St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England by Stevenson (books for new readers TXT) 📕

‘O, don’t make any bones about it!’ he interrupted.  ‘Of course it struck you! and let me tell you I was devilish lucky 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.  Powerful bard, Gray! but a niminy-piminy creature, afraid of a petticoat and a bottle—not a man, sir, not a man!  Excuse me for being so troublesome, but what the devil have I done with my fork?  Thank you, I am sure.  Temulentia, quoad me ipsum, brevis colligo est.  I sit and eat, sir, 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 observe that, although not of an unmilitary bearing, you are apparently shaved.  In my calendar of the virtues shaving comes next to drinking.  A gentleman 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 in my vacillating grasp; I proceed to skate upon the margin of eternity.  Stimulating thought!  I bleed, perhaps, but with medicable wounds.  The stubble reaped, I pass out of my chamber, calm but triumphant.  To employ a hackneyed phrase, I would not call Lord Wellington my uncle!  I, too, have dared, perhaps 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, because 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—meet 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!’ said he.  ‘Is it possible that you have never heard the name of Byfield?’

‘Possible and true,’ said I.

‘And is fame so small a thing?’ cried he.  ‘Byfield, sir, is an aeronaut.  He apes the fame of a Lunardi, and is on the point of offering to the inhabitants—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 for his ascension.  No more—I breathe it in your ear—does anybody else.  The business is stale, sir, stale.  Lunardi did it, and overdid it.  A whimsical, fiddling, vain fellow, by all accounts—for I was at that time rocking in my cradle.  But once was enough.  If Lunardi went up and came down, there was the matter settled.  We prefer to grant the point.  We do not want to see the experiment repeated ad nauseam by Byfield, and Brown, and Butler, and Brodie, and Bottomley.  Ah! if they would go up and not come down again!  But this is by the question.  The University of Cramond delights to honour merit in the man, sir, rather than utility in the profession; and Byfield, though an ignorant dog, is a sound reliable drinker, 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.  Indeed, I was impatient to be gone.  Even as my friend maundered ahead a squall burst, the jaws of the rain 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 hunted me behind and screamed in my ears.  The city was flushed with bucketfuls of rain that tasted salt from the neighbouring ocean.  It seemed to darken and lighten again in the vicissitudes of the gusts.  Now you would say the lamps had been blown out from end to end of the long thoroughfare; now, in a lull, they would 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 Lothian Road there was a distinct improvement.  For one thing, I had now my shoulder to the wind; for a second, I came in the lee of my old prison-house, the Castle; and, at any rate, the excessive fury of the blast was itself moderating.  The thought of what errand I was on re-awoke within me, and I seemed to breast the rough weather with increasing ease.  With such a destination, what mattered a little buffeting of wind or a sprinkle of cold water?  I recalled Flora’s image, I took her in fancy to my arms, and my heart throbbed.  And the next moment I had recognised the inanity of that fool’s paradise.  If I could spy her taper as she went to bed, I might count myself lucky.

I had about two leagues before me of a road mostly 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 dogs howled with uplifted heads as I went by.  The wind continued to decline: it had been but a squall, not a tempest.  The rain, on the other hand, settled into a steady deluge, which had soon drenched me thoroughly.  I continued to tramp forward in the night, contending with gloomy thoughts and accompanied by the dismal ululation 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 going by, and the brutes perceived upon him the faint smell of blood; and the next 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 humour 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 hands 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 clothes, 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 thickets, 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 prospect was unpleasant.  In a lull of the wind I could hear from the inside the voice of Flora reading aloud; the words 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.  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 parlour 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, and how excellently it was placed on the ground-level, round the flank of the cottage and out of earshot of her formidable aunt.  Nothing was left but to apply my knowledge.  I was then at the bottom of the garden, whether I had gone (Heaven save the mark!) for warmth, that I might walk to and fro unheard and keep myself from perishing.  The night had fallen still, the wind ceased; the noise of the rain had 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 darkness of the night and the patter of the rain which was now returning, though without wind, I approached until I could almost have touched her.  It seemed a grossness of which I was incapable to break up her reverie by speech.  I stood and drank her in with my eyes; 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.  At 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 tingled 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 upon my heart like an appeal.

‘Why does Miss Gilchrist sigh?’ I whispered.  ‘Does she recall 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 may be a hundred and fifty leagues, to see you.  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 suddenly, 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 and fall aside from mine, augured that all was well.

‘You must have been mad to come here!’ she broke out.  ‘Of all places under heaven this is no place for you to come.  And I was just thinking you were safe in France!’

‘You were thinking of me!’ I cried.

‘Mr. St. Ives, you cannot understand your danger,’ she replied.  ‘I