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

“We must run, Anne. There are more coming!”

We left the scattered relics of breakfast, and, taking hands, scurried along the path northwards. A few yards, and with a sharp turn it led us out of the cutting and upon the hillside. And here we pulled up together with a gasp.

Right beneath us lay a green meadow, dotted with a crowd of two or three hundred people; and over the nucleus of this gathering, where it condensed into a black swarm, as of bees, there floated, not only the dispiriting music of “The Caledonian Hunt’s Delight,” but an object of size and shape suggesting the Genie escaped from the Fisherman’s Bottle, as described in M. Galland’s ingenious “Thousand and One Nights.” It was Byfield’s balloon – the monster Lunardi– in process of inflation.

“Confound Byfield!” I ejaculated in my haste.

“Who is Byfield?”

“An aëronaut, my dear, of bilious humour; which no doubt accounts for his owning a balloon striped alternately with liver-colour and pale blue, and for his arranging it and a brass band in the very line of my escape. That man dogs me like fate.” I broke off sharply. “And after all, why not?” I mused.

The next instant I swung round, as Flora uttered a piteous little cry; and there, behind us, in the outlet of the cutting, stood Major Chevenix and Ronald.

The boy stepped forward, and, ignoring my bow, laid a hand on Flora’s arm.

“You will come home at once.”

I touched his shoulder. “Surely not,” I said, “seeing that the spectacle apparently wants but ten minutes of its climax.”

He swung on me in a passion. “For God’s sake, St. Ives, don’t force a quarrel now, of all moments! Man, haven’t you compromised my sister enough?”

“It seems to me that, having set a watch on your sister at the suggestion, and with the help of a casual Major of Foot, you might in decency reserve the word ‘compromise’ for home consumption; and further, that against adversaries so poorly sensitive to her feelings, your sister may be pardoned for putting her resentment into action.”

“Major Chevenix is a friend of the family.” But the lad blushed as he said it.

“The family?” I echoed. “So? Pray did your aunt invite his help? No, no, my dear Ronald; you cannot answer that. And while you play the game of insult to your sister, sir, I will see that you eat the discredit of it.”

“Excuse me,” interposed the Major, stepping forward. “As Ronald said, this is not the moment for quarrelling; and, as you observed, sir, the climax is not so far off. The runner and his men are even now coming round the hill. We saw them mounting the slope, and (I may add) your cousin’s carriage drawn up on the road below. The fact is, Miss Gilchrist has been traced to the hill: and as it secretly occurred to us that the quarry might be her objective, we arranged to take the ascent on this side. See there!” he cried, and flung out a hand.

I looked up. Sure enough, at that instant, a grey-coated figure appeared on the summit of the hill, not five hundred yards away to the left. He was followed closely by my friend of the moleskin waistcoat; and the pair came sidling down the slope towards us.

“Gentlemen,” said I, “it appears that I owe you my thanks. Your stratagem in any case was kindly meant.”

“There was Miss Gilchrist to consider,” said the Major stiffly. But Ronald cried, “Quick, St. Ives! Make a dash back by the quarry path. I warrant we don’t hinder.”

“Thank you, my friend: I have another notion. Flora,” I said, and took her hand, “here is our parting. The next five minutes will decide much. Be brave, dearest; and your thoughts go with me till I come again.”

“Wherever you go, I’ll think of you. Whatever happens, I’ll love you. Go, and God defend you, Anne!” Her breast heaved, as she faced the Major, red and shame-fast, indeed, but gloriously defiant.

“Quick!” cried she and her brother together. I kissed her hand and sprang down the hill.

I heard a shout behind me; and, glancing back, saw my pursuers, three now, with my full-bodied cousin for whipper-in – change their course as I leapt a brook and headed for the crowded enclosure. A somnolent fat man, bulging, like a feather-bed, on a three-legged stool, dozed at the receipt of custom, with a deal table and a bowl of sixpences before him. I dashed on him with a crown-piece.

“No change given,” he objected, waking up and fumbling with a bundle of pink tickets.

“None required.” I snatched the ticket and ran through the gateway.

I gave myself time for another look before mingling with the crowd. The moleskin waistcoat was leading now, and had reached the brook; with red-head a yard or two behind, and my cousin, a very bad third, panting – it pleased me to imagine how sorely – across the lower slopes to the eastward. The janitor leaned against his toll-bar and still followed me with a stare. Doubtless by my uncovered head and gala dress he judged me an all-night reveller – a strayed Bacchanal fooling in the morrow’s eye.

Prompt upon the inference came inspiration. I must win to the centre of the crowd, and a crowd is invariably indulgent to a drunkard. I hung out the glaring sign-board of crapulous glee. Lurching, hiccoughing, jostling, apologising to all and sundry with spacious incoherence, I plunged my way through the sightseers, and they gave me passage with all the good-humour in life.

I believe that I descended upon that crowd as a godsend, a dancing rivulet of laughter. They needed entertainment. A damper, less enthusiastic company never gathered to a public show. Though the rain had ceased, and the sun shone, those who possessed umbrellas were not to be coaxed, but held them aloft with a settled air of gloom which defied the lenitives of nature and the spasmodic cajolery of the worst band in Edinburgh. “It’ll be near full, Jock?” “It wull.” “He’ll be startin’ in a meenit?” “Aiblins he wull.” “Wull this be the sixt time ye’ve seen him?” “I shudna wonder.” It occurred to me that, had we come to bury Byfield, not to praise him, we might have displayed a blither interest.

Byfield himself, bending from the car beneath his gently swaying canopy of liver-colour and pale blue, directed the proceedings with a mien of saturnine preoccupation. He may have been calculating the receipts. As I squeezed to the front, his underlings were shifting the pipe which conveyed the hydrogen gas, and the Lunardi strained gently at its ropes. Somebody with a playful thrust sent me staggering into the clear space beneath.

And here a voice hailed and fetched me up with a round turn.

“Ducie, by all that’s friendly! Playmate of my youth and prop of my declining years, how goes it?”

It was the egregious Dalmahoy. He clung and steadied himself by one of the dozen ropes binding the car to earth; and with an air of doing it all by his unaided cleverness – an air so indescribably, so majestically drunken, that I could have blushed for the poor expedients which had carried me through the throng.

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t let go. Fact is, we’ve been keeping it up a bit all night. Byfield leaves us – to expatiate in realms untrodden by the foot of man —

“‘The feathered tribes on pinions cleave the air;
Not so the mackerel, and, still less, the bear.’

But Byfield does it – Byfield in his Monster Foolardi. One stroke of this knife (always supposing I miss my own hand), and the rope is severed: our common friend scales the empyrean. But he’ll come back – oh, never doubt he’ll come back! – and begin the dam business over again. Tha’s the law ’gravity ’cording to Byfield.”

Mr. Dalmahoy concluded inconsequently with a vocal imitation of a post-horn; and, looking up, I saw the head and shoulders of Byfield projected over the rim of the car.

He drew the natural inference from my dress and demeanour, and groaned aloud.

“O, go away – get out of it, Ducie! Isn’t one natural born ass enough for me to deal with? You fellows are guying the whole show!”

“Byfield!” I called up eagerly, “I’m not drunk. Reach me down the ladder, quick! A hundred guineas if you’ll take me with you!” I saw over the crowd, not ten deep behind me, the red head of the man in grey.

“That proves it,” said Byfield. “Go away; or at least keep quiet. I’m going to make a speech.” He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen – ”

I held up my packet of notes, “Here’s the money – for pity’s sake, man! There are bailiffs after me, in the crowd!”

“ – the spectacle which you have honoured with your enlightened patronage – I tell you I can’t.” He cast a glance behind him into the car – “with your enlightened patronage, needs but few words of introduction or commendation.”

“Hear, hear!” from Dalmahoy.

“Your attendance proves the sincerity of your interest – ”

I spread out the notes under his eyes. He blinked, but resolutely lifted his voice.

“The spectacle of a solitary voyager – ”

“Two hundred!” I called up.

“The spectacle of two hundred solitary voyagers – cradled in the brain of a Montgolfier and a Charles – O, stop it! I’m no public speaker! How the deuce – ?”

There was a lurch and a heave in the crowd. “Pitch oot the drunken loon!” cried a voice. The next moment I heard my cousin bawling for a clear passage. With the tail of my eye I caught a glimpse of his plethoric perspiring face as he came charging past the barrels of the hydrogen-apparatus; and, with that, Byfield had shaken down a rope-ladder and fixed it, and I was scrambling up like a cat.

“Cut the ropes!”