The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
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.
It is my belief that the benevolent fiend sat up all night to balk me.
She was at my bedside with a candle long ere day, roused me, laid out
for me a damnable misfit of clothes, and bade me pack my own (which were
wholly unsuited to the journey) in a bundle. Sore grudging, I arrayed
myself in a suit of some country fabric, as delicate as sackcloth and
about as becoming as a shroud; and, on coming forth, found the dragon
had prepared for me a hearty breakfast. She took the head of the table,
poured out the tea, and entertained me as I ate with a great deal of
good sense and a conspicuous lack of charm. How often did I not regret
the change!--how often compare her, and condemn her in the comparison,
with her charming niece! But if my entertainer was not beautiful, she
had certainly been busy in my interest. Already she was in communication
with my destined fellow-travellers; and the device on which she had
struck appeared entirely suitable. I was a young Englishman who had
outrun the constable; warrants were out against me in Scotland, and it
had become needful I should pass the border without loss of time, and
privately.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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