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

‘And I think that that was coarse,’ said I.

‘You have seen Miss Gilchrist?’ he inquired, changing the subject.

‘With whom, I am led to understand, we are on a footing of rivalry?’ I asked.  ‘Yes, I have seen her.’

‘And I was just seeking her,’ he replied.

I was conscious of a certain thrill of temper; so, I suppose, was he.  We looked each other up and down.

‘The situation is original,’ he resumed.

‘Quite,’ said I.  ‘But let me tell you frankly you are blowing a cold coal.  I owe you so much for your kindness to the prisoner Champdivers.’

‘Meaning that the lady’s affections are more advantageously disposed of?’ he asked, with a sneer.  ‘Thank you, I am sure.  And, since you have given me a lead, just hear a word of good advice in your turn.  Is it fair, is it delicate, is it like a gentleman, to compromise the young lady by attentions which (as you know very well) can come to nothing?’

I was utterly unable to find words in answer.

‘Excuse me if I cut this interview short,’ he went on.  ‘It seems to me doomed to come to nothing, and there is more attractive metal.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘as you say, it cannot amount to much.  You are impotent, bound hand and foot in honour.  You know me to be a man falsely accused, and even if you did not know it, from your position as my rival you have only the choice to stand quite still or to be infamous.’

‘I would not say that,’ he returned, with another change of colour.  ‘I may hear it once too often.’

With which he moved off straight for where Flora was sitting amidst her court of vapid youths, and I had no choice but to follow him, a bad second, and reading myself, as I went, a sharp lesson on the command of temper.

It is a strange thing how young men in their teens go down at the mere wind of the coming of men of twenty-five and upwards!  The vapid ones fled without thought of resistance before the Major and me; a few dallied awhile in the neighbourhood—so to speak, with their fingers in their mouths—but presently these also followed the rout, and we remained face to face before Flora.  There was a draught in that corner by the door; she had thrown her pelisse over her bare arms and neck, and the dark fur of the trimming set them off.  She shone by contrast; the light played on her smooth skin to admiration, and the colour changed in her excited face.  For the least fraction of a second she looked from one to the other of her pair of rival swains, and seemed to hesitate.  Then she addressed Chevenix:—

‘You are coming to the Assembly, of course, Major Chevenix?’ said she.

‘I fear not; I fear I shall be otherwise engaged,’ he replied.  ‘Even the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Flora, must give way to duty.’

For awhile the talk ran harmlessly on the weather, and then branched off towards the war.  It seemed to be by no one’s fault; it was in the air, and had to come.

‘Good news from the scene of operations,’ said the Major.

‘Good news while it lasts,’ I said.  ‘But will Miss Gilchrist tell us her private thought upon the war?  In her admiration for the victors, does not there mingle some pity for the vanquished?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ she said, with animation, ‘only too much of it!  War is a subject that I do not think should be talked of to a girl.  I am, I have to be—what do you call it?—a non-combatant?  And to remind me of what others have to do and suffer: no, it is not fair!’

‘Miss Gilchrist has the tender female heart,’ said Chevenix.

‘Do not be too sure of that!’ she cried.  ‘I would love to be allowed to fight myself!’

‘On which side?’ I asked.

‘Can you ask?’ she exclaimed.  ‘I am a Scottish girl!’

‘She is a Scottish girl!’ repeated the Major, looking at me.  ‘And no one grudges you her pity!’

‘And I glory in every grain of it she has to spare,’ said I.  ‘Pity is akin to love.’

‘Well, and let us put that question to Miss Gilchrist.  It is for her to decide, and for us to bow to the decision.  Is pity, Miss Flora, or is admiration, nearest love?’

‘Oh come,’ said I, ‘let us be more concrete.  Lay before the lady a complete case: describe your man, then I’ll describe mine, and Miss Flora shall decide.’

‘I think I see your meaning,’ said he, ‘and I’ll try.  You think that pity—and the kindred sentiments—have the greatest power upon the heart.  I think more nobly of women.  To my view, the man they love will first of all command their respect; he will be steadfast—proud, if you please; dry, possibly—but of all things steadfast.  They will look at him in doubt; at last they will see that stern face which he presents to all the rest of the world soften to them alone.  First, trust, I say.  It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes.’

‘Your man is very ambitious, sir,’ said I, ‘and very much of a hero!  Mine is a humbler, and, I would fain think, a more human dog.  He is one with no particular trust in himself, with no superior steadfastness to be admired for, who sees a lady’s face, who hears her voice, and, without any phrase about the matter, falls in love.  What does he ask for, then, but pity?—pity for his weakness, pity for his love, which is his life.  You would make women always the inferiors, gaping up at your imaginary lover; he, like a marble statue, with his nose in the air!  But God has been wiser than you; and the most steadfast of your heroes may prove human, after all.  We appeal to the queen for judgment,’ I added, turning and bowing before Flora.

‘And how shall the queen judge?’ she asked.  ‘I must give you an answer that is no answer at all.  “The wind bloweth where it listeth”: she goes where her heart goes.’

Her face flushed as she said it; mine also, for I read in it a declaration, and my heart swelled for joy.  But Chevenix grew pale.

‘You make of life a very dreadful kind of lottery, ma’am,’ said he.  ‘But I will not despair.  Honest and unornamental is still my choice.’

And I must say he looked extremely handsome and very amusingly like the marble statue with its nose in the air to which I had compared him.

‘I cannot imagine how we got upon this subject,’ said Flora.

‘Madame, it was through the war,’ replied Chevenix.

‘All roads lead to Rome,’ I commented.  ‘What else would you expect Mr. Chevenix and myself to talk of?’

About this time I was conscious of a certain bustle and movement in the room behind me, but did not pay to it that degree of attention which perhaps would have been wise.  There came a certain change in Flora’s face; she signalled repeatedly with her fan; her eyes appealed to me obsequiously; there could be no doubt that she wanted something—as well as I could make out, that I should go away and leave the field clear for my rival, which I had not the least idea of doing.  At last she rose from her chair with impatience.

‘I think it time you were saying good-night, Mr Ducie!’ she said.

I could not in the least see why, and said so.

Whereupon she gave me this appalling answer, ‘My aunt is coming out of the card-room.’

In less time than it takes to tell, I had made my bow and my escape.  Looking back from the doorway, I was privileged to see, for a moment, the august profile and gold eyeglasses of Miss Gilchrist issuing from the card-room; and the sight lent me wings.  I stood not on the order of my going; and a moment after, I was on the pavement of Castle Street, and the lighted windows shone down on me, and were crossed by ironical shadows of those who had remained behind.

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