Robert Stevenson - The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 20

“Madam,” I interposed, “they were about to do so. It is my fault if it be not done already. But I made it my prayer that your slumbers might be respected, and this necessary formula of my presentation should be delayed until to-morrow in the morning.”

The old lady regarded me with undissembled incredulity, to which I was able to find no better repartee than a profound and I trust graceful reverence.

“French prisoners are very well in their place,” she said, “but I cannot see that their place is in my private dining-room.”

“Madam,” said I, “I hope it may be said without offence, but (except the Castle of Edinburgh) I cannot think upon the spot from which I would so readily be absent.”

At this, to my relief, I thought I could perceive a vestige of a smile to steal upon that iron countenance and to be bitten immediately in.

“And if it is a fair question, what do they call ye?” she asked.

“At your service, the Vicomte Anne de Saint-Yves,” said I.

“Mosha the Viscount,” said she, “I am afraid you do us plain people a great deal too much honour.”

“My dear lady,” said I, “let us be serious for a moment. What was I to do? Where was I to go? And how can you be angry with these benevolent children who took pity on one so unfortunate as myself? Your humble servant is no such terrific adventurer that you should come out against him with horse-pistol and” – smiling – “bedroom-candlesticks. It is but a young gentleman in extreme distress, hunted upon every side, and asking no more than to escape from his pursuers. I know your character, I read it in your face” – the heart trembled in my body as I said these daring words. “There are unhappy English prisoners in France at this day, perhaps at this hour. Perhaps at this hour they kneel as I do; they take the hand of her that might conceal and assist them; they press it to their lips as I do – ”

“Here, here!” cried the old lady, breaking from my solicitations. “Behave yourself before folk! Saw ever any one the match of that? And on earth, my dears, what are we to do with him?”

“Pack him off, my dear lady,” said I: “pack off the impudent fellow double-quick! And if it may be, and if your good heart allows it, help him a little on the way he has to go.”

“What’s this pie?” she cried stridently. “Where is this pie from, Flora?”

No answer was vouchsafed by my unfortunate and (I may say) extinct accomplices.

“Is that my port?” she pursued. “Hough! Will somebody give me a glass of my port wine?”

I made haste to serve her.

She looked at me over the rim with an extraordinary expression. “I hope ye liked it?” said she.

“It is even a magnificent wine,” said I.

“Awell, it was my father laid it down,” said she. “There were few knew more about port wine than my father, God rest him!” She settled herself in a chair with an alarming air of resolution. “And so there is some particular direction that you wish to go in?” said she.

“O,” said I, following her example, “I am by no means such a vagrant as you suppose. I have good friends, if I could get to them, for which all I want is to be once clear of Scotland; and I have money for the road.” And I produced my bundle.

“English bank-notes?” she said. “That’s not very handy for Scotland. It’s been some fool of an Englishman that’s given you these, I’m thinking. How much is it?”

“I declare to Heaven I never thought to count!” I exclaimed. “But that is soon remedied.”

And I counted out ten notes of ten pound each, all in the name of Abraham Newlands, and five bills of country bankers for as many guineas.

“One hundred and twenty-six pound five,” cried the old lady. “And you carry such a sum about you, and have not so much as counted it! If you are not a thief, you must allow you are very thief-like.”

“And yet, madam, the money is legitimately mine,” said I.

She took one of the bills and held it up. “Is there any probability, now, that this could be traced?” she asked.

“None, I should suppose; and if it were, it would be no matter,” said I. “With your usual penetration, you guessed right. An Englishman brought it me. It reached me through the hands of his English solicitor, from my great-uncle, the Comte de Kéroual de Saint-Yves, I believe the richest émigré in London.”

“I can do no more than take your word for it,” said she.

“And I trust, madam, not less,” said I.

“Well,” said she, “at this rate the matter may be feasible. I will cash one of these five-guinea bills, less the exchange, and give you silver and Scots notes to bear you as far as the border. Beyond that, Mosha the Viscount, you will have to depend upon yourself.”

I could not but express a civil hesitation as to whether the amount would suffice, in my case, for so long a journey.

“Ay,” said she, “but you havena heard me out. For if you are not too fine a gentleman to travel with a pair of drovers, I believe I have found the very thing, and the Lord forgive me for a treasonable old wife! There are a couple stopping up-by with the shepherd-man at the farm; to-morrow they will take the road for England, probably by skreigh of day – and in my opinion you had best be travelling with the stots,” said she.

“For Heaven’s sake do not suppose me to be so effeminate a character!” I cried. “An old soldier of Napoleon is certainly beyond suspicion. But, dear lady, to what end? and how is the society of these excellent gentlemen supposed to help me?”

“My dear sir,” said she, “you do not at all understand your own predicament, and must just leave your matters in the hands of those who do. I dare say you have never even heard tell of the drove-roads or the drovers; and I am certainly not going to sit up all night to explain it to you. Suffice it, that it is me who is arranging this affair – the more shame to me! – and that is the way ye have to go. Ronald,” she continued, “away up-by to the shepherds; rowst them out of their beds, and make it perfectly distinct that Sim is not to leave till he has seen me .”

Ronald was nothing loth to escape from his aunt’s neighbourhood, and left the room and the cottage with a silent expedition that was more like flight than mere obedience. Meanwhile the old lady turned to her niece.

“And I would like to know what we are to do with him the night!” she cried.

“Ronald and I meant to put him in the hen-house,” said the encrimsoned Flora.

“And I can tell you he is to go to no such a place,” replied the aunt. “Hen-house indeed! If a guest he is to be, he shall sleep in no mortal hen-house. Your room is the most fit, I think, if he will consent to occupy it on so great a suddenty. And as for you, Flora, you shall sleep with me.”

I could not help admiring the prudence and tact of this old dowager, and of course it was not for me to make objections. Ere I well knew how, I was alone with a flat candlestick, which is not the most sympathetic of companions, and stood studying the snuff in a frame of mind between triumph and chagrin. All had gone well with my flight; the masterful lady who had arrogated to herself the arrangement of the details gave me every confidence; and I saw myself already arriving at my uncle’s door. But, alas! it was another story with my love-affair. I had seen and spoken with her alone; I had ventured boldly; I had been not ill received; I had seen her change colour, had enjoyed the undissembled kindness of her eyes; and now, in a moment, down comes upon the scene that apocalyptic figure with the nightcap and the horse-pistol, and with the very wind of her coming behold me separated from my love! Gratitude and admiration contended in my breast with the extreme of natural rancour. My appearance in her house at past midnight had an air (I could not disguise it from myself) that was insolent and underhand, and could not but minister to the worst suspicions. And the old lady had taken it well. Her generosity was no more to be called in question than her courage, and I was afraid that her intelligence would be found to match. Certainly, Miss Flora had to support some shrewd looks, and certainly she had been troubled. I could see but the one way before me; to profit by an excellent bed, to try to sleep soon, to be stirring early, and to hope for some renewed occasion in the morning. To have said so much and yet to say no more, to go out into the world upon so half-hearted a parting, was more than I could accept.