Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 392
‘Miss Croft, I — I had never looked at you. I would never have dreamed of such a thing if I had. You are far too pretty and too clever,’ I blurted out these silly speeches one upon the other’s heels.
‘It appears you thought me ugly and stupid?’ said she. ‘But that is better than to fancy me ingenuous.’
‘Upon my word, I am not such a fool as I appear,’ I cried. ‘My position—’
‘Yes,’ said she, ‘that is the point. How much do you want Mr Hatfield? Let me be your banker and’ — with a shade of asperity that called the blood to my face— ‘do not let us have the spectacle of an English gentleman begging at large about a foreign country.’
‘Miss Croft,’ I broke out, ‘let us have no talk of lending; it is no loan, for I could never repay it. I have no money, no hopes, no friends, no honest trade; I am a common beggar and that is the miserable truth.’
‘How on earth have you got to such a pitch?’ she asked.
I told her at some length my miserable story; and though I was myself appalled by its unbroken silliness, I told it honestly. ‘You can judge for yourself,’ I added, ‘if it be worthwhile to help a creature so incompetent.’
‘I want to think,’ she answered softly. We walked on in silence up the hill road; as we went, the moon began to peer at intervals out of rifts among the clouds, and to shed flying glimpses on the Limagne and the towered city of Clermont at our feet. Presently she came to a wider island of clear sky, and her light fell now steadily around us.
‘Let me see you,’ said Miss Croft.
I stopped and turned towards the light, and she looked for some little while intently in my face. Then she smiled. ‘I believe I have found a use for you,’ said she.
‘A use?’ I repeated blankly.
She held out her hand. ‘You are a gentleman?’ she asked. ‘Put your hand in mine and promise you will obey me implicitly. You hesitate?’
‘It is rather a large order,’ said I. But her smile, as she looked at me, was so alluring and so enigmatical, her blue eyes caught so soft and yet so merry a sparkle from the moon, her hand, as it awaited mine, was of so fine a design and of so fair a colour, that my resolution suddenly melted. ‘I cannot refuse your hand,’ said I, ‘cost what it may.’ And I not only took it in mine, I stopped and kissed it. ‘I will go where this hand leads me,’ said I.
‘Is it the hand — or what is in it?’ she inquired.
‘Ah,’ said I, ‘you remind me that I am a beggar, and yet I was never a beggar till today.’
‘Your face is not a beggar’s,’ she said, ‘or you should never have touched me; I do not give my hand without liking.’
‘Ah,’ said I bitterly, ‘it is impossible there should be any liking where there is no respect.’
‘They say so,’ she replied, ‘but I believe it is mere cant. At least Mr Hatfield, I like you and to a certain point (as you shall find) I trust you.’ She took her purse from her pocket. ‘There should be something like a thousand francs in that,’ she continued. ‘It is yours without condition. If you wish to see more of me, the world is before you; but’ — and here here voice became a little softer— ‘if you do not regret your promise of obedience, if you wish to see more of one who may possibly become your friend, arrive tomorrow night in Paris, meet me on the platform, come up, address me by my name, and offer me your help. It will be found we are going to the same house, the Hotel de Lille et d’Albion, and that we are both to cross on the next day by Calais. What more natural, Mr Hatfield, than that we should continue our journey together? And if my maid disapproves, she must disapprove. Not a word just now. I wish you to have time for thought. Do not speak to me and do not follow me. Goodnight.’
With that she was gone down the hill again, and I was left alone in the darkness, for the moon was again hid. I had not thought of the purse in my hand, no thought of the meal to which I had so long looked forward. The smile, the eyes, the touch, the voice so soft and yet significant, the gait and figure so express and dainty, of this exquisite being had completely robbed me of the remembrance of my own concerns; my mind ran upon nothing but Miss Croft. I sat there in the grass of the roadside, and rehearsed and hugged a thousand memories of our interview. I could not sufficiently wonder at that indifference with which I had so often seen without remarking her, or at that sudden overwhelming partiality that had now brought me to her feet. She had given me a place for penitence; I never so much as thought of profiting by that. The promise I had given was very sweeping; but it was given to her of the smile and the blue eyes, and that was enough for me. And indeed for a man in such a pickle as I had found myself in that afternoon no prospect could seem very alarming: I might be better indeed, it was hard to suppose I could be worse.
Chapter II
The next night we met as if by accident and drove in the same vehicle to the hotel, where I had the honour of sitting down to the same table with her in the public room. The maid had made a third until that moment, and our communications in consequence had been conventional and those of mere acquaintances upon an ordinary footing. But now, save for the presence of a waiter partially ignorant of every tongue in Europe, we felt ourselves at ease.
‘And so.’ said she. ‘you have not thought better of your promise. Thank you!’
‘I have thought better of it and much better,’ I replied. ‘I thought of it all night, Miss Croft; and will you let me tell you the burthen of my thinking? It seemed to me that I had promised much, and yet given nothing. It seemed to me that you had found me when I had lost all, even my self-respect, that you had picked me out of the gutter, that you had given me kind words and (what I value more) kind looks; and that I was quite empty handed to repay. Even you must tell yourself stories, Miss Croft?’
‘O, yes,’ she said, ‘and strange ones too.’
‘Well, in a man’s stories, it is always he who gives,’ I continued, ‘and I find myself in the position of the taker. You will say I sought it; I deny the charge. I meant to hold out my hand before a stranger, close it on a piece of money, and escape. What would have been changed? There would have been one stranger in the world, whom I should have tried to avoid — for such is gratitude. But you have chosen otherwise; you would not remain a stranger; I am in a position to which I never dreamed of stooping; you are the man in this story, I the woman. And what can I say but Be it so! You have picked up a tool, Miss Croft; what do you propose to do with it? You have bought a slave; I hope you like him.’
‘Tool?’ she repeated. ‘I do not like the word. Let me put it otherwise. You say you have nothing to give; but I think you will find in the long run you give more than I. I warn you of that from the beginning; for I know myself. I ask knightly service,’ she cried, with a certain enthusiasm. ‘How shall I be able to repay it, who can tell? Can it ever be repaid? Give? What can I give? Money — if you care for that; gratitude — if you believe in it, and you have said already that you do not. And from you — what do I ask?’
‘It is what I wish I knew,’ I said.
‘You say I picked you up,’ she continued. ‘You read in tales of magicians who pick up strays like you in the slums of medieval cities, and what is it they buy from them? their will, their appetite, their soul. You will begin to think me greedy, for I want a little of all that.’ She broke off with her smile. ‘I hope I frighten you,’ she said.
‘You charm me,’ said I.
She looked at me in a manner too peculiar to be told, so much of doubt, of interest, of animation as that glance contained. ‘I did not say I wished your love,’ she said, and so turned the talk that until we separated for the night (which was soon after) nothing passed between us to diminish the effect of that ambiguous remark.
The next day we passed the channel. Except upon the steamer I had little talk with her; never in what she said was there anything to help me to the least decision. Had the accent been on love? had it been upon the say? ‘I did not say I wished your love, I did not say I wished your love.’ I tried it over and over to myself; but the stress had been so evenly divided, that either reading in turn appeared to me to be the true one. Only the fact that she had used the word at all, only the look with which she accompanied and emphasised it, remained to console and inspirit me. She would not have so looked upon one quite indifferent, to one who had captured no interest in her mind, she would not have touched upon the thought. ‘No,’ was my conclusion, ‘she is either making an egregious ass of me, or I am the man.’
The next day I was to call before ten, which seemed a very early hour, at the home of Mr Ramley. That gentleman had remained behind at Royat to complete his cure and perfect his experience of Baccarat; and it was in his study that I found Miss Croft surrounded by a great mass of business papers. She came forward. She came forward and gave me her hand, with a charming rise of colour in her cheek, a still more charming kind of hesitation in her manner.
‘This is to be a decisive interview, Mr Hatfield,’ said she. ‘Sit down over there; no, further away please — and look out of the window, not at me. You offered me your word as a gentleman; I have not yet taken it and you are still free. I have not yet taken it, because I do not know what it is worth, and I do not care for worthless gifts or purchases. Do not begin to be angry. I have been watching you closely, and I begin to think you are what you appear; I begin to think you are a gentleman — a gentleman indeed — a man who sets weight upon his word — even to a woman — even to a woman who puts herself into his power?’
‘Try me,’ I said, dryly.
‘I have something to say first,’ she resumed, ‘something to ask you; and it is this. Have you any claim upon me? Do I owe you anything? Whatever I do for you (if I shall do anything) will it not be given out of pure grace?’
‘Out of pure grace, Miss Croft,’ I said.
‘I want you to remember that admission; I bind you to it,’ she continued with emphasis. ‘So if I ever chance to give you anything, you shall not make it a foundation for exacting more.’
‘Miss Croft,’ I said, a little ruffled, ‘I did once ask you — to my shame — for money; I am now asking nothing, except that you believe me.’
‘Now!’ she said— ‘yes! — But let us speak no more of this. I am going to my lawyer’s. Dear me—’ looking at her watch, ‘it is already the time of my appointment: oblige me, by glancing over the rest of these papers; make a note of all the companies on which Mr Ramley’s name figures as director; and as soon as you have the list completed, take a hansom and follow me to my lawyer’s office. Here is the address. Send the list in, and then wait for me; I shall not keep you long.’ She turned as she went from the room and turning to me with one of her most radiant smiles, ‘And now,’ said she, I suppose you think I have been jesting. Not at all! I was never [more] serious, Mr Hatfield, in my life; and perhaps, before the afternoon is over, you will see cause to believe me.’
The strange task which she had left me to accomplish did not delay me very long. More than half of the great bulk of prospectuses had been already examined by herself and the results transferred in her own hand (which was as charming as her person) to a sheet of foolscap paper. Ere I had got to the end of the business, the third side of this sheet was very full; and I could not but wonder, as I drove to the lawyer’s office, at the multiplicity and variety of Mr Ramley’s interests.
The list was sent in duly to where the lawyer was closeted with his fair client; and I had the opportunity for close upon three hours of studying the directory in the waiting-room. At the end of that time, Miss Croft made her appearance, in company with a tall and venerable gentleman.
‘I am so sorry I kept you so long,’ she said. ‘It is all the fault of Mr Venables.’
‘Is this the young gentleman?’ inquired Mr Venables. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Hatfield,’ and methought he looked and smiled upon me somewhat strangely. But the fact of this respectable personage being in any way privy to the designs of my enchantress mightily relieved some private and perhaps fanciful anxieties which had tormented me till then. She could not mean to set me in a murder.
‘I am dying of hunger,’ she cried gaily. ‘I declare nothing agrees with me like business. Mr Hatfield, give me your arm, take me to Verrey’s, and order me the best luncheon in London. Mr Venables, goodbye!’
I cannot describe to you the winning glances to which she treated me upon the way and with which she continued to ravish me throughout the meal; she was sportive, she was aggressive, she teased, she tripped me up, she quizzed me; and through it all, I knew not what radiancy of tenderness beamed upon and sunned my heart. Such a pretty familiarity, as with a brother; such sudden looks, and lookings away; such pleasant speech, such pleasant silences, such an atmosphere of favour, of partiality, of confidence, of love — dared I call it love? Or if I dared not, what else was I to call it?
It was past three of the afternoon before we had come to the dessert. The large room at Verrey’s was nearly empty; yet every here and there belated lunchers were like ourselves trifling with their coffee. She glanced at me suddenly, ‘What is your first name?’ said she.
I told her it was Edward.
‘I have brought you on purpose to this public place,’ she continued, ‘for I wished to prevent the probability of anything like a scene, which I detest above everything. At the same time, just oblige by taking up some sort of countenance that you can keep. Pare some fruit or do what you like — Edward,’ said she. ‘There,’ she broke out, ‘I cannot even call you by your Christian name, but you change faces like a schoolgirl! Come — pare your pretty fruit. There is a good little fellow. So — that is better. Edward, I want to ask you a favour. My name is Emmeline. Will you grant me a favour, I wonder?’
‘I have promised you implicit obedience,’ said I; ‘ — we have spoken a great deal of payment, let me call you Emmeline, and what more should I dare to ask?’
‘We shall see about that presently,’ she returned. ‘But do not mistake: the date of implicit obedience has not begun: that shall be after, this is before; if you reprove my favour, the whole thing is at an end.’
‘You may be very sure that I will grant it then,’ I cried.
‘May I?’ she said. ‘Let me finish. If you shall not choose to grant me what I ask, my lawyer has directions to set you up in some respectable business; you shall see me no more, you shall not want again. I will starve no man into consent.’
‘I am still to ask you what the favour is,’ said I, a trifle doggedly, for I was hurt.
‘Must you ask? Must I tell you? Edward,’ she said.
I would take no bait. ‘I am perhaps dull,’ I replied.
‘And perhaps proud,’ said she.
‘That also, possibly,’ was my return. ‘Even a beggar has pride.’
‘Very well,’ said she. ‘I remind you again this is a public place, and I wish no scenes. Answer me quietly and to the point; it is only yes or no. Will you marry me? O, these names are surely quite needless: all these days, you must have seen where I was coming,’ she cried, petulantly. ‘Have you trifled’ — and here she was suddenly seized with laughter— ‘have you trifled with my affections?’
‘Do you mean to say you like me?’ I asked.
‘I never said any such thing,’ replied she, ‘and the question is usually, on the man’s side, prefaced with some assurances. But since we have got this thing so very much upside down, we may as well go on as we began; and I can honestly say, I never saw a man I liked so well. Do you like me?’
‘I love you,’ said I.
‘You do?’ she asked. ‘Truly?’
‘From my soul, I love you.’
‘I think that is rather a pity,’ she said. ‘I am not highly emotional myself. Look here: I must be yet more frank. If you say “no” and go your own way, you are to want for nothing. If you say “yes” and marry me, understand precisely what you do. First of all, you will get less in money: you will have to sign a marriage contract — you never saw the like of it for stiffness; after what you have done with your own I will not give you the chance to make hay of mine. It will be a loss in money. As for position, you have pledged me your word; you know what to expect: I marry you — not you me.’
‘Miss Croft,’ said I, ‘one would think you were trying to buy me off.’
‘It sounds like it,’ said she; ‘and I have already so far succeeded that you drop my Christian name. And yet, Mr Hatfield, I do assure you, I make this offer in all seriousness; and it will be a favour to me if you will deign to accept me. I have made your acquaintance, picked you up, I think were your own words — certainly I have laid by all reserve to make us better friends, I do not think you have had to complain of me; and you can now choose, with a free conscience, whether you prefer to be my husband or my pensioner.’
‘I think, madam,’ said I, ‘that I prefer upon the whole to go and sweep a crossing.’
‘Very well,’ said she. ‘Pay the bill and let us leave this hateful place.’
I called the waiter and with her money, which I loathed to have in my hands, I paid the amount in which we were indebted. As I waited for the change, my eyes irresistibly wandered to her face. I beheld her undeniably moved, our looks crossed, in hers I read reproach and appeal; and my heart smote me, and then leaped.
‘Emmeline,’ said I. ‘I told you that I loved you; it is the truth; do with me what you will. I am your chattel. I only wish to God it was worth more; but do with it what you please.’
I spoke low, but my voice came from me with the note of a sincere emotion; and as I spoke, I leaned across the table, and offered her my hand.
She shook her head, and as she did so, a tear ran upon her cheek. ‘I have made a mistake,’ said she. ‘I never looked at you before or I would never have tried it.’
‘Those words were mine,’ I cried.
‘And now they are mine,’ said she. ‘You will never understand.’
‘It is not necessary I should understand,’ I replied. ‘Let me obey; that is enough.’
