St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England. Роберт Стивенсон

the gardener nor the shepherd lads would care a halfpenny. In short, there was no escape possible from my absurd position: there I must continue to sit until one or other of my neighbours should raise his eyes and give the signal for my capture.

      The part of the wall on which (for my sins) I was posted could be scarce less than twelve feet high on the inside; the leaves of the beech which made a fashion of sheltering me were already partly fallen; and I was thus not only perilously exposed myself, but enabled to command some part of the garden walks and (under an evergreen arch) the front lawn and windows of the cottage. For long nothing stirred except my friend with the spade; then I heard the opening of a sash; and presently after saw Miss Flora appear in a morning wrapper and come strolling hitherward between the borders, pausing and visiting her flowers – herself as fair. There was a friend; here, immediately beneath me, an unknown quantity – the gardener: how to communicate with the one and not attract the notice of the other? To make a noise was out of the question; I dared scarce to breathe. I held myself ready to make a gesture as soon as she should look, and she looked in every possible direction but the one. She was interested in the vilest tuft of chickweed, she gazed at the summit of the mountain, she came even immediately below me and conversed on the most fastidious topics with the gardener; but to the top of that wall she would not dedicate a glance! At last she began to retrace her steps in the direction of the cottage; whereupon, becoming quite desperate, I broke off a piece of plaster, took a happy aim, and hit her with it in the nape of the neck. She clapped her hand to the place, turned about, looked on all sides for an explanation, and spying me (as indeed I was parting the branches to make it the more easy), half uttered and half swallowed down again a cry of surprise.

      The infernal gardener was erect upon the instant. ‘What’s your wull, miss?’ said he.

      Her readiness amazed me. She had already turned and was gazing in the opposite direction. ‘There’s a child among the artichokes,’ she said.

      ‘The Plagues of Egyp’! I’ll see to them!’ cried the gardener truculently, and with a hurried waddle disappeared among the evergreens.

      That moment she turned, she came running towards me, her arms stretched out, her face incarnadined for the one moment with heavenly blushes, the next pale as death. ‘Monsieur de. Saint-Yves!’ she said.

      ‘My dear young lady,’ I said, ‘this is the damnedest liberty – I know it! But what else was I to do?’

      ‘You have escaped?’ said she.

      ‘If you call this escape,’ I replied.

      ‘But you cannot possibly stop there!’ she cried.

      ‘I know it,’ said I. ‘And where am I to go?’

      She struck her hands together. ‘I have it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come down by the beech trunk – you must leave no footprint in the border – quickly, before Robie can get back! I am the hen-wife here: I keep the key; you must go into the hen-house – for the moment.’

      I was by her side at once. Both cast a hasty glance at the blank windows of the cottage and so much as was visible of the garden alleys; it seemed there was none to observe us. She caught me by the sleeve and ran. It was no time for compliments; hurry breathed upon our necks; and I ran along with her to the next corner of the garden, where a wired court and a board hovel standing in a grove of trees advertised my place of refuge. She thrust me in without a word; the bulk of the fowls were at the same time emitted; and I found myself the next moment locked in alone with half a dozen sitting hens. In the twilight of the place all fixed their eyes on me severely, and seemed to upbraid me with some crying impropriety. Doubtless the hen has always a puritanic appearance, although (in its own behaviour) I could never observe it to be more particular than its neighbours. But conceive a British hen!

      CHAPTER VIII – THE HEN-HOUSE

      I was half an hour at least in the society of these distressing bipeds, and alone with my own reflections and necessities. I was in great pain of my flayed hands, and had nothing to treat them with; I was hungry and thirsty, and had nothing to eat or to drink; I was thoroughly tired, and there was no place for me to sit. To be sure there was the floor, but nothing could be imagined less inviting.

      At the sound of approaching footsteps, my good-humour was restored. The key rattled in the lock, and Master Ronald entered, closed the door behind him, and leaned his back to it.

      ‘I say, you know!’ he said, and shook a sullen young head.

      ‘I know it’s a liberty,’ said I.

      ‘It’s infernally awkward: my position is infernally embarrassing,’ said he.

      ‘Well,’ said I, ‘and what do you think of mine?’

      This seemed to pose him entirely, and he remained gazing upon me with a convincing air of youth and innocence. I could have laughed, but I was not so inhumane.

      ‘I am in your hands,’ said I, with a little gesture. ‘You must do with me what you think right.’

      ‘Ah, yes!’ he cried: ‘if I knew!’

      ‘You see,’ said I, ‘it would be different if you had received your commission. Properly speaking, you are not yet a combatant; I have ceased to be one; and I think it arguable that we are just in the position of one ordinary gentleman to another, where friendship usually comes before the law. Observe, I only say arguable. For God’s sake, don’t think I wish to dictate an opinion. These are the sort of nasty little businesses, inseparable from war, which every gentleman must decide for himself. If I were in your place – ’

      ‘Ay, what would you do, then?’ says he.

      ‘Upon my word, I do not know,’ said I. ‘Hesitate, as you are doing, I believe.’

      ‘I will tell you,’ he said. ‘I have a kinsman, and it is what he would think, that I am thinking. It is General Graham of Lynedoch – Sir Thomas Graham. I scarcely know him, but I believe I admire him more than I do God.’

      ‘I admire him a good deal myself,’ said I, ‘and have good reason to. I have fought with him, been beaten, and run away. Veni, victus sum, evasi.’

      ‘What!’ he cried. ‘You were at Barossa?’

      ‘There and back, which many could not say,’ said I. ‘It was a pretty affair and a hot one, and the Spaniards behaved abominably, as they usually did in a pitched field; the Marshal Duke of Belluno made a fool of himself, and not for the first time; and your friend Sir Thomas had the best of it, so far as there was any best. He is a brave and ready officer.’

      ‘Now, then, you will understand!’ said the boy. ‘I wish to please Sir Thomas: what would he do?’

      ‘Well, I can tell you a story,’ said I, ‘a true one too, and about this very combat of Chiclana, or Barossa as you call it. I was in the Eighth of the Line; we lost the eagle of the First Battalion, more betoken, but it cost you dear. Well, we had repulsed more charges than I care to count, when your 87th Regiment came on at a foot’s pace, very slow but very steady; in front of them a mounted officer, his hat in his hand, white-haired, and talking very quietly to the battalions. Our Major, Vigo-Roussillon, set spurs to his horse and galloped out to sabre him, but seeing him an old man, very handsome, and as composed as if he were in a coffee-house, lost heart and galloped back again. Only, you see, they had been very close together for the moment, and looked each other in the eyes. Soon after the Major was wounded, taken prisoner, and carried into Cadiz. One fine day they announced to him the visit of the General, Sir Thomas Graham. “Well, sir,” said the General, taking him by the hand, “I think we were face to face upon the field.” It was the white-haired officer!’

      ‘Ah!’ cried the boy, – his eyes were burning.

      ‘Well, and here is the point,’ I continued. ‘Sir Thomas fed the Major from his own table from that day, and served him with six covers.’

      ‘Yes, it is a beautiful – a beautiful story,’ said Ronald. ‘And yet somehow it is not the same – is it?’

      ‘I admit it freely,’ said I.

      The