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

am sure of it, and yet I cannot 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 have come to Scotland with my eyes quite open to see you and to speak with you—it may be for the last time.  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 now, 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 there is no other but yourself in whom I can dare confide.  I have all the world against me; you are my only ally; and as I have to speak, you have to listen.  All is true that they say of me, and 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 life 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 into the darkness of my prison like sunrise.  The man Goguelat insulted her.  O, he had insulted me often, it was his favourite pastime, and he might insult me as he pleased—for who was I?  But with that lady it was different.  I could never forgive 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—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 become quite a friend of ours—Major Chevenix, I mean—he has taken such a fancy to Ronald!  It was he that brought the news to us of that hateful Clausel being captured, and all that he was saying.  I was indignant with 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 did—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 first time that he had seen her, the interest that he seemed immediately to conceive; 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.  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 the gravel withoutside the low window, rested my arms upon the sill, and lowered my voice to the most confidential whisper.  Flora herself must kneel upon the other side, and this brought our heads upon a level with only the bars between us.  So placed, so separated, it seemed 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 on my own.  For these spells are double-edged.  The silly birds may be charmed with the pipe of the fowler, which is but a tube of reeds.  Not so with a bird of our own feather!  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 ourselves fall the deeper in it.  It is with the heart only that one captures a heart.

‘And now,’ I continued, ‘I will tell you what you can still do for me.  I run a little risk just now, and you see for yourself how unavoidable it is for any man of honour.  But if—but in case of the worst I do not choose to enrich either my enemies 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?  Do not think of it merely as money; take and keep it as a relic of your 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!’

‘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 myself as wholly as they allowed.  She 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-tops; 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 to my feet, and she to hers, as though we had been discovered.  A moment after, but now both standing, we had again approached the window on either side.

‘Flora,’ I said, ‘this is but 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 said, with a lift in her breathing that was more eloquent than words.  ‘Anne, my brave Anne!  I would be glad to be your maidservant; 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!’

And if the god were envious, he must have seen with mortification how little he could do to mar the happiness of mortals.  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 were 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 above my head.

Presently we became more calm and confidential; and when that squall, which proved to be the last of the storm, had blown by, 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 seemed he was an enthusiastic antiquary, and in particular a fanatic of heraldry.  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—even 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, only paper I had brought.  I gave it her, to be her marriage-portion, I declared.

‘Not so bad a marriage-portion for a private soldier,’ I told her, laughing, as I passed it through the bars.

‘O, Anne, and where am I to keep it?’ she cried.  ‘If my aunt should find it!  What would I say!’

‘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 clouds 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.

CHAPTER XXVII—THE SABBATH DAY

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 found harbourage, a fire to dry my clothes at, and a bed where I might lie till they 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; what 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 audible, and gradually swelled as I drew near, until at last I could make out the words, 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 within 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