The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 20

“But why should you run the risk?”

“Please, Anne – O, please, let me do something! If you knew what it is to sit at home while your – your dearest – ”

“The Viscount of Saint-Yves!”

The name, shouted from the doorway, rang down her faltering sentence as with the clash of an alarm bell. I saw Ronald – in talk with Miss McBean but a few yards away – spin round on his heel and turn slowly back on me with a face of sheer bewilderment. There was no time to conceal myself. To reach either the tea-room or the card-room, I must traverse twelve feet of open floor. We sat in clear view of the main entrance; and there already, with eye-glass lifted, raffish, flamboyant, exuding pomades and bad style, stood my detestable cousin. He saw us at once; wheeled right-about-face and spoke to some one in the vestibule; wheeled round again, and bore straight down, a full swagger varnishing his malign triumph. Flora caught her breath as I stood up to accost him.

“Good evening, my cousin! The newspaper told me you were favouring this city with a stay.”

“At Dumbreck’s Hotel: where, my dear Anne, you have not yet done me the pleasure to seek me out.”

“I gathered,” said I, “that you were forestalling the compliment. Our meeting, then, is unexpected?”

“Why, no; for, to tell you the truth, the secretary of the Ball Committee, this afternoon, allowed me a glance over his list of invités. I am apt to be nice about my company, cousin.”

Ass that I was! I had never given this obvious danger so much as a thought.

“I fancy I have seen one of your latest intimates about the street.”

He eyed me, and answered, with a bluff laugh, “Ah! You gave us the very devil of a chase. You appear, my dear Anne, to have a hare’s propensity for running in your tracks. And begad, I don’t wonder at it!” he wound up, ogling Flora with an insolent stare.

Him one might have hunted by scent alone. He reeked of essences.

“Present me, mon brave.”

“I’ll be shot if I do.”

“I believe they reserve that privilege for soldiers,” he mused.

“At any rate they don’t extend it to – ” I pulled up on the word. He had the upper hand, but I could at least play the game out with decency. “Come,” said I, “contre-danse will begin presently. Find yourself a partner, and I promise you shall be our vis-à-vis.”

“You have blood in you, my cousin.”

He bowed, and went in search of the Master of Ceremonies. I gave an arm to Flora. “Well, and how does Alain strike you?” I asked.

“He is a handsome man,” she allowed. “If your uncle had treated him differently, I believe – ”

“And I believe that no woman alive can distinguish between a gentleman and a dancing-master! A posture or two, and you interpret worth. My dear girl – that fellow!”

She was silent. I have since learned why. It seems, if you please, that the very same remark had been made to her by that idiot Chevenix, upon me!

We were close to the door: we passed it, and I flung a glance into the vestibule. There, sure enough, at the head of the stairs, was posted my friend of the moleskin waistcoat, in talk with a confederate by some shades uglier than himself, a red-headed, loose-legged scoundrel in cinder-grey.

I was fairly in the trap. I turned, and between the moving crowd caught Alain’s eye and his evil smile. He had found a partner: no less a personage than Lady Frazer of the lilac sarsnet and diamond bandeau.

For some unaccountable reason, in this infernal impasse my spirits began to rise, to soar. I declare it: I led Flora forward to the set with a gaiety which may have been unnatural, but was certainly not factitious. A Scotsman would have called me fey. As the song goes – and it matters not if I had it then, or read it later in my wife’s library —

“Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,Sae dauntingly gaed he;He played a spring and danced it roundBeneath – ”

never mind what. The band played the spring and I danced it round, while my cousin eyed me with extorted approval. The quadrille includes an absurd figure – called, I think, La Pastourelle. You take a lady with either hand, and jig them to and fro, for all the world like an Englishman of legend parading a couple of wives for sale at Smithfield; while the other male, like a timid purchaser, backs and advances with his arms dangling.

“I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife,I die by treacherie – ”

I challenged Alain with an open smile as he backed before us; and no sooner was the dance over, than I saw him desert Lady Frazer on a hurried excuse, and seek the door to satisfy himself that his men were on guard.

I dropped laughing into a chair beside Flora. “Anne,” she whispered; “who is on the stairs?”

“Two Bow Street runners.”

If you have seen a dove – a dove caught in a gin! “The back stairs!” she urged.

“They will be watched too. But let us make sure.” I crossed to the tea-room, and, encountering a waiter, drew him aside. Was there a man watching the back entrance? He could not tell me. For a guinea would he find out? He went, and returned in less than a minute. Yes, there was a constable below. “It’s just a young gentleman to be put to the horn for debt,” I explained, recalling the barbarous and, to me, still unmeaning phrase. “I’m no speiring,” replied the waiter.

I made my way back, and was not a little disgusted to find my chair occupied by the unconscionable Chevenix.

“My dear Miss Flora, you are unwell!” Indeed, she was pale enough, poor child, and trembling. “Major, she will be swooning in another minute. Get her to the tea-room, quick! while I fetch Miss Gilchrist. She must be taken home.”

“It is nothing,” she faltered: “it will pass. Pray do not – ” As she glanced up, she caught my meaning. “Yes, yes: I will go home.”

She took the Major’s arm, while I hurried to the card-room. As luck would have it, the old lady was in the act of rising from the green table, having just cut out from a rubber. Mr. Robbie was her partner; and I saw (and blessed my star for the first time that night) the little heap of silver, which told that she had been winning.

“Miss Gilchrist,” I whispered, “Miss Flora is faint: the heat of the room – ”

“I’ve not observed it. The ventilation is considered pairfect.”

“She wishes to be taken home.”

With fine composure she counted back her money, piece by piece, into a velvet reticule.

“Twelve and sixpence,” she proclaimed. “Ye held good cards, Mr. Robbie. Well, Mosha the Viscount, we’ll go and see about it.”

I led her to the tea-room: Mr. Robbie followed. Flora rested on a sofa in a truly dismal state of collapse, while the Major fussed about her with a cup of tea. “I have sent Ronald for the carriage,” he announced.

“H’m,” said Miss Gilchrist, eyeing him oddly. “Well, it’s your risk. Ye’d best hand me the teacup, and get our shawls from the lobby. You have the tickets. Be ready for us at the top of the stairs.”

No sooner was the Major gone than, keeping an eye on her niece, this imperturbable lady stirred the tea and drank it down herself. As she drained the cup – her back for the moment being turned on Mr. Robbie – I was aware of a facial contortion. Was the tea (as children say) going the wrong way?

No: I believe – aid me Apollo, and the Nine! I believe – though I have never dared, and shall never dare to ask – that Miss Gilchrist was doing her best to wink!

On the instant entered Master Ronald with word that the carriage was ready. I slipped to the door and reconnoitred. The crowd was thick in the ball-room; a dance in full swing; my cousin gambolling vivaciously, and, for the moment, with his back to us. Flora leaned on Ronald, and, skirting the wall, our party gained the great door and the vestibule, where Chevenix stood with an armful of cloaks.

“You and Ronald can return and enjoy yourselves,” said the old lady, “as soon as ye’ve packed us off. Ye’ll find a hackney coach, no doubt, to bring ye home.” Her eye rested on the two runners, who were putting their heads together behind the Major. She turned on me with a stiff curtsy. “Good-night, sir, and I am obliged for your services. Or stay – you may see us to the carriage, if ye’ll be so kind. Major, hand Mr. What-d’ye-call some of your wraps.”

My eyes did not dare to bless her. We moved down the stairs – Miss Gilchrist leading, Flora supported by her brother and Mr. Robbie, the Major and I behind. As I descended the first step, the red-headed runner made a move forward. Though my gaze was glued upon the pattern of Miss Gilchrist’s Paisley shawl, I saw his finger touch my arm! Yes, and I felt it, like a touch of hot iron. The other man – Moleskin – plucked him by the arm: they whispered. They saw me bareheaded, without my overcoat. They argued, no doubt, that I was unaware; was seeing the ladies to their carriage; would of course return. They let me pass.

Once in the boisterous street, I darted round to the dark side of the carriage. Ronald ran forward to the coachman (whom I recognised for the gardener, Robie). “Miss Flora is faint. Home, as fast as you can!” He skipped back under the awning. “A guinea to make it faster!” I called up from the other side of the box-seat; and out of the darkness and rain I held up the coin and pressed it into Robie’s damp palm. “What in the name – !” He peered round, but I was back and close against the step. The door was slammed. “Right away!”

It may have been fancy; but with the shout I seemed to hear the voice of Alain lifted in imprecation on the Assembly Room stairs. As Robie touched up the grey, I whipped open the door on my side and tumbled in – upon Miss Gilchrist’s lap.

Flora choked down a cry. I recovered myself, dropped into a heap of rugs on the seat facing the ladies, and pulled-to the door by its strap.

Dead silence from Miss Gilchrist!

I had to apologise, of course. The wheels rumbled and jolted over the cobbles of Edinburgh; the windows rattled and shook under the uncertain gusts of the city. When we passed a street lamp it shed no light into the vehicle, but the awful profile of my protectress loomed out for a second against the yellow haze of the pane, and sank back into impenetrable shade.

“Madam, some explanation – enough at least to mitigate your resentment – natural, I allow.” – Jolt, jolt! And still a mortuary silence within the coach! It was disconcerting. Robie for a certainty was driving his best, and already we were beyond the last rare outposts of light on the Lothian Road.

“I believe, madam, the inside of five minutes – if you will allow – ”

I stretched out a protesting hand. In the darkness it encountered Flora’s. Our fingers closed upon the thrill. For five, ten beatific seconds our pulses sang together, “I love you! I love you!” in the stuffy silence.

“Mosha Saint-Yvey!” spoke up a deliberate voice (Flora caught her hand away), “as far as I can make head and tail of your business – supposing it to have a modicum of head, which I doubt – it appears to me that I have just done you a service; and that makes twice.”

“A service, madam, I shall ever remember.”

“I’ll chance that, sir; if ye’ll kindly not forget yoursel’.”

In resumed silence we must have travelled a mile and a half, or two miles, when Miss Gilchrist let down the sash with a clatter, and thrust her head and mamelone cap forth into the night.

“Robie!”

Robie pulled up.

“The gentleman will alight.”

It was only wisdom, for we were nearing Swanston. I rose. “Miss Gilchrist, you are a good woman; and I think the cleverest I have met.”

“Umph,” replied she.

In the act of stepping forth I turned for a final handshake with Flora, and my foot caught in something and dragged it out upon the road. I stooped to pick it up, and heard the door bang by my ear.

“Madam – your shawl!”

But the coach lurched forward; the wheels splashed me; and I was left standing alone on the inclement highway.

While yet I watched the little red eyes of the vehicle, and almost as they vanished, I heard more rumbling of wheels, and descried two pairs of yellow eyes upon the road, towards Edinburgh. There was just time enough to plunge aside, to leap a fence into a rain-soaked pasture; and there I crouched, the water squishing over my dancing-shoes, while with a flare, a slant of rain, and a glimpse of flogging drivers, two hackney carriages pelted by at a gallop.

CHAPTER XXXII

EVENTS OF FRIDAY MORNING: THE CUTTING OF THE GORDIAN KNOT

I pulled out my watch. A fickle ray – the merest filtration of moonlight – glimmered on the dial. Fourteen minutes past one! “Past yin o’clock, and a dark, haary moarnin’.” I recalled the bull voice of the watchman as he had called it on the night of our escape from the Castle – its very tones: and this echo of memory seemed to strike and reverberate the hour closing a long day of fate. Truly, since that night the hands had run full circle, and were back at the old starting-point. I had seen dawn, day: I had basked in the sunshine of men’s respect; I was back in Stygian night – back in the shadow of that infernal Castle – still hunted by the law – with possibly a smaller chance than ever of escape – the cockshy of the elements – with no shelter for my head but a Paisley shawl of violent pattern. It occurred to me that I had travelled much in the interval, and run many risks, to exchange a suit of mustard-yellow for a Paisley shawl and a ball dress that matched neither it nor the climate of the Pentlands. The exhilaration of the ball, the fighting spirit, the last communicated thrill of Flora’s hand, died out of me. In the thickening envelope of sea-fog I felt like a squirrel in a rotatory cage. That was a lugubrious hour.

To speak precisely, those were seven lugubrious hours; since Flora would not be due before eight o’clock, if, indeed, I might count on her eluding her double cordon of spies. The question was, whither to turn in the meantime? Certainly not back to the town. In the near neighbourhood I knew of no roof but “The Hunters’ Tryst,” by Alexander Hendry. Suppose that I found it (and the chances in that fog were perhaps against me), would Alexander Hendry; aroused from his bed, be likely to extend his hospitality to a traveller with no more luggage than a Paisley shawl? He might think I had stolen it. I had borne it down the staircase under the eyes of the runners, and the pattern was bitten upon my brain. It was doubtless unique in the district and familiar: an oriflamme of battle over the barter of dairy produce and malt liquors. Alexander Hendry must recognise it, and with an instinct of antagonism. Patently it formed no part of my proper wardrobe: hardly could it be explained as a gage d’amour. Eccentric hunters trysted under Hendry’s roof; the Six-Foot Club, for instance. But a hunter in a frilled shirt and waistcoat sprigged with forget-me-nots! And the house would be watched, perhaps. Every house around would be watched.

The end was that I wore through the remaining hours of darkness upon the sodden hillside. Superlative Miss Gilchrist! Folded in the mantle of that Spartan dame; huddled upon a boulder, while the rain descended upon my bare head, and coursed down my nose, and filled my shoes, and insinuated a playful trickle down the ridge of my spine; I hugged the lacerating fox of self-reproach, and hugged it again, and set my teeth as it bit upon my vitals. Once, indeed, I lifted an accusing arm to heaven. It was as if I had pulled the string of a douche-bath. Heaven flooded the fool with gratuitous tears; and the fool sat in the puddle of them and knew his folly. But heaven at the same time mercifully veiled that figure of abasement: and I will lift but a corner of the sheet.

Wind in hidden gullies, and the talk of lapsing waters on the hillside, filled all the spaces of the night. The high-road lay at my feet, fifty yards or so below my boulder. Soon after two o’clock (as I made it) lamps appeared in the direction of Swanston, and drew nearer; and two hackney coaches passed me at a jog-trot, towards the opaline haze into which the weather had subdued the lights of Edinburgh. I heard one of the drivers curse as he went by, and inferred that my open-handed cousin had shirked the weather and gone comfortably from the Assembly Rooms to Dumbreck’s Hotel and bed, leaving the chase to his mercenaries.

After this you are to believe that I dozed and woke by snatches. I watched the moon descend in her foggy circle; but I saw also the mulberry face and minatory forefinger of Mr. Romaine, and caught myself explaining to him and Mr. Robbie that their joint proposal to mortgage my inheritance for a flying broomstick took no account of the working-model of the whole Rock and Castle of Edinburgh, which I dragged about by an ankle chain. Anon I was pelting with Rowley in a claret-coloured chaise through a cloud of robin-redbreasts; and with that I awoke to the veritable chatter of birds and the white light of dawn upon the hills.

The truth is, I had come very near to the end of my endurance. Cold and rain together, supervening in that hour of the spirit’s default, may well have made me light-headed; nor was it easy to distinguish the tooth of self-reproach from that of genuine hunger. Stiff, qualmish, vacant of body, heart, and brain, I left my penitential boulder and crawled down to the road. Glancing along it for sight or warning of the runners, I spied, at two gunshots’ distance or less, a milestone with a splash of white upon it – a draggled placard. Abhorrent thought! Did it announce the price upon the head of Champdivers? “At least I will see how they describe him” – this I told myself; but that which tugged at my feet was the baser fascination of fright. I had thought my spine inured by the night’s experiences to anything in the way of cold shivers. I discovered my mistake while approaching that scrap of paper.

“AERIAL ASCENSION EXTRAORDINARY!!!IN THE MONSTRE BALLOONLUNARDIProfessor Byfield (by Diploma), the World-renowned exponent of Aerostatics and Aeronautics, as the honour to inform the Nobility and Gentry of Edinburgh and the neighbourhood – ”

The shock of it – the sudden descent upon sublimity, according to Byfleld – took me in the face. I put up my hands. I broke into elfish laughter, and ended with a sob. Sobs and laughter together shook my fasting body like a leaf; and I zigzagged across the fields, buffeted this side and that by a mirth as uncontrollable as it was idiotic. Once I pulled up in the middle of a spasm to marvel irresponsibly at the sound of my own voice. You may wonder that I had will and wit to be drifted towards Flora’s trysting-place. But in truth there was no missing it – the low chine looming through the weather, the line of firs topping it, and, towards the west, diminishing like a fish’s dorsal fin. I had conned it often enough from the other side; had looked right across it on the day when she stood beside me on the bastion and pointed out the smoke of Swanston Cottage. Only on this side the fish-tail (so to speak) had a nick in it; and through that nick ran the path to the old quarry.

I reached it a little before eight. The quarry lay to the left of the path, which passed on and out upon the hill’s northern slope. Upon that slope there was no need to show myself. I measured out some fifty yards of the path, and paced it to and fro, idly counting my steps; for the chill crept back into my bones if I halted for a minute. Once or twice I turned aside into the quarry, and stood there tracing the veins in the hewn rock: then back to my quarter-deck tramp and the study of my watch. Ten minutes past eight! Fool – to expect her to cheat so many spies. This hunger of mine was becoming serious…

A stone dislodged – a light footfall on the path – and my heart leapt. It was she! She came, and earth flowered again, as beneath the feet of the goddess, her namesake. I declare it for a fact that from the moment of her coming the weather began to mend.

“Flora!”

“My poor Anne!”

“The shawl has been useful,” said I.

“You are starving.”

“That is unpleasantly near the truth.”

“I knew it. See, dear.” A shawl of hodden grey covered her head and shoulders, and from beneath it she produced a small basket and held it up. “The scones will be hot yet, for they went straight from the hearth into the napkin.”

She led the way to the quarry. I praised her forethought; having in those days still to learn that woman’s first instinct, when a man is dear to her and in trouble, is to feed him.

We spread the napkin on a big stone of the quarry, and set out the feast: scones, oatcake, hard-boiled eggs, a bottle of milk, and a small flask of usquebaugh. Our hands met as we prepared the table. This was our first housekeeping; the first breakfast of our honeymoon I called it, rallying her. “Starving I may be; but starve I will in sight of food, unless you share it,” and, “It escapes me for the moment, madam, if you take sugar.” We leaned to each other across the rock, and our faces touched. Her cold cheek with the rain upon it, and one small damp curl – for many days I had to feed upon the memory of that kiss, and I feed upon it yet.

“But it beats me how you escaped them,” said I.

She laid down the bannock she had been making pretence to nibble. “Janet – that is our dairy girl – lent me her frock and shawl: her shoes too. She goes out to the milking at six, and I took her place. The fog helped me. They are hateful.”

“They are, my dear. Chevenix – ”

“I mean these clothes. And I am thinking, too, of the poor cows.”

“The instinct of animals – ” I lifted my glass. “Let us trust it to find means to attract the notice of two paid detectives and two volunteers.”

“I had rather count on Aunt,” said Flora, with one of her rare and adorable smiles, which fleeted as it came. “But, Anne, we must not waste time. They are so many against you, and so near. O, be serious!”

“Now you are talking like Mr. Romaine.”

“For my sake, dear!” She clasped her hands. I took them in mine across the table, and, unclasping them, kissed the palms.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “before this weather clears – ”

“It is clearing.”

“We will give it time. Before this weather clears, I must be across the valley and fetching a circuit for the drovers’ road, if you can teach me when to hit it.”

She withdrew one of her hands. It went up to the throat of her bodice, and came forth with my packet of notes.

“Good Lord!” said I: “if I hadn’t forgotten the money!”

“I think nothing teaches you,” sighed she.

She had sewed them tightly in a little bag of yellow oiled silk; and as I held it, warm from her young bosom, and turned it over in my hand, I saw that it was embroidered in scarlet thread with the one word “Anne” beneath the Lion Rampant of Scotland, in imitation of the poor toy I had carved for her – it seemed, so long ago!

“I wear the original,” she murmured.

I crushed the parcel into my breast-pocket, and, taking both hands again, fell on my knees before her on the stones.

“Flora – my angel! my heart’s bride!”

“Hush!” She sprang away. Heavy footsteps were coming up the path. I had just time enough to fling Miss Gilchrist’s shawl over my head and resume my seat, when a couple of buxom country wives bustled past the mouth of the quarry. They saw us, beyond a doubt: indeed, they stared hard at us, and muttered some comment as they went by, and left us gazing at each other.

“They took us for a picnic,” I whispered.

“The queer thing,” said Flora, “is that they were not surprised. The sight of you – ”

“Seen sideways in this shawl, and with my legs hidden by the stone here, I might pass for an elderly female junketer.”

“This is scarcely the hour for a picnic,” answered my wise girl, “and decidedly not the weather.”

The sound of another footstep prevented my reply. This time the wayfarer was an old farmer-looking fellow in a shepherd’s plaid and bonnet powdered with mist. He halted before us and nodded, leaning rheumatically on his staff.

“A coarse moarnin’. Ye’ll be from Leadburn, I’m thinkin’?”

“Put it at Peebles,” said I, making shift to pull the shawl close about my damning finery.

“Peebles!” he said reflectively. “I’ve ne’er ventured so far as Peebles. I’ve contemplated it! But I was none sure whether I would like it when I got there. See here: I recommend ye no’ to be lazin’ ower the meat, gin ye’d drap in for the fun. A’m full late, mysel’!”

He passed on. What could it mean? We hearkened after his tread. Before it died away, I sprang and caught Flora by the hand.