This day began with a surprise. I found a letter on my breakfast-table
addressed to Edward Ducie, Esquire; and at first 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 Thursday evening. Shortly after, as I was composing my
mind with a segar at one of the windows of the sitting-room, and Rowley,
having finished the light share of work that fell to him, sat not far 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 there—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 did 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, indeed, here
running errands for my rival, he might have a fair field, but certainly
no favour.
‘The fact is,’ he began, ‘I would rather see you alone.’
‘Why, certainly,’ I replied. ‘Rowley, you can step into the bedroom. My
dear fellow,’ I continued, ‘this sounds serious. Nothing wrong, I
trust.’
‘Well, I’ll be quite honest,’ said he. ‘I _am_ a good deal 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 hundred pounds, or any such
trifling sum as that, please mention it. It’s here, quite at your
service.’
‘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 about that.’
‘No, I dare say!’ cried I. ‘Not worth talking about! But remember,
Ronald, you and I are on different sides of the business. Remember that
you did me one of those services that make men friends for ever. And
since I have had the fortune to come into a fair share of money, just
oblige me, and consider so much of it as your own.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t take it; I couldn’t, really. Besides, the
fact is, I’ve come on a very different matter. It’s about my sister, St.
Ives,’ and he shook his head menacingly at me.
‘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 where 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 yourself 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 allow my female relatives to have anything to do with. I hate
saying this, St. Ives; it looks like hitting a man when he’s down, you
know; and I told the Major I very 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 display thirty-two
quarterings without a blot. 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,’ said Ronald, with a pitying smile.
‘Unfortunately, these things are in the air.’
‘Pardon me,—in Buckinghamshire,’ 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 can’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.’ 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 must excuse me, it’s not my fault.
But, at any rate, you must see for yourself this proposal of marriage
is—is merely impossible, my dear fellow. It’s nonsense! Our countries
are at war; you are a prisoner.’
‘My ancestor of the time of the Ligue,’ I replied, ‘married a Huguenot
lady out of the Saintonge, 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 that you say?’
‘This business about Goguelat,’ he repeated.
‘Ronald,’ said I, ‘this is not your doing. These are not your 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 people? The plain English is, that I can’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 forcing 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, ‘of course you can twist my words, if you
like. You _say_ it was an affair of honour. Well, I can’t, of course,
tell 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 any 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 witness at the court? Arthur
Chevenix!’ said I.
‘I don’t care!’ he cried, rising 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
refused 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. ‘An offer of marriage is a delicate subject to handle. You have
refused, and you have justified 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 need scarce tell you how I
should resent them; but my hands are tied. I have so much gratitude to
you, without talking of the love I bear your sister, that you insult me,
when you do so, under the cover of a complete impunity. 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, ‘I think I had better go away. This has
been very irritating. I never 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 mind; 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 heartily sorry.’
And with that he was gone.
The windows of my own sitting-room looked towards the north; but the
entrance passage drew its light from the direction of the square. Hence
I was able to observe 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.’ Without doubt, they had gained very little by
their visit; but then I had gained less than nothing, and had been
bitterly dispirited into the bargain. Ronald had stuck to his guns and
refused me to the last. It was no news; but, on the other hand, it could
not be contorted into good news. I was now certain that during my
temporary absence in France, all irons would be put into the fire, and
the world turned upside down, to make Flora disown the obtrusive
Frenchman and accept Chevenix. Without doubt she would resist these
instances: but the thought of them did not please me, and I felt she
should be warned and prepared for the battle.
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. Here in Edinburgh
I was within four miles of the sea, yet the business 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 steps
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. Or rather I may say I had them and I had them not; for
after my luncheon with Mr. Robbie I had placed the amount, all but thirty
pounds of change, in 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 flushed 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
the door, and I reckonised him! Who 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?’ I asked.
‘Certain sure,’ he replied. ‘Not Mr. Lavender, I don’t mean, sir; I mean
the other party. “Wot’s he doing here?’ says I. It don’t look right.”’
‘Not by any means,’ I agreed.
I walked to and fro in the apartment reflecting. This particular Bow
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 ‘Green 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!’
‘Well, my boy, you can put that receipt in your pocket. You’ll have no
more use for it till you’re quite clear of me. Don’t lose it, though;
it’s your share of the Christmas-box: fifteen hundred pounds all for
yourself.’
‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Anne, sir, but wot for!’ said Rowley.
‘To set up a public-house upon,’ said 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 you wot, sir, it seems to me I’m
reether young for the billet. I’m your body servant, Mr. Anne, or else
I’m nothink.’
‘Well, Rowley,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you what it’s for. It’s for the good
service you have done me, of which I don’t care—and don’t dare—to speak.
It’s for your loyalty and cheerfulness, my dear boy. I had meant it for
you; but to tell 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!’
‘Yes, my boy,’ said I, ‘we are going to part very soon now; probably
to-morrow. And it’s for my sake, Rowley! Depend upon it, if there was
any reason 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 coincidence 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 till towards sunset. My
only chance 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 mortification
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,’ said 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 has fairly caught
up with us. He and this Bow Street man have come together, I would
swear. And now here is the whole field, quarry, hounds and hunters, all
together in this city of Edinburgh.’
‘And wot are you goin’ to do now, sir? Tell you wot, let me take 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-blowing, 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.’
‘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,’ said 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:—
‘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 middle height or rather under, of a pleasing appearance
and highly genteel address. When last heard of he wore a fashionable
suit of pearl-grey, and boots with fawn-coloured tops. He is
accompanied by a servant about sixteen years of age, speaks English
without any accent, and passed under the _alias_ of Ramornie. A
reward 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 thick; I cannot remember a time when I was more
put out.
And yet I must wait and do nothing, and partake of my meals, and
entertain the ever-garrulous Rowley, as though I were entirely my own
man. And if I did not require to entertain Mrs. McRankine also, that was
but another drop of bitterness in my cup! For what ailed my landlady,
that she should hold herself so severely aloof, that she should refuse
conversation, that her eyes should be reddened, that I should so
continually hear the voice of her private supplications sounding through
the house? I was much deceived, or she had read 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 and 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 troubled me extremely. I could not venture 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 direction, like a badly-made firework.
And while I praised myself extremely for my wisdom in the past, that I
had made so much a friend of her, I was all abroad as to 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
guilt. 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 before 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 the 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 roared itself out. Then, with the utmost precaution, I
drew near again; and finally approached the garden wall. So soon as I
had clapped my head above the level, however, the barking broke forth
again with redoubled energy. Almost at the same time, the door of the
cottage opened, and Ronald and the Major appeared upon the threshold with
a lantern. As they so stood, they were almost immediately below me,
strongly illuminated, and within easy earshot. The Major pacified the
dog, who took instead to low, uneasy growling intermingled with
occasional yelps.
‘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. ‘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, you
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 ungovernable 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 arrow, up the bank.
I stepped back, picked up a stone of about twelve pounds weight, 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,
and I could hear the twelve-pounder accompany him in his fall. Chevenix,
at the same moment, broke 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.