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

“You gave a good deal of trouble last night. I have yet to meet Mrs. McRankine.”

“As for that, Mr. Anne,” said he, with an incongruous twinkle in his bloodshot eye, “she’ve been up with a tray: dry toast and a pot of tea. The old gal’s bark is worse than her bite, sir, begging your pardon, and meaning as she’s a decent one, she is.”

“I was fearing that might be just the trouble,” I answered.

One thing was certain. Rowley, that morning, should not be entrusted with a razor and the handling of my chin. I sent him back to his bed, with orders not to rise from it without permission; and went about my toilette deliberately. In spite of the lad, I did not enjoy the prospect of Mrs. McRankine.

I enjoyed it so little, indeed, that I fell to poking the sitting-room fire when she entered with the Mercury; and read the Mercury assiduously while she brought in breakfast. She set down the tray with a slam and stood beside it, her hands on her hips, her whole attitude breathing challenge.

“Well, Mrs. McRankine?” I began, upturning a hypocritical eye from the newspaper.

“’Well,’ is it? Nhm!”

I lifted the breakfast cover, and saw before me a damnatory red herring.

“Rowley was very foolish last night,” I remarked, with a discriminating stress on the name.

“’The ass knoweth his master’s crib.’” She pointed to the herring. “It’s all ye’ll get, Mr. – Ducie, if that’s your name.”

“Madam” – I held out the fish at the end of my fork – “you drag it across the track of an apology.” I set it back on the dish and replaced the cover. “It is clear that you wish us gone. Well and good: grant Rowley a day for recovery, and to-morrow you shall be quit of us.” I reached for my hat.

“Whaur are ye gaun?”

“To seek other lodgings.”

“I’ll no say – Man, man! have a care! And me beat to close an eye the nicht!” She dropped into a chair. “Nay, Mr. Ducie, ye daurna! Think o’ that innocent lamb!”

“That little pig.”

“He’s ower young to die,” sobbed my landlady.

“In the abstract I agree with you: but I am not aware that Rowley’s death is required. Say rather that he is ower young to turn King’s evidence.” I stepped back from the door. “Mrs. McRankine,” I said, “I believe you to be soft-hearted. I know you to be curious. You will be pleased to sit perfectly still and listen to me.”

And, resuming my seat, I leaned across the corner of the table and put my case before her without suppression or extenuation. Her breathing tightened over my sketch of the duel with Goguelat; and again more sharply as I told of my descent of the rock. Of Alain she said, “I ken his sort,” and of Flora twice, “I’m wonderin’ will I have seen her?” For the rest she heard me out in silence, and rose and walked to the door without a word. There she turned. “It’s a verra queer tale. If McRankine had told me the like, I’d have gien him the lie to his face.”

Two minutes later I heard the vials of her speech unsealed abovestairs, with detonations that shook the house. I had touched off my rocket, and the stick descended – on the prostrate Rowley.

And now I must face the inert hours. I sat down, and read my way through the Mercury. “The escaped French soldier, Champdivers, who is wanted in connection with the recent horrid murder at the Castle, remains at large – ” the rest but repeated the advertisement of Tuesday. “At large!” I set down the paper and turned to my landlady’s library. It consisted of Derham’s “Physico- and Astro-Theology,” “The Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin,” by one Taylor, D.D., “The Ready Reckoner or Tradesman’s Sure Guide,” and “The Path to the Pit delineated, with Twelve Engravings on Copper-plate.” For distraction I fell to pacing the room, and rehearsing those remembered tags of Latin verse concerning which M. de Culemberg had long ago assured me, “My son, we know not when, but some day they will come back to you with solace if not with charm.” Good man! My feet trod the carpet to Horace’s Alcaics. Virtus recludensim meritis mori Coelum– h’m, h’m —raro—

raro antecedentem scelestum
deseruit pede Poena claudo.

I paused by the window. In this there was no indiscretion; for a cold drizzle washed the panes, and the warmth of the apartment dimmed their inner surface.

“Pede Poena claudo,” my finger traced the words on the damp glass.

A sudden clamour of the street-door bell sent me skipping back to the fire-place with my heart in my mouth. Interminable minutes followed, and at length Mrs. McRankine entered with my ball suit from the tailor’s. I carried it into the next room, and disposed it on the bed – olive-green coat with gilt buttons and facings of watered silk, olive-green pantaloons, white waistcoat sprigged with blue and green forget-me-nots. The survey carried me on to midday and the midday meal.

The ministry of meal-time is twice blest: for prisoners and men without appetite it punctuates and makes time of eternity. I dawdled over my chop and pint of brown stout until Mrs. McRankine, after twice entering to clear away, with the face of a Cumæan sibyl, so far relaxed the tension of unnatural calm as to inquire if I meant to be all night about it.

The afternoon wore into dusk; and with dusk she re-appeared with a tea-tray. At six I retired to dress.

Behold me now issuing from my chamber, conscious of a well-fitting coat and a shapely pair of legs: the dignified simplicity of my tournure (simplicity so proper to the scion of an exiled house) relieved by a dandiacal hint of shirt-frill, and corrected into tenderness by the virgin waistcoat sprigged with forget-me-nots (for constancy), and buttoned with pink coral (for hope). Satisfied of the effect, I sought the apartment of Mr. Rowley of the Rueful Countenance, and found him less yellow, but still contrite, and listening to Mrs. McRankine, who sat with open book by his bedside, and plied him with pertinent dehortations from the Book of Proverbs.

He brightened.

“My heye, Mr. Hann, if that ain’t up to the knocker!”

Mrs. McRankine closed the book, and conned me with austerer approval.

“Ye carry it well, I will say.”

“It fits, I think.”

I turned myself complacently about.

“The drink, I am meaning. I kenned McRankine.”

“Shall we talk of business, madam? In the first place, the quittance for our board and lodging.”

“I mak’ it out on Saturdays.”

“Do so; and deduct it out of this.” I handed twenty-five of my guineas into her keeping; this left me with five and a crown piece in my pocket. “The balance, while it lasts, will serve for Rowley’s keep and current expenses. Before long I hope he may lift the money which lies in the bank at his service, as he knows.”

“But you’ll come back, Mr. Anne?” cried the lad.

“I’m afraid it’s a toss-up, my boy. Discipline, remember!” – for he was preparing to leap out of bed there and then – “You can serve me better in Edinburgh. All you have to do is to wait for a clear coast, and seek and present yourself in private before Mr. T. Robbie of Castle Street, or Miss Flora Gilchrist of Swanston Cottage. From either or both of these you will take your instructions. Here are the addresses.”

“If that’s a’ your need for the lad,” said Mrs. McRankine, “he’ll be eating his head off: no’ to say drinking.” Rowley winced. “I’ll tak’ him on mysel’.”

“My dear woman – ”

“He’ll be a brand frae the burnin’: and he’ll do to clean the knives.”

She would hear no denial. I committed the lad to her in this double capacity; and equipped with a pair of goloshes from the wardrobe of the late McRankine, sallied forth upon the rain-swept street.

The card of admission directed me to Buccleuch Place, a little off George Square; and here I found a wet rag of a crowd gathered about a couple of lanterns and a striped awning. Beneath the awning a panel of light fell on the plashy pavement. Already the guests were arriving. I whipped in briskly, presented my card, and passed up a staircase decorated with flags, evergreens, and national emblems. A venerable flunkey waited for me at the summit. “Cloak lobby to the left, sir.” I obeyed, and exchanged my overcoat and goloshes for a circular metal ticket. “What name, sir?” he purred over my card, as I lingered in the vestibule for a moment to scan the ball-room and my field of action: then, having cleared his throat, bawled suddenly, “Mr. Ducie!”

It might have been a stage direction. “A tucket sounds. Enter the Vicomte, disguised.” To tell the truth, this entry was a daunting business. A dance had just come to an end; and the musicians in the gallery had fallen to tuning their violins. The chairs arrayed along the walls were thinly occupied, and as yet the social temperature scarce rose to thawing-point. In fact, the second-rate people had arrived, and from the far end of the room were nervously watching the door for notables. Consequently my entrance drew a disquieting fire of observation. The mirrors, reflectors, and girandoles had eyes for me; and as I advanced up the perspective of waxed floor, the very boards winked detection. A little Master of Ceremonies, as round as the rosette on his lapel, detached himself from the nearest group, and approached with something of a skater’s motion and an insinuating smile.

“Mr. – a-Ducie, if I heard aright? A stranger, I believe, to our northern capital, and I hope a dancer?” I bowed. “Grant me the pleasure, Mr. Ducie, of finding you a partner.”

“If,” said I, “you would present me to the young lady yonder, beneath the musicians’ gallery – ” For I recognised Master Ronald’s flame, the girl in pink of Mr. Robbie’s party, to-night gowned in apple-green.

“Miss McBean – Miss Camilla McBean? With pleasure. Great discrimination you show, sir. Be so good as to follow me.”

I was led forward and presented. Miss McBean responded to my bow with great play of shoulders; and in turn presented me to her mother, a moustachioed lady in stiff black silk, surmounted with a black cap and coquelicot trimmings.

“Any friend of Mr. Robbie’s, I’m sure,” murmured Mrs. McBean, affably inclining. “Look, Camilla dear – Sir William and Lady Frazer – in laylock sarsnet – how well that diamond bandeau becomes her! They are early to-night. As I was saying, Mr. – ”