第87章 THE COTTAGE AT NIGHT(1)

AT the door I was nearly blown back by the unbridled violence of the squall, and Rowley and I must shout our parting words.All the way along Princes Street (whither my way led) the wind hunted me behind and screamed in my ears.The city was flushed with bucketfuls of rain that tasted salt from the neighbouring ocean.

It seemed to darken and lighten again in the vicissitudes of the gusts.Now you would say the lamps had been blown out from end to end of the long thoroughfare; now, in a lull, they would revive, re-multiply, shine again on the wet pavements, and make darkness sparingly visible.

By the time I had got to the corner of the Lothian Road there was a distinct improvement.For one thing, I had now my shoulder to the wind; for a second, I came in the lee of my old prison-house, the Castle; and, at any rate, the excessive fury of the blast was itself moderating.The thought of what errand I was on re-awoke within me, and I seemed to breast the rough weather with increasing ease.With such a destination, what mattered a little buffeting of wind or a sprinkle of cold water? I recalled Flora's image, I took her in fancy to my arms, and my heart throbbed.And the next moment I had recognised the inanity of that fool's paradise.If I could spy her taper as she went to bed, I might count myself lucky.

I had about two leagues before me of a road mostly uphill, and now deep in mire.So soon as I was clear of the last street lamp, darkness received me - a darkness only pointed by the lights of occasional rustic farms, where the dogs howled with uplifted heads as I went by.The wind continued to decline: it had been but a squall, not a tempest.The rain, on the other hand, settled into a steady deluge, which had soon drenched me thoroughly.I continued to tramp forward in the night, contending with gloomy thoughts and accompanied by the dismal ululation of the dogs.What ailed them that they should have been thus wakeful, and perceived the small sound of my steps amid the general reverberation of the rain, was more than I could fancy.I remembered tales with which I had been entertained in childhood.I told myself some murderer was going by, and the brutes perceived upon him the faint smell of blood; and the next moment, with a physical shock, I had applied the words to my own case!

Here was a dismal disposition for a lover.'Was ever lady in this humour wooed?' I asked myself, and came near turning back.It is never wise to risk a critical interview when your spirits are depressed, your clothes muddy, and your hands wet! But the boisterous night was in itself favourable to my enterprise: now, or perhaps never, I might find some way to have an interview with Flora; and if I had one interview (wet clothes, low spirits and all), I told myself there would certainly be another.

Arrived in the cottage-garden I found the circumstances mighty inclement.From the round holes in the shutters of the parlour, shafts of candle-light streamed forth; elsewhere the darkness was complete.The trees, the thickets, were saturated; the lower parts of the garden turned into a morass.At intervals, when the wind broke forth again, there passed overhead a wild coil of clashing branches; and between whiles the whole enclosure continuously and stridently resounded with the rain.I advanced close to the window and contrived to read the face of my watch.It was half-past seven; they would not retire before ten, they might not before midnight, and the prospect was unpleasant.In a lull of the wind I could hear from the inside the voice of Flora reading aloud; the words of course inaudible - only a flow of undecipherable speech, quiet, cordial, colourless, more intimate and winning, more eloquent of her personality, but not less beautiful than song.And the next moment the clamour of a fresh squall broke out about the cottage; the voice was drowned in its bellowing, and I was glad to retreat from my dangerous post.

For three egregious hours I must now suffer the elements to do their worst upon me, and continue to hold my ground in patience.I recalled the least fortunate of my services in the field: being out-sentry of the pickets in weather no less vile, sometimes unsuppered and with nothing to look forward to by way of breakfast but musket-balls; and they seemed light in comparison.So strangely are we built: so much more strong is the love of woman than the mere love of life.

At last my patience was rewarded.The light disappeared from the parlour and reappeared a moment after in the room above.I was pretty well informed for the enterprise that lay before me.I knew the lair of the dragon - that which was just illuminated.I knew the bower of my Rosamond, and how excellently it was placed on the ground-level, round the flank of the cottage and out of earshot of her formidable aunt.Nothing was left but to apply my knowledge.

I was then at the bottom of the garden, whether I had gone (Heaven save the mark!) for warmth, that I might walk to and fro unheard and keep myself from perishing.The night had fallen still, the wind ceased; the noise of the rain had much lightened, if it had not stopped, and was succeeded by the dripping of the garden trees.

In the midst of this lull, and as I was already drawing near to the cottage, I was startled by the sound of a window-sash screaming in its channels; and a step or two beyond I became aware of a gush of light upon the darkness.It fell from Flora's window, which she had flung open on the night, and where she now sat, roseate and pensive, in the shine of two candles falling from behind, her tresses deeply embowering and shading her; the suspended comb still in one hand, the other idly clinging to the iron stanchions with which the window was barred.