St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England by Stevenson (rom com books to read .TXT) 📗

‘That’s what I mean—a gentleman,’ she exclaimed.  ‘And he—and that—he isn’t.  O, how shall I dare meet father!’  And disclosing to me her tear-stained face, and opening her arms with a tragic gesture: ‘And I am quite disgraced before all the young ladies, my school-companions!’ she added.

‘O, not so bad as that!’ I cried.  ‘Come, come, you exaggerate, my dear Miss—?  Excuse me if I am too familiar: I have not yet heard your name.’

‘My name is Dorothy Greensleeves, sir: why should I conceal it?  I fear it will only serve to point an adage to future generations, and I had meant so differently!  There was no young female in the county more emulous to be thought well of than I.  And what a fall was there!  O, dear me, what a wicked, piggish donkey of a girl I have made of myself, to be sure!  And there is no hope! O, Mr.—’

And at that she paused and asked my name.

I am not writing my eulogium for the Academy; I will admit it was unpardonably imbecile, but I told it her.  If you had been there—and seen her, ravishingly pretty and little, a baby in years and mind—and heard her talking like a book, with so much of schoolroom propriety in her manner, with such an innocent despair in the matter—you would probably have told her yours.  She repeated it after me.

‘I shall pray for you all my life,’ she said.  ‘Every night, when I retire to rest, the last thing I shall do is to remember you by name.’

Presently I succeeded in winning from her her tale, which was much what I had anticipated: a tale of a schoolhouse, a walled garden, a fruit-tree that concealed a bench, an impudent raff posturing in church, an exchange of flowers and vows over the garden wall, a silly schoolmate for a confidante, a chaise and four, and the most immediate and perfect disenchantment on the part of the little lady.  ‘And there is nothing to be done!’ she wailed in conclusion.  ‘My error is irretrievable, I am quite forced to that conclusion.  O, Monsieur de Saint-Yves! who would have thought that I could have been such a blind, wicked donkey!’

I should have said before—only that I really do not know when it came in—that we had been overtaken by the two post-boys, Rowley and Mr. Bellamy, which was the hawbuck’s name, bestriding the four post-horses; and that these formed a sort of cavalry escort, riding now before, now behind the chaise, and Bellamy occasionally posturing at the window and obliging us with some of his conversation.  He was so ill-received that I declare I was tempted to pity him, remembering from what a height he had fallen, and how few hours ago it was since the lady had herself fled to his arms, all blushes and ardour.  Well, these great strokes of fortune usually befall the unworthy, and Bellamy was now the legitimate object of my commiseration and the ridicule of his own post-boys!

‘Miss Dorothy,’ said I, ‘you wish to be delivered from this man?’

‘O, if it were possible!’ she cried.  ‘But not by violence.’

‘Not in the least, ma’am,’ I replied.  ‘The simplest thing in life.  We are in a civilised country; the man’s a malefactor—’

‘O, never!’ she cried.  ‘Do not even dream it!  With all his faults, I know he is not that.’

‘Anyway, he’s in the wrong in this affair—on the wrong side of the law, call it what you please,’ said I; and with that, our four horsemen having for the moment headed us by a considerable interval, I hailed my post-boy and inquired who was the nearest magistrate and where he lived.  Archdeacon Clitheroe, he told me, a prodigious dignitary, and one who lived but a lane or two back, and at the distance of only a mile or two out of the direct road.  I showed him the king’s medallion.

‘Take the lady there, and at full gallop,’ I cried.

‘Right, sir!  Mind yourself,’ says the postillion.

And before I could have thought it possible, he had turned the carriage to the rightabout and we were galloping south.

Our outriders were quick to remark and imitate the manoeuvre, and came flying after us with a vast deal of indiscriminate shouting; so that the fine, sober picture of a carriage and escort, that we had presented but a moment back, was transformed in the twinkling of an eye into the image of a noisy fox-chase.  The two postillions and my own saucy rogue were, of course, disinterested actors in the comedy; they rode for the mere sport, keeping in a body, their mouths full of laughter, waving their hats as they came on, and crying (as the fancy struck them) Tally-ho!’  ‘Stop, thief!’  ‘A highwayman!  A highwayman!’  It was otherguess work with Bellamy.  That gentleman no sooner observed our change of direction than he turned his horse with so much violence that the poor animal was almost cast upon its side, and launched her in immediate and desperate pursuit.  As he approached I saw that his face was deadly white and that he carried a drawn pistol in his hand.  I turned at once to the poor little bride that was to have been, and now was not to be; she, upon her side, deserting the other window, turned as if to meet me.

‘O, O, don’t let him kill me!’ she screamed.

‘Never fear,’ I replied.

Her face was distorted with terror.  Her hands took hold upon me with the instinctive clutch of an infant.  The chaise gave a flying lurch, which took the feet from under me and tumbled us anyhow upon the seat.  And almost in the same moment the head of Bellamy appeared in the window which Missy had left free for him.

Conceive the situation!  The little lady and I were falling—or had just fallen—backward on the seat, and offered to the eye a somewhat ambiguous picture.  The chaise was speeding at a furious pace, and with the most violent leaps and lurches, along the highway.  Into this bounding receptacle Bellamy interjected his head, his pistol arm, and his pistol; and since his own horse was travelling still faster than the chaise, he must withdraw all of them again in the inside of the fraction of a minute.  He did so, but he left the charge of the pistol behind him—whether by design or accident I shall never know, and I dare say he has forgotten!  Probably he had only meant to threaten, in hopes of causing us to arrest our flight.  In the same moment came the explosion and a pitiful cry from Missy; and my gentleman, making certain he had struck her, went down the road pursued by the furies, turned at the first corner, took a flying leap over the thorn hedge, and disappeared across country in the least possible time.

Rowley was ready and eager to pursue; but I withheld him, thinking we were excellently quit of Mr. Bellamy, at no more cost than a scratch on the forearm and a bullet-hole in the left-hand claret-coloured panel.  And accordingly, but now at a more decent pace, we proceeded on our way to Archdeacon Clitheroe’s, Missy’s gratitude and admiration were aroused to a high pitch by this dramatic scene, and what she was pleased to call my wound.  She must dress it for me with her handkerchief, a service which she rendered me even with tears.  I could well have spared them, not loving on the whole to be made ridiculous, and the injury being in the nature of a cat’s scratch.  Indeed, I would have suggested for her kind care rather the cure of my coat-sleeve, which had suffered worse in the encounter; but I was too wise to risk the anti-climax.  That she had been rescued by a hero, that the hero should have been wounded in the affray, and his wound bandaged with her handkerchief (which it could not even bloody), ministered incredibly to the recovery of her self-respect; and I could hear her relate the incident to ‘the young ladies, my school-companions,’ in the most approved manner of Mrs. Radcliffe!  To have insisted on the torn coat-sleeve would have been unmannerly, if not inhuman.

Presently the residence of the archdeacon began to heave in sight.  A chaise and four smoking horses stood by the steps, and made way for us on our approach; and even as we alighted there appeared from the interior of the house a tall ecclesiastic, and beside him a little, headstrong, ruddy man, in a towering passion, and brandishing over his head a roll of paper.  At sight of him Miss Dorothy flung herself on her knees with the most moving adjurations, calling him father, assuring him she was wholly cured and entirely repentant of her disobedience, and entreating forgiveness; and I soon saw that she need fear no great severity from Mr. Greensleeves, who showed himself extraordinarily fond, loud, greedy of caresses and prodigal of tears.

To give myself a countenance, as well as to have all ready for the road when I should find occasion, I turned to quit scores with Bellamy’s two postillions.  They had not the least claim on me, but one of which they were quite ignorant—that I was a fugitive.  It is the worst feature of that false position that every gratuity becomes a case of conscience.  You must not leave behind you any one discontented nor any one grateful.  But the whole business had been such a ‘hurrah-boys’ from the beginning, and had gone off in the fifth act so like a melodrama, in explosions, reconciliations, and the rape of a post-horse, that it was plainly impossible to keep it covered.  It was plain it would have to be talked over in all the inn-kitchens for thirty miles about, and likely for six months to come.  It only remained for me, therefore, to settle on that gratuity which should be least conspicuous—so large that nobody could grumble, so small that nobody would be tempted to boast.  My decision was hastily and nor wisely taken.  The one fellow spat on his tip (so he called it) for luck; the other developing a sudden streak of piety, prayed God bless me with fervour.  It seemed a demonstration was brewing, and I determined to be off at once.  Bidding my own post-boy and Rowley be in readiness for an immediate start, I reascended the terrace and presented myself, hat in hand, before Mr. Greensleeves and the archdeacon.

‘You will excuse me, I trust,’ said I.  ‘I think shame to interrupt this agreeable scene of family effusion, which I have been privileged in some small degree to bring about.’

And at these words the storm broke.

‘Small degree! small degree, sir!’ cries the father; ‘that shall not pass, Mr. St. Eaves!  If I’ve got my darling back, and none the worse for that vagabone rascal, I know whom I have to thank.  Shake hands with me—up to the elbows, sir!  A Frenchman you may be, but you’re one of the right breed, by God!  And, by God, sir, you may have anything you care to ask of me, down to Dolly’s hand, by God!’

All this he roared out in a voice surprisingly powerful from so small a person.  Every word was thus audible to the servants, who had followed them out of the house and now congregated about us on the terrace, as well as to Rowley and the five postillions on the gravel sweep below.  The sentiments expressed were popular; some ass, whom the devil moved to be my enemy, proposed three cheers, and they were given with a will.  To hear my own name resounding amid acclamations in the hills of Westmorland was flattering, perhaps; but it was inconvenient at a moment when (as I was morally persuaded) police handbills were already speeding after me at the rate of a hundred miles a day.

Nor was that the end of it.  The archdeacon must present his compliments, and pressed upon me some of his West India sherry, and I was carried into a vastly fine library, where I was presented to his lady wife.  While we were at sherry in the library, ale was handed round upon the terrace.  Speeches were made, hands were shaken, Missy (at her father’s request) kissed me farewell, and the whole party reaccompanied me to the terrace, where they stood waving hats and handkerchiefs, and crying farewells to all the echoes of the mountains until the chaise had disappeared.

The echoes of the mountains were engaged in saying to me privately: ‘You fool, you have done it now!’

‘They do seem to have got ’old of your name, Mr. Anne,’ said Rowley.  ‘It weren’t my fault this time.’

‘It was one of those accidents that can never be foreseen,’ said I, affecting a dignity that I was far from feeling.  ‘Some one recognised me.’

‘Which on ’em, Mr. Anne?’ said the rascal.

‘That is a senseless question; it can make no difference who it was,’ I returned.

‘No, nor that it can’t!’ cried Rowley.  ‘I say, Mr. Anne, sir, it’s what you would call a jolly mess, ain’t it? looks like “clean bowled-out in the middle stump,” don’t it?’

‘I fail