"I shall have a word to say to Mr. Gebbie before long," said he. "As for

yourself, I think it might have occurred that you were somewhat young

for such a post."

"But the choice was not between me and somebody else, it was between me

and nobody," I cried. "Nobody offered in my place, and I must say I

think you show a very small degree of gratitude to me that did."

"I shall wait until I understand my obligation a little more in the

particular," says he.

"Indeed, and I think it stares you in the face, then," said I. "Your

child was deserted, she was clean flung away in the midst of Europe,

with scarce two shillings, and not two words of any language spoken

there: I must say, a bonny business! I brought her to this place. I gave

her the name and the tenderness due to a sister. All this has not gone

without expense, but that I scarce need to hint at. They were services

due to the young lady's character which I respect; and I think it would

be a bonny business too, if I was to be singing her praises to her

father."

"You are a young man," he began.

"So I hear you tell me," said I, with a good deal of heat.

"You are a very young man," he repeated, "or you would have understood

the significancy of the step."

"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

awakened 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 beheld 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 further 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 any one 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 on 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," says 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 could

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 a while, 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 a while 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 a 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 was but a child; 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 in 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 near

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 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 any one 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 gone 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 was 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," says 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 deleeberate 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 this 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 facts. 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 brow-beat 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 seat like a man stung. "I can spy your manoeuvre,"

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 some 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 at 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 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 exaggerate, and if I were you I would

not ware 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 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 further 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 fair 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 naught 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 would 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?_ says

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 been 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 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 your 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 while 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 like to fare when David Balfour was

no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which, to my own very 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 very well 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 all 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 ever she 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 scarce 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 sups with the deil, 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 enclosure 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 upon 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 canna make head 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 a 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 forbye! 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 couldna 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

weemen-folk 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 gomeril that ye canna 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's so clever at the

trade?"

"Ye see, David, I wasna here," said he. "I'm like a field officer that

has naebody but blind men for scouts and _eclaireurs_; 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 kennt," 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 a divertisement

to gang and see what he'll be after! Forbye 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.

"_Voila l'auberge a 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 story of that house, which was

all in the one apartment, with a stair 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, you'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, "forbye 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 bonny, my dear, but he's leal to them he loves."

"I thank you with 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 very 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 at least that 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 our 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," says 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 Catriona began to sing in the house. At this I would have cast

my hat in the air; 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 to a resolve, and 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

without 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 wouldna 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 of 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' weemen-folk likes

that."

"I canna lee, Alan, I canna 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 wouldna wonder

but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I didna

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 yon."

"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 farther

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 farther 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 immediately 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," said she.

"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 with me 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 these 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 canna 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 sandhills. 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 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, "ye'll 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 thegither. This place is fair death to me."

And he began to walk towards the inn.

It was Catriona that spoke 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 ye 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!" said I.

"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 sandhills.

"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 back-door

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 Caesar. 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 ye 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," says James.

"Well, well," says 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 in 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 something

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.

A while 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 mine's." 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 ye 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,

transported 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 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 its hands, were

the sails of the windmill turning.

Alan gave but the 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 manoeuvre, 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 gaol; 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 the 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 a 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 were 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 ye

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.

END OF VOL. XI

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