Fiction > Serialisations > London, 1896-1897 - St. Ives > Volume 13

io2 THE PALL MALL MAGAZINE.
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 shamefast, 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 inclosure. 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
signboard of crapulous glee. Lurching, hiccupping, 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. Nay — and this was better
—they closed in behind and followed to see the fun. Before my retinue grew
compact, I turned to assure a respectable matron that " we twa had paidl't i' the
burn from mornin' sun till dine," and caught a glimpse of my pursuers at the gate,
where the dispenser of tickets was clearly attempting to hold them by a long-winded
description of me.
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