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

shall I say was callin’?’ she pursued; and when I had told her ‘Mr. Ducie,’ ‘I think this’ll be for you, then?’ she added, and handed me a letter from the hall table.  It ran:

‘Dear Mr. Ducie,

‘My single advice to you is to leave quam primum for the South.

Yours, T. Robbie.’

That was short and sweet.  It emphatically extinguished hope in one direction.  No more was to be gotten of Robbie; and I wondered, from my heart, how much had been told him.  Not too much, I hoped, for I liked the lawyer who had thus deserted me, and I placed a certain reliance in the discretion of Chevenix.  He would not be merciful; on the other hand, I did not think he would be cruel without cause.

It was my next affair to go back along George Street, and assure myself whether the man in the moleskin vest was still on guard.  There was no sign of him on the pavement.  Spying the door of a common stair nearly opposite the bank, I took it in my head that this would be a good point of observation, crossed the street, entered with a businesslike air and fell immediately against the man in the moleskin vest.  I stopped and apologised to him; he replied in an unmistakable English accent, thus putting the matter almost beyond doubt.  After this encounter I must, of course, ascend to the top story, ring the bell of a suite of apartments, inquire for Mr. Vavasour, learn (with no great surprise) that he did not live there, come down again and, again politely saluting the man from Bow Street, make my escape at last into the street.

I was now driven back upon the Assembly Ball.  Robbie had failed me.  The bank was watched; it would never do to risk Rowley in that neighbourhood.  All I could do was to wait until the morrow evening, and present myself at the Assembly, let it end as it might.  But I must say I came to this decision with a good deal of genuine fright; and here I came for the first time to one of those places where my courage stuck.  I do not mean that my courage boggled and made a bit of a bother over it, as it did over the escape from the Castle; I mean, stuck, like a stopped watch or a dead man.  Certainly I would go to the ball; certainly I must see this morning about my clothes.  That was all decided.  But the most of the shops were on the other side of the valley, in the Old Town; and it was now my strange discovery that I was physically unable to cross the North Bridge!  It was as though a precipice had stood between us, or the deep sea had intervened.  Nearer to the Castle my legs refused to bear me.

I told myself this was mere superstition; I made wagers with myself—and gained them; I went down on the esplanade of Princes Street, walked and stood there, alone and conspicuous, looking across the garden at the old grey bastions of the fortress, where all these troubles had begun.  I cocked my hat, set my hand on my hip, and swaggered on the pavement, confronting detection.  And I found I could do all this with a sense of exhilaration that was not unpleasing, and with a certain crânerie of manner that raised me in my own esteem.  And yet there was one thing I could not bring my mind to face up to, or my limbs to execute; and that was to cross the valley into the Old Town.  It seemed to me I must be arrested immediately if I had done so; I must go straight into the twilight of a prison cell, and pass straight thence to the gross and final embraces of the nightcap and the halter.  And yet it was from no reasoned fear of the consequences that I could not go.  I was unable.  My horse baulked, and there was an end!

My nerve was gone: here was a discovery for a man in such imminent peril, set down to so desperate a game, which I could only hope to win by continual luck and unflagging effrontery!  The strain had been too long continued, and my nerve was gone.  I fell into what they call panic fear, as I have seen soldiers do on the alarm of a night attack, and turned out of Princes Street at random as though the devil were at my heels.  In St. Andrew Square, I remember vaguely hearing some one call out.  I paid no heed, but pressed on blindly.  A moment after, a hand fell heavily on my shoulder, and I thought I had fainted.  Certainly the world went black about me for some seconds; and when that spasm passed I found myself standing face to face with the ‘cheerful extravagant,’ in what sort of disarray I really dare not imagine, dead white at least, shaking like an aspen, and mowing at the man with speechless lips.  And this was the soldier of Napoleon, and the gentleman who intended going next night to an Assembly Ball!  I am the more particular in telling of my breakdown, because it was my only experience of the sort; and it is a good tale for officers.  I will allow no man to call me coward; I have made my proofs; few men more.  And yet I (come of the best blood in France and inured to danger from a child) did, for some ten or twenty minutes, make this hideous exhibition of myself on the streets of the New Town of Edinburgh.

With my first available breath I begged his pardon.  I was of an extremely nervous disposition, recently increased by late hours; I could not bear the slightest start.

He seemed much concerned.  ‘You must be in a devil of a state!’ said he; ‘though of course it was my fault—damnably silly, vulgar sort of thing to do!  A thousand apologies!  But you really must be run down; you should consult a medico.  My dear sir, a hair of the dog that bit you is clearly indicated.  A touch of Blue Ruin, now?  Or, come: it’s early, but is man the slave of hours? what do you say to a chop and a bottle in Dumbreck’s Hotel?’

I refused all false comfort; but when he went on to remind me that this was the day when the University of Cramond met; and to propose a five-mile walk into the country and a dinner in the company of young asses like himself, I began to think otherwise.  I had to wait until to-morrow evening, at any rate; this might serve as well as anything else to bridge the dreary hours.  The country was the very place for me: and walking is an excellent sedative for the nerves.  Remembering poor Rowley, feigning a cold in our lodgings and immediately under the guns of the formidable and now doubtful Bethiah, I asked if I might bring my servant.  ‘Poor devil! it is dull for him,’ I explained.

‘The merciful man is merciful to his ass,’ observed my sententious friend.  ‘Bring him by all means!

“The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;”

and I have no doubt the orphan boy can get some cold victuals in the kitchen, while the Senatus dines.’

Accordingly, being now quite recovered from my unmanly condition, except that nothing could yet induce me to cross the North Bridge, I arranged for my ball dress at a shop in Leith Street, where I was not served ill, cut out Rowley from his seclusion, and was ready along with him at the trysting-place, the corner of Duke Street and York Place, by a little after two.  The University was represented in force: eleven persons, including ourselves, Byfield the aeronaut, and the tall lad, Forbes, whom I had met on the Sunday morning, bedewed with tallow, at the ‘Hunters’ Rest.’  I was introduced; and we set off by way of Newhaven and the sea beach; at first through pleasant country roads, and afterwards along a succession of bays of a fairylike prettiness, to our destination—Cramond on the Almond—a little hamlet on a little river, embowered in woods, and looking forth over a great flat of quicksand to where a little islet stood planted in the sea.  It was miniature scenery, but charming of its kind.  The air of this good February afternoon was bracing, but not cold.  All the way my companions were skylarking, jesting and making puns, and I felt as if a load had been taken off my lungs and spirits, and skylarked with the best of them.

Byfield I observed, because I had heard of him before, and seen his advertisements, not at all because I was disposed to feel interest in the man.  He was dark and bilious and very silent; frigid in his manners, but burning internally with a great fire of excitement; and he was so good as to bestow a good deal of his company and conversation (such as it was) upon myself, who was not in the least grateful.  If I had known how I was to be connected with him in the immediate future, I might have taken more pains.

In the hamlet of Cramond there is a hostelry of no very promising appearance, and here a room had been prepared for us, and we sat down to table.

‘Here you will find no guttling or gormandising, no turtle or nightingales’ tongues,’ said the extravagant, whose name, by the way, was Dalmahoy.  ‘The device, sir, of the University of Cramond is Plain Living and High Drinking.’

Grace was said by the Professor of Divinity, in a macaronic Latin, which I could by no means follow, only I could hear it rhymed, and I guessed it to be more witty than reverent.  After which the Senatus Academicus sat down to rough plenty in the shape of rizzar’d haddocks and mustard, a sheep’s head, a haggis, and other delicacies of Scotland.  The dinner was washed down with brown stout in bottle, and as soon as the cloth was removed, glasses, boiling water, sugar, and whisky were set out for the manufacture of toddy.  I played a good knife and fork, did not shun the bowl, and took part, so far as I was able, in the continual fire of pleasantry with which the meal was seasoned.  Greatly daring, I ventured, before all these Scotsmen, to tell Sim’s Tale of Tweedie’s dog; and I was held to have done such extraordinary justice to the dialect, ‘for a Southron,’ that I was immediately voted into the Chair of Scots, and became, from that moment, a full member of the University of Cramond.  A little after, I found myself entertaining them with a song; and a little after—perhaps a little in consequence—it occurred to me that I had had enough, and would be very well inspired to take French leave.  It was not difficult to manage, for it was nobody’s business to observe my movements, and conviviality had banished suspicion.

I got easily forth of the chamber, which reverberated with the voices of these merry and learned gentlemen, and breathed a long breath.  I had passed an agreeable afternoon and evening, and I had apparently escaped scot free.  Alas! when I looked into the kitchen, there was my monkey, drunk as a lord, toppling on the edge of the dresser, and performing on the flageolet to an audience of the house lasses and some neighbouring ploughmen.

I routed him promptly from his perch, stuck his hat on, put his instrument in his pocket, and set off with him for Edinburgh.

His limbs were of paper, his mind quite in abeyance; I must uphold and guide him, prevent his frantic dives, and set him continually on his legs again.  At first he sang wildly, with occasional outbursts of causeless laughter.  Gradually an inarticulate melancholy succeeded; he wept gently at times; would stop in the middle of the road, say firmly ‘No, no, no,’ and then fall on his back: or else address me solemnly as ‘M’lord’ and fall on his face by way of variety.  I am afraid I was not always so gentle with the little pig as I might have been, but really the position was unbearable.  We made no headway at all, and I suppose we were scarce gotten a mile away from Cramond, when the whole Senatus Academicus was heard hailing, and doubling the pace to overtake its.

Some of them were fairly presentable; and they were all Christian martyrs compared to Rowley; but they were in a frolicsome and rollicking humour that promised danger as we approached the town.  They sang songs, they ran races, they fenced with their walking-sticks and umbrellas; and, in spite of this violent exercise, the fun grew only the more extravagant with the miles they traversed.  Their drunkenness was deep-seated and permanent, like fire in a peat; or rather—to be quite just to them—it was not so much to be called drunkenness at all, as the effect of youth and high spirits—a fine night,