“I think you speak very much at your ease,” cried I. “What else was I

to do? It is a fact I might have hired some decent, poor woman to be a

third to us, and I declare I never thought of it until this moment! But

where was I to find her, that am a foreigner myself? And let me point

out to your observation, Mr. Drummond, that it would have cost me money

out of my pocket. For here is just what it comes to, that I had to pay

through the nose for your neglect; and there is only the one story to

it, just that you were so unloving and so careless as to have lost your

daughter.”

“He that lives in a glass house should not be casting stones,” says he;

“and we will finish inquiring into the behaviour of Miss Drummond

before we go on to sit in judgment on her father.”

“But I will be entrapped into no such attitude,” said I. “The character

of Miss Drummond is far above inquiry, as her father ought to know. So

is mine, and I am telling you that. There are but the two ways of it

open. The one is to express your thanks to me as one gentleman to

another, and to say no more. The other (if you are so difficult as to

be still dissatisfied) is to pay me, that which I have expended and be

done.”

He seemed to soothe me with a hand in the air. “There, there,” said he.

“You go too fast, you go too fast, Mr. Balfour. It is a good thing that

I have learned to be more patient. And I believe you forget that I have

yet to see my daughter.”

I began to be a little relieved upon this speech and a change in the

man’s manner that I spied in him as soon as the name of money fell

between us.

“I was thinking it would be more fit—if you will excuse the plainness

of my dressing in your presence—that I should go forth and leave you to

encounter her alone?” said I.

“What I would have looked for at your hands!” says he; and there was no

mistake but what he said it civilly.

I thought this better and better still, and as I began to pull on my

hose, recalling the man’s impudent mendicancy at Prestongrange’s, I

determined to pursue what seemed to be my victory.

“If you have any mind to stay some while in Leyden,” said I, “this room

is very much at your disposal, and I can easy find another for myself:

in which way we shall have the least amount of flitting possible, there

being only one to change.”

“Why, sir,” said he, making his bosom big, “I think no shame of a

poverty I have come by in the service of my king; I make no secret that

my affairs are quite involved; and for the moment, it would be even

impossible for me to undertake a journey.”

“Until you have occasion to communicate with your friends,” said I,

“perhaps it might be convenient for you (as of course it would be

honourable to myself) if you were to regard yourself in the light of my

guest?”

“Sir,” said he, “when an offer is frankly made, I think I honour myself

most to imitate that frankness. Your hand, Mr. David; you have the

character that I respect the most; you are one of those from whom a

gentleman can take a favour and no more words about it. I am an old

soldier,” he went on, looking rather disgusted-like around my chamber,

“and you need not fear I shall prove burthensome. I have ate too often

at a dyke-side, drank of the ditch, and had no roof but the rain.”

“I should be telling you,” said I, “that our breakfasts are sent

customarily in about this time of morning. I propose I should go now to

the tavern, and bid them add a cover for yourself and delay the meal

the matter of an hour, which will give you an interval to meet your

daughter in.”

Methought his nostrils wagged at this. “O, an hour?” says he. “That is

perhaps superfluous. Half an hour, Mr. David, or say twenty minutes; I

shall do very well in that. And by the way,” he adds, detaining me by

the coat, “what is it you drink in the morning, whether ale or wine?”

“To be frank with you, sir,” says I, “I drink nothing else but spare,

cold water.”

“Tut-tut,” says he, “that is fair destruction to the stomach, take an

old campaigner’s word for it. Our country spirit at home is perhaps the

most entirely wholesome; but as that is not come-at-able, Rhenish or a

white wine of Burgundy will be next best.”

“I shall make it my business to see you are supplied,” said I.

“Why, very good,” said he, “and we shall make a man of you yet, Mr.

David.”

By this time, I can hardly say that I was minding him at all, beyond an

odd thought of the kind of father-in-law that he was like to prove; and

all my cares centred about the lass his daughter, to whom I determined

to convey some warning of her visitor. I stepped to the door

accordingly, and cried through the panels, knocking thereon at the same

time: “Miss Drummond, here is your father come at last.”

With that I went forth upon my errand, having (by two words)

extraordinarily damaged my affairs.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE THREESOME

Whether or not I was to be so much blamed, or rather perhaps pitied, I

must leave others to judge. My shrewdness (of which I have a good deal,

too) seems not so great with the ladies. No doubt, at the moment when I

awaked her, I was thinking a good deal of the effect upon James More;

and similarly when I returned and we were all sat down to breakfast, I

continued to behave to the young lady with deference and distance; as I

still think to have been most wise. Her father had cast doubts upon the

innocence of my friendship; and these, it was my first business to

allay. But there is a kind of an excuse for Catriona also. We had

shared in a scene of some tenderness and passion, and given and

received caresses: I had thrust her from me with violence; I had called

aloud upon her in the night from the one room to the other; she had

passed hours of wakefulness and weeping; and it is not to be supposed I

had been absent from her pillow thoughts. Upon the back of this, to be

awaked, with unaccustomed formality, under the name of Miss Drummond,

and to be thenceforth used with a great deal of distance and respect,

led her entirely in error on my private sentiments; and she was indeed

so incredibly abused as to imagine me repentant and trying to draw off!

The trouble betwixt us seems to have been this: that whereas I (since I

had first set eyes on his great hat) thought singly of James More, his

return and suspicions, she made so little of these that I may say she

scarce remarked them, and all her troubles and doings regarded what had

passed between us in the night before. This is partly to be explained

by the innocence and boldness of her character; and partly because

James More, having sped so ill in his interview with me, or had his

mouth closed by my invitation, said no word to her upon the subject. At

the breakfast, accordingly, it soon appeared we were at cross purposes.

I had looked to find her in clothes of her own: I found her (as if her

father were forgotten) wearing some of the best that I had bought for

her, and which she knew (or thought) that I admired her in. I had

looked to find her imitate my affectation of distance, and be most

precise and formal; instead I found her flushed and wild-like, with

eyes extraordinary bright, and a painful and varying expression,

calling me by name with a sort of appeal of tenderness, and referring

and deferring to my thoughts and wishes like an anxious or a suspected

wife.

But this was not for long. As I behold her so regardless of her own

interests, which I had jeopardised and was now endeavouring to recover,

I redoubled my own coldness in the manner of a lesson to the girl. The

more she came forward, the farther I drew back; the more she betrayed

the closeness of our intimacy, the more pointedly civil I became, until

even her father (if he had not been so engrossed with eating) might

have observed the opposition. In the midst of which, of a sudden, she

became wholly changed, and I told myself, with a good deal of relief,

that she had took the hint at last.

All day I was at my classes or in quest of my new lodging; and though

the hour of our customary walk hung miserably on my hands, I cannot say

but I was happy on the whole to find my way cleared, the girl again in

proper keeping, the father satisfied or at least acquiescent, and

myself free to prosecute my love with honour. At supper, as at all our

meals, it was James More that did the talking. No doubt but he talked

well if anyone could have believed him. But I will speak of him

presently more at large. The meal at an end, he rose, got his great

coat, and looking (as I thought) at me, observed he had affairs abroad.

I took this for a hint that I was to be going also, and got up;

whereupon the girl, who had scarce given me greeting at my entrance,

turned her eyes upon me wide open with a look that bade me stay. I

stood between them like a fish out of water, turning from one to the

other; neither seemed to observe me, she gazing on the floor, he

buttoning his coat: which vastly swelled my embarrassment. This

appearance of indifference argued, upon her side, a good deal of anger

very near to burst out. Upon his, I thought it horribly alarming; I

made sure there was a tempest brewing there; and considering that to be

the chief peril, turned towards him and put myself (so to speak) in the

man’s hands.

“Can I do anything for _you_, Mr. Drummond?” says I.

He stifled a yawn, which again I thought to be duplicity. “Why, Mr.

David,” said he, “since you are so obliging as to propose it, you might

show me the way to a certain tavern” (of which he gave the name) “where

I hope to fall in with some old companions in arms.”

There was no more to say, and I got my hat and cloak to bear him

company.

“And as for you,” say he to his daughter, “you had best go to your bed.

I shall be late home, and _Early to bed and early to rise_, _gars bonny

lasses have bright eyes_.”

Whereupon he kissed her with a good deal of tenderness, and ushered me

before him from the door. This was so done (I thought on purpose) that

it was scarce possible there should be any parting salutation; but I

observed she did not look at me, and set it down to terror of James

More.

It was some distance to that tavern. He talked all the way of matters

which did not interest me the smallest, and at the door dismissed me

with empty manners. Thence I walked to my new lodging, where I had not

so much as a chimney to hold me warm, and no society but my own

thoughts. These were still bright enough; I did not so much as dream

that Catriona was turned against me; I thought we were like folk

pledged; I thought we had been too near and spoke too warmly to be

severed, least of all by what were only steps in a most needful policy.

And the chief of my concern was only the kind of father-in-law that I

was getting, which was not at all the kind I would have chosen: and the

matter of how soon I ought to speak to him, which was a delicate point

on several sides. In the first place, when I thought how young I was I

blushed all over, and could almost have found it in my heart to have

desisted; only that if once I let them go from Leyden without

explanation, I might lose her altogether. And in the second place,

there was our very irregular situation to be kept in view, and the

rather scant measure of satisfaction I had given James More that

morning. I concluded, on the whole, that delay would not hurt anything,

yet I would not delay too long neither; and got to my cold bed with a

full heart.

The next day, as James More seemed a little on the complaining hand in

the matter of my chamber, I offered to have in more furniture; and

coming in the afternoon, with porters bringing chairs and tables, found

the girl once more left to herself. She greeted me on my admission

civilly, but withdrew at once to her own room, of which she shut the

door. I made my disposition, and paid and dismissed the men so that she

might hear them go, when I supposed she would at once come forth again

to speak to me. I waited yet awhile, then knocked upon her door.

“Catriona!” said I.

The door was opened so quickly, even before I had the word out, that I

thought she must have stood behind it listening. She remained there in

the interval quite still; but she had a look that I cannot put a name

on, as of one in a bitter trouble.

“Are we not to have our walk to-day either?” so I faltered.

“I am thanking you,” said she. “I will not be caring much to walk, now

that my father is come home.”

“But I think he has gone out himself and left you here alone,” said I.

“And do you think that was very kindly said?” she asked.

“It was not unkindly meant,” I replied. “What ails you, Catriona? What

have I done to you that you should turn from me like this?”

“I do not turn from you at all,” she said, speaking very carefully. “I

will ever be grateful to my friend that was good to me; I will ever be

his friend in all that I am able. But now that my father James More is

come again, there is a difference to be made, and I think there are

some things said and done that would be better to be forgotten. But I

will ever be your friend in all that I am able, and if that is not all

that . . . . if it is not so much . . . . Not that you will be caring!

But I would not have you think of me too hard. It was true what you

said to me, that I was too young to be advised, and I am hoping you

will remember I was just a child. I would not like to lose your

friendship, at all events.”

She began this very pale; but before she was done, the blood was in her

face like scarlet, so that not her words only, but her face and the

trembling of her very hands, besought me to be gentle. I saw, for the

first time, how very wrong I had done to place the child in that

position, where she had been entrapped into a moment’s weakness, and

now stood before me like a person shamed.

“Miss Drummond,” I said, and stuck, and made the same beginning once

again, “I wish you could see into my heart,” I cried. “You would read

there that my respect is undiminished. If that were possible, I should

say it was increased. This is but the result of the mistake we made;

and had to come; and the less said of it now the better. Of all of our

life here, I promise you it shall never pass my lips; I would like to

promise you too that I would never think of it, but it’s a memory that

will be always dear to me. And as for a friend, you have one here that

would die for you.”

“I am thanking you,” said she.

We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself began to get the upper

hand; for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumble, and my love

lost, and myself alone again in the world as at the beginning.

“Well,” said I, “we shall be friends always, that’s a certain thing.

But this is a kind of farewell, too: it’s a kind of a farewell after

all; I shall always ken Miss Drummond, but this is a farewell to my

Catriona.”

I looked at her; I could hardly say I saw her, but she seemed to grow

great and brighten in my eyes; and with that I suppose I must have lost

my head, for I called out her name again and made a step at her with my

hands reached forth.

She shrank back like a person struck, her face flamed; but the blood

sprang no faster up into her cheeks, than what it flowed back upon my

own heart, at sight of it, with penitence and concern. I found no words

to excuse myself, but bowed before her very deep, and went my ways out

of the house with death in my bosom.

I think it was about five days that followed without any change. I saw

her scarce ever but at meals, and then of course in the company of

James More. If we were alone even for a moment, I made it my devoir to

behave the more distantly and to multiply respectful attentions, having

always in my mind’s eye that picture of the girl shrinking and flaming

in a blush, and in my heart more pity for her than I could depict in

words. I was sorry enough for myself, I need not dwell on that, having

fallen all my length and more than all my height in a few seconds; but,

indeed, I was near as sorry for the girl, and sorry enough to be scarce

angry with her save by fits and starts. Her plea was good; she had been

placed in an unfair position; if she had deceived herself and me, it

was no more than was to have been looked for.

And for another thing she was now very much alone. Her father, when he

was by, was rather a caressing parent; but he was very easy led away by

his affairs and pleasures, neglected her without compunction or remark,

spent his nights in taverns when he had the money, which was more often

than I could at all account for; and even in the course of these few

days, failed once to come to a meal, which Catriona and I were at last

compelled to partake of without him. It was the evening meal, and I

left immediately that I had eaten, observing I supposed she would

prefer to be alone; to which she agreed and (strange as it may seem) I

quite believed her. Indeed, I thought myself but an eyesore to the

girl, and a reminder of a moment’s weakness that she now abhorred to

think of. So she must sit alone in that room where she and I had been

so merry, and in the blink of that chimney whose light had shone upon

our many difficult and tender moments. There she must sit alone, and

think of herself as of a maid who had most unmaidenly proffered her

affections and had the same rejected. And in the meanwhile I would be

alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was tempted to

be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female delicacy. And

altogether I suppose there were never two poor fools made themselves

more unhappy in a greater misconception.

As for James, he paid not so much heed to us, or to anything in nature

but his pocket, and his belly, and his own prating talk. Before twelve

hours were gone he had raised a small loan of me; before thirty, he had

asked for a second and been refused. Money and refusal he took with the

same kind of high good nature. Indeed, he had an outside air of

magnanimity that was very well fitted to impose upon a daughter; and

the light in which he was constantly presented in his talk, and the

man’s fine presence and great ways went together pretty harmoniously.

So that a man that had no business with him, and either very little

penetration or a furious deal of prejudice, might almost have been

taken in. To me, after my first two interviews, he was as plain as

print; I saw him to be perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in

the same; and I would hearken to his swaggering talk (of arms, and “an

old soldier,” and “a poor Highland gentleman,” and “the strength of my

country and my friends”) as I might to the babbling of a parrot.

The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some part of it himself, or

did at times; I think he was so false all through that he scarce knew

when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection must

have been wholly genuine. There were times when he would be the most

silent, affectionate, clinging creature possible, holding Catriona’s

hand like a big baby, and begging of me not to leave if I had any love

to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the more to his daughter.

He would press and indeed beseech us to entertain him with our talk, a

thing very difficult in the state of our relations; and again break

forth in pitiable regrets for his own land and friends, or into Gaelic

singing.

“This is one of the melancholy airs of my native land,” he would say.

“You may think it strange to see a soldier weep, and indeed it is to

make a near friend of you,” says he. “But the notes of this singing are

in my blood, and the words come out of my heart. And when I mind upon

my red mountains and the wild birds calling there, and the brave

streams of water running down, I would scarce think shame to weep

before my enemies.” Then he would sing again, and translate to me

pieces of the song, with a great deal of boggling and much expressed

contempt against the English language. “It says here,” he would say,

“that the sun is gone down, and the battle is at an end, and the brave

chiefs are defeated. And it tells here how the stars see them fleeing

into strange countries or lying dead on the red mountain; and they will

never more shout the call of battle or wash their feet in the streams

of the valley. But if you had only some of this language, you would

weep also because the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is

mere mockery to tell you it in English.”

Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery in the business, one

way and another; and yet, there was some feeling too, for which I hated

him, I think, the worst of all. And it used to cut me to the quick to

see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, and weeping herself

to see him weep, when I was sure one half of his distress flowed from

his last night’s drinking in some tavern. There were times when I was

tempted to lend him a round sum, and see the last of him for good; but

this would have been to see the last of Catriona as well, for which I

was scarcely so prepared; and besides, it went against my conscience to

squander my good money on one who was so little of a husband.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A TWOSOME

I believe it was about the fifth day, and I know at least that James

was in one of his fits of gloom, when I received three letters. The

first was from Alan, offering to visit me in Leyden; the other two were

out of Scotland and prompted by the same affair, which was the death of

my uncle and my own complete accession to my rights. Rankeillor’s was,

of course, wholly in the business view; Miss Grant’s was like herself,

a little more witty than wise, full of blame to me for not having

written (though how was I to write with such intelligence?) and of

rallying talk about Catriona, which it cut me to the quick to read in

her very presence.

For it was of course in my own rooms that I found them, when I came to

dinner, so that I was surprised out of my news in the very first moment

of reading it. This made a welcome diversion for all three of us, nor

could any have foreseen the ill consequences that ensued. It was

accident that brought the three letters the same day, and that gave

them into my hand in the same room with James More; and of all the

events that flowed from that accident, and which I might have prevented

if I had held my tongue, the truth is that they were preordained before

Agricola came into Scotland or Abraham set out upon his travels.

The first that I opened was naturally Alan’s; and what more natural

than that I should comment on his design to visit me? but I observed

James to sit up with an air of immediate attention.

“Is that not Alan Breck that was suspected of the Appin accident?” he

inquired.

I told him, “Ay,” it was the same; and he withheld me some time from my

other letters, asking of our acquaintance, of Alan’s manner of life in

France, of which I knew very little, and further of his visit as now

proposed.

“All we forfeited folk hang a little together,” he explained, “and

besides I know the gentleman: and though his descent is not the thing,

and indeed he has no true right to use the name of Stewart, he was very

much admired in the day of Drummossie. He did there like a soldier; if

some that need not be named had done as well, the upshot need not have

been so melancholy to remember. There were two that did their best that

day, and it makes a bond between the pair of us,” says he.

I could scarce refrain from shooting out my tongue at him, and could

almost have wished that Alan had been there to have inquired a little

further into that mention of his birth. Though, they tell me, the same

was indeed not wholly regular.

Meanwhile, I had opened Miss Grant’s, and could not withhold an

exclamation.

“Catriona,” I cried, forgetting, the first time since her father was

arrived, to address her by a handle, “I am come into my kingdom fairly,

I am the laird of Shaws indeed—my uncle is dead at last.”

She clapped her hands together leaping from her seat. The next moment

it must have come over both of us at once what little cause of joy was

left to either, and we stood opposite, staring on each other sadly.

But James showed himself a ready hypocrite. “My daughter,” says he, “is

this how my cousin learned you to behave? Mr. David has lost a new

friend, and we should first condole with him on his bereavement.”

“Troth, sir,” said I, turning to him in a kind of anger, “I can make no

such great faces. His death is as blithe news as ever I got.”

“It’s a good soldier’s philosophy,” says James. “’Tis the way of flesh,

we must all go, all go. And if the gentleman was so far from your

favour, why, very well! But we may at least congratulate you on your

accession to your estates.”

“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with the same heat. “It is a

good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough already? I

had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for the man’s

death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess it!—I see not

how anyone is to be bettered by this change.”

“Come, come,” said he, “you are more affected than you let on, or you

would never make yourself out so lonely. Here are three letters; that

means three that wish you well; and I could name two more, here in this

very chamber. I have known you not so very long, but Catriona, when we

are alone, is never done with the singing of your praises.”

She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at once

into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during the most of

the dinner time) he continued to dwell upon with interest. But it was

to no purpose he dissembled; he had touched the matter with too gross a

hand: and I knew what to expect. Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly

discovered his designs. He reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her

attend to it. “I do not see you should be one beyond the hour,” he

added, “and friend David will be good enough to bear me company till

you return.” She made haste to obey him without words. I do not know if

she understood, I believe not; but I was completely satisfied, and sat

strengthening my mind for what should follow.

The door had scarce closed behind her departure, when the man leaned

back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectation of easiness.

Only the one thing betrayed him, and that was his face; which suddenly

shone all over with fine points of sweat.

“I am rather glad to have a word alone with you,” says he, “because in

our first interview there were some expressions you misapprehended and

I have long meant to set you right upon. My daughter stands beyond

doubt. So do you, and I would make that good with my sword against all

gainsayers. But, my dear David, this world is a censorious place—as who

should know it better than myself, who have lived ever since the days

of my late departed father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of

calumnies? We have to face to that; you and me have to consider of

that; we have to consider of that.” And he wagged his head like a

minister in a pulpit.

“To what effect, Mr. Drummond?” said I. “I would be obliged to you if

you would approach your point.”

“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “like your character, indeed! and what I

most admire in it. But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes in a

kittle bit.” He filled a glass of wine. “Though between you and me,

that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long. The point, I

need scarcely tell you, is my daughter. And the first thing is that I

have no thought in my mind of blaming you. In the unfortunate

circumstances, what could you do else? ’Deed, and I cannot tell.”

“I thank you for that,” said I, pretty close upon my guard.

“I have besides studied your character,” he went on; “your talents are

fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which does no harm; and

one thing with another, I am very happy to have to announce to you that

I have decided on the latter of the two ways open.”

“I am afraid I am dull,” said I. “What ways are these?”

He bent his brows upon me formidably and uncrossed his legs. “Why,

sir,” says he, “I think I need scarce describe them to a gentleman of

your condition; either that I should cut your throat or that you should

marry my daughter.”

“You are pleased to be quite plain at last,” said I.

“And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!” cries he

robustiously. “I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank God, a

patient and deleeborate man. There is many a father, sir, that would

have hirsled you at once either to the altar or the field. My esteem

for your character—”

“Mr. Drummond,” I interrupted, “if you have any esteem for me at all, I

will beg of you to moderate your voice. It is quite needless to rowt at

a gentleman in the same chamber with yourself and lending you his best

attention.”

“Why, very true,” says he, with an immediate change. “And you must

excuse the agitations of a parent.”

“I understand you then,” I continued—“for I will take no note of your

other alternative, which perhaps it was a pity you let fall—I

understand you rather to offer me encouragement in case I should desire

to apply for your daughter’s hand?”

“It is not possible to express my meaning better,” said he, “and I see

we shall do well together.”

“That remains to be yet seen,” said I. “But so much I need make no

secret of, that I bear the lady you refer to the most tender affection,

and I could not fancy, even in a dream, a better fortune than to get

her.”

“I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David,” he cried, and reached

out his hand to me.

I put it by. “You go too fast, Mr. Drummond,” said I. “There are

conditions to be made; and there is a difficulty in the path, which I

see not entirely how we shall come over. I have told you that, upon my

side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have good reason to

believe there will be much on the young lady’s.”

“This is all beside the mark,” says he. “I will engage for her

acceptance.”

“I think you forget, Mr. Drummond,” said I, “that, even in dealing with

myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalatable expressions.

I will have none such employed to the young lady. I am here to speak

and think for the two of us; and I give you to understand that I would

no more let a wife be forced upon myself, than what I would let a

husband be forced on the young lady.”

He sat and glowered at me like one in doubt and a good deal of temper.

“So that is to be the way of it,” I concluded. “I will marry Miss

Drummond, and that blithely, if she is entirely willing. But if there

be the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear—marry her will I

never.”

“Well well,” said he, “this is a small affair. As soon as she returns I

will sound her a bit, and hope to reassure you—”

But I cut in again. “Not a finger of you, Mr. Drummond, or I cry off,

and you can seek a husband to your daughter somewhere else,” said I.

“It is I that am to be the only dealer and the only judge. I shall

satisfy myself exactly; and none else shall anyways meddle—you the

least of all.”

“Upon my word, sir!” he exclaimed, “and who are you to be the judge?”

“The bridegroom, I believe,” said I.

“This is to quibble,” he cried. “You turn your back upon the fact. The

girl, my daughter, has no choice left to exercise. Her character is

gone.”

“And I ask your pardon,” said I, “but while this matter lies between

her and you and me, that is not so.”

“What security have I!” he cried. “Am I to let my daughter’s reputation

depend upon a chance?”

“You should have thought of all this long ago,” said I, “before you

were so misguided as to lose her; and not afterwards when it is quite

too late. I refuse to regard myself as any way accountable for your

neglect, and I will be browbeat by no man living. My mind is quite made

up, and come what may, I will not depart from it a hair’s breadth. You

and me are to sit here in company till her return: upon which, without

either word or look from you, she and I are to go forth again to hold

our talk. If she can satisfy me that she is willing to this step, I

will then make it; and if she cannot, I will not.”

He leaped out of his chair like a man stung. “I can spy your manœuvre,”

he cried; “you would work upon her to refuse!”

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” said I. “That is the way it is to be,

whatever.”

“And if I refuse?” cries he.

“Then, Mr. Drummond, it will have to come to the throat-cutting,” said

I.

What with the size of the man, his great length of arm in which he came

near rivalling his father, and his reputed skill at weapons, I did not

use this word without trepidation, to say nothing at all of the

circumstance that he was Catriona’s father. But I might have spared

myself alarms. From the poorness of my lodging—he does not seem to have

remarked his daughter’s dresses, which were indeed all equally new to

him—and from the fact that I had shown myself averse to lend, he had

embraced a strong idea of my poverty. The sudden news of my estate

convinced him of his error, and he had made but the one bound of it on

this fresh venture, to which he was now so wedded, that I believe he

would have suffered anything rather than fall to the alternative of

fighting.

A little while longer he continued to dispute with me, until I hit upon

a word that silenced him.

“If I find you so averse to let me see the lady by herself,” said I, “I

must suppose you have very good grounds to think me in the right about

her unwillingness.”

He gabbled some kind of an excuse.

“But all this is very exhausting to both of our tempers,” I added, “and

I think we would do better to preserve a judicious silence.”

The which we did until the girl returned, and I must suppose would have

cut a very ridiculous figure had there been any there to view us.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE

I opened the door to Catriona and stopped her on the threshold.

“Your father wishes us to take our walk,” said I.

She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, like a trained

soldier, she turned to go with me.

We took one of our old ways, where we had gone often together, and been

more happy than I can tell of in the past. I came a half a step behind,

so that I could watch her unobserved. The knocking of her little shoes

upon the way sounded extraordinary pretty and sad; and I thought it a

strange moment that I should be so near both ends of it at once, and

walk in the midst between two destinies, and could not tell whether I

was hearing these steps for the last time, or whether the sound of them

was to go in and out with me till death should part us.

She avoided even to look at me, only walked before her, like one who

had a guess of what was coming. I saw I must speak soon before my

courage was run out, but where to begin I knew not. In this painful

situation, when the girl was as good as forced into my arms and had

already besought my forbearance, any excess of pressure must have

seemed indecent; yet to avoid it wholly would have a very cold-like

appearance. Between these extremes I stood helpless, and could have bit

my fingers; so that, when at last I managed to speak at all, it may be

said I spoke at random.

“Catriona,” said I, “I am in a very painful situation; or rather, so we

are both; and I would be a good deal obliged to you if you would

promise to let me speak through first of all, and not to interrupt me

till I have done.”

She promised me that simply.

“Well,” said I, “this that I have got to say is very difficult, and I

know very well I have no right to be saying it. After what passed

between the two of us last Friday, I have no manner of right. We have

got so ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I know very well the

least I could do is just to hold my tongue, which was what I intended

fully, and there was nothing further from my thoughts than to have

troubled you again. But, my dear, it has become merely necessary, and

no way by it. You see, this estate of mine has fallen in, which makes

of me rather a better match; and the—the business would not have quite

the same ridiculous-like appearance that it would before. Besides

which, it’s supposed that our affairs have got so much ravelled up (as

I was saying) that it would be better to let them be the way they are.

In my view, this part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were

you I would not wear two thoughts on it. Only it’s right I should

mention the same, because there’s no doubt it has some influence on

James More. Then I think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together

in this town before. I think we did pretty well together. If you would

look back, my dear—”

“I will look neither back nor forward,” she interrupted. “Tell me the

one thing: this is my father’s doing?”

“He approves of it,” said I. “He approved I that I should ask your hand

in marriage,” and was going on again with somewhat more of an appeal

upon her feelings; but she marked me not, and struck into the midst.

“He told you to!” she cried. “It is no sense denying it, you said

yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts. He told you

to.”

“He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean,” I began.

She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her; but

at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she would

have run.

“Without which,” I went on, “after what you said last Friday, I would

never have been so troublesome as make the offer. But when he as good

as asked me, what was I to do?”

She stopped and turned round upon me.

“Well, it is refused at all events,” she cried, “and there will be an

end of that.”

And she began again to walk forward.

“I suppose I could expect no better,” said I, “but I think you might

try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it. I see not why you

should be harsh. I have loved you very well, Catriona—no harm that I

should call you so for the last time. I have done the best that I could

manage, I am trying the same still, and only vexed that I can do no

better. It is a strange thing to me that you can take any pleasure to

be hard to me.”

“I am not thinking of you,” she said, “I am thinking of that man, my

father.”

“Well, and that way, too!” said I. “I can be of use to you that way,

too; I will have to be. It is very needful, my dear, that we should

consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone, an angry man

will be James More.”

She stopped again. “It is because I am disgraced?” she asked.

“That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have told you already

to make nought of it.”

“It will be all one to me,” she cried. “I prefer to be disgraced!”

I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent.

There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last cry;

presently she broke out, “And what is the meaning of all this? Why is

all this shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it, David

Balfour?”

“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?”

“I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy you to be calling me these

words.”

“I am not thinking of my words,” said I. “My heart bleeds for you, Miss

Drummond. Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in your

difficult position. But there is just the one thing that I wish you

would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss it quietly;

for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two get home. Take my

word for it, it will need the two of us to make this matter end in

peace.”

“Ay,” said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her cheeks.

“Was he for fighting you?” said she.

“Well, he was that,” said I.

She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. “At all events, it is complete!” she

cried. And then turning on me. “My father and I are a fine pair,” said

she, “but I am thanking the good God there will be somebody worse than

what we are. I am thanking the good God that he has let me see you so.

There will never be the girl made that will not scorn you.”

I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this was over the mark.

“You have no right to speak to me like that,” said I. “What have I done

but to be good to you, or try to be? And here is my repayment! O, it is

too much.”

She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. “Coward!” said she.

“The word in your throat and in your father’s!” I cried. “I have dared

him this day already in your interest. I will dare him again, the nasty

pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall! Come,” said I, “back

to the house with us; let us be done with it, let me be done with the

whole Hieland crew of you! You will see what you think when I am dead.”

She shook her head at me with that same smile I could have struck her

for.

“O, smile away!” I cried. “I have seen your bonny father smile on the

wrong side this day. Not that I mean he was afraid, of course,” I added

hastily, “but he preferred the other way of it.”

“What is this?” she asked.

“When I offered to draw with him,” said I.

“You offered to draw upon James More!” she cried.

“And I did so,” said I, “and found him backward enough, or how would we

be here?”

“There is a meaning upon this,” said she. “What is it you are meaning?”

“He was to make you take me,” I replied, “and I would not have it. I

said you should be free, and I must speak with you alone; little I

supposed it would be such a speaking! ‘_And what if I refuse_?’ said

he.—‘_Then it must come to the throat-cutting_,’ says I, ‘_for I will

no more have a husband forced on that young lady_, _than what I would

have a wife forced upon myself_.’ These were my words, they were a

friend’s words; bonnily have I paid for them! Now you have refused me

of your own clear free will, and there lives no father in the

Highlands, or out of them, that can force on this marriage. I will see

that your wishes are respected; I will make the same my business, as I

have all through. But I think you might have that decency as to affect

some gratitude. ’Deed, and I thought you knew me better! I have not

behaved quite well to you, but that was weakness. And to think me a

coward, and such a coward as that—O, my lass, there was a stab for the

last of it!”

“Davie, how would I guess?” she cried. “O, this is a dreadful business!

Me and mine,”—she gave a kind of a wretched cry at the word—“me and

mine are not fit to speak to you. O, I could be kneeling down to you in

the street, I could be kissing your hands for forgiveness!”

“I will keep the kisses I have got from you already,” cried I. “I will

keep the ones I wanted and that were something worth; I will not be

kissed in penitence.”

“What can you be thinking of this miserable girl?” says she.

“What I am trying to tell you all this while!” said I, “that you had

best leave me alone, whom you can make no more unhappy if you tried,

and turn your attention to James More, your father, with whom you are

like to have a queer pirn to wind.”

“O, that I must be going out into the world alone with such a man!” she

cried, and seemed to catch herself in with a great effort. “But trouble

yourself no more for that,” said she. “He does not know what kind of

nature is in my heart. He will pay me dear for this day of it; dear,

dear, will he pay.”

She turned, and began to go home and I to accompany her. At which she

stopped.

“I will be going alone,” she said. “It is alone I must be seeing him.”

Some little time I raged about the streets, and told myself I was the

worst used lad in Christendom. Anger choked me; it was all very well

for me to breathe deep; it seemed there was not air enough about Leyden

to supply me, and I thought I would have burst like a man at the bottom

of the sea. I stopped and laughed at myself at a street corner a minute

together, laughing out loud, so that a passenger looked at me, which

brought me to myself.

“Well,” I thought, “I have been a gull and a ninny and a soft Tommy

long enough. Time it was done. Here is a good lesson to have nothing to

do with that accursed sex, that was the ruin of the man in the

beginning and will be so to the end. God knows I was happy enough

before ever I saw her; God knows I can be happy enough again when I

have seen the last of her.”

That seemed to me the chief affair: to see them go. I dwelled upon the

idea fiercely; and presently slipped on, in a kind of malevolence, to

consider how very poorly they were likely to fare when Davie Balfour

was no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which, to my very own great

surprise, the disposition of my mind turned bottom up. I was still

angry; I still hated her; and yet I thought I owed it to myself that

she should suffer nothing.

This carried me home again at once, where I found the mails drawn out

and ready fastened by the door, and the father and daughter with every

mark upon them of a recent disagreement. Catriona was like a wooden

doll; James More breathed hard, his face was dotted with white spots,

and his nose upon one side. As soon as I came in, the girl looked at

him with a steady, clear, dark look that might have been followed by a

blow. It was a hint that was more contemptuous than a command, and I

was surprised to see James More accept it. It was plain he had had a

master talking-to; and I could see there must be more of the devil in

the girl than I had guessed, and more good humour about the man than I

had given him the credit of.

He began, at least, calling me Mr. Balfour, and plainly speaking from a

lesson; but he got not very far, for at the first pompous swell of his

voice, Catriona cut in.

“I will tell you what James More is meaning,” said she. “He means we

have come to you, beggar-folk, and have not behaved to you very well,

and we are ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour. Now we are

wanting to go away and be forgotten; and my father will have guided his

gear so ill, that we cannot even do that unless you will give us some

more alms. For that is what we are, at an events, beggar-folk and

sorners.”

“By your leave, Miss Drummond,” said I, “I must speak to your father by

myself.”

She went into her own room and shut the door, without a word or a look.

“You must excuse her, Mr. Balfour,” says James More. “She has no

delicacy.”

“I am not here to discuss that with you,” said I, “but to be quit of

you. And to that end I must talk of your position. Now, Mr. Drummond, I

have kept the run of your affairs more closely than you bargained for.

I know you had money of your own when you were borrowing mine. I know

you have had more since you were here in Leyden, though you concealed

it even from your daughter.”

“I bid you beware. I will stand no more baiting,” he broke out. “I am

sick of her and you. What kind of a damned trade is this to be a

parent! I have had expressions used to me—” There he broke off. “Sir,

this is the heart of a soldier and a parent,” he went on again, laying

his hand on his bosom, “outraged in both characters—and I bid you

beware.”

“If you would have let me finish,” says I, “you would have found I

spoke for your advantage.”

“My dear friend,” he cried, “I know I might have relied upon the

generosity of your character.”

“Man! will you let me speak?” said I. “The fact is that I cannot win to

find out if you are rich or poor. But it is my idea that your means, as

they are mysterious in their source, so they are something insufficient

in amount; and I do not choose your daughter to be lacking. If I durst

speak to herself, you may be certain I would never dream of trusting it

to you; because I know you like the back of my hand, and all your

blustering talk is that much wind to me. However, I believe in your way

you do still care something for your daughter after all; and I must

just be doing with that ground of confidence, such as it is.”

Whereupon, I arranged with him that he was to communicate with me, as

to his whereabouts and Catriona’s welfare, in consideration of which I

was to serve him a small stipend.

He heard the business out with a great deal of eagerness; and when it

was done, “My dear fellow, my dear son,” he cried out, “this is more

like yourself than any of it yet! I will serve you with a soldier’s

faithfulness—”

“Let me hear no more of it!” says I. “You have got me to that pitch

that the bare name of soldier rises on my stomach. Our traffic is

settled; I am now going forth and will return in one half-hour, when I

expect to find my chambers purged of you.”

I gave them good measure of time; it was my one fear that I might see

Catriona again, because tears and weakness were ready in my heart, and

I cherished my anger like a piece of dignity. Perhaps an hour went by;

the sun had gone down, a little wisp of a new moon was following it

across a scarlet sunset; already there were stars in the east, and in

my chambers, when at last I entered them, the night lay blue. I lit a

taper and reviewed the rooms; in the first there remained nothing so

much as to awake a memory of those who were gone; but in the second, in

a corner of the floor, I spied a little heap that brought my heart into

my mouth. She had left behind at her departure all that she had ever

had of me. It was the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was

the last; and I fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved myself more

foolish than I care to tell of.

Late in the night, in a strict frost, and my teeth chattering, I came

again by some portion of my manhood and considered with myself. The

sight of these poor frocks and ribbons, and her shifts, and the clocked

stockings, was not to be endured; and if I were to recover any

constancy of mind, I saw I must be rid of them ere the morning. It was

my first thought to have made a fire and burned them; but my

disposition has always been opposed to wastery, for one thing; and for

another, to have burned these things that she had worn so close upon

her body seemed in the nature of a cruelty. There was a corner cupboard

in that chamber; there I determined to bestow them. The which I did and

made it a long business, folding them with very little skill indeed but

the more care; and sometimes dropping them with my tears. All the heart

was gone out of me, I was weary as though I had run miles, and sore

like one beaten; when, as I was folding a kerchief that she wore often

at her neck, I observed there was a corner neatly cut from it. It was a

kerchief of a very pretty hue, on which I had frequently remarked; and

once that she had it on, I remembered telling her (by way of a banter)

that she wore my colours. There came a glow of hope and like a tide of

sweetness in my bosom; and the next moment I was plunged back in a

fresh despair. For there was the corner crumpled in a knot and cast

down by itself in another part of the floor.

But when I argued with myself, I grew more hopeful. She had cut that

corner off in some childish freak that was manifestly tender; that she

had cast it away again was little to be wondered at; and I was inclined

to dwell more upon the first than upon the second, and to be more

pleased that she had ever conceived the idea of that keepsake, than

concerned because she had flung it from her in an hour of natural

resentment.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WE MEET IN DUNKIRK

Altogether, then, I was scare so miserable the next days but what I had

many hopeful and happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal of

constancy upon my studies; and made out to endure the time till Alan

should arrive, or I might hear word of Catriona by the means of James

More. I had altogether three letters in the time of our separation. One

was to announce their arrival in the town of Dunkirk in France, from

which place James shortly after started alone upon a private mission.

This was to England and to see Lord Holderness; and it has always been

a bitter thought that my good money helped to pay the charges of the

same. But he has need of a long spoon who soups with the de’il, or

James More either. During this absence, the time was to fall due for

another letter; and as the letter was the condition of his stipend, he

had been so careful as to prepare it beforehand and leave it with

Catriona to be despatched. The fact of our correspondence aroused her

suspicions, and he was no sooner gone than she had burst the seal. What

I received began accordingly in the writing of James More:

“My dear Sir,—Your esteemed favour came to hand duly, and I have to

acknowledge the inclosure according to agreement. It shall be all

faithfully expended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to be

remembered to her dear friend. I find her in rather a melancholy

disposition, but trust in the mercy of God to see her re-established.

Our manner of life is very much alone, but we solace ourselves with the

melancholy tunes of our native mountains, and by walking up the margin

of the sea that lies next to Scotland. It was better days with me when

I lay with five wounds upon my body on the field of Gladsmuir. I have

found employment here in the _haras_ of a French nobleman, where my

experience is valued. But, my dear Sir, the wages are so exceedingly

unsuitable that I would be ashamed to mention them, which makes your

remittances the more necessary to my daughter’s comfort, though I

daresay the sight of old friends would be still better.

“My dear Sir,

“Your affectionate, obedient servant,

“James Macgregor Drummond.”

Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:—

“Do not be believing him, it is all lies together,—C. M. D.”

Not only did she add this postscript, but I think she must have come

near suppressing the letter; for it came long after date, and was

closely followed by the third. In the time betwixt them, Alan had

arrived, and made another life to me with his merry conversation; I had

been presented to his cousin of the Scots-Dutch, a man that drank more

than I could have thought possible and was not otherwise of interest; I

had been entertained to many jovial dinners and given some myself, all

with no great change upon my sorrow; and we two (by which I mean Alan

and myself, and not at all the cousin) had discussed a good deal the

nature of my relations with James More and his daughter. I was

naturally diffident to give particulars; and this disposition was not

anyway lessened by the nature of Alan’s commentary upon those I gave.

“I cannae make heed nor tail of it,” he would say, “but it sticks in my

mind ye’ve made a gowk of yourself. There’s few people that has had

more experience than Alan Breck: and I can never call to mind to have

heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours. The way that you tell

it, the thing’s fair impossible. Ye must have made a terrible hash of

the business, David.”

“There are whiles that I am of the same mind,” said I.

“The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind of fancy for her

too!” said Alan.

“The biggest kind, Alan,” said I, “and I think I’ll take it to my grave

with me.”

“Well, ye beat me, whatever!” he would conclude.

I showed him the letter with Catriona’s postscript. “And here again!”

he cried. “Impossible to deny a kind of decency to this Catriona, and

sense forby! As for James More, the man’s as boss as a drum; he’s just

a wame and a wheen words; though I’ll can never deny that he fought

reasonably well at Gladsmuir, and it’s true what he says here about the

five wounds. But the loss of him is that the man’s boss.”

“Ye see, Alan,” said I, “it goes against the grain with me to leave the

maid in such poor hands.”

“Ye couldnae weel find poorer,” he admitted. “But what are ye to do

with it? It’s this way about a man and a woman, ye see, Davie: The

weemenfolk have got no kind of reason to them. Either they like the

man, and then a’ goes fine; or else they just detest him, and ye may

spare your breath—ye can do naething. There’s just the two sets of

them—them that would sell their coats for ye, and them that never look

the road ye’re on. That’s a’ that there is to women; and you seem to be

such a gomeral that ye cannae tell the tane frae the tither.”

“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I.

“And yet there’s naething easier!” cried Alan. “I could easy learn ye

the science of the thing; but ye seem to me to be born blind, and

there’s where the deefficulty comes in.”

“And can _you_ no help me?” I asked, “you that are so clever at the

trade?”

“Ye see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like a field officer that

has naebody but blind men for scouts and _éclaireurs_; and what would

he ken? But it sticks in my mind that ye’ll have made some kind of

bauchle; and if I was you I would have a try at her again.”

“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I.

“I would e’en’t,” says he.

The third letter came to my hand while we were deep in some such talk:

and it will be seen how pat it fell to the occasion. James professed to

be in some concern upon his daughter’s health, which I believe was

never better; abounded in kind expressions to myself; and finally

proposed that I should visit them at Dunkirk.

“You will now be enjoying the society of my old comrade Mr. Stewart,”

he wrote. “Why not accompany him so far in his return to France? I have

something very particular for Mr. Stewart’s ear; and, at any rate, I

would be pleased to meet in with an old fellow-soldier and one so

mettle as himself. As for you, my dear sir, my daughter and I would be

proud to receive our benefactor, whom we regard as a brother and a son.

The French nobleman has proved a person of the most filthy avarice of

character, and I have been necessitate to leave the _haras_. You will

find us in consequence a little poorly lodged in the _auberge_ of a man

Bazin on the dunes; but the situation is caller, and I make no doubt

but we might spend some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I

could recall our services, and you and my daughter divert yourselves in

a manner more befitting your age. I beg at least that Mr. Stewart would

come here; my business with him opens a very wide door.”

“What does the man want with me?” cried Alan, when he had read. “What

he wants with you is clear enough—it’s siller. But what can he want

with Alan Breck?”

“O, it’ll be just an excuse,” said I. “He is still after this marriage,

which I wish from my heart that we could bring about. And he asks you

because he thinks I would be less likely to come wanting you.”

“Well, I wish that I kent,” says Alan. “Him and me were never onyways

pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers. ‘Something for my

ear,’ quo’ he! I’ll maybe have something for his hinder-end, before

we’re through with it. Dod, I’m thinking it would be a kind of

divertisement to gang and see what he’ll be after! Forby that I could

see your lassie then. What say ye, Davie? Will ye ride with Alan?”

You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan’s furlough running towards

an end, we set forth presently upon this joint adventure.

It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into the town of

Dunkirk. We left our horses at the post, and found a guide to Bazin’s

Inn, which lay beyond the walls. Night was quite fallen, so that we

were the last to leave that fortress, and heard the doors of it close

behind us as we passed the bridge. On the other side there lay a

lighted suburb, which we thridded for a while, then turned into a dark

lane, and presently found ourselves wading in the night among deep sand

where we could hear a bullering of the sea. We travelled in this

fashion for some while, following our conductor mostly by the sound of

his voice; and I had begun to think he was perhaps misleading us, when

we came to the top of a small brae, and there appeared out of the

darkness a dim light in a window.

“_Voilà l’auberge à Bazin_,” says the guide.

Alan smacked his lips. “An unco lonely bit,” said he, and I thought by

his tone he was not wholly pleased.

A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that house, which

was all in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the chambers at

the side, benches and tables by the wall, the cooking fire at the one

end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-trap at the other.

Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man, told us the Scottish

gentleman was gone abroad he knew not where, but the young lady was

above, and he would call her down to us.

I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner, and knotted it

about my throat. I could hear my heart go; and Alan patting me on the

shoulder with some of his laughable expressions, I could scarce refrain

from a sharp word. But the time was not long to wait. I heard her step

pass overhead, and saw her on the stair. This she descended very

quietly, and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming of

earnestness, or uneasiness, in her manner that extremely dashed me.

“My father, James More, will be here soon. He will be very pleased to

see you,” she said. And then of a sudden her face flamed, her eyes

lightened, the speech stopped upon her lips; and I made sure she had

observed the kerchief. It was only for a breath that she was

discomposed; but methought it was with a new animation that she turned

to welcome Alan. “And you will be his friend, Alan Breck?” she cried.

“Many is the dozen times I will have heard him tell of you; and I love

you already for all your bravery and goodness.”

“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his and viewing her, “and

so this is the young lady at the last of it! David, ye’re an awful poor

hand of a description.”

I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to people’s

hearts; the sound of his voice was like song.

“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried.

“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he, “forby a

bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood by

Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said.

And now there’s one thing sure; you and me are to be a pair of friends.

I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I’m like a tyke at his heels;

and whatever he cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by the holy

airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see what way you stand

with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find ye’ll hardly lose on the transaction.

He’s no very bonnie, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.”

“I thank you from my heart for your good words,” said she. “I have that

honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot find any to be answering

with.”

Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for James More, and sat

down to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon

his wants: he made her drink first out of his glass, he surrounded her

with continual kind gallantries, and yet never gave me the most small

occasion to be jealous; and he kept the talk so much in his own hand,

and that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I remembered to be

embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it must have been supposed that

Alan was the old friend and I the stranger. Indeed, I had often cause

to love and to admire the man, but I never loved or admired him better

than that night; and I could not help remarking to myself (what I was

sometimes rather in danger of forgetting) that he had not only much

experience of life, but in his own way a great deal of natural ability

besides. As for Catriona, she seemed quite carried away; her laugh was

like a peal of bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own,

although I was well pleased, yet I was a little sad also, and thought

myself a dull, stockish character in comparison of my friend, and very

unfit to come into a young maid’s life, and perhaps ding down her

gaiety.

But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least I was not

alone in it; for, James More returning suddenly, the girl was changed

into a piece of stone. Through the rest of that evening, until she made

an excuse and slipped to bed, I kept an eye upon her without cease; and

I can bear testimony that she never smiled, scarce spoke, and looked

mostly on the board in front of her. So that I really marvelled to see

so much devotion (as it used to be) changed into the very sickness of

hate.

Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you know the man already,

what there was to know of him; and I am weary of writing out his lies.

Enough that he drank a great deal, and told us very little that was to

any possible purpose. As for the business with Alan, that was to be

reserved for the morrow and his private hearing.

It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were pretty

weary with four day’s ride, and sat not very late after Catriona.

We were soon alone in a chamber where we were to make-shift with a

single bed. Alan looked on me with a queer smile.

“Ye muckle ass!” said he.

“What do ye mean by that?” I cried.

“Mean? What do I mean! It’s extraordinar, David man,” say he, “that you

should be so mortal stupit.”

Again I begged him to speak out.

“Well, it’s this of it,” said he. “I told ye there were the two kinds

of women—them that would sell their shifts for ye, and the others. Just

you try for yoursel, my bonny man! But what’s that neepkin at your

craig?”

I told him.

“I thocht it was something thereabout,” said he.

Nor would he say another word though I besieged him long with

importunities.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP

Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was plainly hard upon

the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset on every side with

scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in the nature

of a prospect, where there stood out over a brae the two sails of a

windmill, like an ass’s ears, but with the ass quite hidden. It was

strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the

turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the

hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways

travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door. The

truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of them honest, and

the position of his inn was the best of his livelihood. Smugglers

frequented it; political agents and forfeited persons bound across the

water came there to await their passages; and I daresay there was worse

behind, for a whole family might have been butchered in that house and

nobody the wiser.

I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside

my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro

before the door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, sprang

up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun,

and set the mill to the turning. There was something of spring in the

sunshine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great

sails one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At

times I could hear a creak of the machinery; and by half-past eight of

the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place was like a paradise.

For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to be

aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed there was

trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and went down

over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside of all fancy, it

was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a young lady to be

brought to dwell in.

At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was

in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same,

and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one

side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live coals. The meal was

no sooner over than James seemed to come began to make apologies. He

had an appointment of a private nature in the town (it was with the

French nobleman, he told me), and we would please excuse him till about

noon. Meanwhile he carried his daughter aside to the far end of the

room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen with

much inclination.

“I am caring less and less about this man James,” said Alan. “There’s

something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae wonder but what

Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine to see

yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to

yoursel, and that would be to speir at the lassie for some news o’ your

affair. Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle ass at the

off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would

just mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes

that.”

“I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, mocking him.

“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can tell her that I

recommended it; that’ll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae wonder

but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I

didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and

chief with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about

you.”

“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked.

“She thinks a heap of me,” says he. “And I’m no like you: I’m one that

can tell. That she does—she thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I’m

thinking a good deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws,

I’ll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so that I can see what way

James goes.”

One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast

table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs to

her own chamber. I could very well understand how she should avoid to

be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it for that, and

bent my mind to entrap her to an interview before the men returned.

Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out

of view among the sandhills, the fine morning would decoy her forth;

and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.

No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock

before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing

nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I

followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the further

she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground

being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and

came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the

first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in;

where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin’s

and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and two or

three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely

close in to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new

suspicion, when I recognised the trim of the _Seahorse_. What should an

English ship be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into

her neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue?

and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More

should walk that day to the seaside?

Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and

above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o’-war’s

boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in

charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the

rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow.

Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with

civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands;

and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were all

her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for

the _Seahorse_. But I observed the officer to remain behind and

disappear among the bents.

I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it

less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near

with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender

a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she

raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on

again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at

that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, suspicions, the

care of my friend’s life—was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet

and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.

I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which she returned with a

good deal of composure.

“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I.

“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she replied; and then, with a

little outburst, “but why will you be sending money to that man! It

must not be.”

“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know well.”

“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” she said.

“David, it is not right.”

“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I, “and I pray God he will help this

dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona,

this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the

word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.”

“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry.

“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking,

O, be sure of that!” says I. “I think of the one thing. I have been

alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my

studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among

soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And

it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do

you see this napkin at my throat! You cut a corner from it once and

then cast it from you. They’re _your_ colours now; I wear them in my

heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!”

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with a little.”

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a

fear of death.

“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again? Am I

quite lost?”

She raised her face to me, breathless.

“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her

say it.

“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do that.”

“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she. “I was all

yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she

said.

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous,

we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down

before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that

storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was

wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew

not where I was. I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped,

and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words

out of a whirl.

“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me! Is it

so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!”

With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect

gladness.

It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of

what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her

hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure

like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen

the place that looked so pretty as those bents by Dunkirk; and the

windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of

music.

I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else

besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father,

which brought us to reality.

“My little friend,” I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to

summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and

to be a little distant—“My little friend, now you are mine altogether;

mine for good, my little friend and that man’s no longer at all.”

There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from

mine.

“Davie, take me away from him!” she cried. “There’s something wrong;

he’s not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror

here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that

King’s ship? What will this word be saying?” And she held the letter

forth. “My mind misgives me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it,

Davie—open it and see.”

I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.

“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a man’s letter.”

“Not to save your friend?” she cried.

“I cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only sure!”

“And you have but to break the seal!” said she.

“I know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.”

“Give it here,” said she, “and I will open it myself.”

“Nor you neither,” said I. “You least of all. It concerns your father,

and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No question but

the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and your

father having word from it, and yon officer that stayed ashore. He

would not be alone either; there must be more along with him; I daresay

we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be

opened; but somehow, not by you nor me.”

I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a

sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again

from following James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He

was in his soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not

avoid to shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him,

if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of

the _Seahorse_, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer.

“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best right to open it:

or not, as he thinks fit.”

With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark

for him.

“If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear it?” she asked,

looking upon me with a burning eye.

“I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the

once,” said I. “What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I

thought I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would marry you at his

gallows’ foot.”

The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me,

holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.

He came with one of his queer smiles. “What was I telling ye, David?”

says he.

“There is a time for all things, Alan,” said I, “and this time is

serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this friend

of ours.”

“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he.

“I doubt we have done better than you, then,” said I; “and, at least,

here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see

that?” I went on, pointing to the ship. “That is the _Seahorse_,

Captain Palliser.”

“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when

she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so

close?”

“I will tell you why he came there first,” said I. “It was to bring

this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it’s delivered,

what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the

bents, and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I would rather

you considered for yourself.”

“A letter to James More?” said he.

“The same,” said I.

“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the last

night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some

one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and

shut.”

“Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove it.”

“Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!”

says he. “But the business looks bad. Let’s see the letter.”

I gave it him.

“Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but there’s

nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I’ll have to

break this seal.”

“It is my wish,” said Catriona.

He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air.

“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket.

“Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to me.”

And he began to walk towards the inn.

It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked.

“Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to you and Davie, I’ll can

jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse,” he added.

“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic

with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my

hand to her side.

“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work

that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye

make a real, bonny couple.”

The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill,

where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be

spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.

“See, Alan!”

“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.”

The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill,

and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he

was a big fellow with a mahogany face.

“I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the English?”

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent.

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn

you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots

boot to your English hurdies!”

And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick

that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and

watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills.

“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty bents!” said Alan; and

continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the backdoor

of Bazin’s inn.

It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with

James More entering by the other.

“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with you and make your

packets; this is no fit scene for you.”

In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long room.

She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she was some

way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though without pausing.

Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as they met one of his

best appearances of courtesy and friendliness, yet with something

eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the man, as folk

smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for accidents.

Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary place, and his enemies

about him, might have daunted Cæsar. It made no change in him; and it

was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the

interview.

“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” said he. “What’ll yon

business of yours be just about?”

“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story,” says James,

“I think it will keep very well till we have eaten.”

“I’m none so sure of that,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind it’s

either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have

gotten a line, and we’re thinking of the road.”

I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held himself stoutly.

“I have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” said he, “and

that is the name of my business.”

“Say it then,” says Alan. “Hout! wha minds for Davie?”

“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” said James.

“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan.

“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is Cluny’s

Treasure.”

“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?”

“I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there,” said James.

“This crowns all!” says Alan. “Well, and I’m glad I came to Dunkirk.

And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I’m thinking?”

“That is the business, sir,” said James.

“Well, well,” said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike

interest, “it has naething to do with the _Seahorse_, then?” he asked.

“With what?” says James.

“Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon windmill?”

pursued Alan. “Hut, man! have done with your lees! I have Palliser’s

letter here in my pouch. You’re by with it, James More. You can never

show your face again with dacent folk.”

James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and

white, then swelled with the living anger.

“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out.

“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the

mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together.

At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from

the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I

thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s

father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever

them.

“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. “Your

blood be on your ain heid then!”

I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall;

I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at

each other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided being

stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole

business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the midst of which

I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before her

father. In the same moment the point of my sword encountered some thing

yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the

girl’s kerchief, and stood sick.

“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after

all!” she cried.

“My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and went, and sat on a

table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand.

Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung

suddenly about and faced him.

“Begone!” was her word, “take your shame out of my sight; leave me with

clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin,

begone!”

It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own

bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her

kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must have

pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself to a

bravado air.

“Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on

Alan, “if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—”

“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says Alan.

“Sir!” cries James.

“James More,” says Alan, “this lady daughter of yours is to marry my

friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale

carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of

harm’s way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits to

my temper.”

“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James.

“I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, “but now,

ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James

More, you leave this house.”

James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it’s to be

thought he had enough of Alan’s swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off

his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell

in a series. With which he was gone.

At the same time a spell was lifted from me.

“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much hurt?”

“I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done

defending that bad man, my father. See!” she said, and showed me a

bleeding scratch, “see, you have made a man of me now. I will carry a

wound like an old soldier.”

Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave

nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound.

“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?” says

Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, “My

dear,” he said, “you’re a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he

was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If ever I was to

get married, it’s the marrow of you I would be seeking for a mother to

my sons. And I bear’s a king’s name and speak the truth.”

He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the

girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all James

More’s disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself again.

“And now by your leave, my dawties,” said he, “this is a’ very bonny;

but Alan Breck’ll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than he’s caring

for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be leaving.”

The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and returned

with our saddle-bags and James More’s portmanteau; I picked up

Catriona’s bundle where she had dropped it on the stair; and we were

setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin stopped the way

with cries and gesticulations. He had whipped under a table when the

swords were drawn, but now he was as bold as a lion. There was his bill

to be settled, there was a chair broken, Alan had sat among his dinner

things, James More had fled.

“Here,” I cried, “pay yourself,” and flung him down some Lewie d’ors;

for I thought it was no time to be accounting.

He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into the

open. Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and closing in;

a little nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry them; and

right behind him, like some foolish person holding up his hands, were

the sails of the windmill turning.

Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried a

great weight in James More’s portmanteau; but I think he would as soon

have lost his life as cast away that booty which was his revenge; and

he ran so that I was distressed to follow him, and marvelled and

exulted to see the girl bounding at my side.

As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other side;

and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start

of some two hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins

after all, that could not hope to better us at such an exercise. I

suppose they were armed, but did not care to use their pistols on

French ground. And as soon as I perceived that we not only held our

advantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite easy of the

issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk bit of work, so long as it

lasted; Dunkirk was still far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and

found a company of the garrison marching on the other side on some

manœuvre, I could very well understand the word that Alan had.

He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, “They’re a real

bonny folk, the French nation,” says he.

CONCLUSION

No sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a very

necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a daughter from

her father at the sword’s point; any judge would give her back to him

at once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan into jail; and though

we had an argument upon our side in Captain Palliser’s letter, neither

Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all

accounts it seemed the most prudent to carry the girl to Paris to the

hands of her own chieftain, Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very

willing to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all anxious

to dishonour James upon other.

We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good at

the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle since the

’Forty-five. But we made it out at last, reached Paris early of a

Sabbath morning, and made all speed, under Alan’s guidance, to find

Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a good style, having a

pension on the Scots Fund, as well as private means; greeted Catriona

like one of his own house, and seemed altogether very civil and

discreet, but not particularly open. We asked of the news of James

More. “Poor James!” said he, and shook his head and smiled, so that I

thought he knew further than he meant to tell. Then we showed him

Palliser’s letter, and he drew a long face at that.

“Poor James!” said he again. “Well, there are worse folk than James

More, too. But this is dreadful bad. Tut, tut, he must have forgot

himself entirely! This is a most undesirable letter. But, for all that,

gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it public for. It’s

an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and we are all Scots folk and all

Hieland.”

Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the

question of our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as

though there had been no such person as James More, and gave Catriona

away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in French. It

was not till all was over, and our healths drunk, that he told us James

was in that city, whither he had preceded us some days, and where he

now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my wife’s face what

way her inclination pointed.

“And let us go see him, then,” said I.

“If it is your pleasure,” said Catriona. These were early days.

He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with his chief, in a

great house upon a corner; and we were guided up to the garret where he

lay by the sound of Highland piping. It seemed he had just borrowed a

set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness; though he was no such

hand as was his brother Rob, he made good music of the kind; and it was

strange to observe the French folk crowding on the stairs, and some of

them laughing. He lay propped in a pallet. The first look of him I saw

he was upon his last business; and, doubtless, this was a strange place

for him to die in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell upon his end

with patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had prepared him; he seemed to know

we were married, complimented us on the event, and gave us a

benediction like a patriarch.

“I have been never understood,” said he. “I forgive you both without an

afterthought;” after which he spoke for all the world in his old

manner, was so obliging as to play us a tune or two upon his pipes, and

borrowed a small sum before I left.

I could not trace even a hint of shame in any part of his behaviour;

but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed always fresh to him. I

think he forgave me every time we met; and when after some four days he

passed away in a kind of odour of affectionate sanctity, I could have

torn my hair out for exasperation. I had him buried; but what to put

upon his tomb was quite beyond me, till at last I considered the date

would look best alone.

I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, where we had

appeared once as brother and sister, and it would certainly look

strange to return in a new character. Scotland would be doing for us;

and thither, after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we

sailed in a Low Country ship.

And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr. Alan

Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to an end. A

great many of the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you

think well) that you have seen and spoken with. Alison Hastie in

Limekilns was the lass that rocked your cradle when you were too small

to know of it, and walked abroad with you in the policy when you were

bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss Barbara’s name-mamma is

no other than the same Miss Grant that made so much a fool of David

Balfour in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder whether you

remember a little, lean, lively gentleman in a scratch-wig and a

wraprascal, that came to Shaws very late of a dark night, and whom you

were awakened out of your beds and brought down to the dining-hall to

be presented to, by the name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten

what he did at Mr. Jamieson’s request—a most disloyal act—for which, by

the letter of the law, he might be hanged—no less than drinking the

king’s health _across the water_? These were strange doings in a good

Whig house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and might set fire to

my corn-barn; and the name they know him by now in France is the

Chevalier Stewart.

As for Davie and Catriona, I shall watch you pretty close in the next

days, and see if you are so bold as to be laughing at papa and mamma.

It is true we were not so wise as we might have been, and made a great

deal of sorrow out of nothing; but you will find as you grow up that

even the artful Miss Barbara, and even the valiant Mr. Alan, will be

not so very much wiser than their parents. For the life of man upon

this world of ours is a funny business. They talk of the angels

weeping; but I think they must more often be holding their sides as

they look on; and there was one thing I determined to do when I began

this long story, and that was to tell out everything as it befell.

Footnotes

[1] Conspicuous.

[2] Country.

[3] The Fairies.

[4] Flatteries.

[5] Trust to.

[6] This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first visit.—D. B.

[7] Sweetheart.

[8] Child.

[9] Palm.

[10] Gallows.

[11] My Catechism.

[12] Now Prince’s Street.

[13] A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby identifies Alan’s

air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell’s _Tales of the West

Highlands_, Vol. II., p. 91. Upon examination it would really seem as

if Miss Grant’s unrhymed doggrel (see Chapter V.) would fit with little

humouring to the notes in question.

[14] A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of striking.

[15] Patched shoes.

[16] Shoemaker.

[17] Tamson’s mere—to go afoot.

[18] Beard.

[19] Ragged.

[20] Fine things.

[21] Catch.

[22] Victuals.

[23] Trust.

[24] Sea fog.

[25] Bashful.

[26] Rest.