CHAPTER XXVI--THE COTTAGE AT NIGHT
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.
