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, whither 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. 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 a while. 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 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 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 for ever!"

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 seems 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.