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 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.