“For the coast of Massachusetts, I believe.”
“You believe?”
She nodded. “Young man, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go back.”
“Madam,” I answered, on the sudden impulse, “I am an escaped French prisoner.” And with that, having tossed my cap over the mills (as they say), I leaned back in the settee, and we regarded each other.
“——escaped,” I continued, still my eyes on hers, “with a trifle of money, but minus my heart. I write this to the fair daughter of Britain who has it in her keeping. And now what have you to say?”
“Ah, well,” she mused, “the Lord’s ways be past finding out. It may be the easier for you.”
Apparently it was the habit of this ship’s company to speak in enigmas. I caught up my pen again:
“... the coast of Massachusetts, in the United States of America, whence I hope to make my way in good time to France. Though you have news, dearest, I fear none can reach me for a while. Yet, and though you have no more to write than ‘I love you, Anne,’ write it, and commit it to Mr. Robbie, who will forward it to Mr. Romaine, who in turn may find a means to get it smuggled through to Paris, Rue du Fouarre, 16. It should be consigned to the widow Jupille, ‘to be called for by the corporal who praised her vin blanc.’ She will remember; and in truth a man who had the courage to praise it deserves remembrance as singular among the levies of France. Should a youth of the name of Rowley present himself before you, you may trust his fidelity absolutely, his sagacity not at all. And so (since the boat waits to take this) I kiss the name of Flora, and subscribe myself—until I come to claim her, and afterwards to eternity—her prisoner.
Anne.”
I had, in fact, a second reason for abbreviating this letter and sealing it in a hurry. The movements of the brig, though slight, were perceptible, and in the close air of the main cabin my head already began to swim. I hastened on deck in time to shake hands with my companions and confide the letter to Byfield with instructions for posting it. “And if your share in our adventure should come into public question,” said I, “you must apply to a Major Chevenix, now quartered in Edinburgh Castle, who has a fair inkling of the facts, and as a man of honour will not decline to assist you. You have Dalmahoy, too, to back your assertion that you knew me only as Mr. Ducie.” Upon Dalmahoy I pressed a note for his and Mr. Sheepshanks’s travelling expenses. “My dear fellow,” he protested, “I couldn’t dream ... if you are sure it won’t inconvenience ... merely as a loan ... and deuced handsome of you, I will say.” He kept the cutter waiting while he drew an I.O.U., in which I figured as Bursar and Almoner (honoris causà) to the Senatus Academicus of Cramond-on-Almond. Mr. Sheepshanks meanwhile shook hands with me impressively. “It has been a memorable experience, sir. I shall have much to tell my wife on my return.”