to it and scudding. I was thinking what a vile day it =
was,
when she appeared. Her hair b=
lew in
the wind with changes of colour; her garments moulded her with the accuracy=
of
sculpture; the ends of her shawl fluttered about her ear and were caught in
again with an inimitable deftness.
You have seen a pool on a gusty day, how it suddenly sparkles and
flashes like a thing alive? So this lady’s face had become animated a=
nd
coloured; and as I saw her standing, somewhat inclined, her lips parted, a
divine trouble in her eyes, I could have clapped my hands in applause, and =
was
ready to acclaim her a genuine daughter of the winds. What put it in my head, I know not=
: perhaps
because it was a Thursday and I was new from the razor; but I determined to
engage her attention no later than that day. She was approaching that part of t=
he
court in which I sat with my merchandise, when I observed her handkerchief =
to
escape from her hands and fall to the ground; the next moment the wind had
taken it up and carried it within my reach. I was on foot at once: I had forgo=
t my
mustard-coloured clothes, I had forgot the private soldier and his salute.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Bowing deeply, I offered her the s=
lip of
cambric.
‘Madam,’ said I, ‘your
handkerchief. The wind brough=
t it
me.’
I met her eyes fully.
‘I thank you, sir,’ said she.
‘The wind brought it me,’ I
repeated. ‘May I not ta=
ke it
for an omen? You have an English proverb, “It’s an ill wind that
blows nobody good.”’
‘Well,’ she said, with a smile,
‘“One good turn deserves another.” I will see what you have.’
She followed me to where my wares were spread =
out
under lee of a piece of cannon.
‘Alas, mademoiselle!’ said I, R=
16;I
am no very perfect craftsman. This
is supposed to be a house, and you see the chimneys are awry. You may call this a box if you are=
very
indulgent; but see where my tool slipped! Yes, I am afraid you may go from =
one
to another, and find a flaw in everything.=
Failures for Sale should be on my signboard. I do not keep a shop; I keep a Hum=
orous
Museum.’ I cast a smili=
ng
glance about my display, and then at her, and instantly became grave. ‘Strange, is it not,’ I
added, ‘that a grown man and a soldier should be engaged upon such tr=
ash,
and a sad heart produce anything so funny to look at?’
An unpleasant voice summoned her at this momen=
t by
the name of Flora, and she made a hasty purchase and rejoined her party.
A few days after she came again. But I must first tell you how she =
came to
be so frequent. Her aunt was =
one of
those terrible British old maids, of which the world has heard much; and ha=
ving
nothing whatever to do, and a word or two of French, she had taken what she
called an interest in the French prisoners. A big, bustling, bold old lady, she
flounced about our market-place with insufferable airs of patronage and con=
descension. She bought, indeed, with liberalit=
y, but
her manner of studying us through a quizzing-glass, and playing cicerone to=
her
followers, acquitted us of any gratitude.&=
nbsp;
She had a tail behind her of heavy, obsequious old gentlemen, or dul=
l,
giggling misses, to whom she appeared to be an oracle. ‘This one can really carve
prettily: is he not a quiz with his big whiskers?’ she would say. ‘And this one,’ indica=
ting myself
with her gold eye-glass, ‘is, I assure you, quite an oddity.’ The oddity, you may be certain, gr=
ound
his teeth. She had a way of
standing in our midst, nodding around, and addressing us in what she imagin=
ed
to be French: ‘Bienne, hommes! ça va bienne?’ I took the freedom to reply in the=
same
lingo: Bienne, femme! ça va couci-couci tout d’même, la
bourgeoise!’ And at tha=
t,
when we had all laughed with a little more heartiness than was entirely civ=
il,
‘I told you he was quite an oddity!’ says she in triumph. Needless to say, these passages we=
re before
I had remarked the niece.
The aunt came on the day in question with a
following rather more than usually large, which she manoeuvred to and fro a=
bout
the market and lectured to at rather more than usual length, and with rather
less than her accustomed tact. I
kept my eyes down, but they were ever fixed in the same direction, quite in
vain. The aunt came and went,=
and
pulled us out, and showed us off, like caged monkeys; but the niece kept
herself on the outskirts of the crowd and on the opposite side of the
courtyard, and departed at last as she had come, without a sign. Closely as I had watched her, I co=
uld
not say her eyes had ever rested on me for an instant; and my heart was
overwhelmed with bitterness and blackness.=
I tore out her detested image; I felt I was done with her for ever; =
I laughed
at myself savagely, because I had thought to please; when I lay down at nig=
ht
sleep forsook me, and I lay, and rolled, and gloated on her charms, and cur=
sed
her insensibility, for half the night.&nbs=
p;
How trivial I thought her! and how trivial her sex! A man might be an angel or an Apol=
lo,
and a mustard-coloured coat would wholly blind them to his merits. I was a prisoner, a slave, a conte=
mned
and despicable being, the butt of her sniggering countrymen. I would take the lesson: no proud =
daughter
of my foes should have the chance to mock at me again; none in the future
should have the chance to think I had looked at her with admiration. You cannot imagine any one of a mo=
re
resolute and independent spirit, or whose bosom was more wholly mailed with
patriotic arrogance, than I. =
Before
I dropped asleep, I had remembered all the infamies of Britain, and debited
them in an overwhelming column to Flora.
The next day, as I sat in my place, I became
conscious there was some one standing near; and behold, it was herself! I kept my seat, at first in the
confusion of my mind, later on from policy; and she stood, and leaned a lit=
tle
over me, as in pity. She was =
very still
and timid; her voice was low. Did I
suffer in my captivity? she asked me.
Had I to complain of any hardship?
‘Mademoiselle, I have not learned to
complain,’ said I. R=
16;I
am a soldier of Napoleon.’
She sighed.&n=
bsp;
‘At least you must regret La France,’ said she, and colo=
ured
a little as she pronounced the words, which she did with a pretty strangene=
ss
of accent.
‘What am I to say?’ I replied. ‘If you were carried from th=
is
country, for which you seem so wholly suited, where the very rains and wind=
s seem
to become you like ornaments, would you regret, do you think? We must surely all regret! the son=
to
his mother, the man to his country; these are native feelings.’
‘You have a mother?’ she asked.
‘In heaven, mademoiselle,’ I
answered. ‘She, and my =
father
also, went by the same road to heaven as so many others of the fair and bra=
ve:
they followed their queen upon the scaffold. So, you see, I am not so much to be
pitied in my prison,’ I continued: ‘there are none to wait for =
me;
I am alone in the world. R=
17;Tis
a different case, for instance, with yon poor fellow in the cloth cap. His bed is next to mine, and in the
night I hear him sobbing to himself.
He has a tender character, full of tender and pretty sentiments; and=
in
the dark at night, and sometimes by day when he can get me apart with him, =
he
laments a mother and a sweetheart. Do you know what made him take me for a
confidant?’
She parted her lips with a look, but did not
speak. The look burned all th=
rough
me with a sudden vital heat.
‘Because I had once seen, in marching by,
the belfry of his village!’ I continued. ‘The circumstance is quaint
enough. It seems to bind up i=
nto one
the whole bundle of those human instincts that make life beautiful, and peo=
ple
and places dear—and from which it would seem I am cut off!’
I rested my chin on my knee and looked before =
me
on the ground. I had been tal=
king
until then to hold her; but I was now not sorry she should go: an impressio=
n is
a thing so delicate to produce and so easy to overthrow! Presently she seemed to make an ef=
fort.
‘I will take this toy,’ she said, =
laid
a five-and-sixpenny piece in my hand, and was gone ere I could thank her.
I retired to a place apart near the ramparts a=
nd
behind a gun. The beauty, the
expression of her eyes, the tear that had trembled there, the compassion in=
her
voice, and a kind of wild elegance that consecrated the freedom of her
movements, all combined to enslave my imagination and inflame my heart. What had she said? Nothing to signify; but her eyes h=
ad met
mine, and the fire they had kindled burned inextinguishably in my veins.
A likely thing, indeed, that a beggar-man, a
private soldier, a prisoner in a yellow travesty, was to awake the interest=
of
this fair girl! I would not
despair; but I saw the game must be played fine and close. It must be my policy to hold myself
before her, always in a pathetic or pleasing attitude; never to alarm or
startle her; to keep my own secret locked in my bosom like a story of disgr=
ace,
and let hers (if she could be induced to have one) grow at its own rate; to
move just so fast, and not by a hair’s-breadth any faster, than the i=
nclination
of her heart. I was the man, =
and
yet I was passive, tied by the foot in prison. I could not go to her; I must cast=
a
spell upon her at each visit, so that she should return to me; and this was=
a
matter of nice management. I =
had done
it the last time—it seemed impossible she should not come again after=
our
interview; and for the next I had speedily ripened a fresh plan. A prisoner, if he has one great
disability for a lover, has yet one considerable advantage: there is nothin=
g to
distract him, and he can spend all his hours ripening his love and preparing
its manifestations. I had been then some days upon a piece of carving,̵=
2;no
less than the emblem of Scotland, the Lion Rampant. This I proceeded to finish with wh=
at
skill I was possessed of; and when at last I could do no more to it (and, y=
ou
may be sure, was already regretting I had done so much), added on the base =
the
following dedication.—
=
&nb=
sp;
À LA BELLE FLORA =
&nb=
sp; LE
PRISONNIER RECONNAISSANT =
&nb=
sp; A.
D. ST. Y. D. K.
I put my heart into the carving of these
letters. What was done with s=
o much
ardour, it seemed scarce possible that any should behold with indifference;=
and
the initials would at least suggest to her my noble birth. I thought it better to suggest: I =
felt
that mystery was my stock-in-trade; the contrast between my rank and manner=
s,
between my speech and my clothing, and the fact that she could only think o=
f me
by a combination of letters, must all tend to increase her interest and eng=
age her
heart.
This done, there was nothing left for me but to
wait and to hope. And there is
nothing further from my character: in love and in war, I am all for the for=
ward
movement; and these days of waiting made my purgatory. It is a fact that I
loved her a great deal better at the end of them, for love comes, like brea=
d,
from a perpetual rehandling. =
And
besides, I was fallen into a panic of fear. How, if she came no more, how was =
I to continue
to endure my empty days? how was I to fall back and find my interest in the
major’s lessons, the lieutenant’s chess, in a twopenny sale in =
the
market, or a halfpenny addition to the prison fare?
Days went by, and weeks; I had not the courage=
to
calculate, and to-day I have not the courage to remember; but at last she w=
as
there. At last I saw her appr=
oach
me in the company of a boy about her own age, and whom I divined at once to=
be
her brother.
I rose and bowed in silence.
‘This is my brother, Mr. Ronald
Gilchrist,’ said she.
‘I have told him of your sufferings. He is so sorry for you!’
‘It is more than I have the right to
ask,’ I replied; ‘but among gentlefolk these generous sentiments
are natural. If your brother =
and I were
to meet in the field, we should meet like tigers; but when he sees me here
disarmed and helpless, he forgets his animosity.’ (At which, as I had ventured to ex=
pect,
this beardless champion coloured to the ears for pleasure.) ‘Ah, my dear young lady,R=
17; I
continued, ‘there are many of your countrymen languishing in my count=
ry,
even as I do here. I can but =
hope
there is found some French lady to convey to each of them the priceless
consolation of her sympathy. =
You
have given me alms; and more than alms—hope; and while you were absen=
t I
was not forgetful. Suffer me =
to be
able to tell myself that I have at least tried to make a return; and for the
prisoner’s sake deign to accept this trifle.’
So saying, I offered her my lion, which she to=
ok,
looked at in some embarrassment, and then, catching sight of the dedication,
broke out with a cry.
‘Why, how did you know my name?’ s=
he
exclaimed.
‘When names are so appropriate, they sho=
uld
be easily guessed,’ said I, bowing.&=
nbsp;
‘But indeed, there was no magic in the matter. A lady called you by name on the d=
ay I
found your handkerchief, and I was quick to remark and cherish it.’
‘It is very, very beautiful,’ said
she, ‘and I shall be always proud of the inscription.—Come, Ron=
ald,
we must be going.’ She =
bowed
to me as a lady bows to her equal, and passed on (I could have sworn) with =
a heightened
colour.
I was overjoyed: my innocent ruse had succeede=
d;
she had taken my gift without a hint of payment, and she would scarce sleep=
in
peace till she had made it up to me.
No greenhorn in matters of the heart, I was besides aware that I had=
now
a resident ambassador at the court of my lady. The lion might be ill chiselled; i=
t was
mine. My hands had made and h=
eld
it; my knife—or, to speak more by the mark, my rusty nail—had t=
raced
those letters; and simple as the words were, they would keep repeating to h=
er
that I was grateful and that I found her fair. The boy had looked like a gawky, a=
nd
blushed at a compliment; I could see besides that he regarded me with
considerable suspicion; yet he made so manly a figure of a lad, that I could
not withhold from him my sympathy.
And as for the impulse that had made her bring and introduce him, I
could not sufficiently admire it.
It seemed to me finer than wit, and more tender than a caress. It said (plain as language), ̵=
6;I do
not and I cannot know you. He=
re is
my brother—you can know him; this is the way to me—follow it.=
8217;
=
=
I was
still plunged in these thoughts when the bell was rung that discharged our
visitors into the street. Our
little market was no sooner closed than we were summoned to the distributio=
n,
and received our rations, which we were then allowed to eat according to fa=
ncy
in any part of our quarters.
I have said the conduct of some of our visitors
was unbearably offensive; it was possibly more so than they dreamed—as
the sight-seers at a menagerie may offend in a thousand ways, and quite wit=
hout
meaning it, the noble and unfortunate animals behind the bars; and there is=
no
doubt but some of my compatriots were susceptible beyond reason. Some of these old whiskerandos,
originally peasants, trained since boyhood in victorious armies, and accust=
omed
to move among subject and trembling populations, could ill brook their chan=
ge
of circumstance. There was on=
e man
of the name of Goguelat, a brute of the first water, who had enjoyed no tou=
ch
of civilisation beyond the military discipline, and had risen by an extreme
heroism of bravery to a grade for which he was otherwise unfitted—tha=
t of
maréchal des logis in the 22nd of the line. In so far as a brute can be a good
soldier, he was a good soldier; the Cross was on his breast, and gallantly
earned; but in all things outside his line of duty the man was no other tha=
n a
brawling, bruising ignorant pillar of low pothouses. As a gentleman by birth, and a sch=
olar
by taste and education, I was the type of all that he least understood and =
most
detested; and the mere view of our visitors would leave him daily in a tran=
sport
of annoyance, which he would make haste to wreak on the nearest victim, and=
too
often on myself.
It was so now. Our rations were scarce served out=
, and
I had just withdrawn into a corner of the yard, when I perceived him drawing
near. He wore an air of hateful mirth; a set of young fools, among whom he =
passed
for a wit, followed him with looks of expectation; and I saw I was about to=
be
the object of some of his insufferable pleasantries. He took a place beside me, spread =
out
his rations, drank to me derisively from his measure of prison beer, and
began. What he said it would =
be impossible
to print; but his admirers, who believed their wit to have surpassed himsel=
f,
actually rolled among the gravel.
For my part, I thought at first I should have died. I had not dreamed the wretch was s=
o observant;
but hate sharpens the ears, and he had counted our interviews and actually =
knew
Flora by her name. Gradually =
my
coolness returned to me, accompanied by a volume of living anger that surpr=
ised
myself.
‘Are you nearly done?’ I asked.
‘Oh, fair play!’ said he. ‘Turn about! The Marquis of Carabas to the trib=
une.’
‘Very well,’ said I. ‘I have to inform you that I=
am a
gentleman. You do not know wh=
at
that means, hey? Well, I will=
tell
you. It is a comical sort of
animal; springs from another strange set of creatures they call ancestors; =
and,
in common with toads and other vermin, has a thing that he calls feelings.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The lion is a gentleman; he will n=
ot
touch carrion. I am a gentlem=
an,
and I cannot bear to soil my fingers with such a lump of dirt. Sit still, Philippe Goguelat! sit =
still
and do not say a word, or I shall know you are a coward; the eyes of our gu=
ards
are upon us. Here is your
health!’ said I, and pledged him in the prison beer. ‘You have chosen to speak in=
a
certain way of a young child,’ I continued, ‘who might be your
daughter, and who was giving alms to me and some others of us mendicants. If the
Emperor’—saluting—‘if my Emperor could hear you, he
would pluck off the Cross from your gross body. I cannot do that; I cannot take aw=
ay
what His Majesty has given; but one thing I promise you—I promise you,
Goguelat, you shall be dead to-night.’
I had borne so much from him in the past, I
believe he thought there was no end to my forbearance, and he was at first
amazed. But I have the pleasu=
re to
think that some of my expressions had pierced through his thick hide; and
besides, the brute was truly a hero of valour, and loved fighting for
itself. Whatever the cause, at
least, he had soon pulled himself together, and took the thing (to do him
justice) handsomely.
‘And I promise you, by the devil’s
horns, that you shall have the chance!’ said he, and pledged me again;
and again I did him scrupulous honour.
The news of this defiance spread from prisoner=
to
prisoner with the speed of wings; every face was seen to be illuminated like
those of the spectators at a horse-race; and indeed you must first have tas=
ted
the active life of a soldier, and then mouldered for a while in the tedium =
of a
jail, in order to understand, perhaps even to excuse, the delight of our
companions. Goguelat and I sl=
ept in
the same squad, which greatly simplified the business; and a committee of
honour was accordingly formed of our shed-mates. They chose for president a
sergeant-major in the 4th Dragoons, a greybeard of the army, an excellent
military subject, and a good man.
He took the most serious view of his functions, visited us both, and
reported our replies to the committee.&nbs=
p;
Mine was of a decent firmness.
I told him the young lady of whom Goguelat had spoken had on several
occasions given me alms. I re=
minded
him that, if we were now reduced to hold out our hands and sell pill-boxes =
for
charity, it was something very new for soldiers of the Empire. We had all seen bandits standing a=
t a
corner of a wood truckling for copper halfpence, and after their benefactors
were gone spitting out injuries and curses. ‘But,’ said I, ‘I
trust that none of us will fall so low.&nb=
sp;
As a Frenchman and a soldier, I owe that young child gratitude, and =
am bound
to protect her character, and to support that of the army. You are my elder and my superior: =
tell
me if I am not right.’
He was a quiet-mannered old fellow, and patted=
me
with three fingers on the back.
‘C’est bien, mon enfant,’ says he, and returned to=
his
committee.
Goguelat was no more accommodating than
myself. ‘I do not like
apologies nor those that make them,’ was his only answer. And there remained nothing but to
arrange the details of the meeting.
So far as regards place and time we had no choice; we must settle the
dispute at night, in the dark, after a round had passed by, and in the open
middle of the shed under which we slept.&n=
bsp;
The question of arms was more obscure. We had a good many tools, indeed, =
which
we employed in the manufacture of our toys; but they were none of them suit=
ed
for a single combat between civilised men, and, being nondescript, it was f=
ound
extremely hard to equalise the chances of the combatants. At length a pair of scissors was u=
nscrewed;
and a couple of tough wands being found in a corner of the courtyard, one b=
lade
of the scissors was lashed solidly to each with resined twine—the twi=
ne
coming I know not whence, but the resin from the green pillars of the shed,
which still sweated from the axe.
It was a strange thing to feel in one’s hand this weapon, which
was no heavier than a riding-rod, and which it was difficult to suppose wou=
ld
prove more dangerous. A gener=
al
oath was administered and taken, that no one should interfere in the duel n=
or
(suppose it to result seriously) betray the name of the survivor. And with that, all being then read=
y, we
composed ourselves to await the moment.
The evening fell cloudy; not a star was to be =
seen
when the first round of the night passed through our shed and wound off alo=
ng
the ramparts; and as we took our places, we could still hear, over the murm=
urs
of the surrounding city, the sentries challenging its further passage. Leclos, the sergeant-major, set us=
in
our stations, engaged our wands, and left us. To avoid blood-stained clothing, my
adversary and I had stripped to the shoes; and the chill of the night envel=
oped
our bodies like a wet sheet. =
The
man was better at fencing than myself; he was vastly taller than I, being o=
f a
stature almost gigantic, and proportionately strong. In the inky blackness =
of
the shed, it was impossible to see his eyes; and from the suppleness of the
wands, I did not like to trust to a parade. I made up my mind accordingly to p=
rofit,
if I might, by my defect; and as soon as the signal should be given, to thr=
ow
myself down and lunge at the same moment.&=
nbsp;
It was to play my life upon one card: should I not mortally wound hi=
m,
no defence would be left me; what was yet more appalling, I thus ran the ri=
sk
of bringing my own face against his scissor with the double force of our
assaults, and my face and eyes are not that part of me that I would the most
readily expose.
‘Allez!’ said the sergeant-major.<= o:p>
Both lunged in the same moment with an equal f=
ury,
and but for my manoeuvre both had certainly been spitted. As it was, he did no more than str=
ike my
shoulder, while my scissor plunged below the girdle into a mortal part; and
that great bulk of a man, falling from his whole height, knocked me immedia=
tely
senseless.
When I came to myself I was laid in my own
sleeping-place, and could make out in the darkness the outline of perhaps a
dozen heads crowded around me. I
sat up. ‘What is it?=
217; I
exclaimed.
‘Hush!’ said the sergeant-major. ‘Blessed be God, all is
well.’ I felt him clasp=
my
hand, and there were tears in his voice.&n=
bsp;
‘’Tis but a scratch, my child; here is papa, who is taki=
ng
good care of you. Your should=
er is
bound up; we have dressed you in your clothes again, and it will all be
well.’
At this I began to remember. ‘And Goguelat?’ I gasp=
ed.
‘He cannot bear to be moved; he has his
bellyful; ’tis a bad business,’ said the sergeant-major.
The idea of having killed a man with such an
instrument as half a pair of scissors seemed to turn my stomach. I am sure I might have killed a do=
zen
with a firelock, a sabre, a bayonet, or any accepted weapon, and been visit=
ed
by no such sickness of remorse. And
to this feeling every unusual circumstance of our rencounter, the darkness =
in
which we had fought, our nakedness, even the resin on the twine, appeared t=
o contribute. I ran to my fallen adversary, knee=
led by
him, and could only sob his name.
He bade me compose myself. ‘You have given me the key o=
f the
fields, comrade,’ said he.
‘Sans rancune!’
At this my horror redoubled. Here had we two expatriated French=
men engaged
in an ill-regulated combat like the battles of beasts. Here was he, who had been all his =
life
so great a ruffian, dying in a foreign land of this ignoble injury, and mee=
ting
death with something of the spirit of a Bayard. I insisted that the guards should =
be
summoned and a doctor brought.
‘It may still be possible to save him,’ I cried.
The sergeant-major reminded me of our
engagement. ‘If you had=
been wounded,’
said he, ‘you must have lain there till the patrol came by and found =
you. It happens to be Goguelat—an=
d so
must he! Come, child, time to=
go to
by-by.’ And as I still
resisted, ‘Champdivers!’ he said, ‘this is weakness. You pain me.’
‘Ay, off to your beds with you!’ s= aid Goguelat, and named us in a company with one of his jovial gross epithets.<= o:p>
Accordingly the squad lay down in the dark and
simulated, what they certainly were far from experiencing, sleep. It was not yet late. The city, from far below, and all =
around
us, sent up a sound of wheels and feet and lively voices. Yet awhile, and the curtain of the=
cloud
was rent across, and in the space of sky between the eaves of the shed and =
the
irregular outline of the ramparts a multitude of stars appeared. Meantime, =
in
the midst of us lay Goguelat, and could not always withhold himself from
groaning.
We heard the round far off; heard it draw slow=
ly
nearer. Last of all, it turne=
d the
corner and moved into our field of vision: two file of men and a corporal w=
ith
a lantern, which he swung to and fro, so as to cast its light in the recess=
es
of the yards and sheds.
‘Hullo!’ cried the corporal, pausi=
ng
as he came by Goguelat.
He stooped with his lantern. All our hearts were flying.
‘What devil’s work is this?’=
he
cried, and with a startling voice summoned the guard.
We were all afoot upon the instant; more lante=
rns
and soldiers crowded in front of the shed; an officer elbowed his way in. In the midst was the big naked bod=
y,
soiled with blood. Some one h=
ad
covered him with his blanket; but as he lay there in agony, he had partly
thrown it off.
‘This is murder!’ cried the
officer. ‘You wild beas=
ts,
you will hear of this to-morrow.’
As Goguelat was raised and laid upon a stretch=
er,
he cried to us a cheerful and blasphemous farewell.
=
=
There
was never any talk of a recovery, and no time was lost in getting the
man’s deposition. He ga=
ve but
the one account of it: that he had committed suicide because he was sick of
seeing so many Englishmen. Th=
e doctor
vowed it was impossible, the nature and direction of the wound forbidding
it. Goguelat replied that he =
was
more ingenious than the other thought for, and had propped up the weapon in=
the
ground and fallen on the point—‘just like Nebuchadnezzar,’=
; he
added, winking to the assistants.
The doctor, who was a little, spruce, ruddy man of an impatient temp=
er,
pished and pshawed and swore over his patient. ‘Nothing to be made of
him!’ he cried. ‘A
perfect heathen. If we could =
only
find the weapon!’ But t=
he
weapon had ceased to exist. A
little resined twine was perhaps blowing about in the castle gutters; some =
bits
of broken stick may have trailed in corners; and behold, in the pleasant ai=
r of
the morning, a dandy prisoner trimming his nails with a pair of scissors!
Finding the wounded man so firm, you may be su=
re
the authorities did not leave the rest of us in peace. No stone was left unturned. We were had in again and again to =
be
examined, now singly, now in twos and threes. We were threatened with all s=
orts
of impossible severities and tempted with all manner of improbable
rewards. I suppose I was five=
times
interrogated, and came off from each with flying colours. I am like old Souvaroff, I cannot
understand a soldier being taken aback by any question; he should answer, a=
s he
marches on the fire, with an instant briskness and gaiety. I may have been short of bread, go=
ld or
grace; I was never yet found wanting in an answer. My comrades, if they were not all =
so
ready, were none of them less staunch; and I may say here at once that the
inquiry came to nothing at the time, and the death of Goguelat remained a
mystery of the prison. Such w=
ere
the veterans of France! And y=
et I
should be disingenuous if I did not own this was a case apart; in ordinary =
circumstances,
some one might have stumbled or been intimidated into an admission; and what
bound us together with a closeness beyond that of mere comrades was a secre=
t to
which we were all committed and a design in which all were equally
engaged. No need to inquire a=
s to
its nature: there is only one desire, and only one kind of design, that blo=
oms
in prisons. And the fact that=
our
tunnel was near done supported and inspired us.
I came off in public, as I have said, with fly=
ing
colours; the sittings of the court of inquiry died away like a tune that no=
one
listens to; and yet I was unmasked—I, whom my very adversary defended=
, as
good as confessed, as good as told the nature of the quarrel, and by so doi=
ng prepared
for myself in the future a most anxious, disagreeable adventure. It was the
third morning after the duel, and Goguelat was still in life, when the time
came round for me to give Major Chevenix a lesson. I was fond of this occupation; not=
that
he paid me much—no more, indeed, than eighteenpence a month, the
customary figure, being a miser in the grain; but because I liked his
breakfasts and (to some extent) himself.&n=
bsp;
At least, he was a man of education; and of the others with whom I h=
ad
any opportunity of speech, those that would not have held a book upsidedown=
would
have torn the pages out for pipe-lights.&n=
bsp;
For I must repeat again that our body of prisoners was exceptional:
there was in Edinburgh Castle none of that educational busyness that
distinguished some of the other prisons, so that men entered them unable to
read, and left them fit for high employments. Chevenix was handsome, and surpris=
ingly
young to be a major: six feet in his stockings, well set up, with regular
features and very clear grey eyes.
It was impossible to pick a fault in him, and yet the sum-total was
displeasing. Perhaps he was t=
oo
clean; he seemed to bear about with him the smell of soap. Cleanliness is good, but I cannot =
bear a
man’s nails to seem japanned.
And certainly he was too self-possessed and cold. There was none of the fire of yout=
h,
none of the swiftness of the soldier, in this young officer. His kindness was cold, and cruel c=
old;
his deliberation exasperating. And
perhaps it was from this character, which is very much the opposite of my o=
wn,
that even in these days, when he was of service to me, I approached him wit=
h suspicion
and reserve.
I looked over his exercise in the usual form, =
and
marked six faults.
‘H’m. Six,’ says he, looking at the
paper. ‘Very annoying!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I can never get it right.’
‘Oh, but you make excellent progress!=
217;
I said. I would not discourag=
e him,
you understand, but he was congenitally unable to learn French. Some fire, I
think, is needful, and he had quenched his fire in soapsuds.
He put the exercise down, leaned his chin upon=
his
hand, and looked at me with clear, severe eyes.
‘I think we must have a little talk,R=
17;
said he.
‘I am entirely at your disposition,̵=
7; I
replied; but I quaked, for I knew what subject to expect.
‘You have been some time giving me these
lessons,’ he went on, ‘and I am tempted to think rather well of
you. I believe you are a
gentleman.’
‘I have that honour, sir,’ said I.=
‘You have seen me for the same period. I do not know how I strike you; but
perhaps you will be prepared to believe that I also am a man of honour,R=
17;
said he.
‘I require no assurances; the thing is
manifest,’ and I bowed.
‘Very well, then,’ said he. ‘What about this Goguelat?=
8217;
‘You heard me yesterday before the
court,’ I began. ‘=
;I was
awakened only—’
‘Oh yes; I “heard you yesterday be=
fore
the court,” no doubt,’ he interrupted, ‘and I remember
perfectly that you were “awakened only.” I could repeat the most of it by r=
ote,
indeed. But do you suppose th=
at I believed
you for a moment?’
‘Neither would you believe me if I were =
to
repeat it here,’ said I.
‘I may be wrong—we shall soon
see,’ says he; ‘but my impression is that you will not
“repeat it here.” My
impression is that you have come into this room, and that you will tell me
something before you go out.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Let me explain,’ he continued.
‘My compliments and thanks!’ said =
I.
‘You must know—that’s the sh=
ort
and the long,’ he proceeded.
‘All of you in shed B are bound to know. And I want to ask you where is the=
common-sense
of keeping up this farce, and maintaining this cock-and-bull story between
friends. Come, come, my good
fellow, own yourself beaten, and laugh at it yourself.’
‘Well, I hear you, go ahead,’ said
I. ‘You put your heart =
in
it.’
He crossed his legs slowly. ‘I can very well
understand,’ he began, ‘that precautions have had to be taken.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I dare say an oath was administere=
d. I can comprehend that
perfectly.’ (He was wat=
ching
me all the time with his cold, bright eyes.) ‘And I can comprehend that, =
about an
affair of honour, you would be very particular to keep it.’
‘About an affair of honour?’ I
repeated, like a man quite puzzled.
‘It was not an affair of honour,
then?’ he asked.
‘What was not? I do not follow,’ said I.
He gave no sign of impatience; simply sat awhi=
le
silent, and began again in the same placid and good-natured voice: ‘T=
he
court and I were at one in setting aside your evidence. It could not deceive a child. But there was a difference between
myself and the other officers, because I knew my man and they did not. They saw in you a common soldier, =
and I
knew you for a gentleman. To =
them
your evidence was a leash of lies, which they yawned to hear you telling. Now, I was asking myself, how far =
will a
gentleman go? Not surely so f=
ar as
to help hush a murder up? So =
that—when
I heard you tell how you knew nothing of the matter, and were only awakened=
by
the corporal, and all the rest of it—I translated your statements into
something else. Now,
Champdivers,’ he cried, springing up lively and coming towards me with
animation, ‘I am going to tell you what that was, and you are going to
help me to see justice done: how, I don’t know, for of course you are
under oath—but somehow. Mark
what I’m going to say.’
At that moment he laid a heavy, hard grip upon=
my
shoulder; and whether he said anything more or came to a full stop at once,=
I
am sure I could not tell you to this day.&=
nbsp;
For, as the devil would have it, the shoulder he laid hold of was the
one Goguelat had pinked. The =
wound
was but a scratch; it was healing with the first intention; but in the clut=
ch
of Major Chevenix it gave me agony.
My head swam; the sweat poured off my face; I must have grown deadly
pale.
He removed his hand as suddenly as he had laid=
it
there. ‘What is wrong w=
ith
you?’ said he.
‘It is nothing,’ said I. ‘A qualm. It has gone by.’
‘Are you sure?’ said he. ‘You are as white as a
sheet.’
‘Oh no, I assure you! Nothing whatever. I am my own man again,’ I sa=
id, though
I could scarce command my tongue.
‘Well, shall I go on again?’ says
he. ‘Can you follow
me?’
‘Oh, by all means!’ said I, and mo=
pped
my streaming face upon my sleeve, for you may be sure in those days I had no
handkerchief.
‘If you are sure you can follow me. That was a very sudden and sharp s=
eizure,’
he said doubtfully. ‘Bu=
t if
you are sure, all right, and here goes.&nb=
sp;
An affair of honour among you fellows would, naturally, be a little
difficult to carry out, perhaps it would be impossible to have it wholly
regular. And yet a duel might=
be
very irregular in form, and, under the peculiar circumstances of the case,
loyal enough in effect. Do yo=
u take
me? Now, as a gentleman and a
soldier.’
His hand rose again at the words and hovered o=
ver
me. I could bear no more, and
winced away from him.
‘No,’ I cried,
‘not that. Do no=
t put your
hand upon my shoulder. I cann=
ot
bear it. It is rheumatism,=
217; I
made haste to add. ‘My
shoulder is inflamed and very painful.’
He returned to his chair and deliberately ligh=
ted
a cigar.
‘I am sorry about your shoulder,’ =
he
said at last. ‘Let me s=
end
for the doctor.’
‘Not in the least,’ said I. ‘It is a trifle. I am quite used to it. It does not trouble me in the
smallest. At any rate, I
don’t believe in doctors.’
‘All right,’ said he, and sat and
smoked a good while in a silence which I would have given anything to
break. ‘Well,’ he=
began
presently, ‘I believe there is nothing left for me to learn. I presume I may say that I know
all.’
‘About what?’ said I boldly.
‘About Goguelat,’ said he.
‘I beg your pardon. I cannot conceive,’ said I.<= o:p>
‘Oh,’ says the major, ‘the m=
an
fell in a duel, and by your hand! =
span>I
am not an infant.’
‘By no means,’ said I. ‘But you seem to me to be a =
good
deal of a theorist.’
‘Shall we test it?’ he asked. ‘The doctor is close by. If there is not an open wound on y=
our
shoulder, I am wrong. If there
is—’ He waved his=
hand. ‘But I advise you to think
twice. There is a deuce of a =
nasty drawback
to the experiment—that what might have remained private between us two
becomes public property.’
‘Oh, well!’ said I, with a laugh,
‘anything rather than a doctor!
I cannot bear the breed.’
His last words had a good deal relieved me, bu=
t I
was still far from comfortable.
Major Chevenix smoked awhile, looking now at h=
is
cigar ash, now at me. ‘I’m a soldier myself,’ he says
presently, ‘and I’ve been out in my time and hit my man. I don’t want to run any one =
into a
corner for an affair that was at all necessary or correct. At the same time, I want to know t=
hat
much, and I’ll take your word of honour for it. Otherwise, I shall be very sorry, =
but
the doctor must be called in.’
‘I neither admit anything nor deny
anything,’ I returned.
‘But if this form of words will suffice you, here is what I sa=
y: I
give you my parole, as a gentleman and a soldier, there has nothing taken p=
lace
amongst us prisoners that was not honourable as the day.’
‘All right,’ says he. ‘That was all I wanted. You can go now, Champdivers.’=
;
And as I was going out he added, with a laugh:
‘By the bye, I ought to apologise: I had no idea I was applying the
torture!’
The same afternoon the doctor came into the
courtyard with a piece of paper in his hand. He seemed hot and angry, and had
certainly no mind to be polite.
‘Here!’ he cried. ‘Which of you fellows knows =
any
English? Oh!’—spy=
ing me—‘there
you are, what’s your name!
You’ll do. Tell =
these
fellows that the other fellow’s dying. He’s booked; no use talking;=
I
expect he’ll go by evening.
And tell them I don’t envy the feelings of the fellow who spik=
ed
him. Tell them that first.=
217;
I did so.
‘Then you can tell ’em,’ he
resumed, ‘that the fellow, Goggle—what’s his name?—=
wants
to see some of them before he gets his marching orders. If I got it right, he wants to kis=
s or
embrace you, or some sickening stuff. Got that? Then here’s a list he’=
s had
written, and you’d better read it out to them—I can’t make
head or tail of your beastly names—and they can answer present, and f=
all
in against that wall.’
It was with a singular movement of incongruous
feelings that I read the first name on the list. I had no wish to look again on my =
own
handiwork; my flesh recoiled from the idea; and how could I be sure what
reception he designed to give me?
The cure was in my own hand; I could pass that first name over—=
;the
doctor would not know—and I might stay away. But to the subsequent great gladne=
ss of
my heart, I did not dwell for an instant on the thought, walked over to the
designated wall, faced about, read out the name ‘Champdivers,’ =
and
answered myself with the word ‘Present.’
There were some half dozen on the list, all to=
ld;
and as soon as we were mustered, the doctor led the way to the hospital, an=
d we
followed after, like a fatigue party, in single file. At the door he paused, told us =
216;the
fellow’ would see each of us alone, and, as soon as I had explained t=
hat,
sent me by myself into the ward. It
was a small room, whitewashed; a south window stood open on a vast depth of=
air
and a spacious and distant prospect; and from deep below, in the Grassmarket
the voices of hawkers came up clear and far away. Hard by, on a little bed, lay Gogu=
elat. The sunburn had not yet faded from=
his
face, and the stamp of death was already there. There was something wild and unman=
nish
in his smile, that took me by the throat; only death and love know or have =
ever
seen it. And when he spoke, it
seemed to shame his coarse talk.
He held out his arms as if to embrace me. I drew near with incredible shrink=
ings,
and surrendered myself to his arms with overwhelming disgust. But he only d=
rew
my ear down to his lips.
‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Je suis bon bougre, moi.
Why should I go on to reproduce his grossness =
and
trivialities? All that he tho=
ught,
at that hour, was even noble, though he could not clothe it otherwise than =
in
the language of a brutal farce.
Presently he bade me call the doctor; and when that officer had come=
in,
raised a little up in his bed, pointed first to himself and then to me, who
stood weeping by his side, and several times repeated the expression,
‘Frinds—frinds—dam frinds.’
To my great surprise, the doctor appeared very
much affected. He nodded his =
little
bob-wigged head at us, and said repeatedly, ‘All right, Johnny—=
me
comprong.’
Then Goguelat shook hands with me, embraced me
again, and I went out of the room sobbing like an infant.
How often have I not seen it, that the most
unpardonable fellows make the happiest exits! It is a fate we may well envy them=
. Goguelat was detested in life; in =
the
last three days, by his admirable staunchness and consideration, he won eve=
ry
heart; and when word went about the prison the same evening that he was no
more, the voice of conversation became hushed as in a house of mourning.
For myself I was like a man distracted; I cann=
ot
think what ailed me: when I awoke the following day, nothing remained of it;
but that night I was filled with a gloomy fury of the nerves. I had killed him; he had done his =
utmost
to protect me; I had seen him with that awful smile. And so illogical and useless is th=
is
sentiment of remorse, that I was ready, at a word or a look, to quarrel with
somebody else. I presume the =
disposition
of my mind was imprinted on my face; and when, a little after, I overtook,
saluted and addressed the doctor, he looked on me with commiseration and
surprise.
I had asked him if it was true.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the
fellow’s gone.’
‘Did he suffer much?’ I asked.
‘Devil a bit; passed away like a
lamb,’ said he. He look=
ed on
me a little, and I saw his hand go to his fob. ‘Here, take that! no sense i=
n fretting,’
he said, and, putting a silver two-penny-bit in my hand, he left me.
I should have had that twopenny framed to hang
upon the wall, for it was the man’s one act of charity in all my
knowledge of him. Instead of =
that,
I stood looking at it in my hand and laughed out bitterly, as I realised his
mistake; then went to the ramparts, and flung it far into the air like blood
money. The night was falling;
through an embrasure and across the gardened valley I saw the lamplighters
hasting along Princes Street with ladder and lamp, and looked on moodily. As I was so standing a hand was la=
id
upon my shoulder, and I turned about.
It was Major Chevenix, dressed for the evening, and his neckcloth re=
ally
admirably folded. I never den=
ied
the man could dress.
‘Ah!’ said he, ‘I thought it=
was
you, Champdivers. So he’=
;s
gone?’
I nodded.
‘Come, come,’ said he, ‘you =
must
cheer up. Of course it’=
s very
distressing, very painful and all that.&nb=
sp;
But do you know, it ain’t such a bad thing either for you or
me? What with his death and y=
our
visit to him I am entirely reassured.’
So I was to owe my life to Goguelat at every
point.
‘I had rather not discuss it,’ sai=
d I.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘one word m= ore, and I’ll agree to bury the subject. What did you fight about?’<= o:p>
‘Oh, what do men ever fight about?’=
; I
cried.
‘A lady?’ said he.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Deuce you did!’ said he. ‘I should scarce have though=
t it
of him.’
And at this my ill-humour broke fairly out in
words. ‘He!’ I
cried. ‘He never dared =
to
address her—only to look at her and vomit his vile insults! She may have given him sixpence: i=
f she
did, it may take him to heaven yet!’
At this I became aware of his eyes set upon me=
with
a considering look, and brought up sharply.
‘Well, well,’ said he. ‘Good night to you,
Champdivers. Come to me at br=
eakfast-time
to-morrow, and we’ll talk of other subjects.’
I fully admit the man’s conduct was not =
bad:
in writing it down so long after the events I can even see that it was good=
.
=
I was
surprised one morning, shortly after, to find myself the object of marked
consideration by a civilian and a stranger. This was a man of the middle age; =
he had
a face of a mulberry colour, round black eyes, comical tufted eyebrows, and=
a
protuberant forehead; and was dressed in clothes of a Quakerish cut. In spite of his plainness, he had =
that
inscrutable air of a man well-to-do in his affairs. I conceived he had been some while
observing me from a distance, for a sparrow sat betwixt us quite unalarmed =
on
the breech of a piece of cannon. So
soon as our eyes met, he drew near and addressed me in the French language,
which he spoke with a good fluency but an abominable accent.
‘I have the pleasure of addressing Monsi=
eur
le Vicomte Anne de Kéroual de Saint-Yves?’ said he.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I do not ca=
ll
myself all that; but I have a right to, if I chose. In the meanwhile I call myself pla=
in
Champdivers, at your disposal. It
was my mother’s name, and good to go soldiering with.’
‘I think not quite,’ said he;
‘for if I remember rightly, your mother also had the particle. Her name was Florimonde de
Champdivers.’
‘Right again!’ said I, ‘and =
I am
extremely pleased to meet a gentleman so well informed in my quarterings. Is monsieur Born himself?’ This I said with a great air of
assumption, partly to conceal the degree of curiosity with which my visitor=
had
inspired me, and in part because it struck me as highly incongruous and com=
ical
in my prison garb and on the lips of a private soldier.
He seemed to think so too, for he laughed.
‘No, sir,’ he returned, speaking t=
his
time in English; ‘I am not “born,” as you call it, and mu=
st
content myself with dying, of which I am equally susceptible with the best =
of
you. My name is Mr. Romaine=
8212;Daniel
Romaine—a solicitor of London City, at your service; and, what will
perhaps interest you more, I am here at the request of your great-uncle, the
Count.’
‘What!’ I cried, ‘does M. de
Kéroual de St.-Yves remember the existence of such a person as mysel=
f,
and will he deign to count kinship with a soldier of Napoleon?’
‘You speak English well,’ observed=
my
visitor.
‘It has been a second language to me fro=
m a
child,’ said I. ‘=
I had
an English nurse; my father spoke English with me; and I was finished by a =
countryman
of yours and a dear friend of mine, a Mr. Vicary.’
A strong expression of interest came into the
lawyer’s face.
‘What!’ he cried, ‘you knew =
poor
Vicary?’
‘For more than a year,’ said I;
‘and shared his hiding-place for many months.’
‘And I was his clerk, and have succeeded=
him
in business,’ said he. ‘Excellent man! It was on the affairs of M. de
Kéroual that he went to that accursed country, from which he was nev=
er
destined to return. Do you ch=
ance
to know his end, sir?’
‘I am sorry,’ said I, ‘I
do. He perished miserably at =
the
hands of a gang of banditti, such as we call chauffeurs. In a word, he was tortured, and di=
ed of
it. See,’ I added, kick=
ing off
one shoe, for I had no stockings; ‘I was no more than a child, and see
how they had begun to treat myself.’
He looked at the mark of my old burn with a
certain shrinking. ‘Bea=
stly people!’
I heard him mutter to himself.
‘The English may say so with a good
grace,’ I observed politely.
Such speeches were the coin in which I paid my=
way
among this credulous race. Ni=
nety
per cent. of our visitors would have accepted the remark as natural in itse=
lf
and creditable to my powers of judgment, but it appeared my lawyer was more
acute.
‘You are not entirely a fool, I
perceive,’ said he.
‘No,’ said I; ‘not
wholly.’
‘And yet it is well to beware of the
ironical mood,’ he continued.
‘It is a dangerous instrument. Your great-uncle has, I believe,
practised it very much, until it is now become a problem what he means.R=
17;
‘And that brings me back to what you will
admit is a most natural inquiry,’ said I. ‘To what do I owe the pleasu=
re of
this visit? how did you recognise me? and how did you know I was here?̵=
7;
Carefull separating his coat skirts, the lawyer
took a seat beside me on the edge of the flags.
‘It is rather an odd story,’ says =
he,
‘and, with your leave, I’ll answer the second question first. It was from a certain resemblance =
you
bear to your cousin, M. le Vicomte.’
‘I trust, sir, that I resemble him
advantageously?’ said I.
‘I hasten to reassure you,’ was the
reply: ‘you do. To my e=
yes,
M. Alain de St.-Yves has scarce a pleasing exterior. And yet, when I knew you were here=
, and
was actually looking for you—why, the likeness helped. As for how I came to know your
whereabouts, by an odd enough chance, it is again M. Alain we have to
thank. I should tell you, he =
has
for some time made it his business to keep M. de Kéroual informed of
your career; with what purpose I leave you to judge. When he first brought the news of =
your—that
you were serving Buonaparte, it seemed it might be the death of the old
gentleman, so hot was his resentment.
But from one thing to another, matters have a little changed. Or I should rather say, not a litt=
le. We learned you were under orders f=
or the
Peninsula, to fight the English; then that you had been commissioned for a
piece of bravery, and were again reduced to the ranks. And from one thing to another (as =
I say),
M. de Kéroual became used to the idea that you were his kinsman and =
yet
served with Buonaparte, and filled instead with wonder that he should have
another kinsman who was so remarkably well informed of events in France.
My visitor now paused, took snuff, and looked =
at
me with an air of benevolence.
‘Good God, sir!’ says I, ‘th=
is
is a curious story.’
‘You will say so before I have done,R=
17;
said he. ‘For there hav=
e two events
followed. The first of these =
was an
encounter of M. de Kéroual and M. de Mauseant.’
‘I know the man to my cost,’ said =
I:
‘it was through him I lost my commission.’
‘Do you tell me so?’ he cried. ‘Why, here is news!’
‘Oh, I cannot complain!’ said I. ‘I was in the wrong. I did it with my eyes open. If a man gets a prisoner to guard =
and
lets him go, the least he can expect is to be degraded.’
‘You will be paid for it,’ said
he. ‘You did well for
yourself and better for your king.’
‘If I had thought I was injuring my
emperor,’ said I, ‘I would have let M. de Mauseant burn in hell=
ere
I had helped him, and be sure of that!&nbs=
p;
I saw in him only a private person in a difficulty: I let him go in
private charity; not even to profit myself will I suffer it to be
misunderstood.’
‘Well, well,’ said the lawyer,
‘no matter now. This is=
a
foolish warmth—a very misplaced enthusiasm, believe me! The point of the story is that M. =
de
Mauseant spoke of you with gratitude, and drew your character in such a man=
ner
as greatly to affect your uncle’s views. Hard upon the back of which, in ca=
me
your humble servant, and laid before him the direct proof of what we had be=
en
so long suspecting. There was=
no dubiety
permitted. M. Alain’s
expensive way of life, his clothes and mistresses, his dicing and racehorse=
s,
were all explained: he was in the pay of Buonaparte, a hired spy, and a man
that held the strings of what I can only call a convolution of extremely fi=
shy
enterprises. To do M. de K&ea=
cute;roual
justice, he took it in the best way imaginable, destroyed the evidences of =
the
one great-nephew’s disgrace—and transferred his interest wholly=
to
the other.’
‘What am I to understand by that?’
said I.
‘I will tell you,’ says he. ‘There is a remarkable
inconsistency in human nature which gentlemen of my cloth have a great deal=
of
occasion to observe. Selfish
persons can live without chick or child, they can live without all mankind
except perhaps the barber and the apothecary; but when it comes to dying, t=
hey
seem physically unable to die without an heir. You can apply this principle for
yourself. Viscount Alain, tho=
ugh he
scarce guesses it, is no longer in the field. Remains, Viscount Anne.’
‘I see,’ said I, ‘you give a
very unfavourable impression of my uncle, the Count.’
‘I had not meant it,’ said he. ‘He has led a loose
life—sadly loose—but he is a man it is impossible to know and n=
ot
to admire; his courtesy is exquisite.’
‘And so you think there is actually a ch=
ance
for me?’ I asked.
‘Understand,’ said he: ‘in
saying as much as I have done, I travel quite beyond my brief. I have been clothed with no capaci=
ty to
talk of wills, or heritages, or your cousin. I was sent here to make but the on=
e communication:
that M. de Kéroual desires to meet his great-nephew.’
‘Well,’ said I, looking about me on
the battlements by which we sat surrounded, ‘this is a case in which
Mahomet must certainly come to the mountain.’
‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Romaine;
‘you know already your uncle is an aged man; but I have not yet told =
you
that he is quite broken up, and his death shortly looked for. No, no, there is no doubt about
it—it is the mountain that must come to Mahomet.’
‘From an Englishman, the remark is certa=
inly
significant,’ said I; ‘but you are of course, and by trade, a
keeper of men’s secrets, and I see you keep that of Cousin Alain, whi=
ch
is not the mark of a truculent patriotism, to say the least.’
‘I am first of all the lawyer of your
family!’ says he.
‘That being so,’ said I, ‘I =
can
perhaps stretch a point myself.
This rock is very high, and it is very steep; a man might come by a
devil of a fall from almost any part of it, and yet I believe I have a pair=
of
wings that might carry me just so far as to the bottom. Once at the bottom I am helpless.&=
#8217;
‘And perhaps it is just then that I could
step in,’ returned the lawyer. ‘Suppose by some contingency, at
which I make no guess, and on which I offer no opinion—’
But here I interrupted him. ‘One word ere you go further=
. I am under no parole,’ said =
I.
‘I understood so much,’ he replied,
‘although some of you French gentry find their word sit lightly on
them.’
‘Sir, I am not one of those,’ said=
I.
‘To do you plain justice, I do not think=
you
one,’ said he. ‘S=
uppose
yourself, then, set free and at the bottom of the rock,’ he continued=
, ‘although
I may not be able to do much, I believe I can do something to help you on y=
our
road. In the first place I wo=
uld
carry this, whether in an inside pocket or my shoe.’ And he passed me a bundle of bank =
notes.
‘No harm in that,’ said I, at once
concealing them.
‘In the second place,’ he resumed,
‘it is a great way from here to where your uncle lives—Amersham
Place, not far from Dunstable; you have a great part of Britain to get thro=
ugh;
and for the first stages, I must leave you to your own luck and ingenuity.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have no acquaintance here in Sco=
tland,
or at least’ (with a grimace) ‘no dishonest ones. But further to the south, about Wa=
kefield,
I am told there is a gentleman called Burchell Fenn, who is not so particul=
ar
as some others, and might be willing to give you a cast forward. In fact, sir, I believe it’s=
the man’s
trade: a piece of knowledge that burns my mouth. But that is what you get by meddli=
ng
with rogues; and perhaps the biggest rogue now extant, M. de Saint-Yves, is
your cousin, M. Alain.’
‘If this be a man of my
cousin’s,’ I observed, ‘I am perhaps better to keep clear=
of
him?’
‘It was through some paper of your cousi=
n’s
that we came across his trail,’ replied the lawyer. ‘But I am inclined to think,=
so
far as anything is safe in such a nasty business, you might apply to the ma=
n Fenn. You might even, I think, use the
Viscount’s name; and the little trick of family resemblance might come
in. How, for instance, if you=
were
to call yourself his brother?’
‘It might be done,’ said I. ‘But look here a moment? You propose to me a very difficult=
game:
I have apparently a devil of an opponent in my cousin; and, being a prisone=
r of
war, I can scarcely be said to hold good cards. For what stakes, then, am I
playing?’
‘They are very large,’ said he. And of what use is it to him? He has lost all that was worth liv=
ing
for—his family, his country; he has seen his king and queen murdered;=
he
has seen all these miseries and infamies,’ pursued the lawyer, with a
rising inflection and a heightening colour; and then broke suddenly
off,—‘In short, sir, he has seen all the advantages of that
government for which his nephew carries arms, and he has the misfortune not=
to
like them.’
‘You speak with a bitterness that I supp=
ose
I must excuse,’ said I; ‘yet which of us has the more reason to=
be
bitter? This man, my uncle, M=
. de Kéroual,
fled. My parents, who were le=
ss
wise perhaps, remained. In th=
e beginning,
they were even republicans; to the end they could not be persuaded to despa=
ir
of the people. It was a glori=
ous
folly, for which, as a son, I reverence them. First one and then the other
perished. If I have any mark =
of a
gentleman, all who taught me died upon the scaffold, and my last school of
manners was the prison of the Abbaye.
Do you think you can teach bitterness to a man with a history like
mine?’
‘I have no wish to try,’ said he.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘And yet there is one point I
cannot understand: I cannot understand that one of your blood and experienc=
e should
serve the Corsican. I cannot
understand it: it seems as though everything generous in you must rise agai=
nst
that—domination.’
‘And perhaps,’ I retorted, ‘=
had
your childhood passed among wolves, you would have been overjoyed yourself =
to
see the Corsican Shepherd.’
‘Well, well,’ replied Mr. Romaine,
‘it may be. There are t=
hings
that do not bear discussion.’
And with a wave of his hand he disappeared
abruptly down a flight of steps and under the shadow of a ponderous arch.
=
=
The
lawyer was scarce gone before I remembered many omissions; and chief among
these, that I had neglected to get Mr. Burchell Fenn’s address. Here =
was
an essential point neglected; and I ran to the head of the stairs to find
myself already too late. The =
lawyer
was beyond my view; in the archway that led downward to the castle gate, on=
ly
the red coat and the bright arms of a sentry glittered in the shadow; and I
could but return to my place upon the ramparts.
I am not very sure that I was properly entitle=
d to
this corner. But I was a high
favourite; not an officer, and scarce a private, in the castle would have
turned me back, except upon a thing of moment; and whenever I desired to be
solitary, I was suffered to sit here behind my piece of cannon unmolested.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The cliff went down before me almo=
st
sheer, but mantled with a thicket of climbing trees; from farther down, an
outwork raised its turret; and across the valley I had a view of that long =
terrace
of Princes Street which serves as a promenade to the fashionable inhabitant=
s of
Edinburgh. A singularity in a
military prison, that it should command a view on the chief thoroughfare!
It is not necessary that I should trouble you =
with
the train of my reflections, which turned upon the interview I had just
concluded and the hopes that were now opening before me. What is more essential, my eye (ev=
en
while I thought) kept following the movement of the passengers on Princes
Street, as they passed briskly to and fro—met, greeted, and bowed to =
each
other—or entered and left the shops, which are in that quarter, and, =
for
a town of the Britannic provinces, particularly fine. My mind being busy upon other thin=
gs,
the course of my eye was the more random; and it chanced that I followed, f=
or
some time, the advance of a young gentleman with a red head and a white
great-coat, for whom I cared nothing at the moment, and of whom it is proba=
ble
I shall be gathered to my fathers without learning more. He seemed to have a large acquaint=
ance:
his hat was for ever in his hand; and I daresay I had already observed him
exchanging compliments with half a dozen, when he drew up at last before a
young man and a young lady whose tall persons and gallant carriage I though=
t I
recognised.
It was impossible at such a distance that I co=
uld
be sure, but the thought was sufficient, and I craned out of the embrasure =
to
follow them as long as possible. To
think that such emotions, that such a concussion of the blood, may have been
inspired by a chance resemblance, and that I may have stood and thrilled th=
ere
for a total stranger! This di=
stant view,
at least, whether of Flora or of some one else, changed in a moment the cou=
rse
of my reflections. It was all=
very
well, and it was highly needful, I should see my uncle; but an uncle, a
great-uncle at that, and one whom I had never seen, leaves the imagination =
cold;
and if I were to leave the castle, I might never again have the opportunity=
of
finding Flora. The little
impression I had made, even supposing I had made any, how soon it would die
out! how soon I should sink to be a phantom memory, with which (in after da=
ys)
she might amuse a husband and children!&nb=
sp;
No, the impression must be clenched, the wax impressed with the seal,
ere I left Edinburgh. And at =
this
the two interests that were now contending in my bosom came together and be=
came
one. I wished to see Flora ag=
ain; and
I wanted some one to further me in my flight and to get me new clothes. The conclusion was apparent. Except for persons in the garrison
itself, with whom it was a point of honour and military duty to retain me
captive, I knew, in the whole country of Scotland, these two alone. If it were to be done at all, they=
must
be my helpers. To tell them o=
f my
designed escape while I was still in bonds, would be to lay before them a m=
ost
difficult choice. What they m=
ight
do in such a case, I could not in the least be sure of, for (the same case
arising) I was far from sure what I should do myself. It was plain I must escape first. =
When
the harm was done, when I was no more than a poor wayside fugitive, I might
apply to them with less offence and more security. To this end it became necessary th=
at I
should find out where they lived and how to reach it; and feeling a strong
confidence that they would soon return to visit me, I prepared a series of
baits with which to angle for my information. It will be seen the first was good
enough.
Perhaps two days after, Master Ronald put in an
appearance by himself. I had =
no
hold upon the boy, and pretermitted my design till I should have laid court=
to
him and engaged his interest. He
was prodigiously embarrassed, not having previously addressed me otherwise =
than
by a bow and blushes; and he advanced to me with an air of one stubbornly p=
erforming
a duty, like a raw soldier under fire.&nbs=
p;
I laid down my carving; greeted him with a good deal of formality, s=
uch
as I thought he would enjoy; and finding him to remain silent, branched off
into narratives of my campaigns such as Goguelat himself might have scruple=
d to
endorse. He visibly thawed and
brightened; drew more near to where I sat; forgot his timidity so far as to=
put
many questions; and at last, with another blush, informed me he was himself
expecting a commission.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘they are fi=
ne
troops, your British troops in the Peninsula. A young gentleman of spirit may we=
ll be
proud to be engaged at the head of such soldiers.’
‘I know that,’ he said; ‘I t=
hink
of nothing else. I think sham=
e to
be dangling here at home and going through with this foolery of education, =
while
others, no older than myself, are in the field.’
‘I cannot blame you,’ said I. ‘I have felt the same
myself.’
‘There are—there are no troops, are
there, quite so good as ours?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘there is a
point about them: they have a defect,—they are not to be trusted in a
retreat. I have seen them beh=
ave
very ill in a retreat.’
‘I believe that is our national
character,’ he said—God forgive him!—with an air of pride=
.
‘I have seen your national character run=
ning
away at least, and had the honour to run after it!’ rose to my lips, =
but
I was not so ill advised as to give it utterance. Every one should be flattered, but=
boys
and women without stint; and I put in the rest of the afternoon narrating to
him tales of British heroism, for which I should not like to engage that th=
ey were
all true.
‘I am quite surprised,’ he said at
last. ‘People tell you =
the
French are insincere. Now, I =
think
your sincerity is beautiful. I
think you have a noble character. =
span>I
admire you very much. I am ve=
ry
grateful for your kindness to—to one so young,’ and he offered =
me
his hand.
‘I shall see you again soon?’ said=
I.
‘Oh, now! Yes, very soon,’ said he.
I approved his caution, and he took himself aw=
ay:
leaving me in a mixture of contrarious feelings, part ashamed to have playe=
d on
one so gullible, part raging that I should have burned so much incense befo=
re
the vanity of England; yet, in the bottom of my soul, delighted to think I =
had
made a friend—or, at least, begun to make a friend—of FloraR=
17;s
brother.
As I had half expected, both made their appear=
ance
the next day. I struck so fin=
e a
shade betwixt the pride that is allowed to soldiers and the sorrowful humil=
ity
that befits a captive, that I declare, as I went to meet them, I might have
afforded a subject for a painter.
So much was high comedy, I must confess; but so soon as my eyes ligh=
ted
full on her dark face and eloquent eyes, the blood leaped into my
cheeks—and that was nature! =
span>I
thanked them, but not the least with exultation; it was my cue to be mournf=
ul,
and to take the pair of them as one.
‘I have been thinking,’ I said,
‘you have been so good to me, both of you, stranger and prisoner as I=
am,
that I have been thinking how I could testify to my gratitude. It may seem a strange subject for a
confidence, but there is actually no one here, even of my comrades, that kn=
ows
me by my name and title. By t=
hese I
am called plain Champdivers, a name to which I have a right, but not the na=
me
which I should bear, and which (but a little while ago) I must hide like a
crime. Miss Flora, suffer me =
to
present to you the Vicomte Anne de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, a private =
soldier.’
‘I knew it!’ cried the boy; ‘=
;I
knew he was a noble!’
And I thought the eyes of Miss Flora said the
same, but more persuasively. =
All
through this interview she kept them on the ground, or only gave them to me=
for
a moment at a time, and with a serious sweetness.
‘You may conceive, my friends, that this=
is
rather a painful confession,’ I continued. ‘To stand here before you,
vanquished, a prisoner in a fortress, and take my own name upon my lips, is
painful to the proud. And yet I wished that you should know me. Long after this, we may yet hear o=
f one
another—perhaps Mr. Gilchrist and myself in the field and from opposi=
ng
camps—and it would be a pity if we heard and did not recognise.’=
;
They were both moved; and began at once to pre=
ss
upon me offers of service, such as to lend me books, get me tobacco if I us=
ed
it, and the like. This would =
have
been all mighty welcome, before the tunnel was ready. Now it signified no more to me tha=
n to
offer the transition I required.
‘My dear friends,’ I
said—‘for you must allow me to call you that, who have no others
within so many hundred leagues—perhaps you will think me fanciful and
sentimental; and perhaps indeed I am; but there is one service that I would=
beg
of you before all others. You=
see
me set here on the top of this rock in the midst of your city. Even with what liberty I have, I h=
ave
the opportunity to see a myriad roofs, and I dare to say, thirty leagues of=
sea
and land. All this hostile! Under all these roofs my enemies d=
well;
wherever I see the smoke of a house rising, I must tell myself that some one
sits before the chimney and reads with joy of our reverses. Pardon me, dear friends, I know th=
at you
must do the same, and I do not grudge at it! With you, it is all different. Sho=
w me
your house then, were it only the chimney, or, if that be not visible, the
quarter of the town in which it lies!
So, when I look all about me, I shall be able to say: “There is
one house in which I am not quite unkindly thought of.”’
Flora stood a moment.
‘It is a pretty thought,’ said she,
‘and, as far as regards Ronald and myself, a true one. Come, I believe I can show you the=
very
smoke out of our chimney.’
So saying, she carried me round the battlements
towards the opposite or southern side of the fortress, and indeed to a bast=
ion
almost immediately overlooking the place of our projected flight. Thence we had a view of some
foreshortened suburbs at our feet, and beyond of a green, open, and irregul=
ar
country rising towards the Pentland Hills.=
The face of one of these summits (say two leagues from where we stoo=
d)
is marked with a procession of white scars. And to this she directed my attent=
ion.
‘You see these marks?’ she said. ‘We call them the Seven Sist=
ers. Follow
a little lower with your eye, and you will see a fold of the hill, the tops=
of
some trees, and a tail of smoke out of the midst of them. That is Swanston
Cottage, where my brother and I are living with my aunt. If it gives you
pleasure to see it, I am glad. We,
too, can see the castle from a corner in the garden, and we go there in the
morning often—do we not, Ronald?—and we think of you, M. de
Saint-Yves; but I am afraid it does not altogether make us glad.’
‘Mademoiselle!’ said I, and indeed=
my
voice was scarce under command, ‘if you knew how your generous
words—how even the sight of you—relieved the horrors of this pl=
ace,
I believe, I hope, I know, you would be glad. I will come here daily and look at=
that
dear chimney and these green hills, and bless you from the heart, and dedic=
ate
to you the prayers of this poor sinner.&nb=
sp;
Ah! I do not say they =
can
avail!’
‘Who can say that, M. de Saint-Yves?R=
17;
she said softly. ‘But I=
think
it is time we should be going.’
‘High time,’ said Ronald, whom (to=
say
the truth) I had a little forgotten.
On the way back, as I was laying myself out to
recover lost ground with the youth, and to obliterate, if possible, the mem=
ory
of my last and somewhat too fervent speech, who should come past us but the
major? I had to stand aside a=
nd
salute as he went by, but his eyes appeared entirely occupied with Flora.
‘Who is that man?’ she asked.
‘He is a friend of mine,’ said I.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘I give him lessons in Frenc=
h, and
he has been very kind to me.’
‘He stared,’ she said,—̵=
6;I
do not say, rudely; but why should he stare?’
‘If you do not wish to be stared at,
mademoiselle, suffer me to recommend a veil,’ said I.
She looked at me with what seemed anger. ‘I tell you the man stared,&=
#8217;
she said.
And Ronald added. ‘Oh, I don’t think he =
meant
any harm. I suppose he was ju=
st
surprised to see us walking about with a pr--- with M. Saint-Yves.’
But the next morning, when I went to
Chevenix’s rooms, and after I had dutifully corrected his
exercise—‘I compliment you on your taste,’ said he to me.=
‘I beg your pardon?’ said I.
‘Oh no, I beg yours,’ said he. ‘You understand me perfectly=
, just
as I do you.’
I murmured something about enigmas.
‘Well, shall I give you the key to the
enigma?’ said he, leaning back. ‘That was the young lady whom
Goguelat insulted and whom you avenged.&nb=
sp;
I do not blame you. Sh=
e is a
heavenly creature.’
‘With all my heart, to the last of
it!’ said I. ‘And=
to
the first also, if it amuses you!
You are become so very acute of late that I suppose you must have yo=
ur
own way.’
‘What is her name?’ he asked.
‘Now, really!’ said I. ‘Do you think it likely she =
has
told me?’
‘I think it certain,’ said he.
I could not restrain my laughter. ‘Well, then, do you think it
likely I would tell you?’ I cried.
‘Not a bit.’ said he. ‘But come, to our lesson!=
217;
=
=
The time
for our escape drew near, and the nearer it came the less we seemed to enjoy
the prospect. There is but on=
e side
on which this castle can be left either with dignity or safety; but as ther=
e is
the main gate and guard, and the chief street of the upper city, it is not =
to
be thought of by escaping prisoners.
In all other directions an abominable precipice surrounds it, down t=
he
face of which (if anywhere at all) we must regain our liberty. By our concurrent labours in many =
a dark
night, working with the most anxious precautions against noise, we had made=
out
to pierce below the curtain about the south-west corner, in a place they ca=
ll
the Devil’s Elbow. I ha=
ve
never met that celebrity; nor (if the rest of him at all comes up to what t=
hey
called his elbow) have I the least desire of his acquaintance. From the heel of the masonry, the =
rascally,
breakneck precipice descended sheer among waste lands, scattered suburbs of=
the
city, and houses in the building. =
span>I
had never the heart to look for any length of time—the thought that I
must make the descent in person some dark night robbing me of breath; and,
indeed, on anybody not a seaman or a steeple-jack, the mere sight of the
Devil’s Elbow wrought like an emetic.
I don’t know where the rope was got, and=
doubt
if I much cared. It was not t=
hat
which gravelled me, but whether, now that we had it, it would serve our
turn. Its length, indeed, we =
made a
shift to fathom out; but who was to tell us how that length compared with t=
he
way we had to go? Day after day, there would be always some of us stolen ou=
t to
the Devil’s Elbow and making estimates of the descent, whether by a b=
are guess
or the dropping of stones. A
private of pioneers remembered the formula for that—or else remembered
part of it and obligingly invented the remainder. I had never any real confidence in=
that
formula; and even had we got it from a book, there were difficulties in the=
way
of the application that might have daunted Archimedes. We durst not drop any considerable
pebble lest the sentinels should hear, and those that we dropped we could n=
ot
hear ourselves. We had never a
watch—or none that had a second-hand; and though every one of us could
guess a second to a nicety, all somehow guessed it differently. In short, if any two set forth upo=
n this
enterprise, they invariably returned with two opinions, and often with a bl=
ack
eye in the bargain. I looked =
on
upon these proceedings, although not without laughter, yet with impatience =
and disgust. I am one that cannot bear to see t=
hings
botched or gone upon with ignorance; and the thought that some poor devil w=
as
to hazard his bones upon such premises, revolted me. Had I guessed the name of that unh=
appy
first adventurer, my sentiments might have been livelier still.
The designation of this personage was indeed a=
ll
that remained for us to do; and even in that we had advanced so far that the
lot had fallen on Shed B. It =
had
been determined to mingle the bitter and the sweet; and whoever went down
first, the whole of his shed-mates were to follow next in order. This caused a good deal of joy in =
Shed
B, and would have caused more if it had not still remained to choose our
pioneer. In view of the ambig=
uity
in which we lay as to the length of the rope and the height of the
precipice—and that this gentleman was to climb down from fifty to sev=
enty
fathoms on a pitchy night, on a rope entirely free, and with not so much as=
an
infant child to steady it at the bottom, a little backwardness was perhaps
excusable. But it was, in our=
case,
more than a little. The truth=
is,
we were all womanish fellows about a height; and I have myself been put, mo=
re
than once, hors de combat by a less affair than the rock of Edinburgh Castl=
e.
We discussed it in the dark and between the
passage of the rounds; and it was impossible for any body of men to show a =
less
adventurous spirit. I am sure=
some
of us, and myself first among the number, regretted Goguelat. Some were persuaded it was safe, a=
nd
could prove the same by argument; but if they had good reasons why some one
else should make the trial, they had better still why it should not be
themselves. Others, again,
condemned the whole idea as insane; among these, as ill-luck would have it,=
a
seaman of the fleet; who was the most dispiriting of all. The height, he reminded us, was gr=
eater
than the tallest ship’s mast, the rope entirely free; and he as good =
as
defied the boldest and strongest to succeed. We were relieved from this dead-lo=
ck by
our sergeant-major of dragoons.
‘Comrades,’ said he, ‘I beli=
eve
I rank you all; and for that reason, if you really wish it, I will be the f=
irst
myself. At the same time, you=
are
to consider what the chances are that I may prove to be the last, as well.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am no longer young—I was s=
ixty
near a month ago. Since I hav=
e been
a prisoner, I have made for myself a little bedaine. My arms are all gone to fat. And you must promise not to blame =
me, if
I fall and play the devil with the whole thing.’
‘We cannot hear of such a thing!’ =
said
I. ‘M. Laclas is the ol=
dest
man here; and, as such, he should be the very last to offer. It is plain, we must draw lots.=
217;
‘No,’ said M. Laclas; ‘you p=
ut
something else in my head! Th=
ere is
one here who owes a pretty candle to the others, for they have kept his sec=
ret. Besides, the rest of us are only r=
abble;
and he is another affair altogether.
Let Champdivers—let the noble go the first.’
I confess there was a notable pause before the
noble in question got his voice.
But there was no room for choice.&n=
bsp;
I had been so ill-advised, when I first joined the regiment, as to t=
ake
ground on my nobility. I had =
been
often rallied on the matter in the ranks, and had passed under the by-names=
of
Monseigneur and the Marquis. =
It was
now needful I should justify myself and take a fair revenge.
Any little hesitation I may have felt passed
entirely unnoticed, from the lucky incident of a round happening at that mo=
ment
to go by. And during the inte=
rval
of silence there occurred something that sent my blood to the boil. There was a private in our shed ca=
lled
Clausel, a man of a very ugly disposition.=
He had made one of the followers of Goguelat; but, whereas Goguelat =
had
always a kind of monstrous gaiety about him, Clausel was no less morose tha=
n he
was evil-minded. He was somet=
imes called
the General, and sometimes by a name too ill-mannered for repetition. As we all sat listening, this
man’s hand was laid on my shoulder, and his voice whispered in my ear:
‘If you don’t go, I’ll have you hanged, Marquis!’
As soon as the round was
past—‘Certainly, gentlemen!’ said I. ‘I will give you a lead, wit=
h all
the pleasure in the world. Bu=
t,
first of all, there is a hound here to be punished. M. Clausel has just insulted me, a=
nd
dishonoured the French army; and I demand that he run the gauntlet of this
shed.’
There was but one voice asking what he had don=
e,
and, as soon as I had told them, but one voice agreeing to the punishment.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The General was, in consequence,
extremely roughly handled, and the next day was congratulated by all who saw
him on his new decorations. I=
t was
lucky for us that he was one of the prime movers and believers in our proje=
ct of
escape, or he had certainly revenged himself by a denunciation. As for his feelings towards myself=
, they
appeared, by his looks, to surpass humanity; and I made up my mind to give =
him
a wide berth in the future.
Had I been to go down that instant, I believe I
could have carried it well. B=
ut it
was already too late—the day was at hand. The rest had still to be summoned.=
Nor was this the extent of my
misfortune; for the next night, and the night after, were adorned with a
perfect galaxy of stars, and showed every cat that stirred in a quarter of a
mile. During this interval, I=
have
to direct your sympathies on the Vicomte de Saint-Yves! All addressed me softly, like folk=
round
a sickbed. Our Italian corpor=
al,
who had got a dozen of oysters from a fishwife, laid them at my feet, as th=
ough
I were a Pagan idol; and I have never since been wholly at my ease in the
society of shellfish. He who =
was
the best of our carvers brought me a snuff-box, which he had just completed,
and which, while it was yet in hand, he had often declared he would not par=
t with
under fifteen dollars. I beli=
eve
the piece was worth the money too! And yet the voice stuck in my throat with
which I must thank him. I fou=
nd
myself, in a word, to be fed up like a prisoner in a camp of anthropophagi,=
and
honoured like the sacrificial bull.
And what with these annoyances, and the risky venture immediately ah=
ead,
I found my part a trying one to play.
It was a good deal of a relief when the third
evening closed about the castle with volumes of sea-fog. The lights of Princes Street somet=
imes disappeared,
sometimes blinked across at us no brighter than the eyes of cats; and five
steps from one of the lanterns on the ramparts it was already groping
dark. We made haste to lie
down. Had our jailers been up=
on the
watch, they must have observed our conversation to die out unusually soon.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yet I doubt if any of us slept.
‘Past yin o’cloak, and a dark, haa=
ry
moarnin’.’
At which we were all silently afoot.
As I stole about the battlements towards
the—gallows, I was about to write—the sergeant-major, perhaps
doubtful of my resolution, kept close by me, and occasionally proffered the
most indigestible reassurances in my ear.&=
nbsp;
At last I could bear them no longer.
‘Be so obliging as to let me be!’ =
said
I. ‘I am neither a cowa=
rd nor
a fool. What do you know of w=
hether
the rope be long enough? But =
I shall
know it in ten minutes!’
The good old fellow laughed in his moustache, =
and
patted me.
It was all very well to show the disposition o=
f my
temper before a friend alone; before my assembled comrades the thing had to=
go
handsomely. It was then my ti=
me to
come on the stage; and I hope I took it handsomely.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘if
the rope is ready, here is the criminal!’
The tunnel was cleared, the stake driven, the =
rope
extended. As I moved forward =
to the
place, many of my comrades caught me by the hand and wrung it, an attention=
I
could well have done without.
‘Keep an eye on Clausel!’ I whispe=
red
to Laclas; and with that, got down on my elbows and knees took the rope in =
both
hands, and worked myself, feet foremost, through the tunnel. When the earth failed under my fee=
t, I
thought my heart would have stopped; and a moment after I was demeaning mys=
elf
in mid-air like a drunken jumping-jack.&nb=
sp;
I have never been a model of piety, but at this juncture prayers and=
a
cold sweat burst from me simultaneously.
The line was knotted at intervals of eighteen
inches; and to the inexpert it may seem as if it should have been even easy=
to
descend. The trouble was, this
devil of a piece of rope appeared to be inspired, not with life alone, but =
with
a personal malignity against myself.
It turned to the one side, paused for a moment, and then spun me lik=
e a
toasting-jack to the other; slipped like an eel from the clasp of my feet; =
kept
me all the time in the most outrageous fury of exertion; and dashed me at
intervals against the face of the rock.&nb=
sp;
I had no eyes to see with; and I doubt if there was anything to see =
but
darkness. I must occasionally=
have
caught a gasp of breath, but it was quite unconscious. And the whole forces of my mind we=
re so
consumed with losing hold and getting it again, that I could scarce have to=
ld
whether I was going up or coming down.
Of a sudden I knocked against the cliff with s=
uch
a thump as almost bereft me of my sense; and, as reason twinkled back, I was
amazed to find that I was in a state of rest, that the face of the precipice
here inclined outwards at an angle which relieved me almost wholly of the b=
urthen
of my own weight, and that one of my feet was safely planted on a ledge.
I filled my lungs, got a good hold on my rope,=
and
once more launched myself on the descent.&=
nbsp;
As it chanced, the worst of the danger was at an end, and I was so
fortunate as to be never again exposed to any violent concussion. Soon after I must have passed with=
in a
little distance of a bush of wallflower, for the scent of it came over me w=
ith
that impression of reality which characterises scents in darkness. This made me a second landmark, the
ledge being my first. I began
accordingly to compute intervals of time: so much to the ledge, so much aga=
in
to the wallflower, so much more below.&nbs=
p;
If I were not at the bottom of the rock, I calculated I must be near
indeed to the end of the rope, and there was no doubt that I was not far fr=
om
the end of my own resources. I
began to be light-headed and to be tempted to let go,—now arguing tha=
t I
was certainly arrived within a few feet of the level and could safely risk =
a fall,
anon persuaded I was still close at the top and it was idle to continue lon=
ger
on the rock. In the midst of =
which
I came to a bearing on plain ground, and had nearly wept aloud. My hands were as good as flayed, my
courage entirely exhausted, and, what with the long strain and the sudden
relief, my limbs shook under me with more than the violence of ague, and I =
was
glad to cling to the rope.
But this was no time to give way. I had (by God’s single mercy=
) got myself
alive out of that fortress; and now I had to try to get the others, my
comrades. There was about a f=
athom
of rope to spare; I got it by the end, and searched the whole ground thorou=
ghly
for anything to make it fast to. In
vain: the ground was broken and stony, but there grew not there so much as a
bush of furze.
‘Now then,’ thought I to myself,
‘here begins a new lesson, and I believe it will prove richer than the
first. I am not strong enough=
to
keep this rope extended. If I=
do
not keep it extended the next man will be dashed against the precipice. There is no reason why he should h=
ave my
extravagant good luck. I see =
no
reason why he should not fall—nor any place for him to fall on but my
head.’
From where I was now standing there was
occasionally visible, as the fog lightened, a lamp in one of the barrack wi=
ndows,
which gave me a measure of the height he had to fall and the horrid force t=
hat
he must strike me with. What =
was
yet worse, we had agreed to do without signals: every so many minutes by
Laclas’ watch another man was to be started from the battlements. Now, I had seemed to myself to be =
about
half an hour in my descent, and it seemed near as long again that I waited,
straining on the rope for my next comrade to begin. I began to be afraid that our cons=
piracy
was out, that my friends were all secured, and that I should pass the remai=
nder
of the night, and be discovered in the morning, vainly clinging to the
rope’s end like a hooked fish upon an angle. I could not refrain, at this ridic=
ulous
image, from a chuckle of laughter.
And the next moment I knew, by the jerking of the rope, that my frie=
nd
had crawled out of the tunnel and was fairly launched on his descent. It appears it was the sailor who h=
ad
insisted on succeeding me: as soon as my continued silence had assured him =
the
rope was long enough, Gautier, for that was his name, had forgot his former
arguments, and shown himself so extremely forward, that Laclas had given
way. It was like the fellow, =
who
had no harm in him beyond an instinctive selfishness. But he was like to have paid pretty
dearly for the privilege. Do =
as I
would, I could not keep the rope as I could have wished it; and he ended at
last by falling on me from a height of several yards, so that we both rolle=
d together
on the ground. As soon as he =
could
breathe he cursed me beyond belief, wept over his finger, which he had brok=
en,
and cursed me again. I bade him be still and think shame of himself to be so
great a cry-baby. Did he not hear the round going by above? I asked; and who
could tell but what the noise of his fall was already remarked, and the
sentinels at the very moment leaning upon the battlements to listen?
The round, however, went by, and nothing was
discovered; the third man came to the ground quite easily; the fourth was, =
of
course, child’s play; and before there were ten of us collected, it
seemed to me that, without the least injustice to my comrades, I might proc=
eed
to take care of myself.
I knew their plan: they had a map and an alman=
ack,
and designed for Grangemouth, where they were to steal a ship. Suppose them to do so, I had no id=
ea
they were qualified to manage it after it was stolen. Their whole escape, indeed, was th=
e most
haphazard thing imaginable; only the impatience of captives and the ignoran=
ce
of private soldiers would have entertained so misbegotten a device; and tho=
ugh
I played the good comrade and worked with them upon the tunnel, but for the
lawyer’s message I should have let them go without me. Well, now they were beyond my help=
, as
they had always been beyond my counselling; and, without word said or leave
taken, I stole out of the little crowd.&nb=
sp;
It is true I would rather have waited to shake hands with Laclas, bu=
t in
the last man who had descended I thought I recognised Clausel, and since the
scene in the shed my distrust of Clausel was perfect. I believed the man to be capable o=
f any
infamy, and events have since shown that I was right.
=
=
I had
two views. The first was,
naturally, to get clear of Edinburgh Castle and the town, to say nothing of=
my
fellow-prisoners; the second to work to the southward so long as it was nig=
ht,
and be near Swanston Cottage by morning.&n=
bsp;
What I should do there and then, I had no guess, and did not greatly
care, being a devotee of a couple of divinities called Chance and Circumsta=
nce. Prepare, if possible; where it is
impossible, work straight forward, and keep your eyes open and your tongue
oiled. Wit and a good exterior—there is all life in a nutshell.
I had at first a rather chequered journey: got
involved in gardens, butted into houses, and had even once the misfortune to
awake a sleeping family, the father of which, as I suppose, menaced me from=
the
window with a blunderbuss.
Altogether, though I had been some time gone from my companions, I w=
as
still at no great distance, when a miserable accident put a period to the
escape. Of a sudden the night=
was
divided by a scream. This was
followed by the sound of something falling, and that again by the report of=
a
musket from the Castle battlements.
It was strange to hear the alarm spread through the city. In the fortress drums were beat an=
d a
bell rung backward. On all ha=
nds
the watchmen sprang their rattles.
Even in that limbo or no-man’s-land where I was wandering, lig=
hts
were made in the houses; sashes were flung up; I could hear neighbouring
families converse from window to window, and at length I was challenged mys=
elf.
‘Wha’s that?’ cried a big vo=
ice.
I could see it proceeded from a big man in a b=
ig
nightcap, leaning from a one-pair window; and as I was not yet abreast of h=
is
house, I judged it was more wise to answer. This was not the first time I had =
had to
stake my fortunes on the goodness of my accent in a foreign tongue; and I h=
ave always
found the moment inspiriting, as a gambler should. Pulling around me a sort of great-=
coat I
had made of my blanket, to cover my sulphur-coloured livery,—‘A
friend!’ said I.
‘What like’s all this
collieshangie?’ said he.
I had never heard of a collieshangie in my day=
s,
but with the racket all about us in the city, I could have no doubt as to t=
he
man’s meaning.
‘I do not know, sir, really,’ said=
I;
‘but I suppose some of the prisoners will have escaped.’
‘Bedamned!’ says he.
‘Oh, sir, they will be soon taken,’=
; I
replied: ‘it has been found in time.=
Good morning, sir!’
‘Ye walk late, sir?’ he added.
‘Oh, surely not,’ said I, with a
laugh. ‘Earlyish, if you
like!’ which brought me finally beyond him, highly pleased with my
success.
I was now come forth on a good thoroughfare, w=
hich
led (as well as I could judge) in my direction. It brought me almost immediately t=
hrough
a piece of street, whence I could hear close by the springing of a watchman=
’s
rattle, and where I suppose a sixth part of the windows would be open, and =
the
people, in all sorts of night gear, talking with a kind of tragic gusto from
one to another. Here, again, =
I must
run the gauntlet of a half-dozen questions, the rattle all the while soundi=
ng nearer;
but as I was not walking inordinately quick, as I spoke like a gentleman, a=
nd
the lamps were too dim to show my dress, I carried it off once more. One person, indeed, inquired where=
I was
off to at that hour.
I replied vaguely and cheerfully, and as I esc=
aped
at one end of this dangerous pass I could see the watchman’s lantern
entering by the other. I was now safe on a dark country highway, out of sig=
ht
of lights and out of the fear of watchmen.=
And yet I had not gone above a hundred yards before a fellow made an
ugly rush at me from the roadside.
I avoided him with a leap, and stood on guard, cursing my empty hand=
s,
wondering whether I had to do with an officer or a mere footpad, and scarce
knowing which to wish. My ass=
ailant
stood a little; in the thick darkness I could see him bob and sidle as thou=
gh
he were feinting at me for an advantageous onfall. Then he spoke.
‘My goo’ frien’,’ says=
he,
and at the first word I pricked my ears, ‘my goo’ frien’,
will you oblishe me with lil neshary infamation? Whish roa’ t’
Cramond?’
I laughed out clear and loud, stepped up to the
convivialist, took him by the shoulders and faced him about. ‘My good friend,’ said=
I,
‘I believe I know what is best for you much better than yourself, and=
may
God forgive you the fright you have given me! There, get you gone to Edinburgh!&=
#8217; And I gave a shove, which he obeye=
d with
the passive agility of a ball, and disappeared incontinently in the darkness
down the road by which I had myself come.
Once clear of this foolish fellow, I went on a=
gain
up a gradual hill, descended on the other side through the houses of a coun=
try
village, and came at last to the bottom of the main ascent leading to the
Pentlands and my destination. I was
some way up when the fog began to lighten; a little farther, and I stepped =
by
degrees into a clear starry night, and saw in front of me, and quite distin=
ct,
the summits of the Pentlands, and behind, the valley of the Forth and the c=
ity
of my late captivity buried under a lake of vapour. I had but one encounter—that=
of a
farm-cart, which I heard, from a great way ahead of me, creaking nearer in =
the night,
and which passed me about the point of dawn like a thing seen in a dream, w=
ith
two silent figures in the inside nodding to the horse’s steps. I presume they were asleep; by the=
shawl
about her head and shoulders, one of them should be a woman. Soon, by concurrent steps, the day=
began
to break and the fog to subside and roll away. The east grew luminous and was bar=
red
with chilly colours, and the Castle on its rock, and the spires and chimney=
s of
the upper town, took gradual shape, and arose, like islands, out of the
receding cloud. All about me =
was
still and sylvan; the road mounting and winding, with nowhere a sign of any=
passenger,
the birds chirping, I suppose for warmth, the boughs of the trees knocking
together, and the red leaves falling in the wind.
It was broad day, but still bitter cold and the
sun not up, when I came in view of my destination. A single gable and chimney of the
cottage peeped over the shoulder of the hill; not far off, and a trifle hig=
her
on the mountain, a tall old white-washed farmhouse stood among the trees, b=
eside
a falling brook; beyond were rough hills of pasture. I bethought me that shepherd folk =
were
early risers, and if I were once seen skulking in that neighbourhood it mig=
ht
prove the ruin of my prospects; took advantage of a line of hedge, and work=
ed
myself up in its shadow till I was come under the garden wall of my
friends’ house. The cot=
tage
was a little quaint place of many rough-cast gables and grey roofs. It had something the air of a ramb=
ling
infinitesimal cathedral, the body of it rising in the midst two storeys hig=
h,
with a steep-pitched roof, and sending out upon all hands (as it were
chapter-houses, chapels, and transepts) one-storeyed and dwarfish
projections. To add to this a=
ppearance,
it was grotesquely decorated with crockets and gargoyles, ravished from some
medieval church. The place se=
emed
hidden away, being not only concealed in the trees of the garden, but, on t=
he
side on which I approached it, buried as high as the eaves by the rising of=
the
ground. About the walls of the garden there went a line of well-grown elms =
and beeches,
the first entirely bare, the last still pretty well covered with red leaves,
and the centre was occupied with a thicket of laurel and holly, in which I
could see arches cut and paths winding.
I was now within hail of my friends, and not m=
uch
the better. The house appeared
asleep; yet if I attempted to wake any one, I had no guarantee it might not
prove either the aunt with the gold eyeglasses (whom I could only remember =
with
trembling), or some ass of a servant-maid who should burst out screaming at
sight of me. Higher up I coul=
d hear
and see a shepherd shouting to his dogs and striding on the rough sides of =
the mountain,
and it was clear I must get to cover without loss of time. No doubt the holly thickets would =
have
proved a very suitable retreat, but there was mounted on the wall a sort of
signboard not uncommon in the country of Great Britain, and very damping to=
the
adventurous: SPRING GUNS AND MAN-TRAPS was the legend that it bore. I have learned since that these
advertisements, three times out of four, were in the nature of Quaker guns =
on a
disarmed battery, but I had not learned it then, and even so, the odds would
not have been good enough. Fo=
r a
choice, I would a hundred times sooner be returned to Edinburgh Castle and =
my
corner in the bastion, than to leave my foot in a steel trap or have to dig=
est
the contents of an automatic blunderbuss.&=
nbsp;
There was but one chance left—that Ronald or Flora might be the
first to come abroad; and in order to profit by this chance if it occurred,=
I
got me on the cope of the wall in a place where it was screened by the thick
branches of a beech, and sat there waiting.
As the day wore on, the sun came very pleasant=
ly
out. I had been awake all nig=
ht, I
had undergone the most violent agitations of mind and body, and it is not so
much to be wondered at, as it was exceedingly unwise and foolhardy, that I
should have dropped into a doze.
From this I awakened to the characteristic sound of digging, looked
down, and saw immediately below me the back view of a gardener in a stable
waistcoat. Now he would appear
steadily immersed in his business; anon, to my more immediate terror, he wo=
uld
straighten his back, stretch his arms, gaze about the otherwise deserted
garden, and relish a deep pinch of snuff.&=
nbsp;
It was my first thought to drop from the wall upon the other side. A glance sufficed to show me that =
even
the way by which I had come was now cut off, and the field behind me already
occupied by a couple of shepherds’ assistants and a score or two of
sheep. I have named the talis=
mans
on which I habitually depend, but here was a conjuncture in which both were=
wholly
useless. The copestone of a w=
all
arrayed with broken bottles is no favourable rostrum; and I might be as
eloquent as Pitt, and as fascinating as Richelieu, and neither the gardener=
nor
the shepherd lads would care a halfpenny.&=
nbsp;
In short, there was no escape possible from my absurd position: ther=
e I
must continue to sit until one or other of my neighbours should raise his e=
yes
and give the signal for my capture.
The part of the wall on which (for my sins) I =
was
posted could be scarce less than twelve feet high on the inside; the leaves=
of
the beech which made a fashion of sheltering me were already partly fallen;=
and
I was thus not only perilously exposed myself, but enabled to command some =
part
of the garden walks and (under an evergreen arch) the front lawn and window=
s of
the cottage. For long nothing
stirred except my friend with the spade; then I heard the opening of a sash;
and presently after saw Miss Flora appear in a morning wrapper and come
strolling hitherward between the borders, pausing and visiting her
flowers—herself as fair. There was a friend; here, immediately beneath
me, an unknown quantity—the gardener: how to communicate with the one=
and
not attract the notice of the other?
To make a noise was out of the question; I dared scarce to breathe.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I held myself ready to make a gest=
ure as
soon as she should look, and she looked in every possible direction but the=
one. She was interested in the vilest t=
uft of
chickweed, she gazed at the summit of the mountain, she came even immediate=
ly
below me and conversed on the most fastidious topics with the gardener; but=
to
the top of that wall she would not dedicate a glance! At last she began to retrace her s=
teps
in the direction of the cottage; whereupon, becoming quite desperate, I bro=
ke
off a piece of plaster, took a happy aim, and hit her with it in the nape of
the neck. She clapped her han=
d to
the place, turned about, looked on all sides for an explanation, and spying=
me
(as indeed I was parting the branches to make it the more easy), half utter=
ed
and half swallowed down again a cry of surprise.
The infernal gardener was erect upon the
instant. ‘What’s =
your
wull, miss?’ said he.
Her readiness amazed me. She had already turned and was gaz= ing in the opposite direction. ‘There’s a child among the artichokes,’ she said.<= o:p>
‘The Plagues of Egyp’! I’ll see to them!’ cri=
ed the
gardener truculently, and with a hurried waddle disappeared among the
evergreens.
That moment she turned, she came running towar=
ds
me, her arms stretched out, her face incarnadined for the one moment with
heavenly blushes, the next pale as death.&=
nbsp;
‘Monsieur de. Saint-Yves!’ she said.
‘My dear young lady,’ I said,
‘this is the damnedest liberty—I know it! But what else was I to
do?’
‘You have escaped?’ said she.
‘If you call this escape,’ I repli=
ed.
‘But you cannot possibly stop there!R=
17;
she cried.
‘I know it,’ said I. ‘And where am I to go?’=
;
She struck her hands together. ‘I have it!’ she
exclaimed. ‘Come down b=
y the
beech trunk—you must leave no footprint in the border—quickly, =
before
Robie can get back! I am the
hen-wife here: I keep the key; you must go into the hen-house—for the
moment.’
I was by her side at once. Both cast a hasty glance at the bl=
ank
windows of the cottage and so much as was visible of the garden alleys; it
seemed there was none to observe us.
She caught me by the sleeve and ran. It was no time for compliments; hu=
rry
breathed upon our necks; and I ran along with her to the next corner of the
garden, where a wired court and a board hovel standing in a grove of trees
advertised my place of refuge. She thrust me in without a word; the bulk of=
the
fowls were at the same time emitted; and I found myself the next moment loc=
ked
in alone with half a dozen sitting hens.&n=
bsp;
In the twilight of the place all fixed their eyes on me severely, and
seemed to upbraid me with some crying impropriety. Doubtless the hen has always a pur=
itanic
appearance, although (in its own behaviour) I could never observe it to be =
more
particular than its neighbours. But
conceive a British hen!
=
I was
half an hour at least in the society of these distressing bipeds, and alone
with my own reflections and necessities.&n=
bsp;
I was in great pain of my flayed hands, and had nothing to treat them
with; I was hungry and thirsty, and had nothing to eat or to drink; I was
thoroughly tired, and there was no place for me to sit. To be sure there was the floor, bu=
t nothing
could be imagined less inviting.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, my
good-humour was restored. The=
key
rattled in the lock, and Master Ronald entered, closed the door behind him,=
and
leaned his back to it.
‘I say, you know!’ he said, and sh=
ook
a sullen young head.
‘I know it’s a liberty,’ sai=
d I.
‘It’s infernally awkward: my posit=
ion
is infernally embarrassing,’ said he.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘and what do=
you
think of mine?’
This seemed to pose him entirely, and he remai=
ned
gazing upon me with a convincing air of youth and innocence. I could have laughed, but I was no=
t so
inhumane.
‘I am in your hands,’ said I, with=
a
little gesture. ‘You mu=
st do
with me what you think right.’
‘Ah, yes!’ he cried: ‘if I
knew!’
‘You see,’ said I, ‘it would=
be
different if you had received your commission. Properly speaking, you are not yet=
a
combatant; I have ceased to be one; and I think it arguable that we are jus=
t in
the position of one ordinary gentleman to another, where friendship usually=
comes
before the law. Observe, I on=
ly say
arguable. For God’s sak=
e, don’t
think I wish to dictate an opinion.
These are the sort of nasty little businesses, inseparable from war,
which every gentleman must decide for himself. If I were in your place—R=
17;
‘Ay, what would you do, then?’ says
he.
‘Upon my word, I do not know,’ said
I. ‘Hesitate, as you are
doing, I believe.’
‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘I have a kinsman, and it is=
what
he would think, that I am thinking.
It is General Graham of Lynedoch—Sir Thomas Graham. I scarcely know him, but I believe=
I
admire him more than I do God.’
‘I admire him a good deal myself,’
said I, ‘and have good reason to.&nb=
sp;
I have fought with him, been beaten, and run away. Veni, victus sum, evasi.’
‘What!’ he cried. ‘You were at Barossa?’=
‘There and back, which many could not
say,’ said I. ‘It=
was a
pretty affair and a hot one, and the Spaniards behaved abominably, as they =
usually
did in a pitched field; the Marshal Duke of Belluno made a fool of himself,=
and
not for the first time; and your friend Sir Thomas had the best of it, so f=
ar
as there was any best. He is a
brave and ready officer.’
‘Now, then, you will understand!’ =
said
the boy. ‘I wish to ple=
ase
Sir Thomas: what would he do?’
‘Well, I can tell you a story,’ sa=
id
I, ‘a true one too, and about this very combat of Chiclana, or Baross=
a as
you call it. I was in the Eig=
hth of
the Line; we lost the eagle of the First Battalion, more betoken, but it co=
st
you dear. Well, we had repuls=
ed
more charges than I care to count, when your 87th Regiment came on at a
foot’s pace, very slow but very steady; in front of them a mounted
officer, his hat in his hand, white-haired, and talking very quietly to the
battalions. Our Major, Vigo-R=
oussillon,
set spurs to his horse and galloped out to sabre him, but seeing him an old
man, very handsome, and as composed as if he were in a coffee-house, lost h=
eart
and galloped back again. Only=
, you
see, they had been very close together for the moment, and looked each othe=
r in
the eyes. Soon after the Majo=
r was
wounded, taken prisoner, and carried into Cadiz. One fine day they announced to him=
the
visit of the General, Sir Thomas Graham.&n=
bsp;
“Well, sir,” said the General, taking him by the hand,
“I think we were face to face upon the field.” It was the white-haired officer!=
8217;
‘Ah!’ cried the boy,—his eyes
were burning.
‘Well, and here is the point,’ I
continued. ‘Sir Thomas =
fed
the Major from his own table from that day, and served him with six
covers.’
‘Yes, it is a beautiful—a beautiful
story,’ said Ronald.
‘And yet somehow it is not the same—is it?’
‘I admit it freely,’ said I.
The boy stood awhile brooding. ‘Well, I take my risk of
it,’ he cried. ‘I believe it’s treason to my sovereign=
212;I
believe there is an infamous punishment for such a crime—and yet
I’m hanged if I can give you up.’
I was as much moved as he. ‘I could almost beg you to do
otherwise,’ I said. =
216;I
was a brute to come to you, a brute and a coward. You are a noble enemy; you will ma=
ke a
noble soldier.’ And with
rather a happy idea of a compliment for this warlike youth, I stood up stra=
ight
and gave him the salute.
He was for a moment confused; his face
flushed. ‘Well, well, I=
must
be getting you something to eat, but it will not be for six,’ he adde=
d,
with a smile: ‘only what we can get smuggled out. There is my aunt in the road, you
see,’ and he locked me in again with the indignant hens.
I always smile when I recall that young fellow;
and yet, if the reader were to smile also, I should feel ashamed. If my son shall be only like him w=
hen he
comes to that age, it will be a brave day for me and not a bad one for his
country.
At the same time I cannot pretend that I was s=
orry
when his sister succeeded in his place.&nb=
sp;
She brought me a few crusts of bread and a jug of milk, which she had
handsomely laced with whisky after the Scottish manner.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said: ‘I
dared not bring on anything more.
We are so small a family, and my aunt keeps such an eye upon the
servants. I have put some whi=
sky in
the milk—it is more wholesome so—and with eggs you will be able=
to
make something of a meal. How=
many
eggs will you be wanting to that milk? for I must be taking the others to my
aunt—that is my excuse for being here. I should think three or four. Do you know how to beat them? or s=
hall I
do it?’
Willing to detain her a while longer in the
hen-house, I displayed my bleeding palms; at which she cried aloud.
‘My dear Miss Flora, you cannot make an
omelette without breaking eggs,’ said I; ‘and it is no bagatell=
e to
escape from Edinburgh Castle. One
of us, I think, was even killed.’
‘And you are as white as a rag, too,R=
17;
she exclaimed, ‘and can hardly stand! Here is my shawl, sit down upon it=
here
in the corner, and I will beat your eggs.&=
nbsp;
See, I have brought a fork too; I should have been a good person to =
take
care of Jacobites or Covenanters in old days! You shall have more to eat this ev=
ening;
Ronald is to bring it you from town. We have money enough, although no food
that we can call our own. Ah,=
if Ronald
and I kept house, you should not be lying in this shed! He admires you so much.’
‘My dear friend,’ said I, ‘f=
or
God’s sake do not embarrass me with more alms. I loved to receive them from that =
hand,
so long as they were needed; but they are so no more, and whatever else I m=
ay
lack—and I lack everything—it is not money.’ I pulled out my sheaf of notes and
detached the top one: it was written for ten pounds, and signed by that ver=
y famous
individual, Abraham Newlands.
‘Oblige me, as you would like me to oblige your brother if the
parts were reversed, and take this note for the expenses. I shall need not only food, but
clothes.’
‘Lay it on the ground,’ said she.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘I must not stop my
beating.’
‘You are not offended?’ I exclaime=
d.
She answered me by a look that was a reward in
itself, and seemed to imply the most heavenly offers for the future. There was in it a shadow of reproa=
ch,
and such warmth of communicative cordiality as left me speechless. I watched her instead till her
hens’ milk was ready.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘taste
that.’
I did so, and swore it was nectar. She collected her eggs and crouche=
d in
front of me to watch me eat. =
There
was about this tall young lady at the moment an air of motherliness delicio=
us
to behold. I am like the Engl=
ish
general, and to this day I still wonder at my moderation.
‘What sort of clothes will you be
wanting?’ said she.
‘The clothes of a gentleman,’ said
I. ‘Right or wrong, I t=
hink
it is the part I am best qualified to play. Mr. St. Ives (for that’s to =
be my
name upon the journey) I conceive as rather a theatrical figure, and his ma=
ke-up
should be to match.’
‘And yet there is a difficulty,’ s=
aid
she. ‘If you got coarse
clothes the fit would hardly matter.
But the clothes of a fine gentleman—O, it is absolutely necess=
ary
that these should fit! And ab=
ove
all, with your’—she paused a moment—‘to our ideas
somewhat noticeable manners.’
‘Alas for my poor manners!’ said
I. ‘But my dear friend =
Flora,
these little noticeabilities are just what mankind has to suffer under. You=
rself,
you see, you’re very noticeable even when you come in a crowd to visit
poor prisoners in the Castle.’
I was afraid I should frighten my good angel
visitant away, and without the smallest breath of pause went on to add a few
directions as to stuffs and colours.
She opened big eyes upon me. ‘O, Mr. St. Ives!’ she
cried—‘if that is to be your name—I do not say they would=
not
be becoming; but for a journey, do you think they would be wise? I am afraid’—she gave a
pretty break of laughter—‘I am afraid they would be
daft-like!’
‘Well, and am I not daft?’ I asked
her.
‘I do begin to think you are,’ said
she.
‘There it is, then!’ said I. ‘I have been long enough a f=
igure
of fun. Can you not feel with me that perhaps the bitterest thing in this c=
aptivity
has been the clothes? Make me=
a
captive—bind me with chains if you like—but let me be still
myself. You do not know what =
it is
to be a walking travesty—among foes,’ I added bitterly.
‘O, but you are too unjust!’ she
cried. ‘You speak as th=
ough
any one ever dreamed of laughing at you.&n=
bsp;
But no one did. We wer=
e all
pained to the heart. Even my
aunt—though sometimes I do think she was not quite in good
taste—you should have seen her and heard her at home! She took so much interest. Every patch in your clothes made us
sorry; it should have been a sister’s work.’
‘That is what I never had—a
sister,’ said I. ‘=
;But
since you say that I did not make you laugh—’
‘O, Mr. St. Ives! never!’ she excl=
aimed. ‘Not for one moment. It was all too sad. To see a gentleman—’
‘In the clothes of a harlequin, and
begging?’ I suggested.
‘To see a gentleman in distress, and nob=
ly
supporting it,’ she said.
‘And do you not understand, my fair
foe,’ said I, ‘that even if all were as you say—even if y=
ou
had thought my travesty were becoming—I should be only the more anxio=
us,
for my sake, for my country’s sake, and for the sake of your kindness,
that you should see him whom you have helped as God meant him to be seen? t=
hat
you should have something to remember him by at least more characteristic t=
han
a misfitting sulphur-yellow suit, and half a week’s beard?’
‘You think a great deal too much of
clothes,’ she said. =
216;I
am not that kind of girl.’
‘And I am afraid I am that kind of
man,’ said I. ‘Bu=
t do
not think of me too harshly for that.
I talked just now of something to remember by. I have many of them myself, of the=
se
beautiful reminders, of these keepsakes, that I cannot be parted from until=
I
lose memory and life. Many of them are great things, many of them are high
virtues—charity, mercy, faith.
But some of them are trivial enough. Miss Flora, do you remember the da=
y that
I first saw you, the day of the strong east wind? Miss Flora, shall I tell =
you
what you wore?’
We had both risen to our feet, and she had her
hand already on the door to go.
Perhaps this attitude emboldened me to profit by the last seconds of=
our
interview; and it certainly rendered her escape the more easy.
‘O, you are too romantic!’ she sai=
d,
laughing; and with that my sun was blown out, my enchantress had fled away,=
and
I was again left alone in the twilight with the lady hens.
=
=
The
rest of the day I slept in the corner of the hen-house upon Flora’s s=
hawl. Nor did I awake until a light shone
suddenly in my eyes, and starting up with a gasp (for, indeed, at the momen=
t I
dreamed I was still swinging from the Castle battlements) I found Ronald
bending over me with a lantern. It
appeared it was past midnight, that I had slept about sixteen hours, and th=
at
Flora had returned her poultry to the shed and I had heard her not. I could not but wonder if she had
stooped to look at me as I slept.
The puritan hens now slept irremediably; and being cheered with the
promise of supper I wished them an ironical good-night, and was lighted acr=
oss
the garden and noiselessly admitted to a bedroom on the ground floor of the
cottage. There I found soap, =
water,
razors—offered me diffidently by my beardless host—and an outfi=
t of
new clothes. To be shaved aga=
in
without depending on the barber of the gaol was a source of a delicious, if=
a
childish joy. My hair was sad=
ly too
long, but I was none so unwise as to make an attempt on it myself. And, indeed, I thought it did not =
wholly
misbecome me as it was, being by nature curly. The clothes were about as good as I
expected. The waistcoat was of
toilenet, a pretty piece, the trousers of fine kerseymere, and the coat sat
extraordinarily well. Altoget=
her,
when I beheld this changeling in the glass, I kissed my hand to him.
‘My dear fellow,’ said I, ‘h=
ave
you no scent?’
‘Good God, no!’ cried Ronald. ‘What do you want with
scent?’
‘Capital thing on a campaign,’ said
I. ‘But I can do
without.’
I was now led, with the same precautions again=
st
noise, into the little bow-windowed dining-room of the cottage. The shutters were up, the lamp gui=
ltily
turned low; the beautiful Flora greeted me in a whisper; and when I was set
down to table, the pair proceeded to help me with precautions that might ha=
ve
seemed excessive in the Ear of Dionysius.
‘She sleeps up there,’ observed the
boy, pointing to the ceiling; and the knowledge that I was so imminently ne=
ar
to the resting-place of that gold eyeglass touched even myself with some
uneasiness.
Our excellent youth had imported from the city=
a
meat pie, and I was glad to find it flanked with a decanter of really admir=
able
wine of Oporto. While I ate, Ronald entertained me with the news of the cit=
y,
which had naturally rung all day with our escape: troops and mounted messen=
gers
had followed each other forth at all hours and in all directions; but accor=
ding
to the last intelligence no recapture had been made. Opinion in town was very favourabl=
e to
us: our courage was applauded, and many professed regret that our ultimate
chance of escape should be so small. The man who had fallen was one Sombref=
, a
peasant; he was one who slept in a different part of the Castle; and I was =
thus
assured that the whole of my former companions had attained their liberty, =
and
Shed A was untenanted.
From this we wandered insensibly into other
topics. It is impossible to e=
xaggerate
the pleasure I took to be thus sitting at the same table with Flora, in the
clothes of a gentleman, at liberty and in the full possession of my spirits=
and
resources; of all of which I had need, because it was necessary that I shou=
ld
support at the same time two opposite characters, and at once play the cava=
lier
and lively soldier for the eyes of Ronald, and to the ears of Flora maintain
the same profound and sentimental note that I had already sounded. Certainly there are days when all =
goes
well with a man; when his wit, his digestion, his mistress are in a conspir=
acy
to spoil him, and even the weather smiles upon his wishes. I will only say of myself upon that
evening that I surpassed my expectations, and was privileged to delight my
hosts. Little by little they forgot their terrors and I my caution; until a=
t last
we were brought back to earth by a catastrophe that might very easily have =
been
foreseen, but was not the less astonishing to us when it occurred.
I had filled all the glasses. ‘I have a toast to propose,&=
#8217;
I whispered, ‘or rather three, but all so inextricably interwoven that
they will not bear dividing. =
I wish
first to drink to the health of a brave and therefore a generous enemy. He found me disarmed, a fugitive a=
nd helpless. Like the lion, he disdained so poo=
r a
triumph; and when he might have vindicated an easy valour, he preferred to =
make
a friend. I wish that we shou=
ld
next drink to a fairer and a more tender foe. She found me in prison; she cheere=
d me
with a priceless sympathy; what she has done since, I know she has done in
mercy, and I only pray—I dare scarce hope—her mercy may prove to
have been merciful. And I wis=
h to conjoin
with these, for the first, and perhaps the last time, the health—and I
fear I may already say the memory—of one who has fought, not always
without success, against the soldiers of your nation; but who came here,
vanquished already, only to be vanquished again by the loyal hand of the on=
e,
by the unforgettable eyes of the other.’
It is to be feared I may have lent at times a
certain resonancy to my voice; it is to be feared that Ronald, who was none=
the
better for his own hospitality, may have set down his glass with something =
of a
clang. Whatever may have been the cause, at least, I had scarce finished my=
compliment
before we were aware of a thump upon the ceiling overhead. It was to be thought some very sol=
id
body had descended to the floor from the level (possibly) of a bed. I have never seen consternation pa=
inted in
more lively colours than on the faces of my hosts. It was proposed to smuggle me fort=
h into
the garden, or to conceal my form under a horsehair sofa which stood against
the wall. For the first exped=
ient,
as was now plain by the approaching footsteps, there was no longer time; fr=
om
the second I recoiled with indignation.
‘My dear creatures,’ said I,
‘let us die, but do not let us be ridiculous.’
The words were still upon my lips when the door
opened and my friend of the gold eyeglass appeared, a memorable figure, on =
the
threshold. In one hand she bo=
re a
bedroom candlestick; in the other, with the steadiness of a dragoon, a
horse-pistol. She was wound a=
bout in
shawls which did not wholly conceal the candid fabric of her nightdress, and
surmounted by a nightcap of portentous architecture. Thus accoutred, she made her entra=
nce;
laid down the candle and pistol, as no longer called for; looked about the =
room
with a silence more eloquent than oaths; and then, in a thrilling
voice—‘To whom have I the pleasure?’ she said, addressing=
me
with a ghost of a bow.
‘Madam, I am charmed, I am sure,’ =
said
I. ‘The story is a litt=
le
long; and our meeting, however welcome, was for the moment entirely unexpec=
ted by
myself. I am sure—̵=
7; but
here I found I was quite sure of nothing, and tried again. ‘I have the honour,’ I
began, and found I had the honour to be only exceedingly confused. With that, I threw myself outright=
upon her
mercy. ‘Madam, I must b=
e more
frank with you,’ I resumed.
‘You have already proved your charity and compassion for the
French prisoners, I am one of these; and if my appearance be not too much
changed, you may even yet recognise in me that Oddity who had the good fort=
une
more than once to make you smile.’
Still gazing upon me through her glass, she
uttered an uncompromising grunt; and then, turning to her
niece—‘Flora,’ said she, ‘how comes he here?’=
The culprits poured out for a while an antipho=
ny of
explanations, which died out at last in a miserable silence.
‘I think at least you might have told yo=
ur
aunt,’ she snorted.
‘Madam,’ I interposed, ‘they
were about to do so. It is my=
fault
if it be not done already. Bu=
t I
made it my prayer that your slumbers might be respected, and this necessary
formula of my presentation should be delayed until to-morrow in the
morning.’
The old lady regarded me with undissembled
incredulity, to which I was able to find no better repartee than a profound=
and
I trust graceful reverence.
‘French prisoners are very well in their
place,’ she said, ‘but I cannot see that their place is in my
private dining-room.’
‘Madam,’ said I, ‘I hope it =
may
be said without offence, but (except the Castle of Edinburgh) I cannot think
upon the spot from which I would so readily be absent.’
At this, to my relief, I thought I could perce=
ive
a vestige of a smile to steal upon that iron countenance and to be bitten
immediately in.
‘And if it is a fair question, what do t=
hey
call ye?’ she asked.
‘At your service, the Vicomte Anne de
St.-Yves,’ said I.
‘Mosha the Viscount,’ said she,
‘I am afraid you do us plain people a great deal too much honour.R=
17;
‘My dear lady,’ said I, ‘let=
us
be serious for a moment. What=
was I
to do? Where was I to go? And how can you be angry with these
benevolent children who took pity on one so unfortunate as myself? Your humble servant is no such ter=
rific
adventurer that you should come out against him with horse-pistol
and’—smiling—‘bedroom candlesticks. It is but a young gentleman in extr=
eme
distress, hunted upon every side, and asking no more than to escape from his
pursuers. I know your charact=
er, I
read it in your face’—the heart trembled in my body as I said t=
hese
daring words. ‘There are
unhappy English prisoners in France at this day, perhaps at this hour. Perhaps at this hour they kneel as=
I do;
they take the hand of her who might conceal and assist them; they press it =
to
their lips as I do—’
‘Here, here!’ cried the old lady,
breaking from my solicitations. ‘Behave yourself before folk! Saw ever anyone the match of that?=
And on earth, my dears, what are w=
e to
do with him?’
‘Pack him off, my dear lady,’ said=
I:
‘pack off the impudent fellow double-quick! And if it may be, and if your good=
heart
allows it, help him a little on the way he has to go.’
‘What’s this pie?’ she cried
stridently. ‘Where is t=
his
pie from, Flora?’
No answer was vouchsafed by my unfortunate and=
(I
may say) extinct accomplices.
‘Is that my port?’ she pursued.
I made haste to serve her.
She looked at me over the rim with an
extraordinary expression. =
216;I
hope ye liked it?’ said she.
‘It is even a magnificent wine,’ s=
aid
I.
‘Aweel, it was my father laid it down,=
8217;
said she. ‘There were f=
ew
knew more about port wine than my father, God rest him!’ She settled herself in a chair wit=
h an
alarming air of resolution.
‘And so there is some particular direction that you wish to go
in?’ said she.
‘O,’ said I, following her example,
‘I am by no means such a vagrant as you suppose. I have good friends, if I could ge=
t to
them, for which all I want is to be once clear of Scotland; and I have money
for the road.’ And I produced my bundle.
‘English bank-notes?’ she said.
‘I declare to heaven I never thought to
count!’ I exclaimed.
‘But that is soon remedied.’
And I counted out ten notes of ten pound each,=
all
in the name of Abraham Newlands, and five bills of country bankers for as m=
any
guineas.
‘One hundred and twenty six pound
five,’ cried the old lady.
‘And you carry such a sum about you, and have not so much as
counted it! If you are not a =
thief,
you must allow you are very thief-like.’
‘And yet, madam, the money is legitimate=
ly
mine,’ said I.
She took one of the bills and held it up. ‘Is there any probability, n=
ow,
that this could be traced?’ she asked.
‘None, I should suppose; and if it were,=
it
would be no matter,’ said I. ‘With your usual penetration, you
guessed right. An Englishman
brought it me. It reached me,
through the hands of his English solicitor, from my great-uncle, the Comte =
de
Kéroual de Saint-Yves, I believe the richest émigré in
London.’
‘I can do no more than take your word for
it,’ said she.
‘And I trust, madam, not less,’ sa=
id
I.
‘Well,’ said she, ‘at this r=
ate
the matter may be feasible. I=
will
cash one of these five-guinea bills, less the exchange, and give you silver=
and
Scots notes to bear you as far as the border. Beyond that, Mosha the Viscount, y=
ou
will have to depend upon yourself.’
I could not but express a civil hesitation as =
to
whether the amount would suffice, in my case, for so long a journey.
‘Ay,’ said she, ‘but you hav=
enae
heard me out. For if you are =
not
too fine a gentleman to travel with a pair of drovers, I believe I have fou=
nd the
very thing, and the Lord forgive me for a treasonable old wife! There are a
couple stopping up by with the shepherd-man at the farm; to-morrow they will
take the road for England, probably by skriegh of day—and in my opini=
on
you had best be travelling with the stots,’ said she.
‘For Heaven’s sake do not suppose =
me
to be so effeminate a character!’ I cried. ‘An old soldier of Napoleon =
is
certainly beyond suspicion. B=
ut, dear
lady, to what end? and how is the society of these excellent gentlemen supp=
osed
to help me?’
‘My dear sir,’ said she, ‘yo=
u do
not at all understand your own predicament, and must just leave your matter=
s in
the hands of those who do. I =
dare
say you have never even heard tell of the drove-roads or the drovers; and I=
am
certainly not going to sit up all night to explain it to you. Suffice it, that it is me who is
arranging this affair—the more shame to me!—and that is the way=
ye
have to go. Ronald,’ she
continued, ‘away up-by to the shepherds; rowst them out of their beds,
and make it perfectly distinct that Sim is not to leave till he has seen
me.’
Ronald was nothing loath to escape from his
aunt’s neighbourhood, and left the room and the cottage with a silent
expedition that was more like flight than mere obedience. Meanwhile the old lady turned to h=
er
niece.
‘And I would like to know what we are to=
do
with him the night!’ she cried.
‘Ronald and I meant to put him in the
hen-house,’ said the encrimsoned Flora.
‘And I can tell you he is to go to no su=
ch a
place,’ replied the aunt. ‘Hen-house, indeed! If a guest he is to be, he shall s=
leep
in no mortal hen-house. Your =
room
is the most fit, I think, if he will consent to occupy it on so great a
suddenty. And as for you, Flo=
ra,
you shall sleep with me.’
I could not help admiring the prudence and tac=
t of
this old dowager, and of course it was not for me to make objections. Ere I well knew how, I was alone w=
ith a
flat candlestick, which is not the most sympathetic of companions, and stood
studying the snuff in a frame of mind between triumph and chagrin. All had gone well with my flight: =
the
masterful lady who had arrogated to herself the arrangement of the details =
gave
me every confidence; and I saw myself already arriving at my uncle’s
door. But, alas! it was another story with my love affair. I had seen and spoken with her alo=
ne; I
had ventured boldly; I had been not ill received; I had seen her change col=
our,
had enjoyed the undissembled kindness of her eyes; and now, in a moment, do=
wn
comes upon the scene that apocalyptic figure with the nightcap and the
horse-pistol, and with the very wind of her coming behold me separated from=
my love! Gratitude and admiration contended=
in my
breast with the extreme of natural rancour. My appearance in her house at past
midnight had an air (I could not disguise it from myself) that was insolent=
and
underhand, and could not but minister to the worst suspicions. And the old lady had taken it well=
. Her generosity was no more to be c=
alled
in question than her courage, and I was afraid that her intelligence would =
be
found to match. Certainly, Miss Flora had to support some shrewd looks, and
certainly she had been troubled. I
could see but the one way before me: to profit by an excellent bed, to try =
to
sleep soon, to be stirring early, and to hope for some renewed occasion in =
the
morning. To have said so much=
and
yet to say no more, to go out into the world upon so half-hearted a parting=
, was
more than I could accept.
It is my belief that the benevolent fiend sat =
up
all night to baulk me. She was at my bedside with a candle long ere day, ro=
used
me, laid out for me a damnable misfit of clothes, and bade me pack my own
(which were wholly unsuited to the journey) in a bundle. Sore grudging, I arrayed myself in=
a
suit of some country fabric, as delicate as sackcloth and about as becoming=
as
a shroud; and, on coming forth, found the dragon had prepared for me a hear=
ty
breakfast. She took the head =
of the
table, poured out the tea, and entertained me as I ate with a great deal of
good sense and a conspicuous lack of charm. How often did I not regret the cha=
nge!—how
often compare her, and condemn her in the comparison, with her charming
niece! But if my entertainer =
was
not beautiful, she had certainly been busy in my interest. Already she was in communication w=
ith my
destined fellow-travellers; and the device on which she had struck appeared
entirely suitable. I was a yo=
ung
Englishman who had outrun the constable; warrants were out against me in
Scotland, and it had become needful I should pass the border without loss of
time, and privately.
‘I have given a very good account of
you,’ said she, ‘which I hope you may justify. I told them there was nothing agai=
nst
you beyond the fact that you were put to the haw (if that is the right word)
for debt.’
‘I pray God you have the expression
incorrectly, ma’am,’ said I.&n=
bsp;
‘I do not give myself out for a person easily alarmed; but you
must admit there is something barbarous and mediaeval in the sound well
qualified to startle a poor foreigner.’
‘It is the name of a process in Scots La=
w,
and need alarm no honest man,’ said she. ‘But you are a very idle-min=
ded
young gentleman; you must still have your joke, I see: I only hope you will
have no cause to regret it.’
‘I pray you not to suppose, because I sp=
eak
lightly, that I do not feel deeply,’ said I. ‘Your kindness has quite con=
quered
me; I lay myself at your disposition, I beg you to believe, with real
tenderness; I pray you to consider me from henceforth as the most devoted of
your friends.’
‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘here
comes your devoted friend the drover.
I’m thinking he will be eager for the road; and I will not be =
easy
myself till I see you well off the premises, and the dishes washed, before =
my servant-woman
wakes. Praise God, we have go=
tten
one that is a treasure at the sleeping!’
The morning was already beginning to be blue in
the trees of the garden, and to put to shame the candle by which I had
breakfasted. The lady rose fr=
om
table, and I had no choice but to follow her example. All the time I was beating my brai=
ns for
any means by which I should be able to get a word apart with Flora, or find=
the
time to write her a billet. T=
he windows
had been open while I breakfasted, I suppose to ventilate the room from any
traces of my passage there; and, Master Ronald appearing on the front lawn,=
my
ogre leaned forth to address him.
‘Ronald,’ she said,
‘wasn’t that Sim that went by the wall?’
I snatched my advantage. Right at her back there was pen, i=
nk,
and paper laid out. I wrote:
‘I love you’; and before I had time to write more, or so much a=
s to
blot what I had written, I was again under the guns of the gold eyeglasses.=
‘It’s time,’ she began; and
then, as she observed my occupation, ‘Umph!’ she broke off. ‘Ye have something to
write?’ she demanded.
‘Some notes, madam,’ said I, bowing
with alacrity.
‘Notes,’ she said; ‘or a
note?’
‘There is doubtless some finesse of the
English language that I do not comprehend,’ said I.
‘I’ll contrive, however, to make my
meaning very plain to ye, Mosha le Viscount,’ she continued. ‘I suppose you desire to be
considered a gentleman?’
‘Can you doubt it, madam?’ said I.=
‘I doubt very much, at least, whether yo=
u go
to the right way about it,’ she said. ‘You have come here to me, I
cannot very well say how; I think you will admit you owe me some thanks, if=
it
was only for the breakfast I made ye.
But what are you to me? A
waif young man, not so far to seek for looks and manners, with some English
notes in your pocket and a price upon your head. I am a lady; I have been your host=
ess,
with however little will; and I desire that this random acquaintance of you=
rs
with my family will cease and determine.’
I believe I must have coloured. ‘Madam,’ said I, ̵=
6;the
notes are of no importance; and your least pleasure ought certainly to be my
law. You have felt, and you h=
ave
been pleased to express, a doubt of me.&nb=
sp;
I tear them up.’ Which
you may be sure I did thoroughly.
‘There’s a good lad!’ said t=
he
dragon, and immediately led the way to the front lawn.
The brother and sister were both waiting us he=
re,
and, as well as I could make out in the imperfect light, bore every appeara=
nce
of having passed through a rather cruel experience. Ronald seemed ashamed to so much a=
s catch
my eye in the presence of his aunt, and was the picture of embarrassment. As for Flora, she had scarce the t=
ime to
cast me one look before the dragon took her by the arm, and began to march
across the garden in the extreme first glimmer of the dawn without exchangi=
ng speech. Ronald and I followed in equal sil=
ence.
There was a door in that same high wall on the=
top
of which I had sat perched no longer gone than yesterday morning. This the old lady set open with a =
key;
and on the other side we were aware of a rough-looking, thick-set man, lean=
ing
with his arms (through which was passed a formidable staff) on a dry-stone
dyke. Him the old lady immedi=
ately addressed.
‘Sim,’ said she, ‘this is the
young gentleman.’
Sim replied with an inarticulate grumble of so=
und,
and a movement of one arm and his head, which did duty for a salutation.
‘Now, Mr. St. Ives,’ said the old
lady, ‘it’s high time for you to be taking the road. But first of all let me give the c=
hange
of your five-guinea bill. Her=
e are
four pounds of it in British Linen notes, and the balance in small silver, =
less
sixpence. Some charge a shill=
ing, I
believe, but I have given you the benefit of the doubt. See and guide it with all the sens=
e that
you possess.’
‘And here, Mr. St. Ives,’ said Flo=
ra,
speaking for the first time, ‘is a plaid which you will find quite
necessary on so rough a journey. I
hope you will take it from the hands of a Scotch friend,’ she added, =
and
her voice trembled.
‘Genuine holly: I cut it myself,’ =
said
Ronald, and gave me as good a cudgel as a man could wish for in a row.
The formality of these gifts, and the waiting
figure of the driver, told me loudly that I must be gone. I dropped on one knee and bade far=
ewell to
the aunt, kissing her hand. I=
did
the like—but with how different a passion!—to her niece; as for=
the
boy, I took him to my arms and embraced him with a cordiality that seemed to
strike him speechless. ‘=
;Farewell!’
and ‘Farewell!’ I said.
‘I shall never forget my friends. Keep me sometimes in memory. Farewell!’ With that I turne=
d my
back and began to walk away; and had scarce done so, when I heard the door =
in
the high wall close behind me. Of
course this was the aunt’s doing; and of course, if I know anything of
human character, she would not let me go without some tart expressions. I declare, even if I had heard the=
m, I
should not have minded in the least, for I was quite persuaded that, whatev=
er
admirers I might be leaving behind me in Swanston Cottage, the aunt was not=
the
least sincere.
=
=
It
took me a little effort to come abreast of my new companion; for though he
walked with an ugly roll and no great appearance of speed, he could cover t=
he
around at a good rate when he wanted to.&n=
bsp;
Each looked at the other: I with natural curiosity, he with a great
appearance of distaste. I have
heard since that his heart was entirely set against me; he had seen me knee=
l to
the ladies, and diagnosed me for a ‘gesterin’ eediot.’
‘So, ye’re for England, are ye?=
217;
said he.
I told him yes.
‘Weel, there’s waur places, I
believe,’ was his reply; and he relapsed into a silence which was not
broken during a quarter of an hour of steady walking.
This interval brought us to the foot of a bare
green valley, which wound upwards and backwards among the hills. A little stream came down the mids=
t and
made a succession of clear pools; near by the lowest of which I was aware o=
f a
drove of shaggy cattle, and a man who seemed the very counterpart of Mr. Sim
making a breakfast upon bread and cheese.&=
nbsp;
This second drover (whose name proved to be Candlish) rose on our
approach.
‘Here’s a mannie that’s to g=
ang
through with us,’ said Sim.
‘It was the auld wife, Gilchrist, wanted it.’
‘Aweel, aweel,’ said the other; and
presently, remembering his manners, and looking on me with a solemn grin,
‘A fine day!’ says he.
I agreed with him, and asked him how he did.
‘Brawly,’ was the reply; and witho=
ut
further civilities, the pair proceeded to get the cattle under way. This, as well as almost all the he=
rding,
was the work of a pair of comely and intelligent dogs, directed by Sim or
Candlish in little more than monosyllables. Presently we were ascending the si=
de of
the mountain by a rude green track, whose presence I had not hitherto
observed. A continual sound of
munching and the crying of a great quantity of moor birds accompanied our
progress, which the deliberate pace and perennial appetite of the cattle
rendered wearisomely slow. In=
the
midst my two conductors marched in a contented silence that I could not but
admire. The more I looked at =
them,
the more I was impressed by their absurd resemblance to each other. They were dressed in the same coar=
se
homespun, carried similar sticks, were equally begrimed about the nose with
snuff, and each wound in an identical plaid of what is called the
shepherd’s tartan. In a=
back
view they might be described as indistinguishable; and even from the front =
they
were much alike. An incredible
coincidence of humours augmented the impression. Thrice and four times I
attempted to pave the way for some exchange of thought, sentiment, or—=
;at
the least of it—human words.
An Ay or an Nhm was the sole return, and the topic died on the hill-=
side
without echo. I can never den=
y that
I was chagrined; and when, after a little more walking, Sim turned towards =
me
and offered me a ram’s horn of snuff, with the question ‘Do ye =
use
it?’ I answered, with some animation, ‘Faith, sir, I would use =
pepper
to introduce a little cordiality.’&n=
bsp;
But even this sally failed to reach, or at least failed to soften, m=
y companions.
At this rate we came to the summit of a ridge,=
and
saw the track descend in front of us abruptly into a desert vale, about a
league in length, and closed at the farther end by no less barren
hilltops. Upon this point of =
vantage
Sim came to a halt, took off his hat, and mopped his brow.
‘Weel,’ he said, ‘here
we’re at the top o’ Howden.’
‘The top o’ Howden, sure
eneuch,’ said Candlish.
‘Mr. St. Ivey, are ye dry?’ said t=
he
first.
‘Now, really,’ said I, ‘is n=
ot
this Satan reproving sin?’
‘What ails ye, man?’ said he. ‘I’m offerin’ ye=
a
dram.’
‘Oh, if it be anything to drink,’ =
said
I, ‘I am as dry as my neighbours.’
Whereupon Sim produced from the corner of his
plaid a black bottle, and we all drank and pledged each other. I found these gentlemen followed u=
pon
such occasions an invariable etiquette, which you may be certain I made has=
te
to imitate. Each wiped his mo=
uth
with the back of his left hand, held up the bottle in his right, remarked w=
ith
emphasis, ‘Here’s to ye!’ and swallowed as much of the sp=
irit
as his fancy prompted. This l=
ittle
ceremony, which was the nearest thing to manners I could perceive in either=
of
my companions, was repeated at becoming intervals, generally after an
ascent. Occasionally we share=
d a
mouthful of ewe-milk cheese and an inglorious form of bread, which I unders=
tood
(but am far from engaging my honour on the point) to be called
‘shearer’s bannock.’&nbs=
p;
And that may be said to have concluded our whole active intercourse =
for
the first day.
I had the more occasion to remark the
extraordinarily desolate nature of that country, through which the drove ro=
ad
continued, hour after hour and even day after day, to wind. A continual succession of insignif=
icant shaggy
hills, divided by the course of ten thousand brooks, through which we had to
wade, or by the side of which we encamped at night; infinite perspectives of
heather, infinite quantities of moorfowl; here and there, by a stream side,
small and pretty clumps of willows or the silver birch; here and there, the
ruins of ancient and inconsiderable fortresses—made the unchanging
characters of the scene.
Occasionally, but only in the distance, we could perceive the smoke =
of a
small town or of an isolated farmhouse or cottage on the moors; more often,=
a
flock of sheep and its attendant shepherd, or a rude field of agriculture
perhaps not yet harvested. Wi=
th
these alleviations, we might almost be said to pass through an unbroken
desert—sure, one of the most impoverished in Europe; and when I recal=
led
to mind that we were yet but a few leagues from the chief city (where the l=
aw
courts sat every day with a press of business, soldiers garrisoned the cast=
le,
and men of admitted parts were carrying on the practice of letters and the
investigations of science), it gave me a singular view of that poor, barren,
and yet illustrious country through which I travelled. Still more, perhaps, did it commen=
d the
wisdom of Miss Gilchrist in sending me with these uncouth companions and by
this unfrequented path.
My itinerary is by no means clear to me; the n=
ames
and distances I never clearly knew, and have now wholly forgotten; and this=
is
the more to be regretted as there is no doubt that, in the course of those
days, I must have passed and camped among sites which have been rendered
illustrious by the pen of Walter Scott.&nb=
sp;
Nay, more, I am of opinion that I was still more favoured by fortune,
and have actually met and spoken with that inimitable author. Our encounter was of a tall, stout=
ish,
elderly gentleman, a little grizzled, and of a rugged but cheerful and enga=
ging
countenance. He sat on a hill=
pony,
wrapped in a plaid over his green coat, and was accompanied by a horse-woma=
n,
his daughter, a young lady of the most charming appearance. They overtook us on a stretch of h=
eath, reined
up as they came alongside, and accompanied us for perhaps a quarter of an h=
our
before they galloped off again across the hillsides to our left. Great was my amazement to find the
unconquerable Mr. Sim thaw immediately on the accost of this strange gentle=
man,
who hailed him with a ready familiarity, proceeded at once to discuss with =
him
the trade of droving and the prices of cattle, and did not disdain to take a
pinch from the inevitable ram’s horn. Presently I was aware that the str=
anger’s
eye was directed on myself; and there ensued a conversation, some of which I
could not help overhearing at the time, and the rest have pieced together m=
ore
or less plausibly from the report of Sim.
‘Surely that must be an amateur drover ye
have gotten there?’ the gentleman seems to have asked.
Sim replied, I was a young gentleman that had a
reason of his own to travel privately.
‘Well, well, ye must tell me nothing of
that. I am in the law, you kn=
ow, and
tace is the Latin for a candle,’ answered the gentleman. ‘But I hope it’s nothi=
ng
bad.’
Sim told him it was no more than debt.
‘Oh, Lord, if that be all!’ cried =
the
gentleman; and turning to myself, ‘Well, sir,’ he added, ‘=
;I
understand you are taking a tramp through our forest here for the pleasure =
of
the thing?’
‘Why, yes, sir,’ said I; ‘an=
d I
must say I am very well entertained.’
‘I envy you,’ said he. ‘I have jogged many miles of=
it
myself when I was younger. My=
youth
lies buried about here under every heather-bush, like the soul of the
licentiate Lucius. But you sh=
ould
have a guide. The pleasure of=
this
country is much in the legends, which grow as plentiful as
blackberries.’ And dire=
cting
my attention to a little fragment of a broken wall no greater than a tombst=
one,
he told me for an example a story of its earlier inhabitants. Years after it chanced that I was =
one day
diverting myself with a Waverley Novel, when what should I come upon but th=
e identical
narrative of my green-coated gentleman upon the moors! In a moment the scen=
e,
the tones of his voice, his northern accent, and the very aspect of the ear=
th
and sky and temperature of the weather, flashed back into my mind with the
reality of dreams. The unknow=
n in
the green-coat had been the Great Unknown!=
I had met Scott; I had heard a story from his lips; I should have be=
en
able to write, to claim acquaintance, to tell him that his legend still tin=
gled
in my ears. But the discovery=
came
too late, and the great man had already succumbed under the load of his hon=
ours
and misfortunes.
Presently, after giving us a cigar apiece, Sco=
tt
bade us farewell and disappeared with his daughter over the hills. And when I applied to Sim for
information, his answer of ‘The Shirra, man! A’body kens the Shirra!̵=
7;
told me, unfortunately, nothing.
A more considerable adventure falls to be
related. We were now near the=
border. We had travelled for long upon the=
track
beaten and browsed by a million herds, our predecessors, and had seen no
vestige of that traffic which had created it. It was early in the morning when w=
e at
last perceived, drawing near to the drove road, but still at a distance of =
about
half a league, a second caravan, similar to but larger than our own. The liveliest excitement was at on=
ce
exhibited by both my comrades. They climbed hillocks, they studied the
approaching drove from under their hand, they consulted each other with an
appearance of alarm that seemed to me extraordinary. I had learned by this time that th=
eir stand-off
manners implied, at least, no active enmity; and I made bold to ask them wh=
at
was wrong.
‘Bad yins,’ was Sim’s emphat=
ic
answer.
All day the dogs were kept unsparingly on the
alert, and the drove pushed forward at a very unusual and seemingly unwelco=
me
speed. All day Sim and Candli=
sh,
with a more than ordinary expenditure both of snuff and of words, continued=
to
debate the position. It seems=
that
they had recognised two of our neighbours on the road—one Faa, and an=
other
by the name of Gillies. Wheth=
er
there was an old feud between them still unsettled I could never learn; but=
Sim
and Candlish were prepared for every degree of fraud or violence at their
hands. Candlish repeatedly co=
ngratulated
himself on having left ‘the watch at home with the mistress’; a=
nd
Sim perpetually brandished his cudgel, and cursed his ill-fortune that it
should be sprung.
‘I willna care a damn to gie the daashed
scoon’rel a fair clout wi’ it,’ he said. ‘The daashed thing micht come
sindry in ma hand.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said I,
‘suppose they do come on, I think we can give a very good account of
them.’ And I made my pi=
ece of
holly, Ronald’s gift, the value of which I now appreciated, sing abou=
t my
head.
‘Ay, man? Are ye stench?’ inquired Sim=
, with
a gleam of approval in his wooden countenance.
The same evening, somewhat wearied with our
day-long expedition, we encamped on a little verdant mound, from the midst =
of
which there welled a spring of clear water scarce great enough to wash the
hands in. We had made our mea=
l and
lain down, but were not yet asleep, when a growl from one of the collies se=
t us
on the alert. All three sat u=
p, and
on a second impulse all lay down again, but now with our cudgels ready. A man must be an alien and an outl=
aw, an
old soldier and a young man in the bargain, to take adventure easily. With no idea as to the rights of t=
he quarrel
or the probable consequences of the encounter, I was as ready to take part =
with
my two drovers, as ever to fall in line on the morning of a battle. Presently there leaped three men o=
ut of
the heather; we had scarce time to get to our feet before we were assailed;=
and
in a moment each one of us was engaged with an adversary whom the deepening
twilight scarce permitted him to see.
How the battle sped in other quarters I am in no position to
describe. The rogue that fell=
to my
share was exceedingly agile and expert with his weapon; had and held me at =
a disadvantage
from the first assault; forced me to give ground continually, and at last, =
in
mere self-defence, to let him have the point. It struck him in the throat, and h=
e went
down like a ninepin and moved no more.
It seemed this was the signal for the engageme=
nt
to be discontinued. The other
combatants separated at once; our foes were suffered, without molestation, =
to
lift up and bear away their fallen comrade; so that I perceived this sort of
war to be not wholly without laws of chivalry, and perhaps rather to partak=
e of
the character of a tournament than of a battle à outrance. There was no doubt, at least, that =
I was
supposed to have pushed the affair too seriously. Our friends the enemy removed their
wounded companion with undisguised consternation; and they were no sooner o=
ver
the top of the brae, than Sim and Candlish roused up their wearied drove and
set forth on a night march.
‘I’m thinking Faa’s unco
bad,’ said the one.
‘Ay,’ said the other, ‘he lo=
okit
dooms gash.’
‘He did that,’ said the first.
And their weary silence fell upon them again.<= o:p>
Presently Sim turned to me. ‘Ye’re unco ready with=
the
stick,’ said he.
‘Too ready, I’m afraid,’ said
I. ‘I am afraid Mr. Faa=
(if
that be his name) has got his gruel.’
‘Weel, I wouldnae wonder,’ replied
Sim.
‘And what is likely to happen?’ I
inquired.
‘Aweel,’ said Sim, snuffing
profoundly, ‘if I were to offer an opeenion, it would not be
conscientious. For the plain
fac’ is, Mr. St. Ivy, that I div not ken. We have had crackit heids—and
rowth of them—ere now; and we have had a broken leg or maybe twa; and=
the
like of that we drover bodies make a kind of a practice like to keep among
oursel’s. But a corp we=
have
none of us ever had to deal with, and I could set nae leemit to what Gillies
micht consider proper in the affair.
Forbye that, he would be in raither a hobble himsel’, if he wa=
s to
gang hame wantin’ Faa. =
Folk are
awfu’ throng with their questions, and parteecularly when they’=
re
no wantit.’
‘That’s a fac’,’ said
Candlish.
I considered this prospect ruefully; and then
making the best of it, ‘Upon all which accounts,’ said I,
‘the best will be to get across the border and there separate. If you are troubled, you can very =
truly
put the blame upon your late companion; and if I am pursued, I must just tr=
y to
keep out of the way.’
‘Mr. St. Ivy,’ said Sim, with
something resembling enthusiasm, ‘no’ a word mair! I have met in wi’ mony kinds
o’ gentry ere now; I hae seen o’ them that was the tae thing, a=
nd I
hae seen o’ them that was the tither; but the wale of a gentleman like
you I have no sae very frequently seen the bate of.’
Our night march was accordingly pursued with
unremitting diligence. The st=
ars
paled, the east whitened, and we were still, both dogs and men, toiling aft=
er
the wearied cattle. Again and=
again
Sim and Candlish lamented the necessity: it was ‘fair ruin on the
bestial,’ they declared; but the thought of a judge and a scaffold hu=
nted
them ever forward. I myself w=
as not
so much to be pitied. All that
night, and during the whole of the little that remained before us of our
conjunct journey, I enjoyed a new pleasure, the reward of my prowess, in the
now loosened tongue of Mr. Sim.
Candlish was still obdurately taciturn: it was the man’s natur=
e;
but Sim, having finally appraised and approved me, displayed without retice=
nce
a rather garrulous habit of mind and a pretty talent for narration. The pair were old and close compan=
ions, co-existing
in these endless moors in a brotherhood of silence such as I have heard
attributed to the trappers of the west.&nb=
sp;
It seems absurd to mention love in connection with so ugly and snuff=
y a
couple; at least, their trust was absolute; and they entertained a surprisi=
ng
admiration for each other’s qualities; Candlish exclaiming that Sim w=
as
‘grand company!’ and Sim frequently assuring me in an aside that
for ‘a rale, auld, stench bitch, there was nae the bate of Candlish in
braid Scotland.’ The tw=
o dogs
appeared to be entirely included in this family compact, and I remarked that
their exploits and traits of character were constantly and minutely observe=
d by
the two masters. Dog stories =
particularly
abounded with them; and not only the dogs of the present but those of the p=
ast
contributed their quota. R=
16;But
that was naething,’ Sim would begin: ‘there was a herd in Manar,
they ca’d him Tweedie—ye’ll mind Tweedie,
Can’lish?’ ‘=
;Fine,
that!’ said Candlish.
‘Aweel, Tweedie had a dog—’ The story I have forgotten; I dare=
say
it was dull, and I suspect it was not true; but indeed, my travels with the
drove rendered me indulgent, and perhaps even credulous, in the matter of d=
og
stories. Beautiful, indefatigable beings! as I saw them at the end of a long
day’s journey frisking, barking, bounding, striking attitudes, slanti=
ng a
bushy tail, manifestly playing to the spectator’s eye, manifestly
rejoicing in their grace and beauty—and turned to observe Sim and
Candlish unornamentally plodding in the rear with the plaids about their bo=
wed shoulders
and the drop at their snuffy nose—I thought I would rather claim kins=
hip
with the dogs than with the men! My
sympathy was unreturned; in their eyes I was a creature light as air; and t=
hey
would scarce spare me the time for a perfunctory caress or perhaps a hasty =
lap of
the wet tongue, ere they were back again in sedulous attendance on those di=
ngy
deities, their masters—and their masters, as like as not, damning the=
ir
stupidity.
Altogether the last hours of our tramp were
infinitely the most agreeable to me, and I believe to all of us; and by the
time we came to separate, there had grown up a certain familiarity and mutu=
al
esteem that made the parting harder.
It took place about four of the afternoon on a bare hillside from wh=
ich
I could see the ribbon of the great north road, henceforth to be my
conductor. I asked what was t=
o pay.
‘Naething,’ replied Sim.
‘What in the name of folly is this?̵=
7; I
exclaimed. ‘You have le=
d me,
you have fed me, you have filled me full of whisky, and now you will take n=
othing!’
‘Ye see we indentit for that,’ rep=
lied
Sim.
‘Indented?’ I repeated;
‘what does the man mean?’
‘Mr. St. Ivy,’ said Sim, ‘th=
is
is a maitter entirely between Candlish and me and the auld wife,
Gilchrist. You had naething t=
o say
to it; weel, ye can have naething to do with it, then.’
‘My good man,’ said I, ‘I can
allow myself to be placed in no such ridiculous position. Mrs. Gilchrist is nothing to me, a=
nd I
refuse to be her debtor.’
‘I dinna exac’ly see what way
ye’re gaun to help it,’ observed my drover.
‘By paying you here and now,’ said=
I.
‘There’s aye twa to a bargain, Mr.=
St.
Ives,’ said he.
‘You mean that you will not take it?R=
17;
said I.
‘There or thereabout,’ said he.
Well, what was there to say? I accepted his rebuke, and bidding=
the
pair farewell, set off alone upon my southward way.
‘Mr. St. Ivy,’ was the last word of
Sim, ‘I was never muckle ta’en up in Englishry; but I think tha=
t I
really ought to say that ye seem to me to have the makings of quite a decent
lad.’
=
=
It
chanced that as I went down the hill these last words of my friend the drov=
er
echoed not unfruitfully in my head.
I had never told these men the least particulars as to my race or
fortune, as it was a part, and the best part, of their civility to ask no
questions: yet they had dubbed me without hesitation English. Some strangeness in the accent the=
y had doubtless
thus explained. And it occurr=
ed to
me, that if I could pass in Scotland for an Englishman, I might be able to
reverse the process and pass in England for a Scot. I thought, if I was pushed to it, I
could make a struggle to imitate the brogue; after my experience with Candl=
ish and
Sim, I had a rich provision of outlandish words at my command; and I felt I
could tell the tale of Tweedie’s dog so as to deceive a native. At the
same time, I was afraid my name of St. Ives was scarcely suitable; till I
remembered there was a town so called in the province of Cornwall, thought I
might yet be glad to claim it for my place of origin, and decided for a Cor=
nish
family and a Scots education. For a
trade, as I was equally ignorant of all, and as the most innocent might at =
any
moment be the means of my exposure, it was best to pretend to none. And I dubbed myself a young gentle=
man of
a sufficient fortune and an idle, curious habit of mind, rambling the count=
ry
at my own charges, in quest of health, information, and merry adventures.
At Newcastle, which was the first town I reach=
ed,
I completed my preparations for the part, before going to the inn, by the
purchase of a knapsack and a pair of leathern gaiters. My plaid I continued to wear from
sentiment. It was warm, usefu=
l to
sleep in if I were again benighted, and I had discovered it to be not
unbecoming for a man of gallant carriage.&=
nbsp;
Thus equipped, I supported my character of the light-hearted pedestr=
ian
not amiss. Surprise was indeed
expressed that I should have selected such a season of the year; but I plea=
ded
some delays of business, and smilingly claimed to be an eccentric. The devil was in it, I would say, =
if any
season of the year was not good enough for me; I was not made of sugar, I w=
as
no mollycoddle to be afraid of an ill-aired bed or a sprinkle of snow; and I
would knock upon the table with my fist and call for t’other bottle, =
like
the noisy and free-hearted young gentleman I was. It was my policy (if I may so expr=
ess myself)
to talk much and say little. =
At the
inn tables, the country, the state of the roads, the business interest of t=
hose
who sat down with me, and the course of public events, afforded me a
considerable field in which I might discourse at large and still communicat=
e no
information about myself. The=
re was
no one with less air of reticence; I plunged into my company up to the neck;
and I had a long cock-and-bull story of an aunt of mine which must have
convinced the most suspicious of my innocence. ‘What!’ they wou=
ld
have said, ‘that young ass to be concealing anything! Why, he has
deafened me with an aunt of his until my head aches. He only wants you should give him a
line, and he would tell you his whole descent from Adam downward, and his w=
hole
private fortune to the last shilling.’ A responsible solid fellow was
even so much moved by pity for my inexperience as to give me a word or two =
of
good advice: that I was but a young man after all—I had at this time a
deceptive air of youth that made me easily pass for one-and-twenty, and was=
, in
the circumstances, worth a fortune—that the company at inns was very
mingled, that I should do well to be more careful, and the like; to all whi=
ch I
made answer that I meant no harm myself and expected none from others, or t=
he
devil was in it. ‘You are one of those d---d prudent fellows that I c=
ould
never abide with,’ said I.
‘You are the kind of man that has a long head. That’s all the world, my dea=
r sir:
the long-heads and the short-horns!
Now, I am a short-horn.’
‘I doubt,’ says he, ‘that you will not go very far=
without
getting sheared.’ I off=
ered
to bet with him on that, and he made off, shaking his head.
But my particular delight was to enlarge on
politics and the war. None da=
mned
the French like me; none was more bitter against the Americans. And when the
north-bound mail arrived, crowned with holly, and the coachman and guard ho=
arse
with shouting victory, I went even so far as to entertain the company to a =
bowl
of punch, which I compounded myself with no illiberal hand, and doled out to
such sentiments as the following:—
‘Our glorious victory on the
Nivelle’! ‘Lord
Wellington, God bless him! and may victory ever attend upon his arms!’
and, ‘Soult, poor devil! and may he catch it again to the same
tune!’
Never was oratory more applauded to the
echo—never any one was more of the popular man than I. I promise you, we made a night of
it. Some of the company suppo=
rted
each other, with the assistance of boots, to their respective bedchambers,
while the rest slept on the field of glory where we had left them; and at t=
he
breakfast table the next morning there was an extraordinary assemblage of r=
ed
eyes and shaking fists. I obs=
erved patriotism
to burn much lower by daylight. Let
no one blame me for insensibility to the reverses of France! God knows how my heart raged. How I
longed to fall on that herd of swine and knock their heads together in the
moment of their revelry! But =
you
are to consider my own situation and its necessities; also a certain
lightheartedness, eminently Gallic, which forms a leading trait in my
character, and leads me to throw myself into new circumstances with the spi=
rit
of a schoolboy. It is possibl=
e that
I sometimes allowed this impish humour to carry me further than good taste
approves: and I was certainly punished for it once.
This was in the episcopal city of Durham. We sat down, a considerable compan=
y, to
dinner, most of us fine old vatted English tories of that class which is of=
ten
so enthusiastic as to be inarticulate.&nbs=
p;
I took and held the lead from the beginning; and, the talk having tu=
rned
on the French in the Peninsula, I gave them authentic details (on the autho=
rity
of a cousin of mine, an ensign) of certain cannibal orgies in Galicia, in w=
hich
no less a person than General Caffarelli had taken a part. I always disliked that commander, =
who
once ordered me under arrest for insubordination; and it is possible that a
spice of vengeance added to the rigour of my picture. I have forgotten the details; no d=
oubt
they were high-coloured. No d=
oubt I
rejoiced to fool these jolter-heads; and no doubt the sense of security tha=
t I
drank from their dull, gasping faces encouraged me to proceed extremely
far. And for my sins, there w=
as one
silent little man at table who took my story at the true value. It was from no sense of humour, to=
which
he was quite dead. It was fro=
m no particular
intelligence, for he had not any.
The bond of sympathy, of all things in the world, had rendered him
clairvoyant.
Dinner was no sooner done than I strolled forth
into the streets with some design of viewing the cathedral; and the little =
man
was silently at my heels. A f=
ew
doors from the inn, in a dark place of the street, I was aware of a touch o=
n my
arm, turned suddenly, and found him looking up at me with eyes pathetically
bright.
‘I beg your pardon, sir; but that story =
of
yours was particularly rich. He—he!&=
nbsp;
Particularly racy,’ said he.&=
nbsp;
‘I tell you, sir, I took you wholly! I smoked you! I believe you and I, sir, if we ha=
d a
chance to talk, would find we had a good many opinions in common. Here is the “Blue Bell,̶=
1; a
very comfortable place. They =
draw
good ale, sir. Would you be so
condescending as to share a pot with me?’
There was something so ambiguous and secret in=
the
little man’s perpetual signalling, that I confess my curiosity was mu=
ch
aroused. Blaming myself, even=
as I
did so, for the indiscretion, I embraced his proposal, and we were soon fac=
e to
face over a tankard of mulled ale.
He lowered his voice to the least attenuation of a whisper.
‘Here, sir,’ said he, ‘is to=
the
Great Man. I think you take
me? No?’ He leaned forw=
ard
till our noses touched. ̵=
6;Here
is to the Emperor!’ said he.
I was extremely embarrassed, and, in spite of =
the
creature’s innocent appearance, more than half alarmed. I thought him too ingenious, and, =
indeed,
too daring for a spy. Yet if =
he
were honest he must be a man of extraordinary indiscretion, and therefore v=
ery
unfit to be encouraged by an escaped prisoner. I took a half course,
accordingly—accepted his toast in silence, and drank it without
enthusiasm.
He proceeded to abound in the praises of Napol=
eon,
such as I had never heard in France, or at least only on the lips of offici=
als
paid to offer them.
‘And this Caffarelli, now,’ he
pursued: ‘he is a splendid fellow, too, is he not? I have not heard vastly much of him
myself. No details, sir—=
;no details! We labour under huge difficulties =
here
as to unbiassed information.’
‘I believe I have heard the same complai=
nt
in other countries,’ I could not help remarking. ‘But as to Caffarelli, he is
neither lame nor blind, he has two legs and a nose in the middle of his
face. And I care as much abou=
t him
as you care for the dead body of Mr. Perceval!’
He studied me with glowing eyes.
‘You cannot deceive me!’ he cried.=
‘You have served under him.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You are a Frenchman! I hold by the hand, at last, one o=
f that
noble race, the pioneers of the glorious principles of liberty and
brotherhood. Hush! No, it is =
all
right. I thought there had be=
en
somebody at the door. In this
wretched, enslaved country we dare not even call our souls our own. The spy=
and
the hangman, sir—the spy and the hangman! And yet there is a candle burning,
too. The good leaven is worki=
ng,
sir—working underneath. Even in this town there are a few brave spiri=
ts,
who meet every Wednesday. You=
must
stay over a day or so, and join us.
We do not use this house.
Another, and a quieter. They
draw fine ale, however—fair, mild ale. You will find yourself among frien=
ds,
among brothers. You will hear=
some
very daring sentiments expressed!’ he cried, expanding his small
chest. ‘Monarchy,
Christianity—all the trappings of a bloated past—the Free
Confraternity of Durham and Tyneside deride.’
Here was a devil of a prospect for a gentleman
whose whole design was to avoid observation! The Free Confraternity had no char=
ms for
me; daring sentiments were no part of my baggage; and I tried, instead, a
little cold water.
‘You seem to forget, sir, that my Emperor
has re-established Christianity,’ I observed.
‘Ah, sir, but that was policy!’ he
exclaimed. ‘You do not
understand Napoleon. I have
followed his whole career. I =
can
explain his policy from first to last.&nbs=
p;
Now for instance in the Peninsula, on which you were so very amusing=
, if
you will come to a friend’s house who has a map of Spain, I can make =
the
whole course of the war quite clear to you, I venture to say, in half an
hour.’
This was intolerable. Of the two extremes, I found I pre=
ferred
the British tory; and, making an appointment for the morrow, I pleaded sudd=
en headache,
escaped to the inn, packed my knapsack, and fled, about nine at night, from
this accursed neighbourhood. =
It was
cold, starry, and clear, and the road dry, with a touch of frost. For all that, I had not the smalle=
st
intention to make a long stage of it; and about ten o’clock, spying on
the right-hand side of the way the lighted windows of an alehouse, I determ=
ined
to bait there for the night.
It was against my principle, which was to freq=
uent
only the dearest inns; and the misadventure that befell me was sufficient to
make me more particular in the future.&nbs=
p;
A large company was assembled in the parlour, which was heavy with
clouds of tobacco smoke, and brightly lighted up by a roaring fire of
coal. Hard by the chimney sto=
od a vacant
chair in what I thought an enviable situation, whether for warmth or the
pleasure of society; and I was about to take it, when the nearest of the
company stopped me with his hand.
‘Beg thy pardon, sir,’ said he;
‘but that there chair belongs to a British soldier.’
A chorus of voices enforced and explained. It was one of Lord Wellington̵=
7;s
heroes. He had been wounded u=
nder
Rowland Hill. He was Colbourn=
e’s
right-hand man. In short, this
favoured individual appeared to have served with every separate corps, and
under every individual general in the Peninsula. Of course I apologised. I had not known. The devil was in it if a soldier h=
ad not
a right to the best in England. And
with that sentiment, which was loudly applauded, I found a corner of a benc=
h,
and awaited, with some hopes of entertainment, the return of the hero. He proved, of course, to be a priv=
ate
soldier. I say of course, bec=
ause
no officer could possibly enjoy such heights of popularity. He had been wounded before San
Sebastian, and still wore his arm in a sling. What was a great deal worse f=
or
him, every member of the company had been plying him with drink. His honest yokel’s countenan=
ce
blazed as if with fever, his eyes were glazed and looked the two ways, and =
his
feet stumbled as, amidst a murmur of applause, he returned to the midst of =
his admirers.
Two minutes afterwards I was again posting in =
the
dark along the highway; to explain which sudden movement of retreat I must
trouble the reader with a reminiscence of my services.
I lay one night with the out-pickets in
Castile. We were in close tou=
ch with
the enemy; the usual orders had been issued against smoking, fires, and tal=
k,
and both armies lay as quiet as mice, when I saw the English sentinel oppos=
ite
making a signal by holding up his musket.&=
nbsp;
I repeated it, and we both crept together in the dry bed of a stream,
which made the demarcation of the armies.&=
nbsp;
It was wine he wanted, of which we had a good provision, and the Eng=
lish
had quite run out. He gave me=
the
money, and I, as was the custom, left him my firelock in pledge, and set off
for the canteen. When I retur=
ned
with a skin of wine, behold, it had pleased some uneasy devil of an English
officer to withdraw the outposts!
Here was a situation with a vengeance, and I looked for nothing but
ridicule in the present and punishment in the future. Doubtless our officers winked pret=
ty
hard at this interchange of courtesies, but doubtless it would be impossibl=
e to
wink at so gross a fault, or rather so pitiable a misadventure as mine; and=
you
are to conceive me wandering in the plains of Castile, benighted, charged w=
ith
a wine-skin for which I had no use, and with no knowledge whatever of the
whereabouts of my musket, beyond that it was somewhere in my Lord
Wellington’s army. But =
my
Englishman was either a very honest fellow, or else extremely thirsty, and =
at
last contrived to advertise me of his new position. Now, the English sentry in Castile=
, and
the wounded hero in the Durham public-house, were one and the same person; =
and
if he had been a little less drunk, or myself less lively in getting away, =
the
travels of M. St. Ives might have come to an untimely end.
I suppose this woke me up; it stirred in me
besides a spirit of opposition, and in spite of cold, darkness, the highway=
men
and the footpads, I determined to walk right on till breakfast-time: a happ=
y resolution,
which enabled me to observe one of those traits of manners which at once de=
pict
a country and condemn it. It =
was
near midnight when I saw, a great way ahead of me, the light of many torche=
s;
presently after, the sound of wheels reached me, and the slow tread of feet,
and soon I had joined myself to the rear of a sordid, silent, and lugubriou=
s procession,
such as we see in dreams. Clo=
se on
a hundred persons marched by torchlight in unbroken silence; in their midst=
a
cart, and in the cart, on an inclined platform, the dead body of a
man—the centre-piece of this solemnity, the hero whose obsequies we w=
ere
come forth at this unusual hour to celebrate. It was but a plain, dingy old fell=
ow of
fifty or sixty, his throat cut, his shirt turned over as though to show the=
wound. Blue trousers and brown socks comp=
leted
his attire, if we can talk so of the dead.=
He had a horrid look of a waxwork.&=
nbsp;
In the tossing of the lights he seemed to make faces and mouths at u=
s,
to frown, and to be at times upon the point of speech. The cart, with this shabby and tra=
gic
freight, and surrounded by its silent escort and bright torches, continued =
for
some distance to creak along the high-road, and I to follow it in amazement,
which was soon exchanged for horror.
At the corner of a lane the procession stopped, and, as the torches
ranged themselves along the hedgerow-side, I became aware of a grave dug in=
the
midst of the thoroughfare, and a provision of quicklime piled in the
ditch. The cart was backed to=
the
margin, the body slung off the platform and dumped into the grave with an
irreverent roughness. A sharp=
ened
stake had hitherto served it for a pillow.=
It was now withdrawn, held in its place by several volunteers, and a
fellow with a heavy mallet (the sound of which still haunts me at night) dr=
ove
it home through the bosom of the corpse. The hole was filled with quicklime,
and the bystanders, as if relieved of some oppression, broke at once into a
sound of whispered speech.
My shirt stuck to me, my heart had almost ceas=
ed
beating, and I found my tongue with difficulty.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I gasped to a
neighbour, ‘what is this? what has he done? is it allowed?’
‘Why, where do you come from?’ rep=
lied
the man.
‘I am a traveller, sir,’ said I,
‘and a total stranger in this part of the country. I had lost my way when I saw your
torches, and came by chance on this—this incredible scene. Who was the man?’
‘A suicide,’ said he. ‘Ay, he was a bad one, was J=
ohnnie
Green.’
It appeared this was a wretch who had committed
many barbarous murders, and being at last upon the point of discovery fell =
of
his own hand. And the nightma=
re at
the crossroads was the regular punishment, according to the laws of England,
for an act which the Romans honoured as a virtue! Whenever an Englishman be=
gins
to prate of civilisation (as, indeed, it’s a defect they are rather p=
rone
to), I hear the measured blows of a mallet, see the bystanders crowd with t=
orches
about the grave, smile a little to myself in conscious superiority—and
take a thimbleful of brandy for the stomach’s sake.
I believe it must have been at my next stage, =
for
I remember going to bed extremely early, that I came to the model of a good=
old-fashioned
English inn, and was attended on by the picture of a pretty chambermaid.
‘Yes,’ said I to the chambermaid, ‘here is news of my lady-love indeed, and very good news too.’<= o:p>
All that day, in the teeth of a keen winter wi=
nd,
I hugged myself in my plaid, and it was as though her arms were flung around
me.
=
=
At
last I began to draw near, by reasonable stages, to the neighbourhood of
Wakefield; and the name of Mr. Burchell Fenn came to the top in my memory.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This was the gentleman (the reader=
may
remember) who made a trade of forwarding the escape of French prisoners.
I had slept that night in a good inn at Wakefi=
eld,
made my breakfast by candle-light with the passengers of an up-coach, and s=
et
off in a very ill temper with myself and my surroundings. It was still early; the air raw and
cold; the sun low, and soon to disappear under a vast canopy of rain-clouds
that had begun to assemble in the north-west, and from that quarter invaded=
the
whole width of the heaven. Al=
ready
the rain fell in crystal rods; already the whole face of the country sounded
with the discharge of drains and ditches; and I looked forward to a day of =
downpour
and the hell of wet clothes, in which particular I am as dainty as a cat. At a corner of the road, and by th=
e last
glint of the drowning sun, I spied a covered cart, of a kind that I thought=
I
had never seen before, preceding me at the foot’s pace of jaded
horses. Anything is interesti=
ng to
a pedestrian that can help him to forget the miseries of a day of rain; and=
I
bettered my pace and gradually overtook the vehicle.
The nearer I came, the more it puzzled me. It was much such a cart as I am to=
ld the
calico printers use, mounted on two wheels, and furnished with a seat in fr=
ont
for the driver. The interior =
closed
with a door, and was of a bigness to contain a good load of calico, or (at a
pinch and if it were necessary) four or five persons. But, indeed, if human beings were =
meant
to travel there, they had my pity!
They must travel in the dark, for there was no sign of a window; and
they would be shaken all the way like a phial of doctor’s stuff, for =
the
cart was not only ungainly to look at—it was besides very imperfectly
balanced on the one pair of wheels, and pitched unconscionably. Altogether, if I had any glancing =
idea
that the cart was really a carriage, I had soon dismissed it; but I was sti=
ll
inquisitive as to what it should contain, and where it had come from. Wheels and horses were splashed wi=
th
many different colours of mud, as though they had come far and across a
considerable diversity of country.
The driver continually and vainly plied his whip. It seemed to follow they had made a
long, perhaps an all-night, stage; and that the driver, at that early hour =
of a
little after eight in the morning, already felt himself belated. I looked for the name of the propr=
ietor
on the shaft, and started outright.
Fortune had favoured the careless: it was Burchell Fenn!
‘A wet morning, my man,’ said I.
The driver, a loutish fellow, shock-headed and
turnip-faced, returned not a word to my salutation, but savagely flogged his
horses. The tired animals, who
could scarce put the one foot before the other, paid no attention to his
cruelty; and I continued without effort to maintain my position alongside,
smiling to myself at the futility of his attempts, and at the same time pri=
cked
with curiosity as to why he made them.&nbs=
p;
I made no such formidable a figure as that a man should flee when I =
accosted
him; and my conscience not being entirely clear, I was more accustomed to be
uneasy myself than to see others timid.&nb=
sp;
Presently he desisted, and put back his whip in the holster with the=
air
of a man vanquished.
‘So you would run away from me?’ s=
aid
I. ‘Come, come, that=
217;s
not English.’
‘Beg pardon, master: no offence
meant,’ he said, touching his hat.
‘And none taken!’ cried I. ‘All I desire is a little ga=
iety
by the way.’
I understood him to say he didn’t
‘take with gaiety.’
‘Then I will try you with something
else,’ said I. ‘O=
h, I
can be all things to all men, like the apostle! I dare to say I have travelled wit=
h heavier
fellows than you in my time, and done famously well with them. Are you going
home?’
‘Yes, I’m a goin’ home, I
am,’ he said.
‘A very fortunate circumstance for
me!’ said I. ‘At =
this
rate we shall see a good deal of each other, going the same way; and, now I
come to think of it, why should you not give me a cast? There is room beside you on the
bench.’
With a sudden snatch, he carried the cart two
yards into the roadway. The horses plunged and came to a stop. ‘No, you don’t!’=
he
said, menacing me with the whip.
‘None o’ that with me.’
‘None of what?’ said I. ‘I asked you for a lift, but=
I
have no idea of taking one by force.’
‘Well, I’ve got to take care of the
cart and ’orses, I have,’ says he. ‘I don’t take up
with no runagate vagabones, you see, else.’
‘I ought to thank you for your touching
confidence,’ said I, approaching carelessly nearer as I spoke. ‘But I admit the road is sol=
itary hereabouts,
and no doubt an accident soon happens.&nbs=
p;
Little fear of anything of the kind with you! I like you for it, like your prude=
nce, like
that pastoral shyness of disposition.
But why not put it out of my power to hurt? Why not open the door and bestow m=
e here
in the box, or whatever you please to call it?’ And I laid my hand
demonstratively on the body of the cart.
He had been timorous before; but at this, he s=
eemed
to lose the power of speech a moment, and stared at me in a perfect enthusi=
asm
of fear.
‘Why not?’ I continued. ‘The idea is good. I should be safe in there if I wer=
e the
monster Williams himself. The=
great
thing is to have me under lock and key.&nb=
sp;
For it does lock; it is locked now,’ said I, trying the door.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘A propos, what have you for=
a
cargo? It must be precious.=
8217;
He found not a word to answer.
Rat-tat-tat, I went upon the door like a
well-drilled footman.
‘Any one at home?’ I said, and sto=
oped
to listen.
There came out of the interior a stifled sneez=
e,
the first of an uncontrollable paroxysm; another followed immediately on the
heels of it; and then the driver turned with an oath, laid the lash upon the
horses with so much energy that they found their heels again, and the whole=
equipage
fled down the road at a gallop.
At the first sound of the sneeze, I had started
back like a man shot. The next moment, a great light broke on my mind, and I
understood. Here was the secr=
et of
Fenn’s trade: this was how he forwarded the escape of prisoners, hawk=
ing
them by night about the country in his covered cart. There had been Frenchm=
en
close to me; he who had just sneezed was my countryman, my comrade, perhaps
already my friend! I took to =
my
heels in pursuit. ‘Hold
hard!’ I shouted.
‘Stop! It’=
s all
right! Stop!’ But the driver only turned a white=
face
on me for a moment, and redoubled his efforts, bending forward, plying his =
whip
and crying to his horses; these lay themselves down to the gallop and beat =
the
highway with flying hoofs; and the cart bounded after them among the ruts a=
nd
fled in a halo of rain and spattering mud.=
But a minute since, and it had been trundling along like a lame cow;=
and
now it was off as though drawn by Apollo’s coursers. There is no tell=
ing
what a man can do, until you frighten him!
It was as much as I could do myself, though I =
ran
valiantly, to maintain my distance; and that (since I knew my countrymen so
near) was become a chief point with me.&nb=
sp;
A hundred yards farther on the cart whipped out of the high-road int=
o a
lane embowered with leafless trees, and became lost to view. When I saw it next, the driver had
increased his advantage considerably, but all danger was at an end, and the
horses had again declined into a hobbling walk. Persuaded that they could not esca=
pe me,
I took my time, and recovered my breath as I followed them.
Presently the lane twisted at right angles, and
showed me a gate and the beginning of a gravel sweep; and a little after, a=
s I
continued to advance, a red brick house about seventy years old, in a fine
style of architecture, and presenting a front of many windows to a lawn and=
garden. Behind, I could see outhouses and =
the
peaked roofs of stacks; and I judged that a manor-house had in some way
declined to be the residence of a tenant-farmer, careless alike of appearan=
ces
and substantial comfort. The =
marks
of neglect were visible on every side, in flower-bushes straggling beyond t=
he
borders, in the ill-kept turf, and in the broken windows that were
incongruously patched with paper or stuffed with rags. A thicket of trees, mostly evergre=
en,
fenced the place round and secluded it from the eyes of prying neighbours.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As I came in view of it, on that
melancholy winter’s morning, in the deluge of the falling rain, and w=
ith
the wind that now rose in occasional gusts and hooted over the old chimneys,
the cart had already drawn up at the front-door steps, and the driver was
already in earnest discourse with Mr. Burchell Fenn. He was standing with h=
is
hands behind his back—a man of a gross, misbegotten face and body,
dewlapped like a bull and red as a harvest moon; and in his jockey cap, blue
coat and top boots, he had much the air of a good, solid tenant-farmer.
The pair continued to speak as I came up the
approach, but received me at last in a sort of goggling silence. I had my hat in my hand.
‘I have the pleasure of addressing Mr.
Burchell Fenn?’ said I.
‘The same, sir,’ replied Mr. Fenn,
taking off his jockey cap in answer to my civility, but with the distant lo=
ok
and the tardy movements of one who continues to think of something else.
‘I shall tell you afterwards,’ said
I. ‘Suffice it, in the
meantime, that I come on business.’
He seemed to digest my answer laboriously, his
mouth gaping, his little eyes never straying from my face.
‘Suffer me to point out to you, sir,R=
17;
I resumed, ‘that this is a devil of a wet morning; and that the chimn=
ey
corner, and possibly a glass of something hot, are clearly indicated.’=
;
Indeed, the rain was now grown to be a deluge;=
the
gutters of the house roared; the air was filled with the continuous, stride=
nt
crash. The stolidity of his f=
ace,
on which the rain streamed, was far from reassuring me. On the contrary, I was aware of a =
distinct
qualm of apprehension, which was not at all lessened by a view of the drive=
r, craning
from his perch to observe us with the expression of a fascinated bird. So we stood silent, when the priso=
ner
again began to sneeze from the body of the cart; and at the sound, prompt a=
s a
transformation, the driver had whipped up his horses and was shambling off
round the corner of the house, and Mr. Fenn, recovering his wits with a gul=
p,
had turned to the door behind him.
‘Come in, come in, sir,’ he said.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘I beg your pardon, sir; the=
lock
goes a trifle hard.’
Indeed, it took him a surprising time to open =
the
door, which was not only locked on the outside, but the lock seemed rebelli=
ous
from disuse; and when at last he stood back and motioned me to enter before
him, I was greeted on the threshold by that peculiar and convincing sound of
the rain echoing over empty chambers.
The entrance-hall, in which I now found myself, was of a good size a=
nd
good proportions; potted plants occupied the corners; the paved floor was
soiled with muddy footprints and encumbered with straw; on a mahogany
hall-table, which was the only furniture, a candle had been stuck and suffe=
red
to burn down—plainly a long while ago, for the gutterings were green =
with
mould. My mind, under these n=
ew
impressions, worked with unusual vivacity.=
I was here shut off with Fenn and his hireling in a deserted house, a
neglected garden, and a wood of evergreens: the most eligible theatre for a
deed of darkness. There came to me a vision of two flagstones raised in the
hall-floor, and the driver putting in the rainy afternoon over my grave, and
the prospect displeased me extremely.
I felt I had carried my pleasantry as far as was safe; I must lose no
time in declaring my true character, and I was even choosing the words in w=
hich
I was to begin, when the hall-door was slammed-to behind me with a bang, an=
d I
turned, dropping my stick as I did so, in time—and not any more than
time—to save my life.
The surprise of the onslaught and the huge wei=
ght
of my assailant gave him the advantage.&nb=
sp;
He had a pistol in his right hand of a portentous size, which it too=
k me
all my strength to keep deflected.
With his left arm he strained me to his bosom, so that I thought I m=
ust
be crushed or stifled. His mo=
uth
was open, his face crimson, and he panted aloud with hard animal sounds.
I had not only been abominably frightened; I w=
as
shocked besides: my delicacy was in arms, like a lady to whom violence shou=
ld
have been offered by a similar monster.&nb=
sp;
I plucked myself from his horrid contact, I snatched the
pistol—even discharged, it was a formidable weapon—and menaced =
him
with the butt. ‘Spare
you!’ I cried, ‘you beast!’
His voice died in his fat inwards, but his lips
still vehemently framed the same words of supplication. My anger began to pass off, but no=
t all my
repugnance; the picture he made revolted me, and I was impatient to be spar=
ed
the further view of it.
‘Here,’ said I, ‘stop this
performance: it sickens me. I=
am
not going to kill you, do you hear?
I have need of you.’
A look of relief, that I could almost have cal=
led
beautiful, dawned on his countenance.
‘Anything—anything you wish,’ said he.
Anything is a big word, and his use of it brou=
ght
me for a moment to a stand.
‘Why, what do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Do you mean that you will b=
low
the gaff on the whole business?’
He answered me Yes with eager asseverations.
‘I know Monsieur de Saint-Yves is in it;=
it
was through his papers we traced you,’ I said. ‘Do you consent to make a cl=
ean
breast of the others?’
‘I do—I will!’ he cried. ‘The ’ole crew of R=
17;em;
there’s good names among ’em.&=
nbsp;
I’ll be king’s evidence.’
‘So that all shall hang except
yourself? You damned
villain!’ I broke out.
‘Understand at once that I am no spy or thief-taker. I am a kinsman of Monsieur de St.
Yves—here in his interest.
Upon my word, you have put your foot in it prettily, Mr. Burchell
Fenn! Come, stand up; donR=
17;t
grovel there. Stand up, you l=
ump of
iniquity!’
He scrambled to his feet. He was utterly unmanned, or it mig=
ht
have gone hard with me yet; and I considered him hesitating, as, indeed, th=
ere
was cause. The man was a
double-dyed traitor: he had tried to murder me, and I had first baffled his
endeavours and then exposed and insulted him. Was it wise to place myself a=
ny
longer at his mercy? With his=
help
I should doubtless travel more quickly; doubtless also far less agreeably; =
and
there was everything to show that it would be at a greater risk. In short, I should have washed my =
hands
of him on the spot, but for the temptation of the French officers, whom I k=
new
to be so near, and for whose society I felt so great and natural an
impatience. If I was to see a=
nything
of my countrymen, it was clear I had first of all to make my peace with Mr.
Fenn; and that was no easy matter.
To make friends with any one implies concessions on both sides; and =
what
could I concede? What could I say of him, but that he had proved himself a
villain and a fool, and the worse man?
‘Well,’ said I, ‘here has be=
en
rather a poor piece of business, which I dare say you can have no pleasure =
in
calling to mind; and, to say truth, I would as readily forget it myself.
‘Do you mean it?’ he cried. ‘Do you mean you will pass o=
ver
our little scrimmage?’
‘Why, certainly!’ said I. ‘It shows you are a bold fel=
low,
who may be trusted to forget the business when it comes to the point. There is nothing against you in the
little scrimmage, unless that your courage is greater than your strength. You are not so young as you once w=
ere,
that is all.’
‘And I beg of you, sir, don’t betr=
ay
me to the Vis-count,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll not deny but what=
my
’eart failed me a trifle; but it was only a word, sir, what anybody m=
ight
have said in the ’eat of the moment, and over with it.’
‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘That is quite my own
opinion.’
‘The way I came to be anxious about the
Vis-count,’ he continued, ‘is that I believe he might be induce=
d to
form an ’asty judgment. And
the business, in a pecuniary point of view, is all that I could ask; only t=
rying,
sir—very trying. ItR=
17;s
making an old man of me before my time. You might have observed yourself, s=
ir,
that I ’aven’t got the knees I once ’ad. The knees and the breathing,
there’s where it takes me.
But I’m very sure, sir, I address a gentleman as would be the =
last
to make trouble between friends.’
‘I am sure you do me no more than
justice,’ said I; ‘and I shall think it quite unnecessary to dw=
ell
on any of these passing circumstances in my report to the Vicomte.’
‘Which you do favour him (if you’ll
excuse me being so bold as to mention it) exac’ly!’ said he.
God forgive me! the horrible fellow was still
puffing and panting with the fury of his assault, and already he had fallen
into an obsequious, wheedling familiarity like that of an old
servant,—already he was flattering me on my family connections!
I followed him through the house into the
stable-yard, where I observed the driver washing the cart in a shed. He must have heard the explosion o=
f the
pistol. He could not choose b=
ut
hear it: the thing was shaped like a little blunderbuss, charged to the mou=
th,
and made a report like a piece of field artillery. He had heard, he had paid no atten=
tion;
and now, as we came forth by the back-door, he raised for a moment a pale a=
nd tell-tale
face that was as direct as a confession.&n=
bsp;
The rascal had expected to see Fenn come forth alone; he was waiting=
to
be called on for that part of sexton, which I had already allotted to him in
fancy.
I need not detain the reader very long with any
description of my visit to the back-kitchen; of how we mulled our ale there,
and mulled it very well; nor of how we sat talking, Fenn like an old, faith=
ful,
affectionate dependant, and I—well!&=
nbsp;
I myself fallen into a mere admiration of so much impudence, that
transcended words, and had very soon conquered animosity. I took a fancy to=
the
man, he was so vast a humbug. I
began to see a kind of beauty in him, his aplomb was so majestic. I never knew a rogue to cut so fat=
; his
villainy was ample, like his belly, and I could scarce find it in my heart =
to
hold him responsible for either. He
was good enough to drop into the autobiographical; telling me how the farm,=
in
spite of the war and the high prices, had proved a disappointment; how there
was ‘a sight of cold, wet land as you come along the
’igh-road’; how the winds and rains and the seasons had been
misdirected, it seemed ‘o’ purpose’; how Mrs. Fenn had
died—‘I lost her coming two year agone; a remarkable fine woman=
, my
old girl, sir! if you’ll excuse me,’ he added, with a burst of
humility. In short, he gave m=
e an
opportunity of studying John Bull, as I may say, stuffed naked—his gr=
eed,
his usuriousness, his hypocrisy, his perfidy of the back-stairs, all swelle=
d to
the superlative—such as was well worth the little disarray and fluste=
r of
our passage in the hall.
=
=
As
soon as I judged it safe, and that was not before Burchell Fenn had talked =
himself
back into his breath and a complete good humour, I proposed he should intro=
duce
me to the French officers, henceforth to become my fellow-passengers. There were two of them, it appeare=
d, and
my heart beat as I approached the door.&nb=
sp;
The specimen of Perfidious Albion whom I had just been studying gave=
me
the stronger zest for my fellow-countrymen. I could have embraced them; I coul=
d have
wept on their necks. And all =
the
time I was going to a disappointment.
It was in a spacious and low room, with an out=
look
on the court, that I found them bestowed.&=
nbsp;
In the good days of that house the apartment had probably served as a
library, for there were traces of shelves along the wainscot. Four or five mattresses lay on the=
floor
in a corner, with a frowsy heap of bedding; near by was a basin and a cube =
of
soap; a rude kitchen-table and some deal chairs stood together at the far e=
nd;
and the room was illuminated by no less than four windows, and warmed by a =
little,
crazy, sidelong grate, propped up with bricks in the vent of a hospitable
chimney, in which a pile of coals smoked prodigiously and gave out a few
starveling flames. An old, fr=
ail,
white-haired officer sat in one of the chairs, which he had drawn close to =
this
apology for a fire. He was wrapped in a camlet cloak, of which the collar w=
as
turned up, his knees touched the bars, his hands were spread in the very sm=
oke,
and yet he shivered for cold. The
second—a big, florid, fine animal of a man, whose every gesture label=
led
him the cock of the walk and the admiration of the ladies—had apparen=
tly
despaired of the fire, and now strode up and down, sneezing hard, bitterly
blowing his nose, and proffering a continual stream of bluster, complaint, =
and
barrack-room oaths.
Fenn showed me in with the brief form of
introduction: ‘Gentlemen all, this here’s another fare!’ =
and
was gone again at once. The o=
ld man
gave me but the one glance out of lack-lustre eyes; and even as he looked a=
shiver
took him as sharp as a hiccough.
But the other, who represented to admiration the picture of a Beau i=
n a
Catarrh, stared at me arrogantly.
‘And who are you, sir?’ he asked.<= o:p>
I made the military salute to my superiors.
‘Champdivers, private, Eighth of the
Line,’ said I.
‘Pretty business!’ said he. ‘And you are going on with u=
s? Three in a cart, and a great troll=
oping
private at that! And who is t=
o pay
for you, my fine fellow?’ he inquired.
‘If monsieur comes to that,’ I
answered civilly, ‘who paid for him?’
‘Oh, if you choose to play the wit!̵=
7;
said he,—and began to rail at large upon his destiny, the weather, the
cold, the danger and the expense of the escape, and, above all, the cooking=
of
the accursed English. It seem=
ed to
annoy him particularly that I should have joined their party. ‘If you
knew what you were doing, thirty thousand millions of pigs! you would keep
yourself to yourself! The hor=
ses
can’t drag the cart; the roads are all ruts and swamps. No longer ago than last night the
Colonel and I had to march half the way—thunder of God!—half the
way to the knees in mud—and I with this infernal cold—and the
danger of detection! Happily we met no one: a desert—a real
desert—like the whole abominable country! Nothing to eat—no, sir, ther=
e is
nothing to eat but raw cow and greens boiled in water—nor to drink but
Worcestershire sauce! Now I, =
with
my catarrh, I have no appetite; is it not so? Well, if I were in France, I shoul=
d have
a good soup with a crust in it, an omelette, a fowl in rice, a partridge in
cabbages—things to tempt me, thunder of God! But here—day of God!—w=
hat a
country! And cold, too! They talk about Russia—this =
is all
the cold I want! And the
people—look at them! Wh=
at a race! Never any handsome men; never any =
fine
officers!’—and he looked down complacently for a moment at his
waist—‘And the women—what faggots! No, that is one point
clear, I cannot stomach the English!’
There was something in this man so antipatheti=
c to
me, as sent the mustard into my nose.
I can never bear your bucks and dandies, even when they are
decent-looking and well dressed; and the Major—for that was his rank&=
#8212;was
the image of a flunkey in good luck.
Even to be in agreement with him, or to seem to be so, was more than=
I
could make out to endure.
‘You could scarce be expected to stomach
them,’ said I civilly, ‘after having just digested your
parole.’
He whipped round on his heel and turned on me a
countenance which I dare say he imagined to be awful; but another fit of
sneezing cut him off ere he could come the length of speech.
‘I have not tried the dish myself,’=
; I
took the opportunity to add.
‘It is said to be unpalatable. Did monsieur find it so?’
With surprising vivacity the Colonel woke from=
his
lethargy. He was between us e=
re
another word could pass.
‘Shame, gentlemen!’ he said. ‘Is this a time for Frenchme=
n and fellow-soldiers
to fall out? We are in the mi=
dst of
our enemies; a quarrel, a loud word, may suffice to plunge us back into
irretrievable distress. Monsi=
eur le
Commandant, you have been gravely offended. I make it my request, I make it my
prayer—if need be, I give you my orders—that the matter shall s=
tand
by until we come safe to France. Then, if you please, I will serve you in a=
ny
capacity. And for you, young =
man,
you have shown all the cruelty and carelessness of youth. This gentleman is
your superior; he is no longer young’—at which word you are to
conceive the Major’s face.
‘It is admitted he has broken his parole. I know not his reason, and no more=
do
you. It might be patriotism i=
n this
hour of our country’s adversity, it might be humanity, necessity; you
know not what in the least, and you permit yourself to reflect on his
honour. To break parole may b=
e a
subject for pity and not derision.
I have broken mine—I, a colonel of the Empire. And why? I have been years negotiating my
exchange, and it cannot be managed; those who have influence at the Ministr=
y of
War continually rush in before me, and I have to wait, and my daughter at h=
ome
is in a decline. I am going t=
o see
my daughter at last, and it is my only concern lest I should have delayed t=
oo
long. She is ill, and very
ill,—at death’s door.
Nothing is left me but my daughter, my Emperor, and my honour; and I
give my honour, blame me for it who dare!’
At this my heart smote me.
‘For God’s sake,’ I cried,
‘think no more of what I have said!&=
nbsp;
A parole? what is a parole against life and death and love? I ask your pardon; this
gentleman’s also. As lo=
ng as
I shall be with you, you shall not have cause to complain of me again. I pray God you will find your daug=
hter
alive and restored.’
‘That is past praying for,’ said t=
he
Colonel; and immediately the brief fire died out of him, and, returning to =
the
hearth, he relapsed into his former abstraction.
But I was not so easy to compose. The knowledge of the poor
gentleman’s trouble, and the sight of his face, had filled me with the
bitterness of remorse; and I insisted upon shaking hands with the Major (wh=
ich
he did with a very ill grace), and abounded in palinodes and apologies.
‘After all,’ said I, ‘who am=
I
to talk? I am in the luck to =
be a private
soldier; I have no parole to give or to keep; once I am over the rampart, I=
am
as free as air. I beg you to
believe that I regret from my soul the use of these ungenerous
expressions. Allow me . . . Is
there no way in this damned house to attract attention? Where is this fellow, Fenn?’=
I ran to one of the windows and threw it
open. Fenn, who was at the mo=
ment
passing below in the court, cast up his arms like one in despair, called to=
me
to keep back, plunged into the house, and appeared next moment in the doorw=
ay
of the chamber.
‘Oh, sir!’ says he, ‘keep aw=
ay
from those there windows. A b=
ody
might see you from the back lane.’
‘It is registered,’ said I. ‘Henceforward I will be a mo=
use
for precaution and a ghost for invisibility. But in the meantime, for God’=
;s sake,
fetch us a bottle of brandy! =
Your
room is as damp as the bottom of a well, and these gentlemen are perishing =
of
cold.’
So soon as I had paid him (for everything, I
found, must be paid in advance), I turned my attention to the fire, and whe=
ther
because I threw greater energy into the business, or because the coals were=
now
warmed and the time ripe, I soon started a blaze that made the chimney roar=
again. The shine of it, in that dark, rai=
ny
day, seemed to reanimate the Colonel like a blink of sun. With the outburst of the flames,
besides, a draught was established, which immediately delivered us from the
plague of smoke; and by the time Fenn returned, carrying a bottle under his=
arm
and a single tumbler in his hand, there was already an air of gaiety in the
room that did the heart good.
I poured out some of the brandy.
‘Colonel,’ said I, ‘I am a y=
oung
man and a private soldier. I =
have
not been long in this room, and already I have shown the petulance that bel=
ongs
to the one character and the ill manners that you may look for in the
other. Have the humanity to p=
ass
these slips over, and honour me so far as to accept this glass.’
‘My lad,’ says he, waking up and
blinking at me with an air of suspicion, ‘are you sure you can afford
it?’
I assured him I could.
‘I thank you, then: I am very
cold.’ He took the glas=
s out,
and a little colour came in his face.
‘I thank you again,’ said he. ‘It goes to the heart.’=
;
The Major, when I motioned him to help himself,
did so with a good deal of liberality; continued to do so for the rest of t=
he
morning, now with some sort of apology, now with none at all; and the bottle
began to look foolish before dinner was served. It was such a meal as he had himse=
lf predicted:
beef, greens, potatoes, mustard in a teacup, and beer in a brown jug that w=
as
all over hounds, horses, and hunters, with a fox at the fat end and a gigan=
tic
John Bull—for all the world like Fenn—sitting in the midst in a
bob-wig and smoking tobacco. =
The
beer was a good brew, but not good enough for the Major; he laced it with
brandy—for his cold, he said; and in this curative design the remaind=
er
of the bottle ebbed away. He =
called
my attention repeatedly to the circumstance; helped me pointedly to the dre=
gs,
threw the bottle in the air and played tricks with it; and at last, having
exhausted his ingenuity, and seeing me remain quite blind to every hint, he
ordered and paid for another himself.
As for the Colonel, he ate nothing, sat sunk i=
n a
muse, and only awoke occasionally to a sense of where he was, and what he w=
as
supposed to be doing. On each=
of
these occasions he showed a gratitude and kind courtesy that endeared him t=
o me
beyond expression.
‘Champdivers, my lad, your health!’ he would say. ‘The Major and I had a very
arduous march last night, and I positively thought I should have eaten noth=
ing,
but your fortunate idea of the brandy has made quite a new man of me—=
quite
a new man.’ And he woul=
d fall
to with a great air of heartiness, cut himself a mouthful, and, before he h=
ad
swallowed it, would have forgotten his dinner, his company, the place where=
he
then was, and the escape he was engaged on, and become absorbed in the visi=
on of
a sick-room and a dying girl in France.&nb=
sp;
The pathos of this continual preoccupation, in a man so old, sick, a=
nd
over-weary, and whom I looked upon as a mere bundle of dying bones and
death-pains, put me wholly from my victuals: it seemed there was an element=
of
sin, a kind of rude bravado of youth, in the mere relishing of food at the =
same
table with this tragic father; and though I was well enough used to the coa=
rse,
plain diet of the English, I ate scarce more than himself. Dinner was hardly over before he
succumbed to a lethargic sleep; lying on one of the mattresses with his lim=
bs
relaxed, and his breath seemingly suspended—the very image of
dissolution.
This left the Major and myself alone at the
table. You must not suppose o=
ur
tête-à-tête was long, but it was a lively period while it
lasted. He drank like a fish or an Englishman; shouted, beat the table, roa=
red out
songs, quarrelled, made it up again, and at last tried to throw the dinner-=
plates
through the window, a feat of which he was at that time quite incapable.
I had passed the night before in a good bed; I=
was
denied the resource of slumber; and there was nothing open for me but to pa=
ce
the apartment, maintain the fire, and brood on my position. I compared yesterday and to-day=
212;the
safety, comfort, jollity, open-air exercise and pleasant roadside inns of t=
he
one, with the tedium, anxiety, and discomfort of the other. I remembered that I was in the han=
ds of
Fenn, who could not be more false—though he might be more
vindictive—than I fancied him.
I looked forward to nights of pitching in the covered cart, and days=
of monotony
in I knew not what hiding-places; and my heart failed me, and I was in two
minds whether to slink off ere it was too late, and return to my former
solitary way of travel. But t=
he
Colonel stood in the path. I =
had
not seen much of him; but already I judged him a man of a childlike nature&=
#8212;with
that sort of innocence and courtesy that, I think, is only to be found in o=
ld
soldiers or old priests—and broken with years and sorrow. I could not
turn my back on his distress; could not leave him alone with the selfish
trooper who snored on the next mattress.&n=
bsp;
‘Champdivers, my lad, your health!’ said a voice in my e=
ar,
and stopped me—and there are few things I am more glad of in the
retrospect than that it did.
It must have been about four in the
afternoon—at least the rain had taken off, and the sun was setting wi=
th
some wintry pomp—when the current of my reflections was effectually
changed by the arrival of two visitors in a gig. They were farmers of the neighbour=
hood,
I suppose—big, burly fellows in great-coats and top-boots, mightily
flushed with liquor when they arrived, and, before they left, inimitably
drunk. They stayed long in the
kitchen with Burchell, drinking, shouting, singing, and keeping it up; and =
the
sound of their merry minstrelsy kept me a kind of company. The night fell, =
and the
shine of the fire brightened and blinked on the panelled wall. Our illuminated windows must have =
been
visible not only from the back lane of which Fenn had spoken, but from the
court where the farmers’ gig awaited them. In the far end of the firelit room=
lay
my companions, the one silent, the other clamorously noisy, the images of d=
eath
and drunkenness. Little wonde=
r if I
were tempted to join in the choruses below, and sometimes could hardly refr=
ain
from laughter, and sometimes, I believe, from tears—so unmitigated was
the tedium, so cruel the suspense, of this period.
At last, about six at night, I should fancy, t=
he
noisy minstrels appeared in the court, headed by Fenn with a lantern, and
knocking together as they came. The
visitors clambered noisily into the gig, one of them shook the reins, and t=
hey
were snatched out of sight and hearing with a suddenness that partook of the
nature of prodigy. I am well =
aware
there is a Providence for drunken men, that holds the reins for them and pr=
esides
over their troubles; doubtless he had his work cut out for him with this
particular gigful! Fenn rescu=
ed his
toes with an ejaculation from under the departing wheels, and turned at once
with uncertain steps and devious lantern to the far end of the court. There, through the open doors of a
coach-house, the shock-headed lad was already to be seen drawing forth the
covered cart. If I wished any
private talk with our host, it must be now or never.
Accordingly I groped my way downstairs, and ca=
me
to him as he looked on at and lighted the harnessing of the horses.
‘The hour approaches when we have to
part,’ said I; ‘and I shall be obliged if you will tell your
servant to drop me at the nearest point for Dunstable. I am determined to go so far with =
our
friends, Colonel X and Major Y, but my business is peremptory, and it takes=
me
to the neighbourhood of Dunstable.’
Orders were given to my satisfaction, with an
obsequiousness that seemed only inflamed by his potations.
=
=
My
companions were aroused with difficulty: the Colonel, poor old gentleman, t=
o a
sort of permanent dream, in which you could say of him only that he was very
deaf and anxiously polite; the Major still maudlin drunk. We had a dish of tea by the firesi=
de, and
then issued like criminals into the scathing cold of the night. For the weather had in the meantime
changed. Upon the cessation o=
f the
rain, a strict frost had succeeded.
The moon, being young, was already near the zenith when we started,
glittered everywhere on sheets of ice, and sparkled in ten thousand
icicles. A more unpromising n=
ight
for a journey it was hard to conceive.&nbs=
p;
But in the course of the afternoon the horses had been well roughed;=
and
King (for such was the name of the shock-headed lad) was very positive that=
he
could drive us without misadventure.
He was as good as his word; indeed, despite a gawky air, he was simp=
ly
invaluable in his present employment, showing marked sagacity in all that
concerned the care of horses, and guiding us by one short cut after another=
for
days, and without a fault.
The interior of that engine of torture, the
covered cart, was fitted with a bench, on which we took our places; the door
was shut; in a moment, the night closed upon us solid and stifling; and we =
felt
that we were being driven carefully out of the courtyard. Careful was the word all night, an=
d it
was an alleviation of our miseries that we did not often enjoy. In general,=
as
we were driven the better part of the night and day, often at a pretty quick
pace and always through a labyrinth of the most infamous country lanes and
by-roads, we were so bruised upon the bench, so dashed against the top and
sides of the cart, that we reached the end of a stage in truly pitiable cas=
e,
sometimes flung ourselves down without the formality of eating, made but one
sleep of it until the hour of departure returned, and were only properly
awakened by the first jolt of the renewed journey. There were interruptions, at times=
, that
we hailed as alleviations. At=
times
the cart was bogged, once it was upset, and we must alight and lend the dri=
ver
the assistance of our arms; at times, too (as on the occasion when I had fi=
rst
encountered it), the horses gave out, and we had to trail alongside in mud =
or
frost until the first peep of daylight, or the approach to a hamlet or a hi=
gh
road, bade us disappear like ghosts into our prison.
The main roads of England are incomparable for
excellence, of a beautiful smoothness, very ingeniously laid down, and so w=
ell
kept that in most weathers you could take your dinner off any part of them
without distaste. On them, to=
the
note of the bugle, the mail did its sixty miles a day; innumerable chaises
whisked after the bobbing postboys; or some young blood would flit by in a
curricle and tandem, to the vast delight and danger of the lieges. On them, the slow-pacing waggons m=
ade a
music of bells, and all day long the travellers on horse-back and the trave=
llers
on foot (like happy Mr. St. Ives so little a while before!) kept coming and=
going,
and baiting and gaping at each other, as though a fair were due, and they w=
ere
gathering to it from all England.
No, nowhere in the world is travel so great a pleasure as in that
country. But unhappily our one need was to be secret; and all this rapid an=
d animated
picture of the road swept quite apart from us, as we lumbered up hill and d=
own
dale, under hedge and over stone, among circuitous byways. Only twice did I
receive, as it were, a whiff of the highway. The first reached my ears alone. I might have been anywhere. I only knew I was walking in the d=
ark
night and among ruts, when I heard very far off, over the silent country th=
at
surrounded us, the guard’s horn wailing its signal to the next post-h=
ouse
for a change of horses. It wa=
s like
the voice of the day heard in darkness, a voice of the world heard in priso=
n, the
note of a cock crowing in the mid-seas—in short, I cannot tell you wh=
at
it was like, you will have to fancy for yourself—but I could have wep=
t to
hear it. Once we were belated=
: the
cattle could hardly crawl, the day was at hand, it was a nipping, rigorous
morning, King was lashing his horses, I was giving an arm to the old Colone=
l,
and the Major was coughing in our rear.&nb=
sp;
I must suppose that King was a thought careless, being nearly in
desperation about his team, and, in spite of the cold morning, breathing hot
with his exertions. We came, =
at
last, a little before sunrise to the summit of a hill, and saw the high-road
passing at right angles through an open country of meadows and hedgerow
pollards; and not only the York mail, speeding smoothly at the gallop of the
four horses, but a post-chaise besides, with the post-boy titupping briskly=
, and
the traveller himself putting his head out of the window, but whether to
breathe the dawn, or the better to observe the passage of the mail, I do not
know. So that we enjoyed for =
an
instant a picture of free life on the road, in its most luxurious forms of
despatch and comfort. And the=
reafter,
with a poignant feeling of contrast in our hearts, we must mount again into=
our
wheeled dungeon.
We came to our stages at all sorts of odd hour=
s,
and they were in all kinds of odd places.&=
nbsp;
I may say at once that my first experience was my best. Nowhere again were we so well
entertained as at Burchell Fenn’s. And this, I suppose, was natural, =
and
indeed inevitable, in so long and secret a journey. The first stop, we lay six hours i=
n a
barn standing by itself in a poor, marshy orchard, and packed with hay; to =
make
it more attractive, we were told it had been the scene of an abominable mur=
der,
and was now haunted. But the =
day
was beginning to break, and our fatigue was too extreme for visionary
terrors. The second or third,=
we
alighted on a barren heath about midnight, built a fire to warm us under th=
e shelter
of some thorns, supped like beggars on bread and a piece of cold bacon, and
slept like gipsies with our feet to the fire. In the meanwhile, King was gone wi=
th the
cart, I know not where, to get a change of horses, and it was late in the d=
ark
morning when he returned and we were able to resume our journey. In the middle of another night, we=
came to
a stop by an ancient, whitewashed cottage of two stories; a privet hedge
surrounded it; the frosty moon shone blankly on the upper windows; but thro=
ugh
those of the kitchen the firelight was seen glinting on the roof and reflec=
ted
from the dishes on the wall. =
Here,
after much hammering on the door, King managed to arouse an old crone from =
the chimney-corner
chair, where she had been dozing in the watch; and we were had in, and
entertained with a dish of hot tea.
This old lady was an aunt of Burchell Fenn’s—and an
unwilling partner in his dangerous trade. Though the house stood solitary, =
and
the hour was an unlikely one for any passenger upon the road, King and she
conversed in whispers only. T=
here was
something dismal, something of the sick-room, in this perpetual, guarded
sibilation. The apprehensions=
of
our hostess insensibly communicated themselves to every one present. We ate like mice in a cat’s =
ear;
if one of us jingled a teaspoon, all would start; and when the hour came to
take the road again, we drew a long breath of relief, and climbed to our pl=
aces
in the covered cart with a positive sense of escape. The most of our meals, however, we=
re
taken boldly at hedgerow alehouses, usually at untimely hours of the day, w=
hen
the clients were in the field or the farmyard at labour. I shall have to tell presently of =
our
last experience of the sort, and how unfortunately it miscarried; but as th=
at
was the signal for my separation from my fellow-travellers, I must first fi=
nish
with them.
I had never any occasion to waver in my first
judgment of the Colonel. The old gentleman seemed to me, and still seems in=
the
retrospect, the salt of the earth.
I had occasion to see him in the extremes of hardship, hunger and co=
ld;
he was dying, and he looked it; and yet I cannot remember any hasty, harsh,=
or
impatient word to have fallen from his lips. On the contrary, he ever showed hi=
mself
careful to please; and even if he rambled in his talk, rambled always
gently—like a humane, half-witted old hero, true to his colours to the
last. I would not dare to say=
how
often he awoke suddenly from a lethargy, and told us again, as though we had
never heard it, the story of how he had earned the cross, how it had been g=
iven
him by the hand of the Emperor, and of the innocent—and, indeed,
foolish—sayings of his daughter when he returned with it on his
bosom. He had another anecdote
which he was very apt to give, by way of a rebuke, when the Major wearied us
beyond endurance with dispraises of the English. This was an account of the braves =
gens
with whom he had been boarding.
True enough, he was a man so simple and grateful by nature, that the
most common civilities were able to touch him to the heart, and would remain
written in his memory; but from a thousand inconsiderable but conclusive
indications, I gathered that this family had really loved him, and loaded h=
im
with kindness. They made a fi=
re in
his bedroom, which the sons and daughters tended with their own hands; lett=
ers
from France were looked for with scarce more eagerness by himself than by t=
hese
alien sympathisers; when they came, he would read them aloud in the parlour=
to
the assembled family, translating as he went. The Colonel’s English was
elementary; his daughter not in the least likely to be an amusing
correspondent; and, as I conceived these scenes in the parlour, I felt sure=
the
interest centred in the Colonel himself, and I thought I could feel in my o=
wn
heart that mixture of the ridiculous and the pathetic, the contest of tears=
and
laughter, which must have shaken the bosoms of the family. Their kindness had continued till =
the
end. It appears they were pri=
vy to
his flight, the camlet cloak had been lined expressly for him, and he was t=
he
bearer of a letter from the daughter of the house to his own daughter in
Paris. The last evening, when=
the
time came to say good-night, it was tacitly known to all that they were to =
look
upon his face no more. He ros=
e,
pleading fatigue, and turned to the daughter, who had been his chief ally:
‘You will permit me, my dear—to an old and very unhappy
soldier—and may God bless you for your goodness!’ The girl threw her arms about his =
neck
and sobbed upon his bosom; the lady of the house burst into tears; ‘e=
t je
vous le jure, le père se mouchait!’ quoth the Colonel, twisting
his moustaches with a cavalry air, and at the same time blinking the water =
from
his eyes at the mere recollection.
It was a good thought to me that he had found
these friends in captivity; that he had started on this fatal journey from =
so
cordial a farewell. He had br=
oken
his parole for his daughter: that he should ever live to reach her sick-bed,
that he could continue to endure to an end the hardships, the crushing fati=
gue,
the savage cold, of our pilgrimage, I had early ceased to hope. I did for him what I was
able,—nursed him, kept him covered, watched over his slumbers, someti=
mes
held him in my arms at the rough places of the road. ‘Champdivers,’ he once=
said,
‘you are like a son to me—like a son.’ It is good to remember, though at =
the
time it put me on the rack. A=
ll was
to no purpose. Fast as we were
travelling towards France, he was travelling faster still to another
destination. Daily he grew weaker and more indifferent. An old rustic accent of Lower Norm=
andy
reappeared in his speech, from which it had long been banished, and grew
stronger; old words of the patois, too: Ouistreham, matrassé, and
others, the sense of which we were sometimes unable to guess. On the very last day he began agai=
n his
eternal story of the cross and the Emperor. The Major, who was particularly il=
l, or
at least particularly cross, uttered some angry words of protest. ‘Pa=
rdonnez-moi,
monsieur le commandant, mais c’est pour monsieur,’ said the
Colonel: ‘Monsieur has not yet heard the circumstance, and is good en=
ough
to feel an interest.’
Presently after, however, he began to lose the thread of his narrati=
ve;
and at last: ‘Qué que j’ai? Je m’embrouille!’ says=
he,
‘Suffit: s’m’a la donné, et Berthe en était=
bien
contente.’ It struck me=
as
the falling of the curtain or the closing of the sepulchre doors.
Sure enough, in but a little while after, he f=
ell
into a sleep as gentle as an infant’s, which insensibly changed into =
the
sleep of death. I had my arm =
about
his body at the time and remarked nothing, unless it were that he once
stretched himself a little, so kindly the end came to that disastrous
life. It was only at our even=
ing
halt that the Major and I discovered we were travelling alone with the poor
clay. That night we stole a s=
pade
from a field—I think near Market Bosworth—and a little farther =
on,
in a wood of young oak trees and by the light of King’s lantern, we
buried the old soldier of the Empire with both prayers and tears.
We had needs invent Heaven if it had not been
revealed to us; there are some things that fall so bitterly ill on this side
Time! As for the Major, I hav=
e long
since forgiven him. He broke =
the
news to the poor Colonel’s daughter; I am told he did it kindly; and
sure, nobody could have done it without tears! His share of purgatory will be bri=
ef;
and in this world, as I could not very well praise him, I have suppressed h=
is name. The Colonel’s also, for the =
sake
of his parole. Requiescat.
=
I have
mentioned our usual course, which was to eat in inconsiderable wayside
hostelries, known to King. It=
was a
dangerous business; we went daily under fire to satisfy our appetite, and p=
ut
our head in the loin’s mouth for a piece of bread. Sometimes, to minimise the risk, we
would all dismount before we came in view of the house, straggle in several=
ly, and
give what orders we pleased, like disconnected strangers. In like manner we departed, to fin=
d the cart
at an appointed place, some half a mile beyond. The Colonel and the Major had each=
a
word or two of English—God help their pronunciation! But they did well enough to order a
rasher and a pot or call a reckoning; and, to say truth, these country folks
did not give themselves the pains, and had scarce the knowledge, to be
critical.
About nine or ten at night the pains of hunger=
and
cold drove us to an alehouse in the flats of Bedfordshire, not far from Bed=
ford
itself. In the inn kitchen wa=
s a
long, lean, characteristic-looking fellow of perhaps forty, dressed in
black. He sat on a settle by =
the
fireside, smoking a long pipe, such as they call a yard of clay. His hat and wig were hanged upon t=
he
knob behind him, his head as bald as a bladder of lard, and his expression =
very
shrewd, cantankerous, and inquisitive.&nbs=
p;
He seemed to value himself above his company, to give himself the ai=
rs
of a man of the world among that rustic herd; which was often no more than =
his due;
being, as I afterwards discovered, an attorney’s clerk. I took upon myself the more ungrat=
eful
part of arriving last; and by the time I entered on the scene the Major was
already served at a side table.
Some general conversation must have passed, and I smelled danger in =
the
air. The Major looked flustered, the attorney’s clerk triumphant, and
three or four peasants in smock-frocks (who sat about the fire to play chor=
us)
had let their pipes go out.
‘Give you good evening, sir!’ said=
the
attorney’s clerk to me.
‘The same to you, sir,’ said I.
‘I think this one will do,’ quoth =
the
clerk to the yokels with a wink; and then, as soon as I had given my order,
‘Pray, sir, whither are you bound?’ he added.
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘I am not one=
of
those who speak either of their business or their destination in houses of
public entertainment.’
‘A good answer,’ said he, ‘a=
nd
an excellent principle. Sir, =
do you
speak French?’
‘Why, no, sir,’ said I. ‘A little Spanish at your
service.’
‘But you know the French accent,
perhaps?’ said the clerk.
‘Well do I do that!’ said I. ‘The French accent? Why, I believe I can tell a French=
man in
ten words.’
‘Here is a puzzle for you, then!’ =
he
said. ‘I have no materi=
al
doubt myself, but some of these gentlemen are more backward. The lack of education, you know. I make bold to say that a man cann=
ot
walk, cannot hear, and cannot see, without the blessings of education.̵=
7;
He turned to the Major, whose food plainly stu=
ck
in his throat.
‘Now, sir,’ pursued the clerk,
‘let me have the pleasure to hear your voice again. Where are you going, did you say?&=
#8217;
‘Sare, I am go-ing to Lon-don,’ sa=
id
the Major.
I could have flung my plate at him to be such =
an
ass, and to have so little a gift of languages where that was the essential=
.
‘What think ye of that?’ said the
clerk. ‘Is that French
enough?’
‘Good God!’ cried I, leaping up li=
ke
one who should suddenly perceive an acquaintance, ‘is this you, Mr.
Dubois? Why, who would have d=
reamed
of encountering you so far from home?’ As I spoke, I shook hands with the=
Major
heartily; and turning to our tormentor, ‘Oh, sir, you may be perfectly
reassured! This is a very hon=
est
fellow, a late neighbour of mine in the city of Carlisle.’
I thought the attorney looked put out; I little
knew the man!
‘But he is French,’ said he,
‘for all that?’
‘Ay, to be sure!’ said I. ‘A Frenchman of the
emigration! None of your Buon=
aparte
lot. I will warrant his views=
of
politics to be as sound as your own.’
‘What is a little strange,’ said t=
he
clerk quietly, ‘is that Mr. Dubois should deny it.’
I got it fair in the face, and took it smiling;
but the shock was rude, and in the course of the next words I contrived to =
do
what I have rarely done, and make a slip in my English. I kept my liberty and life by my p=
roficiency
all these months, and for once that I failed, it is not to be supposed that=
I
would make a public exhibition of the details. Enough, that it was a very little =
error,
and one that might have passed ninety-nine times in a hundred. But my limb of the law was as swif=
t to pick
it up as though he had been by trade a master of languages.
‘Aha!’ cries he; ‘and you are
French, too! Your tongue bewr=
ays
you. Two Frenchmen coming int=
o an
alehouse, severally and accidentally, not knowing each other, at ten of the
clock at night, in the middle of Bedfordshire? No, sir, that shall not pass! You are all prisoners escaping, if=
you
are nothing worse. Consider
yourselves under arrest. I ha=
ve to
trouble you for your papers.’
‘Where is your warrant, if you come to
that?’ said I. ‘My
papers! A likely thing that I=
would
show my papers on the ipse dixit of an unknown fellow in a hedge
alehouse!’
‘Would you resist the law?’ says h=
e.
‘Not the law, sir!’ said I. ‘I hope I am too good a subj=
ect
for that. But for a nameless fellow with a bald head and a pair of gingham =
small-clothes,
why certainly! ’Tis my
birthright as an Englishman. Where’s Magna Charta, else?’
‘We will see about that,’ says he;=
and
then, addressing the assistants, ‘where does the constable live?̵=
7;
‘Lord love you, sir!’ cried the
landlord, ‘what are you thinking of?=
The constable at past ten at night!=
Why, he’s abed and asleep, and good and drunk two hours
agone!’
‘Ah that a’ be!’ came in cho=
rus
from the yokels.
The attorney’s clerk was put to a
stand. He could not think of =
force;
there was little sign of martial ardour about the landlord, and the peasants
were indifferent—they only listened, and gaped, and now scratched a h=
ead,
and now would get a light to their pipes from the embers on the hearth. On the other hand, the Major and I=
put a
bold front on the business and defied him, not without some ground of law.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In this state of matters he propos=
ed I
should go along with him to one Squire Merton, a great man of the
neighbourhood, who was in the commission of the peace, the end of his avenue
but three lanes away. I told =
him I
would not stir a foot for him if it were to save his soul. Next he proposed=
I
should stay all night where I was, and the constable could see to my affair=
in
the morning, when he was sober. I
replied I should go when and where I pleased; that we were lawful traveller=
s in
the fear of God and the king, and I for one would suffer myself to be staye=
d by
nobody. At the same time, I w=
as
thinking the matter had lasted altogether too long, and I determined to bri=
ng
it to an end at once.
‘See here,’ said I, getting up, for
till now I had remained carelessly seated, ‘there’s only one wa=
y to
decide a thing like this—only one way that’s right
English—and that’s man to man.=
Take off your coat, sir, and these gentlemen shall see fair
play.’ At this there ca=
me a
look in his eye that I could not mistake.&=
nbsp;
His education had been neglected in one essential and eminently Brit=
ish
particular: he could not box. No more
could I, you may say; but then I had the more impudence—and I had made
the proposal.
‘He says I’m no Englishman, but the
proof of the pudding is the eating of it,’ I continued. And here I stripped my coat and fe=
ll
into the proper attitude, which was just about all I knew of this barbarian
art. ‘Why, sir, you see=
m to
me to hang back a little,’ said I.&n=
bsp;
‘Come, I’ll meet you; I’ll give you an
appetiser—though hang me if I can understand the man that wants any
enticement to hold up his hands.’&nb=
sp;
I drew a bank-note out of my fob and tossed it to the landlord. ‘There are the stakes,’=
; said
I. ‘I’ll fight yo=
u for
first blood, since you seem to make so much work about it. If you tap my claret first, there =
are
five guineas for you, and I’ll go with you to any squire you choose to
mention. If I tap yours,
you’ll perhaps let on that I’m the better man, and allow me to =
go about
my lawful business at my own time and convenience, by God; is that fair, my
lads?’ says I, appealing to the company.
‘Ay, ay,’ said the chorus of
chawbacons; ‘he can’t say no fairer nor that, he can’t. Take off thy coat master!’
The limb of the law was now on the wrong side =
of
public opinion, and, what heartened me to go on, the position was rapidly
changing in our favour. Alrea=
dy the
Major was paying his shot to the very indifferent landlord, and I could see=
the
white face of King at the back-door, making signals of haste.
‘Oho!’ quoth my enemy, ‘you =
are
as full of doubles as a fox, are you not? But I see through you; I see thro=
ugh
and through you. You would ch=
ange the
venue, would you?’
‘I may be transparent, sir,’ says =
I,
‘but if you’ll do me the favour to stand up, you’ll find I
can hit dam hard.’
‘Which is a point, if you will observe, =
that
I had never called in question,’ said he. ‘Why, you ignorant clowns,=
8217;
he proceeded, addressing the company, ‘can’t you see the
fellow’s gulling you before your eyes? Can’t you see that he has
changed the point upon me? I =
say
he’s a French prisoner, and he answers that he can box! What has that to do with it? I wou=
ld not
wonder but what he can dance, too—they’re all dancing masters o=
ver
there. I say, and I stick to =
it,
that he’s a Frenchy. He=
says
he isn’t. Well then, le=
t him
out with his papers, if he has them!
If he had, would he not show them?&=
nbsp;
If he had, would he not jump at the idea of going to Squire Merton, a
man you all know? Now, you ar=
e all
plain, straightforward Bedfordshire men, and I wouldn’t ask a better =
lot
to appeal to. You’re no=
t the
kind to be talked over with any French gammon, and he’s plenty of
that. But let me tell him, he=
can
take his pigs to another market; they’ll never do here; they’ll
never go down in Bedfordshire. Why!
look at the man! Look at his
feet! Has anybody got a foot =
in the
room like that? See how he st=
ands!
do any of you fellows stand like that?&nbs=
p;
Does the landlord, there?
Why, he has Frenchman wrote all over him, as big as a sign-post!R=
17;
This was all very well; and in a different sce=
ne I
might even have been gratified by his remarks; but I saw clearly, if I were=
to
allow him to talk, he might turn the tables on me altogether. He might not be much of a hand at
boxing; but I was much mistaken, or he had studied forensic eloquence in a =
good
school. In this predicament I=
could
think of nothing more ingenious than to burst out of the house, under the
pretext of an ungovernable rage. It
was certainly not very ingenious—it was elementary, but I had no choi=
ce.
‘You white-livered dog!’ I broke
out. ‘Do you dare to te=
ll me
you’re an Englishman, and won’t fight? But I’ll stand no more of
this! I leave this place, whe=
re
I’ve been insulted! Her=
e!
what’s to pay? Pay your=
self!’
I went on, offering the landlord a handful of silver, ‘and give me ba=
ck
my bank-note!’
The landlord, following his usual policy of
obliging everybody, offered no opposition to my design. The position of my adversary was n=
ow thoroughly
bad. He had lost my two
companions. He was on the poi=
nt of losing
me also. There was plainly no=
hope
of arousing the company to help; and watching him with a corner of my eye, I
saw him hesitate for a moment. The
next, he had taken down his hat and his wig, which was of black horsehair; =
and
I saw him draw from behind the settle a vast hooded great-coat and a small
valise. ‘The devil!R=
17;
thought I: ‘is the rascal going to follow me?’
I was scarce clear of the inn before the limb =
of
the law was at my heels. I saw his face plain in the moonlight; and the most
resolute purpose showed in it, along with an unmoved composure. A chill went over me. ‘This =
is no
common adventure,’ thinks I to myself. ‘You have got hold of a man =
of
character, St. Ives! A bite-h=
ard, a
bull-dog, a weasel is on your trail; and how are you to throw him
off?’ Who was he? By some of his expressions I judge=
d he
was a hanger-on of courts. Bu=
t in
what character had he followed the assizes? As a simple spectator, as a lawyer=
’s
clerk, as a criminal himself, or—last and worst supposition—as =
a Bow-street
‘runner’?
The cart would wait for me, perhaps, half a mi=
le
down our onward road, which I was already following. And I told myself that in a few
minutes’ walking, Bow-street runner or not, I should have him at my
mercy. And then reflection ca=
me to
me in time. Of all things, on=
e was
out of the question. Upon no
account must this obtrusive fellow see the cart. Until I had killed or shoo=
k him
off, I was quite divorced from my companions—alone, in the midst of
England, on a frosty by-way leading whither I knew not, with a sleuth-hound=
at
my heels, and never a friend but the holly-stick!
We came at the same time to a crossing of
lanes. The branch to the left=
was
overhung with trees, deeply sunken and dark. Not a ray of moonlight penetrated =
its
recesses; and I took it at a venture.
The wretch followed my example in silence; and for some time we crun=
ched
together over frozen pools without a word.=
Then he found his voice, with a chuckle.
‘This is not the way to Mr.
Merton’s,’ said he.
‘No?’ said I. ‘It is mine,
however.’
‘And therefore mine,’ said he.
Again we fell silent; and we may thus have cov=
ered
half a mile before the lane, taking a sudden turn, brought us forth again i=
nto
the moonshine. With his hooded great-coat on his back, his valise in his ha=
nd,
his black wig adjusted, and footing it on the ice with a sort of sober
doggedness of manner, my enemy was changed almost beyond recognition: chang=
ed
in everything but a certain dry, polemical, pedantic air, that spoke of a s=
edentary
occupation and high stools. I
observed, too, that his valise was heavy; and, putting this and that togeth=
er,
hit upon a plan.
‘A seasonable night, sir,’ said
I. ‘What do you say to =
a bit
of running? The frost has me by the toes.’
‘With all the pleasure in life,’ s=
ays
he.
His voice seemed well assured, which pleased me
little. However, there was no=
thing
else to try, except violence, for which it would always be too soon. I took to my heels accordingly, he=
after
me; and for some time the slapping of our feet on the hard road might have =
been
heard a mile away. He had sta=
rted a
pace behind me, and he finished in the same position. For all his extra years and the we=
ight
of his valise, he had not lost a hair’s breadth. The devil might race him for me=
212;I
had enough of it!
And, besides, to run so fast was contrary to my
interests. We could not run l=
ong
without arriving somewhere. A=
t any
moment we might turn a corner and find ourselves at the lodge-gate of some
Squire Merton, in the midst of a village whose constable was sober, or in t=
he
hands of a patrol. There was =
no
help for it—I must finish with him on the spot, as long as it was
possible. I looked about me, =
and
the place seemed suitable; never a light, never a house—nothing but
stubble-fields, fallows, and a few stunted trees. I stopped and eyed him in the moon=
light
with an angry stare.
‘Enough of this foolery!’ said I.<= o:p>
He had tamed, and now faced me full, very pale,
but with no sign of shrinking.
‘I am quite of your opinion,’ said
he. ‘You have tried me =
at the
running; you can try me next at the high jump. It will be all the same. It must e=
nd the
one way.’
I made my holly whistle about my head.
‘I believe you know what way!’ said
I. ‘We are alone, it is
night, and I am wholly resolved.
Are you not frightened?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not in the
smallest. I do not box, sir; =
but I
am not a coward, as you may have supposed.=
Perhaps it will simplify our relations if I tell you at the outset t=
hat
I walk armed.’
Quick as lightning I made a feint at his head;=
as
quickly he gave ground, and at the same time I saw a pistol glitter in his
hand.
‘No more of that, Mr.
French-Prisoner!’ he said.
‘It will do me no good to have your death at my door.’
‘Faith, nor me either!’ said I; an=
d I
lowered my stick and considered the man, not without a twinkle of
admiration. ‘You see,=
8217;
I said, ‘there is one consideration that you appear to overlook: there
are a great many chances that your pistol may miss fire.’
‘I have a pair,’ he returned. ‘Never travel without a brac=
e of
barkers.’
‘I make you my compliment,’ said
I. ‘You are able to tak=
e care
of yourself, and that is a good trait.&nbs=
p;
But, my good man! let us look at this matter dispassionately. You are not a coward, and no more =
am I;
we are both men of excellent sense; I have good reason, whatever it may be,=
to
keep my concerns to myself and to walk alone. Now I put it to you pointedly, am I
likely to stand it? Am I like=
ly to
put up with your continued and—excuse me—highly impudent
ingérence into my private affairs?’
‘Another French word,’ says he
composedly.
‘Oh! damn your French words!’ cried
I. ‘You seem to be a
Frenchman yourself!’
‘I have had many opportunities by which I
have profited,’ he explained. ‘Few men are better acquainted wi=
th
the similarities and differences, whether of idiom or accent, of the two
languages.’
‘You are a pompous fellow, too!’ s=
aid
I.
‘Oh, I can make distinctions, sir,’
says he. ‘I can talk wi=
th Bedfordshire
peasants; and I can express myself becomingly, I hope, in the company of a
gentleman of education like yourself.’
‘If you set up to be a
gentleman—’ I began.
‘Pardon me,’ he interrupted: ̵=
6;I
make no such claim. I only se=
e the nobility
and gentry in the way of business.
I am quite a plain person.’
‘For the Lord’s sake,’ I
exclaimed, ‘set my mind at rest upon one point. In the name of myster=
y,
who and what are you?’
‘I have no cause to be ashamed of my nam=
e,
sir,’ said he, ‘nor yet my trade. I am Thomas Dudgeon, at your servi=
ce,
clerk to Mr. Daniel Romaine, solicitor of London; High Holborn is our addre=
ss,
sir.’
It was only by the ecstasy of the relief that I
knew how horribly I had been frightened.&n=
bsp;
I flung my stick on the road.
‘Romaine?’ I cried. ‘Daniel Romaine? An old hunks with a red face and a=
big
head, and got up like a Quaker? My
dear friend, to my arms!’
‘Keep back, I say!’ said Dudgeon
weakly.
I would not listen to him. With the end of my own alarm, I fe=
lt as if
I must infallibly be at the end of all dangers likewise; as if the pistol t=
hat
he held in one hand were no more to be feared than the valise that he carri=
ed
with the other, and now put up like a barrier against my advance.
‘Keep back, or I declare I will fire,=
217;
he was crying. ‘Have a =
care,
for God’s sake! My
pistol—’
He might scream as be pleased. Willy nilly, I folded him to my br=
east,
I pressed him there, I kissed his ugly mug as it had never been kissed befo=
re
and would never be kissed again; and in the doing so knocked his wig awry a=
nd
his hat off. He bleated in my
embrace; so bleats the sheep in the arms of the butcher. The whole thing, on looking back,
appears incomparably reckless and absurd; I no better than a madman for
offering to advance on Dudgeon, and he no better than a fool for not shooti=
ng
me while I was about it. But
all’s well that ends well; or, as the people in these days kept singi=
ng
and whistling on the streets:—
&=
nbsp;
‘There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft And looks out for=
the
life of poor Jack.’
‘There!’ said I, releasing him a
little, but still keeping my hands on his shoulders, ‘je vous ai bel =
et
bien embrassé—and, as you would say, there is another French
word.’ With his wig ove=
r one
eye, he looked incredibly rueful and put out. ‘Cheer up, Dudgeon; the orde=
al is
over, you shall be embraced no more.
But do, first of all, for God’s-sake, put away your pistol; you
handle it as if you were a cockatrice; some time or other, depend upon it, =
it
will certainly go off. Here i=
s your
hat. No, let me put it on squ=
are,
and the wig before it. Never =
suffer
any stress of circumstances to come between you and the duty you owe to
yourself. If you have nobody else to dress for, dress for God!
&=
nbsp;
‘Put your wig straight On your bald pate, Keep your chin sc=
raped,
And your fi=
gure
draped.
Can you match me that? The whole duty of man in a
quatrain! And remark, I do no=
t set
up to be a professional bard; these are the outpourings of a dilettante.=
217;
‘But, my dear sir!’ he exclaimed.<= o:p>
‘But, my dear sir!’ I echoed, R=
16;I
will allow no man to interrupt the flow of my ideas. Give me your opinion on my quatrai=
n, or
I vow we shall have a quarrel of it.’
‘Certainly you are quite an original,=
217;
he said.
‘Quite,’ said I; ‘and I beli=
eve
I have my counterpart before me.’
‘Well, for a choice,’ says he,
smiling, ‘and whether for sense or poetry, give me
&=
nbsp;
‘“Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow: The rest is all b=
ut
leather and prunello.”’
‘Oh, but that’s not fair—tha=
t’s
Pope! It’s not original,
Dudgeon. Understand me,’ said I, wringing his breast-button, ‘t=
he
first duty of all poetry is to be mine, sir—mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom=
, because—to
tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style—I am devilish
relieved at the turn things have taken.&nb=
sp;
So, I dare say, are you yourself, Dudgeon, if you would only allow
it. And à propos, let =
me ask
you a home question. Between
friends, have you ever fired that pistol?’
‘Why, yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Twice—at
hedgesparrows.’
‘And you would have fired at me, you
bloody-minded man?’ I cried.
‘If you go to that, you seemed mighty
reckless with your stick,’ said Dudgeon.
‘Did I indeed? Well, well, ’tis all past hi=
story;
ancient as King Pharamond—which is another French word, if you cared =
to
accumulate more evidence,’ says I.&n=
bsp;
‘But happily we are now the best of friends, and have all our
interests in common.’
‘You go a little too fast, if you’=
ll
excuse me, Mr. ---: I do not know your name, that I am aware,’ said
Dudgeon.
‘No, to be sure!’ said I. ‘Never heard of it!’
‘A word of explanation—’ he
began.
‘No, Dudgeon!’ I interrupted. ‘Be practical; I know what y=
ou
want, and the name of it is supper.
Rien ne creuse comme l’emotion. I am hungry myself, and yet I am m=
ore
accustomed to warlike palpitations than you, who are but a hunter of
hedgesparrows. Let me look at=
your
face critically: your bill of fare is three slices of cold rare roast beef,=
a Welsh
rabbit, a pot of stout, and a glass or two of sound tawny port, old in
bottle—the right milk of Englishmen.’ Methought there seemed a brighteni=
ng in
his eye and a melting about his mouth at this enumeration.
‘The night is young,’ I continued;
‘not much past eleven, for a wager. Where can we find a good inn? And remark that I say good, for th=
e port
must be up to the occasion—not a headache in a pipe of it.’
‘Really, sir,’ he said, smiling a
little, ‘you have a way of carrying things—’
‘Will nothing make you stick to the
subject?’ I cried; ‘you have the most irrelevant mind! How do you expect to rise in your
profession? The inn?’
‘Well, I will say you are a facetious
gentleman!’ said he.
‘You must have your way, I see. We are not three miles from Bedfor=
d by
this very road.’
‘Done!’ cried I. ‘Bedford be it!’
I tucked his arm under mine, possessed myself =
of
the valise, and walked him off unresisting. Presently we came to an open piece=
of
country lying a thought downhill.
The road was smooth and free of ice, the moonshine thin and bright o=
ver
the meadows and the leafless trees.
I was now honestly done with the purgatory of the covered cart; I was
close to my great-uncle’s; I had no more fear of Mr. Dudgeon; which w=
ere
all grounds enough for jollity. And
I was aware, besides, of us two as of a pair of tiny and solitary dolls und=
er
the vast frosty cupola of the midnight; the rooms decked, the moon burnishe=
d,
the least of the stars lighted, the floor swept and waxed, and nothing want=
ing
but for the band to strike up and the dancing to begin. In the exhilaration of my heart I =
took
the music on myself—
&=
nbsp;
‘Merrily danced the Quaker’s wife, And merrily dance=
d the
Quaker.’
I broke into that animated and appropriate air,
clapped my arm about Dudgeon’s waist, and away down the hill at a dan=
cing
step! He hung back a little a=
t the
start, but the impulse of the tune, the night, and my example, were not to =
be
resisted. A man made of putty=
must
have danced, and even Dudgeon showed himself to be a human being. Higher and higher were the capers =
that
we cut; the moon repeated in shadow our antic footsteps and gestures; and it
came over my mind of a sudden—really like balm—what appearance =
of
man I was dancing with, what a long bilious countenance he had shown under =
his
shaven pate, and what a world of trouble the rascal had given me in the
immediate past.
Presently we began to see the lights of
Bedford. My Puritanic compani=
on stopped
and disengaged himself.
‘This is a trifle infra dig., sir, is it
not?’ said he. ‘A=
party
might suppose we had been drinking.’
‘And so you shall be, Dudgeon,’ sa=
id
I. ‘You shall not only =
be
drinking, you old hypocrite, but you shall be drunk—dead drunk,
sir—and the boots shall put you to bed! We’ll warn him when we go in=
. Never neglect a precaution; never =
put
off till to-morrow what you can do to-day!’
But he had no more frivolity to complain of. We finished our stage and came to =
the
inn-door with decorum, to find the house still alight and in a bustle with =
many
late arrivals; to give our orders with a prompt severity which ensured
obedience, and to be served soon after at a side-table, close to the fire a=
nd
in a blaze of candle-light, with such a meal as I had been dreaming of for =
days
past. For days, you are to re=
member,
I had been skulking in the covered cart, a prey to cold, hunger, and an
accumulation of discomforts that might have daunted the most brave; and the
white table napery, the bright crystal, the reverberation of the fire, the =
red
curtains, the Turkey carpet, the portraits on the coffee-room wall, the pla=
cid
faces of the two or three late guests who were silently prolonging the
pleasures of digestion, and (last, but not by any means least) a glass of an
excellent light dry port, put me in a humour only to be described as
heavenly. The thought of the
Colonel, of how he would have enjoyed this snug room and roaring fire, and =
of
his cold grave in the wood by Market Bosworth, lingered on my palate, amari
aliquid, like an after-taste, but was not able—I say it with
shame—entirely to dispel my self-complacency. After all, in this world every dog=
hangs
by its own tail. I was a free
adventurer, who had just brought to a successful end—or, at least, wi=
thin
view of it—an adventure very difficult and alarming; and I looked acr=
oss
at Mr. Dudgeon, as the port rose to his cheeks, and a smile, that was semi-=
confidential
and a trifle foolish, began to play upon his leathery features, not only wi=
th
composure, but with a suspicion of kindness. The rascal had been brave, a quali=
ty for
which I would value the devil; and if he had been pertinacious in the
beginning, he had more than made up for it before the end.
‘And now, Dudgeon, to explain,’ I
began. ‘I know your mas=
ter,
he knows me, and he knows and approves of my errand. So much I may tell you, that I am =
on my
way to Amersham Place.’
‘Oho!’ quoth Dudgeon, ‘I beg=
in
to see.’
‘I am heartily glad of it,’ said I,
passing the bottle, ‘because that is about all I can tell you. You must take my word for the rema=
inder.
Either believe me or don’t.
If you don’t, let’s take a chaise; you can carry me
to-morrow to High Holborn, and confront me with Mr. Romaine; the result of
which will be to set your mind at rest—and to make the holiest disord=
er
in your master’s plans. If I
judge you aright (for I find you a shrewd fellow), this will not be at all =
to
your mind. You know what a su=
bordinate
gets by officiousness; if I can trust my memory, old Romaine has not at all=
the
face that I should care to see in anger; and I venture to predict surprising
results upon your weekly salary—if you are paid by the week, that
is. In short, let me go free,=
and
’tis an end of the matter; take me to London, and ’tis only a
beginning—and, by my opinion, a beginning of troubles. You can take your choice.’
‘And that is soon taken,’ said
he. ‘Go to Amersham tom=
orrow,
or go to the devil if you prefer—I wash my hands of you and the whole
transaction. No, you don’t find me putting my head in between Romaine=
and
a client! A good man of busin=
ess,
sir, but hard as millstone grit. I
might get the sack, and I shouldn’t wonder! But, it’s a pity, too,’=
; he
added, and sighed, shook his head, and took his glass off sadly.
‘That reminds me,’ said I. ‘I have a great curiosity, a=
nd you
can satisfy it. Why were you =
so
forward to meddle with poor Mr. Dubois?&nb=
sp;
Why did you transfer your attentions to me? And generally, what induced you to=
make
yourself such a nuisance?’
He blushed deeply.
‘Why, sir,’ says he, ‘there =
is
such a thing as patriotism, I hope.’
=
=
By eight
the next morning Dudgeon and I had made our parting. By that time we had grown to be
extremely familiar; and I would very willingly have kept him by me, and even
carried him to Amersham Place. But
it appeared he was due at the public-house where we had met, on some affair=
s of
my great-uncle the Count, who had an outlying estate in that part of the
shire. If Dudgeon had had his=
way
the night before, I should have been arrested on my uncle’s land and =
by
my uncle’s agent, a culmination of ill-luck.
A little after noon I started, in a hired chai=
se,
by way of Dunstable. The mere mention of the name Amersham Place made every=
one
supple and smiling. It was pl=
ainly
a great house, and my uncle lived there in style. The fame of it rose as we approach=
ed,
like a chain of mountains; at Bedford they touched their caps, but in Dunst=
able
they crawled upon their bellies. I
thought the landlady would have kissed me; such a flutter of cordiality, su=
ch
smiles, such affectionate attentions were called forth, and the good lady
bustled on my service in such a pother of ringlets and with such a jingling=
of
keys. ‘You’re pro=
bably
expected, sir, at the Place? =
I do
trust you may ’ave better accounts of his lordship’s ’elt=
h,
sir. We understood that his
lordship, Mosha de Carwell, was main bad.&=
nbsp;
Ha, sir, we shall all feel his loss, poor, dear, noble gentleman; and
I’m sure nobody more polite!
They do say, sir, his wealth is enormous, and before the Revolution,
quite a prince in his own country!
But I beg your pardon, sir; ’ow I do run on, to be sure; and d=
oubtless
all beknown to you already! F=
or you
do resemble the family, sir. I
should have known you anywheres by the likeness to the dear viscount. Ha, poor gentleman, he must ’=
;ave a
’eavy ’eart these days.’
In the same place I saw out of the inn-windows=
a
man-servant passing in the livery of my house, which you are to think I had
never before seen worn, or not that I could remember. I had often enough, indeed, pictur=
ed myself
advanced to be a Marshal, a Duke of the Empire, a Grand Cross of the Legion=
of
Honour, and some other kickshaws of the kind, with a perfect rout of flunke=
ys
correctly dressed in my own colours.
But it is one thing to imagine, and another to see; it would be one
thing to have these liveries in a house of my own in Paris—it was qui=
te
another to find them flaunting in the heart of hostile England; and I fear I
should have made a fool of myself, if the man had not been on the other sid=
e of
the street, and I at a one-pane window.&nb=
sp;
There was something illusory in this transplantation of the wealth a=
nd
honours of a family, a thing by its nature so deeply rooted in the soil;
something ghostly in this sense of home-coming so far from home.
From Dunstable I rolled away into a crescendo =
of
similar impressions. There are certainly few things to be compared with the=
se
castles, or rather country seats, of the English nobility and gentry; nor
anything at all to equal the servility of the population that dwells in the=
ir neighbourhood. Though I was but driving in a hired
chaise, word of my destination seemed to have gone abroad, and the women
curtseyed and the men louted to me by the wayside. As I came near, I began to appreci=
ate the
roots of this widespread respect.
The look of my uncle’s park wall, even from the outside, had
something of a princely character; and when I came in view of the house its=
elf,
a sort of madness of vicarious vain-glory struck me dumb and kept me
staring. It was about the siz=
e of the
Tuileries. It faced due north=
; and
the last rays of the sun, that was setting like a red-hot shot amidst a
tumultuous gathering of snow clouds, were reflected on the endless rows of
windows. A portico of Doric c=
olumns
adorned the front, and would have done honour to a temple. The servant who
received me at the door was civil to a fault—I had almost said, to
offence; and the hall to which he admitted me through a pair of glass doors=
was
warmed and already partly lighted by a liberal chimney heaped with the root=
s of
beeches.
‘Vicomte Anne de St. Yves,’ said I=
, in
answer to the man’s question; whereupon he bowed before me lower stil=
l,
and stepping upon one side introduced me to the truly awful presence of the
major-domo. I have seen many
dignitaries in my time, but none who quite equalled this eminent being; who=
was
good enough to answer to the unassuming name of Dawson. From him I learned =
that
my uncle was extremely low, a doctor in close attendance, Mr. Romaine expec=
ted
at any moment, and that my cousin, the Vicomte de St. Yves, had been sent f=
or
the same morning.
‘It was a sudden seizure, then?’ I
asked.
Well, he would scarcely go as far as that. It was a decline, a fading away, s=
ir;
but he was certainly took bad the day before, had sent for Mr. Romaine, and=
the
major-domo had taken it on himself a little later to send word to the
Viscount. ‘It seemed to=
me,
my lord,’ said he, ‘as if this was a time when all the fambly
should be called together.’
I approved him with my lips, but not in my
heart. Dawson was plainly in =
the
interests of my cousin.
‘And when can I expect to see my
great-uncle, the Count?’ said I.
In the evening, I was told; in the meantime he
would show me to my room, which had been long prepared for me, and I should=
be
expected to dine in about an hour with the doctor, if my lordship had no ob=
jections.
My lordship had not the faintest.
‘At the same time,’ I said, ‘=
;I
have had an accident: I have unhappily lost my baggage, and am here in what=
I
stand in. I don’t know =
if the
doctor be a formalist, but it is quite impossible I should appear at table =
as I
ought.’
He begged me to be under no anxiety. ‘We have been long expecting
you,’ said he. ‘A=
ll is
ready.’
Such I found to be the truth. A great room had been prepared for=
me; through
the mullioned windows the last flicker of the winter sunset interchanged wi=
th
the reverberation of a royal fire; the bed was open, a suit of evening clot=
hes
was airing before the blaze, and from the far corner a boy came forward with
deprecatory smiles. The dream=
in
which I had been moving seemed to have reached its pitch. I might have quitted this house an=
d room
only the night before; it was my own place that I had come to; and for the
first time in my life I understood the force of the words home and welcome.=
‘This will be all as you would want,
sir?’ said Mr. Dawson.
‘This ’ere boy, Rowley, we place entirely at your
disposition. ’E’s=
not
exactly a trained vallet, but Mossho Powl, the Viscount’s gentleman,
’ave give him the benefick of a few lessons, and it is ’oped th=
at
he may give sitisfection. Han=
ythink
that you may require, if you will be so good as to mention the same to Rowl=
ey,
I will make it my business myself, sir, to see you sitisfied.’
So saying, the eminent and already detested Mr.
Dawson took his departure, and I was left alone with Rowley. A man who may be said to have wake=
ned to
consciousness in the prison of the Abbaye, among those ever graceful and ev=
er
tragic figures of the brave and fair, awaiting the hour of the guillotine a=
nd
denuded of every comfort, I had never known the luxuries or the amenities o=
f my
rank in life. To be attended =
on by servants
I had only been accustomed to in inns.&nbs=
p;
My toilet had long been military, to a moment, at the note of a bugl=
e,
too often at a ditch-side. And it need not be wondered at if I looked on my=
new
valet with a certain diffidence.
But I remembered that if he was my first experience of a valet, I was
his first trial as a master.
Cheered by which consideration, I demanded my bath in a style of good
assurance. There was a bathro=
om
contiguous; in an incredibly short space of time the hot water was ready; a=
nd
soon after, arrayed in a shawl dressing-gown, and in a luxury of contentment
and comfort, I was reclined in an easy-chair before the mirror, while Rowle=
y,
with a mixture of pride and anxiety which I could well understand, laid out=
his
razors.
‘Hey, Rowley?’ I asked, not quite
resigned to go under fire with such an inexperienced commander. ‘It’s all right, is it=
? You feel pretty sure of your
weapons?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ he replied. ‘It’s all right, I ass=
ure
your lordship.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Rowley, ‘b=
ut
for the sake of shortness, would you mind not belording me in private?̵=
7;
said I. ‘It will do ver=
y well
if you call me Mr. Anne. It i=
s the
way of my country, as I dare say you know.’
Mr. Rowley looked blank.
‘But you’re just as much a Viscoun=
t as
Mr. Powl’s, are you not?’ he said.
‘As Mr. Powl’s Viscount?’ sa=
id
I, laughing. ‘Oh, keep =
your
mind easy, Mr. Rowley’s is every bit as good. Only, you see, as I am of the youn=
ger line,
I bear my Christian name along with the title. Alain is the Viscount; I am the Vi=
scount
Anne. And in giving me the na=
me of
Mr. Anne, I assure you you will be quite regular.’
‘Yes, Mr. Anne,’ said the docile
youth. ‘But about the
shaving, sir, you need be under no alarm.&=
nbsp;
Mr. Powl says I ’ave excellent dispositions.’
‘Mr. Powl?’ said I. ‘That doesn’t seem to =
me
very like a French name.’
‘No, sir, indeed, my lord,’ said h=
e,
with a burst of confidence.
‘No, indeed, Mr. Anne, and it do not surely. I should say now, it was more like=
Mr.
Pole.’
‘And Mr. Powl is the Viscount’s
man?’
‘Yes, Mr. Anne,’ said he. ‘He ’ave a hard billet=
, he
do. The Viscount is a very
particular gentleman. I don=
8217;t
think as you’ll be, Mr. Anne?’ he added, with a confidential sm=
ile
in the mirror.
He was about sixteen, well set up, with a
pleasant, merry, freckled face, and a pair of dancing eyes. There was an air at once deprecato=
ry and
insinuating about the rascal that I thought I recognised. There came to me from my own boyho=
od
memories of certain passionate admirations long passed away, and the object=
s of
them long ago discredited or dead.
I remembered how anxious I had been to serve those fleeting heroes, =
how readily
I told myself I would have died for them, how much greater and handsomer th=
an
life they had appeared. And l=
ooking
in the mirror, it seemed to me that I read the face of Rowley, like an echo=
or
a ghost, by the light of my own youth.&nbs=
p;
I have always contended (somewhat against the opinion of my friends)
that I am first of all an economist; and the last thing that I would care to
throw away is that very valuable piece of property—a boy’s
hero-worship.
‘Why,’ said I, ‘you shave li=
ke
an angel, Mr. Rowley!’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ says he. ‘Mr. Powl had no fear of me.=
You
may be sure, sir, I should never ’ave had this berth if I
’adn’t ’ave been up to Dick. We been expecting of you this month
back. My eye! I never see such preparations. Every day the fires has been kep=
8217;
up, the bed made, and all! As=
soon
as it was known you were coming, sir, I got the appointment; and I’ve
been up and down since then like a Jack-in-the-box. A wheel couldn’t
sound in the avenue but what I was at the window! I’ve had a many disappointme=
nts;
but to-night, as soon as you stepped out of the shay, I knew it was my̵=
2;it
was you. Oh, you had been
expected! Why, when I go down=
to
supper, I’ll be the ’ero of the servants’ ’all: the=
’ole
of the staff is that curious!’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I hope you =
may
be able to give a fair account of me—sober, steady, industrious,
good-tempered, and with a first-rate character from my last place?’
He laughed an embarrassed laugh. ‘Your hair curls beautiful,&=
#8217;
he said, by way of changing the subject.&n=
bsp;
‘The Viscount’s the boy for curls, though; and the richn=
ess
of it is, Mr. Powl tells me his don’t curl no more than that much
twine—by nature.
Gettin’ old, the Viscount is.=
He ’ave gone the pace, ’aven’t ’e, sir?̵=
7;
‘The fact is,’ said I, ‘that=
I
know very little about him. O=
ur
family has been much divided, and I have been a soldier from a child.’=
;
‘A soldier, Mr. Anne, sir?’ cried
Rowley, with a sudden feverish animation.&=
nbsp;
‘Was you ever wounded?’
It is contrary to my principles to discourage
admiration for myself; and, slipping back the shoulder of the dressing-gown=
, I
silently exhibited the scar which I had received in Edinburgh Castle. He looked at it with awe.
‘Ah, well!’ he continued,
‘there’s where the difference comes in! It’s in the training. The other Viscount have been
horse-racing, and dicing, and carrying on all his life. All right enough, no doubt; but wh=
at I
do say is, that it don’t lead to nothink. Whereas—’
‘Whereas Mr. Rowley’s?’ I put
in.
‘My Viscount?’ said he. ‘Well, sir, I did say it; an=
d now
that I’ve seen you, I say it again!’
I could not refrain from smiling at this outbu=
rst,
and the rascal caught me in the mirror and smiled to me again.
‘I’d say it again, Mr. Hanne,̵=
7;
he said. ‘I know which =
side
my bread’s buttered. I =
know
when a gen’leman’s a gen’leman. Mr. Powl can go to Putney with his
one! Beg your pardon, Mr. Ann=
e, for
being so familiar,’ said he, blushing suddenly scarlet. ‘I was especially warned aga=
inst
it by Mr. Powl.’
‘Discipline before all,’ said I. ‘Follow your front-rank man.=
With that, we began to turn our attention to t=
he
clothes. I was amazed to find=
them
fit so well: not à la diable, in the haphazard manner of a soldier=
8217;s
uniform or a ready-made suit; but with nicety, as a trained artist might
rejoice to make them for a favourite subject.
‘’Tis extraordinary,’ cried =
I:
‘these things fit me perfectly.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Anne, you two be very much =
of a
shape,’ said Rowley.
‘Who?&n=
bsp;
What two?’ said I.
‘The Viscount,’ he said.
‘Damnation! Have I the man’s clothes on =
me,
too?’ cried I.
But Rowley hastened to reassure me. On the first word of my coming, th=
e Count
had put the matter of my wardrobe in the hands of his own and my cousinR=
17;s
tailors; and on the rumour of our resemblance, my clothes had been made to
Alain’s measure.
‘But they were all made for you express,=
Mr.
Anne. You may be certain the =
Count
would never do nothing by ’alf: fires kep’ burning; the finest =
of
clothes ordered, I’m sure, and a body-servant being trained a-purpose=
.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘it’s a
good fire, and a good set-out of clothes; and what a valet, Mr. Rowley! And there’s one thing to be =
said
for my cousin—I mean for Mr. Powl’s Viscount—he has a very
fair figure.’
‘Oh, don’t you be took in, Mr.
Anne,’ quoth the faithless Rowley: ‘he has to be hyked into a p=
air
of stays to get them things on!’
‘Come, come, Mr. Rowley,’ said I,
‘this is telling tales out of school! Do not you be deceived. The greatest men of antiquity, inc=
luding
Caesar and Hannibal and Pope Joan, may have been very glad, at my time of l=
ife or
Alain’s, to follow his example.
’Tis a misfortune common to all; and really,’ said I, bo=
wing
to myself before the mirror like one who should dance the minuet, ‘wh=
en
the result is so successful as this, who would do anything but applaud?R=
17;
My toilet concluded, I marched on to fresh
surprises. My chamber, my new=
valet
and my new clothes had been beyond hope: the dinner, the soup, the whole bi=
ll
of fare was a revelation of the powers there are in man. I had not supposed it lay in the g=
enius
of any cook to create, out of common beef and mutton, things so different a=
nd
dainty. The wine was of a pie=
ce,
the doctor a most agreeable companion; nor could I help reflecting on the
prospect that all this wealth, comfort and handsome profusion might still v=
ery
possibly become mine. Here we=
re a
change indeed, from the common soldier and the camp kettle, the prisoner and
his prison rations, the fugitive and the horrors of the covered cart!
=
=
The
doctor had scarce finished his meal before he hastened with an apology to
attend upon his patient; and almost immediately after I was myself summoned=
and
ushered up the great staircase and along interminable corridors to the beds=
ide
of my great-uncle the Count. =
You
are to think that up to the present moment I had not set eyes on this formi=
dable
personage, only on the evidences of his wealth and kindness. You are to think besides that I had
heard him miscalled and abused from my earliest childhood up. The first of the émigr&eacu=
te;s
could never expect a good word in the society in which my father moved. Even yet the reports I received we=
re of
a doubtful nature; even Romaine had drawn of him no very amiable portrait; =
and
as I was ushered into the room, it was a critical eye that I cast on my
great-uncle. He lay propped on
pillows in a little cot no greater than a camp-bed, not visibly breathing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was about eighty years of age, =
and
looked it; not that his face was much lined, but all the blood and colour
seemed to have faded from his body, and even his eyes, which last he kept
usually closed as though the light distressed him. There was an unspeakable degree of
slyness in his expression, which kept me ill at ease; he seemed to lie there
with his arms folded, like a spider waiting for prey. His speech was very deliberate and
courteous, but scarce louder than a sigh.
‘I bid you welcome, Monsieur le Vicomte
Anne,’ said he, looking at me hard with his pale eyes, but not moving=
on
his pillows. ‘I have se=
nt for
you, and I thank you for the obliging expedition you have shown. It is my misfortune that I cannot =
rise
to receive you. I trust you h=
ave
been reasonably well entertained?’
‘Monsieur mon oncle,’ I said, bowi= ng very low, ‘I am come at the summons of the head of my family.’<= o:p>
‘It is well,’ he said. ‘Be seated. I should be glad to hear some news=
—if
that can be called news that is already twenty years old—of how I have
the pleasure to see you here.’
By the coldness of his address, not more than =
by
the nature of the times that he bade me recall, I was plunged in
melancholy. I felt myself sur=
rounded
as with deserts of friendlessness, and the delight of my welcome was turned=
to
ashes in my mouth.
‘That is soon told, monseigneur,’ =
said
I. ‘I understand that I=
need tell
you nothing of the end of my unhappy parents? It is only the story of the lost
dog.’
‘You are right. I am sufficiently informed of that
deplorable affair; it is painful to me.&nb=
sp;
My nephew, your father, was a man who would not be advised,’ s=
aid
he. ‘Tell me, if you pl=
ease,
simply of yourself.’
‘I am afraid I must run the risk of
harrowing your sensibility in the beginning,’ said I, with a bitter
smile, ‘because my story begins at the foot of the guillotine. When the list came out that night,=
and
her name was there, I was already old enough, not in years but in sad
experience, to understand the extent of my misfortune. She—’ I paused. ‘Enough that she arranged wi=
th a
friend, Madame de Chasserades, that she should take charge of me, and by the
favour of our jailers I was suffered to remain in the shelter of the
Abbaye. That was my only refu=
ge;
there was no corner of France that I could rest the sole of my foot upon ex=
cept
the prison. Monsieur le Comte=
, you
are as well aware as I can be what kind of a life that was, and how swiftly
death smote in that society. =
I did
not wait long before the name of Madame de Chasserades succeeded to that of=
my
mother on the list. She passe=
d me
on to Madame de Noytot; she, in her turn, to Mademoiselle de Braye; and the=
re
were others. I was the one th=
ing
permanent; they were all transient as clouds; a day or two of their care, a=
nd
then came the last farewell and—somewhere far off in that roaring Par=
is
that surrounded us—the bloody scene.=
I was the cherished one, the last comfort, of these dying women. I have been in pitched fights, my =
lord,
and I never knew such courage. It
was all done smiling, in the tone of good society; belle maman was the name=
I
was taught to give to each; and for a day or two the new “pretty
mamma” would make much of me, show me off, teach me the minuet, and to
say my prayers; and then, with a tender embrace, would go the way of her
predecessors, smiling. There =
were
some that wept too. There was=
a
childhood! All the time Monsi=
eur de
Culemberg kept his eye on me, and would have had me out of the Abbaye and in
his own protection, but my “pretty mammas” one after another
resisted the idea. Where coul=
d I be
safer? they argued; and what was to become of them without the darling of t=
he
prison? Well, it was soon sho=
wn how
safe I was! The dreadful day =
of the
massacre came; the prison was overrun; none paid attention to me, not even =
the
last of my “pretty mammas,” for she had met another fate. I was wandering distracted, when I=
was
found by some one in the interests of Monsieur de Culemberg. I understand he was sent on purpos=
e; I
believe, in order to reach the interior of the prison, he had set his hand =
to
nameless barbarities: such was the price paid for my worthless, whimpering
little life! He gave me his h=
and;
it was wet, and mine was reddened; he led me unresisting. I remember but the one circumstanc=
e of
my flight—it was my last view of my last pretty mamma. Shall I describe it to you?’=
I
asked the Count, with a sudden fierceness.
‘Avoid unpleasant details,’ observ=
ed
my great-uncle gently.
At these words a sudden peace fell upon me.
‘Certainly,’ said I; ‘and,
indeed, the day for them is nearly over.&n=
bsp;
I was taken to Monsieur de Culemberg’s,—I presume, sir, =
that
you know the Abbe de Culemberg?’
He indicated assent without opening his eyes.<= o:p>
‘He was a very brave and a very learned
man—’
‘And a very holy one,’ said my unc=
le
civilly.
‘And a very holy one, as you observe,=
217;
I continued. ‘He did an
infinity of good, and through all the Terror kept himself from the
guillotine. He brought me up,=
and
gave me such education as I have.
It was in his house in the country at Dammarie, near Melun, that I m=
ade
the acquaintance of your agent, Mr. Vicary, who lay there in hiding, only to
fall a victim at the last to a gang of chauffeurs.’
‘That poor Mr. Vicary!’ observed my
uncle. ‘He had been many
times in my interests to France, and this was his first failure. Quel charmant homme, n’est-ce
pas?’
‘Infinitely so,’ said I. ‘But I would not willingly d=
etain
you any further with a story, the details of which it must naturally be mor=
e or
less unpleasant for you to hear.
Suffice it that, by M. de Culemberg’s own advice, I said farew=
ell
at eighteen to that kind preceptor and his books, and entered the service of
France; and have since then carried arms in such a manner as not to disgrac=
e my
family.’
‘You narrate well; vous aves la voix
chaude,’ said my uncle, turning on his pillows as if to study me. ‘I have a very good account =
of you
by Monsieur de Mauseant, whom you helped in Spain. And you had some education from th=
e Abbe
de Culemberg, a man of a good house?
Yes, you will do very well.
You have a good manner and a handsome person, which hurts nothing. We are all handsome in the family;=
even
I myself, I have had my successes, the memories of which still charm me.
I was half tempted to throw back in his face t=
hat
inheritance so coldly offered. At
the same time I had to consider that he was an old man, and, after all, my
relation; and that I was a poor one, in considerable straits, with a hope at
heart which that inheritance might yet enable me to realise. Nor could I forget that, however i=
cy his
manners, he had behaved to me from the first with the extreme of liberality
and—I was about to write, kindness, but the word, in that connection,
would not come. I really owed=
the
man some measure of gratitude, which it would be an ill manner to repay if I
were to insult him on his deathbed.
‘Your will, monsieur, must ever be my
rule,’ said I, bowing.
‘You have wit, monsieur mon neveu,’
said he, ‘the best wit—the wit of silence. Many might have deafened me with t=
heir
gratitude. Gratitude!’ =
he
repeated, with a peculiar intonation, and lay and smiled to himself. ‘=
;But
to approach what is more important.
As a prisoner of war, will it be possible for you to be served heir =
to
English estates? I have no id=
ea:
long as I have dwelt in England, I have never studied what they call their
laws. On the other hand, how =
if
Romaine should come too late? I have two pieces of business to be
transacted—to die, and to make my will; and, however desirous I may b=
e to
serve you, I cannot postpone the first in favour of the second beyond a very
few hours.’
‘Well, sir, I must then contrive to be d=
oing
as I did before,’ said I.
‘Not so,’ said the Count. ‘I have an alternative. I have just drawn my balance at my
banker’s, a considerable sum, and I am now to place it in your
hands. It will be so much for=
you
and so much less—’ he paused, and smiled with an air of maligni=
ty
that surprised me. ‘But=
it is
necessary it should be done before witnesses. Monsieur le Vicomte is of a partic=
ular
disposition, and an unwitnessed donation may very easily be twisted into a
theft.’
He touched a bell, which was answered by a man
having the appearance of a confidential valet. To him he gave a key.
‘Bring me the despatch-box that came
yesterday, La Ferriere,’ said he. ‘You will at the same time
present my compliments to Dr. Hunter and M. l’Abbe, and request them =
to
step for a few moments to my room.’
The despatch-box proved to be rather a bulky p=
iece
of baggage, covered with Russia leather.&n=
bsp;
Before the doctor and an excellent old smiling priest it was passed =
over
into my hands with a very clear statement of the disposer’s wishes;
immediately after which, though the witnesses remained behind to draw up and
sign a joint note of the transaction, Monsieur de Kéroual dismissed =
me
to my own room, La Ferriere following with the invaluable box.
At my chamber door I took it from him with tha=
nks,
and entered alone. Everything had been already disposed for the night, the
curtains drawn and the fire trimmed; and Rowley was still busy with my
bedclothes. He turned round a=
s I
entered with a look of welcome that did my heart good. Indeed, I had never a
much greater need of human sympathy, however trivial, than at that moment w=
hen
I held a fortune in my arms. =
In my uncle’s
room I had breathed the very atmosphere of disenchantment. He had gorged my pockets; he had s=
tarved
every dignified or affectionate sentiment of a man. I had received so chilling an impr=
ession
of age and experience that the mere look of youth drew me to confide in Row=
ley:
he was only a boy, his heart must beat yet, he must still retain some innoc=
ence
and natural feelings, he could blurt out follies with his mouth, he was not=
a
machine to utter perfect speech! At
the same time, I was beginning to outgrow the painful impressions of my
interview; my spirits were beginning to revive; and at the jolly, empty loo=
ks
of Mr. Rowley, as he ran forward to relieve me of the box, St. Ives became =
himself
again.
‘Now, Rowley, don’t be in a
hurry,’ said I. ‘=
This
is a momentous juncture. Man =
and
boy, you have been in my service about three hours. You must already have
observed that I am a gentleman of a somewhat morose disposition, and there =
is
nothing that I more dislike than the smallest appearance of familiarity.
‘Yes, Mr. Anne,’ said Rowley blank=
ly.
‘Now there has just arisen one of those =
rare
cases, in which I am willing to depart from my principles. My uncle has given me a box—=
what
you would call a Christmas box. I
don’t know what’s in it, and no more do you: perhaps I am an Ap=
ril
fool, or perhaps I am already enormously wealthy; there might be five hundr=
ed
pounds in this apparently harmless receptacle!’
‘Lord, Mr. Anne!’ cried Rowley.
‘Now, Rowley, hold up your right hand and
repeat the words of the oath after me,’ said I, laying the despatch-b=
ox
on the table. ‘Strike m=
e blue
if I ever disclose to Mr. Powl, or Mr. Powl’s Viscount, or anything t=
hat is
Mr. Powl’s, not to mention Mr. Dawson and the doctor, the treasures o=
f the
following despatch-box; and strike me sky-blue scarlet if I do not continua=
lly
maintain, uphold, love, honour and obey, serve, and follow to the four corn=
ers
of the earth and the waters that are under the earth, the hereinafter
before-mentioned (only that I find I have neglected to mention him) Viscount
Anne de Kéroual de St.-Yves, commonly known as Mr. Rowley’s
Viscount. So be it. Amen.’
He took the oath with the same exaggerated
seriousness as I gave it to him.
‘Now,’ said I. ‘Here is the key for you; I =
will
hold the lid with both hands in the meanwhile.’ He turned the key. ‘Bring up all the candles in=
the
room, and range them along-side.
What is it to be? A li=
ve gorgon,
a Jack-in-the-box, or a spring that fires a pistol? On your knees, sir, before the
prodigy!’
So saying, I turned the despatch-box upside do=
wn
upon the table. At sight of t=
he
heap of bank paper and gold that lay in front of us, between the candles, or
rolled upon the floor alongside, I stood astonished.
‘O Lord!’ cried Mr. Rowley; ‘=
;oh
Lordy, Lordy, Lord!’ and he scrambled after the fallen guineas. ‘O my, Mr. Anne! what a sight
o’ money! Why, it’=
;s
like a blessed story-book.
It’s like the Forty Thieves.’
‘Now Rowley, let’s be cool,
let’s be businesslike,’ said I. ‘Riches are deceitful,
particularly when you haven’t counted them; and the first thing we ha=
ve
to do is to arrive at the amount of my—let me say, modest competency.=
If I’m not mistaken, I have =
enough
here to keep you in gold buttons all the rest of your life. You collect the gold, and I’=
ll
take the paper.’
Accordingly, down we sat together on the
hearthrug, and for some time there was no sound but the creasing of bills a=
nd
the jingling of guineas, broken occasionally by the exulting exclamations of
Rowley. The arithmetical oper=
ation
on which we were embarked took long, and it might have been tedious to othe=
rs;
not to me nor to my helper.
‘Ten thousand pounds!’ I announced=
at
last.
‘Ten thousand!’ echoed Mr. Rowley.=
And we gazed upon each other.
The greatness of this fortune took my breath
away. With that sum in my han=
ds, I
need fear no enemies. People =
are
arrested, in nine cases out of ten, not because the police are astute, but
because they themselves run short of money; and I had here before me in the
despatch-box a succession of devices and disguises that insured my
liberty. Not only so; but, as=
I felt
with a sudden and overpowering thrill, with ten thousand pounds in my hands=
I
was become an eligible suitor. What
advances I had made in the past, as a private soldier in a military prison,=
or
a fugitive by the wayside, could only be qualified or, indeed, excused as a=
cts
of desperation. And now, I mi=
ght
come in by the front door; I might approach the dragon with a lawyer at my
elbow, and rich settlements to offer.
The poor French prisoner, Champdivers, might be in a perpetual dange=
r of
arrest; but the rich travelling Englishman, St.-Ives, in his post-chaise, w=
ith
his despatch-box by his side, could smile at fate and laugh at locksmiths.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I repeated the proverb, exulting, =
Love
laughs at locksmiths! In a mo=
ment,
by the mere coming of this money, my love had become possible—it had =
come
near, it was under my hand—and it may be by one of the curiosities of
human nature, but it burned that instant brighter.
‘Rowley,’ said I, ‘your Visc=
ount
is a made man.’
‘Why, we both are, sir,’ said Rowl=
ey.
‘Yes, both,’ said I; ‘and you
shall dance at the wedding;’ and I flung at his head a bundle of bank
notes, and had just followed it up with a handful of guineas, when the door
opened, and Mr. Romaine appeared upon the threshold.
=
=
Feeling
very much of a fool to be thus taken by surprise, I scrambled to my feet and
hastened to make my visitor welcome.
He did not refuse me his hand; but he gave it with a coldness and
distance for which I was quite unprepared, and his countenance, as he looke=
d on
me, was marked in a strong degree with concern and severity.
‘So, sir, I find you here?’ said h=
e,
in tones of little encouragement. ‘Is that you, George? You can run away; I have business =
with
your master.’
He showed Rowley out, and locked the door behi=
nd
him. Then he sat down in an
armchair on one side of the fire, and looked at me with uncompromising
sternness.
‘I am hesitating how to begin,’ sa=
id
he. ‘In this singular
labyrinth of blunders and difficulties that you have prepared for us, I am
positively hesitating where to begin.
It will perhaps be best that you should read, first of all, this
paragraph.’ And he hand=
ed
over to me a newspaper.
The paragraph in question was brief. It announced the recapture of one =
of the
prisoners recently escaped from Edinburgh Castle; gave his name, Clausel, a=
nd
added that he had entered into the particulars of the recent revolting murd=
er
in the Castle, and denounced the murderer:—
&=
nbsp;
‘It is a common soldier called Champdivers, who had himself
escaped, an=
d is
in all probability involved in the common fate of his comrades. In spite of the activity along all=
the
Forth and the East Coast, nothing ha=
s yet
been seen of the sloop which these desperadoes seized at Grangem=
outh,
and it is now almost certain that they have found a watery
grave.’
At the reading of this paragraph, my heart tur=
ned
over. In a moment I saw my ca=
stle
in the air ruined; myself changed from a mere military fugitive into a hunt=
ed
murderer, fleeing from the gallows; my love, which had a moment since appea=
red
so near to me, blotted from the field of possibility. Despair, which was my first sentim=
ent,
did not, however, endure for more than a moment. I saw that my companions had indee=
d succeeded
in their unlikely design; and that I was supposed to have accompanied and
perished along with them by shipwreck—a most probable ending to their
enterprise. If they thought m=
e at
the bottom of the North Sea, I need not fear much vigilance on the streets =
of
Edinburgh. Champdivers was wanted: what was to connect him with St. Ives? Major Chevenix would recognise me =
if he
met me; that was beyond bargaining: he had seen me so often, his interest h=
ad
been kindled to so high a point, that I could hope to deceive him by no
stratagem of disguise. Well, =
even so;
he would have a competition of testimony before him: he knew Clausel, he kn=
ew
me, and I was sure he would decide for honour. At the same time the image of Flor=
a shot
up in my mind’s eye with such a radiancy as fairly overwhelmed all ot=
her
considerations; the blood sprang to every corner of my body, and I vowed I
would see and win her, if it cost my neck.
‘Very annoying, no doubt,’ said I,=
as
I returned the paper to Mr. Romaine.
‘Is annoying your word for it?’ sa=
id
he.
‘Exasperating, if you like,’ I
admitted.
‘And true?’ he inquired.
‘Well, true in a sense,’ said I. ‘But perhaps I had better an=
swer
that question by putting you in possession of the facts?’
‘I think so, indeed,’ said he.
I narrated to him as much as seemed necessary =
of
the quarrel, the duel, the death of Goguelat, and the character of
Clausel. He heard me through =
in a
forbidding silence, nor did he at all betray the nature of his sentiments,
except that, at the episode of the scissors, I could observe his mulberry f=
ace
to turn three shades paler.
‘I suppose I may believe you?’ said
he, when I had done.
‘Or else conclude this interview,’
said I.
‘Can you not understand that we are here discussing matters of the gravest import?&= nbsp; Can you not understand that I feel myself weighed with a load of responsibility on your account—that you should take this occasion to = air your fire-eating manners against your own attorney? There are serious hours in life, M= r. Anne,’ he said severely. ‘A capital charge, and that of a very brutal character and with singularly unpleasant details; the presence of the man Clausel, who (accord= ing to your account of it) is actuated by sentiments of real malignity, and prepared to swear black white; all the other witnesses scattered and perhaps drowned at sea; the natural prejudice against a Frenchman and a runaway prisoner: this makes a serious total for your lawyer to consider, and is by= no means lessened by the incurable folly and levity of your own disposition.’<= o:p>
‘I beg your pardon!’ said I.
‘Oh, my expressions have been selected w=
ith
scrupulous accuracy,’ he replied.&nb=
sp;
‘How did I find you, sir, when I came to announce this catastr=
ophe? You were sitting on the hearthrug
playing, like a silly baby, with a servant, were you not, and the floor all
scattered with gold and bank paper?
There was a tableau for you!
It was I who came, and you were lucky in that. It might have been any one—y=
our
cousin as well as another.’
‘You have me there, sir,’ I
admitted. ‘I had neglec=
ted
all precautions, and you do right to be angry. Apropos, Mr. Romaine, how did you =
come yourself,
and how long have you been in the house?’ I added, surprised, on the
retrospect, not to have heard him arrive.
‘I drove up in a chaise and pair,’=
he
returned. ‘Any one migh=
t have
heard me. But you were not
listening, I suppose? being so extremely at your ease in the very house of =
your
enemy, and under a capital charge! And I have been long enough here to do y=
our
business for you. Ah, yes, I =
did
it, God forgive me!—did it before I so much as asked you the explanat=
ion
of the paragraph. For some ti=
me
back the will has been prepared; now it is signed; and your uncle has heard
nothing of your recent piece of activity.&=
nbsp;
Why? Well, I had no fa=
ncy to
bother him on his death-bed: you might be innocent; and at bottom I preferr=
ed
the murderer to the spy.’
No doubt of it but the man played a friendly p=
art;
no doubt also that, in his ill-temper and anxiety, he expressed himself
unpalatably.
‘You will perhaps find me over
delicate,’ said I.
‘There is a word you employed—’
‘I employ the words of my brief, sir,=
217;
he cried, striking with his hand on the newspaper. ‘It is there in six letters.=
And do not be so certain—you=
have
not stood your trial yet. It =
is an
ugly affair, a fishy business. It
is highly disagreeable. I wou=
ld
give my hand off—I mean I would give a hundred pound down, to have
nothing to do with it. And, s=
ituated
as we are, we must at once take action.&nb=
sp;
There is here no choice. You
must at once quit this country, and get to France, or Holland, or, indeed, =
to
Madagascar.’
‘There may be two words to that,’ =
said
I.
‘Not so much as one syllable!’ he
retorted. ‘Here is no r=
oom
for argument. The case is nak=
edly
plain. In the disgusting posi=
tion
in which you have found means to place yourself, all that is to be hoped fo=
r is
delay. A time may come when we
shall be able to do better. It
cannot be now: now it would be the gibbet.’
‘You labour under a false impression, Mr.
Romaine,’ said I. ̵=
6;I
have no impatience to figure in the dock.&=
nbsp;
I am even as anxious as yourself to postpone my first appearance
there. On the other hand, I h=
ave
not the slightest intention of leaving this country, where I please myself =
extremely. I have a good address, a ready ton=
gue,
an English accent that passes, and, thanks to the generosity of my uncle, as
much money as I want. It woul=
d be
hard indeed if, with all these advantages, Mr. St. Ives should not be able =
to
live quietly in a private lodging, while the authorities amuse themselves by
looking for Champdivers. You
forget, there is no connection between these two personages.’
‘And you forget your cousin,’ reto=
rted
Romaine. ‘There is the =
link. There
is the tongue of the buckle. =
He knows
you are Champdivers.’ H=
e put
up his hand as if to listen.
‘And, for a wager, here he is himself!’ he exclaimed.
As when a tailor takes a piece of goods upon h=
is
counter, and rends it across, there came to our ears from the avenue the lo=
ng
tearing sound of a chaise and four approaching at the top speed of the
horses. And, looking out betw=
een
the curtains, we beheld the lamps skimming on the smooth ascent.
‘Ay,’ said Romaine, wiping the
window-pane that he might see more clearly. ‘Ay, that is he by the
driving! So he squanders money
along the king’s highway, the triple idiot! gorging every man he meets
with gold for the pleasure of arriving—where? Ah, yes, where but a debtor’=
s jail,
if not a criminal prison!’
‘Is he that kind of a man?’ I said=
, staring
on these lamps as though I could decipher in them the secret of my
cousin’s character.
‘You will find him a dangerous kind,R=
17;
answered the lawyer. ‘F=
or
you, these are the lights on a lee shore!&=
nbsp;
I find I fall in a muse when I consider of him; what a formidable be=
ing
he once was, and what a personable! and how near he draws to the moment that
must break him utterly! we none of us like him here; we hate him, rather; a=
nd
yet I have a sense—I don’t think at my time of life it can be
pity—but a reluctance rather, to break anything so big and figurative=
, as
though he were a big porcelain pot or a big picture of high price. Ay, there is what I was waiting
for!’ he cried, as the lights of a second chaise swam in sight. ̵=
6;It
is he beyond a doubt. The fir=
st was
the signature and the next the flourish.&n=
bsp;
Two chaises, the second following with the baggage, which is always
copious and ponderous, and one of his valets: he cannot go a step without a
valet.’
‘I hear you repeat the word big,’ =
said
I. ‘But it cannot be th=
at he
is anything out of the way in stature.’
‘No,’ said the attorney. ‘About your height, as I gue=
ssed
for the tailors, and I see nothing wrong with the result. But, somehow, he commands an atmos=
phere;
he has a spacious manner; and he has kept up, all through life, such a volu=
me
of racket about his personality, with his chaises and his racers and his
dicings, and I know not what—that somehow he imposes! It seems, when the farce is done, =
and he
locked in Fleet prison—and nobody left but Buonaparte and Lord Wellin=
gton
and the Hetman Platoff to make a work about—the world will be in a
comparison quite tranquil. Bu=
t this
is beside the mark,’ he added, with an effort, turning again from the
window. ‘We are now und=
er
fire, Mr. Anne, as you soldiers would say, and it is high time we should
prepare to go into action. He=
must
not see you; that would be fatal.
All that he knows at present is that you resemble him, and that is m=
uch
more than enough. If it were
possible, it would be well he should not know you were in the house.’=
‘Quite impossible, depend upon it,’
said I. ‘Some of the se=
rvants
are directly in his interests, perhaps in his pay: Dawson, for an
example.’
‘My own idea!’ cried Romaine. ‘And at least,’ he add=
ed, as
the first of the chaises drew up with a dash in front of the portico, ̵=
6;it
is now too late. Here he is.&=
#8217;
We stood listening, with a strange anxiety, to=
the
various noises that awoke in the silent house: the sound of doors opening a=
nd
closing, the sound of feet near at hand and farther off. It was plain the arrival of my cou=
sin
was a matter of moment, almost of parade, to the household. And suddenly, o=
ut
of this confused and distant bustle, a rapid and light tread became
distinguishable. We heard it =
come
upstairs, draw near along the corridor, pause at the door, and a stealthy a=
nd
hasty rapping succeeded.
‘Mr. Anne—Mr. Anne, sir! Let me in!’ said the voice of
Rowley.
We admitted the lad, and locked the door again
behind him.
‘It’s him, sir,’ he panted.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘He’ve come.’
‘You mean the Viscount?’ said I. ‘So we supposed. But come, Rowley—out with th=
e rest
of it! You have more to tell =
us, or
your face belies you!’
‘Mr. Anne, I do,’ he said. ‘Mr. Romaine, sir, you’=
;re a
friend of his, ain’t you?’
‘Yes, George, I am a friend of his,̵=
7;
said Romaine, and, to my great surprise, laid his hand upon my shoulder.
‘Well, it’s this way,’ said
Rowley—‘Mr. Powl have been at me! It’s to play the spy! I thought he was at it from the
first! From the first I see w=
hat he
was after—coming round and round, and hinting things! But to-night he outs with it plump=
! I’m to let him hear all what
you’re to do beforehand, he says; and he gave me this for an
arnest’—holding up half a guinea; ‘and I took it, so I
did! Strike me sky-blue
scarlet?’ says he, adducing the words of the mock oath; and he looked
askance at me as he did so.
I saw that he had forgotten himself, and that =
he
knew it. The expression of hi=
s eye
changed almost in the passing of the glance from the significant to the
appealing—from the look of an accomplice to that of a culprit; and fr=
om
that moment he became the model of a well-drilled valet.
‘Sky-blue scarlet?’ repeated the
lawyer. ‘Is the fool
delirious?’
‘No,’ said I; ‘he is only
reminding me of something.’
‘Well—and I believe the fellow wil=
l be
faithful,’ said Romaine.
‘So you are a friend of Mr. Anne’s’ too?’ he
added to Rowley.
‘If you please, sir,’ said Rowley.=
‘’Tis something sudden,’
observed Romaine; ‘but it may be genuine enough. I believe him to be
honest. He comes of honest
people. Well, George Rowley, =
you
might embrace some early opportunity to earn that half-guinea, by telling M=
r.
Powl that your master will not leave here till noon to-morrow, if he go even
then. Tell him there are a hu=
ndred things
to be done here, and a hundred more that can only be done properly at my of=
fice
in Holborn. Come to think of
it—we had better see to that first of all,’ he went on, unlocki=
ng
the door. ‘Get hold of =
Powl,
and see. And be quick back, a=
nd
clear me up this mess.’
Mr. Rowley was no sooner gone than the lawyer =
took
a pinch of snuff, and regarded me with somewhat of a more genial expression=
.
‘Sir,’ said he, ‘it is very
fortunate for you that your face is so strong a letter of recommendation. Here am I, a tough old practitione=
r,
mixing myself up with your very distressing business; and here is this
farmer’s lad, who has the wit to take a bribe and the loyalty to come=
and
tell you of it—all, I take it, on the strength of your appearance.
‘And how it would affect the hangman,
sir?’ I asked
‘Absit omen!’ said Mr. Romaine
devoutly.
We were just so far in our talk, when I heard a
sound that brought my heart into my mouth: the sound of some one slyly tryi=
ng
the handle of the door. It ha=
d been
preceded by no audible footstep.
Since the departure of Rowley our wing of the house had been entirely
silent. And we had every righ=
t to
suppose ourselves alone, and to conclude that the new-comer, whoever he mig=
ht
be, was come on a clandestine, if not a hostile, errand.
‘Who is there?’ asked Romaine.
‘It’s only me, sir,’ said the
soft voice of Dawson.
‘It’s the Viscount, sir. He is very desirous to speak with =
you on
business.’
‘Tell him I shall come shortly,
Dawson,’ said the lawyer.
‘I am at present engaged.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ said Dawson.
And we heard his feet draw off slowly along the
corridor.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Romaine, speaking =
low,
and maintaining the attitude of one intently listening, ‘there is ano=
ther
foot. I cannot be deceived!=
8217;
‘I think there was indeed!’ said
I. ‘And what troubles
me—I am not sure that the other has gone entirely away. By the time it got the length of t=
he
head of the stair the tread was plainly single.’
‘Ahem—blockaded?’ asked the
lawyer.
‘A siege en règle!’ I
exclaimed.
‘Let us come farther from the door,̵=
7;
said Romaine, ‘and reconsider this damnable position. Without doubt, Alain was this mome=
nt at
the door. He hoped to enter a=
nd get
a view of you, as if by accident.
Baffled in this, has he stayed himself, or has he planted Dawson her=
e by
way of sentinel?’
‘Himself, beyond a doubt,’ said
I. ‘And yet to what end=
? He cannot think to pass the night
there!’
‘If it were only possible to pay no
heed!’ said Mr. Romaine.
‘But this is the accursed drawback of your position. We can do nothing openly. I must smuggle you out of this roo=
m and
out of this house like seizable goods; and how am I to set about it with a
sentinel planted at your very door?’
‘There is no good in being agitated,R=
17; said
I.
‘None at all,’ he acquiesced. ‘And, come to think of it, i=
t is
droll enough that I should have been that very moment commenting on your pe=
rsonal
appearance, when your cousin came upon this mission. I was saying, if you remember, tha=
t your
face was as good or better than a letter of recommendation. I wonder if M. Alain would be like=
the
rest of us—I wonder what he would think of it?’
Mr. Romaine was sitting in a chair by the fire
with his back to the windows, and I was myself kneeling on the hearthrug and
beginning mechanically to pick up the scattered bills, when a honeyed voice
joined suddenly in our conversation.
‘He thinks well of it, Mr. Romaine. He begs to join himself to that ci=
rcle
of admirers which you indicate to exist already.’
=
=
Never
did two human creatures get to their feet with more alacrity than the lawyer
and myself. We had locked and
barred the main gates of the citadel; but unhappily we had left open the
bath-room sally-port; and here we found the voice of the hostile trumpets
sounding from within, and all our defences taken in reverse. I took but the time to whisper Mr.=
Romaine
in the ear: ‘Here is another tableau for you!’ at which he look=
ed at
me a moment with a kind of pathos, as who should say, ‘Don’t hi=
t a
man when he’s down.’
Then I transferred my eyes to my enemy.
He had his hat on, a little on one side: it wa=
s a
very tall hat, raked extremely, and had a narrow curling brim. His hair was all curled out in mas=
ses
like an Italian mountebank—a most unpardonable fashion. He sported a huge tippeted overcoa=
t of
frieze, such as watchmen wear, only the inside was lined with costly furs, =
and
he kept it half open to display the exquisite linen, the many-coloured
waistcoat, and the profuse jewellery of watch-chains and brooches
underneath. The leg and the a=
nkle were
turned to a miracle. It is ou=
t of
the question that I should deny the resemblance altogether, since it has be=
en
remarked by so many different persons whom I cannot reasonably accuse of a
conspiracy. As a matter of fa=
ct, I
saw little of it and confessed to nothing.=
Certainly he was what some might call handsome, of a pictorial,
exuberant style of beauty, all attitude, profile, and impudence: a man whom=
I
could see in fancy parade on the grand stand at a race-meeting or swagger i=
n Piccadilly,
staring down the women, and stared at himself with admiration by the
coal-porters. Of his frame of=
mind
at that moment his face offered a lively if an unconscious picture. He was lividly pale, and his lip w=
as
caught up in a smile that could almost be called a snarl, of a sheer, arid
malignity that appalled me and yet put me on my mettle for the encounter. He looked me up and down, then bow=
ed and
took off his hat to me.
‘My cousin, I presume?’ he said.
‘I understand I have that honour,’=
I
replied.
‘The honour is mine,’ said he, and=
his
voice shook as he said it.
‘I should make you welcome, I
believe,’ said I.
‘Why?’ he inquired. ‘This poor house has been my=
home
for longer than I care to claim.
That you should already take upon yourself the duties of host here i=
s to
be at unnecessary pains. Beli=
eve
me, that part would be more becomingly mine. And, by the way, I must not fail to
offer you my little compliment. It
is a gratifying surprise to meet you in the dress of a gentleman, and to
see’—with a circular look upon the scattered bills—‘=
;that
your necessities have already been so liberally relieved.’
I bowed with a smile that was perhaps no less
hateful than his own.
‘There are so many necessities in this
world,’ said I.
‘Charity has to choose.
One gets relieved, and some other, no less indigent, perhaps indebte=
d,
must go wanting.’
‘Malice is an engaging trait,’ said
he.
‘And envy, I think?’ was my reply.=
He must have felt that he was not getting whol=
ly
the better of this passage at arms; perhaps even feared that he should lose
command of his temper, which he reined in throughout the interview as with a
red-hot curb, for he flung away from me at the word, and addressed the lawy=
er with
insulting arrogance.
‘Mr. Romaine,’ he said, ‘sin=
ce
when have you presumed to give orders in this house?’
‘I am not prepared to admit that I have
given any,’ replied Romaine; ‘certainly none that did not fall =
in
the sphere of my responsibilities.’
‘By whose orders, then, am I denied entr=
ance
to my uncle’s room?’ said my cousin.
‘By the doctor’s, sir,’ repl=
ied
Romaine; ‘and I think even you will admit his faculty to give
them.’
‘Have a care, sir,’ cried Alain. ‘Do not be puffed up with yo=
ur position. It is none so secure, Master
Attorney. I should not wonder=
in the
least if you were struck off the rolls for this night’s work, and the=
next
I should see of you were when I flung you alms at a pothouse door to mend y=
our
ragged elbows. The doctorR=
17;s
orders? But I believe I am no=
t mistaken! You have to-night transacted busin=
ess
with the Count; and this needy young gentleman has enjoyed the privilege of
still another interview, in which (as I am pleased to see) his dignity has =
not prevented
his doing very well for himself. I
wonder that you should care to prevaricate with me so idly.’
‘I will confess so much,’ said Mr.
Romaine, ‘if you call it prevarication. The order in question emanated fro=
m the
Count himself. He does not wish to see you.’
‘For which I must take the word of Mr.
Daniel Romaine?’ asked Alain.
‘In default of any better,’ said
Romaine.
There was an instantaneous convulsion in my
cousin’s face, and I distinctly heard him gnash his teeth at this rep=
ly;
but, to my surprise, he resumed in tones of almost good humour:
‘Come, Mr. Romaine, do not let us be
petty!’ He drew in a ch=
air
and sat down. ‘Understa=
nd you
have stolen a march upon me. =
You
have introduced your soldier of Napoleon, and (how, I cannot conceive) he h=
as
been apparently accepted with favour.
I ask no better proof than the funds with which I find him literally
surrounded—I presume in consequence of some extravagance of joy at the
first sight of so much money. The
odds are so far in your favour, but the match is not yet won. Questions will arise of undue infl=
uence,
of sequestration, and the like: I have my witnesses ready. I tell it you cynically, for you c=
annot
profit by the knowledge; and, if the worst come to the worst, I have good h=
opes
of recovering my own and of ruining you.’
‘You do what you please,’ answered
Romaine; ‘but I give it you for a piece of good advice, you had best =
do
nothing in the matter. You wi=
ll only
make yourself ridiculous; you will only squander money, of which you have n=
one
too much, and reap public mortification.’
‘Ah, but there you make the common mista=
ke,
Mr. Romaine!’ returned Alain. ‘You despise your adversary. Consider, if you please, how very =
disagreeable
I could make myself, if I chose.
Consider the position of your protégé—an escaped
prisoner! But I play a great
game. I condemn such petty
opportunities.’
At this Romaine and I exchanged a glance of
triumph. It seemed manifest t=
hat
Alain had as yet received no word of Clausel’s recapture and denuncia=
tion. At the same moment the lawyer, thus
relieved of the instancy of his fear, changed his tactics. With a great air of unconcern, he
secured the newspaper, which still lay open before him on the table.
‘I think, Monsieur Alain, that you labour
under some illusion,’ said he. ‘Believe me, this is all beside =
the
mark. You seem to be pointing=
to some
compromise. Nothing is furthe=
r from
my views. You suspect me of a=
n inclination
to trifle with you, to conceal how things are going. I cannot, on the other hand, be too
early or too explicit in giving you information which concerns you (I must =
say)
capitally. Your great-uncle h=
as
to-night cancelled his will, and made a new one in favour of your cousin
Anne. Nay, and you shall hear=
it
from his own lips, if you choose! =
span>I
will take so much upon me,’ said the lawyer, rising. ‘Follow me, if you please,
gentlemen.’
Mr. Romaine led the way out of the room so
briskly, and was so briskly followed by Alain, that I had hard ado to get t=
he
remainder of the money replaced and the despatch-box locked, and to overtake
them, even by running ere they should be lost in that maze of corridors, my
uncle’s house. As it wa=
s, I
went with a heart divided; and the thought of my treasure thus left
unprotected, save by a paltry lid and lock that any one might break or pick
open, put me in a perspiration whenever I had the time to remember it. The lawyer brought us to a room, b=
egged
us to be seated while he should hold a consultation with the doctor, and,
slipping out of another door, left Alain and myself closeted together.
Truly he had done nothing to ingratiate himsel=
f;
his every word had been steeped in unfriendliness, envy, and that contempt
which (as it is born of anger) it is possible to support without
humiliation. On my part, I ha=
d been
little more conciliating; and yet I began to be sorry for this man, hired s=
py
as I knew him to be. It seeme=
d to
me less than decent that he should have been brought up in the expectation =
of
this great inheritance, and now, at the eleventh hour, be tumbled forth out=
of
the house door and left to himself, his poverty and his debts—those d=
ebts
of which I had so ungallantly reminded him so short a time before. And we were scarce left alone ere =
I made
haste to hang out a flag of truce.
‘My cousin,’ said I, ‘trust =
me,
you will not find me inclined to be your enemy.’
He paused in front of me—for he had not
accepted the lawyer’s invitation to be seated, but walked to and fro =
in
the apartment—took a pinch of snuff, and looked at me while he was ta=
king
it with an air of much curiosity.
‘Is it even so?’ said he. ‘Am I so far favoured by for=
tune
as to have your pity? Infinit=
ely
obliged, my cousin Anne! But =
these
sentiments are not always reciprocal, and I warn you that the day when I se=
t my
foot on your neck, the spine shall break.&=
nbsp;
Are you acquainted with the properties of the spine?’ he asked
with an insolence beyond qualification.
It was too much. ‘I am acquainted also with t=
he
properties of a pair of pistols,’ said I, toising him.
‘No, no, no!’ says he, holding up =
his
finger. ‘I will take my
revenge how and when I please. We
are enough of the same family to understand each other, perhaps; and the re=
ason
why I have not had you arrested on your arrival, why I had not a picket of
soldiers in the first clump of evergreens, to await and prevent your
coming—I, who knew all, before whom that pettifogger, Romaine, has be=
en
conspiring in broad daylight to supplant me—is simply this: that I had
not made up my mind how I was to take my revenge.’ At that moment he was interrupted by the tolli=
ng
of a bell. As we stood surpri=
sed
and listening, it was succeeded by the sound of many feet trooping up the
stairs and shuffling by the door of our room. Both, I believe, had a great curio=
sity
to set it open, which each, owing to the presence of the other, resisted; a=
nd
we waited instead in silence, and without moving, until Romaine returned and
bade us to my uncle’s presence. He led the way by a little crooked passage, wh=
ich
brought us out in the sick-room, and behind the bed. I believe I have forgotten to rema=
rk
that the Count’s chamber was of considerable dimensions. We beheld it now crowded with the
servants and dependants of the house, from the doctor and the priest to Mr.
Dawson and the housekeeper, from Dawson down to Rowley and the last footman=
in
white calves, the last plump chambermaid in her clean gown and cap, and the
last ostler in a stable waiscoat. This large congregation of persons (and I=
was
surprised to see how large it was) had the appearance, for the most part, of
being ill at ease and heartily bewildered, standing on one foot, gaping like
zanies, and those who were in the corners nudging each other and grinning
aside. My uncle, on the other=
hand,
who was raised higher than I had yet seen him on his pillows, wore an air of
really imposing gravity. No s=
ooner
had we appeared behind him, than he lifted his voice to a good loudness, an=
d addressed
the assemblage. ‘I take you all to witness—can you
hear me?—I take you all to witness that I recognise as my heir and re=
presentative
this gentleman, whom most of you see for the first time, the Viscount Anne =
de
St.-Yves, my nephew of the younger line.&n=
bsp;
And I take you to witness at the same time that, for very good reaso=
ns
known to myself, I have discarded and disinherited this other gentleman whom
you all know, the Viscount de St.-Yves.&nb=
sp;
I have also to explain the unusual trouble to which I have put you
all—and, since your supper was not over, I fear I may even say
annoyance. It has pleased M. =
Alain
to make some threats of disputing my will, and to pretend that there are am=
ong
your number certain estimable persons who may be trusted to swear as he sha=
ll
direct them. It pleases me th=
us to put
it out of his power and to stop the mouths of his false witnesses. I am infinitely obliged by your
politeness, and I have the honour to wish you all a very good evening.̵=
7; As the servants, still greatly mystified, crow=
ded
out of the sickroom door, curtseying, pulling the forelock, scraping with t=
he
foot, and so on, according to their degree, I turned and stole a look at my
cousin. He had borne this crushing public rebuke without change of countena=
nce.
He stood, now, very upright, with folded arms, and looking inscrutably at t=
he
roof of the apartment. I coul=
d not
refuse him at that moment the tribute of my admiration. Still more so when, the last of the
domestics having filed through the doorway and left us alone with my
great-uncle and the lawyer, he took one step forward towards the bed, made =
a dignified
reverence, and addressed the man who had just condemned him to ruin. ‘My lord,’ said he, ‘you are
pleased to treat me in a manner which my gratitude, and your state, equally
forbid me to call in question. It will
be only necessary for me to call your attention to the length of time in wh=
ich
I have been taught to regard myself as your heir. In that position, I judged it only=
loyal
to permit myself a certain scale of expenditure. If I am now to be cut off with a
shilling as the reward of twenty years of service, I shall be left not only=
a
beggar, but a bankrupt.’ Whether from the fatigue of his recent exertio=
n,
or by a well-inspired ingenuity of hate, my uncle had once more closed his
eyes; nor did he open them now.
‘Not with a shilling,’ he contented himself with replyin=
g;
and there stole, as he said it, a sort of smile over his face, that flicker=
ed
there conspicuously for the least moment of time, and then faded and left
behind the old impenetrable mask of years, cunning, and fatigue. There could be no mistake: my uncle
enjoyed the situation as he had enjoyed few things in the last quarter of a
century. The fires of life sc=
arce
survived in that frail body; but hatred, like some immortal quality, was st=
ill
erect and unabated. Nevertheless my cousin persevered. ‘I speak at a disadvantage,’ he
resumed. ‘My supplanter=
, with
perhaps more wisdom than delicacy, remains in the room,’ and he cast a
glance at me that might have withered an oak tree. I was only too willing to withdraw, and Romaine
showed as much alacrity to make way for my departure. But my uncle was not to be moved.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the same breath of a voice, and=
still
without opening his eyes, he bade me remain.
‘It is well,’ said Alain. ‘I cannot then go on to remi=
nd you
of the twenty years that have passed over our heads in England, and the
services I may have rendered you in that time. It would be a position too odious.=
Your
lordship knows me too well to suppose I could stoop to such ignominy. I must leave out all my
defence—your lordship wills it so!&n=
bsp;
I do not know what are my faults; I know only my punishment, and it =
is greater
than I have the courage to face. My
uncle, I implore your pity: pardon me so far; do not send me for life into a
debtors’ jail—a pauper debtor.’
‘Chat et vieux, pardonnez?’ said my
uncle, quoting from La Fontaine; and then, opening a pale-blue eye full on
Alain, he delivered with some emphasis:
&=
nbsp;
‘La jeunesse se flatte et croit tout obtenir; La vieillesse est
impitoyable.’
The blood leaped darkly into Alain’s
face. He turned to Romaine an=
d me, and
his eyes flashed.
‘It is your turn now,’ he said.
‘Not so, Mr. Alain, by your leave,’
said Romaine. ‘There ar=
e a
few formalities to be considered first.’
But Alain was already striding towards the doo=
r.
‘Stop a moment, stop a moment!’ cr=
ied
Romaine. ‘Remember your=
own counsel
not to despise an adversary.’
Alain turned.
‘If I do not despise I hate you!’ =
he
cried, giving a loose to his passion.
‘Be warned of that, both of you.’
‘I understand you to threaten Monsieur le
Vicomte Anne,’ said the lawyer. ‘Do you know, I would not do
that. I am afraid, I am very =
much
afraid, if you were to do as you propose, you might drive me into
extremes.’
‘You have made me a beggar and a bankrup=
t,’
said Alain. What extreme is l=
eft?’
‘I scarce like to put a name upon it in =
this
company,’ replied Romaine. ‘But there are worse things than even
bankruptcy, and worse places than a debtors’ jail.’
The words were so significantly said that there
went a visible thrill through Alain; sudden as a sword-stroke, he fell pale
again.
‘I do not understand you,’ said he=
.
‘O yes, you do,’ returned
Romaine. ‘I believe you
understand me very well. You =
must
not suppose that all this time, while you were so very busy, others were
entirely idle. You must not f=
ancy,
because I am an Englishman, that I have not the intelligence to pursue an
inquiry. Great as is my regar=
d for
the honour of your house, M. Alain de St.-Yves, if I hear of you moving
directly or indirectly in this matter, I shall do my duty, let it cost what=
it
will: that is, I shall communicate the real name of the Buonapartist spy who
signs his letters Rue Grégoire de Tours.’
I confess my heart was already almost altogeth=
er
on the side of my insulted and unhappy cousin; and if it had not been befor=
e,
it must have been so now, so horrid was the shock with which he heard his
infamy exposed. Speech was de=
nied
him; he carried his hand to his neckcloth; he staggered; I thought he must =
have
fallen. I ran to help him, an=
d at
that he revived, recoiled before me, and stood there with arms stretched fo=
rth as
if to preserve himself from the outrage of my touch.
‘Hands off!’ he somehow managed to
articulate.
‘You will now, I hope,’ pursued the
lawyer, without any change of voice, ‘understand the position in which
you are placed, and how delicately it behoves you to conduct yourself. Your arrest hangs, if I may so exp=
ress myself,
by a hair; and as you will be under the perpetual vigilance of myself and my
agents, you must look to it narrowly that you walk straight. Upon the least dubiety, I will take
action.’ He snuffed, lo=
oking
critically at the tortured man.
‘And now let me remind you that your chaise is at the door.
As Alain turned and passed without a word or a
sign from the apartment, I instantly followed. I suppose I must be at bottom poss=
essed
of some humanity; at least, this accumulated torture, this slow butchery of=
a
man as by quarters of rock, had wholly changed my sympathies. At that moment I loathed both my u=
ncle and
the lawyer for their coldblooded cruelty.
Leaning over the banisters, I was but in time =
to
hear his hasty footsteps in that hall that had been crowded with servants to
honour his coming, and was now left empty against his friendless
departure. A moment later, an=
d the
echoes rang, and the air whistled in my ears, as he slammed the door on his
departing footsteps. The fury=
of
the concussion gave me (had one been still wanted) a measure of the turmoil=
of
his passions. In a sense, I f=
elt
with him; I felt how he would have gloried to slam that door on my uncle, t=
he
lawyer, myself, and the whole crowd of those who had been witnesses to his
humiliation.
=
=
No
sooner was the house clear of my cousin than I began to reckon up, ruefully
enough, the probable results of what had passed. Here were a number of pots broken,=
and
it looked to me as if I should have to pay for all! Here had been this proud, mad beast
goaded and baited both publicly and privately, till he could neither hear n=
or
see nor reason; whereupon the gate had been set open, and he had been left =
free
to go and contrive whatever vengeance he might find possible. I could not help thinking it was a=
pity
that, whenever I myself was inclined to be upon my good behaviour, some fri=
ends
of mine should always determine to play a piece of heroics and cast me for =
the
hero—or the victim—which is very much the same. The first duty of heroics is to be=
of
your own choosing. When they =
are
not that, they are nothing. A=
nd I
assure you, as I walked back to my own room, I was in no very complaisant
humour: thought my uncle and Mr. Romaine to have played knuckle-bones with =
my
life and prospects; cursed them for it roundly; had no wish more urgent tha=
n to
avoid the pair of them; and was quite knocked out of time, as they say in t=
he
ring, to find myself confronted with the lawyer.
He stood on my hearthrug, leaning on the
chimney-piece, with a gloomy, thoughtful brow, as I was pleased to see, and=
not
in the least as though he were vain of the late proceedings.
‘Well?’ said I. ‘You have done it now!’=
;
‘Is he gone?’ he asked.
‘He is gone,’ said I. ‘We shall have the devil to =
pay
with him when he comes back.’
‘You are right,’ said the lawyer,
‘and very little to pay him with but flams and fabrications, like
to-night’s.’
‘To-night’s?’ I repeated.
‘Ay, to-night’s!’ said he.
‘To-night’s what?’ I cried.<= o:p>
‘To-night’s flams and
fabrications.’
‘God be good to me, sir,’ said I,
‘have I something more to admire in your conduct than ever I had susp=
ected? You cannot think how you interest
me! That it was severe, I kne=
w; I
had already chuckled over that. But
that it should be false also! In
what sense, dear sir?’
I believe I was extremely offensive as I put t=
he
question, but the lawyer paid no heed.
‘False in all senses of the word,’=
he
replied seriously. ‘Fal=
se in
the sense that they were not true, and false in the sense that they were no=
t real;
false in the sense that I boasted, and in the sense that I lied. How can I
arrest him? Your uncle burned=
the
papers! I told you so—b=
ut doubtless
you have forgotten—the day I first saw you in Edinburgh Castle. It wa=
s an
act of generosity; I have seen many of these acts, and always regrettedR=
12;always
regretted! “That shall =
be his
inheritance,” he said, as the papers burned; he did not mean that it
should have proved so rich a one.
How rich, time will tell.’
‘I beg your pardon a hundred thousand ti=
mes,
my dear sir, but it strikes me you have the impudence—in the
circumstances, I may call it the indecency—to appear cast down?’=
;
‘It is true,’ said he: ‘I
am. I am cast down. I am literally cast down. I feel m=
yself
quite helpless against your cousin.’
‘Now, really!’ I asked. ‘Is this serious? And is it perhaps the reason why y=
ou
have gorged the poor devil with every species of insult? and why you took s=
uch
surprising pains to supply me with what I had so little need of—anoth=
er
enemy? That you were helpless
against them? “Here is =
my last
missile,” say you; “my ammunition is quite exhausted: just wait=
till
I get the last in—it will irritate, it cannot hurt him. There—you see!—he is f=
urious
now, and I am quite helpless. One
more prod, another kick: now he is a mere lunatic! Stand behind me; I am quite
helpless!” Mr. Romaine, I am asking myself as to the background or mo=
tive
of this singular jest, and whether the name of it should not be called trea=
chery?’
‘I can scarce wonder,’ said he.
‘Why, true,’ said I: ‘I had =
not
thought of that.’
‘I warrant you,’ cried Romaine,
‘you had supposed it was nothing to be the hero of an interesting not=
ice
in the journals! You had supp=
osed,
as like as not, it was a form of secrecy!&=
nbsp;
But not so in the least. A
part of England is already buzzing with the name of Champdivers; a day or t=
wo more
and the mail will have carried it everywhere: so wonderful a machine is thi=
s of
ours for disseminating intelligence!
Think of it! When my f=
ather
was born—but that is another story.&=
nbsp;
To return: we had here the elements of such a combustion as I dread =
to
think of—your cousin and the journal. Let him but glance an eye upon that
column of print, and where were we?
It is easy to ask; not so easy to answer, my young friend. And let me tell you, this sheet is=
the
Viscount’s usual reading. It
is my conviction he had it in his pocket.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said I.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘I have been unjust. I did not appreciate my danger.=
217;
‘I think you never do,’ said he.
‘But yet surely that public
scene—’ I began.
‘It was madness. I quite agree with you,’ Mr.
Romaine interrupted. ‘B=
ut it
was your uncle’s orders, Mr. Anne, and what could I do? Tell him you were the murderer of
Goguelat? I think not.’=
‘No, sure!’ said I. ‘That would but have been to=
make
the trouble thicker. We were
certainly in a very ill posture.’
‘You do not yet appreciate how grave it
was,’ he replied. ̵=
6;It
was necessary for you that your cousin should go, and go at once. You yourself had to leave to-night=
under
cover of darkness, and how could you have done that with the Viscount in the
next room? He must go, then; =
he must
leave without delay. And that=
was
the difficulty.’
‘Pardon me, Mr. Romaine, but could not my
uncle have bidden him go?’ I asked.
‘Why, I see I must tell you that this is=
not
so simple as it sounds,’ he replied.=
‘You say this is your uncle’s house, and so it is. But to all effects and purposes it=
is
your cousin’s also. He =
has
rooms here; has had them coming on for thirty years now, and they are filled
with a prodigious accumulation of trash—stays, I dare say, and
powder-puffs, and such effeminate idiocy—to which none could dispute =
his
title, even suppose any one wanted to.&nbs=
p;
We had a perfect right to bid him go, and he had a perfect right to
reply, “Yes, I will go, but not without my stays and cravats. I must first get together the
nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine chestsfull of insufferable rubbish, that I have
spent the last thirty years collecting—and may very well spend the ne=
xt
thirty hours a-packing of.”
And what should we have said to that?’
‘By way of repartee?’ I asked. ‘Two tall footmen and a pair=
of
crabtree cudgels, I suggest.’
‘The Lord deliver me from the wisdom of
laymen!’ cried Romaine.
‘Put myself in the wrong at the beginning of a lawsuit? No, indeed! There was but one thing to do, and =
I did
it, and burned my last cartridge in the doing of it. I stunned him. And it gave us three hours, by whi=
ch we should
make haste to profit; for if there is one thing sure, it is that he will be=
up
to time again to-morrow in the morning.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I own mysel=
f an
idiot. Well do they say, an o=
ld soldier,
an old innocent! For I guessed
nothing of all this.’
‘And, guessing it, have you the same
objections to leave England?’ he inquired.
‘The same,’ said I.
‘It is indispensable,’ he objected=
.
‘And it cannot be,’ I replied. ‘Reason has nothing to say i=
n the
matter; and I must not let you squander any of yours. It will be enough to tell you this=
is an
affair of the heart.’
‘Is it even so?’ quoth Romaine, no=
dding
his head. ‘And I might =
have
been sure of it. Place them i=
n a
hospital, put them in a jail in yellow overalls, do what you will, young
Jessamy finds young Jenny. O,=
have
it your own way; I am too old a hand to argue with young gentlemen who choo=
se to
fancy themselves in love; I have too much experience, thank you. Only, be sure that you appreciate =
what
you risk: the prison, the dock, the gallows, and the halter—terribly
vulgar circumstances, my young friend; grim, sordid, earnest; no poetry in =
that!’
‘And there I am warned,’ I returned
gaily. ‘No man could be
warned more finely or with a greater eloquence. And I am of the same opinion still=
. Until
I have again seen that lady, nothing shall induce me to quit Great Britain.=
I have besides—’
And here I came to a full stop. It was upon my tongue to have told=
him the
story of the drovers, but at the first word of it my voice died in my throa=
t. There might be a limit to the
lawyer’s toleration, I reflected. I had not been so long in Britain
altogether; for the most part of that time I had been by the heels in limbo=
in
Edinburgh Castle; and already I had confessed to killing one man with a pai=
r of
scissors; and now I was to go on and plead guilty to having settled another
with a holly stick! A wave of discretion went over me as cold and as deep as
the sea.
‘In short, sir, this is a matter of
feeling,’ I concluded, ‘and nothing will prevent my going to
Edinburgh.’
If I had fired a pistol in his ear he could not
have been more startled.
‘To Edinburgh?’ he repeated. ‘Edinburgh? where the very
paving-stones know you!’
‘Then is the murder out!’ said I.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘But, Mr. Romaine, is there =
not sometimes
safety in boldness? Is it not=
a
common-place of strategy to get where the enemy least expects you? And where would he expect me less?=
’
‘Faith, there is something in that,
too!’ cried the lawyer.
‘Ay, certainly, a great deal in that. All the witnesses drowned but one,=
and he
safe in prison; you yourself changed beyond recognition—let us hope=
8212;and
walking the streets of the very town you have illustrated by your—wel=
l,
your eccentricity! It is not =
badly
combined, indeed!’
‘You approve it, then?’ said I.
‘O, approve!’ said he; ‘ther=
e is
no question of approval. Ther=
e is
only one course which I could approve, and that were to escape to France in=
stanter.’
‘You do not wholly disapprove, at
least?’ I substituted.
‘Not wholly; and it would not matter if I
did,’ he replied. ̵=
6;Go
your own way; you are beyond argument.&nbs=
p;
And I am not sure that you will run more danger by that course than =
by
any other. Give the servants =
time
to get to bed and fall asleep, then take a country cross-road and walk, as =
the rhyme
has it, like blazes all night. In
the morning take a chaise or take the mail at pleasure, and continue your j=
ourney
with all the decorum and reserve of which you shall be found capable.’=
;
‘I am taking the picture in,’ I
said. ‘Give me time.
‘Mountebank!’ he murmured.
‘Yes, I have it now; and I see myself wi=
th a
servant, and that servant is Rowley,’ said I.
‘So as to have one more link with your
uncle?’ suggested the lawyer. ‘Very judicious!’
‘And, pardon me, but that is what it
is,’ I exclaimed.
‘Judicious is the word.
I am not making a deception fit to last for thirty years; I do not f=
ound
a palace in the living granite for the night. This is a shelter tent—a fly=
ing
picture—seen, admired, and gone again in the wink of an eye. What is wanted, in short, is a
trompe-l’œil that shall be good enough for twelve hours at an in=
n:
is it not so?’
‘It is, and the objection holds. Rowley is but another danger,̵=
7;
said Romaine.
‘Rowley,’ said I, ‘will pass=
as
a servant from a distance—as a creature seen poised on the dicky of a
bowling chaise. He will pass =
at
hand as a smart, civil fellow one meets in the inn corridor, and looks back=
at,
and asks, and is told, “Gentleman’s servant in Number
4.” He will pass, in fa=
ct,
all round, except with his personal friends! My dear sir, pray what do you expe=
ct? Of course if we meet my cousin, or=
if we
meet anybody who took part in the judicious exhibition of this evening, we =
are lost;
and who’s denying it? To
every disguise, however good and safe, there is always the weak point; you =
must
always take (let us say—and to take a simile from your own waistcoat
pocket) a snuff box-full of risk. You’ll get it just as small with Ro=
wley
as with anybody else. And the=
long
and short of it is, the lad’s honest, he likes me, I trust him; he is=
my
servant, or nobody.’
‘He might not accept,’ said Romain=
e.
‘I bet you a thousand pounds he does!=
217;
cried I. ‘But no matter=
; all
you have to do is to send him out to-night on this cross-country business, =
and
leave the thing to me. I tell=
you,
he will be my servant, and I tell you, he will do well.’
I had crossed the room, and was already
overhauling my wardrobe as I spoke.
‘Well,’ concluded the lawyer, with=
a
shrug, ‘one risk with another: à la guerre comme à la
guerre, as you would say. Let=
the
brat come and be useful, at least.’&=
nbsp;
And he was about to ring the bell, when his eye was caught by my
researches in the wardrobe.
‘Do not fall in love with these coats, waistcoats, cravats, and
other panoply and accoutrements by which you are now surrounded. You must not run the post as a
dandy. It is not the fashion,
even.’
‘You are pleased to be facetious,
sir,’ said I; ‘and not according to knowledge. These clothes are my life, they ar=
e my
disguise; and since I can take but few of them, I were a fool indeed if I
selected hastily! Will you understand, once and for all, what I am
seeking? To be invisible, is =
the
first point; the second, to be invisible in a post-chaise and with a
servant. Can you not perceive=
the
delicacy of the quest? Nothin=
g must
be too coarse, nothing too fine; rien de voyant, rien qui détonne; so
that I may leave everywhere the inconspicuous image of a handsome young man=
of
a good fortune travelling in proper style, whom the landlord will forget in
twelve hours—and the chambermaid perhaps remember, God bless her! wit=
h a
sigh. This is the very fine a=
rt of
dress.’
‘I have practised it with success for fi=
fty
years,’ said Romaine, with a chuckle. ‘A black suit and a clean sh=
irt is
my infallible recipe.’
‘You surprise me; I did not think you wo=
uld
be shallow!’ said I, lingering between two coats. ‘Pray, Mr. Romaine, have I y=
our
head? or did you travel post and with a smartish servant?’
‘Neither, I admit,’ said he.
‘Which change the whole problem,’ I
continued. ‘I have to d=
ress
for a smartish servant and a Russia leather despatch-box.’ That brought me to a stand. I came over and looked at the box =
with a
moment’s hesitation. ‘Yes,’ I resumed. ‘Yes, and for the
despatch-box! It looks moneye=
d and landed;
it means I have a lawyer. It =
is an
invaluable property. But I co=
uld
have wished it to hold less money.
The responsibility is crushing. Should I not do more wisely to take =
five
hundred pounds, and intrust the remainder with you, Mr. Romaine?’
‘If you are sure you will not want
it,’ answered Romaine.
‘I am far from sure of that,’ cried
I. ‘In the first place,=
as a philosopher. This is the first time I have been=
at
the head of a large sum, and it is conceivable—who knows
himself?—that I may make it fly.&nbs=
p;
In the second place, as a fugitive.=
Who knows what I may need?
The whole of it may be inadequate.&=
nbsp;
But I can always write for more.’
‘You do not understand,’ he
replied. ‘I break off a=
ll
communication with you here and now.
You must give me a power of attorney ere you start to-night, and the=
n be
done with me trenchantly until better days.’
I believe I offered some objection.
‘Think a little for once of me!’ s=
aid
Romaine. ‘I must not ha=
ve
seen you before to-night. To-=
night
we are to have had our only interview, and you are to have given me the pow=
er;
and to-night I am to have lost sight of you again—I know not whither,=
you
were upon business, it was none of my affairs to question you! And this, you are to remark, in the
interests of your own safety much more than mine.’
‘I am not even to write to you?’ I
said, a little bewildered.
‘I believe I am cutting the last strand =
that
connects you with common sense,’ he replied. ‘But that is the plain Engli=
sh of
it. You are not even to write=
; and
if you did, I would not answer.’
‘A letter, however—’ I began=
.
‘Listen to me,’ interrupted
Romaine. ‘So soon as yo=
ur
cousin reads the paragraph, what will he do? Put the police upon looking into m=
y correspondence! So soon as you write to me, in sho=
rt,
you write to Bow Street; and if you will take my advice, you will date that
letter from France.’
‘The devil!’ said I, for I began
suddenly to see that this might put me out of the way of my business.
‘What is it now?’ says he.
‘There will be more to be done, then, be=
fore
we can part,’ I answered.
‘I give you the whole night,’ said
he. ‘So long as you are=
off
ere daybreak, I am content.’
‘In short, Mr. Romaine,’ said I,
‘I have had so much benefit of your advice and services that I am lot=
h to
sever the connection, and would even ask a substitute. I would be obliged for a letter of
introduction to one of your own cloth in Edinburgh—an old man for cho=
ice,
very experienced, very respectable, and very secret. Could you favour me with such a
letter?’
‘Why, no,’ said he. ‘Certainly not. I will do no such thing, indeed.=
8217;
‘It would be a great favour, sir,’=
I
pleaded.
‘It would be an unpardonable blunder,=
217;
he replied. ‘What? Give you a letter of introduction?=
and
when the police come, I suppose, I must forget the circumstance? No, indeed. Talk of it no more.’
‘You seem to be always in the right,R=
17;
said I. ‘The letter wou=
ld be
out of the question, I quite see that.&nbs=
p;
But the lawyer’s name might very well have dropped from you in=
the
way of conversation; having heard him mentioned, I might profit by the
circumstance to introduce myself; and in this way my business would be the
better done, and you not in the least compromised.’
‘What is this business?’ said Roma=
ine.
‘I have not said that I had any,’ I
replied. ‘It might
arise. This is only a possibi=
lity
that I must keep in view.’
‘Well,’ said he, with a gesture of=
the
hands, ‘I mention Mr. Robbie; and let that be an end of it!—Or
wait!’ he added, ‘I have it.&n=
bsp;
Here is something that will serve you for an introduction, and cannot
compromise me.’ And he =
wrote
his name and the Edinburgh lawyer’s address on a piece of card and to=
ssed
it to me.
=
= What with packing, signing papers, and partaking of an excellent cold supper in = the lawyer’s room, it was past two in the morning before we were ready for the road. Romaine himself let= us out of a window in a part of the house known to Rowley: it appears it serve= d as a kind of postern to the servants’ hall, by which (when they were in = the mind for a clandestine evening) they would come regularly in and out; and I remember very well the vinegar aspect of the lawyer on the receipt of this piece of information—how he pursed his lips, jutted his eyebrows, and kept repeating, ‘This must be seen to, indeed! this shall be barred to-morrow in the morning!’ In this preoccupation, I believe he took leave of me without observing it; our things were handed out; we heard the window shut behind us; and became instantly lost in a horrid intricacy of blackness and the shadow of woods.<= o:p>
A little wet snow kept sleepily falling, pausi=
ng,
and falling again; it seemed perpetually beginning to snow and perpetually
leaving off; and the darkness was intense.=
Time and again we walked into trees; time and again found ourselves
adrift among garden borders or stuck like a ram in the thicket. Rowley had possessed himself of the
matches, and he was neither to be terrified nor softened. ‘No, I will not, Mr. Anne,
sir,’ he would reply.
‘You know he tell me to wait till we were over the ’ill.=
It’s
only a little way now. Why, a=
nd I
thought you was a soldier, too!’ I was at least a very glad soldier w=
hen
my valet consented at last to kindle a thieves’ match. From this, we easily lit the lante=
rn;
and thenceforward, through a labyrinth of woodland paths, were conducted by=
its
uneasy glimmer. Both booted a=
nd
great-coated, with tall hats much of a shape, and laden with booty in the f=
orm
of a despatch-box, a case of pistols, and two plump valises, I thought we h=
ad
very much the look of a pair of brothers returning from the sack of Amersham
Place.
We issued at last upon a country by-road where=
we
might walk abreast and without precaution.=
It was nine miles to Aylesbury, our immediate destination; by a watc=
h,
which formed part of my new outfit, it should be about half-past three in t=
he
morning; and as we did not choose to arrive before daylight, time could not=
be
said to press. I gave the ord=
er to march
at ease.
‘Now, Rowley,’ said I, ‘so f=
ar
so good. You have come, in th=
e most
obliging manner in the world, to carry these valises. The question is, what next? What are we to do at Aylesbury? or=
, more
particularly, what are you? T=
hence,
I go on a journey. Are you to
accompany me?’
He gave a little chuckle. ‘That’s all settled al=
ready,
Mr. Anne, sir,’ he replied.
‘Why, I’ve got my things here in the valise—a half=
a
dozen shirts and what not; I’m all ready, sir: just you lead on:
you’ll see.’
‘The devil you have!’ said I. ‘You made pretty sure of your
welcome.’
‘If you please, sir,’ said Rowley.=
He looked up at me, in the light of the lanter=
n,
with a boyish shyness and triumph that awoke my conscience. I could never let this innocent in=
volve
himself in the perils and difficulties that beset my course, without some h=
int
of warning, which it was a matter of extreme delicacy to make plain enough =
and
not too plain.
‘No, no,’ said I; ‘you may t=
hink
you have made a choice, but it was blindfold, and you must make it over
again. The Count’s serv=
ice is
a good one; what are you leaving it for?&n=
bsp;
Are you not throwing away the substance for the shadow? No, do not answer me yet. You imagine that I am a prosperous
nobleman, just declared my uncle’s heir, on the threshold of the best=
of
good fortune, and, from the point of view of a judicious servant, a jewel o=
f a
master to serve and stick to? Well,
my boy, I am nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind.’
As I said the words, I came to a full stop and
held up the lantern to his face. He
stood before me, brilliantly illuminated on the background of impenetrable =
night
and falling snow, stricken to stone between his double burden like an ass
between two panniers, and gaping at me like a blunderbuss. I had never seen a face so predest=
ined
to be astonished, or so susceptible of rendering the emotion of surprise; a=
nd
it tempted me as an open piano tempts the musician.
‘Nothing of the sort, Rowley,’ I
continued, in a churchyard voice. ‘These are appearances, petty
appearances. I am in peril,
homeless, hunted. I count sca=
rce
any one in England who is not my enemy.&nb=
sp;
From this hour I drop my name, my title; I become nameless; my name =
is proscribed. My liberty, my life, hang by a
hair. The destiny which you w=
ill
accept, if you go forth with me, is to be tracked by spies, to hide yourself
under a false name, to follow the desperate pretences and perhaps share the
fate of a murderer with a price upon his head.’
His face had been hitherto beyond expectation,
passing from one depth to another of tragic astonishment, and really worth
paying to see; but at this it suddenly cleared. ‘Oh, I ain’t afraid!=
8217;
he said; and then, choking into laughter, ‘why, I see it from the
first!’
I could have beaten him. But I had so grossly overshot the =
mark
that I suppose it took me two good miles of road and half an hour of elocut=
ion to
persuade him I had been in earnest.
In the course of which I became so interested in demonstrating my
present danger that I forgot all about my future safety, and not only told =
him
the story of Goguelat, but threw in the business of the drovers as well, an=
d ended
by blurting out that I was a soldier of Napoleon’s and a prisoner of =
war.
This was far from my views when I began; and i=
t is
a common complaint of me that I have a long tongue. I believe it is a fault beloved by=
fortune. Which of you considerate fellows w=
ould
have done a thing at once so foolhardy and so wise as to make a confidant o=
f a
boy in his teens, and positively smelling of the nursery? And when had I cause to repent it?=
There is none so apt as a boy to b=
e the
adviser of any man in difficulties such as mine. To the beginnings of virile common=
sense
he adds the last lights of the child’s imagination; and he can fling
himself into business with that superior earnestness that properly belongs =
to play. And Rowley was a boy made to my
hand. He had a high sense of =
romance,
and a secret cultus for all soldiers and criminals. His travelling library consisted o=
f a
chap-book life of Wallace and some sixpenny parts of the ‘Old Bailey
Sessions Papers’ by Gurney the shorthand writer; and the choice depic=
ts
his character to a hair. You =
can
imagine how his new prospects brightened on a boy of this disposition. To be the servant and companion of=
a
fugitive, a soldier, and a murderer, rolled in one—to live by stratag=
ems,
disguises, and false names, in an atmosphere of midnight and mystery so thi=
ck
that you could cut it with a knife—was really, I believe, more dear to
him than his meals, though he was a great trencherman, and something of a
glutton besides. For myself, =
as the
peg by which all this romantic business hung, I was simply idolised from th=
at
moment; and he would rather have sacrificed his hand than surrendered the
privilege of serving me.
We arranged the terms of our campaign, trudging
amicably in the snow, which now, with the approach of morning, began to fal=
l to
purpose. I chose the name of
Ramornie, I imagine from its likeness to Romaine; Rowley, from an irresisti=
ble
conversion of ideas, I dubbed Gammon.
His distress was laughable to witness: his own choice of an unassumi=
ng nickname
had been Claude Duval! We set=
tled
our procedure at the various inns where we should alight, rehearsed our lit=
tle
manners like a piece of drill until it seemed impossible we should ever be
taken unprepared; and in all these dispositions, you maybe sure the despatc=
h-box
was not forgotten. Who was to=
pick
it up, who was to set it down, who was to remain beside it, who was to sleep
with it—there was no contingency omitted, all was gone into with the
thoroughness of a drill-sergeant on the one hand and a child with a new
plaything on the other.
‘I say, wouldn’t it look queer if =
you
and me was to come to the post-house with all this luggage?’ said Row=
ley.
‘I dare say,’ I replied. ‘But what else is to be
done?’
‘Well, now, sir—you hear me,’
says Rowley. ‘I think it
would look more natural-like if you was to come to the post-house alone, and
with nothing in your ’ands—more like a gentleman, you know. And you might say that your servan=
t and
baggage was a-waiting for you up the road.=
I think I could manage, somehow, to make a shift with all them dratt=
ed things—leastways
if you was to give me a ’and up with them at the start.’
‘And I would see you far enough before I
allowed you to try, Mr. Rowley!’ I cried. ‘Why, you would be quite
defenceless! A footpad that w=
as an infant
child could rob you. And I sh=
ould
probably come driving by to find you in a ditch with your throat cut. But there is something in your ide=
a, for
all that; and I propose we put it in execution no farther forward than the =
next
corner of a lane.’
Accordingly, instead of continuing to aim for
Aylesbury, we headed by cross-roads for some point to the northward of it,
whither I might assist Rowley with the baggage, and where I might leave him=
to
await my return in the post-chaise.
It was snowing to purpose, the country all whi=
te,
and ourselves walking snowdrifts, when the first glimmer of the morning sho=
wed
us an inn upon the highwayside.
Some distance off, under the shelter of a corner of the road and a c=
lump
of trees, I loaded Rowley with the whole of our possessions, and watched him
till he staggered in safety into the doors of the Green Dragon, which was t=
he
sign of the house. Thence I w=
alked briskly
into Aylesbury, rejoicing in my freedom and the causeless good spirits that
belong to a snowy morning; though, to be sure, long before I had arrived the
snow had again ceased to fall, and the eaves of Aylesbury were smoking in t=
he
level sun. There was an
accumulation of gigs and chaises in the yard, and a great bustle going forw=
ard
in the coffee-room and about the doors of the inn. At these evidences of so much trav=
el on the
road I was seized with a misgiving lest it should be impossible to get hors=
es,
and I should be detained in the precarious neighbourhood of my cousin. Hungry as I was, I made my way fir=
st of
all to the postmaster, where he stood—a big, athletic, horsey-looking
man, blowing into a key in the corner of the yard.
On my making my modest request, he awoke from =
his
indifference into what seemed passion.
‘A po’-shay and ’osses!̵=
7;
he cried. ‘Do I look as=
if I
’ad a po’-shay and ’osses? Damn me, if I ’ave such a th=
ing on
the premises. I don’t m=
ake ’osses
and chaises—I ’ire ’em.&=
nbsp;
You might be God Almighty!’ said he; and instantly, as if he h=
ad
observed me for the first time, he broke off, and lowered his voice into the
confidential. ‘Why, now=
that
I see you are a gentleman,’ said he, ‘I’ll tell you
what! If you like to buy, I h=
ave
the article to fit you.
Second-’and shay by Lycett, of London. Latest style; good as
new. Superior fittin’s,=
net
on the roof, baggage platform, pistol ’olsters—the most com-ple=
te
and the most gen-teel turn-out I ever see!=
The ’ole for seventy-five pound! It’s as good as givin’=
her
away!’
‘Do you propose I should trundle it myse=
lf,
like a hawker’s barrow?’ said I. ‘Why, my good man, if I had =
to
stop here, anyway, I should prefer to buy a house and garden!’
‘Come and look at her!’ he cried; =
and,
with the word, links his arm in mine and carries me to the outhouse where t=
he
chaise was on view.
It was just the sort of chaise that I had drea=
med
of for my purpose: eminently rich, inconspicuous, and genteel; for, though I
thought the postmaster no great authority, I was bound to agree with him so
far. The body was painted a d=
ark
claret, and the wheels an invisible green.=
The lamp and glasses were bright as silver; and the whole equipage h=
ad
an air of privacy and reserve that seemed to repel inquiry and disarm
suspicion. With a servant like Rowley, and a chaise like this, I felt that I
could go from the Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s House ami=
d a
population of bowing ostlers. And I
suppose I betrayed in my manner the degree in which the bargain tempted me.=
‘Come,’ cried the
postmaster—‘I’ll make it seventy, to oblige a friend!R=
17;
‘The point is: the horses,’ said I=
.
‘Well,’ said he, consulting his wa=
tch,
‘it’s now gone the ’alf after eight. What time do you want her at the
door?’
‘Horses and all?’ said I.
‘’Osses and all!’ says he. ‘One good turn deserves
another. You give me seventy =
pound
for the shay, and I’ll ’oss it for you. I told you I didn’t make
’osses; but I can make ’em, to oblige a friend.’
What would you have? It was not the wisest thing in the=
world
to buy a chaise within a dozen miles of my uncle’s house; but in this=
way
I got my horses for the next stage.
And by any other it appeared that I should have to wait. Accordingly I paid the money
down—perhaps twenty pounds too much, though it was certainly a well-m=
ade
and well-appointed vehicle—ordered it round in half an hour, and
proceeded to refresh myself with breakfast.
The table to which I sat down occupied the rec=
ess
of a bay-window, and commanded a view of the front of the inn, where I
continued to be amused by the successive departures of travellers—the
fussy and the offhand, the niggardly and the lavish—all exhibiting th=
eir
different characters in that diagnostic moment of the farewell: some escort=
ed
to the stirrup or the chaise door by the chamberlain, the chambermaids and =
the
waiters almost in a body, others moving off under a cloud, without human co=
untenance. In the course of this I became
interested in one for whom this ovation began to assume the proportions of a
triumph; not only the under-servants, but the barmaid, the landlady, and my
friend the postmaster himself, crowding about the steps to speed his
departure. I was aware, at th=
e same
time, of a good deal of merriment, as though the traveller were a man of a
ready wit, and not too dignified to air it in that society. I leaned forward with a lively
curiosity; and the next moment I had blotted myself behind the teapot. The popular traveller had turned t=
o wave
a farewell; and behold! he was no other than my cousin Alain. It was a change of the sharpest fr=
om the
angry, pallid man I had seen at Amersham Place. Ruddy to a fault, illuminated with
vintages, crowned with his curls like Bacchus, he now stood before me for a=
n instant,
the perfect master of himself, smiling with airs of conscious popularity and
insufferable condescension. He
reminded me at once of a royal duke, or an actor turned a little elderly, a=
nd
of a blatant bagman who should have been the illegitimate son of a
gentleman. A moment after he =
was
gliding noiselessly on the road to London.
I breathed again. I recognised, with heartfelt grati=
tude,
how lucky I had been to go in by the stable-yard instead of the hostelry do=
or,
and what a fine occasion of meeting my cousin I had lost by the purchase of=
the
claret-coloured chaise! The n=
ext
moment I remembered that there was a waiter present. No doubt but he must have observed=
me
when I crouched behind the breakfast equipage; no doubt but he must have
commented on this unusual and undignified behaviour; and it was essential t=
hat
I should do something to remove the impression.
‘Waiter!’ said I, ‘that was =
the
nephew of Count Carwell that just drove off, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir: Viscount Carwell we calls
him,’ he replied.
‘Ah, I thought as much,’ said I. ‘Well, well, damn all these
Frenchmen, say I!’
‘You may say so indeed, sir,’ said=
the
waiter. ‘They ain’=
;t not
to say in the same field with our ’ome-raised gentry.’
‘Nasty tempers?’ I suggested.
‘Beas’ly temper, sir, the Viscount
’ave,’ said the waiter with feeling. ‘Why, no longer agone
than this morning, he was sitting breakfasting and reading in his paper.
‘Reading the paper, was he?’ said
I. ‘What paper, eh?R=
17;
‘Here it is, sir,’ exclaimed the
waiter. ‘Seems like as =
if
he’d dropped it.’
And picking it off the floor he presented it to
me.
I may say that I was quite prepared, that I
already knew what to expect; but at sight of the cold print my heart stopped
beating. There it was: the
fulfilment of Romaine’s apprehension was before me; the paper was laid
open at the capture of Clausel. I
felt as if I could take a little curacoa myself, but on second thoughts cal=
led
for brandy. It was badly want=
ed;
and suddenly I observed the waiter’s eye to sparkle, as it were, with
some recognition; made certain he had remarked the resemblance between me a=
nd
Alain; and became aware—as by a revelation—of the fool’s =
part
I had been playing. For I had=
now
managed to put my identification beyond a doubt, if Alain should choose to =
make
his inquiries at Aylesbury; and, as if that were not enough, I had added, a=
t an
expense of seventy pounds, a clue by which he might follow me through the
length and breadth of England, in the shape of the claret-coloured chaise!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That elegant equipage (which I beg=
an to
regard as little better than a claret-coloured ante-room to the hangmanR=
17;s
cart) coming presently to the door, I left my breakfast in the middle and
departed; posting to the north as diligently as my cousin Alain was posting=
to
the south, and putting my trust (such as it was) in an opposite direction a=
nd
equal speed.
=
=
I am
not certain that I had ever really appreciated before that hour the extreme
peril of the adventure on which I was embarked. The sight of my cousin, the look o=
f his
face—so handsome, so jovial at the first sight, and branded with so m=
uch
malignity as you saw it on the second—with his hyperbolical curls in
order, with his neckcloth tied as if for the conquests of love, setting for=
th
(as I had no doubt in the world he was doing) to clap the Bow Street runner=
s on
my trail, and cover England with handbills, each dangerous as a loaded musk=
et,
convinced me for the first time that the affair was no less serious than
death. I believe it came to a=
near
touch whether I should not turn the horses’ heads at the next stage a=
nd
make directly for the coast. =
But I
was now in the position of a man who should have thrown his gage into the d=
en
of lions; or, better still, like one who should have quarrelled overnight u=
nder
the influence of wine, and now, at daylight, in a cold winter’s morni=
ng,
and humbly sober, must make good his words. It is not that I thought any the l=
ess, or
any the less warmly, of Flora. But,
as I smoked a grim segar that morning in a corner of the chaise, no doubt I
considered, in the first place, that the letter-post had been invented, and
admitted privately to myself, in the second, that it would have been highly
possible to write her on a piece of paper, seal it, and send it skimming by=
the
mail, instead of going personally into these egregious dangers, and through=
a country
that I beheld crowded with gibbets and Bow Street officers. As for Sim and Candlish, I doubt i=
f they
crossed my mind.
At the Green Dragon Rowley was waiting on the
doorsteps with the luggage, and really was bursting with unpalatable conver=
sation.
‘Who do you think we’ve ’ad
’ere, sir?’ he began breathlessly, as the chaise drove off. ‘Red Breasts’; and he =
nodded
his head portentously.
‘Red Breasts?’ I repeated, for I stupidly did not understand at the moment an expression I had often heard.<= o:p>
‘Ah!’ said he. ‘Red weskits. Runners. Bow Street runners. Two on’ em, and one was Lave=
nder
himself! I hear the other say=
quite
plain, “Now, Mr. Lavender, if you’re ready.” They was breakfasting as nigh me a=
s I am
to that postboy. They’r=
e all
right; they ain’t after us.
It’s a forger; and I didn’t send them off on a false
scent—O no! I thought t=
here
was no use in having them over our way; so I give them “very valuable
information,” Mr. Lavender said, and tipped me a tizzy for myself; and
they’re off to Luton. T=
hey
showed me the ’andcuffs, too—the other one did—and he cli=
cked
the dratted things on my wrist; and I tell you, I believe I nearly went off=
in
a swound! There’s somet=
hing
so beastly in the feel of them!
Begging your pardon, Mr. Anne,’ he added, with one of his
delicious changes from the character of the confidential schoolboy into tha=
t of
the trained, respectful servant.
Well, I must not be proud! I cannot say I found the subject of
handcuffs to my fancy; and it was with more asperity than was needful that =
I reproved
him for the slip about the name.
‘Yes, Mr. Ramornie,’ says he, touc=
hing
his hat. ‘Begging your
pardon, Mr. Ramornie. But
I’ve been very piticular, sir, up to now; and you may trust me to be =
very
piticular in the future. It w=
ere
only a slip, sir.’
‘My good boy,’ said I, with the mo=
st
imposing severity, ‘there must be no slips. Be so good as to remember that my =
life
is at stake.’
I did not embrace the occasion of telling him =
how
many I had made myself. It is my principle that an officer must never be
wrong. I have seen two divisi=
ons
beating their brains out for a fortnight against a worthless and quite
impregnable castle in a pass: I knew we were only doing it for discipline,
because the General had said so at first, and had not yet found any way out=
of
his own words; and I highly admired his force of character, and throughout
these operations thought my life exposed in a very good cause. With fools and children, which inc=
luded
Rowley, the necessity was even greater.&nb=
sp;
I proposed to myself to be infallible; and even when he expressed so=
me
wonder at the purchase of the claret-coloured chaise, I put him promptly in=
his
place. In our situation, I to=
ld
him, everything had to be sacrificed to appearances; doubtless, in a hired =
chaise,
we should have had more freedom, but look at the dignity! I was so positive, that I had some=
times
almost convinced myself. Not =
for
long, you may be certain! This
detestable conveyance always appeared to me to be laden with Bow Street
officers, and to have a placard upon the back of it publishing my name and
crimes. If I had paid seventy
pounds to get the thing, I should not have stuck at seven hundred to be saf=
ely
rid of it.
And if the chaise was a danger, what an anxiety
was the despatch-box and its golden cargo!=
I had never had a care but to draw my pay and spend it; I had lived
happily in the regiment, as in my father’s house, fed by the great
Emperor’s commissariat as by ubiquitous doves of Elijah—or, my =
faith!
if anything went wrong with the commissariat, helping myself with the best
grace in the world from the next peasant!&=
nbsp;
And now I began to feel at the same time the burthen of riches and t=
he
fear of destitution. There were ten thousand pounds in the despatch-box, bu=
t I
reckoned in French money, and had two hundred and fifty thousand agonies; I
kept it under my hand all day, I dreamed of it at night. In the inns, I was afraid to go to
dinner and afraid to go to sleep.
When I walked up a hill I durst not leave the doors of the claret-co=
loured
chaise. Sometimes I would change the disposition of the funds: there were d=
ays when
I carried as much as five or six thousand pounds on my own person, and only=
the
residue continued to voyage in the treasure-chest—days when I bulked =
all
over like my cousin, crackled to a touch with bank paper, and had my pockets
weighed to bursting-point with sovereigns.=
And there were other days when I wearied of the thing—or grew
ashamed of it—and put all the money back where it had come from: there
let it take its chance, like better people! In short, I set Rowley a poor exam=
ple of
consistency, and in philosophy, none at all.
Little he cared! All was one to him so long as he w=
as
amused, and I never knew any one amused more easily. He was thrillingly interested in l=
ife,
travel, and his own melodramatic position.=
All day he would be looking from the chaise windows with ebullitions=
of
gratified curiosity, that were sometimes justified and sometimes not, and t=
hat
(taken altogether) it occasionally wearied me to be obliged to share. I can look at horses, and I can lo=
ok at
trees too, although not fond of it. But why should I look at a lame horse, =
or a
tree that was like the letter Y?
What exhilaration could I feel in viewing a cottage that was the sam=
e colour
as ‘the second from the miller’s’ in some place where I h=
ad
never been, and of which I had not previously heard? I am ashamed to complain, but ther=
e were
moments when my juvenile and confidential friend weighed heavy on my
hands. His cackle was indeed =
almost
continuous, but it was never unamiable.&nb=
sp;
He showed an amiable curiosity when he was asking questions; an amia=
ble
guilelessness when he was conferring information. And both he did largely.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am in a position to write the
biographies of Mr. Rowley, Mr. Rowley’s father and mother, his Aunt
Eliza, and the miller’s dog; and nothing but pity for the reader, and
some misgivings as to the law of copyright, prevail on me to withhold them.=
A general design to mould himself upon my exam=
ple
became early apparent, and I had not the heart to check it. He began to mimic my carriage; he =
acquired,
with servile accuracy, a little manner I had of shrugging the shoulders; an=
d I
may say it was by observing it in him that I first discovered it in
myself. One day it came out by
chance that I was of the Catholic religion. He became plunged in thought, at w=
hich I
was gently glad. Then
suddenly—
‘Odd-rabbit it! I’ll be Catholic too!’=
he
broke out. ‘You must te=
ach me
it, Mr. Anne—I mean, Ramornie.’
I dissuaded him: alleging that he would find me
very imperfectly informed as to the grounds and doctrines of the Church, and
that, after all, in the matter of religions, it was a very poor idea to
change. ‘Of course, my =
Church
is the best,’ said I; ‘but that is not the reason why I belong =
to
it: I belong to it because it was the faith of my house. I wish to take my chances with my =
own
people, and so should you. If=
it is
a question of going to hell, go to hell like a gentleman with your ancestor=
s.’
‘Well, it wasn’t that,’ he a=
dmitted. ‘I don’t know that I w=
as
exactly thinking of hell. Then
there’s the inquisition, too.
That’s rather a cawker, you know.’
‘And I don’t believe you were thin=
king
of anything in the world,’ said I—which put a period to his
respectable conversion.
He consoled himself by playing for awhile on a
cheap flageolet, which was one of his diversions, and to which I owed many
intervals of peace. When he f=
irst
produced it, in the joints, from his pocket, he had the duplicity to ask me=
if
I played upon it. I answered,=
no;
and he put the instrument away with a sigh and the remark that he had thoug=
ht I
might. For some while he resisted the unspeakable temptation, his fingers v=
isibly
itching and twittering about his pocket, even his interest in the landscape=
and
in sporadic anecdote entirely lost.
Presently the pipe was in his hands again; he fitted, unfitted,
refitted, and played upon it in dumb show for some time.
‘I play it myself a little,’ says =
he.
‘Do you?’ said I, and yawned.
And then he broke down.
‘Mr. Ramornie, if you please, would it
disturb you, sir, if I was to play a chune?’ he pleaded. And from that hour, the tootling o=
f the
flageolet cheered our way.
He was particularly keen on the details of
battles, single combats, incidents of scouting parties, and the like. These he would make haste to cap w=
ith
some of the exploits of Wallace, the only hero with whom he had the least
acquaintance. His enthusiasm =
was
genuine and pretty. When he l=
earned
we were going to Scotland, ‘Well, then,’ he broke out,
‘I’ll see where Wallace lived!’ And presently after, he fell to
moralising. ‘It’s a strange thing, sir,’ he began,
‘that I seem somehow to have always the wrong sow by the ear. I’m English after all, and I=
glory
in it. My eye! don’t I,
though! Let some of your Fren=
chies
come over here to invade, and you’ll see whether or not! Oh, yes, I’m English to the =
backbone,
I am. And yet look at me! I got hold of this ’ere Will=
iam Wallace
and took to him right off; I never heard of such a man before! And then you
came along, and I took to you. And
both the two of you were my born enemies!&=
nbsp;
I—I beg your pardon, Mr. Ramornie, but would you mind it very =
much
if you didn’t go for to do anything against England’—he b=
rought
the word out suddenly, like something hot—‘when I was along of =
you?’
I was more affected than I can tell.
‘Rowley,’ I said, ‘you need =
have
no fear. By how much I love m=
y own honour,
by so much I will take care to protect yours. We are but fraternising at the out=
posts,
as soldiers do. When the bugle
calls, my boy, we must face each other, one for England, one for France, and
may God defend the right!’
So I spoke at the moment; but for all my brave
airs, the boy had wounded me in a vital quarter. His words continued to ring in my
hearing. There was no remissi=
on all
day of my remorseful thoughts; and that night (which we lay at Lichfield, I
believe) there was no sleep for me in my bed. I put out the candle and lay down =
with a
good resolution; and in a moment all was light about me like a theatre, and=
I
saw myself upon the stage of it playing ignoble parts. I remembered France and my Emperor=
, now depending
on the arbitrament of war, bent down, fighting on their knees and with their
teeth against so many and such various assailants. And I burned with shame to be here=
in
England, cherishing an English fortune, pursuing an English mistress, and n=
ot
there, to handle a musket in my native fields, and to manure them with my b=
ody
if I fell. I remembered that I
belonged to France. All my fa=
thers
had fought for her, and some had died; the voice in my throat, the sight of=
my
eyes, the tears that now sprang there, the whole man of me, was fashioned of
French earth and born of a French mother; I had been tended and caressed by=
a
succession of the daughters of France, the fairest, the most ill-starred; a=
nd I
had fought and conquered shoulder to shoulder with her sons. A soldier, a noble, of the proudes=
t and
bravest race in Europe, it had been left to the prattle of a hobbledehoy la=
ckey
in an English chaise to recall me to the consciousness of duty.
When I saw how it was I did not lose time in
indecision. The old classical
conflict of love and honour being once fairly before me, it did not cost me=
a
thought. I was a Saint-Yves de
Kéroual; and I decided to strike off on the morrow for Wakefield and
Burchell Fenn, and embark, as soon as it should be morally possible, for the
succour of my downtrodden fatherland and my beleaguered Emperor. Pursuant on this resolve, I leaped=
from
bed, made a light, and as the watchman was crying half-past two in the dark
streets of Lichfield, sat down to pen a letter of farewell to Flora. And then—whether it was the =
sudden
chill of the night, whether it came by association of ideas from the
remembrance of Swanston Cottage I know not, but there appeared before
me—to the barking of sheep-dogs—a couple of snuffy and shambling
figures, each wrapped in a plaid, each armed with a rude staff; and I was
immediately bowed down to have forgotten them so long, and of late to have
thought of them so cavalierly.
Sure enough there was my errand! As a private person I was neither =
French
nor English; I was something else first: a loyal gentleman, an honest man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Sim and Candlish must not be left =
to pay
the penalty of my unfortunate blow.
They held my honour tacitly pledged to succour them; and it is a sor=
t of
stoical refinement entirely foreign to my nature to set the political
obligation above the personal and private.=
If France fell in the interval for the lack of Anne de St.-Yves, fall
she must! But I was both surprised and humiliated to have had so plain a du=
ty
bound upon me for so long—and for so long to have neglected and forgo=
tten
it. I think any brave man will understand me when I say that I went to bed =
and
to sleep with a conscience very much relieved, and woke again in the morning
with a light heart. The very =
danger
of the enterprise reassured me: to save Sim and Candlish (suppose the worst=
to
come to the worst) it would be necessary for me to declare myself in a cour=
t of
justice, with consequences which I did not dare to dwell upon; it could nev=
er
be said that I had chosen the cheap and the easy—only that in a very
perplexing competition of duties I had risked my life for the most immediat=
e.
We resumed the journey with more diligence:
thenceforward posted day and night; did not halt beyond what was necessary =
for
meals; and the postillions were excited by gratuities, after the habit of my
cousin Alain. For twopence I =
could
have gone farther and taken four horses; so extreme was my haste, running a=
s I
was before the terrors of an awakened conscience. But I feared to be conspicuous.
Meanwhile I was ashamed to look Rowley in the
face. The young shaver had co=
ntrived
to put me wholly in the wrong; he had cost me a night’s rest and a se=
vere
and healthful humiliation; and I was grateful and embarrassed in his
society. This would never do;=
it
was contrary to all my ideas of discipline; if the officer has to blush bef=
ore
the private, or the master before the servant, nothing is left to hope for =
but discharge
or death. I hit upon the idea=
of
teaching him French; and accordingly, from Lichfield, I became the distract=
ed
master, and he the scholar—how shall I say? indefatigable, but
uninspired. His interest never
flagged. He would hear the sa=
me
word twenty times with profound refreshment, mispronounce it in several
different ways, and forget it again with magical celerity. Say it happened to be stirrup. ‘No, I don’t seem to
remember that word, Mr. Anne,’ he would say: ‘it don’t se=
em to
stick to me, that word don’t.’=
And then, when I had told it him again, ‘Etrier!’ he wou=
ld
cry. ‘To be sure! I had it on the tip of my tongue.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Eterier!’ (going wrong alrea=
dy, as
if by a fatal instinct). ‘What will I remember it by, now? Why, interior, to be sure! I’ll remember it by its being
something that ain’t in the interior of a horse.’ And when next I had occasion to as=
k him
the French for stirrup, it was a toss-up whether he had forgotten all about=
it,
or gave me exterior for an answer.
He was never a hair discouraged.&nb=
sp;
He seemed to consider that he was covering the ground at a normal
rate. He came up smiling day =
after
day. ‘Now, sir, shall w=
e do
our French?’ he would say; and I would put questions, and elicit copi=
ous
commentary and explanation, but never the shadow of an answer. My hands fell to my sides; I could=
have
wept to hear him. When I refl=
ected
that he had as yet learned nothing, and what a vast deal more there was for=
him
to learn, the period of these lessons seemed to unroll before me vast as
eternity, and I saw myself a teacher of a hundred, and Rowley a pupil of
ninety, still hammering on the rudiments!&=
nbsp;
The wretched boy, I should say, was quite unspoiled by the inevitable
familiarities of the journey. He
turned out at each stage the pink of serving-lads, deft, civil, prompt,
attentive, touching his hat like an automaton, raising the status of Mr.
Ramornie in the eyes of all the inn by his smiling service, and seeming cap=
able
of anything in the world but the one thing I had chosen—learning Fren=
ch!
=
=
The
country had for some time back been changing in character. By a thousand indications I could =
judge
that I was again drawing near to Scotland.=
I saw it written in the face of the hills, in the growth of the tree=
s,
and in the glint of the waterbrooks that kept the high-road company. It might have occurred to me, also=
, that
I was, at the same time, approaching a place of some fame in
Britain—Gretna Green. O=
ver these
same leagues of road—which Rowley and I now traversed in the claret-c=
oloured
chaise, to the note of the flageolet and the French lesson—how many p=
airs
of lovers had gone bowling northwards to the music of sixteen scampering
horseshoes; and how many irate persons, parents, uncles, guardians, evicted
rivals, had come tearing after, clapping the frequent red face to the
chaise-window, lavishly shedding their gold about the post-houses, sedulous=
ly
loading and re-loading, as they went, their avenging pistols! But I doubt if I had thought of it=
at
all, before a wayside hazard swept me into the thick of an adventure of thi=
s nature;
and I found myself playing providence with other people’s lives, to my
own admiration at the moment—and subsequently to my own brief but pas=
sionate
regret.
At rather an ugly corner of an uphill reach I =
came
on the wreck of a chaise lying on one side in the ditch, a man and a woman =
in
animated discourse in the middle of the road, and the two postillions, each
with his pair of horses, looking on and laughing from the saddle.
‘Morning breezes! here’s a
smash!’ cried Rowley, pocketing his flageolet in the middle of the Ti=
ght
Little Island.
I was perhaps more conscious of the moral smash
than the physical—more alive to broken hearts than to broken chaises;
for, as plain as the sun at morning, there was a screw loose in this runaway
match. It is always a bad sig=
n when
the lower classes laugh: their taste in humour is both poor and sinister; a=
nd
for a man, running the posts with four horses, presumably with open pockets,
and in the company of the most entrancing little creature conceivable, to h=
ave
come down so far as to be laughed at by his own postillions, was only to be
explained on the double hypothesis, that he was a fool and no gentleman.
I have said they were man and woman. I should have said man and child. =
She
was certainly not more than seventeen, pretty as an angel, just plump enoug=
h to
damn a saint, and dressed in various shades of blue, from her stockings to =
her
saucy cap, in a kind of taking gamut, the top note of which she flung me in=
a
beam from her too appreciative eye.
There was no doubt about the case: I saw it all. From a boarding-school, a black-bo=
ard, a
piano, and Clementi’s Sonatinas, the child had made a rash adventure =
upon
life in the company of a half-bred hawbuck; and she was already not only
regretting it, but expressing her regret with point and pungency.
As I alighted they both paused with that
unmistakable air of being interrupted in a scene. I uncovered to the lady and placed=
my
services at their disposal.
It was the man who answered. ‘There’s no use in sha=
mming,
sir,’ said he. ‘This lady and I have run away, and her
father’s after us: road to Gretna, sir. And here have these nincompoops sp=
ilt us
in the ditch and smashed the chaise!’
‘Very provoking,’ said I.
‘I don’t know when I’ve been=
so
provoked!’ cried he, with a glance down the road, of mortal terror.
‘The father is no doubt very much
incensed?’ I pursued civilly.
‘O God!’ cried the hawbuck. ‘In short, you see, we must =
get
out of this. And I’ll tell you what—it may seem cool, but neces=
sity
has no law—if you would lend us your chaise to the next post-house, it
would be the very thing, sir.’
‘I confess it seems cool,’ I repli=
ed.
‘What’s that you say, sir?’ =
he
snapped.
‘I was agreeing with you,’ said
I. ‘Yes, it does seem c=
ool;
and what is more to the point, it seems unnecessary. This thing can be arranged in a mo=
re
satisfactory manner otherwise, I think.&nb=
sp;
You can doubtless ride?’
This opened a door on the matter of their prev=
ious
dispute, and the fellow appeared life-sized in his true colours. ‘That’s what I’v=
e been
telling her: that, damn her! she must ride!’ he broke out. ‘And if the gentleman’=
s of
the same mind, why, damme, you shall!’
As he said so, he made a snatch at her wrist,
which she evaded with horror.
I stepped between them.
‘No, sir,’ said I; ‘the lady
shall not.’
He turned on me raging. ‘And who are you to
interfere?’ he roared.
‘There is here no question of who I
am,’ I replied. ‘=
I may
be the devil or the Archbishop of Canterbury for what you know, or need
know. The point is that I can=
help
you—it appears that nobody else can; and I will tell you how I propos=
e to
do it. I will give the lady a=
seat
in my chaise, if you will return the compliment by allowing my servant to r=
ide one
of your horses.’
I thought he would have sprung at my throat.
‘You have always the alternative before =
you:
to wait here for the arrival of papa,’ I added.
And that settled him. He cast another haggard look down =
the
road, and capitulated.
‘I am sure, sir, the lady is very much
obliged to you,’ he said, with an ill grace.
I gave her my hand; she mounted like a bird in=
to
the chaise; Rowley, grinning from ear to ear, closed the door behind us; the
two impudent rascals of post-boys cheered and laughed aloud as we drove off;
and my own postillion urged his horses at once into a rattling trot. It was plain I was supposed by all=
to
have done a very dashing act, and ravished the bride from the ravisher.
In the meantime I stole a look at the little
lady. She was in a state of p=
itiable
discomposure, and her arms shook on her lap in her black lace mittens.
‘Madam—’ I began.
And she, in the same moment, finding her voice:
‘O, what you must think of me!’
‘Madam,’ said I, ‘what must =
any
gentleman think when he sees youth, beauty and innocence in distress? I wish I could tell you that I was=
old enough
to be your father; I think we must give that up,’ I continued, with a
smile. ‘But I will tell=
you
something about myself which ought to do as well, and to set that little he=
art
at rest in my society. I am a=
lover. May I say it of myself—for I=
am
not quite used to all the niceties of English—that I am a true
lover? There is one whom I ad=
mire, adore,
obey; she is no less good than she is beautiful; if she were here, she would
take you to her arms: conceive that she has sent me—that she has said=
to
me, “Go, be her knight!”’
‘O, I know she must be sweet, I know she
must be worthy of you!’ cried the little lady. ‘She would never forget fema=
le
decorum—nor make the terrible erratum I’ve done!’
And at this she lifted up her voice and wept.<= o:p>
This did not forward matters: it was in vain t=
hat
I begged her to be more composed and to tell me a plain, consecutive tale of
her misadventures; but she continued instead to pour forth the most
extraordinary mixture of the correct school miss and the poor untutored lit=
tle
piece of womanhood in a false position—of engrafted pedantry and
incoherent nature.
‘I am certain it must have been judicial
blindness,’ she sobbed.
‘I can’t think how I didn’t see it, but I
didn’t; and he isn’t, is he?&n=
bsp;
And then a curtain rose . . . O, what a moment was that! But I knew at once that you were; =
you
had but to appear from your carriage, and I knew it, O, she must be a fortu=
nate
young lady! And I have no fea=
r with
you, none—a perfect confidence.’
‘Madam,’ said I, ‘a
gentleman.’
‘That’s what I mean—a
gentleman,’ she exclaimed.
‘And he—and that—he isn’t. O, how shall I dare meet
father!’ And disclosing=
to me
her tear-stained face, and opening her arms with a tragic gesture: ‘A=
nd I
am quite disgraced before all the young ladies, my school-companions!’
she added.
‘O, not so bad as that!’ I cried.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘Come, come, you exaggerate,=
my
dear Miss—? Excuse me i=
f I am
too familiar: I have not yet heard your name.’
‘My name is Dorothy Greensleeves, sir: w=
hy
should I conceal it? I fear i=
t will
only serve to point an adage to future generations, and I had meant so
differently! There was no you=
ng
female in the county more emulous to be thought well of than I. And what a fall was there! O, dear me, what a wicked, piggish=
donkey
of a girl I have made of myself, to be sure! And there is no hope! O,
Mr.—’
And at that she paused and asked my name.
I am not writing my eulogium for the Academy; I
will admit it was unpardonably imbecile, but I told it her. If you had been there—and se=
en her,
ravishingly pretty and little, a baby in years and mind—and heard her
talking like a book, with so much of schoolroom propriety in her manner, wi=
th
such an innocent despair in the matter—you would probably have told h=
er
yours. She repeated it after =
me.
‘I shall pray for you all my life,’
she said. ‘Every night,=
when
I retire to rest, the last thing I shall do is to remember you by name.R=
17;
Presently I succeeded in winning from her her
tale, which was much what I had anticipated: a tale of a schoolhouse, a wal=
led
garden, a fruit-tree that concealed a bench, an impudent raff posturing in
church, an exchange of flowers and vows over the garden wall, a silly
schoolmate for a confidante, a chaise and four, and the most immediate and
perfect disenchantment on the part of the little lady. ‘And there is nothing to be
done!’ she wailed in conclusion.&nbs=
p;
‘My error is irretrievable, I am quite forced to that
conclusion. O, Monsieur de
Saint-Yves! who would have thought that I could have been such a blind, wic=
ked
donkey!’
I should have said before—only that I re=
ally
do not know when it came in—that we had been overtaken by the two
post-boys, Rowley and Mr. Bellamy, which was the hawbuck’s name,
bestriding the four post-horses; and that these formed a sort of cavalry
escort, riding now before, now behind the chaise, and Bellamy occasionally
posturing at the window and obliging us with some of his conversation. He was so ill-received that I decl=
are I
was tempted to pity him, remembering from what a height he had fallen, and =
how
few hours ago it was since the lady had herself fled to his arms, all blush=
es
and ardour. Well, these great
strokes of fortune usually befall the unworthy, and Bellamy was now the
legitimate object of my commiseration and the ridicule of his own post-boys=
!
‘Miss Dorothy,’ said I, ‘you
wish to be delivered from this man?’
‘O, if it were possible!’ she
cried. ‘But not by
violence.’
‘Not in the least, ma’am,’ I
replied. ‘The simplest =
thing
in life. We are in a civilised
country; the man’s a malefactor—’
‘O, never!’ she cried. ‘Do not even dream it! With all his faults, I know he is =
not
that.’
‘Anyway, he’s in the wrong in this
affair—on the wrong side of the law, call it what you please,’ =
said
I; and with that, our four horsemen having for the moment headed us by a
considerable interval, I hailed my post-boy and inquired who was the nearest
magistrate and where he lived. Archdeacon Clitheroe, he told me, a prodigio=
us
dignitary, and one who lived but a lane or two back, and at the distance of
only a mile or two out of the direct road.=
I showed him the king’s medallion.
‘Take the lady there, and at full
gallop,’ I cried.
‘Right, sir! Mind yourself,’ says the
postillion.
And before I could have thought it possible, he
had turned the carriage to the rightabout and we were galloping south.
Our outriders were quick to remark and imitate=
the
manoeuvre, and came flying after us with a vast deal of indiscriminate
shouting; so that the fine, sober picture of a carriage and escort, that we=
had
presented but a moment back, was transformed in the twinkling of an eye into
the image of a noisy fox-chase. The
two postillions and my own saucy rogue were, of course, disinterested actor=
s in
the comedy; they rode for the mere sport, keeping in a body, their mouths f=
ull
of laughter, waving their hats as they came on, and crying (as the fancy st=
ruck
them) Tally-ho!’ ‘=
;Stop,
thief!’ ‘A
highwayman! A
highwayman!’ It was
otherguess work with Bellamy. That
gentleman no sooner observed our change of direction than he turned his hor=
se
with so much violence that the poor animal was almost cast upon its side, a=
nd
launched her in immediate and desperate pursuit. As he approached I saw that
his face was deadly white and that he carried a drawn pistol in his hand. I turned at once to the poor little
bride that was to have been, and now was not to be; she, upon her side, des=
erting
the other window, turned as if to meet me.
‘O, O, don’t let him kill me!̵=
7;
she screamed.
‘Never fear,’ I replied.
Her face was distorted with terror. Her hands took hold upon me with t=
he instinctive
clutch of an infant. The chai=
se
gave a flying lurch, which took the feet from under me and tumbled us anyhow
upon the seat. And almost in =
the
same moment the head of Bellamy appeared in the window which Missy had left
free for him.
Conceive the situation! The little lady and I were
falling—or had just fallen—backward on the seat, and offered to=
the
eye a somewhat ambiguous picture.
The chaise was speeding at a furious pace, and with the most violent
leaps and lurches, along the highway.
Into this bounding receptacle Bellamy interjected his head, his pist=
ol
arm, and his pistol; and since his own horse was travelling still faster th=
an
the chaise, he must withdraw all of them again in the inside of the fractio=
n of
a minute. He did so, but he l=
eft
the charge of the pistol behind him—whether by design or accident I s=
hall
never know, and I dare say he has forgotten! Probably he had only meant to thre=
aten,
in hopes of causing us to arrest our flight. In the same moment came the explos=
ion and
a pitiful cry from Missy; and my gentleman, making certain he had struck he=
r,
went down the road pursued by the furies, turned at the first corner, took a
flying leap over the thorn hedge, and disappeared across country in the lea=
st
possible time.
Rowley was ready and eager to pursue; but I
withheld him, thinking we were excellently quit of Mr. Bellamy, at no more =
cost
than a scratch on the forearm and a bullet-hole in the left-hand
claret-coloured panel. And accordingly, but now at a more decent pace, we
proceeded on our way to Archdeacon Clitheroe’s, Missy’s gratitu=
de
and admiration were aroused to a high pitch by this dramatic scene, and what
she was pleased to call my wound.
She must dress it for me with her handkerchief, a service which she
rendered me even with tears. I
could well have spared them, not loving on the whole to be made ridiculous,=
and
the injury being in the nature of a cat’s scratch. Indeed, I would have suggested for=
her kind
care rather the cure of my coat-sleeve, which had suffered worse in the
encounter; but I was too wise to risk the anti-climax. That she had been rescued by a her=
o,
that the hero should have been wounded in the affray, and his wound bandaged
with her handkerchief (which it could not even bloody), ministered incredib=
ly
to the recovery of her self-respect; and I could hear her relate the incide=
nt
to ‘the young ladies, my school-companions,’ in the most approv=
ed
manner of Mrs. Radcliffe! To =
have
insisted on the torn coat-sleeve would have been unmannerly, if not inhuman=
.
Presently the residence of the archdeacon bega=
n to
heave in sight. A chaise and =
four
smoking horses stood by the steps, and made way for us on our approach; and
even as we alighted there appeared from the interior of the house a tall
ecclesiastic, and beside him a little, headstrong, ruddy man, in a towering
passion, and brandishing over his head a roll of paper. At sight of him Miss Dorothy flung
herself on her knees with the most moving adjurations, calling him father,
assuring him she was wholly cured and entirely repentant of her disobedienc=
e,
and entreating forgiveness; and I soon saw that she need fear no great seve=
rity
from Mr. Greensleeves, who showed himself extraordinarily fond, loud, greed=
y of
caresses and prodigal of tears.
To give myself a countenance, as well as to ha=
ve
all ready for the road when I should find occasion, I turned to quit scores
with Bellamy’s two postillions.
They had not the least claim on me, but one of which they were quite
ignorant—that I was a fugitive.
It is the worst feature of that false position that every gratuity
becomes a case of conscience. You must not leave behind you any one
discontented nor any one grateful. But the whole business had been such a
‘hurrah-boys’ from the beginning, and had gone off in the fifth=
act
so like a melodrama, in explosions, reconciliations, and the rape of a
post-horse, that it was plainly impossible to keep it covered. It was plain it would have to be t=
alked over
in all the inn-kitchens for thirty miles about, and likely for six months to
come. It only remained for me,
therefore, to settle on that gratuity which should be least
conspicuous—so large that nobody could grumble, so small that nobody
would be tempted to boast. My
decision was hastily and nor wisely taken.=
The one fellow spat on his tip (so he called it) for luck; the other
developing a sudden streak of piety, prayed God bless me with fervour. It seemed a demonstration was brew=
ing, and
I determined to be off at once.
Bidding my own post-boy and Rowley be in readiness for an immediate
start, I reascended the terrace and presented myself, hat in hand, before M=
r.
Greensleeves and the archdeacon.
‘You will excuse me, I trust,’ said
I. ‘I think shame to in=
terrupt
this agreeable scene of family effusion, which I have been privileged in so=
me small
degree to bring about.’
And at these words the storm broke.
‘Small degree! small degree, sir!’
cries the father; ‘that shall not pass, Mr. St. Eaves! If I’ve got my darling back,=
and
none the worse for that vagabone rascal, I know whom I have to thank. Shake hands with me—up to the
elbows, sir! A Frenchman you =
may
be, but you’re one of the right breed, by God! And, by God, sir, you may have any=
thing
you care to ask of me, down to Dolly’s hand, by God!’
All this he roared out in a voice surprisingly
powerful from so small a person.
Every word was thus audible to the servants, who had followed them o=
ut
of the house and now congregated about us on the terrace, as well as to Row=
ley
and the five postillions on the gravel sweep below. The sentiments expressed
were popular; some ass, whom the devil moved to be my enemy, proposed three
cheers, and they were given with a will.&n=
bsp;
To hear my own name resounding amid acclamations in the hills of
Westmorland was flattering, perhaps; but it was inconvenient at a moment wh=
en
(as I was morally persuaded) police handbills were already speeding after m=
e at
the rate of a hundred miles a day.
Nor was that the end of it. The archdeacon must present his
compliments, and pressed upon me some of his West India sherry, and I was
carried into a vastly fine library, where I was presented to his lady
wife. While we were at sherry=
in
the library, ale was handed round upon the terrace. Speeches were made, han=
ds
were shaken, Missy (at her father’s request) kissed me farewell, and =
the
whole party reaccompanied me to the terrace, where they stood waving hats a=
nd
handkerchiefs, and crying farewells to all the echoes of the mountains until
the chaise had disappeared.
The echoes of the mountains were engaged in sa=
ying
to me privately: ‘You fool, you have done it now!’
‘They do seem to have got ’old of =
your
name, Mr. Anne,’ said Rowley.
‘It weren’t my fault this time.’
‘It was one of those accidents that can
never be foreseen,’ said I, affecting a dignity that I was far from
feeling. ‘Some one reco=
gnised
me.’
‘Which on ’em, Mr. Anne?’ sa=
id
the rascal.
‘That is a senseless question; it can ma=
ke
no difference who it was,’ I returned.
‘No, nor that it can’t!’ cri= ed Rowley. ‘I say, Mr. Ann= e, sir, it’s what you would call a jolly mess, ain’t it? looks like “clean bowled-out in the middle stump,” don’t it?’<= o:p>
‘I fail to understand you, Rowley.’=
;
‘Well, what I mean is, what are we to do
about this one?’ pointing to the postillion in front of us, as he
alternately hid and revealed his patched breeches to the trot of his
horse. ‘He see you get =
in
this morning under Mr. Ramornie—I was very piticular to Mr. Ramornie =
you,
if you remember, sir—and he see you get in again under Mr. Saint Eave=
s,
and whatever’s he going to see you get out under? that’s what
worries me, sir. It don’=
;t
seem to me like as if the position was what you call stratetegic!’
‘Parrrbleu! will you let me be!’ I
cried. ‘I have to think=
; you
cannot imagine how your constant idiotic prattle annoys me.’
‘Beg pardon, Mr. Anne,’ said he; a=
nd
the next moment, ‘You wouldn’t like for us to do our French now,
would you, Mr. Anne?’
‘Certainly not,’ said I. ‘Play upon your flageolet.=
8217;
The which he did with what seemed to me to be
irony.
Conscience doth make cowards of us all! I was so downcast by my pitiful mi=
smanagement
of the morning’s business that I shrank from the eye of my own hired
infant, and read offensive meanings into his idle tootling.
I took off my coat, and set to mending it,
soldier-fashion, with a needle and thread.=
There is nothing more conducive to thought, above all in arduous
circumstances; and as I sewed, I gradually gained a clearness upon my
affairs. I must be done with =
the
claret-coloured chaise at once. It should be sold at the next stage for wha=
t it
would bring. Rowley and I mus=
t take
back to the road on our four feet, and after a decent interval of trudging,=
get
places on some coach for Edinburgh again under new names! So much trouble and toil, so much =
extra
risk and expense and loss of time, and all for a slip of the tongue to a li=
ttle
lady in blue!
= I had hitherto conceived and partly carried out an ideal that was dear to my heart. Rowley and I descended= from our claret-coloured chaise, a couple of correctly dressed, brisk, bright-ey= ed young fellows, like a pair of aristocratic mice; attending singly to our own affairs, communicating solely with each other, and that with the niceties a= nd civilities of drill. We would pass throu= gh the little crowd before the door with high-bred preoccupation, inoffensively haughty, after the best English pattern; and disappear within, followed by = the envy and admiration of the bystanders, a model master and servant, point-de= vice in every part. It was a heavy thought to me, as we drew up before the inn at Kirkby-Lonsdale, that this s= cene was now to be enacted for the last time.&n= bsp; Alas! and had I known it, it was to go of with so inferior a grace!<= o:p>
I had been injudiciously liberal to the post-b=
oys
of the chaise and four. My own post-boy, he of the patched breeches, now st=
ood
before me, his eyes glittering with greed, his hand advanced. It was plain he anticipated someth=
ing
extraordinary by way of a pourboire; and considering the marches and
counter-marches by which I had extended the stage, the military character of
our affairs with Mr. Bellamy, and the bad example I had set before him at t=
he
archdeacon’s, something exceptional was certainly to be done. But these are always nice question=
s, to
a foreigner above all: a shade too little will suggest niggardliness, a
shilling too much smells of hush-money.&nb=
sp;
Fresh from the scene at the archdeacon’s, and flushed by the i=
dea
that I was now nearly done with the responsibilities of the claret-coloured
chaise, I put into his hands five guineas; and the amount served only to wa=
ken
his cupidity.
‘O, come, sir, you ain’t going to =
fob
me of with this? Why, I seen =
fire at
your side!’ he cried.
It would never do to give him more; I felt I
should become the fable of Kirkby-Lonsdale if I did; and I looked him in the
face, sternly but still smiling, and addressed him with a voice of
uncompromising firmness.
‘If you do not like it, give it back,=
217;
said I.
He pocketed the guineas with the quickness of a
conjurer, and, like a base-born cockney as he was, fell instantly to casting
dirt.
‘’Ave your own way of it, Mr.
Ramornie—leastways Mr. St. Eaves, or whatever your blessed name may
be. Look
’ere’—turning for sympathy to the
stable-boys—‘this is a blessed business. Blessed ’ard, I calls it. =
8217;Ere
I takes up a blessed son of a pop-gun what calls hisself anything you care =
to
mention, and turns out to be a blessed mounseer at the end of it! ’Ere ’ave I been drivi=
n’
of him up and down all day, a-carrying off of gals, a-shootin’ of
pistyils, and a-drinkin’ of sherry and hale; and wot does he up and g=
ive
me but a blank, blank, blanketing blank!’
The fellow’s language had become too
powerful for reproduction, and I passed it by.
Meanwhile I observed Rowley fretting visibly at
the bit; another moment, and he would have added a last touch of the ridicu=
lous
to our arrival by coming to his hands with the postillion.
‘Rowley!’ cried I reprovingly.
Strictly it should have been Gammon; but in the
hurry of the moment, my fault (I can only hope) passed unperceived. At the same time I caught the eye =
of the
postmaster. He was long and l=
ean,
and brown and bilious; he had the drooping nose of the humourist, and the q=
uick
attention of a man of parts. =
He
read my embarrassment in a glance, stepped instantly forward, sent the post=
-boy
to the rightabout with half a word, and was back next moment at my side.
‘Dinner in a private room, sir? Very well. John, No. 4! What wine would you care to
mention? Very well, sir. Will you please to order fresh
horses? Not, sir? Very well.’
Each of these expressions was accompanied by
something in the nature of a bow, and all were prefaced by something in the
nature of a smile, which I could very well have done without. The man’s politeness was fro=
m the teeth
outwards; behind and within, I was conscious of a perpetual scrutiny: the s=
cene
at his doorstep, the random confidences of the post-boy, had not been thrown
away on this observer; and it was under a strong fear of coming trouble tha=
t I
was shown at last into my private room.&nb=
sp;
I was in half a mind to have put off the whole business. But the truth is, now my name had =
got
abroad, my fear of the mail that was coming, and the handbills it should
contain, had waxed inordinately, and I felt I could never eat a meal in pea=
ce
till I had severed my connection with the claret-coloured chaise.
Accordingly, as soon as I had done with dinner=
, I
sent my compliments to the landlord and requested he should take a glass of
wine with me. He came; we exc=
hanged
the necessary civilities, and presently I approached my business.
‘By the bye,’ said I, ‘we ha=
d a
brush down the road to-day. I=
dare
say you may have heard of it?’
He nodded.
‘And I was so unlucky as to get a pistol
ball in the panel of my chaise,’ I continued, ‘which makes it
simply useless to me. Do you =
know
any one likely to buy?’
‘I can well understand that,’ said=
the
landlord, ‘I was looking at it just now; it’s as good as ruined=
, is
that chaise. General rule, pe=
ople don’t
like chaises with bullet-holes.’
‘Too much Romance of the Forest?’ I
suggested, recalling my little friend of the morning, and what I was sure h=
ad
been her favourite reading—Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.
‘Just so,’ said he. ‘They may be right, they may=
be
wrong; I’m not the judge. But
I suppose it’s natural, after all, for respectable people to like thi=
ngs
respectable about them; not bullet-holes, nor puddles of blood, nor men with
aliases.’
I took a glass of wine and held it up to the l=
ight
to show that my hand was steady.
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I suppose
so.’
‘You have papers, of course, showing you=
are
the proper owner?’ he inquired.
‘There is the bill, stamped and
receipted,’ said I, tossing it across to him.
He looked at it.
‘This all you have?’ he asked.
‘It is enough, at least,’ said I.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> ‘It shows you where I bought=
and
what I paid for it.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ he
said. ‘You want some pa=
per of
identification.’
‘To identify the chaise?’ I inquir=
ed.
‘Not at all: to identify you,’ said
he.
‘My good sir, remember yourself!’ =
said
I. ‘The title-deeds of =
my
estate are in that despatch-box; but you do not seriously suppose that I sh=
ould
allow you to examine them?’
‘Well, you see, this paper proves that s=
ome
Mr. Ramornie paid seventy guineas for a chaise,’ said the fellow. ‘That’s all well and g=
ood;
but who’s to prove to me that you are Mr. Ramornie?’
‘Fellow!’ cried I.
‘O, fellow as much as you please!’
said he. ‘Fellow, with =
all my
heart! That changes nothing. =
I am
fellow, of course—obtrusive fellow, impudent fellow, if you
like—but who are you? I=
hear
of you with two names; I hear of you running away with young ladies, and
getting cheered for a Frenchman, which seems odd; and one thing I will go b=
ail
for, that you were in a blue fright when the post-boy began to tell tales a=
t my
door. In short, sir, you may be a very good gentleman; but I don’t kn=
ow
enough about you, and I’ll trouble you for your papers, or to go befo=
re a
magistrate. Take your choice;=
if
I’m not fine enough, I hope the magistrates are.’
‘My good man,’ I stammered, for th=
ough
I had found my voice, I could scarce be said to have recovered my wits,
‘this is most unusual, most rude.&nb=
sp;
Is it the custom in Westmorland that gentlemen should be insulted?=
8217;
‘That depends,’ said he. ‘When it’s suspected t=
hat
gentlemen are spies it is the custom; and a good custom, too. No no,’ he broke out, percei=
ving
me to make a movement. ‘=
;Both
hands upon the table, my gentleman!
I want no pistol balls in my chaise panels.’
‘Surely, sir, you do me strange
injustice!’ said I, now the master of myself. ‘You see me sitting here, a
monument of tranquillity: pray may I help myself to wine without umbraging
you?’
I took this attitude in sheer despair. I had no plan, no hope. The best I could imagine was to sp=
in the
business out some minutes longer, then capitulate. At least, I would not capituatle o=
ne
moment too soon.
‘Am I to take that for no?’ he ask=
ed.
‘Referring to your former obliging
proposal?’ said I. R=
16;My
good sir, you are to take it, as you say, for “No.” Certainly I will not show you my d=
eeds;
certainly I will not rise from table and trundle out to see your magistrate=
s. I have too much respect for my
digestion, and too little curiosity in justices of the peace.’
He leaned forward, looked me nearly in the fac=
e,
and reached out one hand to the bell-rope.=
‘See here, my fine fellow!’ said he. ‘Do you see that bell-rope?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Let me tell you, there’s a b=
oy
waiting below: one jingle, and he goes to fetch the constable.’
‘Do you tell me so?’ said I. ‘Well, there’s no acco=
unting
for tastes! I have a prejudice
against the society of constables, but if it is your fancy to have one in f=
or
the dessert—’ I
shrugged my shoulders lightly. ‘Really, you know,’ I added, =
216;this
is vastly entertaining. I ass=
ure
you, I am looking on, with all the interest of a man of the world, at the d=
evelopment
of your highly original character.’
He continued to study my face without speech, =
his
hand still on the button of the bell-rope, his eyes in mine; this was the
decisive heat. My face seemed to myself to dislimn under his gaze, my
expression to change, the smile (with which I had began) to degenerate into=
the
grin of the man upon the rack. I
was besides harassed with doubts.
An innocent man, I argued, would have resented the fellow’s
impudence an hour ago; and by my continued endurance of the ordeal, I was
simply signing and sealing my confession; in short, I had reached the end o=
f my
powers.
‘Have you any objection to my putting my
hands in my breeches pockets?’ I inquired. ‘Excuse me mentioning it, bu=
t you
showed yourself so extremely nervous a moment back.’ My voice was not all I could have
wished, but it sufficed. I co=
uld
hear it tremble, but the landlord apparently could not. He turned away and drew a long bre=
ath,
and you may be sure I was quick to follow his example.
‘You’re a cool hand at least, and
that’s the sort I like,’ said he. ‘Be you what you please,
I’ll deal square. IR=
17;ll
take the chaise for a hundred pound down, and throw the dinner in.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I cried, whol=
ly
mystified by this form of words.
‘You pay me a hundred down,’ he
repeated, ‘and I’ll take the chaise. It’s very little more
than it cost,’ he added, with a grin, ‘and you know you must ge=
t it
off your hands somehow.’
I do not know when I have been better entertai=
ned
than by this impudent proposal. It
was broadly funny, and I suppose the least tempting offer in the world. For all that, it came very welcome=
, for
it gave me the occasion to laugh.
This I did with the most complete abandonment, till the tears ran do=
wn
my cheeks; and ever and again, as the fit abated, I would get another view =
of
the landlord’s face, and go off into another paroxysm.
‘You droll creature, you will be the dea=
th
of me yet!’ I cried, drying my eyes.
My friend was now wholly disconcerted; he knew=
not
where to look, nor yet what to say; and began for the first time to conceiv=
e it
possible he was mistaken.
‘You seem rather to enjoy a laugh,
sir,’ said he.
‘O, yes! I am quite an original,’ I
replied, and laughed again.
Presently, in a changed voice, he offered me twenty pounds for the chaise; I ran him up to twenty-five, and closed with = the offer: indeed, I was glad to get anything; and if I haggled, it was not in = the desire of gain, but with the view at any price of securing a safe retreat.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> For although hostilities were susp= ended, he was yet far from satisfied; and I could read his continued suspicions in= the cloudy eye that still hovered about my face. At last they took shape in words.<= o:p>
‘This is all very well,’ says he:
‘you carry it off well; but for all that, I must do my duty.’
I had my strong effect in reserve; it was to b=
urn
my ships with a vengeance! I
rose. ‘Leave the room,&=
#8217;
said I. ‘This is insupe=
rable. Is the man mad?’ And then, as if already half-asham=
ed of
my passion: ‘I can take a joke as well as any one,’ I added;
‘but this passes measure.
Send my servant and the bill.’
When he had left me alone, I considered my own
valour with amazement. I had
insulted him; I had sent him away alone; now, if ever, he would take what w=
as
the only sensible resource, and fetch the constable. But there was something instinctiv=
ely
treacherous about the man which shrank from plain courses. And, with all his cleverness, he m=
issed
the occasion of fame. Rowley =
and I
were suffered to walk out of his door, with all our baggage, on foot, with =
no
destination named, except in the vague statement that we were come ‘to
view the lakes’; and my friend only watched our departure with his ch=
in
in his hand, still moodily irresolute.
I think this one of my great successes. I was exposed, unmasked, summoned =
to do
a perfectly natural act, which must prove my doom and which I had not the
slightest pretext for refusing. I
kept my head, stuck to my guns, and, against all likelihood, here I was once
more at liberty and in the king’s highway. This was a strong lesson never to =
despair;
and, at the same time, how many hints to be cautious! and what a perplexed =
and
dubious business the whole question of my escape now appeared! That I should have risked perishin=
g upon
a trumpery question of a pourboire, depicted in lively colours the perils t=
hat
perpetually surrounded us. Th=
ough,
to be sure, the initial mistake had been committed before that; and if I had
not suffered myself to be drawn a little deep in confidences to the innocent
Dolly, there need have been no tumble at the inn of Kirkby-Lonsdale. I took the lesson to heart, and pr=
omised
myself in the future to be more reserved.&=
nbsp;
It was none of my business to attend to broken chaises or shipwrecked
travellers. I had my hands fu=
ll of
my own affairs; and my best defence would be a little more natural selfishn=
ess
and a trifle less imbecile good-nature.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER XXV—I MEET A CHEERFUL EXTRAVAGANT<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
=
I pass
over the next fifty or sixty leagues of our journey without comment. The reader must be growing weary of
scenes of travel; and for my own part I have no cause to recall these
particular miles with any pleasure.
We were mainly occupied with attempts to obliterate our trail, which=
(as
the result showed) were far from successful; for, on my cousin following, he
was able to run me home with the least possible loss of time, following the
claret-coloured chaise to Kirkby-Lonsdale, where I think the landlord must =
have
wept to learn what he had missed, and tracing us thereafter to the doors of=
the
coach-office in Edinburgh without a single check. Fortune did not favour me, and why
should I recapitulate the details of futile precautions which deceived nobo=
dy,
and wearisome arts which proved to be artless?
The day was drawing to an end when Mr. Rowley =
and
I bowled into Edinburgh to the stirring sound of the guard’s bugle and
the clattering team. I was he=
re
upon my field of battle; on the scene of my former captivity, escape and
exploits; and in the same city with my love. My heart expanded; I have rarely f=
elt
more of a hero. All down the
Bridges I sat by the driver with my arms folded and my face set, unflinchin=
gly
meeting every eye, and prepared every moment for a cry of recognition. Hundreds of the population were in=
the
habit of visiting the Castle, where it was my practice (before the days of
Flora) to make myself conspicuous among the prisoners; and I think it an
extraordinary thing that I should have encountered so few to recognise me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But doubtless a clean chin is a di=
sguise
in itself; and the change is great from a suit of sulphur-yellow to fine li=
nen,
a well-fitting mouse-coloured great-coat furred in black, a pair of tight
trousers of fashionable cut, and a hat of inimitable curl. After all, it was more likely that=
I
should have recognised our visitors, than that they should have identified =
the
modish gentleman with the miserable prisoner in the Castle.
I was glad to set foot on the flagstones, and =
to
escape from the crowd that had assembled to receive the mail. Here we were, with but little dayl=
ight
before us, and that on Saturday afternoon, the eve of the famous Scottish
Sabbath, adrift in the New Town of Edinburgh, and overladen with baggage. We carried it ourselves. I would not take a cab, nor so muc=
h as
hire a porter, who might afterwards serve as a link between my lodgings and=
the
mail, and connect me again with the claret-coloured chaise and Aylesbury. For I was resolved to break the ch=
ain of
evidence for good, and to begin life afresh (so far as regards caution) wit=
h a
new character. The first step=
was
to find lodgings, and to find them quickly. This was the more needful as Mr. R=
owley
and I, in our smart clothes and with our cumbrous burthen, made a noticeable
appearance in the streets at that time of the day and in that quarter of the
town, which was largely given up to fine folk, bucks and dandies and young =
ladies,
or respectable professional men on their way home to dinner.
On the north side of St. James’ Square I=
was
so happy as to spy a bill in a third-floor window. I was equally indifferent to cost =
and
convenience in my choice of a lodging—‘any port in a storm̵=
7;
was the principle on which I was prepared to act; and Rowley and I made at =
once
for the common entrance and sealed the stair.
We were admitted by a very sour-looking female=
in
bombazine. I gathered she had=
all
her life been depressed by a series of bereavements, the last of which might
very well have befallen her the day before; and I instinctively lowered my
voice when I addressed her. S=
he
admitted she had rooms to let—even showed them to us—a sitting-=
room
and bedroom in a suite, commanding a fine prospect to the Firth and Fifeshi=
re,
and in themselves well proportioned and comfortably furnished, with picture=
s on
the wall, shells on the mantelpiece, and several books upon the table which=
I
found afterwards to be all of a devotional character, and all presentation
copies, ‘to my Christian friend,’ or ‘to my devout acquai=
ntance
in the Lord, Bethiah McRankine.’&nbs=
p;
Beyond this my ‘Christian friend’ could not be made to
advance: no, not even to do that which seemed the most natural and pleasing
thing in the world—I mean to name her price—but stood before us
shaking her head, and at times mourning like the dove, the picture of
depression and defence. She h=
ad a
voice the most querulous I have ever heard, and with this she produced a wh=
ole regiment
of difficulties and criticisms.
She could not promise an attendance.
‘Well, madam,’ said I, ‘and =
what
is my servant for?’
‘Him?’ she asked. ‘Be gude to us! Is he your servant?’
‘I am sorry, ma’am, he meets with =
your
disapproval.’
‘Na, I never said that. But he’s young. He’ll be a great breaker,
I’m thinkin’. Ay!
he’ll be a great responsibeelity to ye, like. Does he attend to his releegion?=
8217;
‘Yes, m’m,’ returned Rowley,
with admirable promptitude, and, immediately closing his eyes, as if from
habit, repeated the following distich with more celerity than fervour:̵=
2;
&=
nbsp;
‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John Bless the bed tha=
t I
lie on!’
‘Nhm!’ said the lady, and maintain=
ed
an awful silence.
‘Well, ma’am,’ said I, ̵=
6;it
seems we are never to hear the beginning of your terms, let alone the end of
them. Come—a good movem=
ent!
and let us be either off or on.’
She opened her lips slowly. ‘Ony raferences?’ she
inquired, in a voice like a bell.
I opened my pocket-book and showed her a handf=
ul
of bank bills. ‘I think,
madam, that these are unexceptionable,’ said I.
‘Ye’ll be wantin’ breakfast
late?’ was her reply.
‘Madam, we want breakfast at whatever ho=
ur
it suits you to give it, from four in the morning till four in the
afternoon!’ I cried.
‘Only tell us your figure, if your mouth be large enough to le=
t it
out!’
‘I couldnae give ye supper the nicht,=
217;
came the echo.
‘We shall go out to supper, you incorrig=
ible
female!’ I vowed, between laughter and tears. ‘Here—this is going to
end! I want you for a landlad=
y—let
me tell you that!—and I am going to have my way. You won’t tell me what you
charge? Very well; I will do
without! I can trust you! You
don’t seem to know when you have a good lodger; but I know perfectly =
when
I have an honest landlady! Ro=
wley,
unstrap the valises!’
Will it be credited? The monomaniac fell to rating me f=
or my indiscretion! But the battle was over; these wer=
e her
last guns, and more in the nature of a salute than of renewed hostilities.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And presently she condescended on =
very
moderate terms, and Rowley and I were able to escape in quest of supper.
‘Give you good evening, most grave and
reverend seniors!’ said he.
‘Will you permit a wanderer, a pilgrim—the pilgrim of lo=
ve,
in short—to come to temporary anchor under your lee? I care not who knows it, but I hav=
e a passionate
aversion from the bestial practice of solitary feeding!’
‘You are welcome, sir,’ said I,
‘if I may take upon me so far to play the host in a public place.R=
17;
He looked startled, and fixed a hazy eye on me=
, as
he sat down.
‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you are a m=
an
not without some tincture of letters, I perceive! What shall we drink, sir?’
I mentioned I had already called for a pot of
porter.
‘A modest pot—the seasonable
quencher?’ said he.
‘Well, I do not know but what I could look at a modest pot
myself! I am, for the moment,=
in precarious
health. Much study hath heate=
d my
brain, much walking wearied my—well, it seems to be more my eyes!R=
17;
‘You have walked far, I dare say?’=
I
suggested.
‘Not so much far as often,’ he replied. ‘There is in t= his city—to which, I think, you are a stranger? Sir, to your very good health and = our better acquaintance!—there is, in this city of Dunedin, a certain implicatio= n of streets which reflects the utmost credit on the designer and the publicans—at every hundred yards is seated the Judicious Tavern, so t= hat persons of contemplative mind are secure, at moderate distances, of refreshment. I have been doin= g a trot in that favoured quarter, favoured by art and nature. A few chosen comrades—enemie= s of publicity and friends to wit and wine—obliged me with their society.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Along the cool, sequestered= vale of Register Street we kept the uneven tenor of our way,” sir.’<= o:p>
‘It struck me, as you came in—R=
17;
I began.
‘O, don’t make any bones about
it!’ he interrupted.
‘Of course it struck you! and let me tell you I was devilish l=
ucky
not to strike myself. When I
entered this apartment I shone “with all the pomp and prodigality of =
brandy
and water,” as the poet Gray has in another place expressed it. Power=
ful
bard, Gray! but a niminy-piminy creature, afraid of a petticoat and a
bottle—not a man, sir, not a man!&nb=
sp;
Excuse me for being so troublesome, but what the devil have I done w=
ith
my fork? Thank you, I am sure=
. Temulentia, quoad me ipsum, brevis
colligo est. I sit and eat, s=
ir, in
a London fog. I should bring a
link-boy to table with me; and I would too, if the little brutes were only
washed! I intend to found a
Philanthropical Society for Washing the Deserving Poor and Shaving
Soldiers. I am pleased to obs=
erve
that, although not of an unmilitary bearing, you are apparently shaved. In my calendar of the virtues shav=
ing
comes next to drinking. A gen=
tleman
may be a low-minded ruffian without sixpence, but he will always be close
shaved. See me, with the eye =
of
fancy, in the chill hours of the morning, say about a quarter to twelve,
noon—see me awake! First
thing of all, without one thought of the plausible but unsatisfactory small
beer, or the healthful though insipid soda-water, I take the deadly razor i=
n my
vacillating grasp; I proceed to skate upon the margin of eternity. Stimulating thought! I bleed, perhaps, but with medicab=
le
wounds. The stubble reaped, I=
pass
out of my chamber, calm but triumphant.&nb=
sp;
To employ a hackneyed phrase, I would not call Lord Wellington my
uncle! I, too, have dared, pe=
rhaps
bled, before the imminent deadly shaving-table.’
In this manner the bombastic fellow continued =
to
entertain me all through dinner, and by a common error of drunkards, becaus=
e he
had been extremely talkative himself, leaped to the conclusion that he had
chanced on very genial company. He
told me his name, his address; he begged we should meet again; finally he
proposed that I should dine with him in the country at an early date.
‘The dinner is official,’ he
explained. ‘The
office-bearers and Senatus of the University of Cramond—an educational
institution in which I have the honour to be Professor of Nonsense—me=
et
to do honour to our friend Icarus, at the old-established howff, Cramond
Bridge. One place is vacant,
fascinating stranger,—I offer it to you!’
‘And who is your friend Icarus?’ I
asked,
‘The aspiring son of Daedalus!’ sa=
id
he. ‘Is it possible tha=
t you
have never heard the name of Byfield?’
‘Possible and true,’ said I.
‘And is fame so small a thing?’ cr=
ied
he. ‘Byfield, sir, is a=
n aeronaut.
He apes the fame of a Lunardi, and is on the point of offering to the inhab=
itants—I
beg your pardon, to the nobility and gentry of our neighbourhood—the
spectacle of an ascension. As=
one
of the gentry concerned I may be permitted to remark that I am unmoved. I care not a Tinker’s Damn f=
or his
ascension. No more—I br=
eathe
it in your ear—does anybody else.&nb=
sp;
The business is stale, sir, stale.&=
nbsp;
Lunardi did it, and overdid it.&nbs=
p;
A whimsical, fiddling, vain fellow, by all accounts—for I was =
at
that time rocking in my cradle. But
once was enough. If Lunardi w=
ent up
and came down, there was the matter settled. We prefer to grant the point. We do not want to see the experime=
nt
repeated ad nauseam by Byfield, and Brown, and Butler, and Brodie, and Bott=
omley. Ah! if they would go up and not co=
me
down again! But this is by the
question. The University of C=
ramond
delights to honour merit in the man, sir, rather than utility in the
profession; and Byfield, though an ignorant dog, is a sound reliable drinke=
r,
and really not amiss over his cups.
Under the radiance of the kindly jar partiality might even credit him
with wit.’
It will be seen afterwards that this was more =
my
business than I thought it at the time.&nb=
sp;
Indeed, I was impatient to be gone.=
Even as my friend maundered ahead a squall burst, the jaws of the ra=
in
were opened against the coffee-house windows, and at that inclement signal I
remembered I was due elsewhere.
=
=
At the
door I was nearly blown back by the unbridled violence of the squall, and
Rowley and I must shout our parting words.=
All the way along Princes Street (whither my way led) the wind hunte=
d me
behind and screamed in my ears. The
city was flushed with bucketfuls of rain that tasted salt from the neighbou=
ring
ocean. It seemed to darken and
lighten again in the vicissitudes of the gusts. Now you would say the lamps had be=
en
blown out from end to end of the long thoroughfare; now, in a lull, they wo=
uld
revive, re-multiply, shine again on the wet pavements, and make darkness
sparingly visible.
By the time I had got to the corner of the Lot=
hian
Road there was a distinct improvement.&nbs=
p;
For one thing, I had now my shoulder to the wind; for a second, I ca=
me
in the lee of my old prison-house, the Castle; and, at any rate, the excess=
ive
fury of the blast was itself moderating.&n=
bsp;
The thought of what errand I was on re-awoke within me, and I seemed=
to breast
the rough weather with increasing ease.&nb=
sp;
With such a destination, what mattered a little buffeting of wind or=
a
sprinkle of cold water? I rec=
alled
Flora’s image, I took her in fancy to my arms, and my heart throbbed.=
And the next moment I had recognis=
ed the
inanity of that fool’s paradise.&nbs=
p;
If I could spy her taper as she went to bed, I might count myself lu=
cky.
I had about two leagues before me of a road mo=
stly
uphill, and now deep in mire. So
soon as I was clear of the last street lamp, darkness received me—a
darkness only pointed by the lights of occasional rustic farms, where the d=
ogs
howled with uplifted heads as I went by.&n=
bsp;
The wind continued to decline: it had been but a squall, not a
tempest. The rain, on the oth=
er
hand, settled into a steady deluge, which had soon drenched me thoroughly.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I continued to tramp forward in the
night, contending with gloomy thoughts and accompanied by the dismal ululat=
ion
of the dogs. What ailed them that they should have been thus wakeful, and
perceived the small sound of my steps amid the general reverberation of the
rain, was more than I could fancy.
I remembered tales with which I had been entertained in childhood. I told myself some murderer was go=
ing
by, and the brutes perceived upon him the faint smell of blood; and the nex=
t moment,
with a physical shock, I had applied the words to my own case!
Here was a dismal disposition for a lover. ‘Was ever lady in this humou=
r wooed?’
I asked myself, and came near turning back. It is never wise to risk a critical
interview when your spirits are depressed, your clothes muddy, and your han=
ds
wet! But the boisterous night=
was
in itself favourable to my enterprise: now, or perhaps never, I might find =
some
way to have an interview with Flora; and if I had one interview (wet clothe=
s, low
spirits and all), I told myself there would certainly be another.
Arrived in the cottage-garden I found the
circumstances mighty inclement. From the round holes in the shutters of the
parlour, shafts of candle-light streamed forth; elsewhere the darkness was
complete. The trees, the thic=
kets,
were saturated; the lower parts of the garden turned into a morass. At intervals, when the wind broke =
forth
again, there passed overhead a wild coil of clashing branches; and between
whiles the whole enclosure continuously and stridently resounded with the
rain. I advanced close to the
window and contrived to read the face of my watch. It was half-past seven; =
they
would not retire before ten, they might not before midnight, and the prospe=
ct
was unpleasant. In a lull of =
the
wind I could hear from the inside the voice of Flora reading aloud; the wor=
ds of
course inaudible—only a flow of undecipherable speech, quiet, cordial=
, colourless,
more intimate and winning, more eloquent of her personality, but not less
beautiful than song. And the =
next
moment the clamour of a fresh squall broke out about the cottage; the voice=
was
drowned in its bellowing, and I was glad to retreat from my dangerous post.=
For three egregious hours I must now suffer the
elements to do their worst upon me, and continue to hold my ground in
patience. I recalled the least
fortunate of my services in the field: being out-sentry of the pickets in
weather no less vile, sometimes unsuppered and with nothing to look forward=
to
by way of breakfast but musket-balls; and they seemed light in comparison.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So strangely are we built: so much=
more
strong is the love of woman than the mere love of life.
At last my patience was rewarded. The light disappeared from the par=
lour and
reappeared a moment after in the room above. I was pretty well informed for the
enterprise that lay before me. I knew
the lair of the dragon—that which was just illuminated. I knew the bower of my Rosamond, a=
nd how
excellently it was placed on the ground-level, round the flank of the cotta=
ge
and out of earshot of her formidable aunt.=
Nothing was left but to apply my knowledge. I was then at the bottom of the ga=
rden, whether
I had gone (Heaven save the mark!) for warmth, that I might walk to and fro
unheard and keep myself from perishing.&nb=
sp;
The night had fallen still, the wind ceased; the noise of the rain h=
ad
much lightened, if it had not stopped, and was succeeded by the dripping of=
the
garden trees. In the midst of this lull, and as I was already drawing near =
to
the cottage, I was startled by the sound of a window-sash screaming in its =
channels;
and a step or two beyond I became aware of a gush of light upon the
darkness. It fell from
Flora’s window, which she had flung open on the night, and where she =
now
sat, roseate and pensive, in the shine of two candles falling from behind, =
her
tresses deeply embowering and shading her; the suspended comb still in one
hand, the other idly clinging to the iron stanchions with which the window =
was
barred.
Keeping to the turf, and favoured by the darkn=
ess
of the night and the patter of the rain which was now returning, though wit=
hout
wind, I approached until I could almost have touched her. It seemed a grossness of which I w=
as
incapable to break up her reverie by speech. I stood and drank her in with my e=
yes;
how the light made a glory in her hair, and (what I have always thought the
most ravishing thing in nature) how the planes ran into each other, and were
distinguished, and how the hues blended and varied, and were shaded off,
between the cheek and neck. A=
t first
I was abashed: she wore her beauty like an immediate halo of refinement; she
discouraged me like an angel, or what I suspect to be the next most
discouraging, a modern lady. =
But as
I continued to gaze, hope and life returned to me; I forgot my timidity, I
forgot the sickening pack of wet clothes with which I stood burdened, I tin=
gled
with new blood.
Still unconscious of my presence, still gazing
before her upon the illuminated image of the window, the straight shadows of
the bars, the glinting of pebbles on the path, and the impenetrable night on
the garden and the hills beyond it, she heaved a deep breath that struck up=
on
my heart like an appeal.
‘Why does Miss Gilchrist sigh?’ I
whispered. ‘Does she re=
call
absent friends?’
She turned her head swiftly in my direction; it
was the only sign of surprise she deigned to make. At the same time I stepped into the
light and bowed profoundly.
‘You!’ she said. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, I am here,’ I replied. ‘I have come very far, it ma=
y be a
hundred and fifty leagues, to see you.&nbs=
p;
I have waited all this night in your garden. Will Miss Gilchrist not offer her
hand—to a friend in trouble?’
She extended it between the bars, and I dropped
upon one knee on the wet path and kissed it twice. At the second it was withdrawn sud=
denly,
methought with more of a start than she had hitherto displayed. I regained my former attitude, and=
we
were both silent awhile. My
timidity returned on me tenfold. I
looked in her face for any signals of anger, and seeing her eyes to waver a=
nd
fall aside from mine, augured that all was well.
‘You must have been mad to come here!=
217;
she broke out. ‘Of all =
places
under heaven this is no place for you to come. And I was just thinking you were s=
afe in
France!’
‘You were thinking of me!’ I cried=
.
‘Mr. St. Ives, you cannot understand your
danger,’ she replied. ‘I am sure of it, and yet I c=
annot
find it in my heart to tell you. O,
be persuaded, and go!’
‘I believe I know the worst. But I was never one to set an undue
value on life, the life that we share with beasts. My university has been in the wars=
, not
a famous place of education, but one where a man learns to carry his life in
his hand as lightly as a glove, and for his lady or his honour to lay it as
lightly down. You appeal to my
fears, and you do wrong. I ha=
ve
come to Scotland with my eyes quite open to see you and to speak with
you—it may be for the last time.&nbs=
p;
With my eyes quite open, I say; and if I did not hesitate at the
beginning do you think that I would draw back now?’
‘You do not know!’ she cried, with
rising agitation. ‘This
country, even this garden, is death to you. They all believe it; I am the only=
one that
does not. If they hear you no=
w, if
they heard a whisper—I dread to think of it. O, go, go this instant. It is my prayer.’
‘Dear lady, do not refuse me what I have
come so far to seek; and remember that out of all the millions in England t=
here
is no other but yourself in whom I can dare confide. I have all the world against me; y=
ou are
my only ally; and as I have to speak, you have to listen. All is true that they say of me, a=
nd all
of it false at the same time. I did
kill this man Goguelat—it was that you meant?’
She mutely signed to me that it was; she had
become deadly pale.
‘But I killed him in fair fight. Till then, I had never taken a lif=
e unless
in battle, which is my trade. But I
was grateful, I was on fire with gratitude, to one who had been good to me,=
who
had been better to me than I could have dreamed of an angel, who had come i=
nto
the darkness of my prison like sunrise.&nb=
sp;
The man Goguelat insulted her.
O, he had insulted me often, it was his favourite pastime, and he mi=
ght
insult me as he pleased—for who was I? But with that lady it was
different. I could never forg=
ive
myself if I had let it pass. =
And we
fought, and he fell, and I have no remorse.’
I waited anxiously for some reply. The worst was now out, and I knew =
that
she had heard of it before; but it was impossible for me to go on with my
narrative without some shadow of encouragement.
‘You blame me?’
‘No, not at all. It is a point I cannot speak on=
212;I
am only a girl. I am sure you=
were
in the right: I have always said so—to Ronald. Not, of course, to my aunt. I am afraid I let her speak as she
will. You must not think me a
disloyal friend; and even with the Major—I did not tell you he had be=
come
quite a friend of ours—Major Chevenix, I mean—he has taken such=
a
fancy to Ronald! It was he th=
at
brought the news to us of that hateful Clausel being captured, and all that=
he
was saying. I was indignant w=
ith
him. I said—I dare say =
I said
too much—and I must say he was very good-natured. He said, “You and I, who are=
his
friends, know that Champdivers is innocent. But what is the use of saying
it?” All this was in the
corner of the room in what they call an aside. And then he said, “Give me a
chance to speak to you in private, I have much to tell you.” And he did. And told me just what you did̵=
2;that
it was an affair of honour, and no blame attached to you. O, I must say I like that Major
Chevenix!’
At this I was seized with a great pang of
jealousy. I remembered the fi=
rst
time that he had seen her, the interest that he seemed immediately to conce=
ive;
and I could not but admire the dog for the use he had been ingenious enough=
to
make of our acquaintance in order to supplant me. All is fair in love and
war. For all that, I was now =
no
less anxious to do the speaking myself than I had been before to hear
Flora. At least, I could keep=
clear
of the hateful image of Major Chevenix.&nb=
sp;
Accordingly I burst at once on the narrative of my adventures. It was the same as you have read, =
but
briefer, and told with a very different purpose. Now every incident had a particular
bearing, every by-way branched off to Rome—and that was Flora.
When I had begun to speak I had kneeled upon t=
he
gravel withoutside the low window, rested my arms upon the sill, and lowere=
d my
voice to the most confidential whisper.&nb=
sp;
Flora herself must kneel upon the other side, and this brought our h=
eads
upon a level with only the bars between us. So placed, so separated, it see=
med
that our proximity, and the continuous and low sounds of my pleading voice,
worked progressively and powerfully on her heart, and perhaps not less so o=
n my
own. For these spells are dou=
ble-edged. The silly birds may be charmed wit=
h the
pipe of the fowler, which is but a tube of reeds. Not so with a bird of our own feat=
her! As I went on, and my resolve
strengthened, and my voice found new modulations, and our faces were drawn
closer to the bars and to each other, not only she, but I, succumbed to the
fascination, and were kindled by the charm. We make love, and thereby ourselve=
s fall
the deeper in it. It is with =
the
heart only that one captures a heart.
‘And now,’ I continued, ‘I w=
ill
tell you what you can still do for me.&nbs=
p;
I run a little risk just now, and you see for yourself how unavoidab=
le
it is for any man of honour. =
But
if—but in case of the worst I do not choose to enrich either my enemi=
es
or the Prince Regent. I have =
here
the bulk of what my uncle gave me.
Eight thousand odd pounds.
Will you take care of it for me?&nb=
sp;
Do not think of it merely as money; take and keep it as a relic of y=
our
friend or some precious piece of him.
I may have bitter need of it ere long. Do you know the old country story =
of the
giant who gave his heart to his wife to keep for him, thinking it safer to
repose on her loyalty than his own strength? Flora, I am the giant—a very
little one: will you be the keeper of my life? It is my heart I offer you in this
symbol. In the sight of God, =
if you
will have it, I give you my name, I endow you with my money. If the worst come, if I may never =
hope
to call you wife, let me at least think that you will use my uncle’s
legacy as my widow.’
‘No, not that,’ she said. ‘Never that.’
‘What then?’ I said. ‘What else, my angel? What are words to me? There is but one name that I care =
to
know you by. Flora, my love!&=
#8217;
‘Anne!’ she said.
What sound is so full of music as one’s =
own
name uttered for the first time in the voice of her we love!
‘My darling!’ said I.
The jealous bars, set at the top and bottom in
stone and lime, obstructed the rapture of the moment; but I took her to mys=
elf
as wholly as they allowed. Sh=
e did
not shun my lips. My arms were
wound round her body, which yielded itself generously to my embrace. As we so remained, entwined and yet
severed, bruising our faces unconsciously on the cold bars, the irony of the
universe—or as I prefer to say, envy of some of the gods—again
stirred up the elements of that stormy night. The wind blew again in the tree-to=
ps; a
volley of cold sea-rain deluged the garden, and, as the deuce would have it=
, a
gutter which had been hitherto choked up began suddenly to play upon my head
and shoulders with the vivacity of a fountain. We parted with a shock; I sprang t=
o my
feet, and she to hers, as though we had been discovered. A moment after, but now both stand=
ing,
we had again approached the window on either side.
‘Flora,’ I said, ‘this is bu=
t a
poor offer I can make you.’
She took my hand in hers and clasped it to her
bosom.
‘Rich enough for a queen!’ she sai=
d,
with a lift in her breathing that was more eloquent than words. ‘Anne, my brave Anne! I would be glad to be your maidser=
vant;
I could envy that boy Rowley. But,
no!’ she broke off, ‘I envy no one—I need not—I am
yours.’
‘Mine,’ said I, ‘for ever! By this and this, mine!’
‘All of me,’ she repeated. ‘Altogether and forever!R=
17;
And if the god were envious, he must have seen
with mortification how little he could do to mar the happiness of mortals.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I stood in a mere waterspout; she =
herself
was wet, not from my embrace only, but from the splashing of the storm. The candles had guttered out; we w=
ere in
darkness. I could scarce see
anything but the shining of her eyes in the dark room. To her I must have appeared as a
silhouette, haloed by rain and the spouting of the ancient Gothic gutter ab=
ove
my head.
Presently we became more calm and confidential;
and when that squall, which proved to be the last of the storm, had blown b=
y,
fell into a talk of ways and means.
It seemed she knew Mr. Robbie, to whom I had been so slenderly
accredited by Romaine—was even invited to his house for the evening of
Monday, and gave me a sketch of the old gentleman’s character which
implied a great deal of penetration in herself, and proved of great use to =
me
in the immediate sequel. It s=
eemed
he was an enthusiastic antiquary, and in particular a fanatic of heraldry.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I heard it with delight, for I was
myself, thanks to M. de Culemberg, fairly grounded in that science, and
acquainted with the blazons of most families of note in Europe. And I had made up my mind—ev=
en as
she spoke, it was my fixed determination, though I was a hundred miles from
saying it—to meet Flora on Monday night as a fellow-guest in Mr.
Robbie’s house.
I gave her my money—it was, of course, o=
nly
paper I had brought. I gave i=
t her,
to be her marriage-portion, I declared.
‘Not so bad a marriage-portion for a pri=
vate
soldier,’ I told her, laughing, as I passed it through the bars.
‘O, Anne, and where am I to keep it?R=
17;
she cried. ‘If my aunt =
should
find it! What would I say!=
217;
‘Next your heart,’ I suggested.
‘Then you will always be near your
treasure,’ she cried, ‘for you are always there!’
We were interrupted by a sudden clearness that
fell upon the night. The clou=
ds
dispersed; the stars shone in every part of the heavens; and, consulting my
watch, I was startled to find it already hard on five in the morning.
=
=
It was
indeed high time I should be gone from Swanston; but what I was to do in the
meanwhile was another question.
Rowley had received his orders last night: he was to say that I had =
met
a friend, and Mrs. McRankine was not to expect me before morning. A good enough tale in itself; but =
the dreadful
pickle I was in made it out of the question. I could not go home till I had fou=
nd
harbourage, a fire to dry my clothes at, and a bed where I might lie till t=
hey
were ready.
Fortune favoured me again. I had scarce got to the top of the=
first
hill when I spied a light on my left, about a furlong away. It might be a case of sickness; wh=
at
else it was likely to be—in so rustic a neighbourhood, and at such an
ungodly time of the morning—was beyond my fancy. A faint sound of singing became au=
dible,
and gradually swelled as I drew near, until at last I could make out the wo=
rds,
which were singularly appropriate both to the hour and to the condition of =
the singers. ‘The cock may craw, the day =
may
daw,’ they sang; and sang it with such laxity both in time and tune, =
and
such sentimental complaisance in the expression, as assured me they had got=
far
into the third bottle at least.
I found a plain rustic cottage by the wayside,=
of
the sort called double, with a signboard over the door; and, the lights wit=
hin
streaming forth and somewhat mitigating the darkness of the morning, I was
enabled to decipher the inscription: ‘The Hunters’ Tryst, by
Alexander Hendry. Porter Ales, and British Spirits. Beds.’
My first knock put a period to the music, and a
voice challenged tipsily from within.
‘Who goes there?’ it said; and I
replied, ‘A lawful traveller.’
Immediately after, the door was unbarred by a
company of the tallest lads my eyes had ever rested on, all astonishingly d=
runk
and very decently dressed, and one (who was perhaps the drunkest of the lot)
carrying a tallow candle, from which he impartially bedewed the clothes of =
the
whole company. As soon as I s=
aw
them I could not help smiling to myself to remember the anxiety with which I
had approached. They received=
me
and my hastily-concocted story, that I had been walking from Peebles and ha=
d lost
my way, with incoherent benignity; jostled me among them into the room where
they had been sitting, a plain hedgerow alehouse parlour, with a roaring fi=
re
in the chimney and a prodigious number of empty bottles on the floor; and
informed me that I was made, by this reception, a temporary member of the
Six-Feet-High Club, an athletic society of young men in a good station, who
made of the Hunters’ Tryst a frequent resort. They told me I had intruded on an
‘all-night sitting,’ following upon an ‘all-day Saturday
tramp’ of forty miles; and that the members would all be up and ̵=
6;as
right as ninepence’ for the noonday service at some neighbouring
church—Collingwood, if memory serves me right. At this I could have laughed, but =
the
moment seemed ill-chosen. For,
though six feet was their standard, they all exceeded that measurement
considerably; and I tasted again some of the sensations of childhood, as I
looked up to all these lads from a lower plane, and wondered what they woul=
d do
next. But the Six-Footers, if they were very drunk, proved no less kind.
I awoke about nine with the sun shining in my
eyes. The landlord came at my
summons, brought me my clothes dried and decently brushed, and gave me the =
good
news that the Six-Feet-High Club were all abed and sleeping off their
excesses. Where they were bes=
towed
was a puzzle to me until (as I was strolling about the garden patch waiting=
for
breakfast) I came on a barn door, and, looking in, saw all the red face mix=
ed
in the straw like plums in a cake.
Quoth the stalwart maid who brought me my porridge and bade me
’eat them while they were hot,’ ‘Ay, they were a’ on
the ran-dan last nicht! Hout!
they’re fine lads, and they’ll be nane the waur of it. Forby
Farbes’s coat. I dinna =
see
wha’s to get the creish off that!’ she added, with a sigh; in
which, identifying Forbes as the torch-bearer, I mentally joined.
It was a brave morning when I took the road; t=
he
sun shone, spring seemed in the air, it smelt like April or May, and some
over-venturous birds sang in the coppices as I went by. I had plenty to think of, plenty t=
o be
grateful for, that gallant morning; and yet I had a twitter at my heart.
He turned upon me a countenance not much less
broad than his back.
‘Why, sir,’ he replied, ‘I w=
as
even marvelling at my own indefeasible stupeedity: that I should walk this =
way
every week of my life, weather permitting, and should never before have
notticed that stone,’ touching it at the same time with a goodly oak
staff.
I followed the indication. The stone, which had been built si=
deways
into the wall, offered traces of heraldic sculpture. At once there came a wild idea int=
o my
mind: his appearance tallied with Flora’s description of Mr. Robbie; a
knowledge of heraldry would go far to clinch the proof; and what could be m=
ore
desirable than to scrape an informal acquaintance with the man whom I must
approach next day with my tale of the drovers, and whom I yet wished to
please? I stooped in turn.
‘A chevron,’ I said; ‘on a c=
hief
three mullets? Looks like Dou=
glas,
does it not?’
‘Yes, sir, it does; you are right,’
said he: ‘it does look like Douglas; though, without the tinctures, a=
nd
the whole thing being so battered and broken up, who shall venture an
opinion? But allow me to be m=
ore
personal, sir. In these degen=
erate
days I am astonished you should display so much proficiency.’
‘O, I was well grounded in my youth by an
old gentleman, a friend of my family, and I may say my guardian,’ sai=
d I;
‘but I have forgotten it since.
God forbid I should delude you into thinking me a herald, sir! I am only an ungrammatical
amateur.’
‘And a little modesty does no harm even =
in a
herald,’ says my new acquaintance graciously.
In short, we fell together on our onward way, =
and
maintained very amicable discourse along what remained of the country road,
past the suburbs, and on into the streets of the New Town, which was as
deserted and silent as a city of the dead.=
The shops were closed, no vehicle ran, cats sported in the midst of =
the
sunny causeway; and our steps and voices re-echoed from the quiet houses. It was the high-water, full and st=
range,
of that weekly trance to which the city of Edinburgh is subjected: the
apotheosis of the Sawbath; and I confess the spectacle wanted not grandeur,
however much it may have lacked cheerfulness. There are few religious ceremonies=
more
imposing. As we thus walked a=
nd
talked in a public seclusion the bells broke out ringing through all the bo=
unds
of the city, and the streets began immediately to be thronged with decent c=
hurch-goers.
‘Ah!’ said my companion, ‘th=
ere
are the bells! Now, sir, as y=
ou are
a stranger I must offer you the hospitality of my pew. I do not know whether you are at a=
ll
used with our Scottish form; but in case you are not I will find your places
for you; and Dr. Henry Gray, of St. Mary’s (under whom I sit), is as =
good
a preacher as we have to show you.’
This put me in a quandary. It was a degree of risk I was scar=
ce
prepared for. Dozens of peopl=
e, who
might pass me by in the street with no more than a second look, would go on
from the second to the third, and from that to a final recognition, if I we=
re
set before them, immobilised in a pew, during the whole time of service.
Our way now led us into the north-east quarter=
of
the town, among pleasant new faubourgs, to a decent new church of a good si=
ze,
where I was soon seated by the side of my good Samaritan, and looked upon b=
y a whole
congregation of menacing faces. At
first the possibility of danger kept me awake; but by the time I had assured
myself there was none to be apprehended, and the service was not in the lea=
st
likely to be enlivened by the arrest of a French spy, I had to resign mysel=
f to
the task of listening to Dr. Henry Gray.
As we moved out, after this ordeal was over, my
friend was at once surrounded and claimed by his acquaintances of the
congregation; and I was rejoiced to hear him addressed by the expected name=
of
Robbie.
So soon as we were clear of the
crowd—‘Mr. Robbie?’ said I, bowing.
‘The very same, sir,’ said he.
‘If I mistake not, a lawyer?’
‘A writer to His Majesty’s Signet,=
at
your service.’
‘It seems we were predestined to be
acquaintances!’ I exclaimed.
‘I have here a card in my pocket intended for you. It is from my family lawyer. It wa=
s his
last word, as I was leaving, to ask to be remembered kindly, and to trust y=
ou
would pass over so informal an introduction.’
And I offered him the card.
‘Ay, ay, my old friend Daniel!’ sa=
ys
he, looking on the card. R=
16;And
how does my old friend Daniel?’
I gave a favourable view of Mr. Romaine’s
health.
‘Well, this is certainly a whimsical
incident,’ he continued.
‘And since we are thus met already—and so much to my
advantage!—the simplest thing will be to prosecute the acquaintance i=
nstantly. Let me propose a snack between ser=
mons,
a bottle of my particular green seal—and when nobody is looking we can
talk blazons, Mr. Ducie!’—which was the name I then used and had
already incidentally mentioned, in the vain hope of provoking a return in k=
ind.
‘I beg your pardon, sir: do I understand=
you
to invite me to your house?’ said I.
‘That was the idea I was trying to
convey,’ said he. ̵=
6;We
have the name of hospitable people up here, and I would like you to try
mine.’
‘Mr. Robbie, I shall hope to try it some
day, but not yet,’ I replied. ‘I hope you will not misunderstand
me. My business, which brings=
me to
your city, is of a peculiar kind.
Till you shall have heard it, and, indeed, till its issue is known, I
should feel as if I had stolen your invitation.’
‘Well, well,’ said he, a little
sobered, ‘it must be as you wish, though you would hardly speak other=
wise
if you had committed homicide! Mine
is the loss. I must eat alone=
; a
very pernicious thing for a person of my habit of body, content myself with=
a
pint of skinking claret, and meditate the discourse. But about this business of yours: =
if it
is so particular as all that, it will doubtless admit of no delay.’
‘I must confess, sir, it presses,’=
I
acknowledged.
‘Then, let us say to-morrow at half-past
eight in the morning,’ said he; ‘and I hope, when your mind is =
at
rest (and it does you much honour to take it as you do), that you will sit =
down
with me to the postponed meal, not forgetting the bottle. You have my address?’ he add=
ed, and
gave it me—which was the only thing I wanted.
At last, at the level of York Place, we parted
with mutual civilities, and I was free to pursue my way, through the mobs of
people returning from church, to my lodgings in St. James’ Square.
Almost at the house door whom should I overtake
but my landlady in a dress of gorgeous severity, and dragging a prize in her
wake: no less than Rowley, with the cockade in his hat, and a smart pair of
tops to his boots! When I sai=
d he
was in the lady’s wake I spoke but in metaphor. As a matter of fact he
was squiring her, with the utmost dignity, on his arm; and I followed them =
up
the stairs, smiling to myself.
Both were quick to salute me as soon as I was
perceived, and Mrs. McRankine inquired where I had been. I told her boastfully, giving her =
the
name of the church and the divine, and ignorantly supposing I should have
gained caste. But she soon op=
ened
my eyes. In the roots of the =
Scottish
character there are knots and contortions that not only no stranger can und=
erstand,
but no stranger can follow; he walks among explosives; and his best course =
is
to throw himself upon their mercy—‘Just as I am, without one
plea,’ a citation from one of the lady’s favourite hymns.
The sound she made was unmistakable in meaning=
, though
it was impossible to be written down; and I at once executed the manoeuvre I
have recommended.
‘You must remember I am a perfect strang=
er
in your city,’ said I.
‘If I have done wrong, it was in mere ignorance, my dear lady;=
and
this afternoon, if you will be so good as to take me, I shall accompany you=
.’
But she was not to be pacified at the moment, =
and
departed to her own quarters murmuring.
‘Well, Rowley,’ said I; ‘and
have you been to church?’
‘If you please, sir,’ he said.
‘Well, you have not been any less unlucky
than I have,’ I returned.
‘And how did you get on with the Scottish form?’
‘Well, sir, it was pretty ’ard, the
form was, and reether narrow,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know w’=
y it
is, but it seems to me like as if things were a good bit changed since Will=
iam
Wallace! That was a main quee=
r church
she took me to, Mr. Anne! I
don’t know as I could have sat it out, if she ’adn’t
’a’ give me peppermints.
She ain’t a bad one at bottom, the old girl; she do pounce a b=
it,
and she do worry, but, law bless you, Mr. Anne, it ain’t nothink
really—she don’t mean it.
W’y, she was down on me like a ’undredweight of bricks t=
his
morning. You see, last night =
she
’ad me in to supper, and, I beg your pardon, sir, but I took the free=
dom
of playing her a chune or two. She
didn’t mind a bit; so this morning I began to play to myself, and she
flounced in, and flew up, and carried on no end about Sunday!’
‘You see, Rowley,’ said I, ‘they’re all mad up here, and you have to humour them. See and don’t quarrel with M= rs. McRankine; and, above all, don’t argue with her, or you’ll get = the worst of it. Whatever she say= s, touch your forelock and say, “If you please!” or “I beg pardon, ma’am.” And let me tell you one thing: I am sorry, but you have= to go to church with her again this afternoon. That’s duty, my boy!’<= o:p>
As I had foreseen, the bells had scarce begun
before Mrs. McRankine presented herself to be our escort, upon which I spra=
ng
up with readiness and offered her my arm.&=
nbsp;
Rowley followed behind. I
was beginning to grow accustomed to the risks of my stay in Edinburgh, and =
it
even amused me to confront a new churchful. I confess the amusement did not la=
st
until the end; for if Dr. Gray were long, Mr. McCraw was not only longer, b=
ut
more incoherent, and the matter of his sermon (which was a direct attack, a=
pparently,
on all the Churches of the world, my own among the number), where it had not
the tonic quality of personal insult, rather inclined me to slumber. But I braced myself for my life, k=
ept up
Rowley with the end of a pin, and came through it awake, but no more.
Bethiah was quite conquered by this ‘mar=
k of
grace,’ though, I am afraid, she was also moved by more worldly
considerations. The first is,=
the lady
had not the least objection to go to church on the arm of an elegantly dres=
sed
young gentleman, and be followed by a spruce servant with a cockade in his
hat. I could see it by the wa=
y she
took possession of us, found us the places in the Bible, whispered to me the
name of the minister, passed us lozenges, which I (for my part) handed on to
Rowley, and at each fresh attention stole a little glance about the church =
to make
sure she was observed. Rowley=
was a
pretty boy; you will pardon me if I also remembered that I was a
favourable-looking young man. When
we grow elderly, how the room brightens, and begins to look as it ought to =
look,
on the entrance of youth, grace, health, and comeliness! You do not want them for yourself,
perhaps not even for your son, but you look on smiling; and when you recall
their images—again, it is with a smile. I defy you to see or think of
them and not smile with an infinite and intimate, but quite impersonal,
pleasure. Well, either I know
nothing of women, or that was the case with Bethiah McRankine. She had been to church with a cock=
ade
behind her, on the one hand; on the other, her house was brightened by the
presence of a pair of good-looking young fellows of the other sex, who were
always pleased and deferential in her society and accepted her views as fin=
al.
These were sentiments to be encouraged; and, on
the way home from church—if church it could be called—I adopted=
a
most insidious device to magnify her interest. I took her into the confidence, th=
at is,
of my love affair, and I had no sooner mentioned a young lady with whom my =
affections
were engaged than she turned upon me a face of awful gravity.
‘Is she bonny?’ she inquired.
I gave her full assurances upon that.
‘To what denoamination does she
beloang?’ came next, and was so unexpected as almost to deprive me of
breath.
‘Upon my word, ma’am, I have never
inquired,’ cried I; ‘I only know that she is a heartfelt Christ=
ian,
and that is enough.’
‘Ay!’ she sighed, ‘if she has
the root of the maitter!
There’s a remnant practically in most of the denoaminations. There’s some in the McGlasha=
nites,
and some in the Glassites, and mony in the McMillanites, and there’s a
leeven even in the Estayblishment.’
‘I have known some very good Papists eve=
n,
if you go to that,’ said I.
‘Mr. Ducie, think shame to yoursel’=
;!’
she cried.
‘Why, my dear madam! I only—’ I began.
‘You shouldnae jest in sairious
maitters,’ she interrupted.
On the whole, she entered into what I chose to
tell her of our idyll with avidity, like a cat licking her whiskers over a =
dish
of cream; and, strange to say—and so expansive a passion is that of
love!—that I derived a perhaps equal satisfaction from confiding in t=
hat
breast of iron. It made an
immediate bond: from that hour we seemed to be welded into a family-party; =
and
I had little difficulty in persuading her to join us and to preside over our
tea-table. Surely there was n=
ever
so ill-matched a trio as Rowley, Mrs. McRankine, and the Viscount Anne! But I am of the Apostle’s wa=
y,
with a difference: all things to all women! When I cannot please a woman, hang=
me in
my cravat!
=
=
By
half-past eight o’clock on the next morning, I was ringing the bell o=
f the
lawyer’s office in Castle Street, where I found him ensconced at a bu=
siness
table, in a room surrounded by several tiers of green tin cases. He greeted=
me
like an old friend.
‘Come away, sir, come away!’ said
he. ‘Here is the dentist
ready for you, and I think I can promise you that the operation will be
practically painless.’
‘I am not so sure of that, Mr.
Robbie,’ I replied, as I shook hands with him. ‘But at least there shall be=
no
time lost with me.’
I had to confess to having gone a-roving with a
pair of drovers and their cattle, to having used a false name, to having
murdered or half-murdered a fellow-creature in a scuffle on the moors, and =
to
having suffered a couple of quite innocent men to lie some time in prison o=
n a
charge from which I could have immediately freed them. All this I gave him first of all, =
to be
done with the worst of it; and all this he took with gravity, but without t=
he
least appearance of surprise.
‘Now, sir,’ I continued, ‘I
expect to have to pay for my unhappy frolic, but I would like very well if =
it
could be managed without my personal appearance or even the mention of my r=
eal
name. I had so much wisdom as=
to
sail under false colours in this foolish jaunt of mine; my family would be
extremely concerned if they had wind of it; but at the same time, if the ca=
se
of this Faa has terminated fatally, and there are proceedings against Todd =
and
Candlish, I am not going to stand by and see them vexed, far less punished;=
and
I authorise you to give me up for trial if you think that best—or, if=
you
think it unnecessary, in the meanwhile to make preparations for their
defence. I hope, sir, that I =
am as
little anxious to be Quixotic, as I am determined to be just.’
‘Very fairly spoken,’ said Mr.
Robbie. ‘It is not much=
in my
line, as doubtless your friend, Mr. Romaine, will have told you. I rarely mix myself up with anythi=
ng on
the criminal side, or approaching it. However, for a young gentleman like y=
ou,
I may stretch a point, and I dare say I may be able to accomplish more than
perhaps another. I will go at=
once
to the Procurator Fiscal’s office and inquire.’
‘Wait a moment, Mr. Robbie,’ said
I. ‘You forget the chap=
ter of
expenses. I had thought, for a
beginning, of placing a thousand pounds in your hands.’
‘My dear sir, you will kindly wait until=
I
render you my bill,’ said Mr. Robbie severely.’
‘It seemed to me,’ I protested,
‘that coming to you almost as a stranger, and placing in your hands a
piece of business so contrary to your habits, some substantial guarantee of=
my
good faith—’
‘Not the way that we do business in
Scotland, sir,’ he interrupted, with an air of closing the dispute.
‘And yet, Mr. Robbie,’ I continued,
‘I must ask you to allow me to proceed. I do not merely refer to the expen=
ses of
the case. I have my eye besid=
es on
Todd and Candlish. They are
thoroughly deserving fellows; they have been subjected through me to a
considerable term of imprisonment; and I suggest, sir, that you should not
spare money for their indemnification.&nbs=
p;
This will explain,’ I added smiling, ‘my offer of the
thousand pounds. It was in the
nature of a measure by which you should judge the scale on which I can affo=
rd
to have this business carried through.’
‘I take you perfectly, Mr. Ducie,’
said he. ‘But the soone=
r I am
off, the better this affair is like to be guided. My clerk will show you into the
waiting-room and give you the day’s Caledonian Mercury and the last R=
egister
to amuse yourself with in the interval.’
I believe Mr. Robbie was at least three hours
gone. I saw him descend from =
a cab
at the door, and almost immediately after I was shown again into his study,
where the solemnity of his manner led me to augur the worst. For some time he had the inhumanit=
y to
read me a lecture as to the incredible silliness, ‘not to say
immorality,’ of my behaviour.
‘I have the satisfaction in telling you my opinion, because it
appears that you are going to get off scot free,’ he continued, where,
indeed, I thought he might have begun.
‘The man, Faa, has been discharged cured;
and the two men, Todd and Candlish, would have been leeberated lone ago if =
it
had not been for their extraordinary loyalty to yourself, Mr. Ducie—or
Mr. St. Ivey, as I believe I should now call you. Never a word would either of the t=
wo old
fools volunteer that in any manner pointed at the existence of such a perso=
n;
and when they were confronted with Faa’s version of the affair, they =
gave
accounts so entirely discrepant with their own former declarations, as well=
as
with each other, that the Fiscal was quite nonplussed, and imaigined there =
was
something behind it. You may
believe I soon laughed him out of that!&nb=
sp;
And I had the satisfaction of seeing your two friends set free, and =
very
glad to be on the causeway again.’
‘Oh, sir,’ I cried, ‘you sho=
uld
have brought them here.’
‘No instructions, Mr. Ducie!’ said
he. ‘How did I know you
wished to renew an acquaintance which you had just terminated so
fortunately? And, indeed, to =
be
frank with you, I should have set my face against it, if you had! Let them go! They are paid and contented, and h=
ave
the highest possible opinion of Mr. St. Ivey! When I gave them fifty pounds apie=
ce—which
was rather more than enough, Mr. Ducie, whatever you may think—the man
Todd, who has the only tongue of the party, struck his staff on the
ground. “Weel,” s=
ays
he, “I aye said he was a gentleman!” “Man, Todd,” s=
aid
I, “that was just what Mr St. Ivey said of yourself!”’
‘So it was a case of “Compliments =
fly
when gentlefolk meet.”’
‘No, no, Mr. Ducie, man Todd and man
Candlish are gone out of your life, and a good riddance! They are fine fellows in their way=
, but
no proper associates for the like of yourself; and do you finally agree to =
be
done with all eccentricity—take up with no more drovers, or tinkers, =
but
enjoy the naitural pleesures for which your age, your wealth, your intellig=
ence,
and (if I may be allowed to say it) your appearance so completely fit you.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And the first of these,’ quo=
th he,
looking at his watch, ‘will be to step through to my dining-room and
share a bachelor’s luncheon.’
Over the meal, which was good, Mr. Robbie
continued to develop the same theme.
‘You’re, no doubt, what they call a dancing-man?’ =
said
he. ‘Well, on Thursday night there is the Assembly Ball. You must certainly go there, and y=
ou
must permit me besides to do the honours of the ceety and send you a
ticket. I am a thorough belie=
ver in
a young man being a young man—but no more drovers or rovers, if you l=
ove
me! Talking of which puts me =
in
mind that you may be short of partners at the Assembly—oh, I have been
young myself!—and if ye care to come to anything so portentiously ted=
ious
as a tea-party at the house of a bachelor lawyer, consisting mainly of his
nieces and nephews, and his grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and his wards, =
and
generally the whole clan of the descendants of his clients, you might drop =
in
to-night towards seven o’clock.
I think I can show you one or two that are worth looking at, and you=
can
dance with them later on at the Assembly.’
He proceeded to give me a sketch of one or two
eligible young ladies’ whom I might expect to meet. ‘And then there’s my p=
arteecular
friend, Miss Flora,’ said he.
‘But I’ll make no attempt of a description. You shall see her for yourself.=
217;
It will be readily supposed that I accepted his
invitation; and returned home to make a toilette worthy of her I was to meet
and the good news of which I was the bearer. The toilette, I have reason to bel=
ieve,
was a success. Mr. Rowley dis=
missed
me with a farewell: ‘Crikey!
Mr. Anne, but you do look prime!’ Even the stony Bethiah was—h=
ow
shall I say?—dazzled, but scandalised, by my appearance; and while, of
course, she deplored the vanity that led to it, she could not wholly preven=
t herself
from admiring the result.
‘Ay, Mr. Ducie, this is a poor employment
for a wayfaring Christian man!’ she said. ‘Wi’ Christ despised a=
nd
rejectit in all pairts of the world and the flag of the Covenant flung doon,
you will be muckle better on your knees!&n=
bsp;
However, I’ll have to confess that it sets you weel. And if it’s the lassie ye=
217;re
gaun to see the nicht, I suppose I’ll just have to excuse ye! Bairns maun be bairns!’ she =
said,
with a sigh. ‘I mind wh=
en Mr.
McRankine came courtin’, and that’s lang by-gane—I mind I=
had
a green gown, passementit, that was thocht to become me to admiration. I was nae just exactly what ye wou=
ld
ca’ bonny; but I was pale, penetratin’, and interestin’.&=
#8217; And she leaned over the stair-rail=
with
a candle to watch my descent as long as it should be possible.
It was but a little party at Mr.
Robbie’s—by which, I do not so much mean that there were few
people, for the rooms were crowded, as that there was very little attempted=
to
entertain them. In one apartm=
ent
there were tables set out, where the elders were solemnly engaged upon whis=
t;
in the other and larger one, a great number of youth of both sexes entertai=
ned themselves
languidly, the ladies sitting upon chairs to be courted, the gentlemen stan=
ding
about in various attitudes of insinuation or indifference. Conversation appeared the sole res=
ource,
except in so far as it was modified by a number of keepsakes and annuals wh=
ich
lay dispersed upon the tables, and of which the young beaux displayed the i=
llustrations
to the ladies. Mr. Robbie him=
self
was customarily in the card-room; only now and again, when he cut out, he m=
ade
an incursion among the young folks, and rolled about jovially from one to
another, the very picture of the general uncle.
It chanced that Flora had met Mr. Robbie in the
course of the afternoon. ‘Now, Miss Flora,’ he had said,
‘come early, for I have a Phoenix to show you—one Mr. Ducie, a =
new
client of mine that, I vow, I have fallen in love with’; and he was so
good as to add a word or two on my appearance, from which Flora conceived a
suspicion of the truth. She h=
ad
come to the party, in consequence, on the knife-edge of anticipation and al=
arm;
had chosen a place by the door, where I found her, on my arrival, surrounde=
d by
a posse of vapid youths; and, when I drew near, sprang up to meet me in the
most natural manner in the world, and, obviously, with a prepared form of
words.
‘How do you do, Mr. Ducie?’ she
said. ‘It is quite an a=
ge
since I have seen you!’
‘I have much to tell you, Miss
Gilchrist,’ I replied.
‘May I sit down?’
For the artful girl, by sitting near the door,=
and
the judicious use of her shawl, had contrived to keep a chair empty by her
side.
She made room for me, as a matter of course, a=
nd
the youths had the discretion to melt before us. As soon as I was once seated her f=
an
flew out, and she whispered behind it:
‘Are you mad?’
‘Madly in love,’ I replied; ‘=
;but
in no other sense.’
‘I have no patience! You cannot understand what I am
suffering!’ she said.
‘What are you to say to Ronald, to Major Chevenix, to my
aunt?’
Your aunt?’ I cried, with a start. ‘Peccavi! is she here?’=
;
‘She is in the card-room at whist,’
said Flora.
‘Where she will probably stay all the
evening?’ I suggested.
‘She may,’ she admitted; ‘she
generally does!’
‘Well, then, I must avoid the
card-room,’ said I, ‘which is very much what I had counted upon
doing. I did not come here to=
play
cards, but to contemplate a certain young lady to my heart’s
content—if it can ever be contented!—and to tell her some good
news.’
‘But there are still Ronald and the
Major!’ she persisted.
‘They are not card-room fixtures! Ronald will be coming and going. And as for Mr. Chevenix,
he—’
‘Always sits with Miss Flora?’ I
interrupted. ‘And they =
talk
of poor St. Ives? I had gathe=
red as
much, my dear; and Mr. Ducie has come to prevent it! But pray dismiss these fears! I mind no one but your aunt.’=
;
‘Why my aunt?’
‘Because your aunt is a lady, my dear, a=
nd a
very clever lady, and, like all clever ladies, a very rash lady,’ said
I. ‘You can never count=
upon them,
unless you are sure of getting them in a corner, as I have got you, and tal=
king
them over rationally, as I am just engaged on with yourself! It would be qu=
ite
the same to your aunt to make the worst kind of a scandal, with an equal
indifference to my danger and to the feelings of our good host!’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘and what =
of
Ronald, then? Do you think he=
is
above making a scandal? You m=
ust
know him very little!’
‘On the other hand, it is my pretension =
that
I know him very well!’ I replied.&nb=
sp;
‘I must speak to Ronald first—not Ronald to me—tha=
t is
all!’
‘Then, please, go and speak to him at
once!’ she pleaded. He =
is
there—do you see?—at the upper end of the room, talking to that
girl in pink.’
‘And so lose this seat before I have told
you my good news?’ I exclaimed. ‘Catch me! And, besides, my dear one, think a
little of me and my good news! I
thought the bearer of good news was always welcome! I hoped he might be a little welco=
me for
himself! Consider! I have but one friend; and let me =
stay
by her! And there is only one=
thing
I care to hear; and let me hear it!’
‘Oh, Anne,’ she sighed, ‘if I
did not love you, why should I be so uneasy? I am turned into a coward, dear! Think, if it were the other way
round—if you were quite safe and I was in, oh, such danger!’
She had no sooner said it than I was convicted=
of
being a dullard. ‘God f=
orgive
me, dear!’ I made haste=
to
reply. ‘I never saw bef=
ore
that there were two sides to this!’&=
nbsp;
And I told her my tale as briefly as I could, and rose to seek
Ronald. ‘You see, my de=
ar,
you are obeyed,’ I said.
She gave me a look that was a reward in itself;
and as I turned away from her, with a strong sense of turning away from the
sun, I carried that look in my bosom like a caress. The girl in pink was an arch, ogli=
ng person,
with a good deal of eyes and teeth, and a great play of shoulders and rattl=
e of
conversation. There could be =
no
doubt, from Mr. Ronald’s attitude, that he worshipped the very chair =
she
sat on. But I was quite ruthl=
ess. I laid my hand on his shoulder, as=
he
was stooping over her like a hen over a chicken.
‘Excuse me for one moment, Mr. Gilchrist=
!’
said I.
He started and span about in answer to my touc=
h,
and exhibited a face of inarticulate wonder.
‘Yes!’ I continued, =
216;it
is even myself! Pardon me for
interrupting so agreeable a tête-à-tête, but you know, my
good fellow, we owe a first duty to Mr. Robbie. It would never do to risk making a=
scene
in the man’s drawing-room; so the first thing I had to attend to was =
to
have you warned. The name I g=
o by
is Ducie, too, in case of accidents.’
‘I—I say, you know!’ cried
Ronald. ‘Deuce take it,=
what
are you doing here?’
‘Hush, hush!’ said I. ‘Not the place, my dear
fellow—not the place. Come to my rooms, if you like, to-night after t=
he
party, or to-morrow in the morning, and we can talk it out over a segar.
Before he could collect his mind for an answer=
, I
had given him my address in St. James Square, and had again mingled with the
crowd. Alas! I was not fated =
to get
back to Flora so easily! Mr. =
Robbie
was in the path: he was insatiably loquacious; and as he continued to palav=
er I
watched the insipid youths gather again about my idol, and cursed my fate a=
nd
my host. He remembered sudden=
ly
that I was to attend the Assembly Ball on Thursday, and had only attended
to-night by way of a preparative. This put it into his head to present me to
another young lady; but I managed this interview with so much art that, whi=
le I
was scrupulously polite and even cordial to the fair one, I contrived to ke=
ep
Robbie beside me all the time and to leave along with him when the ordeal w=
as over. We were just walking away arm in a=
rm,
when I spied my friend the Major approaching, stiff as a ramrod and, as usu=
al,
obtrusively clean.
‘Oh! there’s a man I want to
know,’ said I, taking the bull by the horns. ‘Won’t you
introduce me to Major Chevenix?’
‘At a word, my dear fellow,’ said
Robbie; and ‘Major!’ he cried, ‘come here and let me pres=
ent
to you my friend Mr. Ducie, who desires the honour of your acquaintance.=
217;
The Major flushed visibly, but otherwise prese=
rved
his composure. He bowed very
low. ‘I’m not very
sure,’ he said: ‘I have an idea we have met before?’
‘Informally,’ I said, returning his
bow; ‘and I have long looked forward to the pleasure of regularising =
our
acquaintance.’
‘You are very good, Mr. Ducie,’ he
returned. ‘Perhaps you =
could
aid my memory a little? Where=
was
it that I had the pleasure?’
‘Oh, that would be telling tales out of
school,’ said I, with a laugh, ‘and before my lawyer, too!̵=
7;
‘I’ll wager,’ broke in Mr.
Robbie, ‘that, when you knew my client, Chevenix—the past of our
friend Mr. Ducie is an obscure chapter full of horrid secrets—I’=
;ll
wager, now, you knew him as St. Ivey,’ says he, nudging me violently.=
‘I think not, sir,’ said the Major,
with pinched lips.
‘Well, I wish he may prove all right!=
217;
continued the lawyer, with certainly the worst-inspired jocularity in the
world. ‘I know nothing =
by him! He may be a swell mobsman for me w=
ith
his aliases. You must put your
memory on the rack, Major, and when ye’ve remembered when and where ye
met him, be sure ye tell me.’
‘I will not fail, sir,’ said Cheve=
nix.
‘Seek to him!’ cried Robbie, waving
his hand as he departed.
The Major, as soon as we were alone, turned up=
on
me his impassive countenance.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you have
courage.’
‘It is undoubted as your honour, sir,=
217;
I returned, bowing.
‘Did you expect to meet me, may I
ask?’ said he.
‘You saw, at least, that I courted the
presentation,’ said I.
‘And you were not afraid?’ said
Chevenix.
‘I was perfectly at ease. I knew I was dealing with a
gentleman. Be that your
epitaph.’
‘Well, there are some other people looki=
ng
for you,’ he said, ‘who will make no bones about the point of
honour. The police, my dear s=
ir,
are simply agog about you.’
‘And I think that that was coarse,’
said I.
‘You have seen Miss Gilchrist?’ he
inquired, changing the subject.
‘With whom, I am led to understand, we a=
re
on a footing of rivalry?’ I asked.&n=
bsp;
‘Yes, I have seen her.’
‘And I was just seeking her,’ he
replied.
I was conscious of a certain thrill of temper;=
so,
I suppose, was he. We looked =
each
other up and down.
‘The situation is original,’ he
resumed.
‘Quite,’ said I. ‘But let me tell you frankly=
you
are blowing a cold coal. I ow=
e you
so much for your kindness to the prisoner Champdivers.’
‘Meaning that the lady’s affections
are more advantageously disposed of?’ he asked, with a sneer. ‘Thank you, I am sure. And, since you have given me a lea=
d,
just hear a word of good advice in your turn. Is it fair, is it delicate, is it =
like a
gentleman, to compromise the young lady by attentions which (as you know ve=
ry
well) can come to nothing?’
I was utterly unable to find words in answer.<= o:p>
‘Excuse me if I cut this interview
short,’ he went on. =
216;It
seems to me doomed to come to nothing, and there is more attractive
metal.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘as you sa=
y,
it cannot amount to much. You=
are impotent,
bound hand and foot in honour. You
know me to be a man falsely accused, and even if you did not know it, from =
your
position as my rival you have only the choice to stand quite still or to be
infamous.’
‘I would not say that,’ he returne=
d,
with another change of colour.
‘I may hear it once too often.’
With which he moved off straight for where Flo=
ra
was sitting amidst her court of vapid youths, and I had no choice but to fo=
llow
him, a bad second, and reading myself, as I went, a sharp lesson on the com=
mand
of temper.
It is a strange thing how young men in their t=
eens
go down at the mere wind of the coming of men of twenty-five and upwards! The vapid ones fled without though=
t of
resistance before the Major and me; a few dallied awhile in the
neighbourhood—so to speak, with their fingers in their mouths—b=
ut
presently these also followed the rout, and we remained face to face before
Flora. There was a draught in=
that
corner by the door; she had thrown her pelisse over her bare arms and neck,=
and
the dark fur of the trimming set them off.=
She shone by contrast; the light played on her smooth skin to
admiration, and the colour changed in her excited face. For the least fraction of a second=
she
looked from one to the other of her pair of rival swains, and seemed to
hesitate. Then she addressed
Chevenix:—
‘You are coming to the Assembly, of cour=
se,
Major Chevenix?’ said she.
‘I fear not; I fear I shall be otherwise
engaged,’ he replied.
‘Even the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Flora, must give =
way
to duty.’
For awhile the talk ran harmlessly on the weat=
her,
and then branched off towards the war.&nbs=
p;
It seemed to be by no one’s fault; it was in the air, and had =
to
come.
‘Good news from the scene of
operations,’ said the Major.
‘Good news while it lasts,’ I
said. ‘But will Miss
Gilchrist tell us her private thought upon the war? In her admiration for the victors,=
does not
there mingle some pity for the vanquished?’
‘Indeed, sir,’ she said, with
animation, ‘only too much of it!&nbs=
p;
War is a subject that I do not think should be talked of to a girl.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am, I have to be—what do y=
ou
call it?—a non-combatant? And
to remind me of what others have to do and suffer: no, it is not fair!̵=
7;
‘Miss Gilchrist has the tender female
heart,’ said Chevenix.
‘Do not be too sure of that!’ she
cried. ‘I would love to=
be
allowed to fight myself!’
‘On which side?’ I asked.
‘Can you ask?’ she exclaimed. ‘I am a Scottish girl!’=
;
‘She is a Scottish girl!’ repeated=
the
Major, looking at me. ‘=
And no
one grudges you her pity!’
‘And I glory in every grain of it she ha=
s to
spare,’ said I. ‘=
Pity
is akin to love.’
‘Well, and let us put that question to M=
iss
Gilchrist. It is for her to d=
ecide,
and for us to bow to the decision.
Is pity, Miss Flora, or is admiration, nearest love?’
‘Oh come,’ said I, ‘let us be
more concrete. Lay before the=
lady
a complete case: describe your man, then I’ll describe mine, and Miss=
Flora
shall decide.’
‘I think I see your meaning,’ said=
he,
‘and I’ll try. You
think that pity—and the kindred sentiments—have the greatest po=
wer
upon the heart. I think more nobly of women. To my view, the man they love will=
first
of all command their respect; he will be steadfast—proud, if you plea=
se; dry,
possibly—but of all things steadfast. They will look at him in doubt; at=
last
they will see that stern face which he presents to all the rest of the world
soften to them alone. First, =
trust,
I say. It is so that a woman =
loves
who is worthy of heroes.’
‘Your man is very ambitious, sir,’
said I, ‘and very much of a hero! Mine is a humbler, and, I would fain
think, a more human dog. He i=
s one with
no particular trust in himself, with no superior steadfastness to be admired
for, who sees a lady’s face, who hears her voice, and, without any ph=
rase
about the matter, falls in love.
What does he ask for, then, but pity?—pity for his weakness, p=
ity
for his love, which is his life. You would make women always the inferiors,
gaping up at your imaginary lover; he, like a marble statue, with his nose =
in
the air! But God has been wis=
er
than you; and the most steadfast of your heroes may prove human, after
all. We appeal to the queen f=
or
judgment,’ I added, turning and bowing before Flora.
‘And how shall the queen judge?’ s=
he
asked. ‘I must give you=
an
answer that is no answer at all.
“The wind bloweth where it listeth”: she goes where her
heart goes.’
Her face flushed as she said it; mine also, fo=
r I
read in it a declaration, and my heart swelled for joy. But Chevenix grew pale.
‘You make of life a very dreadful kind of
lottery, ma’am,’ said he.
‘But I will not despair.
Honest and unornamental is still my choice.’
And I must say he looked extremely handsome and
very amusingly like the marble statue with its nose in the air to which I h=
ad
compared him.
‘I cannot imagine how we got upon this
subject,’ said Flora.
‘Madame, it was through the war,’
replied Chevenix.
‘All roads lead to Rome,’ I
commented. ‘What else w=
ould
you expect Mr. Chevenix and myself to talk of?’
About this time I was conscious of a certain
bustle and movement in the room behind me, but did not pay to it that degre=
e of
attention which perhaps would have been wise. There came a certain change in Flo=
ra’s
face; she signalled repeatedly with her fan; her eyes appealed to me obsequ=
iously;
there could be no doubt that she wanted something—as well as I could =
make
out, that I should go away and leave the field clear for my rival, which I =
had
not the least idea of doing. =
At
last she rose from her chair with impatience.
‘I think it time you were saying good-ni=
ght,
Mr Ducie!’ she said.
I could not in the least see why, and said so.=
Whereupon she gave me this appalling answer,
‘My aunt is coming out of the card-room.’
In less time than it takes to tell, I had made=
my
bow and my escape. Looking back from the doorway, I was privileged to see, =
for
a moment, the august profile and gold eyeglasses of Miss Gilchrist issuing =
from
the card-room; and the sight lent me wings. I stood not on the order of my goi=
ng;
and a moment after, I was on the pavement of Castle Street, and the lighted
windows shone down on me, and were crossed by ironical shadows of those who=
had
remained behind.
=
=
This
day began with a surprise. I =
found
a letter on my breakfast-table addressed to Edward Ducie, Esquire; and at f=
irst
I was startled beyond measure.
‘Conscience doth make cowards of us all!’ When I had opened it, it proved to=
be
only a note from the lawyer, enclosing a card for the Assembly Ball on Thur=
sday
evening. Shortly after, as I =
was
composing my mind with a segar at one of the windows of the sitting-room, a=
nd
Rowley, having finished the light share of work that fell to him, sat not f=
ar
off tootling with great spirit and a marked preference for the upper octave=
, Ronald
was suddenly shown in. I got =
him a
segar, drew in a chair to the side of the fire, and installed him thereR=
12;I
was going to say, at his ease, but no expression could be farther from the
truth. He was plainly on pins=
and
needles, did not know whether to take or to refuse the segar, and, after he=
had
taken it, did not know whether to light or to return it. I saw he had something to say; I d=
id not
think it was his own something; and I was ready to offer a large bet it was
really something of Major Chevenix’s.
‘Well, and so here you are!’ I
observed, with pointless cordiality, for I was bound I should do nothing to
help him out. If he were, ind=
eed,
here running errands for my rival, he might have a fair field, but certainl=
y no
favour.
‘The fact is,’ he began, ‘I
would rather see you alone.’
‘Why, certainly,’ I replied. ‘Rowley, you can step into t=
he
bedroom. My dear fellow,̵=
7; I
continued, ‘this sounds serious.&nbs=
p;
Nothing wrong, I trust.’
‘Well, I’ll be quite honest,’
said he. ‘I am a good d=
eal
bothered.’
‘And I bet I know why!’ I
exclaimed. ‘And I bet I=
can
put you to rights, too!’
‘What do you mean!’ he asked.
‘You must be hard up,’ said I,
‘and all I can say is, you’ve come to the right place. If you have the least use for a hu=
ndred
pounds, or any such trifling sum as that, please mention it. It’s here, quite at your ser=
vice.’
‘I am sure it is most kind of you,’
said Ronald, ‘and the truth is, though I can’t think how you
guessed it, that I really am a little behind board. But I haven’t come to talk a=
bout
that.’
‘No, I dare say!’ cried I. ‘Not worth talking about!
‘No,’ he said, ‘I couldnR=
17;t
take it; I couldn’t, really.
Besides, the fact is, I’ve come on a very different matter.
‘You’re quite sure?’ I
persisted. ‘It’s =
here,
at your service—up to five hundred pounds, if you like. Well, all right; only remember whe=
re it
is, when you do want it.’
‘Oh, please let me alone!’ cried
Ronald: ‘I’ve come to say something unpleasant; and how on earth
can I do it, if you don’t give a fellow a chance? It’s about my sister, as I
said. You can see for yoursel=
f that
it can’t be allowed to go on.
It’s compromising; it don’t lead to anything; and
you’re not the kind of man (you must feel it yourself) that I can all=
ow
my female relatives to have anything to do with. I hate saying this, St. Ives; it l=
ooks
like hitting a man when he’s down, you know; and I told the Major I v=
ery
much disliked it from the first. However, it had to be said; and now it has
been, and, between gentlemen, it shouldn’t be necessary to refer to it
again.’
‘It’s compromising; it doesn’=
;t
lead to anything; not the kind of man,’ I repeated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I believe I understand=
, and
shall make haste to put myself en règle.’ I stood up, and laid my segar down=
. ‘Mr.
Gilchrist,’ said I, with a bow, ‘in answer to your very natural=
observations,
I beg to offer myself as a suitor for your sister’s hand. I am a man =
of
title, of which we think lightly in France, but of ancient lineage, which is
everywhere prized. I can disp=
lay
thirty-two quarterings without a blot.&nbs=
p;
My expectations are certainly above the average: I believe my
uncle’s income averages about thirty thousand pounds, though I admit I
was not careful to inform myself.
Put it anywhere between fifteen and fifty thousand; it is certainly =
not
less.’
‘All this is very easy to say,’ sa=
id
Ronald, with a pitying smile. ‘Unfortunately, these things are in the
air.’
‘Pardon me,—in Buckinghamshire,=
217;
said I, smiling.
‘Well, what I mean is, my dear St. Ives,
that you can’t prove them,’ he continued. ‘They might just as well not=
be:
do you follow me? You canR=
17;t bring
us any third party to back you.’
‘Oh, come!’ cried I, springing up =
and
hurrying to the table. ‘=
;You
must excuse me!’ I wrote
Romaine’s address.
‘There is my reference, Mr. Gilchrist. Until you have written to him, and
received his negative answer, I have a right to be treated, and I shall see
that you treat me, as a gentleman.’&=
nbsp;
He was brought up with a round turn at that.
‘I beg your pardon, St. Ives,’ said
he. ‘Believe me, I had =
no
wish to be offensive. But
there’s the difficulty of this affair; I can’t make any of my
points without offence! You m=
ust
excuse me, it’s not my fault. But, at any rate, you must see for your=
self
this proposal of marriage is—is merely impossible, my dear fellow.
‘My ancestor of the time of the
Ligue,’ I replied, ‘married a Huguenot lady out of the Saintong=
e,
riding two hundred miles through an enemy’s country to bring off his
bride; and it was a happy marriage.’
‘Well!’ he began; and then looked =
down
into the fire, and became silent.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Well, there’s this business
of—Goguelat,’ said he, still looking at the coals in the grate.=
‘What!’ I exclaimed, starting in my
chair. ‘What’s th=
at you
say?’
‘This business about Goguelat,’ he
repeated.
‘Ronald,’ said I, ‘this is n=
ot
your doing. These are not you=
r own
words. I know where they came from: a coward put them in your mouth.’=
‘St. Ives!’ he cried, ‘why do
you make it so hard for me? and where’s the use of insulting other pe=
ople? The plain English is, that I can=
8217;t
hear of any proposal of marriage from a man under a charge like that. You must see it for yourself, man!=
It’s the most absurd thing I=
ever
heard of! And you go on forci=
ng me
to argue with you, too!’
‘Because I have had an affair of honour
which terminated unhappily, you—a young soldier, or next-door to
it—refuse my offer? Do I
understand you aright?’ said I.
‘My dear fellow!’ he wailed, ̵=
6;of
course you can twist my words, if you like. You say it was an affair of honour=
. Well, I can’t, of course, te=
ll you
that—I can’t—I mean, you must see that that’s just =
the
point! Was it? I don’t
know.’
‘I have the honour to inform you,’
said I.
‘Well, other people say the reverse, you
see!’
‘They lie, Ronald, and I will prove it in
time.’
‘The short and the long of it is, that a=
ny
man who is so unfortunate as to have such things said about him is not the =
man
to be my brother-in-law!’ he cried.
‘Do you know who will be my first witnes=
s at
the court? Arthur Chevenix!=
8217;
said I.
‘I don’t care!’ he cried, ri=
sing
from his chair and beginning to pace outrageously about the room. ‘What do you mean, St. Ives?=
What is this about? It’s like a dream, I declare=
! You made an offer, and I have refu=
sed
it. I don’t like it, I
don’t want it; and whatever I did, or didn’t, wouldn’t
matter—my aunt wouldn’t bear of it anyway! Can’t you take your answer,
man?’
‘You must remember, Ronald, that we are
playing with edged tools,’ said I.&n=
bsp;
‘An offer of marriage is a delicate subject to handle. You have refused, and you have just=
ified
your refusal by several statements: first, that I was an impostor; second, =
that
our countries were at war; and third— No, I will speak,’ said I;
‘you can answer when I have done,—and third, that I had
dishonourably killed—or was said to have done so—the man
Goguelat. Now, my dear fellow,
these are very awkward grounds to be taking. From any one else’s lips I n=
eed
scarce tell you how I should resent them; but my hands are tied. I have so much gratitude to you, w=
ithout
talking of the love I bear your sister, that you insult me, when you do so,
under the cover of a complete impunity.&nb=
sp;
I must feel the pain—and I do feel it acutely—I can do
nothing to protect myself.’
He had been anxious enough to interrupt me in the beginning; but now,
and after I had ceased, he stood a long while silent.
‘St. Ives,’ he said at last, ̵=
6;I
think I had better go away. T=
his
has been very irritating. I n=
ever
at all meant to say anything of the kind, and I apologise to you. I have all the esteem for you that=
one
gentleman should have for another.
I only meant to tell you—to show you what had influenced my mi=
nd;
and that, in short, the thing was impossible. One thing you may be quite sure of=
: I
shall do nothing against you. Will
you shake hands before I go away?’ he blurted out.
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I agree with
you—the interview has been irritating. Let bygones be bygones. Good-bye, Ronald.’
‘Good-bye, St. Ives!’ he
returned. ‘I’m he=
artily
sorry.’
And with that he was gone.
The windows of my own sitting-room looked towa=
rds
the north; but the entrance passage drew its light from the direction of the
square. Hence I was able to o=
bserve
Ronald’s departure, his very disheartened gait, and the fact that he =
was
joined, about half-way, by no less a man than Major Chevenix. At this, I could scarce keep from
smiling; so unpalatable an interview must be before the pair of them, and I
could hear their voices, clashing like crossed swords, in that eternal
antiphony of ‘I told you,’ and ‘I told you not.’
It was no use to try and see her now, but I
promised myself early that evening to return to Swanston. In the meantime I had to make all =
my preparations,
and look the coming journey in the face.&n=
bsp;
Here in Edinburgh I was within four miles of the sea, yet the busine=
ss
of approaching random fishermen with my hat in the one hand and a knife in =
the
other, appeared so desperate, that I saw nothing for it but to retrace my s=
teps
over the northern counties, and knock a second time at the doors of Birchell
Fenn. To do this, money would=
be
necessary; and after leaving my paper in the hands of Flora I had still a
balance of about fifteen hundred pounds.&n=
bsp;
Or rather I may say I had them and I had them not; for after my lunc=
heon
with Mr. Robbie I had placed the amount, all but thirty pounds of change, i=
n a
bank in George Street, on a deposit receipt in the name of Mr. Rowley. This I had designed to be my gift =
to
him, in case I must suddenly depart.
But now, thinking better of the arrangement, I despatched my little =
man,
cockade and all, to lift the fifteen hundred.
He was not long gone, and returned with a flus=
hed
face, and the deposit receipt still in his hand.
‘No go, Mr. Anne,’ says he.
‘How’s that?’ I inquired,
‘Well, sir, I found the place all right,=
and
no mistake,’ said he.
‘But I tell you what gave me a blue fright! There was a customer standing by t=
he
door, and I reckonised him! W=
ho do
you think it was, Mr. Anne?
W’y, that same Red-Breast—him I had breakfast with near
Aylesbury.’
‘You are sure you are not mistaken?̵=
7; I
asked.
‘Certain sure,’ he replied. ‘Not Mr. Lavender, I donR=
17;t
mean, sir; I mean the other party.
“Wot’s he doing here?’ says I. It don’t look right.”&=
#8217;
‘Not by any means,’ I agreed.
I walked to and fro in the apartment
reflecting. This particular B=
ow Street
runner might be here by accident; but it was to imagine a singular play of
coincidence that he, who had met Rowley and spoken with him in the ‘G=
reen
Dragon,’ hard by Aylesbury, should be now in Scotland, where he could
have no legitimate business, and by the doors of the bank where Rowley kept=
his
account.
‘Rowley,’ said I, ‘he
didn’t see you, did he?’
‘Never a fear,’ quoth Rowley. ‘W’y Mr. Anne, sir, if= he ’ad, you wouldn’t have seen me any more! I ain’t a hass, sir!’<= o:p>
‘Well, my boy, you can put that receipt =
in
your pocket. You’ll hav=
e no more
use for it till you’re quite clear of me. Don’t lose it, though; it=
217;s
your share of the Christmas-box: fifteen hundred pounds all for yourself.=
8217;
‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Anne, sir, but=
wot
for!’ said Rowley.
‘To set up a public-house upon,’ s=
aid
I.
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I
ain’t got any call to set up a public-house, sir,’ he replied
stoutly. ‘And I tell yo=
u wot,
sir, it seems to me I’m reether young for the billet. I’m your body servant, Mr. A=
nne,
or else I’m nothink.’
‘Well, Rowley,’ I said,
‘I’ll tell you what it’s for. It’s for the good service yo=
u have
done me, of which I don’t care—and don’t dare—to sp=
eak.
It’s for your loyalty and cheerfulness, my dear boy. I had meant it for you; but to tel=
l you
the truth, it’s past mending now—it has to be yours. Since that=
man
is waiting by the bank, the money can’t be touched until I’m
gone.’
‘Until you’re gone, sir?’
re-echoed Rowley. ‘You
don’t go anywheres without me, I can tell you that, Mr. Anne, sir!=
217;
‘Yes, my boy,’ said I, ‘we a=
re
going to part very soon now; probably to-morrow. And it’s for my sake, Rowley=
! Depend upon it, if there was any r=
eason
at all for that Bow Street man being at the bank, he was not there to look =
out
for you. How they could have =
found
out about the account so early is more than I can fathom; some strange coin=
cidence
must have played me false! But
there the fact is; and Rowley, I’ll not only have to say farewell to =
you
presently, I’ll have to ask you to stay indoors until I can say it. Remember, my boy, it’s only =
so
that you can serve me now.’
‘W’y, sir, you say the word, and of
course I’ll do it!’ he cried. ‘“Nothink by
’alves,” is my motto!
I’m your man, through thick and thin, live or die, I am!’=
;
In the meantime there was nothing to be done t=
ill
towards sunset. My only chanc=
e now
was to come again as quickly as possible to speech of Flora, who was my only
practicable banker; and not before evening was it worth while to think of
that. I might compose myself =
as
well as I was able over the Caledonian Mercury, with its ill news of the
campaign of France and belated documents about the retreat from Russia; and=
, as
I sat there by the fire, I was sometimes all awake with anger and mortifica=
tion
at what I was reading, and sometimes again I would be three parts asleep as=
I
dozed over the barren items of home intelligence. ‘Lately arrived’—=
;this
is what I suddenly stumbled on—‘at Dumbreck’s Hotel, the =
Viscount
of Saint-Yves.’
‘Rowley,’ said I.
‘If you please, Mr. Anne, sir,’
answered the obsequious, lowering his pipe.
‘Come and look at this, my boy,’ s=
aid
I, holding out the paper.
‘My crikey!’ said he. ‘That’s ’im, sir=
, sure
enough!’
‘Sure enough, Rowley,’ said I. ‘He’s on the trail. He and this Bow Street man have co=
me
together, I would swear. And =
now
here is the whole field, quarry, hounds and hunters, all together in this c=
ity
of Edinburgh.’
‘And wot are you goin’ to do now,
sir? Tell you wot, let me tak=
e it
in ’and, please! Gimme a
minute, and I’ll disguise myself, and go out to this Dum--- to this
hotel, leastways, sir—and see wot he’s up to. You put your trust in me, Mr. Anne:
I’m fly, don’t you make no mistake about it. I’m all a-growing and a-blow=
ing, I
am.’
‘Not one foot of you,’ said I. ‘You are a prisoner, Rowley,=
and
make up your mind to that. So=
am I,
or next door to it. I showed =
it you
for a caution; if you go on the streets, it spells death to me, Rowley.R=
17;
‘If you please, sir,’ says Rowley.=
‘Come to think of it,’ I continued,
‘you must take a cold, or something. No good of awakening Mrs.
McRankine’s suspicions.’
‘A cold?’ he cried, recovering
immediately from his depression.
‘I can do it, Mr. Anne.’
And he proceeded to sneeze and cough and blow =
his
nose, till I could not restrain myself from smiling.
‘Oh, I tell you, I know a lot of them
dodges,’ he observed proudly.
‘Well, they come in very handy,’ s=
aid
I.
‘I’d better go at once and show it=
to
the old gal, ’adn’t I?’ he asked.
I told him, by all means; and he was gone upon=
the
instant, gleeful as though to a game of football.
I took up the paper and read carelessly on, my
thoughts engaged with my immediate danger, till I struck on the next
paragraph:—
&=
nbsp;
‘In connection with the recent horrid murder in the Castle, we=
are
desired to =
make
public the following intelligence.
The soldier, Champdivers, is
supposed to be in the neighbourhood of this city. He is about the midd=
le
height or rather under, of a pleasing appearance and highly genteel
address. When last heard of h=
e wore
a fashionable suit of pearl-gre=
y, and
boots with fawn-coloured tops. He
is accompan=
ied by
a servant about sixteen years of age, speaks English without any accen=
t, and
passed under the alias of Ramornie.
A re=
ward
is offered for his apprehension.’
In a moment I was in the next room, stripping =
from
me the pearl-coloured suit!
I confess I was now a good deal agitated. It is difficult to watch the toils
closing slowly and surely about you, and to retain your composure; and I was
glad that Rowley was not present to spy on my confusion. I was flushed, my breath came thic=
k; I
cannot remember a time when I was more put out.
And yet I must wait and do nothing, and partak=
e of
my meals, and entertain the ever-garrulous Rowley, as though I were entirel=
y my
own man. And if I did not req=
uire
to entertain Mrs. McRankine also, that was but another drop of bitterness i=
n my
cup! For what ailed my landla=
dy, that
she should hold herself so severely aloof, that she should refuse conversat=
ion,
that her eyes should be reddened, that I should so continually hear the voi=
ce
of her private supplications sounding through the house? I was much deceived, or she had re=
ad the
insidious paragraph and recognised the comminated pearl-grey suit. I remember now a certain air with =
which
she had laid the paper on my table, and a certain sniff, between sympathy a=
nd
defiance, with which she had announced it: ‘There’s your Mercury
for ye!’
In this direction, at least, I saw no pressing
danger; her tragic countenance betokened agitation; it was plain she was
wrestling with her conscience, and the battle still hung dubious. The question of what to do trouble=
d me
extremely. I could not ventur=
e to
touch such an intricate and mysterious piece of machinery as my
landlady’s spiritual nature: it might go off at a word, and in any di=
rection,
like a badly-made firework. And while I praised myself extremely for my wis=
dom
in the past, that I had made so much a friend of her, I was all abroad as t=
o my
conduct in the present. There
seemed an equal danger in pressing and in neglecting the accustomed marks of
familiarity. The one extreme =
looked
like impudence, and might annoy, the other was a practical confession of gu=
ilt. Altogether, it was a good hour for=
me
when the dusk began to fall in earnest on the streets of Edinburgh, and the
voice of an early watchman bade me set forth.
I reached the neighbourhood of the cottage bef=
ore
seven; and as I breasted the steep ascent which leads to the garden wall, I=
was
struck with surprise to hear a dog.
Dogs I had heard before, but only from the hamlet on the hillside
above. Now, this dog was in t=
he
garden itself, where it roared aloud in paroxysms of fury, and I could hear=
it
leaping and straining on the chain.
I waited some while, until the brute’s fit of passion had roar=
ed
itself out. Then, with the ut=
most
precaution, I drew near again; and finally approached the garden wall. So soon as I had clapped my head a=
bove
the level, however, the barking broke forth again with redoubled energy.
‘Good thing I brought Towzer!’ said
Chevenix.
‘Damn him, I wonder where he is!’ =
said
Ronald; and he moved the lantern up and down, and turned the night into a
shifting puzzle-work of gleam and shadow.&=
nbsp;
‘I think I’ll make a sally.’
‘I don’t think you will,’
replied Chevenix. ‘When=
I
agreed to come out here and do sentry-go, it was on one condition, Master
Ronald: don’t you forget that!
Military discipline, my boy!
Our beat is this path close about the house. Down, Towzer! good boy, good
boy—gently, then!’ he went on, caressing his confounded monster=
.
‘To think! The beggar may be hearing us this
minute!’ cried Ronald.
‘Nothing more probable,’ said the
Major. ‘You there, St.
Ives?’ he added, in a distinct but guarded voice. ‘I only want to tell you, yo=
u had
better go home. Mr. Gilchrist=
and I
take watch and watch.’
The game was up. ‘Beaucoup de plaisir!’=
I
replied, in the same tones. ‘Il fait un peu froid pour veiller;
gardez-vous des engelures!’
I suppose it was done in a moment of ungoverna=
ble
rage; but in spite of the excellent advice he had given to Ronald the moment
before, Chevenix slipped the chain, and the dog sprang, straight as an arro=
w,
up the bank. I stepped back, picked up a stone of about twelve pounds weigh=
t,
and stood ready. With a bound=
the
beast landed on the cope-stone of the wall; and, almost in the same instant=
, my
missile caught him fair in the face.
He gave a stifled cry, went tumbling back where he had come from, an=
d I
could hear the twelve-pounder accompany him in his fall. Chevenix, at the same moment, brok=
e out
in a roaring voice: ‘The hell-hound!=
If he’s killed my dog!’ and I judged, upon all grounds, =
it
was as well to be off.
=
I
awoke to much diffidence, even to a feeling that might be called the beginn=
ings
of panic, and lay for hours in my bed considering the situation. Seek where I pleased, there was no=
thing
to encourage me and plenty to appal.
They kept a close watch about the cottage; they had a beast of a
watch-dog—at least, unless I had settled it; and if I had, I knew its
bereaved master would only watch the more indefatigably for the loss. In the pardonable ostentation of l=
ove I
had given all the money I could spare to Flora; I had thought it glorious t=
hat
the hunted exile should come down, like Jupiter, in a shower of gold, and p=
our
thousands in the lap of the beloved.
Then I had in an hour of arrant folly buried what remained to me in a
bank in George Street. And no=
w I
must get back the one or the other; and which? and how?
As I tossed in my bed, I could see three possi=
ble
courses, all extremely perilous.
First, Rowley might have been mistaken; the bank might not be watche=
d;
it might still be possible for him to draw the money on the deposit
receipt. Second, I might apply
again to Robbie. Or, third, I=
might
dare everything, go to the Assembly Ball, and speak with Flora under the ey=
es
of all Edinburgh. This last
alternative, involving as it did the most horrid risks, and the delay of
forty-eight hours, I did but glance at with an averted head, and turned aga=
in
to the consideration of the others.
It was the likeliest thing in the world that Robbie had been warned =
to
have no more to do with me. The whole policy of the Gilchrists was in the h=
ands
of Chevenix; and I thought this was a precaution so elementary that he was
certain to have taken it. If =
he had
not, of course I was all right: Robbie would manage to communicate with Flo=
ra; and
by four o’clock I might be on the south road and, I was going to say,=
a
free man. Lastly, I must assu=
re
myself with my own eyes whether the bank in George Street were beleaguered.=
I called to Rowley and questioned him tightly =
as
to the appearance of the Bow Street officer.
‘What sort of looking man is he,
Rowley?’ I asked, as I began to dress.
‘Wot sort of a looking man he is?’
repeated Rowley. ‘Well,=
I
don’t very well know wot you would say, Mr. Anne. He ain’t a beauty,
any’ow.’
‘Is he tall?’
‘Tall?&=
nbsp;
Well, no, I shouldn’t say tall Mr. Anne.’
‘Well, then, is he short?’
‘Short?=
No, I don’t think I would say he was what you would call short=
. No, not piticular short, sir.̵=
7;
‘Then, I suppose, he must be about the
middle height?’
‘Well, you might say it, sir; but not
remarkable so.’
I smothered an oath.
‘Is he clean-shaved?’ I tried him
again.
‘Clean-shaved?’ he repeated, with =
the
same air of anxious candour.
‘Good heaven, man, don’t repeat my
words like a parrot!’ I cried.
‘Tell me what the man was like: it is of the first importance =
that
I should be able to recognise him.’
‘I’m trying to, Mr. Anne. But clean-shaved? I don’t seem to rightly get =
hold
of that p’int. Sometime=
s it
might appear to me like as if he was; and sometimes like as if he
wasn’t. No, it wouldn=
8217;t
surprise me now if you was to tell me he ’ad a bit o’
whisker.’
‘Was the man red-faced?’ I roared,
dwelling on each syllable.
‘I don’t think you need go for to =
get
cross about it, Mr. Anne!’ said he. ‘I’m tellin’ you
every blessed thing I see!
Red-faced? Well, no, n=
ot as you
would remark upon.’
A dreadful calm fell upon me.
‘Was he anywise pale?’ I asked.
‘Well, it don’t seem to me as thou=
gh
he were. But I tell you truly=
, I didn’t
take much heed to that.’
‘Did he look like a drinking man?’=
‘Well, no. If you please, sir, he looked more=
like
an eating one.’
‘Oh, he was stout, was he?’
‘No, sir. I couldn’t go so far as that=
. No, he wasn’t not to say sto=
ut. If anything, lean rather.’
I need not go on with the infuriating
interview. It ended as it beg=
an, except
that Rowley was in tears, and that I had acquired one fact. The man was drawn for me as being =
of any
height you like to mention, and of any degree of corpulence or leanness;
clean-shaved or not, as the case might be; the colour of his hair Rowley
‘could not take it upon himself to put a name on’; that of his =
eyes
he thought to have been blue—nay, it was the one point on which he
attained to a kind of tearful certainty. ‘I’ll take my davy on
it,’ he asseverated. Th=
ey
proved to have been as black as sloes, very little and very near together.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So much for the evidence of the
artless! And the fact, or rat=
her
the facts, acquired? Well, they had to do not with the person but with his
clothing. The man wore
knee-breeches and white stockings; his coat was ‘some kind of a light=
ish
colour—or betwixt that and dark’; and he wore a ‘mole-ski=
n weskit.’ As if this were not enough, he pre=
sently
haled me from my breakfast in a prodigious flutter, and showed me an honest=
and
rather venerable citizen passing in the Square.
‘That’s him, sir,’ he cried,
‘the very moral of him! Well,
this one is better dressed, and p’r’aps a trifler taller; and in
the face he don’t favour him noways at all, sir. No, not when I come to look again,
’e don’t seem to favour him noways.’
‘Jackass!’ said I, and I think the
greatest stickler for manners will admit the epithet to have been justified=
.
Meanwhile the appearance of my landlady added a
great load of anxiety to what I already suffered. It was plain that she had not slep=
t;
equally plain that she had wept copiously.=
She sighed, she groaned, she drew in her breath, she shook her head,=
as
she waited on table. In short=
, she seemed
in so precarious a state, like a petard three times charged with hysteria, =
that
I did not dare to address her; and stole out of the house on tiptoe, and
actually ran downstairs, in the fear that she might call me back. It was plain that this degree of t=
ension
could not last long.
It was my first care to go to George Street, w=
hich
I reached (by good luck) as a boy was taking down the bank shutters. A man was conversing with him; he =
had
white stockings and a moleskin waistcoat, and was as ill-looking a rogue as=
you
would want to see in a day’s journey. This seemed to agree fairly well w=
ith
Rowley’s signalement: he had declared emphatically (if you remember),=
and
had stuck to it besides, that the companion of the great Lavender was no
beauty.
Thence I made my way to Mr. Robbie’s, wh=
ere
I rang the bell. A servant an=
swered
the summons, and told me the lawyer was engaged, as I had half expected.
‘Wha shall I say was callin’?̵=
7;
she pursued; and when I had told her ‘Mr. Ducie,’ ‘I think
this’ll be for you, then?’ she added, and handed me a letter fr=
om
the hall table. It ran:
&=
nbsp;
‘DEAR MR. DUCIE,
&=
nbsp;
‘My single advice to you is to leave quam primum for the South=
.
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp;
Yours, T. ROBBIE.’
That was short and sweet. It emphatically extinguished hope =
in one
direction. No more was to be =
gotten
of Robbie; and I wondered, from my heart, how much had been told him. Not too much, I hoped, for I liked=
the
lawyer who had thus deserted me, and I placed a certain reliance in the
discretion of Chevenix. He wo=
uld
not be merciful; on the other hand, I did not think he would be cruel witho=
ut
cause.
It was my next affair to go back along George
Street, and assure myself whether the man in the moleskin vest was still on
guard. There was no sign of h=
im on
the pavement. Spying the door=
of a
common stair nearly opposite the bank, I took it in my head that this would=
be
a good point of observation, crossed the street, entered with a businesslike
air and fell immediately against the man in the moleskin vest. I stopped and apologised to him; he
replied in an unmistakable English accent, thus putting the matter almost
beyond doubt. After this enco=
unter
I must, of course, ascend to the top story, ring the bell of a suite of
apartments, inquire for Mr. Vavasour, learn (with no great surprise) that he
did not live there, come down again and, again politely saluting the man fr=
om
Bow Street, make my escape at last into the street.
I was now driven back upon the Assembly Ball.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Robbie had failed me. The bank was watched; it would nev=
er do
to risk Rowley in that neighbourhood. All I could do was to wait until the
morrow evening, and present myself at the Assembly, let it end as it
might. But I must say I came =
to
this decision with a good deal of genuine fright; and here I came for the f=
irst
time to one of those places where my courage stuck. I do not mean that my courage bogg=
led
and made a bit of a bother over it, as it did over the escape from the Cast=
le;
I mean, stuck, like a stopped watch or a dead man. Certainly I would go to the ball;
certainly I must see this morning about my clothes. That was all decided. But the most of the shops were on =
the
other side of the valley, in the Old Town; and it was now my strange discov=
ery
that I was physically unable to cross the North Bridge! It was as though a precipice had s=
tood
between us, or the deep sea had intervened. Nearer to the Castle my legs refus=
ed to
bear me.
I told myself this was mere superstition; I ma=
de
wagers with myself—and gained them; I went down on the esplanade of
Princes Street, walked and stood there, alone and conspicuous, looking acro=
ss
the garden at the old grey bastions of the fortress, where all these troubl=
es
had begun. I cocked my hat, s=
et my
hand on my hip, and swaggered on the pavement, confronting detection. And I found I could do all this wi=
th a
sense of exhilaration that was not unpleasing, and with a certain
crânerie of manner that raised me in my own esteem. And yet there was one thing I coul=
d not
bring my mind to face up to, or my limbs to execute; and that was to cross =
the
valley into the Old Town. It =
seemed
to me I must be arrested immediately if I had done so; I must go straight i=
nto
the twilight of a prison cell, and pass straight thence to the gross and fi=
nal
embraces of the nightcap and the halter.&n=
bsp;
And yet it was from no reasoned fear of the consequences that I could
not go. I was unable. My horse baulked, and there was an=
end!
My nerve was gone: here was a discovery for a =
man
in such imminent peril, set down to so desperate a game, which I could only
hope to win by continual luck and unflagging effrontery! The strain had been too long conti=
nued,
and my nerve was gone. I fell=
into
what they call panic fear, as I have seen soldiers do on the alarm of a nig=
ht
attack, and turned out of Princes Street at random as though the devil were=
at
my heels. In St. Andrew Squar=
e, I
remember vaguely hearing some one call out. I paid no heed, but pressed on
blindly. A moment after, a ha=
nd
fell heavily on my shoulder, and I thought I had fainted. Certainly the world went black abo=
ut me
for some seconds; and when that spasm passed I found myself standing face to
face with the ‘cheerful extravagant,’ in what sort of disarray I
really dare not imagine, dead white at least, shaking like an aspen, and mo=
wing
at the man with speechless lips.
And this was the soldier of Napoleon, and the gentleman who intended
going next night to an Assembly Ball!
I am the more particular in telling of my breakdown, because it was =
my
only experience of the sort; and it is a good tale for officers. I will allow no man to call me cow=
ard; I
have made my proofs; few men more.
And yet I (come of the best blood in France and inured to danger fro=
m a
child) did, for some ten or twenty minutes, make this hideous exhibition of
myself on the streets of the New Town of Edinburgh.
With my first available breath I begged his
pardon. I was of an extremely
nervous disposition, recently increased by late hours; I could not bear the
slightest start.
He seemed much concerned. ‘You must be in a devil of a
state!’ said he; ‘though of course it was my fault—damnab=
ly
silly, vulgar sort of thing to do!
A thousand apologies! =
But
you really must be run down; you should consult a medico. My dear sir, a hair of the dog tha=
t bit
you is clearly indicated. A t=
ouch
of Blue Ruin, now? Or, come:
it’s early, but is man the slave of hours? what do you say to a chop =
and
a bottle in Dumbreck’s Hotel?’
I refused all false comfort; but when he went =
on
to remind me that this was the day when the University of Cramond met; and =
to
propose a five-mile walk into the country and a dinner in the company of yo=
ung asses
like himself, I began to think otherwise.&=
nbsp;
I had to wait until to-morrow evening, at any rate; this might serve=
as
well as anything else to bridge the dreary hours. The country was the very place for=
me:
and walking is an excellent sedative for the nerves. Remembering poor Rowley, feigning =
a cold
in our lodgings and immediately under the guns of the formidable and now
doubtful Bethiah, I asked if I might bring my servant. ‘Poor devil! it is dull for
him,’ I explained.
‘The merciful man is merciful to his
ass,’ observed my sententious friend. ‘Bring him by all means!
&=
nbsp;
“The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an
orphan boy;”
and I have no doubt the orphan boy can get some
cold victuals in the kitchen, while the Senatus dines.’
Accordingly, being now quite recovered from my
unmanly condition, except that nothing could yet induce me to cross the Nor=
th
Bridge, I arranged for my ball dress at a shop in Leith Street, where I was=
not
served ill, cut out Rowley from his seclusion, and was ready along with him=
at
the trysting-place, the corner of Duke Street and York Place, by a little a=
fter
two. The University was repre=
sented
in force: eleven persons, including ourselves, Byfield the aeronaut, and the
tall lad, Forbes, whom I had met on the Sunday morning, bedewed with tallow=
, at
the ‘Hunters’ Rest.’&nbs=
p;
I was introduced; and we set off by way of Newhaven and the sea beac=
h;
at first through pleasant country roads, and afterwards along a succession =
of bays
of a fairylike prettiness, to our destination—Cramond on the
Almond—a little hamlet on a little river, embowered in woods, and loo=
king
forth over a great flat of quicksand to where a little islet stood planted =
in
the sea. It was miniature sce=
nery,
but charming of its kind. The=
air
of this good February afternoon was bracing, but not cold. All the way my
companions were skylarking, jesting and making puns, and I felt as if a load
had been taken off my lungs and spirits, and skylarked with the best of the=
m.
Byfield I observed, because I had heard of him
before, and seen his advertisements, not at all because I was disposed to f=
eel
interest in the man. He was d=
ark
and bilious and very silent; frigid in his manners, but burning internally =
with
a great fire of excitement; and he was so good as to bestow a good deal of =
his
company and conversation (such as it was) upon myself, who was not in the l=
east
grateful. If I had known how =
I was to
be connected with him in the immediate future, I might have taken more pain=
s.
In the hamlet of Cramond there is a hostelry o=
f no
very promising appearance, and here a room had been prepared for us, and we=
sat
down to table.
‘Here you will find no guttling or
gormandising, no turtle or nightingales’ tongues,’ said the ext=
ravagant,
whose name, by the way, was Dalmahoy.
‘The device, sir, of the University of Cramond is Plain Living=
and
High Drinking.’
Grace was said by the Professor of Divinity, i=
n a
macaronic Latin, which I could by no means follow, only I could hear it rhy=
med,
and I guessed it to be more witty than reverent. After which the Senatus Academicus=
sat down
to rough plenty in the shape of rizzar’d haddocks and mustard, a shee=
p’s
head, a haggis, and other delicacies of Scotland. The dinner was washed down with br=
own
stout in bottle, and as soon as the cloth was removed, glasses, boiling wat=
er,
sugar, and whisky were set out for the manufacture of toddy. I played a good knife and fork, di=
d not
shun the bowl, and took part, so far as I was able, in the continual fire o=
f pleasantry
with which the meal was seasoned.
Greatly daring, I ventured, before all these Scotsmen, to tell
Sim’s Tale of Tweedie’s dog; and I was held to have done such
extraordinary justice to the dialect, ‘for a Southron,’ that I =
was
immediately voted into the Chair of Scots, and became, from that moment, a =
full
member of the University of Cramond.
A little after, I found myself entertaining them with a song; and a
little after—perhaps a little in consequence—it occurred to me =
that
I had had enough, and would be very well inspired to take French leave. It was not difficult to manage, fo=
r it
was nobody’s business to observe my movements, and conviviality had
banished suspicion.
I got easily forth of the chamber, which
reverberated with the voices of these merry and learned gentlemen, and brea=
thed
a long breath. I had passed an
agreeable afternoon and evening, and I had apparently escaped scot free.
I routed him promptly from his perch, stuck his
hat on, put his instrument in his pocket, and set off with him for Edinburg=
h.
His limbs were of paper, his mind quite in
abeyance; I must uphold and guide him, prevent his frantic dives, and set h=
im
continually on his legs again. At
first he sang wildly, with occasional outbursts of causeless laughter. Gradually an inarticulate melancho=
ly succeeded;
he wept gently at times; would stop in the middle of the road, say firmly
‘No, no, no,’ and then fall on his back: or else address me
solemnly as ‘M’lord’ and fall on his face by way of
variety. I am afraid I was not
always so gentle with the little pig as I might have been, but really the
position was unbearable. We m=
ade no
headway at all, and I suppose we were scarce gotten a mile away from Cramon=
d,
when the whole Senatus Academicus was heard hailing, and doubling the pace =
to
overtake its.
Some of them were fairly presentable; and they
were all Christian martyrs compared to Rowley; but they were in a frolicsome
and rollicking humour that promised danger as we approached the town. They sang songs, they ran races, t=
hey
fenced with their walking-sticks and umbrellas; and, in spite of this viole=
nt
exercise, the fun grew only the more extravagant with the miles they
traversed. Their drunkenness =
was
deep-seated and permanent, like fire in a peat; or rather—to be quite
just to them—it was not so much to be called drunkenness at all, as t=
he
effect of youth and high spirits—a fine night, and the night young, a
good road under foot, and the world before you!
I had left them once somewhat unceremoniously;=
I
could not attempt it a second time; and, burthened as I was with Mr. Rowley=
, I
was really glad of assistance. But
I saw the lamps of Edinburgh draw near on their hill-top with a good deal of
uneasiness, which increased, after we had entered the lighted streets, to
positive alarm. All the passe=
rs-by
were addressed, some of them by name.
A worthy man was stopped by Forbes. ‘Sir,’ said he,
‘in the name of the Senatus of the University of Cramond, I confer up=
on
you the degree of LL.D.,’ and with the words he bonneted him. Conceive the predicament of St. Iv=
es,
committed to the society of these outrageous youths, in a town where the po=
lice
and his cousin were both looking for him!&=
nbsp;
So far, we had pursued our way unmolested, although raising a clamour
fit to wake the dead; but at last, in Abercromby Place, I believe—at
least it was a crescent of highly respectable houses fronting on a
garden—Byfield and I, having fallen somewhat in the rear with Rowley,
came to a simultaneous halt. =
Our ruffians
were beginning to wrench off bells and door-plates!
‘Oh, I say!’ says Byfield, ‘=
this
is too much of a good thing!
Confound it, I’m a respectable man—a public character, by
George! I can’t afford =
to get
taken up by the police.’
‘My own case exactly,’ said I.
‘Here, let’s bilk them,’ said
he.
And we turned back and took our way down hill
again.
It was none too soon: voices and alarm bells
sounded; watchmen here and there began to spring their rattles; it was plain
the University of Cramond would soon be at blows with the police of
Edinburgh! Byfield and I, run=
ning
the semi-inanimate Rowley before us, made good despatch, and did not stop t=
ill
we were several streets away, and the hubbub was already softened by distan=
ce.
‘Well, sir,’ said he, ‘we are
well out of that! Did ever an=
y one
see such a pack of young barbarians?’
‘We are properly punished, Mr. Byfield; =
we
had no business there,’ I replied.
‘No, indeed, sir, you may well say
that! Outrageous! And my ascension announced for Fri=
day,
you know!’ cried the aeronaut.
‘A pretty scandal! Byfield the aeronaut at the police-court! Tut-tut! Will you be able to get your rascal
home, sir? Allow me to offer =
you my
card. I am staying at Walker =
and
Poole’s Hotel, sir, where I should be pleased to see you.’
‘The pleasure would be mutual, sir,̵=
7;
said I, but I must say my heart was not in my words, and as I watched Mr.
Byfield departing I desired nothing less than to pursue the acquaintance
One more ordeal remained for me to pass. I carried my senseless load upstai=
rs to
our lodging, and was admitted by the landlady in a tall white nightcap and =
with
an expression singularly grim. She
lighted us into the sitting-room; where, when I had seated Rowley in a chai=
r,
she dropped me a cast-iron courtesy.
I smelt gunpowder on the woman.&nbs=
p;
Her voice, tottered with emotion.
‘I give ye nottice, Mr. Ducie,’ sa=
id
she. ‘Dacent folks̵=
7;
houses . . .’
And at that apparently temper cut off her
utterance, and she took herself off without more words.
I looked about me at the room, the goggling
Rowley, the extinguished fire; my mind reviewed the laughable incidents of =
the
day and night; and I laughed out loud to myself—lonely and cheerless
laughter!.......
=
&nb=
sp;
* * * * *
=
[At this point the Author’s MS. breaks off]