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diff --git a/589-h/589-h.htm b/589-h/589-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ad83c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/589-h/589-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14866 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Catriona, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Catriona, by Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Catriona</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 15, 1996 [eBook #589]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 6, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATRIONA ***</div> + +<h4>There are several editions of this ebook in the Project Gutenberg collection. Various characteristics of each ebook are listed to aid in selecting the preferred file.<br />Click on any of the filenumbers below to quickly view each ebook. +</h4> + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto" cellpadding="4" border="3"> + +<tr><td> + <b><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/589/589-h/589-h.htm"> +589</a></b></td><td>(No illustrations) +</td></tr> + +<tr><td> + <b><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/14133/14133-h/14133-h.htm"> +14133</a></b> </td><td>(An illustrated HTML file) +</td></tr> + +<tr><td> + <b><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30870/30870-h/30870-h.htm"> +30870</a> </b> </td><td>(No illustrations) +</td></tr> + +</table> +<h1>Catriona</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Robert Louis Stevenson</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part01"><b>PART I. THE LORD ADVOCATE</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. THE HIGHLAND WRITER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. I GO TO PILRIG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. THE BRAVO</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. THE HEATHER ON FIRE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. THE RED-HEADED MAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. GILLANE SANDS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. THE BASS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING WITNESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. THE MEMORIAL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. THE TEE’D BALL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part02"><b>PART II. FATHER AND DAUGHTER</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. HELVOETSLUYS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. TRAVELS IN HOLLAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. THE THREESOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. A TWOSOME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. WE MEET IN DUNKIRK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>DEDICATION.</h2> + +<p style="text-align: center"> +To<br /> +CHARLES BAXTER, <i>Writer to the Signet</i>. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">My Dear Charles</span>, +</p> + +<p> +It is the fate of sequels to disappoint those who have waited for them; and my +David, having been left to kick his heels for more than a lustre in the British +Linen Company’s office, must expect his late re-appearance to be greeted +with hoots, if not with missiles. Yet, when I remember the days of our +explorations, I am not without hope. There should be left in our native city +some seed of the elect; some long-legged, hot-headed youth must repeat to-day +our dreams and wanderings of so many years ago; he will relish the pleasure, +which should have been ours, to follow among named streets and numbered houses +the country walks of David Balfour, to identify Dean, and Silvermills, and +Broughton, and Hope Park, and Pilrig, and poor old Lochend—if it still be +standing, and the Figgate Whins—if there be any of them left; or to push +(on a long holiday) so far afield as Gillane or the Bass. So, perhaps, his eye +shall be opened to behold the series of the generations, and he shall weigh +with surprise his momentous and nugatory gift of life. +</p> + +<p> +You are still—as when first I saw, as when I last addressed you—in +the venerable city which I must always think of as my home. And I have come so +far; and the sights and thoughts of my youth pursue me; and I see like a vision +the youth of my father, and of his father, and the whole stream of lives +flowing down there far in the north, with the sound of laughter and tears, to +cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet, on these ultimate islands. And +I admire and bow my head before the romance of destiny. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +R. L. S. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i>,<br /> +<i>Samoa</i>, 1892. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CATRIONA</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part01"></a>PART I.<br /> +THE LORD ADVOCATE</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK</h2> + +<p> +The 25th day of August, 1751, about two in the afternoon, I, David Balfour, +came forth of the British Linen Company, a porter attending me with a bag of +money, and some of the chief of these merchants bowing me from their doors. Two +days before, and even so late as yestermorning, I was like a beggar-man by the +wayside, clad in rags, brought down to my last shillings, my companion a +condemned traitor, a price set on my own head for a crime with the news of +which the country rang. To-day I was served heir to my position in life, a +landed laird, a bank porter by me carrying my gold, recommendations in my +pocket, and (in the words of the saying) the ball directly at my foot. +</p> + +<p> +There were two circumstances that served me as ballast to so much sail. The +first was the very difficult and deadly business I had still to handle; the +second, the place that I was in. The tall, black city, and the numbers and +movement and noise of so many folk, made a new world for me, after the moorland +braes, the sea-sands and the still country-sides that I had frequented up to +then. The throng of the citizens in particular abashed me. Rankeillor’s +son was short and small in the girth; his clothes scarce held on me; and it was +plain I was ill qualified to strut in the front of a bank-porter. It was plain, +if I did so, I should but set folk laughing, and (what was worse in my case) +set them asking questions. So that I behooved to come by some clothes of my +own, and in the meanwhile to walk by the porter’s side, and put my hand +on his arm as though we were a pair of friends. +</p> + +<p> +At a merchant’s in the Luckenbooths I had myself fitted out: none too +fine, for I had no idea to appear like a beggar on horseback; but comely and +responsible, so that servants should respect me. Thence to an armourer’s, +where I got a plain sword, to suit with my degree in life. I felt safer with +the weapon, though (for one so ignorant of defence) it might be called an added +danger. The porter, who was naturally a man of some experience, judged my +accoutrement to be well chosen. +</p> + +<p> +“Naething kenspeckle,”<a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> +said he; “plain, dacent claes. As for the rapier, nae doubt it sits +wi’ your degree; but an I had been you, I would has waired my siller +better-gates than that.” And he proposed I should buy winter-hosen from a +wife in the Cowgate-back, that was a cousin of his own, and made them +“extraordinar endurable.” +</p> + +<p> +But I had other matters on my hand more pressing. Here I was in this old, black +city, which was for all the world like a rabbit-warren, not only by the number +of its indwellers, but the complication of its passages and holes. It was, +indeed, a place where no stranger had a chance to find a friend, let be another +stranger. Suppose him even to hit on the right close, people dwelt so thronged +in these tall houses, he might very well seek a day before he chanced on the +right door. The ordinary course was to hire a lad they called a <i>caddie</i>, +who was like a guide or pilot, led you where you had occasion, and (your +errands being done) brought you again where you were lodging. But these +caddies, being always employed in the same sort of services, and having it for +obligation to be well informed of every house and person in the city, had grown +to form a brotherhood of spies; and I knew from tales of Mr. Campbell’s +how they communicated one with another, what a rage of curiosity they conceived +as to their employer’s business, and how they were like eyes and fingers +to the police. It would be a piece of little wisdom, the way I was now placed, +to take such a ferret to my tails. I had three visits to make, all immediately +needful: to my kinsman Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, to Stewart the Writer that was +Appin’s agent, and to William Grant Esquire of Prestongrange, Lord +Advocate of Scotland. Mr. Balfour’s was a non-committal visit; and +besides (Pilrig being in the country) I made bold to find the way to it myself, +with the help of my two legs and a Scots tongue. But the rest were in a +different case. Not only was the visit to Appin’s agent, in the midst of +the cry about the Appin murder, dangerous in itself, but it was highly +inconsistent with the other. I was like to have a bad enough time of it with my +Lord Advocate Grant, the best of ways; but to go to him hot-foot from +Appin’s agent, was little likely to mend my own affairs, and might prove +the mere ruin of friend Alan’s. The whole thing, besides, gave me a look +of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds that was little to my +fancy. I determined, therefore, to be done at once with Mr. Stewart and the +whole Jacobitical side of my business, and to profit for that purpose by the +guidance of the porter at my side. But it chanced I had scarce given him the +address, when there came a sprinkle of rain—nothing to hurt, only for my +new clothes—and we took shelter under a pend at the head of a close or +alley. +</p> + +<p> +Being strange to what I saw, I stepped a little farther in. The narrow paved +way descended swiftly. Prodigious tall houses sprang upon each side and bulged +out, one storey beyond another, as they rose. At the top only a ribbon of sky +showed in. By what I could spy in the windows, and by the respectable persons +that passed out and in, I saw the houses to be very well occupied; and the +whole appearance of the place interested me like a tale. +</p> + +<p> +I was still gazing, when there came a sudden brisk tramp of feet in time and +clash of steel behind me. Turning quickly, I was aware of a party of armed +soldiers, and, in their midst, a tall man in a great coat. He walked with a +stoop that was like a piece of courtesy, genteel and insinuating: he waved his +hands plausibly as he went, and his face was sly and handsome. I thought his +eye took me in, but could not meet it. This procession went by to a door in the +close, which a serving-man in a fine livery set open; and two of the +soldier-lads carried the prisoner within, the rest lingering with their +firelocks by the door. +</p> + +<p> +There can nothing pass in the streets of a city without some following of idle +folk and children. It was so now; but the more part melted away incontinent +until but three were left. One was a girl; she was dressed like a lady, and had +a screen of the Drummond colours on her head; but her comrades or (I should +say) followers were ragged gillies, such as I had seen the matches of by the +dozen in my Highland journey. They all spoke together earnestly in Gaelic, the +sound of which was pleasant in my ears for the sake of Alan; and, though the +rain was by again, and my porter plucked at me to be going, I even drew nearer +where they were, to listen. The lady scolded sharply, the others making +apologies and cringeing before her, so that I made sure she was come of a +chief’s house. All the while the three of them sought in their pockets, +and by what I could make out, they had the matter of half a farthing among the +party; which made me smile a little to see all Highland folk alike for fine +obeisances and empty sporrans. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced the girl turned suddenly about, so that I saw her face for the first +time. There is no greater wonder than the way the face of a young woman fits in +a man’s mind, and stays there, and he could never tell you why; it just +seems it was the thing he wanted. She had wonderful bright eyes like stars, and +I daresay the eyes had a part in it; but what I remember the most clearly was +the way her lips were a trifle open as she turned. And, whatever was the cause, +I stood there staring like a fool. On her side, as she had not known there was +anyone so near, she looked at me a little longer, and perhaps with more +surprise, than was entirely civil. +</p> + +<p> +It went through my country head she might be wondering at my new clothes; with +that, I blushed to my hair, and at the sight of my colouring it is to be +supposed she drew her own conclusions, for she moved her gillies farther down +the close, and they fell again to this dispute, where I could hear no more of +it. +</p> + +<p> +I had often admired a lassie before then, if scarce so sudden and strong; and +it was rather my disposition to withdraw than to come forward, for I was much +in fear of mockery from the womenkind. You would have thought I had now all the +more reason to pursue my common practice, since I had met this young lady in +the city street, seemingly following a prisoner, and accompanied with two very +ragged indecent-like Highlandmen. But there was here a different ingredient; it +was plain the girl thought I had been prying in her secrets; and with my new +clothes and sword, and at the top of my new fortunes, this was more than I +could swallow. The beggar on horseback could not bear to be thrust down so low, +or, at least of it, not by this young lady. +</p> + +<p> +I followed, accordingly, and took off my new hat to her the best that I was +able. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam,” said I, “I think it only fair to myself to let you +understand I have no Gaelic. It is true I was listening, for I have friends of +my own across the Highland line, and the sound of that tongue comes friendly; +but for your private affairs, if you had spoken Greek, I might have had more +guess at them.” +</p> + +<p> +She made me a little, distant curtsey. “There is no harm done,” +said she, with a pretty accent, most like the English (but more agreeable). +“A cat may look at a king.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not mean to offend,” said I. “I have no skill of city +manners; I never before this day set foot inside the doors of Edinburgh. Take +me for a country lad—it’s what I am; and I would rather I told you +than you found it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, it will be a very unusual thing for strangers to be speaking to +each other on the causeway,” she replied. “But if you are landward +<a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> bred it will be +different. I am as landward as yourself; I am Highland, as you see, and think +myself the farther from my home.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not yet a week since I passed the line,” said I. “Less +than a week ago I was on the braes of Balwhidder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Balwhither?” she cries. “Come ye from Balwhither! The name +of it makes all there is of me rejoice. You will not have been long there, and +not known some of our friends or family?” +</p> + +<p> +“I lived with a very honest, kind man called Duncan Dhu Maclaren,” +I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know Duncan, and you give him the true name!” she said; +“and if he is an honest man, his wife is honest indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said I, “they are fine people, and the place is a bonny +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where in the great world is such another!” she cries; “I am +loving the smell of that place and the roots that grow there.” +</p> + +<p> +I was infinitely taken with the spirit of the maid. “I could be wishing I +had brought you a spray of that heather,” says I. “And, though I +did ill to speak with you at the first, now it seems we have common +acquaintance, I make it my petition you will not forget me. David Balfour is +the name I am known by. This is my lucky day, when I have just come into a +landed estate, and am not very long out of a deadly peril. I wish you would +keep my name in mind for the sake of Balwhidder,” said I, “and I +will yours for the sake of my lucky day.” +</p> + +<p> +“My name is not spoken,” she replied, with a great deal of +haughtiness. “More than a hundred years it has not gone upon men’s +tongues, save for a blink. I am nameless, like the Folk of Peace. <a +name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> Catriona Drummond +is the one I use.” +</p> + +<p> +Now indeed I knew where I was standing. In all broad Scotland there was but the +one name proscribed, and that was the name of the Macgregors. Yet so far from +fleeing this undesirable acquaintancy, I plunged the deeper in. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been sitting with one who was in the same case with +yourself,” said I, “and I think he will be one of your friends. +They called him Robin Oig.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did ye so?” cries she. “Ye met Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +“I passed the night with him,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a fowl of the night,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a set of pipes there,” I went on, “so you may +judge if the time passed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should be no enemy, at all events,” said she. “That was +his brother there a moment since, with the red soldiers round him. It is him +that I call father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so?” cried I. “Are you a daughter of James +More’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“All the daughter that he has,” says she: “the daughter of a +prisoner; that I should forget it so, even for one hour, to talk with +strangers!” +</p> + +<p> +Here one of the gillies addressed her in what he had of English, to know what +“she” (meaning by that himself) was to do about “ta +sneeshin.” I took some note of him for a short, bandy-legged, red-haired, +big-headed man, that I was to know more of to my cost. +</p> + +<p> +“There can be none the day, Neil,” she replied. “How will you +get ‘sneeshin,’ wanting siller! It will teach you another time to +be more careful; and I think James More will not be very well pleased with Neil +of the Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Drummond,” I said, “I told you I was in my lucky day. +Here I am, and a bank-porter at my tail. And remember I have had the +hospitality of your own country of Balwhidder.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not one of my people gave it,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” said I, “but I am owing your uncle at least for +some springs upon the pipes. Besides which, I have offered myself to be your +friend, and you have been so forgetful that you did not refuse me in the proper +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“If it had been a great sum, it might have done you honour,” said +she; “but I will tell you what this is. James More lies shackled in +prison; but this time past they will be bringing him down here daily to the +Advocate’s. . . .” +</p> + +<p> +“The Advocate’s!” I cried. “Is that . . . ?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is the house of the Lord Advocate Grant of Prestongrange,” said +she. “There they bring my father one time and another, for what purpose I +have no thought in my mind; but it seems there is some hope dawned for him. All +this same time they will not let me be seeing him, nor yet him write; and we +wait upon the King’s street to catch him; and now we give him his snuff +as he goes by, and now something else. And here is this son of trouble, Neil, +son of Duncan, has lost my four-penny piece that was to buy that snuff, and +James More must go wanting, and will think his daughter has forgotten +him.” +</p> + +<p> +I took sixpence from my pocket, gave it to Neil, and bade him go about his +errand. Then to her, “That sixpence came with me by Balwhidder,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, “you are a friend to the Gregara!” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not like to deceive you, either,” said I. “I know +very little of the Gregara and less of James More and his doings, but since the +while I have been standing in this close, I seem to know something of yourself; +and if you will just say ‘a friend to Miss Catriona’ I will see you +are the less cheated.” +</p> + +<p> +“The one cannot be without the other,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I will even try,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you be thinking of myself!” she cried, “to be +holding my hand to the first stranger!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking nothing but that you are a good daughter,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not be without repaying it,” she said; “where is it +you stop!” +</p> + +<p> +“To tell the truth, I am stopping nowhere yet,” said I, +“being not full three hours in the city; but if you will give me your +direction, I will be so bold as come seeking my sixpence for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will I can trust you for that?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You need have little fear,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“James More could not bear it else,” said she. “I stop beyond +the village of Dean, on the north side of the water, with Mrs. Drummond-Ogilvy +of Allardyce, who is my near friend and will be glad to thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are to see me, then, so soon as what I have to do permits,” +said I; and, the remembrance of Alan rolling in again upon my mind, I made +haste to say farewell. +</p> + +<p> +I could not but think, even as I did so, that we had made extraordinary free +upon short acquaintance, and that a really wise young lady would have shown +herself more backward. I think it was the bank-porter that put me from this +ungallant train of thought. +</p> + +<p> +“I thoucht ye had been a lad of some kind o’ sense,” he +began, shooting out his lips. “Ye’re no likely to gang far this +gate. A fule and his siller’s shune parted. Eh, but ye’re a green +callant!” he cried, “an’ a veecious, tae! Cleikin’ up +wi’ baubeejoes!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you dare to speak of the young lady. . . ” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“Leddy!” he cried. “Haud us and safe us, whatten leddy? +Ca’ <i>thon</i> a leddy? The toun’s fu’ o’ them. +Leddies! Man, its weel seen ye’re no very acquant in Embro!” +</p> + +<p> +A clap of anger took me. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said I, “lead me where I told you, and keep your foul +mouth shut!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not wholly obey me, for, though he no more addressed me directly, he +very impudent sang at me as he went in a manner of innuendo, and with an +exceedingly ill voice and ear— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“As Mally Lee cam doun the street, her capuchin did flee,<br /> +She cuist a look ahint her to see her negligee.<br /> +And we’re a’ gaun east and wast, we’re a’ gann +ajee,<br /> +We’re a’ gaun east and wast courtin’ Mally Lee.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +THE HIGHLAND WRITER</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer dwelt at the top of the longest stair ever mason +set a hand to; fifteen flights of it, no less; and when I had come to his door, +and a clerk had opened it, and told me his master was within, I had scarce +breath enough to send my porter packing. +</p> + +<p> +“Awa’ east and west wi’ ye!” said I, took the money bag +out of his hands, and followed the clerk in. +</p> + +<p> +The outer room was an office with the clerk’s chair at a table spread +with law papers. In the inner chamber, which opened from it, a little brisk man +sat poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes on my entrance; +indeed, he still kept his finger in the place, as though prepared to show me +out and fall again to his studies. This pleased me little enough; and what +pleased me less, I thought the clerk was in a good posture to overhear what +should pass between us. +</p> + +<p> +I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer. +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” says he; “and, if the question is equally fair, +who may you be yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard tell of my name nor of me either,” said I, +“but I bring you a token from a friend that you know well. That you know +well,” I repeated, lowering my voice, “but maybe are not just so +keen to hear from at this present being. And the bits of business that I have +to propone to you are rather in the nature of being confidential. In short, I +would like to think we were quite private.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose without more words, casting down his paper like a man ill-pleased, sent +forth his clerk of an errand, and shut to the house-door behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, sir,” said he, returning, “speak out your mind and fear +nothing; though before you begin,” he cries out, “I tell you mine +misgives me! I tell you beforehand, ye’re either a Stewart or a Stewart +sent ye. A good name it is, and one it would ill-become my father’s son +to lightly. But I begin to grue at the sound of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David Balfour of Shaws. +As for him that sent me, I will let his token speak.” And I showed the +silver button. +</p> + +<p> +“Put it in your pocket, sir!” cries he. “Ye need name no +names. The deevil’s buckie, I ken the button of him! And de’il +hae’t! Where is he now!” +</p> + +<p> +I told him I knew not where Alan was, but he had some sure place (or thought he +had) about the north side, where he was to lie until a ship was found for him; +and how and where he had appointed to be spoken with. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s been always my opinion that I would hang in a tow for this +family of mine,” he cried, “and, dod! I believe the day’s +come now! Get a ship for him, quot’ he! And who’s to pay for it? +The man’s daft!” +</p> + +<p> +“That is my part of the affair, Mr. Stewart,” said I. “Here +is a bag of good money, and if more be wanted, more is to be had where it came +from.” +</p> + +<p> +“I needn’t ask your politics,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye need not,” said I, smiling, “for I’m as big a Whig +as grows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” says Mr. Stewart. “What’s all +this? A Whig? Then why are you here with Alan’s button? and what kind of +a black-foot traffic is this that I find ye out in, Mr. Whig? Here is a +forfeited rebel and an accused murderer, with two hundred pounds on his life, +and ye ask me to meddle in his business, and then tell me ye’re a Whig! I +have no mind of any such Whigs before, though I’ve kent plenty of +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a forfeited rebel, the more’s the pity,” said I, +“for the man’s my friend. I can only wish he had been better +guided. And an accused murderer, that he is too, for his misfortune; but +wrongfully accused.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear you say so,” said Stewart. +</p> + +<p> +“More than you are to hear me say so, before long,” said I. +“Alan Breck is innocent, and so is James.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” says he, “the two cases hang together. If Alan is out, +James can never be in.” +</p> + +<p> +Hereupon I told him briefly of my acquaintance with Alan, of the accident that +brought me present at the Appin murder, and the various passages of our escape +among the heather, and my recovery of my estate. “So, sir, you have now +the whole train of these events,” I went on, “and can see for +yourself how I come to be so much mingled up with the affairs of your family +and friends, which (for all of our sakes) I wish had been plainer and less +bloody. You can see for yourself, too, that I have certain pieces of business +depending, which were scarcely fit to lay before a lawyer chosen at random. No +more remains, but to ask if you will undertake my service?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no great mind to it; but coming as you do with Alan’s +button, the choice is scarcely left me,” said he. “What are your +instructions?” he added, and took up his pen. +</p> + +<p> +“The first point is to smuggle Alan forth of this country,” said I, +“but I need not be repeating that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am little likely to forget it,” said Stewart. +</p> + +<p> +“The next thing is the bit money I am owing to Cluny,” I went on. +“It would be ill for me to find a conveyance, but that should be no stick +to you. It was two pounds five shillings and three-halfpence farthing +sterling.” +</p> + +<p> +He noted it. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said I, “there’s a Mr. Henderland, a licensed +preacher and missionary in Ardgour, that I would like well to get some snuff +into the hands of; and, as I daresay you keep touch with your friends in Appin +(so near by), it’s a job you could doubtless overtake with the +other.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much snuff are we to say?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of two pounds,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Two,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Then there’s the lass Alison Hastie, in Lime Kilns,” said I. +“Her that helped Alan and me across the Forth. I was thinking if I could +get her a good Sunday gown, such as she could wear with decency in her degree, +it would be an ease to my conscience; for the mere truth is, we owe her our two +lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad so see you are thrifty, Mr. Balfour,” says he, making +his notes. +</p> + +<p> +“I would think shame to be otherwise the first day of my fortune,” +said I. “And now, if you will compute the outlay and your own proper +charges, I would be glad to know if I could get some spending-money back. +It’s not that I grudge the whole of it to get Alan safe; it’s not +that I lack more; but having drawn so much the one day, I think it would have a +very ill appearance if I was back again seeking, the next. Only be sure you +have enough,” I added, “for I am very undesirous to meet with you +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I’m pleased to see you’re cautious, too,” +said the Writer. “But I think ye take a risk to lay so considerable a sum +at my discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +He said this with a plain sneer. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll have to run the hazard,” I replied. “O, and +there’s another service I would ask, and that’s to direct me to a +lodging, for I have no roof to my head. But it must be a lodging I may seem to +have hit upon by accident, for it would never do if the Lord Advocate were to +get any jealousy of our acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye may set your weary spirit at rest,” said he. “I will +never name your name, sir; and it’s my belief the Advocate is still so +much to be sympathised with that he doesnae ken of your existence.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw I had got to the wrong side of the man. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a braw day coming for him, then,” said I, “for +he’ll have to learn of it on the deaf side of his head no later than +to-morrow, when I call on him.” +</p> + +<p> +“When ye <i>call</i> on him!” repeated Mr. Stewart. “Am I +daft, or are you! What takes ye near the Advocate!” +</p> + +<p> +“O, just to give myself up,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Balfour,” he cried, “are ye making a mock of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said I, “though I think you have allowed yourself +some such freedom with myself. But I give you to understand once and for all +that I am in no jesting spirit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor yet me,” says Stewart. “And I give yon to understand (if +that’s to be the word) that I like the looks of your behaviour less and +less. You come here to me with all sorts of propositions, which will put me in +a train of very doubtful acts and bring me among very undesirable persons this +many a day to come. And then you tell me you’re going straight out of my +office to make your peace with the Advocate! Alan’s button here or +Alan’s button there, the four quarters of Alan wouldnae bribe me further +in.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would take it with a little more temper,” said I, “and +perhaps we can avoid what you object to. I can see no way for it but to give +myself up, but perhaps you can see another; and if you could, I could never +deny but what I would be rather relieved. For I think my traffic with his +lordship is little likely to agree with my health. There’s just the one +thing clear, that I have to give my evidence; for I hope it’ll save +Alan’s character (what’s left of it), and James’s neck, which +is the more immediate.” +</p> + +<p> +He was silent for a breathing-space, and then, “My man,” said he, +“you’ll never be allowed to give such evidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll have to see about that,” said I; “I’m +stiff-necked when I like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye muckle ass!” cried Stewart, “it’s James they want; +James has got to hang—Alan, too, if they could catch him—but James +whatever! Go near the Advocate with any such business, and you’ll see! +he’ll find a way to muzzle, ye.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think better of the Advocate than that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“The Advocate be dammed!” cries he. “It’s the +Campbells, man! You’ll have the whole clanjamfry of them on your back; +and so will the Advocate too, poor body! It’s extraordinar ye cannot see +where ye stand! If there’s no fair way to stop your gab, there’s a +foul one gaping. They can put ye in the dock, do ye no see that?” he +cried, and stabbed me with one finger in the leg. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said I, “I was told that same no further back than this +morning by another lawyer.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who was he?” asked Stewart, “He spoke sense at +least.” +</p> + +<p> +I told I must be excused from naming him, for he was a decent stout old Whig, +and had little mind to be mixed up in such affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“I think all the world seems to be mixed up in it!” cries Stewart. +“But what said you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I told him what had passed between Rankeillor and myself before the +house of Shaws. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and so ye will hang!” said he. “Ye’ll hang +beside James Stewart. There’s your fortune told.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope better of it yet than that,” said I; “but I could +never deny there was a risk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Risk!” says he, and then sat silent again. “I ought to thank +you for your staunchness to my friends, to whom you show a very good +spirit,” he says, “if you have the strength to stand by it. But I +warn you that you’re wading deep. I wouldn’t put myself in your +place (me that’s a Stewart born!) for all the Stewarts that ever there +were since Noah. Risk? ay, I take over-many; but to be tried in court before a +Campbell jury and a Campbell judge, and that in a Campbell country and upon a +Campbell quarrel—think what you like of me, Balfour, it’s beyond +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a different way of thinking, I suppose,” said I; +“I was brought up to this one by my father before me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glory to his bones! he has left a decent son to his name,” says +he. “Yet I would not have you judge me over-sorely. My case is dooms +hard. See, sir, ye tell me ye’re a Whig: I wonder what I am. No Whig to +be sure; I couldnae be just that. But—laigh in your ear, +man—I’m maybe no very keen on the other side.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that a fact?” cried I. “It’s what I would think of +a man of your intelligence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hut! none of your whillywhas!” <a name="citation4"></a><a +href="#footnote4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> cries he. “There’s +intelligence upon both sides. But for my private part I have no particular +desire to harm King George; and as for King James, God bless him! he does very +well for me across the water. I’m a lawyer, ye see: fond of my books and +my bottle, a good plea, a well-drawn deed, a crack in the Parliament House with +other lawyer bodies, and perhaps a turn at the golf on a Saturday at +e’en. Where do ye come in with your Hieland plaids and claymores?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “it’s a fact ye have little of the wild +Highlandman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Little?” quoth he. “Nothing, man! And yet I’m Hieland +born, and when the clan pipes, who but me has to dance! The clan and the name, +that goes by all. It’s just what you said yourself; my father learned it +to me, and a bonny trade I have of it. Treason and traitors, and the smuggling +of them out and in; and the French recruiting, weary fall it! and the smuggling +through of the recruits; and their pleas—a sorrow of their pleas! Here +have I been moving one for young Ardsheil, my cousin; claimed the estate under +the marriage contract—a forfeited estate! I told them it was nonsense: +muckle they cared! And there was I cocking behind a yadvocate that liked the +business as little as myself, for it was fair ruin to the pair of us—a +black mark, <i>disaffected</i>, branded on our hurdies, like folk’s names +upon their kye! And what can I do? I’m a Stewart, ye see, and must fend +for my clan and family. Then no later by than yesterday there was one of our +Stewart lads carried to the Castle. What for? I ken fine: Act of 1736: +recruiting for King Lewie. And you’ll see, he’ll whistle me in to +be his lawyer, and there’ll be another black mark on my chara’ter! +I tell you fair: if I but kent the heid of a Hebrew word from the hurdies of +it, be dammed but I would fling the whole thing up and turn minister!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s rather a hard position,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Dooms hard!” cries he. “And that’s what makes me think +so much of ye—you that’s no Stewart—to stick your head so +deep in Stewart business. And for what, I do not know: unless it was the sense +of duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it will be that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” says he, “it’s a grand quality. But here is my +clerk back; and, by your leave, we’ll pick a bit of dinner, all the three +of us. When that’s done, I’ll give you the direction of a very +decent man, that’ll be very fain to have you for a lodger. And I’ll +fill your pockets to ye, forbye, out of your ain bag. For this +business’ll not be near as dear as ye suppose—not even the ship +part of it.” +</p> + +<p> +I made him a sign that his clerk was within hearing. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoot, ye neednae mind for Robbie,” cries he. “A Stewart, +too, puir deevil! and has smuggled out more French recruits and trafficking +Papists than what he has hairs upon his face. Why, it’s Robin that +manages that branch of my affairs. Who will we have now, Rob, for across the +water!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’ll be Andie Scougal, in the <i>Thristle</i>,” replied +Rob. “I saw Hoseason the other day, but it seems he’s wanting the +ship. Then there’ll be Tam Stobo; but I’m none so sure of Tam. +I’ve seen him colloguing with some gey queer acquaintances; and if was +anybody important, I would give Tam the go-by.” +</p> + +<p> +“The head’s worth two hundred pounds, Robin,” said Stewart. +</p> + +<p> +“Gosh, that’ll no be Alan Breck!” cried the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +“Just Alan,” said his master. +</p> + +<p> +“Weary winds! that’s sayrious,” cried Robin. +“I’ll try Andie, then; Andie’ll be the best.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems it’s quite a big business,” I observed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Balfour, there’s no end to it,” said Stewart. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a name your clerk mentioned,” I went on: +“Hoseason. That must be my man, I think: Hoseason, of the brig +<i>Covenant</i>. Would you set your trust on him?” +</p> + +<p> +“He didnae behave very well to you and Alan,” said Mr. Stewart; +“but my mind of the man in general is rather otherwise. If he had taken +Alan on board his ship on an agreement, it’s my notion he would have +proved a just dealer. How say ye, Rob?” +</p> + +<p> +“No more honest skipper in the trade than Eli,” said the clerk. +“I would lippen to <a name="citation5"></a><a +href="#footnote5"><sup>[5]</sup></a> Eli’s word—ay, if it was the +Chevalier, or Appin himsel’,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“And it was him that brought the doctor, wasnae’t?” asked the +master. +</p> + +<p> +“He was the very man,” said the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think he took the doctor back?” says Stewart. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, with his sporran full!” cried Robin. “And Eli kent of +that!” <a name="citation6"></a><a href="#footnote6"><sup>[6]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it seems it’s hard to ken folk rightly,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“That was just what I forgot when ye came in, Mr. Balfour!” says +the Writer. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +I GO TO PILRIG</h2> + +<p> +The next morning, I was no sooner awake in my new lodging than I was up and +into my new clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed, than I was forth on +my adventurers. Alan, I could hope, was fended for; James was like to be a more +difficult affair, and I could not but think that enterprise might cost me dear, +even as everybody said to whom I had opened my opinion. It seemed I was come to +the top of the mountain only to cast myself down; that I had clambered up, +through so many and hard trials, to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city +clothes and a sword to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the last end of +it, and the worst kind of suicide, besides, which is to get hanged at the +King’s charges. +</p> + +<p> +What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down the high Street and out north +by Leith Wynd. First I said it was to save James Stewart; and no doubt the +memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word or so I had let +drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the same time I reflected +that it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent matter to my father’s +son, whether James died in his bed or from a scaffold. He was Alan’s +cousin, to be sure; but so far as regarded Alan, the best thing would be to lie +low, and let the King, and his Grace of Argyll, and the corbie crows, pick the +bones of his kinsman their own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all +in the pot together, James had shown no such particular anxiety whether for +Alan or me. +</p> + +<p> +Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice: and I thought that a +fine word, and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in polities, at some +discomfort to each one of us) the main thing of all must still be justice, and +the death of any innocent man a wound upon the whole community. Next, again, it +was the Accuser of the Brethren that gave me a turn of his argument; bade me +think shame for pretending myself concerned in these high matters, and told me +I was but a prating vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and to +Stewart, and held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. +Nay, and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he accused me of a kind +of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk to purchase +greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared myself, I might any +day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s officer, and be recognised, +and dragged into the Appin murder by the heels; and, no doubt, in case I could +manage my declaration with success, I should breathe more free for ever after. +But when I looked this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be +ashamed of. As for the rest, “Here are the two roads,” I thought, +“and both go to the same place. It’s unjust that James should hang +if I can save him; and it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and +then do nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted +beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed to +do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it would be a +poor duty that I was wanting in the essence.” And then I thought this was +a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking for what courage I might +lack, and that I might go straight to my duty like a soldier to battle, and +come off again scatheless, as so many do. +</p> + +<p> +This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion; though it was +far from closing up my sense of the dangers that surrounded me, nor of how very +apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on the ladder of the gallows. It was a +plain, fair morning, but the wind in the east. The little chill of it sang in +my blood, and gave me a feeling of the autumn, and the dead leaves, and dead +folks’ bodies in their graves. It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to +die in that tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs. On the top +of the Calton Hill, though it was not the customary time of year for that +diversion, some children were crying and running with their kites. These toys +appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the wind to +a high altitude and then plump among the whins; and I thought to myself at +sight of it, “There goes Davie.” +</p> + +<p> +My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the +braeside among fields. There was a whirr of looms in it went from house to +house; bees bummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the doorsteps +talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this was Picardy, a +village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen Company. Here I got a +fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the +wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in +tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the birds +hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me +suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with +examining it and drinking in discomfort. And, as I thus turned and turned about +the gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a +leg of it, and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed to the corpses. +</p> + +<p> +“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa joes <a +name="citation7"></a><a href="#footnote7"><sup>[7]</sup></a> o’mine: just +two o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did they suffer for?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ou, just for the guid cause,” said she. “Aften I spaed to +them the way that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots: no pickle mair; and +there are twa bonny callants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a +wean <a name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8"><sup>[8]</sup></a> belanged +to Brouchton.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, “and did +they come to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all +indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gie’s your loof, <a name="citation9"></a><a +href="#footnote9"><sup>[9]</sup></a> hinny,” says she, “and let me +spae your weird to ye.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I am. +It’s an unco thing to see too far in front.” +</p> + +<p> +“I read it in your bree,” she said. “There’s a bonnie +lassie that has bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw coat, and a +big man in a pouthered wig, and there’s the shadow of the wuddy, <a +name="citation10"></a><a href="#footnote10"><sup>[10]</sup></a> joe, that lies +braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren spae +it to ye bonny.” +</p> + +<p> +The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of James +More struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature, casting her a +baubee, which she continued to sit and play with under the moving shadows of +the hanged. +</p> + +<p> +My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to me but +for this encounter. The old rampart ran among fields, the like of them I had +never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was pleased, besides, to be so far +in the still countryside; but the shackles of the gibbet clattered in my head; +and the mope and mows of the old witch, and the thought of the dead men, +hag-rode my spirits. To hang on a gallows, that seemed a hard case; and whether +a man came to hang there for two shillings Scots, or (as Mr. Stewart had it) +from the sense of duty, once he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the +difference seemed small. There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on +their errands and think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at a leg-foot +and spae their fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and look to the other +aide, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had grey eyes, and their +screens upon their heads were of the Drummed colours. +</p> + +<p> +I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved, when I came +in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the walkside among some brave +young woods. The laird’s horse was standing saddled at the door as I came +up, but himself was in the study, where he received me in the midst of learned +works and musical instruments, for he was not only a deep philosopher but much +of a musician. He greeted me at first pretty well, and when he had read +Rankeillor’s letter, placed himself obligingly at my disposal. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is it, cousin David!” said he—“since it +appears that we are cousins—what is this that I can do for you! A word to +Prestongrange! Doubtless that is easily given. But what should be the +word?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Balfour,” said I, “if I were to tell you my whole story +the way it fell out, it’s my opinion (and it was Rankeillor’s +before me) that you would be very little made up with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not take that at your hands, Mr. Balfour,” said I; “I +have nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but just the common +infirmities of mankind. ‘The guilt of Adam’s first sin, the want of +original righteousness, and the corruption of my whole nature,’ so much I +must answer for, and I hope I have been taught where to look for help,” I +said; for I judged from the look of the man he would think the better of me if +I knew my questions. <a name="citation11"></a><a +href="#footnote11"><sup>[11]</sup></a> “But in the way of worldly honour +I have no great stumble to reproach myself with; and my difficulties have +befallen me very much against my will and (by all that I can see) without my +fault. My trouble is to have become dipped in a political complication, which +it is judged you would be blythe to avoid a knowledge of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, very well, Mr. David,” he replied, “I am pleased to see +you are all that Rankeillor represented. And for what you say of political +complications, you do me no more than justice. It is my study to be beyond +suspicion, and indeed outside the field of it. The question is,” says he, +“how, if I am to know nothing of the matter, I can very well assist +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why sir,” said I, “I propose you should write to his +lordship, that I am a young man of reasonable good family and of good means: +both of which I believe to be the case.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have Rankeillor’s word for it,” said Mr. Balfour, +“and I count that a warran-dice against all deadly.” +</p> + +<p> +“To which you might add (if you will take my word for so much) that I am +a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so brought up,” I went on. +</p> + +<p> +“None of which will do you any harm,” said Mr. Balfour. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you might go on to say that I sought his lordship on a matter of +great moment, connected with His Majesty’s service and the administration +of justice,” I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +“As I am not to hear the matter,” says the laird, “I will not +take upon myself to qualify its weight. ‘Great moment’ therefore +falls, and ‘moment’ along with it. For the rest I might express +myself much as you propose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then, sir,” said I, and rubbed my neck a little with my thumb, +“then I would be very desirous if you could slip in a word that might +perhaps tell for my protection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Protection?” says he, “for your protection! Here is a phrase +that somewhat dampens me. If the matter be so dangerous, I own I would be a +little loath to move in it blindfold.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps that would be the best,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s the Appin murder,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He held up both his hands. “Sirs! sirs!” cried he. +</p> + +<p> +I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my helper. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me explain. . .” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,” says he. “I +decline <i>in toto</i> to hear more of it. For your name’s sake and +Rankeillor’s, and perhaps a little for your own, I will do what I can to +help you; but I will hear no more upon the facts. And it is my first clear duty +to warn you. These are deep waters, Mr. David, and you are a young man. Be +cautious and think twice.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is to be supposed I will have thought oftener than that, Mr. +Balfour,” said I, “and I will direct your attention again to +Rankeillor’s letter, where (I hope and believe) he has registered his +approval of that which I design.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said he; and then again, “Well, well! I will do +what I can for you.” There with he took a pen and paper, sat a while in +thought, and began to write with much consideration. “I understand that +Rankeillor approved of what you have in mind?” he asked presently. +</p> + +<p> +“After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward in God’s +name,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“That is the name to go in,” said Mr. Balfour, and resumed his +writing. Presently, he signed, re-read what he had written, and addressed me +again. “Now here, Mr. David,” said he, “is a letter of +introduction, which I will seal without closing, and give into your hands open, +as the form requires. But, since I am acting in the dark, I will just read it +to you, so that you may see if it will secure your end— +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“<span class="smcap">Pilrig</span>, <i>August</i> 26th, 1751. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My Lord,—This is to bring to your notice my namesake and cousin, +David Balfour Esquire of Shaws, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and +good estate. He has enjoyed, besides, the more valuable advantages of a godly +training, and his political principles are all that your lordship can desire. I +am not in Mr. Balfour’s confidence, but I understand him to have a matter +to declare, touching His Majesty’s service and the administration of +justice; purposes for which your Lordship’s zeal is known. I should add +that the young gentleman’s intention is known to and approved by some of +his friends, who will watch with hopeful anxiety the event of his success or +failure. +</p> + +<p> +“Whereupon,” continued Mr. Balfour, “I have subscribed myself +with the usual compliments. You observe I have said ‘some of your +friends’; I hope you can justify my plural?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and approved by more than +one,” said I. “And your letter, which I take a pleasure to thank +you for, is all I could have hoped.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all I could squeeze out,” said he; “and from what I +know of the matter you design to meddle in, I can only pray God that it may +prove sufficient.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE</h2> + +<p> +My kinsman kept me to a meal, “for the honour of the roof,” he +said; and I believe I made the better speed on my return. I had no thought but +to be done with the next stage, and have myself fully committed; to a person +circumstanced as I was, the appearance of closing a door on hesitation and +temptation was itself extremely tempting; and I was the more disappointed, when +I came to Prestongrange’s house, to be informed he was abroad. I believe +it was true at the moment, and for some hours after; and then I have no doubt +the Advocate came home again, and enjoyed himself in a neighbouring chamber +among friends, while perhaps the very fact of my arrival was forgotten. I would +have gone away a dozen times, only for this strong drawing to have done with my +declaration out of hand and be able to lay me down to sleep with a free +conscience. At first I read, for the little cabinet where I was left contained +a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit; and the weather +falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and my cabinet being +lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at last obliged to desist from +this diversion (such as it was), and pass the rest of my time of waiting in a +very burthensome vacuity. The sound of people talking in a near chamber, the +pleasant note of a harpsichord, and once the voice of a lady singing, bore me a +kind of company. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long come, when the door of the +cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light behind him, of a tall figure of a +man upon the threshold. I rose at once. +</p> + +<p> +“Is anybody there?” he asked. “Who in that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord +Advocate,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been here long?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the first I hear of it,” he replied, with a chuckle. +“The lads must have forgotten you. But you are in the bit at last, for I +am Prestongrange.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, he passed before me into the next room, whither (upon his sign) I +followed him, and where he lit a candle and took his place before a +business-table. It was a long room, of a good proportion, wholly lined with +books. That small spark of light in a corner struck out the man’s +handsome person and strong face. He was flushed, his eye watered and sparkled, +and before he sat down I observed him to sway back and forth. No doubt, he had +been supping liberally; but his mind and tongue were under full control. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, sit ye down,” said he, “and let us see +Pilrig’s letter.” +</p> + +<p> +He glanced it through in the beginning carelessly, looking up and bowing when +he came to my name; but at the last words I thought I observed his attention to +redouble, and I made sure he read them twice. All this while you are to suppose +my heart was beating, for I had now crossed my Rubicon and was come fairly on +the field of battle. +</p> + +<p> +“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Balfour,” he said, +when he had done. “Let me offer you a glass of claret.” +</p> + +<p> +“Under your favour, my lord, I think it would scarce be fair on +me,” said I. “I have come here, as the letter will have mentioned, +on a business of some gravity to myself; and, as I am little used with wine, I +might be the sooner affected.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall be the judge,” said he. “But if you will permit, I +believe I will even have the bottle in myself.” +</p> + +<p> +He touched a bell, and a footman came, as at a signal, bringing wine and +glasses. +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure you will not join me?” asked the Advocate. +“Well, here is to our better acquaintance! In what way can I serve +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should, perhaps, begin by telling you, my lord, that I am here at your +own pressing invitation,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You have the advantage of me somewhere,” said he, “for I +profess I think I never heard of you before this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right, my lord; the name is, indeed, new to you,” said I. +“And yet you have been for some time extremely wishful to make my +acquaintance, and have declared the same in public.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I am no +Daniel.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “that if I was in a +jesting humour—which is far from the case—I believe I might lay a +claim on your lordship for two hundred pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what sense?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat straight up in the chair +where he had been previously lolling. “What am I to understand?” +said he. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>A tall strong lad of about eighteen</i>,” I quoted, +“<i>speaks like a Lowlander and has no beard</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I recognise those words,” said he, “which, if you have come +here with any ill-judged intention of amusing yourself, are like to prove +extremely prejudicial to your safety.” +</p> + +<p> +“My purpose in this,” I replied, “is just entirely as serious +as life and death, and you have understood me perfectly. I am the boy who was +speaking with Glenure when he was shot.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim to be +innocent,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“The inference is clear,” I said. “I am a very loyal subject +to King George, but if I had anything to reproach myself with, I would have had +more discretion than to walk into your den.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of that,” said he. “This horrid crime, Mr. +Balfour, is of a dye which cannot permit any clemency. Blood has been +barbarously shed. It has been shed in direct opposition to his Majesty and our +whole frame of laws, by those who are their known and public oppugnants. I take +a very high sense of this. I will not deny that I consider the crime as +directly personal to his Majesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“And unfortunately, my lord,” I added, a little drily, +“directly personal to another great personage who may be nameless.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean anything by those words, I must tell you I consider them +unfit for a good subject; and were they spoke publicly I should make it my +business to take note of them,” said he. “You do not appear to me +to recognise the gravity of your situation, or you would be more careful not to +pejorate the same by words which glance upon the purity of justice. Justice, in +this country, and in my poor hands, is no respecter of persons.” +</p> + +<p> +“You give me too great a share in my own speech, my lord,” said I. +“I did but repeat the common talk of the country, which I have heard +everywhere, and from men of all opinions as I came along.” +</p> + +<p> +“When you are come to more discretion you will understand such talk in +not to be listened to, how much less repeated,” says the Advocate. +“But I acquit you of an ill intention. That nobleman, whom we all honour, +and who has indeed been wounded in a near place by the late barbarity, sits too +high to be reached by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you see that I +deal plainly with you—takes it to heart as I do, and as we are both bound +to do by our judicial functions and the service of his Majesty; and I could +wish that all hands, in this ill age, were equally clean of family rancour. But +from the accident that this is a Campbell who has fallen martyr to his +duty—as who else but the Campbells have ever put themselves foremost on +that path?—I may say it, who am no Campbell—and that the chief of +that great house happens (for all our advantages) to be the present head of the +College of Justice, small minds and disaffected tongues are set agog in every +changehouse in the country; and I find a young gentleman like Mr. Balfour so +ill-advised as to make himself their echo.” So much he spoke with a very +oratorical delivery, as if in court, and then declined again upon the manner of +a gentleman. “All this apart,” said he. “It now remains that +I should learn what I am to do with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had thought it was rather I that should learn the same from your +lordship,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, true,” says the Advocate. “But, you see, you come to me +well recommended. There is a good honest Whig name to this letter,” says +he, picking it up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, +Mr. Balfour—there is always the possibility of some arrangement, I tell +you, and I tell you beforehand that you may be the more upon your guard, your +fate lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with reverence) I am +more powerful than the King’s Majesty; and should you please me—and +of course satisfy my conscience—in what remains to be held of our +interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Meaning how?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I mean it thus, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that if you +give satisfaction, no soul need know so much as that you visited my house; and +you may observe that I do not even call my clerk.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw what way he was driving. “I suppose it is needless anyone should be +informed upon my visit,” said I, “though the precise nature of my +gains by that I cannot see. I am not at all ashamed of coming here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have no cause to be,” says he, encouragingly. “Nor yet +(if you are careful) to fear the consequences.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “speaking under your correction, I am not +very easy to be frightened.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am sure I do not seek to frighten you,” says he. “But +to the interrogation; and let me warn you to volunteer nothing beyond the +questions I shall ask you. It may consist very immediately with your safety. I +have a great discretion, it is true, but there are bounds to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall try to follow your lordship’s advice,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He spread a sheet of paper on the table and wrote a heading. “It appears +you were present, by the way, in the wood of Lettermore at the moment of the +fatal shot,” he began. “Was this by accident?” +</p> + +<p> +“By accident,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“How came you in speech with Colin Campbell?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I was inquiring my way of him to Aucharn,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +I observed he did not write this answer down. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m, true,” said he, “I had forgotten that. And do you +know, Mr. Balfour, I would dwell, if I were you, as little as might be on your +relations with these Stewarts. It might be found to complicate our business. I +am not yet inclined to regard these matters as essential.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had thought, my lord, that all points of fact were equally material in +such a case,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You forget we are now trying these Stewarts,” he replied, with +great significance. “If we should ever come to be trying you, it will be +very different; and I shall press these very questions that I am now willing to +glide upon. But to resume: I have it here in Mr. Mungo Campbell’s +precognition that you ran immediately up the brae. How came that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not immediately, my lord, and the cause was my seeing of the +murderer.” +</p> + +<p> +“You saw him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“As plain as I see your lordship, though not so near hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should know him again.” +</p> + +<p> +“In your pursuit you were not so fortunate, then, as to overtake +him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was no one else in that neighbourhood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan Breck Stewart was not far off, in a piece of a wood.” +</p> + +<p> +The Advocate laid his pen down. “I think we are playing at cross +purposes,” said he, “which you will find to prove a very ill +amusement for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I content myself with following your lordship’s advice, and +answering what I am asked,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Be so wise as to bethink yourself in time,” said he, “I use +you with the most anxious tenderness, which you scarce seem to appreciate, and +which (unless you be more careful) may prove to be in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do appreciate your tenderness, but conceive it to be mistaken,” +I replied, with something of a falter, for I saw we were come to grips at last. +“I am here to lay before you certain information, by which I shall +convince you Alan had no hand whatever in the killing of Glenure.” +</p> + +<p> +The Advocate appeared for a moment at a stick, sitting with pursed lips, and +blinking his eyes upon me like an angry cat. “Mr. Balfour,” he said +at last, “I tell you pointedly you go an ill way for your own +interests.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” I said, “I am as free of the charge of considering +my own interests in this matter as your lordship. As God judges me, I have but +the one design, and that is to see justice executed and the innocent go clear. +If in pursuit of that I come to fall under your lordship’s displeasure, I +must bear it as I may.” +</p> + +<p> +At this he rose from his chair, lit a second candle, and for a while gazed upon +me steadily. I was surprised to see a great change of gravity fallen upon his +face, and I could have almost thought he was a little pale. +</p> + +<p> +“You are either very simple, or extremely the reverse, and I see that I +must deal with you more confidentially,” says he. “This is a +political case—ah, yes, Mr. Balfour! whether we like it or no, the case +is political—and I tremble when I think what issues may depend from it. +To a political case, I need scarce tell a young man of your education, we +approach with very different thoughts from one which is criminal only. <i>Salus +populi suprema lex</i> is a maxim susceptible of great abuse, but it has that +force which we find elsewhere only in the laws of nature: I mean it has the +force of necessity. I will open this out to you, if you will allow me, at more +length. You would have me believe—” +</p> + +<p> +“Under your pardon, my lord, I would have you to believe nothing but that +which I can prove,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Tut! tut; young gentleman,” says he, “be not so pragmatical, +and suffer a man who might be your father (if it was nothing more) to employ +his own imperfect language, and express his own poor thoughts, even when they +have the misfortune not to coincide with Mr. Balfour’s. You would have me +to believe Breck innocent. I would think this of little account, the more so as +we cannot catch our man. But the matter of Breck’s innocence shoots +beyond itself. Once admitted, it would destroy the whole presumptions of our +case against another and a very different criminal; a man grown old in treason, +already twice in arms against his king and already twice forgiven; a fomentor +of discontent, and (whoever may have fired the shot) the unmistakable original +of the deed in question. I need not tell you that I mean James Stewart.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I can just say plainly that the innocence of Alan and of James is +what I am here to declare in private to your lordship, and what I am prepared +to establish at the trial by my testimony,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“To which I can only answer by an equal plainness, Mr. Balfour,” +said he, “that (in that case) your testimony will not be called by me, +and I desire you to withhold it altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are at the head of Justice in this country,” I cried, +“and you propose to me a crime!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a man nursing with both hands the interests of this country,” +he replied, “and I press on you a political necessity. Patriotism is not +always moral in the formal sense. You might be glad of it, I think: it is your +own protection; the facts are heavy against you; and if I am still trying to +except you from a very dangerous place, it is in part of course because I am +not insensible to your honesty in coming here; in part because of +Pilrig’s letter; but in part, and in chief part, because I regard in this +matter my political duty first and my judicial duty only second. For the same +reason—I repeat it to you in the same frank words—I do not want +your testimony.” +</p> + +<p> +“I desire not to be thought to make a repartee, when I express only the +plain sense of our position,” said I. “But if your lordship has no +need of my testimony, I believe the other side would be extremely blythe to get +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Prestongrange arose and began to pace to and fro in the room. “You are +not so young,” he said, “but what you must remember very clearly +the year ’45 and the shock that went about the country. I read in +Pilrig’s letter that you are sound in Kirk and State. Who saved them in +that fatal year? I do not refer to His Royal Highness and his ramrods, which +were extremely useful in their day; but the country had been saved and the +field won before ever Cumberland came upon Drummossie. Who saved it? I repeat; +who saved the Protestant religion and the whole frame of our civil +institutions? The late Lord President Culloden, for one; he played a +man’s part, and small thanks he got for it—even as I, whom you see +before you, straining every nerve in the same service, look for no reward +beyond the conscience of my duties done. After the President, who else? You +know the answer as well as I do; ’tis partly a scandal, and you glanced +at it yourself, and I reproved you for it, when you first came in. It was the +Duke and the great clan of Campbell. Now here is a Campbell foully murdered, +and that in the King’s service. The Duke and I are Highlanders. But we +are Highlanders civilised, and it is not so with the great mass of our clans +and families. They have still savage virtues and defects. They are still +barbarians, like these Stewarts; only the Campbells were barbarians on the +right side, and the Stewarts were barbarians on the wrong. Now be you the +judge. The Campbells expect vengeance. If they do not get it—if this man +James escape—there will be trouble with the Campbells. That means +disturbance in the Highlands, which are uneasy and very far from being +disarmed: the disarming is a farce. . .” +</p> + +<p> +“I can bear you out in that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Disturbance in the Highlands makes the hour of our old watchful +enemy,” pursued his lordship, holding out a finger as he paced; +“and I give you my word we may have a ’45 again with the Campbells +on the other side. To protect the life of this man Stewart—which is +forfeit already on half-a-dozen different counts if not on this—do you +propose to plunge your country in war, to jeopardise the faith of your fathers, +and to expose the lives and fortunes of how many thousand innocent persons? . . +. These are considerations that weigh with me, and that I hope will weigh no +less with yourself, Mr. Balfour, as a lover of your country, good government, +and religious truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“You deal with me very frankly, and I thank you for it,” said I. +“I will try on my side to be no less honest. I believe your policy to be +sound. I believe these deep duties may lie upon your lordship; I believe you +may have laid them on your conscience when you took the oath of the high office +which you hold. But for me, who am just a plain man—or scarce a man +yet—the plain duties must suffice. I can think but of two things, of a +poor soul in the immediate and unjust danger of a shameful death, and of the +cries and tears of his wife that still tingle in my head. I cannot see beyond, +my lord. It’s the way that I am made. If the country has to fall, it has +to fall. And I pray God, if this be wilful blindness, that He may enlighten me +before too late.” +</p> + +<p> +He had heard me motionless, and stood so a while longer. +</p> + +<p> +“This is an unexpected obstacle,” says he, aloud, but to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“And how is your lordship to dispose of me?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“If I wished,” said he, “you know that you might sleep in +gaol?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “I have slept in worse places.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my boy,” said he, “there is one thing appears very +plainly from our interview, that I may rely on your pledged word. Give me your +honour that you will be wholly secret, not only on what has passed to-night, +but in the matter of the Appin case, and I let you go free.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will give it till to-morrow or any other near day that you may please +to set,” said I. “I would not be thought too wily; but if I gave +the promise without qualification your lordship would have attained his +end.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had no thought to entrap you,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure of that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see,” he continued. “To-morrow is the Sabbath. Come +to me on Monday by eight in the morning, and give me your promise until +then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Freely given, my lord,” said I. “And with regard to what has +fallen from yourself, I will give it for an long as it shall please God to +spare your days.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will observe,” he said next, “that I have made no +employment of menaces.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was like your lordship’s nobility,” said I. “Yet I +am not altogether so dull but what I can perceive the nature of those you have +not uttered.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said he, “good-night to you. May you sleep well, for +I think it is more than I am like to do.” +</p> + +<p> +With that he sighed, took up a candle, and gave me his conveyance as far as the +street door. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE</h2> + +<p> +The next day, Sabbath, August 27th, I had the occasion I had long looked +forward to, to hear some of the famous Edinburgh preachers, all well known to +me already by the report of Mr Campbell. Alas! and I might just as well have +been at Essendean, and sitting under Mr. Campbell’s worthy self! the +turmoil of my thoughts, which dwelt continually on the interview with +Prestongrange, inhibiting me from all attention. I was indeed much less +impressed by the reasoning of the divines than by the spectacle of the thronged +congregation in the churches, like what I imagined of a theatre or (in my then +disposition) of an assize of trial; above all at the West Kirk, with its three +tiers of galleries, where I went in the vain hope that I might see Miss +Drummond. +</p> + +<p> +On the Monday I betook me for the first time to a barber’s, and was very +well pleased with the result. Thence to the Advocate’s, where the red +coats of the soldiers showed again about his door, making a bright place in the +close. I looked about for the young lady and her gillies: there was never a +sign of them. But I was no sooner shown into the cabinet or antechamber where I +had spent so wearyful a time upon the Saturday, than I was aware of the tall +figure of James More in a corner. He seemed a prey to a painful uneasiness, +reaching forth his feet and hands, and his eyes speeding here and there without +rest about the walls of the small chamber, which recalled to me with a sense of +pity the man’s wretched situation. I suppose it was partly this, and +partly my strong continuing interest in his daughter, that moved me to accost +him. +</p> + +<p> +“Give you a good-morning, sir,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And a good-morning to you, sir,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“You bide tryst with Prestongrange?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir, and I pray your business with that gentleman be more +agreeable than mine,” was his reply. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope at least that yours will be brief, for I suppose you pass before +me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“All pass before me,” he said, with a shrug and a gesture upward of +the open hands. “It was not always so, sir, but times change. It was not +so when the sword was in the scale, young gentleman, and the virtues of the +soldier might sustain themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +There came a kind of Highland snuffle out of the man that raised my dander +strangely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Macgregor,” said I, “I understand the main thing +for a soldier is to be silent, and the first of his virtues never to +complain.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have my name, I perceive”—he bowed to me with his arms +crossed—“though it’s one I must not use myself. Well, there +is a publicity—I have shown my face and told my name too often in the +beards of my enemies. I must not wonder if both should be known to many that I +know not.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you know not in the least, sir,” said I, “nor yet +anybody else; but the name I am called, if you care to hear it, is +Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a good name,” he replied, civilly; “there are many +decent folk that use it. And now that I call to mind, there was a young +gentleman, your namesake, that marched surgeon in the year ’45 with my +battalion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that would be a brother to Balfour of Baith,” said I, +for I was ready for the surgeon now. +</p> + +<p> +“The same, sir,” said James More. “And since I have been +fellow-soldier with your kinsman, you must suffer me to grasp your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beaming on me the while as though he +had found a brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says he, “these are changed days since your cousin and +I heard the balls whistle in our lugs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think he was a very far-away cousin,” said I, drily, “and +I ought to tell you that I never clapped eyes upon the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said he, “it makes no change. And you—I +do not think you were out yourself, sir—I have no clear mind of your +face, which is one not probable to be forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the year you refer to, Mr. Macgregor, I was getting skelped in the +parish school,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“So young!” cries he. “Ah, then, you will never be able to +think what this meeting is to me. In the hour of my adversity, and here in the +house of my enemy, to meet in with the blood of an old brother-in-arms—it +heartens me, Mr. Balfour, like the skirling of the highland pipes! Sir, this is +a sad look back that many of us have to make: some with falling tears. I have +lived in my own country like a king; my sword, my mountains, and the faith of +my friends and kinsmen sufficed for me. Now I lie in a stinking dungeon; and do +you know, Mr. Balfour,” he went on, taking my arm and beginning to lead +me about, “do you know, sir, that I lack mere ne<i>cess</i>aries? The +malice of my foes has quite sequestered my resources. I lie, as you know, sir, +on a trumped-up charge, of which I am as innocent as yourself. They dare not +bring me to my trial, and in the meanwhile I am held naked in my prison. I +could have wished it was your cousin I had met, or his brother Baith himself. +Either would, I know, have been rejoiced to help me; while a comparative +stranger like yourself—” +</p> + +<p> +I would be ashamed to set down all he poured out to me in this beggarly vein, +or the very short and grudging answers that I made to him. There were times +when I was tempted to stop his mouth with some small change; but whether it was +from shame or pride—whether it was for my own sake or +Catriona’s—whether it was because I thought him no fit father for +his daughter, or because I resented that grossness of immediate falsity that +clung about the man himself—the thing was clean beyond me. And I was +still being wheedled and preached to, and still being marched to and fro, three +steps and a turn, in that small chamber, and had already, by some very short +replies, highly incensed, although not finally discouraged, my beggar, when +Prestongrange appeared in the doorway and bade me eagerly into his big chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a moment’s engagements,” said he; “and that you +may not sit empty-handed I am going to present you to my three braw daughters, +of whom perhaps you may have heard, for I think they are more famous than papa. +This way.” +</p> + +<p> +He led me into another long room above, where a dry old lady sat at a frame of +embroidery, and the three handsomest young women (I suppose) in Scotland stood +together by a window. +</p> + +<p> +“This is my new friend, Mr Balfour,” said he, presenting me by the +arm, “David, here is my sister, Miss Grant, who is so good as keep my +house for me, and will be very pleased if she can help you. And here,” +says he, turning to the three younger ladies, “here are my <i>three braw +dauchters</i>. A fair question to ye, Mr. Davie: which of the three is the best +favoured? And I wager he will never have the impudence to propound honest Alan +Ramsay’s answer!” +</p> + +<p> +Hereupon all three, and the old Miss Grant as well, cried out against this +sally, which (as I was acquainted with the verses he referred to) brought shame +into my own check. It seemed to me a citation unpardonable in a father, and I +was amazed that these ladies could laugh even while they reproved, or made +believe to. +</p> + +<p> +Under cover of this mirth, Prestongrange got forth of the chamber, and I was +left, like a fish upon dry land, in that very unsuitable society. I could never +deny, in looking back upon what followed, that I was eminently stockish; and I +must say the ladies were well drilled to have so long a patience with me. The +aunt indeed sat close at her embroidery, only looking now and again and +smiling; but the misses, and especially the eldest, who was besides the most +handsome, paid me a score of attentions which I was very ill able to repay. It +was all in vain to tell myself I was a young follow of some worth as well as a +good estate, and had no call to feel abashed before these lasses, the eldest +not so much older than myself, and no one of them by any probability half as +learned. Reasoning would not change the fact; and there were times when the +colour came into my face to think I was shaved that day for the first time. +</p> + +<p> +The talk going, with all their endeavours, very heavily, the eldest took pity +on my awkwardness, sat down to her instrument, of which she was a passed +mistress, and entertained me for a while with playing and singing, both in the +Scots and in the Italian manners; this put me more at my ease, and being +reminded of Alan’s air that he had taught me in the hole near Carriden, I +made so bold as to whistle a bar or two, and ask if she knew that. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. “I never heard a note of it,” said she. +“Whistle it all through. And now once again,” she added, after I +had done so. +</p> + +<p> +Then she picked it out upon the keyboard, and (to my surprise) instantly +enriched the same with well-sounding chords, and sang, as she played, with a +very droll expression and broad accent— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Haenae I got just the lilt of it?<br /> +Isnae this the tune that ye whustled?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too, only it +won’t rhyme. And then again: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I am Miss Grant, sib to the Advocate:<br /> +You, I believe, are Dauvit Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her how much astonished I was by her genius. +</p> + +<p> +“And what do you call the name of it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know the real name,” said I. “I just call it +<i>Alan’s air</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me directly in the face. “I shall call it <i>David’s +air</i>,” said she; “though if it’s the least like what your +namesake of Israel played to Saul I would never wonder that the king got little +good by it, for it’s but melancholy music. Your other name I do not like; +so if you was ever wishing to hear your tune again you are to ask for it by +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +This was said with a significance that gave my heart a jog. “Why that, +Miss Grant?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says she, “if ever you should come to get hanged, I +will set your last dying speech and confession to that tune and sing it.” +</p> + +<p> +This put it beyond a doubt that she was partly informed of my story and peril. +How, or just how much, it was more difficult to guess. It was plain she knew +there was something of danger in the name of Alan, and thus warned me to leave +it out of reference; and plain she knew that I stood under some criminal +suspicion. I judged besides that the harshness of her last speech (which +besides she had followed up immediately with a very noisy piece of music) was +to put an end to the present conversation. I stood beside her, affecting to +listen and admire, but truly whirled away by my own thoughts. I have always +found this young lady to be a lover of the mysterious; and certainly this first +interview made a mystery that was beyond my plummet. One thing I learned long +after, the hours of the Sunday had been well employed, the bank porter had been +found and examined, my visit to Charles Stewart was discovered, and the +deduction made that I was pretty deep with James and Alan, and most likely in a +continued correspondence with the last. Hence this broad hint that was given me +across the harpsichord. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of the piece of music, one of the younger misses, who was at a +window over the close, cried on her sisters to come quick, for there was +“<i>Grey eyes</i> again.” The whole family trooped there at once, +and crowded one another for a look. The window whither they ran was in an odd +corner of that room, gave above the entrance door, and flanked up the close. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Mr. Balfour,” they cried, “come and see. She is the +most beautiful creature! She hangs round the close-head these last days, always +with some wretched-like gillies, and yet seems quite a lady.” +</p> + +<p> +I had no need to look; neither did I look twice, or long. I was afraid she +might have seen me there, looking down upon her from that chamber of music, and +she without, and her father in the same house, perhaps begging for his life +with tears, and myself come but newly from rejecting his petitions. But even +that glance set me in a better conceit of myself and much less awe of the young +ladies. They were beautiful, that was beyond question, but Catriona was +beautiful too, and had a kind of brightness in her like a coal of fire. As much +as the others cast me down, she lifted me up. I remembered I had talked easily +with her. If I could make no hand of it with these fine maids, it was perhaps +something their own fault. My embarrassment began to be a little mingled and +lightened with a sense of fun; and when the aunt smiled at me from her +embroidery, and the three daughters unbent to me like a baby, all with +“papa’s orders” written on their faces, there were times when +I could have found it in my heart to smile myself. +</p> + +<p> +Presently papa returned, the same kind, happy-like, pleasant-spoken man. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, girls,” said he, “I must take Mr. Balfour away again; +but I hope you have been able to persuade him to return where I shall be always +gratified to find him.” +</p> + +<p> +So they each made me a little farthing compliment, and I was led away. +</p> + +<p> +If this visit to the family had been meant to soften my resistance, it was the +worst of failures. I was no such ass but what I understood how poor a figure I +had made, and that the girls would be yawning their jaws off as soon as my +stiff back was turned. I felt I had shown how little I had in me of what was +soft and graceful; and I longed for a chance to prove that I had something of +the other stuff, the stern and dangerous. +</p> + +<p> +Well, I was to be served to my desire, for the scene to which he was conducting +me was of a different character. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT</h2> + +<p> +There was a man waiting us in Prestongrange’s study, whom I distasted at +the first look, as we distaste a ferret or an earwig. He was bitter ugly, but +seemed very much of a gentleman; had still manners, but capable of sudden leaps +and violences; and a small voice, which could ring out shrill and dangerous +when he so desired. +</p> + +<p> +The Advocate presented us in a familiar, friendly way. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Fraser,” said he, “here is Mr. Balfour whom we talked +about. Mr. David, this is Mr. Simon Fraser, whom we used to call by another +title, but that is an old song. Mr. Fraser has an errand to you.” +</p> + +<p> +With that he stepped aside to his book-shelves, and made believe to consult a +quarto volume in the far end. +</p> + +<p> +I was thus left (in a sense) alone with perhaps the last person in the world I +had expected. There was no doubt upon the terms of introduction; this could be +no other than the forfeited Master of Lovat and chief of the great clan Fraser. +I knew he had led his men in the Rebellion; I knew his father’s +head—my old lord’s, that grey fox of the mountains—to have +fallen on the block for that offence, the lands of the family to have been +seized, and their nobility attainted. I could not conceive what he should be +doing in Grant’s house; I could not conceive that he had been called to +the bar, had eaten all his principles, and was now currying favour with the +Government even to the extent of acting Advocate-Depute in the Appin murder. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all this I hear of +ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would not become me to prejudge,” said I, “but if the +Advocate was your authority he is fully possessed of my opinions.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may tell you I am engaged in the Appin case,” he went on; +“I am to appear under Prestongrange; and from my study of the +precognitions I can assure you your opinions are erroneous. The guilt of Breck +is manifest; and your testimony, in which you admit you saw him on the hill at +the very moment, will certify his hanging.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be rather ill to hang him till you catch him,” I observed. +“And for other matters I very willingly leave you to your own +impressions.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Duke has been informed,” he went on. “I have just come +from his Grace, and he expressed himself before me with an honest freedom like +the great nobleman he is. He spoke of you by name, Mr. Balfour, and declared +his gratitude beforehand in case you would be led by those who understand your +own interests and those of the country so much better than yourself. Gratitude +is no empty expression in that mouth: <i>experto-crede</i>. I daresay you know +something of my name and clan, and the damnable example and lamented end of my +late father, to say nothing of my own errata. Well, I have made my peace with +that good Duke; he has intervened for me with our friend Prestongrange; and +here I am with my foot in the stirrup again and some of the responsibility +shared into my hand of prosecuting King George’s enemies and avenging the +late daring and barefaced insult to his Majesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless a proud position for your father’s son,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +He wagged his bald eyebrows at me. “You are pleased to make experiments +in the ironical, I think,” said he. “But I am here upon duty, I am +here to discharge my errand in good faith, it is in vain you think to divert +me. And let me tell you, for a young fellow of spirit and ambition like +yourself, a good shove in the beginning will do more than ten years’ +drudgery. The shove is now at your command; choose what you will to be advanced +in, the Duke will watch upon you with the affectionate disposition of a +father.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking that I lack the docility of the son,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you really suppose, sir, that the whole policy of this country is +to be suffered to trip up and tumble down for an ill-mannered colt of a +boy?” he cried. “This has been made a test case, all who would +prosper in the future must put a shoulder to the wheel. Look at me! Do you +suppose it is for my pleasure that I put myself in the highly invidious +position of persecuting a man that I have drawn the sword alongside of? The +choice is not left me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think, sir, that you forfeited your choice when you mixed in with +that unnatural rebellion,” I remarked. “My case is happily +otherwise; I am a true man, and can look either the Duke or King George in the +face without concern.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it so the wind sits?” says he. “I protest you are fallen +in the worst sort of error. Prestongrange has been hitherto so civil (he tells +me) as not to combat your allegations; but you must not think they are not +looked upon with strong suspicion. You say you are innocent. My dear sir, the +facts declare you guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was waiting for you there,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“The evidence of Mungo Campbell; your flight after the completion of the +murder; your long course of secresy—my good young man!” said Mr. +Simon, “here is enough evidence to hang a bullock, let be a David +Balfour! I shall be upon that trial; my voice shall be raised; I shall then +speak much otherwise from what I do to-day, and far less to your gratification, +little as you like it now! Ah, you look white!” cries he. “I have +found the key of your impudent heart. You look pale, your eyes waver, Mr. +David! You see the grave and the gallows nearer by than you had fancied.” +</p> + +<p> +“I own to a natural weakness,” said I. “I think no shame for +that. Shame. . .” I was going on. +</p> + +<p> +“Shame waits for you on the gibbet,” he broke in. +</p> + +<p> +“Where I shall but be even’d with my lord your father,” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +“Aha, but not so!” he cried, “and you do not yet see to the +bottom of this business. My father suffered in a great cause, and for dealing +in the affairs of kings. You are to hang for a dirty murder about +boddle-pieces. Your personal part in it, the treacherous one of holding the +poor wretch in talk, your accomplices a pack of ragged Highland gillies. And it +can be shown, my great Mr. Balfour—it can be shown, and it <i>will</i> be +shown, trust <i>me</i> that has a finger in the pie—it can be shown, and +shall be shown, that you were paid to do it. I think I can see the looks go +round the court when I adduce my evidence, and it shall appear that you, a +young man of education, let yourself be corrupted to this shocking act for a +suit of cast clothes, a bottle of Highland spirits, and +three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in copper money.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a touch of the truth in these words that knocked me like a blow: +clothes, a bottle of <i>usquebaugh</i>, and three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in +change made up, indeed, the most of what Alan and I had carried from Auchurn; +and I saw that some of James’s people had been blabbing in their +dungeons. +</p> + +<p> +“You see I know more than you fancied,” he resumed in triumph. +“And as for giving it this turn, great Mr. David, you must not suppose +the Government of Great Britain and Ireland will ever be stuck for want of +evidence. We have men here in prison who will swear out their lives as we +direct them; as I direct, if you prefer the phrase. So now you are to guess +your part of glory if you choose to die. On the one hand, life, wine, women, +and a duke to be your handgun: on the other, a rope to your craig, and a gibbet +to clatter your bones on, and the lousiest, lowest story to hand down to your +namesakes in the future that was ever told about a hired assassin. And see +here!” he cried, with a formidable shrill voice, “see this paper +that I pull out of my pocket. Look at the name there: it is the name of the +great David, I believe, the ink scarce dry yet. Can you guess its nature? It is +the warrant for your arrest, which I have but to touch this bell beside me to +have executed on the spot. Once in the Tolbooth upon this paper, may God help +you, for the die is cast!” +</p> + +<p> +I must never deny that I was greatly horrified by so much baseness, and much +unmanned by the immediacy and ugliness of my danger. Mr. Simon had already +gloried in the changes of my hue; I make no doubt I was now no ruddier than my +shirt; my speech besides trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a gentleman in this room,” cried I. “I appeal to +him. I put my life and credit in his hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Prestongrange shut his book with a snap. “I told you so, Simon,” +said he; “you have played your hand for all it was worth, and you have +lost. Mr. David,” he went on, “I wish you to believe it was by no +choice of mine you were subjected to this proof. I wish you could understand +how glad I am you should come forth from it with so much credit. You may not +quite see how, but it is a little of a service to myself. For had our friend +here been more successful than I was last night, it might have appeared that he +was a better judge of men than I; it might have appeared we were altogether in +the wrong situations, Mr. Simon and myself. And I know our friend Simon to be +ambitious,” says he, striking lightly on Fraser’s shoulder. +“As for this stage play, it is over; my sentiments are very much engaged +in your behalf; and whatever issue we can find to this unfortunate affair, I +shall make it my business to see it is adopted with tenderness to you.” +</p> + +<p> +These were very good words, and I could see besides that there was little love, +and perhaps a spice of genuine ill-will, between these two who were opposed to +me. For all that, it was unmistakable this interview had been designed, perhaps +rehearsed, with the consent of both; it was plain my adversaries were in +earnest to try me by all methods; and now (persuasion, flattery, and menaces +having been tried in vain) I could not but wonder what would be their next +expedient. My eyes besides were still troubled, and my knees loose under me, +with the distress of the late ordeal; and I could do no more than stammer the +same form of words: “I put my life and credit in your hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said he, “we must try to save them. And in the +meanwhile let us return to gentler methods. You must not bear any grudge upon +my friend, Mr. Simon, who did but speak by his brief. And even if you did +conceive some malice against myself, who stood by and seemed rather to hold a +candle, I must not let that extend to innocent members of my family. These are +greatly engaged to see more of you, and I cannot consent to have my young +womenfolk disappointed. To-morrow they will be going to Hope Park, where I +think it very proper you should make your bow. Call for me first, when I may +possibly have something for your private hearing; then you shall be turned +abroad again under the conduct of my misses; and until that time repeat to me +your promise of secrecy.” +</p> + +<p> +I had done better to have instantly refused, but in truth I was beside the +power of reasoning; did as I was bid; took my leave I know not how; and when I +was forth again in the close, and the door had shut behind me, was glad to lean +on a house wall and wipe my face. That horrid apparition (as I may call it) of +Mr. Simon rang in my memory, as a sudden noise rings after it is over in the +ear. Tales of the man’s father, of his falseness, of his manifold +perpetual treacheries, rose before me from all that I had heard and read, and +joined on with what I had just experienced of himself. Each time it occurred to +me, the ingenious foulness of that calumny he had proposed to nail upon my +character startled me afresh. The case of the man upon the gibbet by Leith Walk +appeared scarce distinguishable from that I was now to consider as my own. To +rob a child of so little more than nothing was certainly a paltry enterprise +for two grown men; but my own tale, as it was to be represented in a court by +Simon Fraser, appeared a fair second in every possible point of view of +sordidness and cowardice. +</p> + +<p> +The voices of two of Prestongrange’s liveried men upon his doorstep +recalled me to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha’e,” said the one, “this billet as fast as ye can +link to the captain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that for the cateran back again?” asked the other. +</p> + +<p> +“It would seem sae,” returned the first. “Him and Simon are +seeking him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think Prestongrange is gane gyte,” says the second. +“He’ll have James More in bed with him next.” +</p> + +<p> +“Weel, it’s neither your affair nor mine’s,” said the +first. +</p> + +<p> +And they parted, the one upon his errand, and the other back into the house. +</p> + +<p> +This looked as ill as possible. I was scarce gone and they were sending already +for James More, to whom I thought Mr. Simon must have pointed when he spoke of +men in prison and ready to redeem their lives by all extremities. My scalp +curdled among my hair, and the next moment the blood leaped in me to remember +Catriona. Poor lass! her father stood to be hanged for pretty indefensible +misconduct. What was yet more unpalatable, it now seemed he was prepared to +save his four quarters by the worst of shame and the most foul of cowardly +murders—murder by the false oath; and to complete our misfortunes, it +seemed myself was picked out to be the victim. +</p> + +<p> +I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscious only of a desire for movement, +air, and the open country. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR</h2> + +<p> +I came forth, I vow I know not how, on the <i>Lang Dykes</i> <a +name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12"><sup>[12]</sup></a>. This is a +rural road which runs on the north side over against the city. Thence I could +see the whole black length of it tail down, from where the castle stands upon +its crags above the loch in a long line of spires and gable ends, and smoking +chimneys, and at the sight my heart swelled in my bosom. My youth, as I have +told, was already inured to dangers; but such danger as I had seen the face of +but that morning, in the midst of what they call the safety of a town, shook me +beyond experience. Peril of slavery, peril of shipwreck, peril of sword and +shot, I had stood all of these without discredit; but the peril there was in +the sharp voice and the fat face of Simon, properly Lord Lovat, daunted me +wholly. +</p> + +<p> +I sat by the lake side in a place where the rushes went down into the water, +and there steeped my wrists and laved my temples. If I could have done so with +any remains of self-esteem, I would now have fled from my foolhardy enterprise. +But (call it courage or cowardice, and I believe it was both the one and the +other) I decided I was ventured out beyond the possibility of a retreat. I had +out-faced these men, I would continue to out-face them; come what might, I +would stand by the word spoken. +</p> + +<p> +The sense of my own constancy somewhat uplifted my spirits, but not much. At +the best of it there was an icy place about my heart, and life seemed a black +business to be at all engaged in. For two souls in particular my pity flowed. +The one was myself, to be so friendless and lost among dangers. The other was +the girl, the daughter of James More. I had seen but little of her; yet my view +was taken and my judgment made. I thought her a lass of a clean honour, like a +man’s; I thought her one to die of a disgrace; and now I believed her +father to be at that moment bargaining his vile life for mine. It made a bond +in my thoughts betwixt the girl and me. I had seen her before only as a wayside +appearance, though one that pleased me strangely; I saw her now in a sudden +nearness of relation, as the daughter of my blood foe, and I might say, my +murderer. I reflected it was hard I should be so plagued and persecuted all my +days for other folks’ affairs, and have no manner of pleasure myself. I +got meals and a bed to sleep in when my concerns would suffer it; beyond that +my wealth was of no help to me. If I was to hang, my days were like to be +short; if I was not to hang but to escape out of this trouble, they might yet +seem long to me ere I was done with them. Of a sudden her face appeared in my +memory, the way I had first seen it, with the parted lips; at that, weakness +came in my bosom and strength into my legs; and I set resolutely forward on the +way to Dean. If I was to hang to-morrow, and it was sure enough I might very +likely sleep that night in a dungeon, I determined I should hear and speak once +more with Catriona. +</p> + +<p> +The exercise of walking and the thought of my destination braced me yet more, +so that I began to pluck up a kind of spirit. In the village of Dean, where it +sits in the bottom of a glen beside the river, I inquired my way of a +miller’s man, who sent me up the hill upon the farther side by a plain +path, and so to a decent-like small house in a garden of lawns and apple-trees. +My heart beat high as I stepped inside the garden hedge, but it fell low indeed +when I came face to face with a grim and fierce old lady, walking there in a +white mutch with a man’s hat strapped upon the top of it. +</p> + +<p> +“What do ye come seeking here?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +I told her I was after Miss Drummond. +</p> + +<p> +“And what may be your business with Miss Drummond?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +I told her I had met her on Saturday last, had been so fortunate as to render +her a trifling service, and was come now on the young lady’s invitation. +</p> + +<p> +“O, so you’re Saxpence!” she cried, with a very sneering +manner. “A braw gift, a bonny gentleman. And hae ye ony ither name and +designation, or were ye bapteesed Saxpence?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +I told my name. +</p> + +<p> +“Preserve me!” she cried. “Has Ebenezer gotten a son?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, ma’am,” said I. “I am a son of Alexander’s. +It’s I that am the Laird of Shaws.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye’ll find your work cut out for ye to establish that,” +quoth she. +</p> + +<p> +“I perceive you know my uncle,” said I; “and I daresay you +may be the better pleased to hear that business is arranged.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what brings ye here after Miss Drummond?” she pursued. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m come after my saxpence, mem,” said I. “It’s +to be thought, being my uncle’s nephew, I would be found a careful +lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“So ye have a spark of sleeness in ye?” observed the old lady, with +some approval. “I thought ye had just been a cuif—you and your +saxpence, and your <i>lucky day</i> and your <i>sake of +Balwhidder</i>”—from which I was gratified to learn that Catriona +had not forgotten some of our talk. “But all this is by the +purpose,” she resumed. “Am I to understand that ye come here +keeping company?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is surely rather an early question,” said I. “The maid +is young, so am I, worse fortune. I have but seen her the once. I’ll not +deny,” I added, making up my mind to try her with some frankness, +“I’ll not deny but she has run in my head a good deal since I met +in with her. That is one thing; but it would be quite another, and I think I +would look very like a fool, to commit myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can speak out of your mouth, I see,” said the old lady. +“Praise God, and so can I! I was fool enough to take charge of this +rogue’s daughter: a fine charge I have gotten; but it’s mine, and +I’ll carry it the way I want to. Do ye mean to tell me, Mr. Balfour of +Shaws, that you would marry James More’s daughter, and him hanged! Well, +then, where there’s no possible marriage there shall be no manner of +carryings on, and take that for said. Lasses are bruckle things,” she +added, with a nod; “and though ye would never think it by my wrunkled +chafts, I was a lassie mysel’, and a bonny one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Allardyce,” said I, “for that I suppose to be your +name, you seem to do the two sides of the talking, which is a very poor manner +to come to an agreement. You give me rather a home thrust when you ask if I +would marry, at the gallow’s foot, a young lady whom I have seen but +once. I have told you already I would never be so untenty as to commit myself. +And yet I’ll go some way with you. If I continue to like the lass as well +as I have reason to expect, it will be something more than her father, or the +gallows either, that keeps the two of us apart. As for my family, I found it by +the wayside like a lost bawbee! I owe less than nothing to my uncle and if ever +I marry, it will be to please one person: that’s myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard this kind of talk before ye were born,” said Mrs. +Ogilvy, “which is perhaps the reason that I think of it so little. +There’s much to be considered. This James More is a kinsman of mine, to +my shame be it spoken. But the better the family, the mair men hanged or +headed, that’s always been poor Scotland’s story. And if it was +just the hanging! For my part I think I would be best pleased with James upon +the gallows, which would be at least an end to him. Catrine’s a good lass +enough, and a good-hearted, and lets herself be deaved all day with a runt of +an auld wife like me. But, ye see, there’s the weak bit. She’s daft +about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father of hers, and red-mad about +the Gregara, and proscribed names, and King James, and a wheen blethers. And +you might think ye could guide her, ye would find yourself sore mista’en. +Ye say ye’ve seen her but the once. . .” +</p> + +<p> +“Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” I interrupted. +“I saw her again this morning from a window at +Prestongrange’s.” +</p> + +<p> +This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but I was properly paid for my +ostentation on the return. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this of it?” cries the old lady, with a sudden pucker +of her face. “I think it was at the Advocate’s door-cheek that ye +met her first.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her that was so. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m,” she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding +tone, “I have your bare word for it,” she cries, “as to who +and what you are. By your way of it, you’re Balfour of the Shaws; but for +what I ken you may be Balfour of the Deevil’s oxter. It’s possible +ye may come here for what ye say, and it’s equally possible ye may come +here for deil care what! I’m good enough Whig to sit quiet, and to have +keepit all my men-folk’s heads upon their shoulders. But I’m not +just a good enough Whig to be made a fool of neither. And I tell you fairly, +there’s too much Advocate’s door and Advocate’s window here +for a man that comes taigling after a Macgregor’s daughter. Ye can tell +that to the Advocate that sent ye, with my fond love. And I kiss my loof to ye, +Mr. Balfour,” says she, suiting the action to the word; “and a braw +journey to ye back to where ye cam frae.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you think me a spy,” I broke out, and speech stuck in my +throat. I stood and looked murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed and +turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“Here! Hoots! The callant’s in a creel!” she cried. +“Think ye a spy? what else would I think ye—me that kens naething +by ye? But I see that I was wrong; and as I cannot fight, I’ll have to +apologise. A bonny figure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!” she went +on, “you’re none such a bad lad in your way; I think ye’ll +have some redeeming vices. But, O! Davit Balfour, ye’re damned +countryfeed. Ye’ll have to win over that, lad; ye’ll have to soople +your back-bone, and think a wee pickle less of your dainty self; and +ye’ll have to try to find out that women-folk are nae grenadiers. But +that can never be. To your last day you’ll ken no more of women-folk than +what I do of sow-gelding.” +</p> + +<p> +I had never been used with such expressions from a lady’s tongue, the +only two ladies I had known, Mrs. Campbell and my mother, being most devout and +most particular women; and I suppose my amazement must have been depicted in my +countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy burst forth suddenly in a fit of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep me!” she cried, struggling with her mirth, “you have +the finest timber face—and you to marry the daughter of a Hieland +cateran! Davie, my dear, I think we’ll have to make a match of +it—if it was just to see the weans. And now,” she went on, +“there’s no manner of service in your daidling here, for the young +woman is from home, and it’s my fear that the old woman is no suitable +companion for your father’s son. Forbye that I have nobody but myself to +look after my reputation, and have been long enough alone with a sedooctive +youth. And come back another day for your saxpence!” she cried after me +as I left. +</p> + +<p> +My skirmish with this disconcerting lady gave my thoughts a boldness they had +otherwise wanted. For two days the image of Catriona had mixed in all my +meditations; she made their background, so that I scarce enjoyed my own company +without a glint of her in a corner of my mind. But now she came immediately +near; I seemed to touch her, whom I had never touched but the once; I let +myself flow out to her in a happy weakness, and looking all about, and before +and behind, saw the world like an undesirable desert, where men go as soldiers +on a march, following their duty with what constancy they have, and Catriona +alone there to offer me some pleasure of my days. I wondered at myself that I +could dwell on such considerations in that time of my peril and disgrace; and +when I remembered my youth I was ashamed. I had my studies to complete: I had +to be called into some useful business; I had yet to take my part of service in +a place where all must serve; I had yet to learn, and know, and prove myself a +man; and I had so much sense as blush that I should be already tempted with +these further-on and holier delights and duties. My education spoke home to me +sharply; I was never brought up on sugar biscuits but on the hard food of the +truth. I knew that he was quite unfit to be a husband who was not prepared to +be a father also; and for a boy like me to play the father was a mere derision. +</p> + +<p> +When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about half-way back to town I saw +a figure coming to meet me, and the trouble of my heart was heightened. It +seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, but nothing to say first; +and remembering how tongue-tied I had been that morning at the Advocate’s +I made sure that I would find myself struck dumb. But when she came up my fears +fled away; not even the consciousness of what I had been privately thinking +disconcerted me the least; and I found I could talk with her as easily and +rationally as I might with Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“O!” she cried, “you have been seeking your sixpence; did you +get it?” +</p> + +<p> +I told her no; but now I had met with her my walk was not in vain. +“Though I have seen you to-day already,” said I, and told her where +and when. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not see you,” she said. “My eyes are big, but there +are better than mine at seeing far. Only I heard singing in the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was Miss Grant,” said I, “the eldest and the +bonniest.” +</p> + +<p> +“They say they are all beautiful,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“They think the same of you, Miss Drummond,” I replied, “and +were all crowding to the window to observe you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pity about my being so blind,” said she, “or I might +have seen them too. And you were in the house? You must have been having the +fine time with the fine music and the pretty ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is just where you are wrong,” said I; “for I was as +uncouth as a sea-fish upon the brae of a mountain. The truth is that I am +better fitted to go about with rudas men than pretty ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, at which we +both of us laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the least +afraid with you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of +your cousin too.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. “My +father is afraid of her himself.” +</p> + +<p> +The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she walked by +my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed of +him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a traitor to be silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no later than +this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at +me. “You saw James More? You will have spoken with him then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did even that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible. She +gave me a look of mere gratitude. “Ah, thank you for that!” says +she. +</p> + +<p> +“You thank me for very little,” said I, and then stopped. But it +seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. +“I spoke rather ill to him,” said I; “I did no like him very +much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his +daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do not love and cherish +him I will not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to +tremble. “Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at +Prestongrange’s. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for +it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the +first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, +you will soon find that his affairs are mending.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; +“and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am not wondering at that,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“O, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the once, and +then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind +word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I +knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to +you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth +of my heart shine out?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” said she. +“I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle +folk.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, “I cannae +bear it else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through +with my dreadful fate? If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot do +it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.” +</p> + +<p> +She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my words or +the tone of my voice she came to a stop. “What is this you say?” +she asked. “What are you talking of?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my testimony which may save an innocent life,” said I, +“and they will not suffer me to bear it. What would you do yourself? You +know what this is, whose father lies in danger. Would you desert the poor soul? +They have tried all ways with me. They have sought to bribe me; they offered me +hills and valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how I stood, and to +what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace me. I am to be brought in a +party to the murder; I am to have held Glenure in talk for money and old +clothes; I am to be killed and shamed. If this is the way I am to fall, and me +scarce a man—if this is the story to be told of me in all +Scotland—if you are to believe it too, and my name is to be nothing but a +by-word—Catriona, how can I go through with it? The thing’s not +possible; it’s more than a man has in his heart.” +</p> + +<p> +I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the other; and when I stopped I +found her gazing on me with a startled face. +</p> + +<p> +“Glenure! It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, but with a very +deep surprise. +</p> + +<p> +I had turned back to bear her company, and we were now come near the head of +the brae above Dean village. At this word I stepped in front of her like one +suddenly distracted. +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake!” I cried, “for God’s sake, what +is this that I have done?” and carried my fists to my temples. +“What made me do it? Sure, I am bewitched to say these things!” +</p> + +<p> +“In the name of heaven, what ails you now!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my honour and now I +have broke it. O, Catriona!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am asking you what it is,” she said; “was it these things +you should not have spoken? And do you think I have no honour, then? or that I +am one that would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to you and +swear.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I knew you would be true!” said I. “It’s +me—it’s here. I that stood but this morning and out-faced them, +that risked rather to die disgraced upon the gallows than do wrong—and a +few hours after I throw my honour away by the roadside in common talk! +‘There is one thing clear upon our interview,’ says he, ‘that +I can rely on your pledged word.’ Where is my word now? Who could believe +me now? You could not believe me. I am clean fallen down; I had best +die!” All this I said with a weeping voice, but I had no tears in my +body. +</p> + +<p> +“My heart is sore for you,” said she, “but be sure you are +too nice. I would not believe you, do you say? I would trust you with anything. +And these men? I would not be thinking of them! Men who go about to entrap and +to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to crouch. Look up! Do you not think I will +be admiring you like a great hero of the good—and you a boy not much +older than myself? And because you said a word too much in a friend’s +ear, that would die ere she betrayed you—to make such a matter! It is one +thing that we must both forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, looking at her, hang-dog, “is this true +of it? Would ye trust me yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not believe the tears upon my face?” she cried. “It +is the world I am thinking of you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them hang you; I will +never forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it is great to +die so: I will envy you that gallows.” +</p> + +<p> +“And maybe all this while I am but a child frighted with bogles,” +said I. “Maybe they but make a mock of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is what I must know,” she said. “I must hear the whole. +The harm is done at all events, and I must hear the whole.” +</p> + +<p> +I had sat down on the wayside, where she took a place beside me, and I told her +all that matter much as I have written it, my thoughts about her father’s +dealings being alone omitted. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, when I had finished, “you are a hero, +surely, and I never would have thought that same! And I think you are in peril, +too. O, Simon Fraser! to think upon that man! For his life and the dirty money, +to be dealing in such traffic!” And just then she called out aloud with a +queer word that was common with her, and belongs, I believe, to her own +language. “My torture!” says she, “look at the sun!” +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, it was already dipping towards the mountains. +</p> + +<p> +She bid me come again soon, gave me her hand, and left me in a turmoil of glad +spirits. I delayed to go home to my lodging, for I had a terror of immediate +arrest; but got some supper at a change house, and the better part of that +night walked by myself in the barley-fields, and had such a sense of +Catriona’s presence that I seemed to bear her in my arms. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +THE BRAVO</h2> + +<p> +The next day, August 29th, I kept my appointment at the Advocate’s in a +coat that I had made to my own measure, and was but newly ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Aha,” says Prestongrange, “you are very fine to-day; my +misses are to have a fine cavalier. Come, I take that kind of you. I take that +kind of you, Mr. David. O, we shall do very well yet, and I believe your +troubles are nearly at an end.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have news for me?” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +“Beyond anticipation,” he replied. “Your testimony is after +all to be received; and you may go, if you will, in my company to the trial, +which in to be held at Inverary, Thursday, 21st <i>proximo</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +I was too much amazed to find words. +</p> + +<p> +“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “though I will not ask you +to renew your pledge, I must caution you strictly to be reticent. To-morrow +your precognition must be taken; and outside of that, do you know, I think +least said will be soonest mended.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall try to go discreetly,” said I. “I believe it is +yourself that I must thank for this crowning mercy, and I do thank you +gratefully. After yesterday, my lord, this is like the doors of Heaven. I +cannot find it in my heart to get the thing believed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but you must try and manage, you must try and manage to believe +it,” says he, soothing-like, “and I am very glad to hear your +acknowledgment of obligation, for I think you may be able to repay me very +shortly”—he coughed—“or even now. The matter is much +changed. Your testimony, which I shall not trouble you for to-day, will +doubtless alter the complexion of the case for all concerned, and this makes it +less delicate for me to enter with you on a side issue.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord,” I interrupted, “excuse me for interrupting you, +but how has this been brought about? The obstacles you told me of on Saturday +appeared even to me to be quite insurmountable; how has it been +contrived?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. David,” said he, “it would never do for me to +divulge (even to you, as you say) the councils of the Government; and you must +content yourself, if you please, with the gross fact.” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled upon me like a father as he spoke, playing the while with a new pen; +methought it was impossible there could be any shadow of deception in the man: +yet when he drew to him a sheet of paper, dipped his pen among the ink, and +began again to address me, I was somehow not so certain, and fell instinctively +into an attitude of guard. +</p> + +<p> +“There is a point I wish to touch upon,” he began. “I +purposely left it before upon one side, which need be now no longer necessary. +This is not, of course, a part of your examination, which is to follow by +another hand; this is a private interest of my own. You say you encountered +Alan Breck upon the hill?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did, my lord,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“This was immediately after the murder?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you speak to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had known him before, I think?” says my lord, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot guess your reason for so thinking, my lord,” I replied, +“but such in the fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when did you part with him again?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I reserve my answer,” said I. “The question will be put to +me at the assize.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “will you not understand that all +this is without prejudice to yourself? I have promised you life and honour; +and, believe me, I can keep my word. You are therefore clear of all anxiety. +Alan, it appears, you suppose you can protect; and you talk to me of your +gratitude, which I think (if you push me) is not ill-deserved. There are a +great many different considerations all pointing the same way; and I will never +be persuaded that you could not help us (if you chose) to put salt on +Alan’s tail.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said I, “I give you my word I do not so much as +guess where Alan is.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +I sat before him like a log of wood. +</p> + +<p> +“And so much for your gratitude, Mr. David!” he observed. Again +there was a piece of silence. “Well,” said he, rising, “I am +not fortunate, and we are a couple at cross purposes. Let us speak of it no +more; you will receive notice when, where, and by whom, we are to take your +precognition. And in the meantime, my misses must be waiting you. They will +never forgive me if I detain their cavalier.” +</p> + +<p> +Into the hands of these Graces I was accordingly offered up, and found them +dressed beyond what I had thought possible, and looking fair as a posy. +</p> + +<p> +As we went forth from the doors a small circumstance occurred which came +afterwards to look extremely big. I heard a whistle sound loud and brief like a +signal, and looking all about, spied for one moment the red head of Neil of the +Tom, the son of Duncan. The next moment he was gone again, nor could I see so +much as the skirt-tail of Catriona, upon whom I naturally supposed him to be +then attending. +</p> + +<p> +My three keepers led me out by Bristo and the Bruntsfield Links; whence a path +carried us to Hope Park, a beautiful pleasance, laid with gravel-walks, +furnished with seats and summer-sheds, and warded by a keeper. The way there +was a little longsome; the two younger misses affected an air of genteel +weariness that damped me cruelly, the eldest considered me with something that +at times appeared like mirth; and though I thought I did myself more justice +than the day before, it was not without some effort. Upon our reaching the park +I was launched on a bevy of eight or ten young gentlemen (some of them cockaded +officers, the rest chiefly advocates) who crowded to attend upon these +beauties; and though I was presented to all of them in very good words, it +seemed I was by all immediately forgotten. Young folk in a company are like to +savage animals: they fall upon or scorn a stranger without civility, or I may +say, humanity; and I am sure, if I had been among baboons, they would have +shown me quite as much of both. Some of the advocates set up to be wits, and +some of the soldiers to be rattles; and I could not tell which of these +extremes annoyed me most. All had a manner of handling their swords and +coat-skirts, for the which (in mere black envy) I could have kicked them from +the park. I daresay, upon their side, they grudged me extremely the fine +company in which I had arrived; and altogether I had soon fallen behind, and +stepped stiffly in the rear of all that merriment with my own thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +From these I was recalled by one of the officers, Lieutenant Hector Duncansby, +a gawky, leering Highland boy, asking if my name was not “Palfour.” +</p> + +<p> +I told him it was, not very kindly, for his manner was scant civil. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it, “Palfour, +Palfour!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” says I, annoyed with +myself to be annoyed with such a rustical fellow. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” says he, “but I wass thinking.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not advise you to make a practice of that, sir,” says I. +“I feel sure you would not find it to agree with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the tangs?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he answered, with a heckling +laugh, that he thought I must have found the poker in the same place and +swallowed it. +</p> + +<p> +There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek burned. +</p> + +<p> +“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” said I, +“I think I would learn the English language first.” +</p> + +<p> +He took me by the sleeve with a nod and a wink and led me quietly outside Hope +Park. But no sooner were we beyond the view of the promenaders, than the +fashion of his countenance changed. “You tam lowland +scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the jaw with his +closed fist. +</p> + +<p> +I paid him as good or better on the return; whereupon he stepped a little back +and took off his hat to me decorously. +</p> + +<p> +“Enough plows I think,” says he. “I will be the offended +shentleman, for who effer heard of such suffeeciency as tell a shentlemans that +is the king’s officer he cannae speak Cot’s English? We have swords +at our hurdles, and here is the King’s Park at hand. Will ye walk first, +or let me show ye the way?” +</p> + +<p> +I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed him. As he went I heard +him grumble to himself about <i>Cot’s English</i> and the <i>King’s +coat</i>, so that I might have supposed him to be seriously offended. But his +manner at the beginning of our interview was there to belie him. It was +manifest he had come prepared to fasten a quarrel on me, right or wrong; +manifest that I was taken in a fresh contrivance of my enemies; and to me +(conscious as I was of my deficiencies) manifest enough that I should be the +one to fall in our encounter. +</p> + +<p> +As we came into that rough rocky desert of the King’s Park I was tempted +half-a-dozen times to take to my heels and run for it, so loath was I to show +my ignorance in fencing, and so much averse to die or even to be wounded. But I +considered if their malice went as far as this, it would likely stick at +nothing; and that to fall by the sword, however ungracefully, was still an +improvement on the gallows. I considered besides that by the unguarded pertness +of my words and the quickness of my blow I had put myself quite out of court; +and that even if I ran, my adversary would probably pursue and catch me, which +would add disgrace to my misfortune. So that, taking all in all, I continued +marching behind him, much as a man follows the hangman, and certainly with no +more hope. +</p> + +<p> +We went about the end of the long craigs, and came into the Hunter’s Bog. +Here, on a piece of fair turf, my adversary drew. There was nobody there to see +us but some birds; and no resource for me but to follow his example, and stand +on guard with the best face I could display. It seems it was not good enough +for Mr. Dancansby, who spied some flaw in my manœuvres, paused, looked +upon me sharply, and came off and on, and menaced me with his blade in the air. +As I had seen no such proceedings from Alan, and was besides a good deal +affected with the proximity of death, I grew quite bewildered, stood helpless, +and could have longed to run away. +</p> + +<p> +“Fat deil ails her?” cries the lieutenant. +</p> + +<p> +And suddenly engaging, he twitched the sword out of my grasp and sent it flying +far among the rushes. +</p> + +<p> +Twice was this manœuvre repeated; and the third time when I brought back +my humiliated weapon, I found he had returned his own to the scabbard, and +stood awaiting me with a face of some anger, and his hands clasped under his +skirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Pe tamned if I touch you!” he cried, and asked me bitterly what +right I had to stand up before “shentlemans” when I did not know +the back of a sword from the front of it. +</p> + +<p> +I answered that was the fault of my upbringing; and would he do me the justice +to say I had given him all the satisfaction it was unfortunately in my power to +offer, and had stood up like a man? +</p> + +<p> +“And that is the truth,” said he. “I am fery prave myself, +and pold as a lions. But to stand up there—and you ken naething of +fence!—the way that you did, I declare it was peyond me. And I am sorry +for the plow; though I declare I pelief your own was the elder brother, and my +heid still sings with it. And I declare if I had kent what way it wass, I would +not put a hand to such a piece of pusiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is handsomely said,” I replied, “and I am sure you will +not stand up a second time to be the actor for my private enemies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, no, Palfour,” said he; “and I think I was used +extremely suffeeciently myself to be set up to fecht with an auld wife, or all +the same as a bairn whateffer! And I will tell the Master so, and fecht him, by +Cot, himself!” +</p> + +<p> +“And if you knew the nature of Mr. Simon’s quarrel with me,” +said I, “you would be yet the more affronted to be mingled up with such +affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +He swore he could well believe it; that all the Lovats were made of the same +meal and the devil was the miller that ground that; then suddenly shaking me by +the hand, he vowed I was a pretty enough fellow after all, that it was a +thousand pities I had been neglected, and that if he could find the time, he +would give an eye himself to have me educated. +</p> + +<p> +“You can do me a better service than even what you propose,” said +I; and when he had asked its nature—“Come with me to the house of +one of my enemies, and testify how I have carried myself this day,” I +told him. “That will be the true service. For though he has sent me a +gallant adversary for the first, the thought in Mr. Simon’s mind is +merely murder. There will be a second and then a third; and by what you have +seen of my cleverness with the cold steel, you can judge for yourself what is +like to be the upshot.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I would not like it myself, if I was no more of a man than what you +wass!” he cried. “But I will do you right, Palfour. Lead on!” +</p> + +<p> +If I had walked slowly on the way into that accursed park my heels were light +enough on the way out. They kept time to a very good old air, that is as +ancient as the Bible, and the words of it are: “<i>Surely the bitterness +of death is passed</i>.” I mind that I was extremely thirsty, and had a +drink at Saint Margaret’s well on the road down, and the sweetness of +that water passed belief. We went through the sanctuary, up the Canongate, in +by the Netherbow, and straight to Prestongrange’s door, talking as we +came and arranging the details of our affair. The footman owned his master was +at home, but declared him engaged with other gentlemen on very private +business, and his door forbidden. +</p> + +<p> +“My business is but for three minutes, and it cannot wait,” said I. +“You may say it is by no means private, and I shall be even glad to have +some witnesses.” +</p> + +<p> +As the man departed unwillingly enough upon this errand, we made so bold as to +follow him to the ante-chamber, whence I could hear for a while the murmuring +of several voices in the room within. The truth is, they were three at the one +table—Prestongrange, Simon Fraser, and Mr. Erskine, Sheriff of Perth; and +as they were met in consultation on the very business of the Appin murder, they +were a little disturbed at my appearance, but decided to receive me. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, Mr. Balfour, and what brings you here again? and who is this +you bring with you?” says Prestongrange. +</p> + +<p> +As for Fraser, he looked before him on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“He is here to bear a little testimony in my favour, my lord, which I +think it very needful you should hear,” said I, and turned to Duncansby. +</p> + +<p> +“I have only to say this,” said the lieutenant, “that I stood +up this day with Palfour in the Hunter’s Pog, which I am now fery sorry +for, and he behaved himself as pretty as a shentlemans could ask it. And I have +creat respects for Palfour,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for your honest expressions,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Duncansby made his bow to the company, and left the chamber, as we +had agreed upon before. +</p> + +<p> +“What have I to do with this?” says Prestongrange. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell your lordship in two words,” said I. “I have +brought this gentleman, a King’s officer, to do me so much justice. Now I +think my character is covered, and until a certain date, which your lordship +can very well supply, it will be quite in vain to despatch against me any more +officers. I will not consent to fight my way through the garrison of the +castle.” +</p> + +<p> +The veins swelled on Prestongrange’s brow, and he regarded me with fury. +</p> + +<p> +“I think the devil uncoupled this dog of a lad between my legs!” he +cried; and then, turning fiercely on his neighbour, “This is some of your +work, Simon,” he said. “I spy your hand in the business, and, let +me tell you, I resent it. It is disloyal, when we are agreed upon one +expedient, to follow another in the dark. You are disloyal to me. What! you let +me send this lad to the place with my very daughters! And because I let drop a +word to you..... Fy, sir, keep your dishonours to yourself!” +</p> + +<p> +Simon was deadly pale. “I will be a kick-ball between you and the Duke no +longer,” he exclaimed. “Either come to an agreement, or come to a +differ, and have it out among yourselves. But I will no longer fetch and carry, +and get your contrary instructions, and be blamed by both. For if I were to +tell you what I think of all your Hanover business it would make your head +sing.” +</p> + +<p> +But Sheriff Erskine had preserved his temper, and now intervened smoothly. +“And in the meantime,” says he, “I think we should tell Mr. +Balfour that his character for valour is quite established. He may sleep in +peace. Until the date he was so good as to refer to it shall be put to the +proof no more.” +</p> + +<p> +His coolness brought the others to their prudence; and they made haste, with a +somewhat distracted civility, to pack me from the house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +THE HEATHER ON FIRE</h2> + +<p> +When I left Prestongrange that afternoon I was for the first time angry. The +Advocate had made a mock of me. He had pretended my testimony was to be +received and myself respected; and in that very hour, not only was Simon +practising against my life by the hands of the Highland soldier, but (as +appeared from his own language) Prestongrange himself had some design in +operation. I counted my enemies; Prestongrange with all the King’s +authority behind him; and the Duke with the power of the West Highlands; and +the Lovat interest by their side to help them with so great a force in the +north, and the whole clan of old Jacobite spies and traffickers. And when I +remembered James More, and the red head of Neil the son of Duncan, I thought +there was perhaps a fourth in the confederacy, and what remained of Rob +Roy’s old desperate sept of caterans would be banded against me with the +others. One thing was requisite—some strong friend or wise adviser. The +country must be full of such, both able and eager to support me, or Lovat and +the Duke and Prestongrange had not been nosing for expedients; and it made me +rage to think that I might brush against my champions in the street and be no +wiser. +</p> + +<p> +And just then (like an answer) a gentleman brushed against me going by, gave me +a meaning look, and turned into a close. I knew him with the tail of my +eye—it was Stewart the Writer; and, blessing my good fortune, turned in +to follow him. As soon as I had entered the close I saw him standing in the +mouth of a stair, where he made me a signal and immediately vanished. Seven +storeys up, there he was again in a house door, the which he looked behind us +after we had entered. The house was quite dismantled, with not a stick of +furniture; indeed, it was one of which Stewart had the letting in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll have to sit upon the floor,” said he; “but +we’re safe here for the time being, and I’ve been wearying to see +ye, Mr. Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s it with Alan?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Brawly,” said he. “Andie picks him up at Gillane sands +to-morrow, Wednesday. He was keen to say good-bye to ye, but the way that +things were going, I was feared the pair of ye was maybe best apart. And that +brings me to the essential: how does your business speed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said I, “I was told only this morning that my +testimony was accepted, and I was to travel to Inverary with the Advocate, no +less.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hout awa!” cried Stewart. “I’ll never believe +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have maybe a suspicion of my own,” says I, “but I would +like fine to hear your reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I tell ye fairly, I’m horn-mad,” cries Stewart. +“If my one hand could pull their Government down I would pluck it like a +rotten apple. I’m doer for Appin and for James of the Glens; and, of +course, it’s my duty to defend my kinsman for his life. Hear how it goes +with me, and I’ll leave the judgment of it to yourself. The first thing +they have to do is to get rid of Alan. They cannae bring in James as art and +part until they’ve brought in Alan first as principal; that’s sound +law: they could never put the cart before the horse.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how are they to bring in Alan till they can catch him?” says +I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but there is a way to evite that arrestment,” said he. +“Sound law, too. It would be a bonny thing if, by the escape of one +ill-doer another was to go scatheless, and the remeid is to summon the +principal and put him to outlawry for the non-compearance. Now there’s +four places where a person can be summoned: at his dwelling-house; at a place +where he has resided forty days; at the head burgh of the shire where he +ordinarily resorts; or lastly (if there be ground to think him forth of +Scotland) <i>at the cross of Edinburgh</i>, <i>and the pier and shore of +Leith</i>, <i>for sixty days</i>. The purpose of which last provision is +evident upon its face: being that outgoing ships may have time to carry news of +the transaction, and the summonsing be something other than a form. Now take +the case of Alan. He has no dwelling-house that ever I could hear of; I would +be obliged if anyone would show me where he has lived forty days together since +the ’45; there is no shire where he resorts whether ordinarily or +extraordinarily; if he has a domicile at all, which I misdoubt, it must be with +his regiment in France; and if he is not yet forth of Scotland (as we happen to +know and they happen to guess) it must be evident to the most dull it’s +what he’s aiming for. Where, then, and what way should he be summoned? I +ask it at yourself, a layman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have given the very words,” said I. “Here at the cross, +and at the pier and shore of Leith, for sixty days.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye’re a sounder Scots lawyer than Prestongrange, then!” +cries the Writer. “He has had Alan summoned once; that was on the +twenty-fifth, the day that we first met. Once, and done with it. And where? +Where, but at the cross of Inverary, the head burgh of the Campbells? A word in +your ear, Mr. Balfour—they’re not seeking Alan.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” I cried. “Not seeking him?” +</p> + +<p> +“By the best that I can make of it,” said he. “Not wanting to +find him, in my poor thought. They think perhaps he might set up a fair +defence, upon the back of which James, the man they’re really after, +might climb out. This is not a case, ye see, it’s a conspiracy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I can tell you Prestongrange asked after Alan keenly,” said I; +“though, when I come to think of it, he was something of the easiest put +by.” +</p> + +<p> +“See that!” says he. “But there! I may be right or wrong, +that’s guesswork at the best, and let me get to my facts again. It comes +to my ears that James and the witnesses—the witnesses, Mr. +Balfour!—lay in close dungeons, and shackled forbye, in the military +prison at Fort William; none allowed in to them, nor they to write. The +witnesses, Mr. Balfour; heard ye ever the match of that? I assure ye, no old, +crooked Stewart of the gang ever out-faced the law more impudently. It’s +clean in the two eyes of the Act of Parliament of 1700, anent wrongous +imprisonment. No sooner did I get the news than I petitioned the Lord Justice +Clerk. I have his word to-day. There’s law for ye! here’s +justice!” +</p> + +<p> +He put a paper in my hand, that same mealy-mouthed, false-faced paper that was +printed since in the pamphlet “by a bystander,” for behoof (as the +title says) of James’s “poor widow and five children.” +</p> + +<p> +“See,” said Stewart, “he couldn’t dare to refuse me +access to my client, so he <i>recommends the commanding officer to let me +in</i>. Recommends!—the Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland recommends. Is not +the purpose of such language plain? They hope the officer may be so dull, or so +very much the reverse, as to refuse the recommendation. I would have to make +the journey back again betwixt here and Fort William. Then would follow a fresh +delay till I got fresh authority, and they had disavowed the +officer—military man, notoriously ignorant of the law, and that—I +ken the cant of it. Then the journey a third time; and there we should be on +the immediate heels of the trial before I had received my first instruction. Am +I not right to call this a conspiracy?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will bear that colour,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And I’ll go on to prove it you outright,” said he. +“They have the right to hold James in prison, yet they cannot deny me to +visit him. They have no right to hold the witnesses; but am I to get a sight of +them, that should be as free as the Lord Justice Clerk himself! See—read: +<i>For the rest</i>, <i>refuses to give any orders to keepers of prisons who +are not accused as having done anything contrary to the duties of their +office</i>. Anything contrary! Sirs! And the Act of seventeen hunner? Mr. +Balfour, this makes my heart to burst; the heather is on fire inside my +wame.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the plain English of that phrase,” said I, “is that the +witnesses are still to lie in prison and you are not to see them?” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am not to see them until Inverary, when the court is set!” +cries he, “and then to hear Prestongrange upon <i>the anxious +responsibilities of his office and the great facilities afforded the +defence</i>! But I’ll begowk them there, Mr. David. I have a plan to +waylay the witnesses upon the road, and see if I cannae get I a little harle of +justice out of the <i>military man notoriously ignorant of the law</i> that +shall command the party.” +</p> + +<p> +It was actually so—it was actually on the wayside near Tynedrum, and by +the connivance of a soldier officer, that Mr. Stewart first saw the witnesses +upon the case. +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing that would surprise me in this business,” I +remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll surprise you ere I’m done!” cries he. “Do +ye see this?”—producing a print still wet from the press. +“This is the libel: see, there’s Prestongrange’s name to the +list of witnesses, and I find no word of any Balfour. But here is not the +question. Who do ye think paid for the printing of this paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it would likely be King George,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“But it happens it was me!” he cried. “Not but it was printed +by and for themselves, for the Grants and the Erskines, and yon thief of the +black midnight, Simon Fraser. But could <i>I</i> win to get a copy! No! I was +to go blindfold to my defence; I was to hear the charges for the first time in +court alongst the jury.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is not this against the law?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say so much,” he replied. “It was a favour so +natural and so constantly rendered (till this nonesuch business) that the law +has never looked to it. And now admire the hand of Providence! A stranger is in +Fleming’s printing house, spies a proof on the floor, picks it up, and +carries it to me. Of all things, it was just this libel. Whereupon I had it set +again—printed at the expense of the defence: <i>sumptibus moesti rei</i>; +heard ever man the like of it?—and here it is for anybody, the muckle +secret out—all may see it now. But how do you think I would enjoy this, +that has the life of my kinsman on my conscience?” +</p> + +<p> +“Troth, I think you would enjoy it ill,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And now you see how it is,” he concluded, “and why, when you +tell me your evidence is to be let in, I laugh aloud in your face.” +</p> + +<p> +It was now my turn. I laid before him in brief Mr. Simon’s threats and +offers, and the whole incident of the bravo, with the subsequent scene at +Prestongrange’s. Of my first talk, according to promise, I said nothing, +nor indeed was it necessary. All the time I was talking Stewart nodded his head +like a mechanical figure; and no sooner had my voice ceased, than he opened his +mouth and gave me his opinion in two words, dwelling strong on both of them. +</p> + +<p> +“Disappear yourself,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not take you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll carry you there,” said he. “By my view of it +you’re to disappear whatever. O, that’s outside debate. The +Advocate, who is not without some spunks of a remainder decency, has wrung your +life-safe out of Simon and the Duke. He has refused to put you on your trial, +and refused to have you killed; and there is the clue to their ill words +together, for Simon and the Duke can keep faith with neither friend nor enemy. +Ye’re not to be tried then, and ye’re not to be murdered; but +I’m in bitter error if ye’re not to be kidnapped and carried away +like the Lady Grange. Bet me what ye please—there was their +<i>expedient</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“You make me think,” said I, and told him of the whistle and the +red-headed retainer, Neil. +</p> + +<p> +“Wherever James More is there’s one big rogue, never be deceived on +that,” said he. “His father was none so ill a man, though a kenning +on the wrong side of the law, and no friend to my family, that I should waste +my breath to be defending him! But as for James he’s a brock and a +blagyard. I like the appearance of this red-headed Neil as little as yourself. +It looks uncanny: fiegh! it smells bad. It was old Lovat that managed the Lady +Grange affair; if young Lovat is to handle yours, it’ll be all in the +family. What’s James More in prison for? The same offence: abduction. His +men have had practice in the business. He’ll be to lend them to be +Simon’s instruments; and the next thing we’ll be hearing, James +will have made his peace, or else he’ll have escaped; and you’ll be +in Benbecula or Applecross.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye make a strong case,” I admitted. +</p> + +<p> +“And what I want,” he resumed, “is that you should disappear +yourself ere they can get their hands upon ye. Lie quiet until just before the +trial, and spring upon them at the last of it when they’ll be looking for +you least. This is always supposing Mr. Balfour, that your evidence is worth so +very great a measure of both risk and fash.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you one thing,” said I. “I saw the murderer and +it was not Alan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, by God, my cousin’s saved!” cried Stewart. “You +have his life upon your tongue; and there’s neither time, risk, nor money +to be spared to bring you to the trial.” He emptied his pockets on the +floor. “Here is all that I have by me,” he went on, “Take it, +ye’ll want it ere ye’re through. Go straight down this close, +there’s a way out by there to the Lang Dykes, and by my will of it! see +no more of Edinburgh till the clash is over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I to go, then?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“And I wish that I could tell ye!” says he, “but all the +places that I could send ye to, would be just the places they would seek. No, +ye must fend for yourself, and God be your guiding! Five days before the trial, +September the sixteen, get word to me at the <i>King’s Arms</i> in +Stirling; and if ye’ve managed for yourself as long as that, I’ll +see that ye reach Inverary.” +</p> + +<p> +“One thing more,” said I. “Can I no see Alan?” +</p> + +<p> +He seemed boggled. “Hech, I would rather you wouldnae,” said he. +“But I can never deny that Alan is extremely keen of it, and is to lie +this night by Silvermills on purpose. If you’re sure that you’re +not followed, Mr. Balfour—but make sure of that—lie in a good place +and watch your road for a clear hour before ye risk it. It would be a dreadful +business if both you and him was to miscarry!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /> +THE RED-HEADED MAN</h2> + +<p> +It was about half-past three when I came forth on the Lang Dykes. Dean was +where I wanted to go. Since Catriona dwelled there, and her kinsfolk the +Glengyle Macgregors appeared almost certainly to be employed against me, it was +just one of the few places I should have kept away from; and being a very young +man, and beginning to be very much in love, I turned my face in that direction +without pause. As a slave to my conscience and common sense, however, I took a +measure of precaution. Coming over the crown of a bit of a rise in the road, I +clapped down suddenly among the barley and lay waiting. After a while, a man +went by that looked to be a Highlandman, but I had never seen him till that +hour. Presently after came Neil of the red head. The next to go past was a +miller’s cart, and after that nothing but manifest country people. Here +was enough to have turned the most foolhardy from his purpose, but my +inclination ran too strong the other way. I argued it out that if Neil was on +that road, it was the right road to find him in, leading direct to his +chief’s daughter; as for the other Highlandman, if I was to be startled +off by every Highlandman I saw, I would scarce reach anywhere. And having quite +satisfied myself with this disingenuous debate, I made the better speed of it, +and came a little after four to Mrs. Drumond-Ogilvy’s. +</p> + +<p> +Both ladies were within the house; and upon my perceiving them together by the +open door, I plucked off my hat and said, “Here was a lad come seeking +saxpence,” which I thought might please the dowager. +</p> + +<p> +Catriona ran out to greet me heartily, and, to my surprise, the old lady seemed +scarce less forward than herself. I learned long afterwards that she had +despatched a horseman by daylight to Rankeillor at the Queensferry, whom she +knew to be the doer for Shaws, and had then in her pocket a letter from that +good friend of mine, presenting, in the most favourable view, my character and +prospects. But had I read it I could scarce have seen more clear in her +designs. Maybe I was <i>countryfeed</i>; at least, I was not so much so as she +thought; and it was even to my homespun wits, that she was bent to hammer up a +match between her cousin and a beardless boy that was something of a laird in +Lothian. +</p> + +<p> +“Saxpence had better take his broth with us, Catrine,” says she. +“Run and tell the lasses.” +</p> + +<p> +And for the little while we were alone was at a good deal of pains to flatter +me; always cleverly, always with the appearance of a banter, still calling me +Saxpence, but with such a turn that should rather uplift me in my own opinion. +When Catriona returned, the design became if possible more obvious; and she +showed off the girl’s advantages like a horse-couper with a horse. My +face flamed that she should think me so obtuse. Now I would fancy the girl was +being innocently made a show of, and then I could have beaten the old carline +wife with a cudgel; and now, that perhaps these two had set their heads +together to entrap me, and at that I sat and gloomed betwixt them like the very +image of ill-will. At last the matchmaker had a better device, which was to +leave the pair of us alone. When my suspicions are anyway roused it is +sometimes a little the wrong side of easy to allay them. But though I knew what +breed she was of, and that was a breed of thieves, I could never look in +Catriona’s face and disbelieve her. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not ask?” says she, eagerly, the same moment we were left +alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but to-day I can talk with a free conscience,” I replied. +“I am lightened of my pledge, and indeed (after what has come and gone +since morning) I would not have renewed it were it asked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” she said. “My cousin will not be so long.” +</p> + +<p> +So I told her the tale of the lieutenant from the first step to the last of it, +making it as mirthful as I could, and, indeed, there was matter of mirth in +that absurdity. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think you will be as little fitted for the rudas men as for the +pretty ladies, after all!” says she, when I had done. “But what was +your father that he could not learn you to draw the sword! It is most ungentle; +I have not heard the match of that in anyone.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is most misconvenient at least,” said I; “and I think my +father (honest man!) must have been wool-gathering to learn me Latin in the +place of it. But you see I do the best I can, and just stand up like +Lot’s wife and let them hammer at me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what makes me smile?” said she. “Well, it is +this. I am made this way, that I should have been a man child. In my own +thoughts it is so I am always; and I go on telling myself about this thing that +is to befall and that. Then it comes to the place of the fighting, and it comes +over me that I am only a girl at all events, and cannot hold a sword or give +one good blow; and then I have to twist my story round about, so that the +fighting is to stop, and yet me have the best of it, just like you and the +lieutenant; and I am the boy that makes the fine speeches all through, like Mr. +David Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a bloodthirsty maid,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know it is good to sew and spin, and to make samplers,” +she said, “but if you were to do nothing else in the great world, I think +you will say yourself it is a driech business; and it is not that I want to +kill, I think. Did ever you kill anyone?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I have, as it chances. Two, no less, and me still a lad that should +be at the college,” said I. “But yet, in the look-back, I take no +shame for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how did you feel, then—after it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘”Deed, I sat down and grat like a bairn,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, too,” she cried. “I feel where these tears +should come from. And at any rate, I would not wish to kill, only to be +Catherine Douglas that put her arm through the staples of the bolt, where it +was broken. That is my chief hero. Would you not love to die so—for your +king?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Troth,” said I, “my affection for my king, God bless the +puggy face of him, is under more control; and I thought I saw death so near to +me this day already, that I am rather taken up with the notion of +living.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” she said, “the right mind of a man! Only you must +learn arms; I would not like to have a friend that cannot strike. But it will +not have been with the sword that you killed these two?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, no,” said I, “but with a pair of pistols. And a +fortunate thing it was the men were so near-hand to me, for I am about as +clever with the pistols as I am with the sword.” +</p> + +<p> +So then she drew from me the story of our battle in the brig, which I had +omitted in my first account of my affairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said she, “you are brave. And your friend, I admire +and love him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I think anyone would!” said I. “He has his faults +like other folk; but he is brave and staunch and kind, God bless him! That will +be a strange day when I forget Alan.” And the thought of him, and that it +was within my choice to speak with him that night, had almost overcome me. +</p> + +<p> +“And where will my head be gone that I have not told my news!” she +cried, and spoke of a letter from her father, bearing that she might visit him +to-morrow in the castle whither he was now transferred, and that his affairs +were mending. “You do not like to hear it,” said she. “Will +you judge my father and not know him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a thousand miles from judging,” I replied. “And I give +you my word I do rejoice to know your heart is lightened. If my face fell at +all, as I suppose it must, you will allow this is rather an ill day for +compositions, and the people in power extremely ill persons to be compounding +with. I have Simon Fraser extremely heavy on my stomach still.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she cried, “you will not be evening these two; and you +should bear in mind that Prestongrange and James More, my father, are of the +one blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard tell of that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“It is rather singular how little you are acquainted with,” said +she. “One part may call themselves Grant, and one Macgregor, but they are +still of the same clan. They are all the sons of Alpin, from whom, I think, our +country has its name.” +</p> + +<p> +“What country is that?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“My country and yours,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“This is my day for discovering I think,” said I, “for I +always thought the name of it was Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“Scotland is the name of what you call Ireland,” she replied. +“But the old ancient true name of this place that we have our foot-soles +on, and that our bones are made of, will be Alban. It was Alban they called it +when our forefathers will be fighting for it against Rome and Alexander; and it +is called so still in your own tongue that you forget.” +</p> + +<p> +“Troth,” said I, “and that I never learned!” For I +lacked heart to take her up about the Macedonian. +</p> + +<p> +“But your fathers and mothers talked it, one generation with +another,” said she. “And it was sung about the cradles before you +or me were ever dreamed of; and your name remembers it still. Ah, if you could +talk that language you would find me another girl. The heart speaks in that +tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +I had a meal with the two ladies, all very good, served in fine old plate, and +the wine excellent, for it seems that Mrs. Ogilvy was rich. Our talk, too, was +pleasant enough; but as soon as I saw the sun decline sharply and the shadows +to run out long, I rose to take my leave. For my mind was now made up to say +farewell to Alan; and it was needful I should see the trysting wood, and +reconnoitre it, by daylight. Catriona came with me as far as to the garden +gate. +</p> + +<p> +“It is long till I see you now?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be long, it +may be never.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may be so,” said she. “And you are sorry?” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed my head, looking upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“So am I, at all events,” said she. “I have seen you but a +small time, but I put you very high. You are true, you are brave; in time I +think you will be more of a man yet. I will be proud to hear of that. If you +should speed worse, if it will come to fall as we are afraid—O well! +think you have the one friend. Long after you are dead and me an old wife, I +will be telling the bairns about David Balfour, and my tears running. I will be +telling how we parted, and what I said to you, and did to you. <i>God go with +you and guide you</i>, <i>prays your little friend</i>: so I said—I will +be telling them—and here is what I did.” +</p> + +<p> +She took up my hand and kissed it. This so surprised my spirits that I cried +out like one hurt. The colour came strong in her face, and she looked at me and +nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“O yes, Mr. David,” said she, “that is what I think of you. +The head goes with the lips.” +</p> + +<p> +I could read in her face high spirit, and a chivalry like a brave +child’s; not anything besides. She kissed my hand, as she had kissed +Prince Charlie’s, with a higher passion than the common kind of clay has +any sense of. Nothing before had taught me how deep I was her lover, nor how +far I had yet to climb to make her think of me in such a character. Yet I could +tell myself I had advanced some way, and that her heart had beat and her blood +flowed at thoughts of me. +</p> + +<p> +After that honour she had done me I could offer no more trivial civility. It +was even hard for me to speak; a certain lifting in her voice had knocked +directly at the door of my own tears. +</p> + +<p> +“I praise God for your kindness, dear,” said I. “Farewell, my +little friend!” giving her that name which she had given to herself; with +which I bowed and left her. +</p> + +<p> +My way was down the glen of the Leith River, towards Stockbridge and +Silvermills. A path led in the foot of it, the water bickered and sang in the +midst; the sunbeams overhead struck out of the west among long shadows and (as +the valley turned) made like a new scene and a new world of it at every corner. +With Catriona behind and Alan before me, I was like one lifted up. The place +besides, and the hour, and the talking of the water, infinitely pleased me; and +I lingered in my steps and looked before and behind me as I went. This was the +cause, under Providence, that I spied a little in my rear a red head among some +bushes. +</p> + +<p> +Anger sprang in my heart, and I turned straight about and walked at a stiff +pace to where I came from. The path lay close by the bushes where I had +remarked the head. The cover came to the wayside, and as I passed I was all +strung up to meet and to resist an onfall. No such thing befell, I went by +unmeddled with; and at that fear increased upon me. It was still day indeed, +but the place exceeding solitary. If my haunters had let slip that fair +occasion I could but judge they aimed at something more than David Balfour. The +lives of Alan and James weighed upon my spirit with the weight of two grown +bullocks. +</p> + +<p> +Catriona was yet in the garden walking by herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “you see me back again.” +</p> + +<p> +“With a changed face,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I carry two men’s lives besides my own,” said I. “It +would be a sin and shame not to walk carefully. I was doubtful whether I did +right to come here. I would like it ill, if it was by that means we were +brought to harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“I could tell you one that would be liking it less, and will like little +enough to hear you talking at this very same time,” she cried. +“What have I done, at all events?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, you I you are not alone,” I replied. “But since I went +off I have been dogged again, and I can give you the name of him that follows +me. It is Neil, son of Duncan, your man or your father’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure you are mistaken there,” she said, with a white face. +“Neil is in Edinburgh on errands from my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is what I fear,” said I, “the last of it. But for his +being in Edinburgh I think I can show you another of that. For sure you have +some signal, a signal of need, such as would bring him to your help, if he was +anywhere within the reach of ears and legs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, how will you know that?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“By means of a magical talisman God gave to me when I was born, and the +name they call it by is Common-sense,” said I. “Oblige me so far as +make your signal, and I will show you the red head of Neil.” +</p> + +<p> +No doubt but I spoke bitter and sharp. My heart was bitter. I blamed myself and +the girl and hated both of us: her for the vile crew that she was come of, +myself for my wanton folly to have stuck my head in such a byke of wasps. +</p> + +<p> +Catriona set her fingers to her lips and whistled once, with an exceeding +clear, strong, mounting note, as full as a ploughman’s. A while we stood +silent; and I was about to ask her to repeat the same, when I heard the sound +of some one bursting through the bushes below on the braeside. I pointed in +that direction with a smile, and presently Neil leaped into the garden. His +eyes burned, and he had a black knife (as they call it on the Highland side) +naked in his hand; but, seeing me beside his mistress, stood like a man struck. +</p> + +<p> +“He has come to your call,” said I; “judge how near he was to +Edinburgh, or what was the nature of your father’s errands. Ask himself. +If I am to lose my life, or the lives of those that hang by me, through the +means of your clan, let me go where I have to go with my eyes open.” +</p> + +<p> +She addressed him tremulously in the Gaelic. Remembering Alan’s anxious +civility in that particular, I could have laughed out loud for bitterness; +here, sure, in the midst of these suspicions, was the hour she should have +stuck by English. +</p> + +<p> +Twice or thrice they spoke together, and I could make out that Neil (for all +his obsequiousness) was an angry man. +</p> + +<p> +Then she turned to me. “He swears it is not,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “do you believe the man yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +She made a gesture like wringing the hands. +</p> + +<p> +“How will I can know?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must find some means to know,” said I. “I cannot +continue to go dovering round in the black night with two men’s lives at +my girdle! Catriona, try to put yourself in my place, as I vow to God I try +hard to put myself in yours. This is no kind of talk that should ever have +fallen between me and you; no kind of talk; my heart is sick with it. See, keep +him here till two of the morning, and I care not. Try him with that.” +</p> + +<p> +They spoke together once more in the Gaelic. +</p> + +<p> +“He says he has James More my father’s errand,” said she. She +was whiter than ever, and her voice faltered as she said it. +</p> + +<p> +“It is pretty plain now,” said I, “and may God forgive the +wicked!” +</p> + +<p> +She said never anything to that, but continued gazing at me with the same white +face. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a fine business,” said I again. “Am I to fall, then, +and those two along with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, what am I to do?” she cried. “Could I go against my +father’s orders, him in prison, in the danger of his life!” +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps we go too fast,” said I. “This may be a lie too. +He may have no right orders; all may be contrived by Simon, and your father +knowing nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +She burst out weeping between the pair of us; and my heart smote me hard, for I +thought this girl was in a dreadful situation. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said I, “keep him but the one hour; and I’ll +chance it, and may God bless you.” +</p> + +<p> +She put out her hand to me, “I will he needing one good word,” she +sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“The full hour, then?” said I, keeping her hand in mine. +“Three lives of it, my lass!” +</p> + +<p> +“The full hour!” she said, and cried aloud on her Redeemer to +forgive her. +</p> + +<p> +I thought it no fit place for me, and fled. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS</h2> + +<p> +I lost no time, but down through the valley and by Stockbridge and Silvermills +as hard as I could stave. It was Alan’s tryst to be every night between +twelve and two “in a bit scrog of wood by east of Silvermills and by +south the south mill-lade.” This I found easy enough, where it grew on a +steep brae, with the mill-lade flowing swift and deep along the foot of it; and +here I began to walk slower and to reflect more reasonably on my employment. I +saw I had made but a fool’s bargain with Catriona. It was not to be +supposed that Neil was sent alone upon his errand, but perhaps he was the only +man belonging to James More; in which case I should have done all I could to +hang Catriona’s father, and nothing the least material to help myself. To +tell the truth, I fancied neither one of these ideas. Suppose by holding back +Neil, the girl should have helped to hang her father, I thought she would never +forgive herself this side of time. And suppose there were others pursuing me +that moment, what kind of a gift was I come bringing to Alan? and how would I +like that? +</p> + +<p> +I was up with the west end of that wood when these two considerations struck me +like a cudgel. My feet stopped of themselves and my heart along with them. +“What wild game is this that I have been playing?” thought I; and +turned instantly upon my heels to go elsewhere. +</p> + +<p> +This brought my face to Silvermills; the path came past the village with a +crook, but all plainly visible; and, Highland or Lowland, there was nobody +stirring. Here was my advantage, here was just such a conjuncture as Stewart +had counselled me to profit by, and I ran by the side of the mill-lade, fetched +about beyond the east corner of the wood, threaded through the midst of it, and +returned to the west selvage, whence I could again command the path, and yet be +myself unseen. Again it was all empty, and my heart began to rise. +</p> + +<p> +For more than an hour I sat close in the border of the trees, and no hare or +eagle could have kept a more particular watch. When that hour began the sun was +already set, but the sky still all golden and the daylight clear; before the +hour was done it had fallen to be half mirk, the images and distances of things +were mingled, and observation began to be difficult. All that time not a foot +of man had come east from Silvermills, and the few that had gone west were +honest countryfolk and their wives upon the road to bed. If I were tracked by +the most cunning spies in Europe, I judged it was beyond the course of nature +they could have any jealousy of where I was: and going a little further home +into the wood I lay down to wait for Alan. +</p> + +<p> +The strain of my attention had been great, for I had watched not the path only, +but every bush and field within my vision. That was now at an end. The moon, +which was in her first quarter, glinted a little in the wood; all round there +was a stillness of the country; and as I lay there on my back, the next three +or four hours, I had a fine occasion to review my conduct. +</p> + +<p> +Two things became plain to me first: that I had no right to go that day to +Dean, and (having gone there) had now no right to be lying where I was. This +(where Alan was to come) was just the one wood in all broad Scotland that was, +by every proper feeling, closed against me; I admitted that, and yet stayed on, +wondering at myself. I thought of the measure with which I had meted to +Catriona that same night; how I had prated of the two lives I carried, and had +thus forced her to enjeopardy her father’s; and how I was here exposing +them again, it seemed in wantonness. A good conscience is eight parts of +courage. No sooner had I lost conceit of my behaviour, than I seemed to stand +disarmed amidst a throng of terrors. Of a sudden I sat up. How if I went now to +Prestongrange, caught him (as I still easily might) before he slept, and made a +full submission? Who could blame me? Not Stewart the Writer; I had but to say +that I was followed, despaired of getting clear, and so gave in. Not Catriona: +here, too, I had my answer ready; that I could not bear she should expose her +father. So, in a moment, I could lay all these troubles by, which were after +all and truly none of mine; swim clear of the Appin Murder; get forth out of +hand-stroke of all the Stewarts and Campbells, all the Whigs and Tories, in the +land; and live henceforth to my own mind, and be able to enjoy and to improve +my fortunes, and devote some hours of my youth to courting Catriona, which +would be surely a more suitable occupation than to hide and run and be followed +like a hunted thief, and begin over again the dreadful miseries of my escape +with Alan. +</p> + +<p> +At first I thought no shame of this capitulation; I was only amazed I had not +thought upon the thing and done it earlier; and began to inquire into the +causes of the change. These I traced to my lowness of spirits, that back to my +late recklessness, and that again to the common, old, public, disconsidered sin +of self-indulgence. Instantly the text came in my head, “<i>How can Satan +cast out Satan</i>?” What? (I thought) I had, by self-indulgence; and the +following of pleasant paths, and the lure of a young maid, cast myself wholly +out of conceit with my own character, and jeopardised the lives of James and +Alan? And I was to seek the way out by the same road as I had entered in? No; +the hurt that had been caused by self-indulgence must be cured by self-denial; +the flesh I had pampered must be crucified. I looked about me for that course +which I least liked to follow: this was to leave the wood without waiting to +see Alan, and go forth again alone, in the dark and in the midst of my +perplexed and dangerous fortunes. +</p> + +<p> +I have been the more careful to narrate this passage of my reflections, because +I think it is of some utility, and may serve as an example to young men. But +there is reason (they say) in planting kale, and even in ethic and religion, +room for common sense. It was already close on Alan’s hour, and the moon +was down. If I left (as I could not very decently whistle to my spies to follow +me) they might miss me in the dark and tack themselves to Alan by mistake. If I +stayed, I could at the least of it set my friend upon his guard which might +prove his mere salvation. I had adventured other peoples’ safety in a +course of self-indulgence; to have endangered them again, and now on a mere +design of penance, would have been scarce rational. Accordingly, I had scarce +risen from my place ere I sat down again, but already in a different frame of +spirits, and equally marvelling at my past weakness and rejoicing in my present +composure. +</p> + +<p> +Presently after came a crackling in the thicket. Putting my mouth near down to +the ground, I whistled a note or two, of Alan’s air; an answer came in +the like guarded tone, and soon we had knocked together in the dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this you at last, Davie?” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Just myself,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“God, man, but I’ve been wearying to see ye!” says he. +“I’ve had the longest kind of a time. A’ day, I’ve had +my dwelling into the inside of a stack of hay, where I couldnae see the nebs of +my ten fingers; and then two hours of it waiting here for you, and you never +coming! Dod, and ye’re none too soon the way it is, with me to sail the +morn! The morn? what am I saying?—the day, I mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Alan, man, the day, sure enough,” said I. “It’s +past twelve now, surely, and ye sail the day. This’ll be a long road you +have before you.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll have a long crack of it first,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, indeed, and I have a good deal it will be telling you to +hear,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +And I told him what behooved, making rather a jumble of it, but clear enough +when done. He heard me out with very few questions, laughing here and there +like a man delighted: and the sound of his laughing (above all there, in the +dark, where neither one of us could see the other) was extraordinary friendly +to my heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Davie, ye’re a queer character,” says he, when I had +done: “a queer bitch after a’, and I have no mind of meeting with +the like of ye. As for your story, Prestongrange is a Whig like yoursel’, +so I’ll say the less of him; and, dod! I believe he was the best friend +ye had, if ye could only trust him. But Simon Fraser and James More are my ain +kind of cattle, and I’ll give them the name that they deserve. The muckle +black deil was father to the Frasers, a’body kens that; and as for the +Gregara, I never could abye the reek of them since I could stotter on two feet. +I bloodied the nose of one, I mind, when I was still so wambly on my legs that +I cowped upon the top of him. A proud man was my father that day, God rest him! +and I think he had the cause. I’ll never can deny but what Robin was +something of a piper,” he added; “but as for James More, the deil +guide him for me!” +</p> + +<p> +“One thing we have to consider,” said I. “Was Charles Stewart +right or wrong? Is it only me they’re after, or the pair of us?” +</p> + +<p> +“And what’s your ain opinion, you that’s a man of so much +experience?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“It passes me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And me too,” says Alan. “Do ye think this lass would keep +her word to ye?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s nae telling,” said he. “And anyway, +that’s over and done: he’ll be joined to the rest of them lang +syne.” +</p> + +<p> +“How many would ye think there would be of them?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That depends,” said Alan. “If it was only you, they would +likely send two-three lively, brisk young birkies, and if they thought that I +was to appear in the employ, I daresay ten or twelve,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +It was no use, I gave a little crack of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think your own two eyes will have seen me drive that number, or +the double of it, nearer hand!” cries he. +</p> + +<p> +“It matters the less,” said I, “because I am well rid of them +for this time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nae doubt that’s your opinion,” said he; “but I +wouldnae be the least surprised if they were hunkering this wood. Ye see, David +man; they’ll be Hieland folk. There’ll be some Frasers, I’m +thinking, and some of the Gregara; and I would never deny but what the both of +them, and the Gregara in especial, were clever experienced persons. A man kens +little till he’s driven a spreagh of neat cattle (say) ten miles through +a throng lowland country and the black soldiers maybe at his tail. It’s +there that I learned a great part of my penetration. And ye need nae tell me: +it’s better than war; which is the next best, however, though generally +rather a bauchle of a business. Now the Gregara have had grand practice.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt that’s a branch of education that was left out with +me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And I can see the marks of it upon ye constantly,” said Alan. +“But that’s the strange thing about you folk of the college +learning: ye’re ignorat, and ye cannae see ’t. Wae’s me for +my Greek and Hebrew; but, man, I ken that I dinnae ken them—there’s +the differ of it. Now, here’s you. Ye lie on your wame a bittie in the +bield of this wood, and ye tell me that ye’ve cuist off these Frasers and +Macgregors. Why? <i>Because I couldnae see them</i>, says you. Ye blockhead, +that’s their livelihood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take the worst of it,” said I, “and what are we to +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking of that same,” said he. “We might twine. It +wouldnae be greatly to my taste; and forbye that, I see reasons against it. +First, it’s now unco dark, and it’s just humanly possible we might +give them the clean slip. If we keep together, we make but the ae line of it; +if we gang separate, we make twae of them: the more likelihood to stave in upon +some of these gentry of yours. And then, second, if they keep the track of us, +it may come to a fecht for it yet, Davie; and then, I’ll confess I would +be blythe to have you at my oxter, and I think you would be none the worse of +having me at yours. So, by my way of it, we should creep out of this wood no +further gone than just the inside of next minute, and hold away east for +Gillane, where I’m to find my ship. It’ll be like old days while it +lasts, Davie; and (come the time) we’ll have to think what you should be +doing. I’m wae to leave ye here, wanting me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have with ye, then!” says I. “Do ye gang back where you were +stopping?” +</p> + +<p> +“Deil a fear!” said Alan. “They were good folks to me, but I +think they would be a good deal disappointed if they saw my bonny face again. +For (the way times go) I am nae just what ye could call a Walcome Guest. Which +makes me the keener for your company, Mr. David Balfour of the Shaws, and set +ye up! For, leave aside twa cracks here in the wood with Charlie Stewart, I +have scarce said black or white since the day we parted at Corstorphine.” +</p> + +<p> +With which he rose from his place, and we began to move quietly eastward +through the wood. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN</h2> + +<p> +It was likely between one and two; the moon (as I have said) was down; a +strongish wind, carrying a heavy wrack of cloud, had set in suddenly from the +west; and we began our movement in as black a night as ever a fugitive or a +murderer wanted. The whiteness of the path guided us into the sleeping town of +Broughton, thence through Picardy, and beside my old acquaintance the gibbet of +the two thieves. A little beyond we made a useful beacon, which was a light in +an upper window of Lochend. Steering by this, but a good deal at random, and +with some trampling of the harvest, and stumbling and falling down upon the +banks, we made our way across country, and won forth at last upon the linky, +boggy muirland that they call the Figgate Whins. Here, under a bush of whin, we +lay down the remainder of that night and slumbered. +</p> + +<p> +The day called us about five. A beautiful morning it was, the high westerly +wind still blowing strong, but the clouds all blown away to Europe. Alan was +already sitting up and smiling to himself. It was my first sight of my friend +since we were parted, and I looked upon him with enjoyment. He had still the +same big great-coat on his back; but (what was new) he had now a pair of +knitted boot-hose drawn above the knee. Doubtless these were intended for +disguise; but, as the day promised to be warm, he made a most unseasonable +figure. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Davie,” said he, “is this no a bonny morning? Here is +a day that looks the way that a day ought to. This is a great change of it from +the belly of my haystack; and while you were there sottering and sleeping I +have done a thing that maybe I do very seldom.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what was that?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“O, just said my prayers,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“And where are my gentry, as ye call them?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Gude kens,” says he; “and the short and the long of it is +that we must take our chance of them. Up with your foot-soles, Davie! Forth, +Fortune, once again of it! And a bonny walk we are like to have.” +</p> + +<p> +So we went east by the beach of the sea, towards where the salt-pans were +smoking in by the Esk mouth. No doubt there was a by-ordinary bonny blink of +morning sun on Arthur’s Seat and the green Pentlands; and the +pleasantness of the day appeared to set Alan among nettles. +</p> + +<p> +“I feel like a gomeral,” says he, “to be leaving Scotland on +a day like this. It sticks in my head; I would maybe like it better to stay +here and hing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but ye wouldnae, Alan,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but what France is a good place too,” he explained; “but +it’s some way no the same. It’s brawer I believe, but it’s no +Scotland. I like it fine when I’m there, man; yet I kind of weary for +Scots divots and the Scots peat-reek.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that’s all you have to complain of, Alan, it’s no such +great affair,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And it sets me ill to be complaining, whatever,” said he, +“and me but new out of yon deil’s haystack.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so you were unco weary of your haystack?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Weary’s nae word for it,” said he. “I’m not just +precisely a man that’s easily cast down; but I do better with caller air +and the lift above my head. I’m like the auld Black Douglas +(wasnae’t?) that likit better to hear the laverock sing than the mouse +cheep. And yon place, ye see, Davie—whilk was a very suitable place to +hide in, as I’m free to own—was pit mirk from dawn to gloaming. +There were days (or nights, for how would I tell one from other?) that seemed +to me as long as a long winter.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know the hour to bide your tryst?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The goodman brought me my meat and a drop brandy, and a candle-dowp to +eat it by, about eleeven,” said he. “So, when I had swallowed a +bit, it would he time to be getting to the wood. There I lay and wearied for ye +sore, Davie,” says he, laying his hand on my shoulder “and guessed +when the two hours would be about by—unless Charlie Stewart would come +and tell me on his watch—and then back to the dooms haystack. Na, it was +a driech employ, and praise the Lord that I have warstled through with +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you do with yourself?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Faith,” said he, “the best I could! Whiles I played at the +knucklebones. I’m an extraordinar good hand at the knucklebones, but +it’s a poor piece of business playing with naebody to admire ye. And +whiles I would make songs.” +</p> + +<p> +“What were they about?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“O, about the deer and the heather,” says he, “and about the +ancient old chiefs that are all by with it lang syne, and just about what songs +are about in general. And then whiles I would make believe I had a set of pipes +and I was playing. I played some grand springs, and I thought I played them +awful bonny; I vow whiles that I could hear the squeal of them! But the great +affair is that it’s done with.” +</p> + +<p> +With that he carried me again to my adventures, which he heard all over again +with more particularity, and extraordinary approval, swearing at intervals that +I was “a queer character of a callant.” +</p> + +<p> +“So ye were frich’ened of Sim Fraser?” he asked once. +</p> + +<p> +“In troth was I!” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +“So would I have been, Davie,” said he. “And that is indeed a +driedful man. But it is only proper to give the deil his due: and I can tell +you he is a most respectable person on the field of war.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he so brave?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Brave!” said he. “He is as brave as my steel sword.” +</p> + +<p> +The story of my duel set him beside himself. +</p> + +<p> +“To think of that!” he cried. “I showed ye the trick in +Corrynakiegh too. And three times—three times disarmed! It’s a +disgrace upon my character that learned ye! Here, stand up, out with your airn; +ye shall walk no step beyond this place upon the road till ye can do +yoursel’ and me mair credit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan,” said I, “this is midsummer madness. Here is no time +for fencing lessons.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannae well say no to that,” he admitted. “But three +times, man! And you standing there like a straw bogle and rinning to fetch your +ain sword like a doggie with a pocket-napkin! David, this man Duncansby must be +something altogether by-ordinar! He maun be extraordinar skilly. If I had the +time, I would gang straight back and try a turn at him mysel’. The man +must be a provost.” +</p> + +<p> +“You silly fellow,” said I, “you forget it was just +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Na,” said he, “but three times!” +</p> + +<p> +“When ye ken yourself that I am fair incompetent,” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I never heard tell the equal of it,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I promise you the one thing, Alan,” said I. “The next time +that we forgather, I’ll be better learned. You shall not continue to bear +the disgrace of a friend that cannot strike.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, the next time!” says he. “And when will that be, I would +like to ken?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Alan, I have had some thoughts of that, too,” said I; +“and my plan is this. It’s my opinion to be called an +advocate.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s but a weary trade, Davie,” says Alan, “and +rather a blagyard one forby. Ye would be better in a king’s coat than +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And no doubt that would be the way to have us meet,” cried I. +“But as you’ll be in King Lewie’s coat, and I’ll be in +King Geordie’s, we’ll have a dainty meeting of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some sense in that,” he admitted. +</p> + +<p> +“An advocate, then, it’ll have to be,” I continued, +“and I think it a more suitable trade for a gentleman that was <i>three +times</i> disarmed. But the beauty of the thing is this: that one of the best +colleges for that kind of learning—and the one where my kinsman, Pilrig, +made his studies—is the college of Leyden in Holland. Now, what say you, +Alan? Could not a cadet of <i>Royal Ecossais</i> get a furlough, slip over the +marches, and call in upon a Leyden student?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I would think he could!” cried he. “Ye see, I +stand well in with my colonel, Count Drummond-Melfort; and, what’s mair +to the purpose I have a cousin of mine lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of the +Scots-Dutch. Naething could be mair proper than what I would get a leave to see +Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart of Halkett’s. And Lord Melfort, who is a very +scienteefic kind of a man, and writes books like Cæsar, would be +doubtless very pleased to have the advantage of my observes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Lord Meloort an author, then?” I asked, for much as Alan +thought of soldiers, I thought more of the gentry that write books. +</p> + +<p> +“The very same, Davie,” said he. “One would think a colonel +would have something better to attend to. But what can I say that make +songs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” said I, “it only remains you should give me an +address to write you at in France; and as soon as I am got to Leyden I will +send you mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“The best will be to write me in the care of my chieftain,” said +he, “Charles Stewart, of Ardsheil, Esquire, at the town of Melons, in the +Isle of France. It might take long, or it might take short, but it would aye +get to my hands at the last of it.” +</p> + +<p> +We had a haddock to our breakfast in Musselburgh, where it amused me vastly to +hear Alan. His great-coat and boot-hose were extremely remarkable this warm +morning, and perhaps some hint of an explanation had been wise; but Alan went +into that matter like a business, or I should rather say, like a diversion. He +engaged the goodwife of the house with some compliments upon the rizzoring of +our haddocks; and the whole of the rest of our stay held her in talk about a +cold he had taken on his stomach, gravely relating all manner of symptoms and +sufferings, and hearing with a vast show of interest all the old wives’ +remedies she could supply him with in return. +</p> + +<p> +We left Musselburgh before the first ninepenny coach was due from Edinburgh for +(as Alan said) that was a rencounter we might very well avoid. The wind +although still high, was very mild, the sun shone strong, and Alan began to +suffer in proportion. From Prestonpans he had me aside to the field of +Gladsmuir, where he exerted himself a great deal more than needful to describe +the stages of the battle. Thence, at his old round pace, we travelled to +Cockenzie. Though they were building herring-busses there at Mrs. +Cadell’s, it seemed a desert-like, back-going town, about half full of +ruined houses; but the ale-house was clean, and Alan, who was now in a glowing +heat, must indulge himself with a bottle of ale, and carry on to the new luckie +with the old story of the cold upon his stomach, only now the symptoms were all +different. +</p> + +<p> +I sat listening; and it came in my mind that I had scarce ever heard him +address three serious words to any woman, but he was always drolling and +fleering and making a private mock of them, and yet brought to that business a +remarkable degree of energy and interest. Something to this effect I remarked +to him, when the good-wife (as chanced) was called away. +</p> + +<p> +“What do ye want?” says he. “A man should aye put his best +foot forrit with the womankind; he should aye give them a bit of a story to +divert them, the poor lambs! It’s what ye should learn to attend to, +David; ye should get the principles, it’s like a trade. Now, if this had +been a young lassie, or onyways bonnie, she would never have heard tell of my +stomach, Davie. But aince they’re too old to be seeking joes, they +a’ set up to be apotecaries. Why? What do I ken? They’ll be just +the way God made them, I suppose. But I think a man would be a gomeral that +didnae give his attention to the same.” +</p> + +<p> +And here, the luckie coming back, he turned from me as if with impatience to +renew their former conversation. The lady had branched some while before from +Alan’s stomach to the case of a goodbrother of her own in Aberlady, whose +last sickness and demise she was describing at extraordinary length. Sometimes +it was merely dull, sometimes both dull and awful, for she talked with unction. +The upshot was that I fell in a deep muse, looking forth of the window on the +road, and scarce marking what I saw. Presently had any been looking they might +have seen me to start. +</p> + +<p> +“We pit a fomentation to his feet,” the good-wife was saying, +“and a het stane to his wame, and we gied him hyssop and water of +pennyroyal, and fine, clean balsam of sulphur for the hoast. . . ” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” says I, cutting very quietly in, “there’s a +friend of mine gone by the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that e’en sae?” replies Alan, as though it were a thing +of small account. And then, “Ye were saying, mem?” says he; and the +wearyful wife went on. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, however, he paid her with a half-crown piece, and she must go forth +after the change. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it him with the red head?” asked Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye have it,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“What did I tell you in the wood?” he cried. “And yet +it’s strange he should be here too! Was he his lane?” +</p> + +<p> +“His lee-lane for what I could see,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he gang by?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the right nor +left.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s queerer yet,” said Alan. “It sticks in my +mind, Davie, that we should be stirring. But where to?—deil hae’t! +This is like old days fairly,” cries he. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “that now we have +money in our pockets.” +</p> + +<p> +“And another big differ, Mr. Balfour,” says he, “that now we +have dogs at our tail. They’re on the scent; they’re in full cry, +David. It’s a bad business and be damned to it.” And he sat +thinking hard with a look of his that I knew well. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the goodwife returned, +“have ye a back road out of this change house?” +</p> + +<p> +She told him there was and where it led to. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir,” says he to me, “I think that will be the +shortest road for us. And here’s good-bye to ye, my braw woman; and +I’ll no forget thon of the cinnamon water.” +</p> + +<p> +We went out by way of the woman’s kale yard, and up a lane among fields. +Alan looked sharply to all sides, and seeing we were in a little hollow place +of the country, out of view of men, sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he. “But first of +all, a bit lesson to ye. Suppose that I had been like you, what would yon old +wife have minded of the pair of us! Just that we had gone out by the back gate. +And what does she mind now? A fine, canty, friendly, cracky man, that suffered +with the stomach, poor body! and was real ta’en up about the goodbrother. +O man, David, try and learn to have some kind of intelligence!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try, Alan,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast +or slow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Betwixt and between,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Never a sign of it,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Nhm!” said Alan, “it looks queer. We saw nothing of them +this morning on the Whins; he’s passed us by, he doesnae seem to be +looking, and yet here he is on our road! Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion. +I think it’s no you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and I +think they ken fine where they’re gaun.” +</p> + +<p> +“They ken?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him or his mate wha kent +some part of the affair—or else Charlie’s clerk callant, which +would be a pity too,” says Alan; “and if you askit me for just my +inward private conviction, I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane +sands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right there’ll +be folk there and to spare. It’ll be small service to crack heads.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would aye be a satisfaction though,” says Alan. “But bide +a bit; bide a bit; I’m thinking—and thanks to this bonny westland +wind, I believe I’ve still a chance of it. It’s this way, Davie. +I’m no trysted with this man Scougal till the gloaming comes. +<i>But</i>,” says he, “<i>if I can get a bit of a wind out of the +west I’ll be there long or that</i>,” he says, “<i>and lie-to +for ye behind the Isle of Fidra</i>. Now if your gentry kens the place, they +ken the time forbye. Do ye see me coming, Davie? Thanks to Johnnie Cope and +other red-coat gomerals, I should ken this country like the back of my hand; +and if ye’re ready for another bit run with Alan Breck, we’ll can +cast back inshore, and come to the seaside again by Dirleton. If the +ship’s there, we’ll try and get on board of her. If she’s no +there, I’ll just have to get back to my weary haystack. But either way of +it, I think we will leave your gentry whistling on their thumbs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have on +with ye, Alan!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +GILLANE SANDS</h2> + +<p> +I did not profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done by his marchings under +General Cope; for I can scarce tell what way we went. It is my excuse that we +travelled exceeding fast. Some part we ran, some trotted, and the rest walked +at a vengeance of a pace. Twice, while we were at top speed, we ran against +country-folk; but though we plumped into the first from round a corner, Alan +was as ready as a loaded musket. +</p> + +<p> +“Has ye seen my horse?” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied the countryman. +</p> + +<p> +And Alan spared the time to explain to him that we were travelling “ride +and tie”; that our charger had escaped, and it was feared he had gone +home to Linton. Not only that, but he expended some breath (of which he had not +very much left) to curse his own misfortune and my stupidity which was said to +be its cause. +</p> + +<p> +“Them that cannae tell the truth,” he observed to myself as we went +on again, “should be aye mindful to leave an honest, handy lee behind +them. If folk dinnae ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible +taken up with it; but if they think they ken, they care nae mair for it than +what I do for pease porridge.” +</p> + +<p> +As we had first made inland, so our road came in the end to lie very near due +north; the old Kirk of Aberlady for a landmark on the left; on the right, the +top of the Berwick Law; and it was thus we struck the shore again, not far from +Dirleton. From north Berwick west to Gillane Ness there runs a string of four +small islets, Craiglieth, the Lamb, Fidra, and Eyebrough, notable by their +diversity of size and shape. Fidra is the most particular, being a strange grey +islet of two humps, made the more conspicuous by a piece of ruin; and I mind +that (as we drew closer to it) by some door or window of these ruins the sea +peeped through like a man’s eye. Under the lee of Fidra there is a good +anchorage in westerly winds, and there, from a far way off, we could see the +<i>Thistle</i> riding. +</p> + +<p> +The shore in face of these islets is altogether waste. Here is no dwelling of +man, and scarce any passage, or at most of vagabond children running at their +play. Gillane is a small place on the far side of the Ness, the folk of +Dirleton go to their business in the inland fields, and those of North Berwick +straight to the sea-fishing from their haven; so that few parts of the coast +are lonelier. But I mind, as we crawled upon our bellies into that multiplicity +of heights and hollows, keeping a bright eye upon all sides, and our hearts +hammering at our ribs, there was such a shining of the sun and the sea, such a +stir of the wind in the bent grass, and such a bustle of down-popping rabbits +and up-flying gulls, that the desert seemed to me, like a place alive. No doubt +it was in all ways well chosen for a secret embarcation, if the secret had been +kept; and even now that it was out, and the place watched, we were able to +creep unperceived to the front of the sandhills, where they look down +immediately on the beach and sea. +</p> + +<p> +But here Alan came to a full stop. +</p> + +<p> +“Davie,” said he, “this is a kittle passage! As long as we +lie here we’re safe; but I’m nane sae muckle nearer to my ship or +the coast of France. And as soon as we stand up and signal the brig, it’s +another matter. For where will your gentry be, think ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe they’re no come yet,” said I. “And even if they +are, there’s one clear matter in our favour. They’ll be all +arranged to take us, that’s true. But they’ll have arranged for our +coming from the east and here we are upon their west.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” says Alan, “I wish we were in some force, and this was +a battle, we would have bonnily out-manœuvred them! But it isnae, Davit; +and the way it is, is a wee thing less inspiring to Alan Breck. I swither, +Davie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Time flies, Alan,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I ken that,” said Alan. “I ken naething else, as the French +folk say. But this is a dreidful case of heids or tails. O! if I could but ken +where your gentry were!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan,” said I, “this is no like you. It’s got to be +now or never.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“This is no me, quo’ he,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and drollery. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Neither you nor me, quo’ he, neither you nor me.<br /> +Wow, na, Johnnie man! neither you nor me.” +</p> + +<p> +And then of a sudden he stood straight up where he was, and with a handkerchief +flying in his right hand, marched down upon the beach. I stood up myself, but +lingered behind him, scanning the sand-hills to the east. His appearance was at +first unremarked: Scougal not expecting him so early, and <i>my gentry</i> +watching on the other side. Then they awoke on board the <i>Thistle</i>, and it +seemed they had all in readiness, for there was scarce a second’s bustle +on the deck before we saw a skiff put round her stern and begin to pull lively +for the coast. Almost at the same moment of time, and perhaps half a mile away +towards Gillane Ness, the figure of a man appeared for a blink upon a sandhill, +waving with his arms; and though he was gone again in the same flash, the gulls +in that part continued a little longer to fly wild. +</p> + +<p> +Alan had not seen this, looking straight to seaward at the ship and skiff. +</p> + +<p> +“It maun be as it will!” said he, when I had told him, “Weel +may yon boatie row, or my craig’ll have to thole a raxing.” +</p> + +<p> +That part of the beach was long and flat, and excellent walking when the tide +was down; a little cressy burn flowed over it in one place to the sea; and the +sandhills ran along the head of it like the rampart of a town. No eye of ours +could spy what was passing behind there in the bents, no hurry of ours could +mend the speed of the boat’s coming: time stood still with us through +that uncanny period of waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one thing I would like to ken,” say Alan. “I would +like to ken these gentry’s orders. We’re worth four hunner pound +the pair of us: how if they took the guns to us, Davie! They would get a bonny +shot from the top of that lang sandy bank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Morally impossible,” said I. “The point is that they can +have no guns. This thing has been gone about too secret; pistols they may have, +but never guns.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe ye’ll be in the right,” says Alan. “For all +which I am wearing a good deal for yon boat.” +</p> + +<p> +And he snapped his fingers and whistled to it like a dog. +</p> + +<p> +It was now perhaps a third of the way in, and we ourselves already hard on the +margin of the sea, so that the soft sand rose over my shoes. There was no more +to do whatever but to wait, to look as much as we were able at the creeping +nearer of the boat, and as little as we could manage at the long impenetrable +front of the sandhills, over which the gulls twinkled and behind which our +enemies were doubtless marshalling. +</p> + +<p> +“This is a fine, bright, caller place to get shot in,” says Alan +suddenly; “and, man, I wish that I had your courage!” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan!” I cried, “what kind of talk is this of it! +You’re just made of courage; it’s the character of the man, as I +could prove myself if there was nobody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you would be the more mistaken,” said he. “What makes +the differ with me is just my great penetration and knowledge of affairs. But +for auld, cauld, dour, deadly courage, I am not fit to hold a candle to +yourself. Look at us two here upon the sands. Here am I, fair hotching to be +off; here’s you (for all that I ken) in two minds of it whether +you’ll no stop. Do you think that I could do that, or would? No me! +Firstly, because I havenae got the courage and wouldnae daur; and secondly, +because I am a man of so much penetration and would see ye damned first.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s there ye’re coming, is it?” I cried. “Ah, +man Alan, you can wile your old wives, but you never can wile me.” +</p> + +<p> +Remembrance of my temptation in the wood made me strong as iron. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a tryst to keep,” I continued. “I am trysted with +your cousin Charlie; I have passed my word.” +</p> + +<p> +“Braw trysts that you’ll can keep,” said Alan. +“Ye’ll just mistryst aince and for a’ with the gentry in the +bents. And what for?” he went on with an extreme threatening gravity. +“Just tell me that, my mannie! Are ye to be speerited away like Lady +Grange? Are they to drive a dirk in your inside and bury ye in the bents? Or is +it to be the other way, and are they to bring ye in with James? Are they folk +to be trustit? Would ye stick your head in the mouth of Sim Fraser and the +ither Whigs?” he added with extraordinary bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +“Alan,” cried I, “they’re all rogues and liars, and +I’m with ye there. The more reason there should be one decent man in such +a land of thieves! My word is passed, and I’ll stick to it. I said long +syne to your kinswoman that I would stumble at no risk. Do ye mind of +that?—the night Red Colin fell, it was. No more I will, then. Here I +stop. Prestongrange promised me my life: if he’s to be mansworn, here +I’ll have to die.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aweel aweel,” said Alan. +</p> + +<p> +All this time we had seen or heard no more of our pursuers. In truth we had +caught them unawares; their whole party (as I was to learn afterwards) had not +yet reached the scene; what there was of them was spread among the bents +towards Gillane. It was quite an affair to call them in and bring them over, +and the boat was making speed. They were besides but cowardly fellows: a mere +leash of Highland cattle-thieves, of several clans, no gentleman there to be +the captain and the more they looked at Alan and me upon the beach, the less (I +must suppose) they liked the look of us. +</p> + +<p> +Whoever had betrayed Alan it was not the captain: he was in the skiff himself, +steering and stirring up his oarsmen, like a man with his heart in his employ. +Already he was near in, and the boat securing—already Alan’s face +had flamed crimson with the excitement of his deliverance, when our friends in +the bents, either in their despair to see their prey escape them or with some +hope of scaring Andie, raised suddenly a shrill cry of several voices. +</p> + +<p> +This sound, arising from what appeared to be a quite deserted coast, was really +very daunting, and the men in the boat held water instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he was come +within an easy hail. +</p> + +<p> +“Freens o’mine,” says Alan, and began immediately to wade +forth in the shallow water towards the boat. “Davie,” he said, +pausing, “Davie, are ye no coming? I am swier to leave ye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a hair of me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“He stood part of a second where he was to his knees in the salt water, +hesitating. +</p> + +<p> +“He that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar,” said he, and swashing in +deeper than his waist, was hauled into the skiff, which was immediately +directed for the ship. +</p> + +<p> +I stood where he had left me, with my hands behind my back; Alan sat with his +head turned watching me; and the boat drew smoothly away. Of a sudden I came +the nearest hand to shedding tears, and seemed to myself the most deserted +solitary lad in Scotland. With that I turned my back upon the sea and faced the +sandhills. There was no sight or sound of man; the sun shone on the wet sand +and the dry, the wind blew in the bents, the gulls made a dreary piping. As I +passed higher up the beach, the sand-lice were hopping nimbly about the +stranded tangles. The devil any other sight or sound in that unchancy place. +And yet I knew there were folk there, observing me, upon some secret purpose. +They were no soldiers, or they would have fallen on and taken us ere now; +doubtless they were some common rogues hired for my undoing, perhaps to kidnap, +perhaps to murder me outright. From the position of those engaged, the first +was the more likely; from what I knew of their character and ardency in this +business, I thought the second very possible; and the blood ran cold about my +heart. +</p> + +<p> +I had a mad idea to loosen my sword in the scabbard; for though I was very +unfit to stand up like a gentleman blade to blade, I thought I could do some +scathe in a random combat. But I perceived in time the folly of resistance. +This was no doubt the joint “expedient” on which Prestongrange and +Fraser were agreed. The first, I was very sure, had done something to secure my +life; the second was pretty likely to have slipped in some contrary hints into +the ears of Neil and his companions; and if I were to show bare steel I might +play straight into the hands of my worst enemy and seal my own doom. +</p> + +<p> +These thoughts brought me to the head of the beach. I cast a look behind, the +boat was nearing the brig, and Alan flew his handkerchief for a farewell, which +I replied to with the waving of my hand. But Alan himself was shrunk to a small +thing in my view, alongside of this pass that lay in front of me. I set my hat +hard on my head, clenched my teeth, and went right before me up the face of the +sand-wreath. It made a hard climb, being steep, and the sand like water +underfoot. But I caught hold at last by the long bent-grass on the brae-top, +and pulled myself to a good footing. The same moment men stirred and stood up +here and there, six or seven of them, ragged-like knaves, each with a dagger in +his hand. The fair truth is, I shut my eyes and prayed. When I opened them +again, the rogues were crept the least thing nearer without speech or hurry. +Every eye was upon mine, which struck me with a strange sensation of their +brightness, and of the fear with which they continued to approach me. I held +out my hands empty; whereupon one asked, with a strong Highland brogue, if I +surrendered. +</p> + +<p> +“Under protest,” said I, “if ye ken what that means, which I +misdoubt.” +</p> + +<p> +At that word, they came all in upon me like a flight of birds upon a carrion, +seized me, took my sword, and all the money from my pockets, bound me hand and +foot with some strong line, and cast me on a tussock of bent. There they sat +about their captive in a part of a circle and gazed upon him silently like +something dangerous, perhaps a lion or a tiger on the spring. Presently this +attention was relaxed. They drew nearer together, fell to speech in the Gaelic, +and very cynically divided my property before my eyes. It was my diversion in +this time that I could watch from my place the progress of my friend’s +escape. I saw the boat come to the brig and be hoisted in, the sails fill, and +the ship pass out seaward behind the isles and by North Berwick. +</p> + +<p> +In the course of two hours or so, more and more ragged Highlandmen kept +collecting. Neil among the first, until the party must have numbered near a +score. With each new arrival there was a fresh bout of talk, that sounded like +complaints and explanations; but I observed one thing, none of those who came +late had any share in the division of my spoils. The last discussion was very +violent and eager, so that once I thought they would have quarrelled; on the +heels of which their company parted, the bulk of them returning westward in a +troop, and only three, Neil and two others, remaining sentries on the prisoner. +</p> + +<p> +“I could name one who would be very ill pleased with your day’s +work, Neil Duncanson,” said I, when the rest had moved away. +</p> + +<p> +He assured me in answer I should be tenderly used, for he knew he was +“acquent wi’ the leddy.” +</p> + +<p> +This was all our talk, nor did any other son of man appear upon that portion of +the coast until the sun had gone down among the Highland mountains, and the +gloaming was beginning to grow dark. At which hour I was aware of a long, lean, +bony-like Lothian man of a very swarthy countenance, that came towards us among +the bents on a farm horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Lads,” cried he, “has ye a paper like this?” and held +up one in his hand. Neil produced a second, which the newcomer studied through +a pair of horn spectacles, and saying all was right and we were the folk he was +seeking, immediately dismounted. I was then set in his place, my feet tied +under the horse’s belly, and we set forth under the guidance of the +Lowlander. His path must have been very well chosen, for we met but one +pair—a pair of lovers—the whole way, and these, perhaps taking us +to be free-traders, fled on our approach. We were at one time close at the foot +of Berwick Law on the south side; at another, as we passed over some open +hills, I spied the lights of a clachan and the old tower of a church among some +trees not far off, but too far to cry for help, if I had dreamed of it. At last +we came again within sound of the sea. There was moonlight, though not much; +and by this I could see the three huge towers and broken battlements of +Tantallon, that old chief place of the Red Douglases. The horse was picketed in +the bottom of the ditch to graze, and I was led within, and forth into the +court, and thence into the tumble-down stone hall. Here my conductors built a +brisk fire in the midst of the pavement, for there was a chill in the night. My +hands were loosed, I was set by the wall in the inner end, and (the Lowlander +having produced provisions) I was given oatmeal bread and a pitcher of French +brandy. This done, I was left once more alone with my three Highlandmen. They +sat close by the fire drinking and talking; the wind blew in by the breaches, +cast about the smoke and flames, and sang in the tops of the towers; I could +hear the sea under the cliffs, and, my mind being reassured as to my life, and +my body and spirits wearied with the day’s employment, I turned upon one +side and slumbered. +</p> + +<p> +I had no means of guessing at what hour I was wakened, only the moon was down +and the fire was low. My feet were now loosed, and I was carried through the +ruins and down the cliff-side by a precipitous path to where I found a +fisher’s boat in a haven of the rocks. This I was had on board of, and we +began to put forth from the shore in a fine starlight. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +THE BASS</h2> + +<p> +I had no thought where they were taking me; only looked here and there for the +appearance of a ship; and there ran the while in my head a word of +Ransome’s—the<i> twenty-pounders</i>. If I were to be exposed a +second time to that same former danger of the plantations, I judged it must +turn ill with me; there was no second Alan; and no second shipwreck and spare +yard to be expected now; and I saw myself hoe tobacco under the whip’s +lash. The thought chilled me; the air was sharp upon the water, the stretchers +of the boat drenched with a cold dew: and I shivered in my place beside the +steersman. This was the dark man whom I have called hitherto the Lowlander; his +name was Dale, ordinarily called Black Andie. Feeling the thrill of my shiver, +he very kindly handed me a rough jacket full of fish-scales, with which I was +glad to cover myself. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for this kindness,” said I, “and will make so +free as to repay it with a warning. You take a high responsibility in this +affair. You are not like these ignorant, barbarous Highlanders, but know what +the law is and the risks of those that break it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no just exactly what ye would ca’ an extremist for the +law,” says he, “at the best of times; but in this business I act +with a good warranty.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nae harm,” said he, “nae harm ava’. Ye’ll have +strong freens, I’m thinking. Ye’ll be richt eneuch yet.” +</p> + +<p> +There began to fall a greyness on the face of the sea; little dabs of pink and +red, like coals of slow fire, came in the east; and at the same time the geese +awakened, and began crying about the top of the Bass. It is just the one crag +of rock, as everybody knows, but great enough to carve a city from. The sea was +extremely little, but there went a hollow plowter round the base of it. With +the growing of the dawn I could see it clearer and clearer; the straight crags +painted with sea-birds’ droppings like a morning frost, the sloping top +of it green with grass, the clan of white geese that cried about the sides, and +the black, broken buildings of the prison sitting close on the sea’s +edge. +</p> + +<p> +At the sight the truth came in upon me in a clap. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s there you’re taking me!” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Just to the Bass, mannie,” said he: “Whaur the auld saints +were afore ye, and I misdoubt if ye have come so fairly by your preeson.” +</p> + +<p> +“But none dwells there now,” I cried; “the place is long a +ruin.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be the mair pleisand a change for the solan geese, +then,” quoth Andie dryly. +</p> + +<p> +The day coming slowly brighter I observed on the bilge, among the big stones +with which fisherfolk ballast their boats, several kegs and baskets, and a +provision of fuel. All these were discharged upon the crag. Andie, myself, and +my three Highlanders (I call them mine, although it was the other way about), +landed along with them. The sun was not yet up when the boat moved away again, +the noise of the oars on the thole-pins echoing from the cliffs, and left us in +our singular reclusion: +</p> + +<p> +Andie Dale was the Prefect (as I would jocularly call him) of the Bass, being +at once the shepherd and the gamekeeper of that small and rich estate. He had +to mind the dozen or so of sheep that fed and fattened on the grass of the +sloping part of it, like beasts grazing the roof of a cathedral. He had charge +besides of the solan geese that roosted in the crags; and from these an +extraordinary income is derived. The young are dainty eating, as much as two +shillings a-piece being a common price, and paid willingly by epicures; even +the grown birds are valuable for their oil and feathers; and a part of the +minister’s stipend of North Berwick is paid to this day in solan geese, +which makes it (in some folks’ eyes) a parish to be coveted. To perform +these several businesses, as well as to protect the geese from poachers, Andie +had frequent occasion to sleep and pass days together on the crag; and we found +the man at home there like a farmer in his steading. Bidding us all shoulder +some of the packages, a matter in which I made haste to bear a hand, he led us +in by a locked gate, which was the only admission to the island, and through +the ruins of the fortress, to the governor’s house. There we saw by the +ashes in the chimney and a standing bed-place in one corner, that he made his +usual occupation. +</p> + +<p> +This bed he now offered me to use, saying he supposed I would set up to be +gentry. +</p> + +<p> +“My gentrice has nothing to do with where I lie,” said I. “I +bless God I have lain hard ere now, and can do the same again with +thankfulness. While I am here, Mr. Andie, if that be your name, I will do my +part and take my place beside the rest of you; and I ask you on the other hand +to spare me your mockery, which I own I like ill.” +</p> + +<p> +He grumbled a little at this speech, but seemed upon reflection to approve it. +Indeed, he was a long-headed, sensible man, and a good Whig and Presbyterian; +read daily in a pocket Bible, and was both able and eager to converse seriously +on religion, leaning more than a little towards the Cameronian extremes. His +morals were of a more doubtful colour. I found he was deep in the free trade, +and used the ruins of Tantallon for a magazine of smuggled merchandise. As for +a gauger, I do not believe he valued the life of one at half-a-farthing. But +that part of the coast of Lothian is to this day as wild a place, and the +commons there as rough a crew, as any in Scotland. +</p> + +<p> +One incident of my imprisonment is made memorable by a consequence it had long +after. There was a warship at this time stationed in the Firth, the +<i>Seahorse</i>, Captain Palliser. It chanced she was cruising in the month of +September, plying between Fife and Lothian, and sounding for sunk dangers. +Early one fine morning she was seen about two miles to east of us, where she +lowered a boat, and seemed to examine the Wildfire Rocks and Satan’s +Bush, famous dangers of that coast. And presently after having got her boat +again, she came before the wind and was headed directly for the Bass. This was +very troublesome to Andie and the Highlanders; the whole business of my +sequestration was designed for privacy, and here, with a navy captain perhaps +blundering ashore, it looked to become public enough, if it were nothing worse. +I was in a minority of one, I am no Alan to fall upon so many, and I was far +from sure that a warship was the least likely to improve my condition. All +which considered, I gave Andie my parole of good behaviour and obedience, and +was had briskly to the summit of the rock, where we all lay down, at the +cliff’s edge, in different places of observation and concealment. The +<i>Seahorse</i> came straight on till I thought she would have struck, and we +(looking giddily down) could see the ship’s company at their quarters and +hear the leadsman singing at the lead. Then she suddenly wore and let fly a +volley of I know not how many great guns. The rock was shaken with the thunder +of the sound, the smoke flowed over our heads, and the geese rose in number +beyond computation or belief. To hear their screaming and to see the twinkling +of their wings, made a most inimitable curiosity; and I suppose it was after +this somewhat childish pleasure that Captain Palliser had come so near the +Bass. He was to pay dear for it in time. During his approach I had the +opportunity to make a remark upon the rigging of that ship by which I ever +after knew it miles away; and this was a means (under Providence) of my +averting from a friend a great calamity, and inflicting on Captain Palliser +himself a sensible disappointment. +</p> + +<p> +All the time of my stay on the rock we lived well. We had small ale and brandy, +and oatmeal, of which we made our porridge night and morning. At times a boat +came from the Castleton and brought us a quarter of mutton, for the sheep upon +the rock we must not touch, these being specially fed to market. The geese were +unfortunately out of season, and we let them be. We fished ourselves, and yet +more often made the geese to fish for us: observing one when he had made a +capture and scaring him from his prey ere he had swallowed it. +</p> + +<p> +The strange nature of this place, and the curiosities with which it abounded, +held me busy and amused. Escape being impossible, I was allowed my entire +liberty, and continually explored the surface of the isle wherever it might +support the foot of man. The old garden of the prison was still to be observed, +with flowers and pot-herbs running wild, and some ripe cherries on a bush. A +little lower stood a chapel or a hermit’s cell; who built or dwelt in it, +none may know, and the thought of its age made a ground of many meditations. +The prison, too, where I now bivouacked with Highland cattle-thieves, was a +place full of history, both human and divine. I thought it strange so many +saints and martyrs should have gone by there so recently, and left not so much +as a leaf out of their Bibles, or a name carved upon the wall, while the rough +soldier lads that mounted guard upon the battlements had filled the +neighbourhood with their mementoes—broken tobacco-pipes for the most +part, and that in a surprising plenty, but also metal buttons from their coats. +There were times when I thought I could have heard the pious sound of psalms +out of the martyr’s dungeons, and seen the soldiers tramp the ramparts +with their glinting pipes, and the dawn rising behind them out of the North +Sea. +</p> + +<p> +No doubt it was a good deal Andie and his tales that put these fancies in my +head. He was extraordinarily well acquainted with the story of the rock in all +particulars, down to the names of private soldiers, his father having served +there in that same capacity. He was gifted besides with a natural genius for +narration, so that the people seemed to speak and the things to be done before +your face. This gift of his and my assiduity to listen brought us the more +close together. I could not honestly deny but what I liked him; I soon saw that +he liked me; and indeed, from the first I had set myself out to capture his +good-will. An odd circumstance (to be told presently) effected this beyond my +expectation; but even in early days we made a friendly pair to be a prisoner +and his gaoler. +</p> + +<p> +I should trifle with my conscience if I pretended my stay upon the Bass was +wholly disagreeable. It seemed to me a safe place, as though I was escaped +there out of my troubles. No harm was to be offered me; a material +impossibility, rock and the deep sea, prevented me from fresh attempts; I felt +I had my life safe and my honour safe, and there were times when I allowed +myself to gloat on them like stolen waters. At other times my thoughts were +very different, I recalled how strong I had expressed myself both to Rankeillor +and to Stewart; I reflected that my captivity upon the Bass, in view of a great +part of the coasts of Fife and Lothian, was a thing I should be thought more +likely to have invented than endured; and in the eyes of these two gentlemen, +at least, I must pass for a boaster and a coward. Now I would take this lightly +enough; tell myself that so long as I stood well with Catriona Drummond, the +opinion of the rest of man was but moonshine and spilled water; and thence pass +off into those meditations of a lover which are so delightful to himself and +must always appear so surprisingly idle to a reader. But anon the fear would +take me otherwise; I would be shaken with a perfect panic of self-esteem, and +these supposed hard judgments appear an injustice impossible to be supported. +With that another train of thought would he presented, and I had scarce begun +to be concerned about men’s judgments of myself, than I was haunted with +the remembrance of James Stewart in his dungeon and the lamentations of his +wife. Then, indeed, passion began to work in me; I could not forgive myself to +sit there idle: it seemed (if I were a man at all) that I could fly or swim out +of my place of safety; and it was in such humours and to amuse my +self-reproaches that I would set the more particularly to win the good side of +Andie Dale. +</p> + +<p> +At last, when we two were alone on the summit of the rock on a bright morning, +I put in some hint about a bribe. He looked at me, cast back his head, and +laughed out loud. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you’re funny, Mr. Dale,” said I, “but perhaps if +you’ll glance an eye upon that paper you may change your note.” +</p> + +<p> +The stupid Highlanders had taken from me at the time of my seizure nothing but +hard money, and the paper I now showed Andie was an acknowledgment from the +British Linen Company for a considerable sum. +</p> + +<p> +He read it. “Troth, and ye’re nane sae ill aff,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that would maybe vary your opinions,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Hout!” said he. “It shows me ye can bribe; but I’m no +to be bribit.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that yet a while,” says I. “And first, +I’ll show you that I know what I am talking. You have orders to detain me +here till after Thursday, 21st September.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye’re no a’thegether wrong either,” says Andie. +“I’m to let you gang, bar orders contrair, on Saturday, the +23rd.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not but feel there was something extremely insidious in this +arrangement. That I was to re-appear precisely in time to be too late would +cast the more discredit on my tale, if I were minded to tell one; and this +screwed me to fighting point. +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, Andie, you that kens the world, listen to me, and think while +ye listen,” said I. “I know there are great folks in the business, +and I make no doubt you have their names to go upon. I have seen some of them +myself since this affair began, and said my say into their faces too. But what +kind of a crime would this be that I had committed? or what kind of a process +is this that I am fallen under? To be apprehended by some ragged +John-Hielandman on August 30th, carried to a rickle of old stones that is now +neither fort nor gaol (whatever it once was) but just the gamekeeper’s +lodge of the Bass Rock, and set free again, September 23rd, as secretly as I +was first arrested—does that sound like law to you? or does it sound like +justice? or does it not sound honestly like a piece of some low dirty intrigue, +of which the very folk that meddle with it are ashamed?” +</p> + +<p> +“I canna gainsay ye, Shaws. It looks unco underhand,” says Andie. +“And werenae the folk guid sound Whigs and true-blue Presbyterians I +would has seen them ayont Jordan and Jeroozlem or I would have set hand to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, “and a +grand Presbyterian.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ken naething by him,” said he. “I hae nae trokings +wi’ Lovats.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing +with,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but I’ll no tell ye that,” said Andie. +</p> + +<p> +“Little need when I ken,” was my retort. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, Shaws,” +says Andie. “And that is that (try as ye please) I’m no dealing +wi’ yoursel’; nor yet I amnae goin’ to,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Andie, I see I’ll have to be speak out plain with +you,” I replied. And told him so much as I thought needful of the facts. +</p> + +<p> +He heard me out with some serious interest, and when I had done, seemed to +consider a little with himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Shaws,” said he at last, “I’ll deal with the naked +hand. It’s a queer tale, and no very creditable, the way you tell it; and +I’m far frae minting that is other than the way that ye believe it. As +for yoursel’, ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, +that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit +in the job than what ye can dae. And here the maitter clear and plain to ye. +There’ll be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far free +that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll be nae +skaith to the kintry—just ae mair Hielantman hangit—Gude kens, a +guid riddance! On the ither hand, it would be considerable skaith to me if I +would let you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ +to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that +I think ye’ll just have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the +solans.” +</p> + +<p> +“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this +Hielantman’s innocent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see, in +this warld, the way God made it, we cannae just get a’thing that we +want.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /> +BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK</h2> + +<p> +I have yet said little of the Highlanders. They were all three of the followers +of James More, which bound the accusation very tight about their master’s +neck. All understood a word or two of English, but Neil was the only one who +judged he had enough of it for general converse, in which (when once he got +embarked) his company was often tempted to the contrary opinion. They were +tractable, simple creatures; showed much more courtesy than might have been +expected from their raggedness and their uncouth appearance, and fell +spontaneously to be like three servants for Andie and myself. +</p> + +<p> +Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling ruins of a prison, and +among endless strange sounds of the sea and the sea-birds, I thought I +perceived in them early the effects of superstitious fear. When there was +nothing doing they would either lie and sleep, for which their appetite +appeared insatiable, or Neil would entertain the others with stories which +seemed always of a terrifying strain. If neither of these delights were within +reach—if perhaps two were sleeping and the third could find no means to +follow their example—I would see him sit and listen and look about him in +a progression of uneasiness, starting, his face blenching, his hands clutched, +a man strung like a bow. The nature of these fears I had never an occasion to +find out, but the sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that +we were in favourable to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, but +Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from which he never varied. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” he would say, “<i>it’s an unco place</i>, <i>the +Bass</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place by night, unco by day; and +these were unco sounds, of the calling of the solans, and the plash of the sea +and the rock echoes, that hung continually in our ears. It was chiefly so in +moderate weather. When the waves were anyway great they roared about the rock +like thunder and the drums of armies, dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in +the calm days that a man could daunt himself with listening—not a +Highlandman only, as I several times experimented on myself, so many still, +hollow noises haunted and reverberated in the porches of the rock. +</p> + +<p> +This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I took part in, which quite +changed our terms of living, and had a great effect on my departure. It chanced +one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and (that little air of Alan’s +coming back to my memory) began to whistle. A hand was laid upon my arm, and +the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for it was not “canny musics.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not canny?” I asked. “How can that be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta +heid upon his body.” <a name="citation13"></a><a +href="#footnote13"><sup>[13]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “there can be no bogles here, Neil; for +it’s not likely they would fash themselves to frighten geese.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it! But +I’ll can tell ye there’s been waur nor bogles here.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Warlocks,” said he. “Or a warlock at the least of it. And +that’s a queer tale, too,” he added. “And if ye would like, +I’ll tell it ye.” +</p> + +<p> +To be sure we were all of the one mind, and even the Highlander that had the +least English of the three set himself to listen with all his might. +</p> + +<h4><span class="smcap">The Tale of Tod Lapraik</span></h4> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">My</span> faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a +wild, sploring lad in his young days, wi’ little wisdom and little grace. +He was fond of a lass and fond of a glass, and fond of a ran-dan; but I could +never hear tell that he was muckle use for honest employment. Frae ae thing to +anither, he listed at last for a sodger and was in the garrison of this fort, +which was the first way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot upon the Bass. +Sorrow upon that service! The governor brewed his ain ale; it seems it was the +warst conceivable. The rock was proveesioned free the shore with vivers, the +thing was ill-guided, and there were whiles when they but to fish and shoot +solans for their diet. To crown a’, thir was the Days of the Persecution. +The perishin’ cauld chalmers were all occupeed wi’ sants and +martyrs, the saut of the yearth, of which it wasnae worthy. And though Tam Dale +carried a firelock there, a single sodger, and liked a lass and a glass, as I +was sayin,’ the mind of the man was mair just than set with his position. +He had glints of the glory of the kirk; there were whiles when his dander rase +to see the Lord’s sants misguided, and shame covered him that he should +be haulding a can’le (or carrying a firelock) in so black a business. +There were nights of it when he was here on sentry, the place a’ wheesht, +the frosts o’ winter maybe riving in the wa’s, and he would hear +ane o’ the prisoners strike up a psalm, and the rest join in, and the +blessed sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, I would +raither say—so that this auld craig in the sea was like a pairt of +Heev’n. Black shame was on his saul; his sins hove up before him muckle +as the Bass, and above a’, that chief sin, that he should have a hand in +hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk. But the truth is that he resisted +the spirit. Day cam, there were the rousing compainions, and his guid resolves +depairtit. +</p> + +<p> +In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, Peden the Prophet was his +name. Ye’ll have heard tell of Prophet Peden. There was never the wale of +him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever was his +like afore. He was wild’s a peat-hag, fearsome to look at, fearsome to +hear, his face like the day of judgment. The voice of him was like a +solan’s and dinnle’d in folks’ lugs, and the words of him +like coals of fire. +</p> + +<p> +Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she had little to do, for it was +nae place far decent weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and her and Tam Dale +were very well agreed. It befell that Peden was in the gairden his lane at the +praying when Tam and the lass cam by; and what should the lassie do but mock +with laughter at the sant’s devotions? He rose and lookit at the twa +o’ them, and Tam’s knees knoitered thegether at the look of him. +But whan he spak, it was mair in sorrow than in anger. “Poor thing, poor +thing!” says he, and it was the lass he lookit at, “I hear you +skirl and laugh,” he says, “but the Lord has a deid shot prepared +for you, and at that surprising judgment ye shall skirl but the ae time!” +Shortly thereafter she was daundering on the craigs wi’ twa-three +sodgers, and it was a blawy day. There cam a gowst of wind, claught her by the +coats, and awa’ wi’ her bag and baggage. And it was remarked by the +sodgers that she gied but the ae skirl. +</p> + +<p> +Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon Tam Dale; but it passed again and +him none the better. Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither sodger-lad. +“Deil hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane swearer. And +there was Peden glowering at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ +his lang chafts an’ luntin’ een, the maud happed about his kist, +and the hand of him held out wi’ the black nails upon the +finger-nebs—for he had nae care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor +man!” cries he, “the poor fool man! <i>Deil hae me</i>, quo’ +he; an’ I see the deil at his oxter.” The conviction of guilt and +grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he flang doun the pike that was in his +hands—“I will nae mair lift arms against the cause o’ +Christ!” says he, and was as gude’s word. There was a sair fyke in +the beginning, but the governor, seeing him resolved, gied him his discharge, +and he went and dwallt and merried in North Berwick, and had aye a gude name +with honest folk free that day on. +</p> + +<p> +It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass cam in the hands +o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of it. +Baith were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers in the garrison, and +kent the gate to handle solans, and the seasons and values of them. Forby that +they were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest professors and men of +comely conversation. The first of them was just Tam Dale, my faither. The +second was ane Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but +whether for his name or his nature I could never hear tell. Weel, Tam gaed to +see Lapraik upon this business, and took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, +by the hand. Tod had his dwallin’ in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. +It’s a dark uncanny loan, forby that the kirk has aye had an ill name +since the days o’ James the Saxt and the deevil’s cantrips played +therein when the Queen was on the seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in +the mirkest end, and was little liked by some that kenned the best. The door +was on the sneck that day, and me and my faither gaed straucht in. Tod was a +wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, +white hash of a man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me +scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We +cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by +the shou’ther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on his dowp, +an’ cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish. +</p> + +<p> +“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?” +</p> + +<p> +He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m blythe to +see ye. I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; +“its frae the stamach.” +</p> + +<p> +Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to get the +warding o’t, and little by little cam to very ill words, and twined in +anger. I mind weel that as my faither and me gaed hame again, he cam ower and +ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams. +</p> + +<p> +“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like +yon.” +</p> + +<p> +Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’. It was +remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” +says he, “ye hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I +hope,” says he, “ye’ll find at least a’ that ye +expeckit at the Bass.” Which have since been thought remarkable +expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to take young solans. This was +a business he was weel used wi’, he had been a craigsman frae a laddie, +and trustit nane but himsel’. So there was he hingin’ by a line +an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its hieest and steighest. Fower +tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the line and mindin’ for his +signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea +belaw, and the solans skirlin and flying. It was a braw spring morn, and Tam +whustled as he claught in the young geese. Mony’s the time I’ve +heard him tell of this experience, and aye the swat ran upon the man. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle solan, and +the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the +creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the +solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were +raither mair than he would care to fa’. +</p> + +<p> +“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ +wi’ ye!” says he. +</p> + +<p> +The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in +the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But +now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the +solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand its +employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag +o’ stane. +</p> + +<p> +There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This +thing is nae bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the +day gaed black aboot him. “If I get a dwam here,” he toucht, +“it’s by wi’ Tam Dale.” And he signalled for the lads +to pu’ him up. +</p> + +<p> +And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was the signal +made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn +flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam had a knife, he gart +the cauld steel glitter. And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for +nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but +laighter, like a body disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the +craig, and Tam saw him nae mair. And as sune as that thing was gane, +Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a +deid corp, dadding on the craig. +</p> + +<p> +A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, or what +was left of it. Up he sat. +</p> + +<p> +“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, +man—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it +awa’,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be quiet. +But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on +aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for down again. +</p> + +<p> +“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, +“and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae +this craig o’ Sawtan.” +</p> + +<p> +Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won +to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha +was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik! Folk thocht afterwards +that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened. I kenna for that; +but what I ken the best, that was the end of it. +</p> + +<p> +It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the white +fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I +mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we +foregaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in +Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel’. +Weel, Sandie hailed. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“On the Bass?” says grandfaither. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae +be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.” +</p> + +<p> +“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in. +</p> + +<p> +“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that. For there was nae +boat that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung +ower my faither’s at hame in the press bed. +</p> + +<p> +We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand. Grandfaither +had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost +her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the glass to it, sure eneuch there +was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, +a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at +a waddin’. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie. +</p> + +<p> +“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither. +</p> + +<p> +“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il +or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up +a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in +all that country. +</p> + +<p> +“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see +clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to +the baith of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment +surely, and be damned to it,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! +“But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll +have foregaithered wi’ before,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, +Edie,” says he, “and what would be your way of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the +fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye +on Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of +us’ll have a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, +I’ll rin up the flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ +the gun.” +</p> + +<p> +Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum in +Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ. My +grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid +draps, bein mair deidly again bogles. And then the as boat set aff for North +Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing +on the brae-side. +</p> + +<p> +A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like a +teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, +the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be +lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But there would be fowk +there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was +its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the +chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And +the lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life dinnling +and stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him +fa’n in the vale o’ years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I +believe. It was joy was in the creature’s heart, the joy o’ hell, I +daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time I have askit mysel’ why witches and +warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and +be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then +I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing a’ the hours by his lane in the black +glory of his heart. Nae doubt they burn for it muckle in hell, but they have a +grand time here of it, whatever!—and the Lord forgie us! +</p> + +<p> +Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid upon the +harbour rocks. That was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the gun, +took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a +bang and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we +rubbin’ our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi’ +the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the +wund blew, and there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and +flinging but ae second syne. +</p> + +<p> +The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror o’ that +dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was little said +in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won in by the +pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the folk waitin’ us. It +seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and +smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest abode there in the +wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it little; but it was a means +of grace to severals that stood there praying in to themsel’s (for nane +cared to pray out loud) and looking on thon awesome thing as it cawed the +shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, +Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp. +</p> + +<p> +When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the +warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund! but there was +grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> + +Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty silly affair that had its +consequence. Neil, as I have said, was himself a great narrator. I have heard +since that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and thought much of +himself, and was thought much of by others on the strength of it. Now +Andie’s tale reminded him of one he had already heard. +</p> + +<p> +“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story +of Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story of my +faither (now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your beard,” +says he; “and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant chafts!” +</p> + +<p> +In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in history, +how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing appears scarce feasible +for Lowland commons. I had already remarked that Andie was continually on the +point of quarrelling with our three MacGregors, and now, sure enough, it was to +come. +</p> + +<p> +“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil. +</p> + +<p> +“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. “Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If +God would give ye the grace to see yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, +ye would throw your denner up.” +</p> + +<p> +There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife was in his +hand that moment. +</p> + +<p> +There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg, and had him +down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what I was doing. His +comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without weapons, the Gregara +three to two. It seemed we were beyond salvation, when Neil screamed in his own +tongue, ordering the others back, and made his submission to myself in a manner +the most abject, even giving me up his knife which (upon a repetition of his +promises) I returned to him on the morrow. +</p> + +<p> +Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must not build too high on Andie, who +had shrunk against the wall and stood there, as pale as death, till the affair +was over; the second, the strength of my own position with the Highlanders, who +must have received extraordinary charges to be tender of my safety. But if I +thought Andie came not very well out in courage, I had no fault to find with +him upon the account of gratitude. It was not so much that he troubled me with +thanks, as that his whole mind and manner appeared changed; and as he preserved +ever after a great timidity of our companions, he and I were yet more +constantly together. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /> +THE MISSING WITNESS</h2> + +<p> +On the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much rebellion +against fate. The thought of him waiting in the <i>King’s Arms</i>, and +of what he would think, and what he would say when next we met, tormented and +oppressed me. The truth was unbelievable, so much I had to grant, and it seemed +cruel hard I should be posted as a liar and a coward, and have never +consciously omitted what it was possible that I should do. I repeated this form +of words with a kind of bitter relish, and re-examined in that light the steps +of my behaviour. It seemed I had behaved to James Stewart as a brother might; +all the past was a picture that I could be proud of, and there was only the +present to consider. I could not swim the sea, nor yet fly in the air, but +there was always Andie. I had done him a service, he liked me; I had a lever +there to work on; if it were just for decency, I must try once more with Andie. +</p> + +<p> +It was late afternoon; there was no sound in all the Bass but the lap and +bubble of a very quiet sea; and my four companions were all crept apart, the +three Macgregors higher on the rock, and Andie with his Bible to a sunny place +among the ruins; there I found him in deep sleep, and, as soon as he was awake, +appealed to him with some fervour of manner and a good show of argument. +</p> + +<p> +“If I thoucht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said he, staring at +me over his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s to save another,” said I, “and to redeem my word. +What would be more good than that? Do ye no mind the scripture, Andie? And you +with the Book upon your lap! <i>What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole +world</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said he, “that’s grand for you. But where do I +come in! I have my word to redeem the same’s yoursel’. And what are +ye asking me to do, but just to sell it ye for siller?” +</p> + +<p> +“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ou, the name’s naething”, said he; “the thing is +there, whatever. It just comes to this; if I am to service ye the way that you +propose, I’ll lose my lifelihood. Then it’s clear ye’ll have +to make it up to me, and a pickle mair, for your ain credit like. And +what’s that but just a bribe? And if even I was certain of the bribe! But +by a’ that I can learn, it’s far frae that; and if <i>you</i> were +to hang, where would <i>I</i> be? Na: the thing’s no possible. And just +awa’ wi’ ye like a bonny lad! and let Andie read his +chapter.” +</p> + +<p> +I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratified with this result; and the next +humour I fell into was one (I had near said) of gratitude to Prestongrange, who +had saved me, in this violent, illegal manner, out of the midst of my dangers, +temptations, and perplexities. But this was both too flimsy and too cowardly to +last me long, and the remembrance of James began to succeed to the possession +of my spirits. The 21st, the day set for the trial, I passed in such misery of +mind as I can scarce recall to have endured, save perhaps upon Isle Earraid +only. Much of the time I lay on a brae-side betwixt sleep and waking, my body +motionless, my mind full of violent thoughts. Sometimes I slept indeed; but the +court-house of Inverary and the prisoner glancing on all sides to find his +missing witness, followed me in slumber; and I would wake again with a start to +darkness of spirit and distress of body. I thought Andie seemed to observe me, +but I paid him little heed. Verily, my bread was bitter to me, and my days a +burthen. +</p> + +<p> +Early the next morning (Friday, 22nd) a boat came with provisions, and Andie +placed a packet in my hand. The cover was without address but sealed with a +Government seal. It enclosed two notes. “Mr. Balfour can now see for +himself it is too late to meddle. His conduct will be observed and his +discretion rewarded.” So ran the first, which seemed to be laboriously +writ with the left hand. There was certainly nothing in these expressions to +compromise the writer, even if that person could be found; the seal, which +formidably served instead of signature, was affixed to a separate sheet on +which there was no scratch of writing; and I had to confess that (so far) my +adversaries knew what they were doing, and to digest as well as I was able the +threat that peeped under the promise. +</p> + +<p> +But the second enclosure was by far the more surprising. It was in a +lady’s hand of writ. “<i>Maister Dauvit Balfour is informed a +friend was speiring for him and her eyes were of the grey</i>,” it +ran—and seemed so extraordinary a piece to come to my hands at such a +moment and under cover of a Government seal, that I stood stupid. +Catriona’s grey eyes shone in my remembrance. I thought, with a bound of +pleasure, she must be the friend. But who should the writer be, to have her +billet thus enclosed with Prestongrange’s? And of all wonders, why was it +thought needful to give me this pleasing but most inconsequent intelligence +upon the Bass? For the writer, I could hit upon none possible except Miss +Grant. Her family, I remembered, had remarked on Catriona’s eyes and even +named her for their colour; and she herself had been much in the habit to +address me with a broad pronunciation, by way of a sniff, I supposed, at my +rusticity. No doubt, besides, but she lived in the same house as this letter +came from. So there remained but one step to be accounted for; and that was how +Prestongrange should have permitted her at all in an affair so secret, or let +her daft-like billet go in the same cover with his own. But even here I had a +glimmering. For, first of all, there was something rather alarming about the +young lady, and papa might be more under her domination than I knew. And, +second, there was the man’s continual policy to be remembered, how his +conduct had been continually mingled with caresses, and he had scarce ever, in +the midst of so much contention, laid aside a mask of friendship. He must +conceive that my imprisonment had incensed me. Perhaps this little jesting, +friendly message was intended to disarm my rancour? +</p> + +<p> +I will be honest—and I think it did. I felt a sudden warmth towards that +beautiful Miss Grant, that she should stoop to so much interest in my affairs. +The summoning up of Catriona moved me of itself to milder and more cowardly +counsels. If the Advocate knew of her and our acquaintance—if I should +please him by some of that “discretion” at which his letter +pointed—to what might not this lead! <i>In vain is the net prepared in +the sight of any fowl</i>, the Scripture says. Well, fowls must be wiser than +folk! For I thought I perceived the policy, and yet fell in with it. +</p> + +<p> +I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes plain before me like two +stars, when Andie broke in upon my musing. +</p> + +<p> +“I see ye has gotten guid news,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +I found him looking curiously in my face; with that there came before me like a +vision of James Stewart and the court of Inverary; and my mind turned at once +like a door upon its hinges. Trials, I reflected, sometimes draw out longer +than is looked for. Even if I came to Inverary just too late, something might +yet be attempted in the interests of James—and in those of my own +character, the best would be accomplished. In a moment, it seemed without +thought, I had a plan devised. +</p> + +<p> +“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +He told me nothing was changed. +</p> + +<p> +“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“And about the place?” I pursued. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatten place?” says Andie. +</p> + +<p> +“The place I am to be landed at?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He owned there was nothing as to that. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then,” I said, “this shall be mine to arrange. +The wind is in the east, my road lies westward: keep your boat, I hire it; let +us work up the Forth all day; and land me at two o’clock to-morrow at the +westmost we’ll can have reached.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye daft callant!” he cried; “ye would try for Inverary after +a’!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just that, Andie,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Weel, ye’re ill to beat!” says he. “And I was a kind +o’ sorry for ye a’ day yesterday,” he added. “Ye see, I +was never entirely sure till then, which way of it ye really wantit.” +</p> + +<p> +Here was a spur to a lame horse! +</p> + +<p> +“A word in your ear, Andie,” said I. “This plan of mine has +another advantage yet. We can leave these Hielandman behind us on the rock, and +one of your boats from the Castleton can bring them off to-morrow. Yon Neil has +a queer eye when he regards you; maybe, if I was once out of the gate there +might be knives again; these red-shanks are unco grudgeful. And if there should +come to be any question, here is your excuse. Our lives were in danger by these +savages; being answerable for my safety, you chose the part to bring me from +their neighbourhood and detain me the rest of the time on board your boat: and +do you know, Andie?” says I, with a smile, “I think it was very +wisely chosen.” +</p> + +<p> +“The truth is I have nae goo for Neil,” says Andie, “nor he +for me, I’m thinking; and I would like ill to come to my hands wi’ +the man. Tam Anster will make a better hand of it with the cattle +onyway.” (For this man, Anster, came from Fife, where the Gaelic is still +spoken.) “Ay, ay!” says Andie, “Tam’ll can deal with +them the best. And troth! the mair I think of it, the less I see we would be +required. The place—ay, feggs! they had forgot the place. Eh, Shaws, +ye’re a lang-heided chield when ye like! Forby that I’m awing ye my +life,” he added, with more solemnity, and offered me his hand upon the +bargain. +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon, with scarce more words, we stepped suddenly on board the boat, cast +off, and set the lug. The Gregara were then busy upon breakfast, for the +cookery was their usual part; but, one of them stepping to the battlements, our +flight was observed before we were twenty fathoms from the rock; and the three +of them ran about the ruins and the landing-shelf, for all the world like ants +about a broken nest, hailing and crying on us to return. We were still in both +the lee and the shadow of the rock, which last lay broad upon the waters, but +presently came forth in almost the same moment into the wind and sunshine; the +sail filled, the boat heeled to the gunwale, and we swept immediately beyond +sound of the men’s voices. To what terrors they endured upon the rock, +where they were now deserted without the countenance of any civilised person or +so much as the protection of a Bible, no limit can be set; nor had they any +brandy left to be their consolation, for even in the haste and secrecy of our +departure Andie had managed to remove it. +</p> + +<p> +It was our first care to set Anster ashore in a cove by the Glenteithy Rocks, +so that the deliverance of our maroons might be duly seen to the next day. +Thence we kept away up Firth. The breeze, which was then so spirited, swiftly +declined, but never wholly failed us. All day we kept moving, though often not +much more; and it was after dark ere we were up with the Queensferry. To keep +the letter of Andie’s engagement (or what was left of it) I must remain +on board, but I thought no harm to communicate with the shore in writing. On +Prestongrange’s cover, where the Government seal must have a good deal +surprised my correspondent, I writ, by the boat’s lantern, a few +necessary words, aboard and Andie carried them to Rankeillor. In about an hour +he came again, with a purse of money and the assurance that a good horse should +be standing saddled for me by two to-morrow at Clackmannan Pool. This done, and +the boat riding by her stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under the sail. +</p> + +<p> +We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and there was nothing left for +me but to sit and wait. I felt little alacrity upon my errand. I would have +been glad of any passable excuse to lay it down; but none being to be found, my +uneasiness was no less great than if I had been running to some desired +pleasure. By shortly after one the horse was at the waterside, and I could see +a man walking it to and fro till I should land, which vastly swelled my +impatience. Andie ran the moment of my liberation very fine, showing himself a +man of his bare word, but scarce serving his employers with a heaped measure; +and by about fifty seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full +stretch for Stirling. In a little more than an hour I had passed that town, and +was already mounting Alan Water side, when the weather broke in a small +tempest. The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from the saddle, and +the first darkness of the night surprised me in a wilderness still some way +east of Balwhidder, not very sure of my direction and mounted on a horse that +began already to be weary. +</p> + +<p> +In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay and annoyance of a guide, +I had followed (so far as it was possible for any horseman) the line of my +journey with Alan. This I did with open eyes, foreseeing a great risk in it, +which the tempest had now brought to a reality. The last that I knew of where I +was, I think it must have been about Uam Var; the hour perhaps six at night. I +must still think it great good fortune that I got about eleven to my +destination, the house of Duncan Dhu. Where I had wandered in the interval +perhaps the horse could tell. I know we were twice down, and once over the +saddle and for a moment carried away in a roaring burn. Steed and rider were +bemired up to the eyes. +</p> + +<p> +From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was followed in all these Highland +regions with religious interest; news of it spread from Inverary as swift as +men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn that, up to a late hour that +Saturday it was not yet concluded; and all men began to suppose it must spread +over the Monday. Under the spur of this intelligence I would not sit to eat; +but, Duncan having agreed to be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the +piece in my hand and munching as I went. Duncan brought with him a flask of +usquebaugh and a hand-lantern; which last enlightened us just so long as we +could find houses where to rekindle it, for the thing leaked outrageously and +blew out with every gust. The more part of the night we walked blindfold among +sheets of rain, and day found us aimless on the mountains. Hard by we struck a +hut on a burn-side, where we got bite and a direction; and, a little before the +end of the sermon, came to the kirk doors of Inverary. +</p> + +<p> +The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of me, but I was still bogged as +high as to the knees; I streamed water; I was so weary I could hardly limp, and +my face was like a ghost’s. I stood certainly more in need of a change of +raiment and a bed to lie on, than of all the benefits in Christianity. For all +which (being persuaded the chief point for me was to make myself immediately +public) I set the door of the church with the dirty Duncan at my tails, and +finding a vacant place sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Thirteently, my brethren, and in parenthesis, the law itself must be +regarded as a means of grace,” the minister was saying, in the voice of +one delighting to pursue an argument. +</p> + +<p> +The sermon was in English on account of the assize. The judges were present +with their armed attendants, the halberts glittered in a corner by the door, +and the seats were thronged beyond custom with the array of lawyers. The text +was in Romans 5th and 13th—the minister a skilled hand; and the whole of +that able churchful—from Argyle, and my Lords Elchies and Kilkerran, down +to the halbertmen that came in their attendance—was sunk with gathered +brows in a profound critical attention. The minister himself and a sprinkling +of those about the door observed our entrance at the moment and immediately +forgot the same; the rest either did not hear or would not hear or would not be +heard; and I sat amongst my friends and enemies unremarked. +</p> + +<p> +The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He sat well forward, like an +eager horseman in the saddle, his lips moving with relish, his eyes glued on +the minister; the doctrine was clearly to his mind. Charles Stewart, on the +other hand, was half asleep, and looked harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, +he appeared like a blot, and almost a scandal, in the midst of that attentive +congregation, digging his hands in his pockets, shifting his legs, clearing his +throat, and rolling up his bald eyebrows and shooting out his eyes to right and +left, now with a yawn, now with a secret smile. At times, too, he would take +the Bible in front of him, run it through, seem to read a bit, run it through +again, and stop and yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for exercise. +</p> + +<p> +In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on myself. He sat a second +stupefied, then tore a half-leaf out of the Bible, scrawled upon it with a +pencil, and passed it with a whispered word to his next neighbour. The note +came to Prestongrange, who gave me but the one look; thence it voyaged to the +hands of Mr. Erskine; thence again to Argyle, where he sat between the other +two lords of session, and his Grace turned and fixed me with an arrogant eye. +The last of those interested in my presence was Charlie Stewart, and he too +began to pencil and hand about dispatches, none of which I was able to trace to +their destination in the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; all who were in the secret +(or supposed themselves to be so) were whispering information—the rest +questions; and the minister himself seemed quite discountenanced by the flutter +in the church and sudden stir and whispering. His voice changed, he plainly +faltered, nor did he again recover the easy conviction and full tones of his +delivery. It would be a puzzle to him till his dying day, why a sermon that had +gone with triumph through four parts, should thus miscarry in the fifth. +</p> + +<p> +As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and weary, and a good deal +anxious as to what should happen next, but greatly exulting in my success. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /> +THE MEMORIAL</h2> + +<p> +The last word of the blessing was scarce out of the minister’s mouth +before Stewart had me by the arm. We were the first to be forth of the church, +and he made such extraordinary expedition that we were safe within the four +walls of a house before the street had begun to be thronged with the home-going +congregation. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I yet in time?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay and no,” said he. “The case is over; the jury is +enclosed, and will so kind as let us ken their view of it to-morrow in the +morning, the same as I could have told it my own self three days ago before the +play began. The thing has been public from the start. The panel kent it, +‘<i>Ye may do what ye will for me</i>,’ whispers he two days ago. +‘<i>Ye ken my fate by what the Duke of Argyle has just said to Mr. +Macintosh</i>.’ O, it’s been a scandal! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The great Agyle he gaed before,<br /> +He gart the cannons and guns to roar,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and the very macer cried ‘Cruachan!’ But now that I have got you +again I’ll never despair. The oak shall go over the myrtle yet; +we’ll ding the Campbells yet in their own town. Praise God that I should +see the day!” +</p> + +<p> +He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his mails upon the floor that I +might have a change of clothes, and incommoded me with his assistance as I +changed. What remained to be done, or how I was to do it, was what he never +told me nor, I believe, so much as thought of. “We’ll ding the +Campbells yet!” that was still his overcome. And it was forced home upon +my mind how this, that had the externals of a sober process of law, was in its +essence a clan battle between savage clans. I thought my friend the Writer none +of the least savage. Who that had only seen him at a counsel’s back +before the Lord Ordinary or following a golf ball and laying down his clubs on +Bruntsfield links, could have recognised for the same person this voluble and +violent clansman? +</p> + +<p> +James Stewart’s counsel were four in number—Sheriffs Brown of +Colstoun and Miller, Mr. Robert Macintosh, and Mr. Stewart younger of Stewart +Hall. These were covenanted to dine with the Writer after sermon, and I was +very obligingly included of the party. No sooner the cloth lifted, and the +first bowl very artfully compounded by Sheriff Miller, than we fell to the +subject in hand. I made a short narration of my seizure and captivity, and was +then examined and re-examined upon the circumstances of the murder. It will be +remembered this was the first time I had had my say out, or the matter at all +handled, among lawyers; and the consequence was very dispiriting to the others +and (I must own) disappointing to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“To sum up,” said Colstoun, “you prove that Alan was on the +spot; you have heard him proffer menaces against Glenure; and though you assure +us he was not the man who fired, you leave a strong impression that he was in +league with him, and consenting, perhaps immediately assisting, in the act. You +show him besides, at the risk of his own liberty, actively furthering the +criminal’s escape. And the rest of your testimony (so far as the least +material) depends on the bare word of Alan or of James, the two accused. In +short, you do not at all break, but only lengthen by one personage, the chain +that binds our client to the murderer; and I need scarcely say that the +introduction of a third accomplice rather aggravates that appearance of a +conspiracy which has been our stumbling block from the beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am of the same opinion,” said Sheriff Miller. “I think we +may all be very much obliged to Prestongrange for taking a most uncomfortable +witness out of our way. And chiefly, I think, Mr. Balfour himself might be +obliged. For you talk of a third accomplice, but Mr. Balfour (in my view) has +very much the appearance of a fourth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Allow me, sirs!” interposed Stewart the Writer. “There is +another view. Here we have a witness—never fash whether material or +not—a witness in this cause, kidnapped by that old, lawless, bandit crew +of the Glengyle Macgregors, and sequestered for near upon a month in a bourock +of old ruins on the Bass. Move that and see what dirt you fling on the +proceedings! Sirs, this is a tale to make the world ring with! It would be +strange, with such a grip as this, if we couldnae squeeze out a pardon for my +client.” +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose we took up Mr. Balfour’s cause to-morrow?” said +Stewart Hall. “I am much deceived or we should find so many impediments +thrown in our path, as that James should have been hanged before we had found a +court to hear us. This is a great scandal, but I suppose we have none of us +forgot a greater still, I mean the matter of the Lady Grange. The woman was +still in durance; my friend Mr. Hope of Rankeillor did what was humanly +possible; and how did he speed? He never got a warrant! Well, it’ll be +the same now; the same weapons will be used. This is a scene, gentleman, of +clan animosity. The hatred of the name which I have the honour to bear, rages +in high quarters. There is nothing here to be viewed but naked Campbell spite +and scurvy Campbell intrigue.” +</p> + +<p> +You may be sure this was to touch a welcome topic, and I sat for some time in +the midst of my learned counsel, almost deaved with their talk but extremely +little the wiser for its purport. The Writer was led into some hot expressions; +Colstoun must take him up and set him right; the rest joined in on different +sides, but all pretty noisy; the Duke of Argyle was beaten like a blanket; King +George came in for a few digs in the by-going and a great deal of rather +elaborate defence; and there was only one person that seemed to be forgotten, +and that was James of the Glens. +</p> + +<p> +Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish gentleman, +ruddy and twinkling; he spoke in a smooth rich voice, with an infinite effect +of pawkiness, dealing out each word the way an actor does, to give the most +expression possible; and even now, when he was silent, and sat there with his +wig laid aside, his glass in both hands, his mouth funnily pursed, and his chin +out, he seemed the mere picture of a merry slyness. It was plain he had a word +to say, and waited for the fit occasion. +</p> + +<p> +It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of his speeches with some +expression of their duty to their client. His brother sheriff was pleased, I +suppose, with the transition. He took the table in his confidence with a +gesture and a look. +</p> + +<p> +“That suggests to me a consideration which seems overlooked,” said +he. “The interest of our client goes certainly before all, but the world +does not come to an end with James Stewart.” Whereat he cocked his eye. +“I might condescend, <i>exempli gratia</i>, upon a Mr. George Brown, a +Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour. Mr. David Balfour has a very good +ground of complaint, and I think, gentlemen—if his story was properly +redd out—I think there would be a number of wigs on the green.” +</p> + +<p> +The whole table turned to him with a common movement. +</p> + +<p> +“Properly handled and carefully redd out, his is a story that could +scarcely fail to have some consequence,” he continued. “The whole +administration of justice, from its highest officer downward, would be totally +discredited; and it looks to me as if they would need to be replaced.” He +seemed to shine with cunning as he said it. “And I need not point out to +ye that this of Mr. Balfour’s would be a remarkable bonny cause to appear +in,” he added. +</p> + +<p> +Well, there they all were started on another hare; Mr. Balfour’s cause, +and what kind of speeches could be there delivered, and what officials could be +thus turned out, and who would succeed to their positions. I shall give but the +two specimens. It was proposed to approach Simon Fraser, whose testimony, if it +could be obtained, would prove certainly fatal to Argyle and to Prestongrange. +Miller highly approved of the attempt. “We have here before us a dreeping +roast,” said he, “here is cut-and-come-again for all.” And +methought all licked their lips. The other was already near the end. Stewart +the Writer was out of the body with delight, smelling vengeance on his chief +enemy, the Duke. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” cried he, charging his glass, “here is to +Sheriff Miller. His legal abilities are known to all. His culinary, this bowl +in front of us is here to speak for. But when it comes to the +poleetical!”—cries he, and drains the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but it will hardly prove politics in your meaning, my friend,” +said the gratified Miller. “A revolution, if you like, and I think I can +promise you that historical writers shall date from Mr. Balfour’s cause. +But properly guided, Mr. Stewart, tenderly guided, it shall prove a peaceful +revolution.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, what care I?” +cries Stewart, smiting down his fist. +</p> + +<p> +It will be thought I was not very well pleased with all this, though I could +scarce forbear smiling at a kind of innocency in these old intriguers. But it +was not my view to have undergone so many sorrows for the advancement of +Sheriff Miller or to make a revolution in the Parliament House: and I +interposed accordingly with as much simplicity of manner as I could assume. +</p> + +<p> +“I have to thank you, gentlemen, for your advice,” said I. +“And now I would like, by your leave, to set you two or three questions. +There is one thing that has fallen rather on one aide, for instance: Will this +cause do any good to our friend James of the Glens?” +</p> + +<p> +They seemed all a hair set back, and gave various answers, but concurring +practically in one point, that James had now no hope but in the King’s +mercy. +</p> + +<p> +“To proceed, then,” said I, “will it do any good to Scotland? +We have a saying that it is an ill bird that fouls his own nest. I remember +hearing we had a riot in Edinburgh when I was an infant child, which gave +occasion to the late Queen to call this country barbarous; and I always +understood that we had rather lost than gained by that. Then came the year +’Forty-five, which made Scotland to be talked of everywhere; but I never +heard it said we had anyway gained by the ’Forty-five. And now we come to +this cause of Mr. Balfour’s, as you call it. Sheriff Miller tells us +historical writers are to date from it, and I would not wonder. It is only my +fear they would date from it as a period of calamity and public +reproach.” +</p> + +<p> +The nimble-witted Miller had already smelt where I was travelling to, and made +haste to get on the same road. “Forcibly put, Mr. Balfour,” says +he. “A weighty observe, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have next to ask ourselves if it will be good for King George,” +I pursued. “Sheriff Miller appears pretty easy upon this; but I doubt you +will scarce be able to pull down the house from under him, without his Majesty +coming by a knock or two, one of which might easily prove fatal.” +</p> + +<p> +I gave them a chance to answer, but none volunteered. +</p> + +<p> +“Of those for whom the case was to be profitable,” I went on, +“Sheriff Miller gave us the names of several, among the which he was good +enough to mention mine. I hope he will pardon me if I think otherwise. I +believe I hung not the least back in this affair while there was life to be +saved; but I own I thought myself extremely hazarded, and I own I think it +would be a pity for a young man, with some idea of coming to the Bar, to +ingrain upon himself the character of a turbulent, factious fellow before he +was yet twenty. As for James, it seems—at this date of the proceedings, +with the sentence as good as pronounced—he has no hope but in the +King’s mercy. May not his Majesty, then, be more pointedly addressed, the +characters of these high officers sheltered from the public, and myself kept +out of a position which I think spells ruin for me?” +</p> + +<p> +They all sat and gazed into their glasses, and I could see they found my +attitude on the affair unpalatable. But Miller was ready at all events. +</p> + +<p> +“If I may be allowed to put my young friend’s notion in more formal +shape,” says he, “I understand him to propose that we should embody +the fact of his sequestration, and perhaps some heads of the testimony he was +prepared to offer, in a memorial to the Crown. This plan has elements of +success. It is as likely as any other (and perhaps likelier) to help our +client. Perhaps his Majesty would have the goodness to feel a certain gratitude +to all concerned in such a memorial, which might be construed into an +expression of a very delicate loyalty; and I think, in the drafting of the +same, this view might be brought forward.” +</p> + +<p> +They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, for the former alternative +was doubtless more after their inclination. +</p> + +<p> +“Paper, then, Mr. Stewart, if you please,” pursued Miller; +“and I think it might very fittingly be signed by the five of us here +present, as procurators for the condemned man.”’ +</p> + +<p> +“It can do none of us any harm, at least,” says Colstoun, heaving +another sigh, for he had seen himself Lord Advocate the last ten minutes. +</p> + +<p> +Thereupon they set themselves, not very enthusiastically, to draft the +memorial—a process in the course of which they soon caught fire; and I +had no more ado but to sit looking on and answer an occasional question. The +paper was very well expressed; beginning with a recitation of the facts about +myself, the reward offered for my apprehension, my surrender, the pressure +brought to bear upon me; my sequestration; and my arrival at Inverary in time +to be too late; going on to explain the reasons of loyalty and public interest +for which it was agreed to waive any right of action; and winding up with a +forcible appeal to the King’s mercy on behalf of James. +</p> + +<p> +Methought I was a good deal sacrificed, and rather represented in the light of +a firebrand of a fellow whom my cloud of lawyers had restrained with difficulty +from extremes. But I let it pass, and made but the one suggestion, that I +should be described as ready to deliver my own evidence and adduce that of +others before any commission of inquiry—and the one demand, that I should +be immediately furnished with a copy. +</p> + +<p> +Colstoun hummed and hawed. “This is a very confidential document,” +said he. +</p> + +<p> +“And my position towards Prestongrange is highly peculiar,” I +replied. “No question but I must have touched his heart at our first +interview, so that he has since stood my friend consistently. But for him, +gentlemen, I must now be lying dead or awaiting my sentence alongside poor +James. For which reason I choose to communicate to him the fact of this +memorial as soon as it is copied. You are to consider also that this step will +make for my protection. I have enemies here accustomed to drive hard; his Grace +is in his own country, Lovat by his side; and if there should hang any +ambiguity over our proceedings I think I might very well awake in gaol.” +</p> + +<p> +Not finding any very ready answer to these considerations, my company of +advisers were at the last persuaded to consent, and made only this condition +that I was to lay the paper before Prestongrange with the express compliments +of all concerned. +</p> + +<p> +The Advocate was at the castle dining with his Grace. By the hand of one of +Colstoun’s servants I sent him a billet asking for an interview, and +received a summons to meet him at once in a private house of the town. Here I +found him alone in a chamber; from his face there was nothing to be gleaned; +yet I was not so unobservant but what I spied some halberts in the hall, and +not so stupid but what I could gather he was prepared to arrest me there and +then, should it appear advisable. +</p> + +<p> +“So, Mr. David, this is you?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Where I fear I am not overly welcome, my lord,” said I. “And +I would like before I go further to express my sense of your lordship’s +good offices, even should they now cease.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard of your gratitude before,” he replied drily, +“and I think this can scarce be the matter you called me from my wine to +listen to. I would remember also, if I were you, that you still stand on a very +boggy foundation.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not now, my lord, I think,” said I; “and if your lordship +will but glance an eye along this, you will perhaps think as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +He read it sedulously through, frowning heavily; then turned back to one part +and another which he seemed to weigh and compare the effect of. His face a +little lightened. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not so bad but what it might be worse,” said he; +“though I am still likely to pay dear for my acquaintance with Mr. David +Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather for your indulgence to that unlucky young man, my lord,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his spirits seemed to mend. +</p> + +<p> +“And to whom am I indebted for this?” he asked presently. +“Other counsels must have been discussed, I think. Who was it proposed +this private method? Was it Miller?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, it was myself,” said I. “These gentlemen have shown +me no such consideration, as that I should deny myself any credit I can fairly +claim, or spare them any responsibility they should properly bear. And the mere +truth is, that they were all in favour of a process which should have +remarkable consequences in the Parliament House, and prove for them (in one of +their own expressions) a dripping roast. Before I intervened, I think they were +on the point of sharing out the different law appointments. Our friend Mr. +Simon was to be taken in upon some composition.” +</p> + +<p> +Prestongrange smiled. “These are our friends,” said he. “And +what were your reasons for dissenting, Mr. David?” +</p> + +<p> +I told them without concealment, expressing, however, with more force and +volume those which regarded Prestongrange himself. +</p> + +<p> +“You do me no more than justice,” said he. “I have fought as +hard in your interest as you have fought against mine. And how came you here +to-day?” he asked. “As the case drew out, I began to grow uneasy +that I had clipped the period so fine, and I was even expecting you to-morrow. +But to-day—I never dreamed of it.” +</p> + +<p> +I was not of course, going to betray Andie. +</p> + +<p> +“I suspect there is some very weary cattle by the road,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“If I had known you were such a mosstrooper you should have tasted longer +of the Bass,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter.” And I gave him +the enclosure in the counterfeit hand. +</p> + +<p> +“There was the cover also with the seal,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“I have it not,” said I. “It bore not even an address, and +could not compromise a cat. The second enclosure I have, and with your +permission, I desire to keep it.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought he winced a little, but he said nothing to the point. +“To-morrow,” he resumed, “our business here is to be +finished, and I proceed by Glasgow. I would be very glad to have you of my +party, Mr David.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord . . .” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not deny it will be of service to me,” he interrupted. +“I desire even that, when we shall come to Edinburgh, you should alight +at my house. You have very warm friends in the Miss Grants, who will be +overjoyed to have you to themselves. If you think I have been of use to you, +you can thus easily repay me, and so far from losing, may reap some advantage +by the way. It is not every strange young man who is presented in society by +the King’s Advocate.” +</p> + +<p> +Often enough already (in our brief relations) this gentleman had caused my head +to spin; no doubt but what for a moment he did so again now. Here was the old +fiction still maintained of my particular favour with his daughters, one of +whom had been so good as to laugh at me, while the other two had scarce deigned +to remark the fact of my existence. And now I was to ride with my lord to +Glasgow; I was to dwell with him in Edinburgh; I was to be brought into society +under his protection! That he should have so much good-nature as to forgive me +was surprising enough; that he could wish to take me up and serve me seemed +impossible; and I began to seek some ulterior meaning. One was plain. If I +became his guest, repentance was excluded; I could never think better of my +present design and bring any action. And besides, would not my presence in his +house draw out the whole pungency of the memorial? For that complaint could not +be very seriously regarded, if the person chiefly injured was the guest of the +official most incriminated. As I thought upon this I could not quite refrain +from smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cunning, Mr. David,” said he, “and you do not wholly +guess wrong the fact will be of use to me in my defence. Perhaps, however, you +underrate friendly sentiments, which are perfectly genuine. I have a respect +for you, David, mingled with awe,” says he, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“I am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to meet your +wishes,” said I. “It is my design to be called to the Bar, where +your lordship’s countenance would be invaluable; and I am besides +sincerely grateful to yourself and family for different marks of interest and +of indulgence. The difficulty is here. There is one point in which we pull two +ways. You are trying to hang James Stewart, I am trying to save him. In so far +as my riding with you would better your lordship’s defence, I am at your +lordships orders; but in so far as it would help to hang James Stewart, you see +me at a stick.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought he swore to himself. “You should certainly be called; the Bar +is the true scene for your talents,” says he, bitterly, and then fell a +while silent. “I will tell you,” he presently resumed, “there +is no question of James Stewart, for or against, James is a dead man; his life +is given and taken—bought (if you like it better) and sold; no memorial +can help—no defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow high, blow +low, there will be no pardon for James Stewart: and take that for said! The +question is now of myself: am I to stand or fall? and I do not deny to you that +I am in some danger. But will Mr. David Balfour consider why? It is not because +I pushed the case unduly against James; for that, I am sure of condonation. And +it is not because I have sequestered Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass +under that colour; but because I did not take the ready and plain path, to +which I was pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. David to his grave or to the +gallows. Hence the scandal—hence this damned memorial,” striking +the paper on his leg. “My tenderness for you has brought me in this +difficulty. I wish to know if your tenderness to your own conscience is too +great to let you help me out of it.” +</p> + +<p> +No doubt but there was much of the truth in what he said; if James was past +helping, whom was it more natural that I should turn to help than just the man +before me, who had helped myself so often, and was even now setting me a +pattern of patience? I was besides not only weary, but beginning to be ashamed, +of my perpetual attitude of suspicion and refusal. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will name the time and place, I will be punctually ready to +attend your lordship,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He shook hands with me. “And I think my misses have some news for +you,” says he, dismissing me. +</p> + +<p> +I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace made, yet a little concerned in +conscience; nor could I help wondering, as I went back, whether, perhaps, I had +not been a scruple too good-natured. But there was the fact, that this was a +man that might have been my father, an able man, a great dignitary, and one +that, in the hour of my need, had reached a hand to my assistance. I was in the +better humour to enjoy the remainder of that evening, which I passed with the +advocates, in excellent company no doubt, but perhaps with rather more than a +sufficiency of punch: for though I went early to bed I have no clear mind of +how I got there. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /> +THE TEE’D BALL</h2> + +<p> +On the morrow, from the justices’ private room, where none could see me, +I heard the verdict given in and judgment rendered upon James. The Duke’s +words I am quite sure I have correctly; and since that famous passage has been +made a subject of dispute, I may as well commemorate my version. Having +referred to the year ’45, the chief of the Campbells, sitting as +Justice-General upon the bench, thus addressed the unfortunate Stewart before +him: “If you had been successful in that rebellion, you might have been +giving the law where you have now received the judgment of it; we, who are this +day your judges, might have been tried before one of your mock courts of +judicature; and then you might have been satiated with the blood of any name or +clan to which you had an aversion.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is to let the cat out of the bag, indeed,” thought I. And +that was the general impression. It was extraordinary how the young advocate +lads took hold and made a mock of this speech, and how scarce a meal passed but +what someone would get in the words: “And then you might have been +satiated.” Many songs were made in time for the hour’s diversion, +and are near all forgot. I remember one began: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“What do ye want the bluid of, bluid of?<br /> +Is it a name, or is it a clan,<br /> +Or is it an aefauld Hielandman,<br /> +That ye want the bluid of, bluid of?” +</p> + +<p> +Another went to my old favourite air, <i>The House of Airlie</i>, and began +thus: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“It fell on a day when Argyle was on the bench,<br /> +That they served him a Stewart for his denner.” +</p> + +<p> +And one of the verses ran: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Then up and spak’ the Duke, and flyted on his cook,<br /> +I regard it as a sensible aspersion,<br /> +That I would sup ava’, an’ satiate my maw,<br /> +With the bluid of ony clan of my aversion.” +</p> + +<p> +James was as fairly murdered as though the Duke had got a fowling-piece and +stalked him. So much of course I knew: but others knew not so much, and were +more affected by the items of scandal that came to light in the progress of the +cause. One of the chief was certainly this sally of the justice’s. It was +run hard by another of a juryman, who had struck into the midst of +Coulston’s speech for the defence with a “Pray, sir, cut it short, +we are quite weary,” which seemed the very excess of impudence and +simplicity. But some of my new lawyer friends were still more staggered with an +innovation that had disgraced and even vitiated the proceedings. One witness +was never called. His name, indeed, was printed, where it may still be seen on +the fourth page of the list: “James Drummond, <i>alias</i> Macgregor, +<i>alias</i> James More, late tenant in Inveronachile”; and his +precognition had been taken, as the manner is, in writing. He had remembered or +invented (God help him) matter which was lead in James Stewart’s shoes, +and I saw was like to prove wings to his own. This testimony it was highly +desirable to bring to the notice of the jury, without exposing the man himself +to the perils of cross-examination; and the way it was brought about was a +matter of surprise to all. For the paper was handed round (like a curiosity) in +court; passed through the jury-box, where it did its work; and disappeared +again (as though by accident) before it reached the counsel for the prisoner. +This was counted a most insidious device; and that the name of James More +should be mingled up with it filled me with shame for Catriona and concern for +myself. +</p> + +<p> +The following day, Prestongrange and I, with a considerable company, set out +for Glasgow, where (to my impatience) we continued to linger some time in a +mixture of pleasure and affairs. I lodged with my lord, with whom I was +encouraged to familiarity; had my place at entertainments; was presented to the +chief guests; and altogether made more of than I thought accorded either with +my parts or station; so that, on strangers being present, I would often blush +for Prestongrange. It must be owned the view I had taken of the world in these +last months was fit to cast a gloom upon my character. I had met many men, some +of them leaders in Israel whether by their birth or talents; and who among them +all had shown clean hands? As for the Browns and Millers, I had seen their +self-seeking, I could never again respect them. Prestongrange was the best yet; +he had saved me, spared me rather, when others had it in their minds to murder +me outright; but the blood of James lay at his door; and I thought his present +dissimulation with myself a thing below pardon. That he should affect to find +pleasure in my discourse almost surprised me out of my patience. I would sit +and watch him with a kind of a slow fire of anger in my bowels. “Ah, +friend, friend,” I would think to myself, “if you were but through +with this affair of the memorial, would you not kick me in the streets?” +Here I did him, as events have proved, the most grave injustice; and I think he +was at once far more sincere, and a far more artful performer, than I supposed. +</p> + +<p> +But I had some warrant for my incredulity in the behaviour of that court of +young advocates that hung about in the hope of patronage. The sudden favour of +a lad not previously heard of troubled them at first out of measure; but two +days were not gone by before I found myself surrounded with flattery and +attention. I was the same young man, and neither better nor bonnier, that they +had rejected a month before; and now there was no civility too fine for me! The +same, do I say? It was not so; and the by-name by which I went behind my back +confirmed it. Seeing me so firm with the Advocate, and persuaded that I was to +fly high and far, they had taken a word from the golfing green, and called me +<i>the Tee’d Ball</i>. <a name="citation14"></a><a +href="#footnote14"><sup>[14]</sup></a> I was told I was now “one of +themselves”; I was to taste of their soft lining, who had already made my +own experience of the roughness of the outer husk; and one, to whom I had been +presented in Hope Park, was so aspired as even to remind me of that meeting. I +told him I had not the pleasure of remembering it. +</p> + +<p> +“Why” says he, “it was Miss Grant herself presented me! My +name is so-and-so.” +</p> + +<p> +“It may very well be, sir,” said I; “but I have kept no mind +of it.” +</p> + +<p> +At which he desisted; and in the midst of the disgust that commonly overflowed +my spirits I had a glisk of pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +But I have not patience to dwell upon that time at length. When I was in +company with these young politics I was borne down with shame for myself and my +own plain ways, and scorn for them and their duplicity. Of the two evils, I +thought Prestongrange to be the least; and while I was always as stiff as +buckram to the young bloods, I made rather a dissimulation of my hard feelings +towards the Advocate, and was (in old Mr. Campbell’s word) “soople +to the laird.” Himself commented on the difference, and bid me be more of +my age, and make friends with my young comrades. +</p> + +<p> +I told him I was slow of making friends. +</p> + +<p> +“I will take the word back,” said he. “But there is such a +thing as <i>Fair gude s’en and fair gude day</i>, Mr. David. These are +the same young men with whom you are to pass your days and get through life: +your backwardness has a look of arrogance; and unless you can assume a little +more lightness of manner, I fear you will meet difficulties in the path.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning of October 1st I was awakened by the clattering in of an +express; and getting to my window almost before he had dismounted, I saw the +messenger had ridden hard. Somewhile after I was called to Prestongrange, where +he was sitting in his bedgown and nightcap, with his letters round him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. David,” add he, “I have a piece of news for you. It +concerns some friends of yours, of whom I sometimes think you are a little +ashamed, for you have never referred to their existence.” +</p> + +<p> +I suppose I blushed. +</p> + +<p> +“See you understand, since you make the answering signal,” said he. +“And I must compliment you on your excellent taste in beauty. But do you +know, Mr. David? this seems to me a very enterprising lass. She crops up from +every side. The Government of Scotland appears unable to proceed for Mistress +Katrine Drummond, which was somewhat the case (no great while back) with a +certain Mr. David Balfour. Should not these make a good match? Her first +intromission in politics—but I must not tell you that story, the +authorities have decided you are to hear it otherwise and from a livelier +narrator. This new example is more serious, however; and I am afraid I must +alarm you with the intelligence that she is now in prison.” +</p> + +<p> +I cried out. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said he, “the little lady is in prison. But I would +not have you to despair. Unless you (with your friends and memorials) shall +procure my downfall, she is to suffer nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has she done? What is her offence?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“It might be almost construed a high treason,” he returned, +“for she has broke the king’s Castle of Edinburgh.” +</p> + +<p> +“The lady is much my friend,” I said. “I know you would not +mock me if the thing were serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet it is serious in a sense,” said he; “for this rogue +of a Katrine—or Cateran, as we may call her—has set adrift again +upon the world that very doubtful character, her papa.” +</p> + +<p> +Here was one of my previsions justified: James More was once again at liberty. +He had lent his men to keep me a prisoner; he had volunteered his testimony in +the Appin case, and the same (no matter by what subterfuge) had been employed +to influence the jury. Now came his reward, and he was free. It might please +the authorities to give to it the colour of an escape; but I knew +better—I knew it must be the fulfilment of a bargain. The same course of +thought relieved me of the least alarm for Catriona. She might be thought to +have broke prison for her father; she might have believed so herself. But the +chief hand in the whole business was that of Prestongrange; and I was sure, so +far from letting her come to punishment, he would not suffer her to be even +tried. Whereupon thus came out of me the not very politic ejaculation: +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I was expecting that!” +</p> + +<p> +“You have at times a great deal of discretion, too!” says +Prestongrange. +</p> + +<p> +“And what is my lord pleased to mean by that?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I was just marvelling”, he replied, “that being so clever as +to draw these inferences, you should not be clever enough to keep them to +yourself. But I think you would like to hear the details of the affair. I have +received two versions: and the least official is the more full and far the more +entertaining, being from the lively pen of my eldest daughter. ‘Here is +all the town bizzing with a fine piece of work,’ she writes, ‘and +what would make the thing more noted (if it were only known) the malefactor is +a <i>protégée</i> of his lordship my papa. I am sure your heart +is too much in your duty (if it were nothing else) to have forgotten Grey Eyes. +What does she do, but get a broad hat with the flaps open, a long hairy-like +man’s greatcoat, and a big gravatt; kilt her coats up to <i>Gude kens +whaur</i>, clap two pair of boot-hose upon her legs, take a pair of <i>clouted +brogues</i> <a name="citation15"></a><a href="#footnote15"><sup>[15]</sup></a> +in her hand, and off to the Castle! Here she gives herself out to be a soutar +<a name="citation16"></a><a href="#footnote16"><sup>[16]</sup></a> in the +employ of James More, and gets admitted to his cell, the lieutenant (who seems +to have been full of pleasantry) making sport among his soldiers of the +soutar’s greatcoat. Presently they hear disputation and the sound of +blows inside. Out flies the cobbler, his coat flying, the flaps of his hat beat +about his face, and the lieutenant and his soldiers mock at him as he runs off. +They laughed no so hearty the next time they had occasion to visit the cell and +found nobody but a tall, pretty, grey-eyed lass in the female habit! As for the +cobbler, he was ‘over the hills ayout Dumblane,’ and it’s +thought that poor Scotland will have to console herself without him. I drank +Catriona’s health this night in public. Indeed, the whole town admires +her; and I think the beaux would wear bits of her garters in their button-holes +if they could only get them. I would have gone to visit her in prison too, only +I remembered in time I was papa’s daughter; so I wrote her a billet +instead, which I entrusted to the faithful Doig, and I hope you will admit I +can be political when I please. The same faithful gomeral is to despatch this +letter by the express along with those of the wiseacres, so that you may hear +Tom Fool in company with Solomon. Talking of <i>gomerals</i>, do tell <i>Dauvit +Balfour</i>. I would I could see the face of him at the thought of a +long-legged lass in such a predicament; to say nothing of the levities of your +affectionate daughter, and his respectful friend.’ So my rascal signs +herself!” continued Prestongrange. “And you see, Mr. David, it is +quite true what I tell you, that my daughters regard you with the most +affectionate playfulness.” +</p> + +<p> +“The gomeral is much obliged,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And was not this prettily done!” he went on. “Is not this +Highland maid a piece of a heroine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was always sure she had a great heart,” said I. “And I +wager she guessed nothing . . . But I beg your pardon, this is to tread upon +forbidden subjects.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go bail she did not,” he returned, quite openly. “I +will go bail she thought she was flying straight into King George’s +face.” +</p> + +<p> +Remembrance of Catriona and the thought of her lying in captivity, moved me +strangely. I could see that even Prestongrange admired, and could not withhold +his lips from smiling when he considered her behaviour. As for Miss Grant, for +all her ill habit of mockery, her admiration shone out plain. A kind of a heat +came on me. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not your lordship’s daughter. . . ” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“That I know of!” he put in, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“I speak like a fool,” said I; “or rather I began wrong. It +would doubtless be unwise in Mistress Grant to go to her in prison; but for me, +I think I would look like a half-hearted friend if I did not fly there +instantly.” +</p> + +<p> +“So-ho, Mr. David,” says he; “I thought that you and I were +in a bargain?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” I said, “when I made that bargain I was a good +deal affected by your goodness, but I’ll never can deny that I was moved +besides by my own interest. There was self-seeking in my heart, and I think +shame of it now. It may be for your lordship’s safety to say this +fashious Davie Balfour is your friend and housemate. Say it then; I’ll +never contradict you. But as for your patronage, I give it all back. I ask but +the one thing—let me go, and give me a pass to see her in her +prison.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me with a hard eye. “You put the cart before the horse, I +think,” says he. “That which I had given was a portion of my +liking, which your thankless nature does not seem to have remarked. But for my +patronage, it is not given, nor (to be exact) is it yet offered.” He +paused a bit. “And I warn you, you do not know yourself,” he added. +“Youth is a hasty season; you will think better of all this before a +year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I would like to be that kind of youth!” I cried. +“I have seen too much of the other party in these young advocates that +fawn upon your lordship and are even at the pains to fawn on me. And I have +seen it in the old ones also. They are all for by-ends, the whole clan of them! +It’s this that makes me seem to misdoubt your lordship’s liking. +Why would I think that you would like me? But ye told me yourself ye had an +interest!” +</p> + +<p> +I stopped at this, confounded that I had run so far; he was observing me with +an unfathomable face. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, I ask your pardon,” I resumed. “I have nothing in +my chafts but a rough country tongue. I think it would be only decent-like if I +would go to see my friend in her captivity; but I’m owing you my +life—I’ll never forget that; and if it’s for your +lordship’s good, here I’ll stay. That’s barely +gratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“This might have been reached in fewer words,” says Prestongrange +grimly. “It is easy, and it is at times gracious, to say a plain Scots +‘ay’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but, my lord, I think ye take me not yet entirely!” cried I. +“For <i>your</i> sake, for my life-safe, and the kindness that ye say ye +bear to me—for these, I’ll consent; but not for any good that might +be coming to myself. If I stand aside when this young maid is in her trial, +it’s a thing I will be noways advantaged by; I will lose by it, I will +never gain. I would rather make a shipwreck wholly than to build on that +foundation.” +</p> + +<p> +He was a minute serious, then smiled. “You mind me of the man with the +long nose,” said he; “was you to see the moon by a telescope you +would see David Balfour there! But you shall have your way of it. I will ask at +you one service, and then set you free: My clerks are overdriven; be so good as +copy me these few pages, and when that is done, I shall bid you God speed! I +would never charge myself with Mr. David’s conscience; and if you could +cast some part of it (as you went by) in a moss hag, you would find yourself to +ride much easier without it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not just entirely in the same direction though, my lord!” +says I. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shall have the last word, too!” cries he gaily. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, he had some cause for gaiety, having now found the means to gain his +purpose. To lessen the weight of the memorial, or to have a readier answer at +his hand, he desired I should appear publicly in the character of his intimate. +But if I were to appear with the same publicity as a visitor to Catriona in her +prison the world would scarce stint to draw conclusions, and the true nature of +James More’s escape must become evident to all. This was the little +problem I had to set him of a sudden, and to which he had so briskly found an +answer. I was to be tethered in Glasgow by that job of copying, which in mere +outward decency I could not well refuse; and during these hours of employment +Catriona was privately got rid of. I think shame to write of this man that +loaded me with so many goodnesses. He was kind to me as any father, yet I ever +thought him as false as a cracked bell. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /> +I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES</h2> + +<p> +The copying was a weary business, the more so as I perceived very early there +was no sort of urgency in the matters treated, and began very early to consider +my employment a pretext. I had no sooner finished than I got to horse, used +what remained of daylight to the best purpose, and being at last fairly +benighted, slept in a house by Almond-Water side. I was in the saddle again +before the day, and the Edinburgh booths were just opening when I clattered in +by the West Bow and drew up a smoking horse at my lord Advocate’s door. I +had a written word for Doig, my lord’s private hand that was thought to +be in all his secrets—a worthy little plain man, all fat and snuff and +self-sufficiency. Him I found already at his desk and already bedabbled with +maccabaw, in the same anteroom where I rencountered with James More. He read +the note scrupulously through like a chapter in his Bible. +</p> + +<p> +“H’m,” says he; “ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. +Balfour. The bird’s flaen—we hae letten her out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Drummond is set free?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Achy!” said he. “What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae +made a steer about the bairn would has pleased naebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where’ll she be now?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Gude kens!” says Doig, with a shrug. +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I’m +thinking,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll be it,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll gang there straight,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“But ye’ll be for a bite or ye go?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither bite nor sup,” said I. “I had a good wauch of milk +in by Ratho.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aweel, aweel,” says Doig. “But ye’ll can leave your +horse here and your bags, for it seems we’re to have your up-put.” +</p> + +<p> +“Na, na”, said I. “Tamson’s mear <a +name="citation17"></a><a href="#footnote17"><sup>[17]</sup></a> would never be +the thing for me this day of all days.” +</p> + +<p> +Doig speaking somewhat broad, I had been led by imitation into an accent much +more countrified than I was usually careful to affect a good deal broader, +indeed, than I have written it down; and I was the more ashamed when another +voice joined in behind me with a scrap of a ballad: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Gae saddle me the bonny black,<br /> +Gae saddle sune and mak’ him ready<br /> +For I will down the Gatehope-slack,<br /> +And a’ to see my bonny leddy.” +</p> + +<p> +The young lady, when I turned to her, stood in a morning gown, and her hands +muffled in the same, as if to hold me at a distance. Yet I could not but think +there was kindness in the eye with which she saw me. +</p> + +<p> +“My best respects to you, Mistress Grant,” said I, bowing. +</p> + +<p> +“The like to yourself, Mr. David,” she replied with a deep +courtesy. “And I beg to remind you of an old musty saw, that meat and +mass never hindered man. The mass I cannot afford you, for we are all good +Protestants. But the meat I press on your attention. And I would not wonder but +I could find something for your private ear that would be worth the stopping +for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mistress Grant,” said I, “I believe I am already your debtor +for some merry words—and I think they were kind too—on a piece of +unsigned paper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unsigned paper?” says she, and made a droll face, which was +likewise wondrous beautiful, as of one trying to remember. +</p> + +<p> +“Or else I am the more deceived,” I went on. “But to be sure, +we shall have the time to speak of these, since your father is so good as to +make me for a while your inmate; and the <i>gomeral</i> begs you at this time +only for the favour of his liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“You give yourself hard names,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Doig and I would be blythe to take harder at your clever pen,” +says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Once more I have to admire the discretion of all men-folk,” she +replied. “But if you will not eat, off with you at once; you will be back +the sooner, for you go on a fool’s errand. Off with you, Mr. +David,” she continued, opening the door. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He has lowpen on his bonny grey,<br /> +He rade the richt gate and the ready<br /> +I trow he would neither stint nor stay,<br /> +For he was seeking his bonny leddy.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did justice to Miss Grant’s +citation on the way to Dean. +</p> + +<p> +Old Lady Allardyce walked there alone in the garden, in her hat and mutch, and +having a silver-mounted staff of some black wood to lean upon. As I alighted +from my horse, and drew near to her with <i>congees</i>, I could see the blood +come in her face, and her head fling into the air like what I had conceived of +empresses. +</p> + +<p> +“What brings you to my poor door?” she cried, speaking high through +her nose. “I cannot bar it. The males of my house are dead and buried; I +have neither son nor husband to stand in the gate for me; any beggar can pluck +me by the baird <a name="citation18"></a><a +href="#footnote18"><sup>[18]</sup></a>—and a baird there is, and +that’s the worst of it yet!” she added partly to herself. +</p> + +<p> +I was extremely put out at this reception, and the last remark, which seemed +like a daft wife’s, left me near hand speechless. +</p> + +<p> +“I see I have fallen under your displeasure, ma’am,” said I. +“Yet I will still be so bold as ask after Mistress Drummond.” +</p> + +<p> +She considered me with a burning eye, her lips pressed close together into +twenty creases, her hand shaking on her staff. “This cows all!” she +cried. “Ye come to me to speir for her? Would God I knew!” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not here?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry at me, so that I fell back +incontinent. +</p> + +<p> +“Out upon your leeing throat!” she cried. “What! ye come and +speir at me! She’s in jyle, whaur ye took her to—that’s all +there is to it. And of a’ the beings ever I beheld in breeks, to think it +should be to you! Ye timmer scoun’rel, if I had a male left to my name I +would have your jaicket dustit till ye raired.” +</p> + +<p> +I thought it not good to delay longer in that place, because I remarked her +passion to be rising. As I turned to the horse-post she even followed me; and I +make no shame to confess that I rode away with the one stirrup on and +scrambling for the other. +</p> + +<p> +As I knew no other quarter where I could push my inquiries, there was nothing +left me but to return to the Advocate’s. I was well received by the four +ladies, who were now in company together, and must give the news of +Prestongrange and what word went in the west country, at the most inordinate +length and with great weariness to myself; while all the time that young lady, +with whom I so much desired to be alone again, observed me quizzically and +seemed to find pleasure in the sight of my impatience. At last, after I had +endured a meal with them, and was come very near the point of appealing for an +interview before her aunt, she went and stood by the music-case, and picking +out a tune, sang to it on a high key—“He that will not when he may, +When he will he shall have nay.” But this was the end of her rigours, and +presently, after making some excuse of which I have no mind, she carried me +away in private to her father’s library. I should not fail to say she was +dressed to the nines, and appeared extraordinary handsome. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us have a two-handed +crack,” said she. “For I have much to tell you, and it appears +besides that I have been grossly unjust to your good taste.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what manner, Mistress Grant?” I asked. “I trust I have +never seemed to fail in due respect.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be your surety, Mr. David,” said she. “Your respect, +whether to yourself or your poor neighbours, has been always and most +fortunately beyond imitation. But that is by the question. You got a note from +me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I was so bold as to suppose so upon inference,” said I, “and +it was kindly thought upon.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must have prodigiously surprised you,” said she. “But let +us begin with the beginning. You have not perhaps forgot a day when you were so +kind as to escort three very tedious misses to Hope Park? I have the less cause +to forget it myself, because you was so particular obliging as to introduce me +to some of the principles of the Latin grammar, a thing which wrote itself +profoundly on my gratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear I was sadly pedantical,” said I, overcome with confusion at +the memory. “You are only to consider I am quite unused with the society +of ladies.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will say the less about the grammar then,” she replied. +“But how came you to desert your charge? ‘He has thrown her out, +overboard, his ain dear Annie!’” she hummed; “and his ain +dear Annie and her two sisters had to taigle home by theirselves like a string +of green geese! It seems you returned to my papa’s, where you showed +yourself excessively martial, and then on to realms unknown, with an eye (it +appears) to the Bass Rock; solan geese being perhaps more to your mind than +bonny lasses.” +</p> + +<p> +Through all this raillery there was something indulgent in the lady’s eye +which made me suppose there might be better coming. +</p> + +<p> +“You take a pleasure to torment me,” said I, “and I make a +very feckless plaything; but let me ask you to be more merciful. At this time +there is but the one thing that I care to hear of, and that will be news of +Catriona.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you call her by that name to her face, Mr. Balfour?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In troth, and I am not very sure,” I stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not do so in any case to strangers,” said Miss Grant. +“And why are you so much immersed in the affairs of this young +lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard she was in prison,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and now you hear that she is out of it,” she replied, +“and what more would you have? She has no need of any further +champion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may have the greater need of her, ma’am,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, this is better!” says Miss Grant. “But look me fairly +in the face; am I not bonnier than she?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would be the last to be denying it,” said I. “There is not +your marrow in all Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here you have the pick of the two at your hand, and must needs +speak of the other,” said she. “This is never the way to please the +ladies, Mr. Balfour.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, mistress,” said I, “there are surely other things +besides mere beauty.” +</p> + +<p> +“By which I am to understand that I am no better than I should be, +perhaps?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“By which you will please understand that I am like the cock in the +midden in the fable book,” said I. “I see the braw jewel—and +I like fine to see it too—but I have more need of the pickle corn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravissimo!” she cried. “There is a word well said at last, +and I will reward you for it with my story. That same night of your desertion I +came late from a friend’s house—where I was excessively admired, +whatever you may think of it—and what should I hear but that a lass in a +tartan screen desired to speak with me? She had been there an hour or better, +said the servant-lass, and she grat in to herself as she sat waiting. I went to +her direct; she rose as I came in, and I knew her at a look. ‘<i>Grey +Eyes</i>!’ says I to myself, but was more wise than to let on. <i>You +will be Miss Grant at last</i>? she says, rising and looking at me hard and +pitiful. <i>Ay</i>, <i>it was true he said</i>, <i>you are bonny at all +events</i>.—<i>The way God made me</i>, <i>my dear</i>, I said, <i>but I +would be gey and obliged if you could tell me what brought you here at such a +time of the night</i>.—<i>Lady</i>, she said, <i>we are kinsfolk</i>, +<i>we are both come of the blood of the sons of Alpin</i>.—<i>My +dear</i>, I replied, <i>I think no more of Alpin or his sons than what I do of +a kalestock</i>. <i>You have a better argument in these tears upon your bonny +face</i>. And at that I was so weak-minded as to kiss her, which is what you +would like to do dearly, and I wager will never find the courage of. I say it +was weak-minded of me, for I knew no more of her than the outside; but it was +the wisest stroke I could have hit upon. She is a very staunch, brave nature, +but I think she has been little used with tenderness; and at that caress +(though to say the truth, it was but lightly given) her heart went out to me. I +will never betray the secrets of my sex, Mr. Davie; I will never tell you the +way she turned me round her thumb, because it is the same she will use to twist +yourself. Ay, it is a fine lass! She is as clean as hill well water.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is e’en’t!” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, she told me her concerns,” pursued Miss Grant, +“and in what a swither she was in about her papa, and what a taking about +yourself, with very little cause, and in what a perplexity she had found +herself after you was gone away. <i>And then I minded at long last</i>, says +she, <i>that we were kinswomen</i>, <i>and that Mr. David should have given you +the name of the bonniest of the bonny</i>, <i>and I was thinking to myself</i> +‘<i>If she is so bonny she will be good at all events</i>’; <i>and +I took up my foot soles out of that</i>. That was when I forgave yourself, Mr. +Davie. When you was in my society, you seemed upon hot iron: by all marks, if +ever I saw a young man that wanted to be gone, it was yourself, and I and my +two sisters were the ladies you were so desirous to be gone from; and now it +appeared you had given me some notice in the by-going, and was so kind as to +comment on my attractions! From that hour you may date our friendship, and I +began to think with tenderness upon the Latin grammar.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will have many hours to rally me in,” said I; “and I +think besides you do yourself injustice. I think it was Catriona turned your +heart in my direction. She is too simple to perceive as you do the stiffness of +her friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would not like to wager upon that, Mr. David,” said she. +“The lasses have clear eyes. But at least she is your friend entirely, as +I was to see. I carried her in to his lordship my papa; and his Advocacy being +in a favourable stage of claret, was so good as to receive the pair of us. +<i>Here is Grey Eyes that you have been deaved with these days past</i>, said +I, <i>she is come to prove that we spoke true</i>, <i>and I lay the prettiest +lass in the three Lothians at your feet</i>—making a papistical +reservation of myself. She suited her action to my words: down she went upon +her knees to him—I would not like to swear but he saw two of her, which +doubtless made her appeal the more irresistible, for you are all a pack of +Mahomedans—told him what had passed that night, and how she had withheld +her father’s man from following of you, and what a case she was in about +her father, and what a flutter for yourself; and begged with weeping for the +lives of both of you (neither of which was in the slightest danger), till I vow +I was proud of my sex because it was done so pretty, and ashamed for it because +of the smallness of the occasion. She had not gone far, I assure you, before +the Advocate was wholly sober, to see his inmost politics ravelled out by a +young lass and discovered to the most unruly of his daughters. But we took him +in hand, the pair of us, and brought that matter straight. Properly +managed—and that means managed by me—there is no one to compare +with my papa.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been a good man to me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was there to see to it,” +said she. +</p> + +<p> +“And she pled for me?” say I. +</p> + +<p> +“She did that, and very movingly,” said Miss Grant. “I would +not like to tell you what she said—I find you vain enough already.” +</p> + +<p> +“God reward her for it!” cried I. +</p> + +<p> +“With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“You do me too much injustice at the last!” I cried. “I would +tremble to think of her in such hard hands. Do you think I would presume, +because she begged my life? She would do that for a new whelped puppy! I have +had more than that to set me up, if you but ken’d. She kissed that hand +of mine. Ay, but she did. And why? because she thought I was playing a brave +part and might be going to my death. It was not for my sake—but I need +not be telling that to you, that cannot look at me without laughter. It was for +the love of what she thought was bravery. I believe there is none but me and +poor Prince Charlie had that honour done them. Was this not to make a god of +me? and do you not think my heart would quake when I remember it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do laugh at you a good deal, and a good deal more than is quite +civil,” said she; “but I will tell you one thing: if you speak to +her like that, you have some glimmerings of a chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” I cried, “I would never dare. I can speak to you, Miss +Grant, because it’s a matter of indifference what ye think of me. But +her? no fear!” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland,” says +she. +</p> + +<p> +“Troth they are no very small,” said I, looking down. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor Catriona!” cries Miss Grant. +</p> + +<p> +And I could but stare upon her; for though I now see very well what she was +driving at (and perhaps some justification for the same), I was never swift at +the uptake in such flimsy talk. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well, Mr. David,” she said, “it goes sore against my +conscience, but I see I shall have to be your speaking board. She shall know +you came to her straight upon the news of her imprisonment; she shall know you +would not pause to eat; and of our conversation she shall hear just so much as +I think convenient for a maid of her age and inexperience. Believe me, you will +be in that way much better served than you could serve yourself, for I will +keep the big feet out of the platter.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Why that?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “I am a good friend, as you will soon +discover; and the chief of those that I am friend to is my papa. I assure you, +you will never heat nor melt me out of that, so you may spare me your +sheep’s eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the now.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there is yet one thing more,” I cried. “There is one +thing that must be stopped, being mere ruin to herself, and to me too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “be brief; I have spent half the day on you +already.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lady Allardyce believes,” I began—“she +supposes—she thinks that I abducted her.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour came into Miss Grant’s face, so that at first I was quite +abashed to find her ear so delicate, till I bethought me she was struggling +rather with mirth, a notion in which I was altogether confirmed by the shaking +of her voice as she replied— +</p> + +<p> +“I will take up the defence of your reputation,” she said. +“You may leave it in my hands.” +</p> + +<p> +And with that she withdrew out of the library. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /> +I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY</h2> + +<p> +For about exactly two months I remained a guest in Prestongrange’s +family, where I bettered my acquaintance with the bench, the bar, and the +flower of Edinburgh company. You are not to suppose my education was neglected; +on the contrary, I was kept extremely busy. I studied the French, so as to be +more prepared to go to Leyden; I set myself to the fencing, and wrought hard, +sometimes three hours in the day, with notable advancement; at the suggestion +of my cousin, Pilrig, who was an apt musician, I was put to a singing class; +and by the orders of my Miss Grant, to one for the dancing, at which I must say +I proved far from ornamental. However, all were good enough to say it gave me +an address a little more genteel; and there is no question but I learned to +manage my coat skirts and sword with more dexterity, and to stand in a room as +though the same belonged to me. My clothes themselves were all earnestly +re-ordered; and the most trifling circumstance, such as where I should tie my +hair, or the colour of my ribbon, debated among the three misses like a thing +of weight. One way with another, no doubt I was a good deal improved to look +at, and acquired a bit of modest air that would have surprised the good folks +at Essendean. +</p> + +<p> +The two younger misses were very willing to discuss a point of my habiliment, +because that was in the line of their chief thoughts. I cannot say that they +appeared any other way conscious of my presence; and though always more than +civil, with a kind of heartless cordiality, could not hide how much I wearied +them. As for the aunt, she was a wonderful still woman; and I think she gave me +much the same attention as she gave the rest of the family, which was little +enough. The eldest daughter and the Advocate himself were thus my principal +friends, and our familiarity was much increased by a pleasure that we took in +common. Before the court met we spent a day or two at the house of Grange, +living very nobly with an open table, and here it was that we three began to +ride out together in the fields, a practice afterwards maintained in Edinburgh, +so far as the Advocate’s continual affairs permitted. When we were put in +a good frame by the briskness of the exercise, the difficulties of the way, or +the accidents of bad weather, my shyness wore entirely off; we forgot that we +were strangers, and speech not being required, it flowed the more naturally on. +Then it was that they had my story from me, bit by bit, from the time that I +left Essendean, with my voyage and battle in the <i>Covenant</i>, wanderings in +the heather, etc.; and from the interest they found in my adventures sprung the +circumstance of a jaunt we made a little later on, on a day when the courts +were not sitting, and of which I will tell a trifle more at length. +</p> + +<p> +We took horse early, and passed first by the house of Shaws, where it stood +smokeless in a great field of white frost, for it was yet early in the day. +Here Prestongrange alighted down, gave me his horse, an proceeded alone to +visit my uncle. My heart, I remember, swelled up bitter within me at the sight +of that bare house and the thought of the old miser sitting chittering within +in the cold kitchen! +</p> + +<p> +“There is my home,” said I; “and my family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor David Balfour!” said Miss Grant. +</p> + +<p> +What passed during the visit I have never heard; but it would doubtless not be +very agreeable to Ebenezer, for when the Advocate came forth again his face was +dark. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. Davie,” says he, +turning half about with the one foot in the stirrup. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never pretend sorrow,” said I; and, to say the truth, +during his absence Miss Grant and I had been embellishing the place in fancy +with plantations, parterres, and a terrace—much as I have since carried +out in fact. +</p> + +<p> +Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Rankeillor gave us a good welcome, +being indeed out of the body to receive so great a visitor. Here the Advocate +was so unaffectedly good as to go quite fully over my affairs, sitting perhaps +two hours with the Writer in his study, and expressing (I was told) a great +esteem for myself and concern for my fortunes. To while this time, Miss Grant +and I and young Rankeillor took boat and passed the Hope to Limekilns. +Rankeillor made himself very ridiculous (and, I thought, offensive) with his +admiration for the young lady, and to my wonder (only it is so common a +weakness of her sex) she seemed, if anything, to be a little gratified. One use +it had: for when we were come to the other side, she laid her commands on him +to mind the boat, while she and I passed a little further to the alehouse. This +was her own thought, for she had been taken with my account of Alison Hastie, +and desired to see the lass herself. We found her once more alone—indeed, +I believe her father wrought all day in the fields—and she curtsied +dutifully to the gentry-folk and the beautiful young lady in the riding-coat. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding out my hand. +“And have you no more memory of old friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, +“God’s truth, it’s the tautit <a name="citation19"></a><a +href="#footnote19"><sup>[19]</sup></a> laddie!” +</p> + +<p> +“The very same,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your freen, and +blythe am I to see in your braws,” <a name="citation20"></a><a +href="#footnote20"><sup>[20]</sup></a> she cried. “Though I kent ye were +come to your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that I thank ye +for with a’ my heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by with ye, like a +guid bairn. I didnae come here to stand and haud a candle; it’s her and +me that are to crack.” +</p> + +<p> +I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came forth I +observed two things—that her eyes were reddened, and a silver brooch was +gone out of her bosom. This very much affected me. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw you so well adorned,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said she, and was more than +usually sharp to me the remainder of the day. +</p> + +<p> +About candlelight we came home from this excursion. +</p> + +<p> +For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona—my Miss Grant +remaining quite impenetrable, and stopping my mouth with pleasantries. At last, +one day that she returned from walking and found me alone in the parlour over +my French, I thought there was something unusual in her looks; the colour +heightened, the eyes sparkling high, and a bit of a smile continually bitten in +as she regarded me. She seemed indeed like the very spirit of mischief, and, +walking briskly in the room, had soon involved me in a kind of quarrel over +nothing and (at the least) with nothing intended on my side. I was like +Christian in the slough—the more I tried to clamber out upon the side, +the deeper I became involved; until at last I heard her declare, with a great +deal of passion, that she would take that answer from the hands of none, and I +must down upon my knees for pardon. +</p> + +<p> +The causelessness of all this fuff stirred my own bile. “I have said +nothing you can properly object to,” said I, “and as for my knees, +that is an attitude I keep for God.” +</p> + +<p> +“And as a goddess I am to be served!” she cried, shaking her brown +locks at me and with a bright colour. “Every man that comes within waft +of my petticoats shall use me so!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go so far as ask your pardon for the fashion’s sake, +although I vow I know not why,” I replied. “But for these +play-acting postures, you can go to others.” +</p> + +<p> +“O Davie!” she said. “Not if I was to beg you?” +</p> + +<p> +I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, which is the same as to say a +child, and that upon a point entirely formal. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it a bairnly thing,” I said, “not worthy in you to +ask, or me to render. Yet I will not refuse you, neither,” said I; +“and the stain, if there be any, rests with yourself.” And at that +I kneeled fairly down. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” she cried. “There is the proper station, there is +where I have been manoeuvring to bring you.” And then, suddenly, +“Kep,” <a name="citation21"></a><a +href="#footnote21"><sup>[21]</sup></a> said she, flung me a folded billet, and +ran from the apartment laughing. +</p> + +<p> +The billet had neither place nor date. “Dear Mr. David,” it began, +“I get your news continually by my cousin, Miss Grant, and it is a +pleisand hearing. I am very well, in a good place, among good folk, but +necessitated to be quite private, though I am hoping that at long last we may +meet again. All your friendships have been told me by my loving cousin, who +loves us both. She bids me to send you this writing, and oversees the same. I +will be asking you to do all her commands, and rest your affectionate friend, +Catriona Macgregor-Drummond. P.S.—Will you not see my cousin, +Allardyce?” +</p> + +<p> +I think it not the least brave of my campaigns (as the soldiers say) that I +should have done as I was here bidden and gone forthright to the house by Dean. +But the old lady was now entirely changed and supple as a glove. By what means +Miss Grant had brought this round I could never guess; I am sure, at least, she +dared not to appear openly in the affair, for her papa was compromised in it +pretty deep. It was he, indeed, who had persuaded Catriona to leave, or rather, +not to return, to her cousin’s, placing her instead with a family of +Gregorys—decent people, quite at the Advocate’s disposition, and in +whom she might have the more confidence because they were of his own clan and +family. These kept her private till all was ripe, heated and helped her to +attempt her father’s rescue, and after she was discharged from prison +received her again into the same secrecy. Thus Prestongrange obtained and used +his instrument; nor did there leak out the smallest word of his acquaintance +with the daughter of James More. There was some whispering, of course, upon the +escape of that discredited person; but the Government replied by a show of +rigour, one of the cell porters was flogged, the lieutenant of the guard (my +poor friend, Duncansby) was broken of his rank, and as for Catriona, all men +were well enough pleased that her fault should be passed by in silence. +</p> + +<p> +I could never induce Miss Grant to carry back an answer. “No,” she +would say, when I persisted, “I am going to keep the big feet out of the +platter.” This was the more hard to bear, as I was aware she saw my +little friend many times in the week, and carried her my news whenever (as she +said) I “had behaved myself.” At last she treated me to what she +called an indulgence, and I thought rather more of a banter. She was certainly +a strong, almost a violent, friend to all she liked, chief among whom was a +certain frail old gentlewoman, very blind and very witty, who dwelt on the top +of a tall land on a strait close, with a nest of linnets in a cage, and +thronged all day with visitors. Miss Grant was very fond to carry me there and +put me to entertain her friend with the narrative of my misfortunes: and Miss +Tibbie Ramsay (that was her name) was particular kind, and told me a great deal +that was worth knowledge of old folks and past affairs in Scotland. I should +say that from her chamber window, and not three feet away, such is the +straitness of that close, it was possible to look into a barred loophole +lighting the stairway of the opposite house. +</p> + +<p> +Here, upon some pretext, Miss Grant left me one day alone with Miss Ramsay. I +mind I thought that lady inattentive and like one preoccupied. I was besides +very uncomfortable, for the window, contrary to custom, was left open and the +day was cold. All at once the voice of Miss Grant sounded in my ears as from a +distance. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Shaws!” she cried, “keek out of the window and see +what I have broughten you.” +</p> + +<p> +I think it was the prettiest sight that ever I beheld. The well of the close +was all in clear shadow where a man could see distinctly, the walls very black +and dingy; and there from the barred loophole I saw two faces smiling across at +me—Miss Grant’s and Catriona’s. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” says Miss Grant, “I wanted her to see you in your +braws like the lass of Limekilns. I wanted her to see what I could make of you, +when I buckled to the job in earnest!” +</p> + +<p> +It came in my mind that she had been more than common particular that day upon +my dress; and I think that some of the same care had been bestowed upon +Catriona. For so merry and sensible a lady, Miss Grant was certainly wonderful +taken up with duds. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona!” was all I could get out. +</p> + +<p> +As for her, she said nothing in the world, but only waved her hand and smiled +to me, and was suddenly carried away again from before the loophole. +</p> + +<p> +That vision was no sooner lost than I ran to the house door, where I found I +was locked in; thence back to Miss Ramsay, crying for the key, but might as +well have cried upon the castle rock. She had passed her word, she said, and I +must be a good lad. It was impossible to burst the door, even if it had been +mannerly; it was impossible I should leap from the window, being seven storeys +above ground. All I could do was to crane over the close and watch for their +reappearance from the stair. It was little to see, being no more than the tops +of their two heads each on a ridiculous bobbin of skirts, like to a pair of +pincushions. Nor did Catriona so much as look up for a farewell; being +prevented (as I heard afterwards) by Miss Grant, who told her folk were never +seen to less advantage than from above downward. +</p> + +<p> +On the way home, as soon as I was set free, I upbraided Miss Grant with her +cruelty. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry you was disappointed,” says she demurely. “For my +part I was very pleased. You looked better than I dreaded; you looked—if +it will not make you vain—a mighty pretty young man when you appeared in +the window. You are to remember that she could not see your feet,” says +she, with the manner of one reassuring me. +</p> + +<p> +“O!” cried I, “leave my feet be—they are no bigger than +my neighbours’.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are even smaller than some,” said she, “but I speak in +parables like a Hebrew prophet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I marvel little they were sometimes stoned!” says I. “But, +you miserable girl, how could you do it? Why should you care to tantalise me +with a moment?” +</p> + +<p> +“Love is like folk,” says she; “it needs some kind of +vivers.” <a name="citation22"></a><a href="#footnote22"><sup>[22]</sup></a> +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Barbara, let me see her properly!” I pleaded. +“<i>You</i> can—you see her when you please; let me have half an +hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it that is managing this love affair! You! Or me?” she +asked, and as I continued to press her with my instances, fell back upon a +deadly expedient: that of imitating the tones of my voice when I called on +Catriona by name; with which, indeed, she held me in subjection for some days +to follow. +</p> + +<p> +There was never the least word heard of the memorial, or none by me. +Prestongrange and his grace the Lord President may have heard of it (for what I +know) on the deafest sides of their heads; they kept it to themselves, at +least—the public was none the wiser; and in course of time, on November +8th, and in the midst of a prodigious storm of wind and rain, poor James of the +Glens was duly hanged at Lettermore by Ballachulish. +</p> + +<p> +So there was the final upshot of my politics! Innocent men have perished before +James, and are like to keep on perishing (in spite of all our wisdom) till the +end of time. And till the end of time young folk (who are not yet used with the +duplicity of life and men) will struggle as I did, and make heroical resolves, +and take long risks; and the course of events will push them upon the one side +and go on like a marching army. James was hanged; and here was I dwelling in +the house of Prestongrange, and grateful to him for his fatherly attention. He +was hanged; and behold! when I met Mr. Simon in the causeway, I was fain to +pull off my beaver to him like a good little boy before his dominie. He had +been hanged by fraud and violence, and the world wagged along, and there was +not a pennyweight of difference; and the villains of that horrid plot were +decent, kind, respectable fathers of families, who went to kirk and took the +sacrament! +</p> + +<p> +But I had had my view of that detestable business they call politics—I +had seen it from behind, when it is all bones and blackness; and I was cured +for life of any temptations to take part in it again. A plain, quiet, private +path was that which I was ambitious to walk in, when I might keep my head out +of the way of dangers and my conscience out of the road of temptation. For, +upon a retrospect, it appeared I had not done so grandly, after all; but with +the greatest possible amount of big speech and preparation, had accomplished +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +The 25th of the same month a ship was advertised to sail from Leith; and I was +suddenly recommended to make up my mails for Leyden. To Prestongrange I could, +of course, say nothing; for I had already been a long while sorning on his +house and table. But with his daughter I was more open, bewailing my fate that +I should be sent out of the country, and assuring her, unless she should bring +me to farewell with Catriona, I would refuse at the last hour. +</p> + +<p> +“Have I not given you my advice?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you have,” said I, “and I know how much I am beholden +to you already, and that I am bidden to obey your orders. But you must confess +you are something too merry a lass at times to lippen <a +name="citation23"></a><a href="#footnote23"><sup>[23]</sup></a> to +entirely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you, then,” said she. “Be you on board by nine +o’clock forenoon; the ship does not sail before one; keep your boat +alongside; and if you are not pleased with my farewells when I shall send them, +you can come ashore again and seek Katrine for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Since I could make no more of her, I was fain to be content with this. +</p> + +<p> +The day came round at last when she and I were to separate. We had been +extremely intimate and familiar; I was much in her debt; and what way we were +to part was a thing that put me from my sleep, like the vails I was to give to +the domestic servants. I knew she considered me too backward, and rather +desired to rise in her opinion on that head. Besides which, after so much +affection shown and (I believe) felt upon both sides, it would have looked +cold-like to be anyways stiff. Accordingly, I got my courage up and my words +ready, and the last chance we were like to be alone, asked pretty boldly to be +allowed to salute her in farewell. +</p> + +<p> +“You forget yourself strangely, Mr. Balfour,” said she. “I +cannot call to mind that I have given you any right to presume on our +acquaintancy.” +</p> + +<p> +I stood before her like a stopped clock, and knew not what to think, far less +to say, when of a sudden she cast her arms about my neck and kissed me with the +best will in the world. +</p> + +<p> +“You inimitable bairn!” she cried. “Did you think that I +would let us part like strangers? Because I can never keep my gravity at you +five minutes on end, you must not dream I do not love you very well: I am all +love and laughter, every time I cast an eye on you! And now I will give you an +advice to conclude your education, which you will have need of before +it’s very long. Never <i>ask</i> womenfolk. They’re bound to answer +‘No’; God never made the lass that could resist the temptation. +It’s supposed by divines to be the curse of Eve: because she did not say +it when the devil offered her the apple, her daughters can say nothing +else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since I am so soon to lose my bonny professor,” I began. +</p> + +<p> +“This is gallant, indeed,” says she curtseying. +</p> + +<p> +“I would put the one question,” I went on. “May I ask a lass +to marry to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You think you could not marry her without!” she asked. “Or +else get her to offer?” +</p> + +<p> +“You see you cannot be serious,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very serious in one thing, David,” said she: “I +shall always be your friend.” +</p> + +<p> +As I got to my horse the next morning, the four ladies were all at that same +window whence we had once looked down on Catriona, and all cried farewell and +waved their pocket napkins as I rode away. One out of the four I knew was truly +sorry; and at the thought of that, and how I had come to the door three months +ago for the first time, sorrow and gratitude made a confusion in my mind. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part02"></a>PART II.<br /> +FATHER AND DAUGHTER</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /> +THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND</h2> + +<p> +The ship lay at a single anchor, well outside the pier of Leith, so that all we +passengers must come to it by the means of skiffs. This was very little +troublesome, for the reason that the day was a flat calm, very frosty and +cloudy, and with a low shifting fog upon the water. The body of the vessel was +thus quite hid as I drew near, but the tall spars of her stood high and bright +in a sunshine like the flickering of a fire. She proved to be a very roomy, +commodious merchant, but somewhat blunt in the bows, and loaden extraordinary +deep with salt, salted salmon, and fine white linen stockings for the Dutch. +Upon my coming on board, the captain welcomed me—one Sang (out of +Lesmahago, I believe), a very hearty, friendly tarpaulin of a man, but at the +moment in rather of a bustle. There had no other of the passengers yet +appeared, so that I was left to walk about upon the deck, viewing the prospect +and wondering a good deal what these farewells should be which I was promised. +</p> + +<p> +All Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills glinted above me in a kind of smuisty +brightness, now and again overcome with blots of cloud; of Leith there was no +more than the tops of chimneys visible, and on the face of the water, where the +haar <a name="citation24"></a><a href="#footnote24"><sup>[24]</sup></a> lay, +nothing at all. Out of this I was presently aware of a sound of oars pulling, +and a little after (as if out of the smoke of a fire) a boat issued. There sat +a grave man in the stern sheets, well muffled from the cold, and by his side a +tall, pretty, tender figure of a maid that brought my heart to a stand. I had +scarce the time to catch my breath in, and be ready to meet her, as she stepped +upon the deck, smiling, and making my best bow, which was now vastly finer than +some months before, when first I made it to her ladyship. No doubt we were both +a good deal changed: she seemed to have shot up like a young, comely tree. She +had now a kind of pretty backwardness that became her well as of one that +regarded herself more highly and was fairly woman; and for another thing, the +hand of the same magician had been at work upon the pair of us, and Miss Grant +had made us both <i>braw</i>, if she could make but the one <i>bonny</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The same cry, in words not very different, came from both of us, that the other +was come in compliment to say farewell, and then we perceived in a flash we +were to ship together. +</p> + +<p> +“O, why will not Baby have been telling me!” she cried; and then +remembered a letter she had been given, on the condition of not opening it till +she was well on board. Within was an enclosure for myself, and ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“<span class="smcap">Dear Davie</span>,—What do you think of my +farewell? and what do you say to your fellow passenger? Did you kiss, or did +you ask? I was about to have signed here, but that would leave the purport of +my question doubtful, and in my own case <i>I ken the answer</i>. So fill up +here with good advice. Do not be too blate, <a name="citation25"></a><a +href="#footnote25"><sup>[25]</sup></a> and for God’s sake do not try to +be too forward; nothing acts you worse. I am +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Your affectionate friend and governess,<br /> +“<span class="smcap">Barbara Grant</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +I wrote a word of answer and compliment on a leaf out of my pocketbook, put it +in with another scratch from Catriona, sealed the whole with my new signet of +the Balfour arms, and despatched it by the hand of Prestongrange’s +servant that still waited in my boat. +</p> + +<p> +Then we had time to look upon each other more at leisure, which we had not done +for a piece of a minute before (upon a common impulse) we shook hands again. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona?” said I. It seemed that was the first and last word of +my eloquence. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be glad to see me again?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are too deep +friends to make speech upon such trifles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cried again. “I +was never knowing such a girl so honest and so beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she did for a +kale-stock,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, she will say so indeed!” cries Catriona. “Yet it was for +the name and the gentle kind blood that she took me up and was so good to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will tell you why it was,” said I. “There are all +sorts of people’s faces in this world. There is Barbara’s face, +that everyone must look at and admire, and think her a fine, brave, merry girl. +And then there is your face, which is quite different—I never knew how +different till to-day. You cannot see yourself, and that is why you do not +understand; but it was for the love of your face that she took you up and was +so good to you. And everybody in the world would do the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“Every living soul!” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle took me up!” +she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Barbara has been teaching you to catch me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“She will have taught me more than that at all events. She will have +taught me a great deal about Mr. David—all the ill of him, and a little +that was not so ill either, now and then,” she said, smiling. “She +will have told me all there was of Mr. David, only just that he would sail upon +this very same ship. And why it is you go?” +</p> + +<p> +I told her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well,” said she, “we will be some days in company and +then (I suppose) good-bye for altogether! I go to meet my father at a place of +the name of Helvoetsluys, and from there to France, to be exiles by the side of +our chieftain.” +</p> + +<p> +I could say no more than just “O!” the name of James More always +drying up my very voice. +</p> + +<p> +She was quick to perceive it, and to guess some portion of my thought. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one thing I must be saying first of all, Mr. David,” said +she. “I think two of my kinsfolk have not behaved to you altogether very +well. And the one of them two is James More, my father, and the other is the +Laird of Prestongrange. Prestongrange will have spoken by himself, or his +daughter in the place of him. But for James More, my father, I have this much +to say: he lay shackled in a prison; he is a plain honest soldier and a plain +Highland gentleman; what they would be after he would never be guessing; but if +he had understood it was to be some prejudice to a young gentleman like +yourself, he would have died first. And for the sake of all your friendships, I +will be asking you to pardon my father and family for that same mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “what that mistake was I do not care to +know. I know but the one thing—that you went to Prestongrange and begged +my life upon your knees. O, I ken well enough it was for your father that you +went, but when you were there you pleaded for me also. It is a thing I cannot +speak of. There are two things I cannot think of into myself: and the one is +your good words when you called yourself my little friend, and the other that +you pleaded for my life. Let us never speak more, we two, of pardon or +offence.” +</p> + +<p> +We stood after that silent, Catriona looking on the deck and I on her; and +before there was more speech, a little wind having sprung up in the +nor’-west, they began to shake out the sails and heave in upon the +anchor. +</p> + +<p> +There were six passengers besides our two selves, which made of it a full +cabin. Three were solid merchants out of Leith, Kirkcaldy, and Dundee, all +engaged in the same adventure into High Germany. One was a Hollander returning; +the rest worthy merchants’ wives, to the charge of one of whom Catriona +was recommended. Mrs. Gebbie (for that was her name) was by great good fortune +heavily incommoded by the sea, and lay day and night on the broad of her back. +We were besides the only creatures at all young on board the <i>Rose</i>, +except a white-faced boy that did my old duty to attend upon the table; and it +came about that Catriona and I were left almost entirely to ourselves. We had +the next seats together at the table, where I waited on her with extraordinary +pleasure. On deck, I made her a soft place with my cloak; and the weather being +singularly fine for that season, with bright frosty days and nights, a steady, +gentle wind, and scarce a sheet started all the way through the North Sea, we +sat there (only now and again walking to and fro for warmth) from the first +blink of the sun till eight or nine at night under the clear stars. The +merchants or Captain Sang would sometimes glance and smile upon us, or pass a +merry word or two and give us the go-by again; but the most part of the time +they were deep in herring and chintzes and linen, or in computations of the +slowness of the passage, and left us to our own concerns, which were very +little important to any but ourselves. +</p> + +<p> +At the first, we had a great deal to say, and thought ourselves pretty witty; +and I was at a little pains to be the <i>beau</i>, and she (I believe) to play +the young lady of experience. But soon we grew plainer with each other. I laid +aside my high, clipped English (what little there was left of it) and forgot to +make my Edinburgh bows and scrapes; she, upon her side, fell into a sort of +kind familiarity; and we dwelt together like those of the same household, only +(upon my side) with a more deep emotion. About the same time the bottom seemed +to fall out of our conversation, and neither one of us the less pleased. Whiles +she would tell me old wives’ tales, of which she had a wonderful variety, +many of them from my friend red-headed Niel. She told them very pretty, and +they were pretty enough childish tales; but the pleasure to myself was in the +sound of her voice, and the thought that she was telling and I listening. +Whiles, again, we would sit entirely silent, not communicating even with a +look, and tasting pleasure enough in the sweetness of that neighbourhood. I +speak here only for myself. Of what was in the maid’s mind, I am not very +sure that ever I asked myself; and what was in my own, I was afraid to +consider. I need make no secret of it now, either to myself or to the reader; I +was fallen totally in love. She came between me and the sun. She had grown +suddenly taller, as I say, but with a wholesome growth; she seemed all health, +and lightness, and brave spirits; and I thought she walked like a young deer, +and stood like a birch upon the mountains. It was enough for me to sit near by +her on the deck; and I declare I scarce spent two thoughts upon the future, and +was so well content with what I then enjoyed that I was never at the pains to +imagine any further step; unless perhaps that I would be sometimes tempted to +take her hand in mine and hold it there. But I was too like a miser of what +joys I had, and would venture nothing on a hazard. +</p> + +<p> +What we spoke was usually of ourselves or of each other, so that if anyone had +been at so much pains as overhear us, he must have supposed us the most +egotistical persons in the world. It befell one day when we were at this +practice, that we came on a discourse of friends and friendship, and I think +now that we were sailing near the wind. We said what a fine thing friendship +was, and how little we had guessed of it, and how it made life a new thing, and +a thousand covered things of the same kind that will have been said, since the +foundation of the world, by young folk in the same predicament. Then we +remarked upon the strangeness of that circumstance, that friends came together +in the beginning as if they were there for the first time, and yet each had +been alive a good while, losing time with other people. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not much that I have done,” said she, “and I could be +telling you the five-fifths of it in two-three words. It is only a girl I am, +and what can befall a girl, at all events? But I went with the clan in the year +’45. The men marched with swords and fire-locks, and some of them in +brigades in the same set of tartan; they were not backward at the marching, I +can tell you. And there were gentlemen from the Low Country, with their tenants +mounted and trumpets to sound, and there was a grand skirling of war-pipes. I +rode on a little Highland horse on the right hand of my father, James More, and +of Glengyle himself. And here is one fine thing that I remember, that Glengyle +kissed me in the face, because (says he) ‘my kinswoman, you are the only +lady of the clan that has come out,’ and me a little maid of maybe twelve +years old! I saw Prince Charlie too, and the blue eyes of him; he was pretty +indeed! I had his hand to kiss in front of the army. O, well, these were the +good days, but it is all like a dream that I have seen and then awakened. It +went what way you very well know; and these were the worst days of all, when +the red-coat soldiers were out, and my father and uncles lay in the hill, and I +was to be carrying them their meat in the middle night, or at the short sight +of day when the cocks crow. Yes, I have walked in the night, many’s the +time, and my heart great in me for terror of the darkness. It is a strange +thing I will never have been meddled with by a bogle; but they say a maid goes +safe. Next there was my uncle’s marriage, and that was a dreadful affair +beyond all. Jean Kay was that woman’s name; and she had me in the room +with her that night at Inversnaid, the night we took her from her friends in +the old, ancient manner. She would and she wouldn’t; she was for marrying +Rob the one minute, and the next she would be for none of him. I will never +have seen such a feckless creature of a woman; surely all there was of her +would tell her ay or no. Well, she was a widow; and I can never be thinking a +widow a good woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona!” says I, “how do you make out that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” said she; “I am only telling you the seeming +in my heart. And then to marry a new man! Fy! But that was her; and she was +married again upon my Uncle Robin, and went with him awhile to kirk and market; +and then wearied, or else her friends got claught of her and talked her round, +or maybe she turned ashamed; at the least of it, she ran away, and went back to +her own folk, and said we had held her in the lake, and I will never tell you +all what. I have never thought much of any females since that day. And so in +the end my father, James More, came to be cast in prison, and you know the rest +of it an well as me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And through all you had no friends?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said she; “I have been pretty chief with two-three +lasses on the braes, but not to call it friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said I. “I never had a friend +to my name till I met in with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O, yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is a man, and +that is very different.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite +different.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then there was one other,” said I. “I once thought I had +a friend, but it proved a disappointment.” +</p> + +<p> +She asked me who she was? +</p> + +<p> +“It was a he, then,” said I. “We were the two best lads at my +father’s school, and we thought we loved each other dearly. Well, the +time came when he went to Glasgow to a merchant’s house, that was his +second cousin once removed; and wrote me two-three times by the carrier; and +then he found new friends, and I might write till I was tired, he took no +notice. Eh, Catriona, it took me a long while to forgive the world. There is +not anything more bitter than to lose a fancied friend.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she began to question me close upon his looks and character, for we were +each a great deal concerned in all that touched the other; till at last, in a +very evil hour, I minded of his letters and went and fetched the bundle from +the cabin. +</p> + +<p> +“Here are his letters,” said I, “and all the letters that +ever I got. That will be the last I’ll can tell of myself; ye know the +lave <a name="citation26"></a><a href="#footnote26"><sup>[26]</sup></a> as well +as I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me read them, then?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +I told her, <i>if she would be at the pains</i>; and she bade me go away and +she would read them from the one end to the other. Now, in this bundle that I +gave her, there were packed together not only all the letters of my false +friend, but one or two of Mr. Campbell’s when he was in town at the +Assembly, and to make a complete roll of all that ever was written to me, +Catriona’s little word, and the two I had received from Miss Grant, one +when I was on the Bass and one on board that ship. But of these last I had no +particular mind at the moment. +</p> + +<p> +I was in that state of subjection to the thought of my friend that it mattered +not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in her presence or out of it; I had +caught her like some kind of a noble fever that lived continually in my bosom, +by night and by day, and whether I was waking or asleep. So it befell that +after I was come into the fore-part of the ship where the broad bows splashed +into the billows, I was in no such hurry to return as you might fancy; rather +prolonged my absence like a variety in pleasure. I do not think I am by nature +much of an Epicurean: and there had come till then so small a share of pleasure +in my way that I might be excused perhaps to dwell on it unduly. +</p> + +<p> +When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a buckle +slipped, so coldly she returned the packet. +</p> + +<p> +“You have read them?” said I; and I thought my voice sounded not +wholly natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail her. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you mean me to read all?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice. +</p> + +<p> +“The last of them as well?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. “I gave them +all without afterthought,” I said, “as I supposed that you would +read them. I see no harm in any.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will be differently made,” said she. “I thank God I am +differently made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was not fit to be +written.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +“There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend,” +said she, quoting my own expression. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!” I cried. +“What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words that a +tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upon a piece of paper? You know +yourself with what respect I have behaved—and would do always.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet you would show me that same letter!” says she. “I want +no such friends. I can be doing very well, Mr. Balfour, without her—or +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is your fine gratitude!” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much obliged to you,” said she. “I will be asking +you to take away your—letters.” She seemed to choke upon the word, +so that it sounded like an oath. +</p> + +<p> +“You shall never ask twice,” said I; picked up that bundle, walked +a little way forward and cast them as far as possible into the sea. For a very +little more I could have cast myself after them. +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the day I walked up and down raging. There were few names so ill +but what I gave her them in my own mind before the sun went down. All that I +had ever heard of Highland pride seemed quite outdone; that a girl (scarce +grown) should resent so trifling an allusion, and that from her next friend, +that she had near wearied me with praising of! I had bitter, sharp, hard +thoughts of her, like an angry boy’s. If I had kissed her indeed (I +thought), perhaps she would have taken it pretty well; and only because it had +been written down, and with a spice of jocularity, up she must fuff in this +ridiculous passion. It seemed to me there was a want of penetration in the +female sex, to make angels weep over the case of the poor men. +</p> + +<p> +We were side by side again at supper, and what a change was there! She was like +curdled milk to me; her face was like a wooden doll’s; I could have +indifferently smitten her or grovelled at her feet, but she gave me not the +least occasion to do either. No sooner the meal done than she betook herself to +attend on Mrs. Gebbie, which I think she had a little neglected heretofore. But +she was to make up for lost time, and in what remained of the passage was +extraordinary assiduous with the old lady, and on deck began to make a great +deal more than I thought wise of Captain Sang. Not but what the Captain seemed +a worthy, fatherly man; but I hated to behold her in the least familiarity with +anyone except myself. +</p> + +<p> +Altogether, she was so quick to avoid me, and so constant to keep herself +surrounded with others, that I must watch a long while before I could find my +opportunity; and after it was found, I made not much of it, as you are now to +hear. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no guess how I have offended,” said I; “it should +scarce be beyond pardon, then. O, try if you can pardon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no pardon to give,” said she; and the words seemed to come +out of her throat like marbles. “I will be very much obliged for all your +friendships.” And she made me an eighth part of a curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +But I had schooled myself beforehand to say more, and I was going to say it +too. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one thing,” said I. “If I have shocked your +particularity by the showing of that letter, it cannot touch Miss Grant. She +wrote not to you, but to a poor, common, ordinary lad, who might have had more +sense than show it. If you are to blame me—” +</p> + +<p> +“I will advise you to say no more about that girl, at all events!” +said Catriona. “It is her I will never look the road of, not if she lay +dying.” She turned away from me, and suddenly back. “Will you swear +you will have no more to deal with her?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, and I will never be so unjust then,” said I; “nor +yet so ungrateful.” +</p> + +<p> +And now it was I that turned away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /> +HELVOETSLUYS</h2> + +<p> +The weather in the end considerably worsened; the wind sang in the shrouds, the +sea swelled higher, and the ship began to labour and cry out among the billows. +The song of the leadsman in the chains was now scarce ceasing, for we thrid all +the way among shoals. About nine in the morning, in a burst of wintry sun +between two squalls of hail, I had my first look of Holland—a line of +windmills birling in the breeze. It was besides my first knowledge of these +daft-like contrivances, which gave me a near sense of foreign travel and a new +world and life. We came to an anchor about half-past eleven, outside the +harbour of Helvoetsluys, in a place where the sea sometimes broke and the ship +pitched outrageously. You may be sure we were all on deck save Mrs. Gebbie, +some of us in cloaks, others mantled in the ship’s tarpaulins, all +clinging on by ropes, and jesting the most like old sailor-folk that we could +imitate. +</p> + +<p> +Presently a boat, that was backed like a partancrab, came gingerly alongside, +and the skipper of it hailed our master in the Dutch. Thence Captain Sang +turned, very troubled-like, to Catriona; and the rest of us crowding about, the +nature of the difficulty was made plain to all. The <i>Rose</i> was bound to +the port of Rotterdam, whither the other passengers were in a great impatience +to arrive, in view of a conveyance due to leave that very evening in the +direction of the Upper Germany. This, with the present half-gale of wind, the +captain (if no time were lost) declared himself still capable to save. Now +James More had trysted in Helvoet with his daughter, and the captain had +engaged to call before the port and place her (according to the custom) in a +shore boat. There was the boat, to be sure, and here was Catriona ready: but +both our master and the patroon of the boat scrupled at the risk, and the first +was in no humour to delay. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father,” said he, “would be gey an little pleased if we +was to break a leg to ye, Miss Drummond, let-a-be drowning of you. Take my way +of it,” says he, “and come on-by with the rest of us here to +Rotterdam. Ye can get a passage down the Maes in a sailing scoot as far as to +the Brill, and thence on again, by a place in a rattel-waggon, back to +Helvoet.” +</p> + +<p> +But Catriona would hear of no change. She looked white-like as she beheld the +bursting of the sprays, the green seas that sometimes poured upon the +fore-castle, and the perpetual bounding and swooping of the boat among the +billows; but she stood firmly by her father’s orders. “My father, +James More, will have arranged it so,” was her first word and her last. I +thought it very idle and indeed wanton in the girl to be so literal and stand +opposite to so much kind advice; but the fact is she had a very good reason, if +she would have told us. Sailing scoots and rattel-waggons are excellent things; +only the use of them must first be paid for, and all she was possessed of in +the world was just two shillings and a penny halfpenny sterling. So it fell out +that captain and passengers, not knowing of her destitution—and she being +too proud to tell them—spoke in vain. +</p> + +<p> +“But you ken nae French and nae Dutch neither,” said one. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very true,” says she, “but since the year ’46 +there are so many of the honest Scotch abroad that I will be doing very well. I +thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pretty country simplicity in this that made some laugh, others +looked the more sorry, and Mr. Gebbie fall outright in a passion. I believe he +knew it was his duty (his wife having accepted charge of the girl) to have gone +ashore with her and seen her safe: nothing would have induced him to have done +so, since it must have involved the lose of his conveyance; and I think he made +it up to his conscience by the loudness of his voice. At least he broke out +upon Captain Sang, raging and saying the thing was a disgrace; that it was mere +death to try to leave the ship, and at any event we could not cast down an +innocent maid in a boatful of nasty Holland fishers, and leave her to her fate. +I was thinking something of the same; took the mate upon one side, arranged +with him to send on my chests by track-scoot to an address I had in Leyden, and +stood up and signalled to the fishers. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go ashore with the young lady, Captain Sang,” said I. +“It is all one what way I go to Leyden;” and leaped at the same +time into the boat, which I managed not so elegantly but what I fell with two +of the fishers in the bilge. +</p> + +<p> +From the boat the business appeared yet more precarious than from the ship, she +stood so high over us, swung down so swift, and menaced us so perpetually with +her plunging and passaging upon the anchor cable. I began to think I had made a +fool’s bargain, that it was merely impossible Catriona should be got on +board to me, and that I stood to be set ashore at Helvoet all by myself and +with no hope of any reward but the pleasure of embracing James More, if I +should want to. But this was to reckon without the lass’s courage. She +had seen me leap with very little appearance (however much reality) of +hesitation; to be sure, she was not to be beat by her discarded friend. Up she +stood on the bulwarks and held by a stay, the wind blowing in her petticoats, +which made the enterprise more dangerous, and gave us rather more of a view of +her stockings than would be thought genteel in cities. There was no minute +lost, and scarce time given for any to interfere if they had wished the same. I +stood up on the other side and spread my arms; the ship swung down on us, the +patroon humoured his boat nearer in than was perhaps wholly safe, and Catriona +leaped into the air. I was so happy as to catch her, and the fishers readily +supporting us, escaped a fall. She held to me a moment very tight, breathing +quick and deep; thence (she still clinging to me with both hands) we were +passed aft to our places by the steersman; and Captain Sang and all the crew +and passengers cheering and crying farewell, the boat was put about for shore. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Catriona came a little to herself she unhanded me suddenly, but said +no word. No more did I; and indeed the whistling of the wind and the breaching +of the sprays made it no time for speech; and our crew not only toiled +excessively but made extremely little way, so that the <i>Rose</i> had got her +anchor and was off again before we had approached the harbour mouth. +</p> + +<p> +We were no sooner in smooth water than the patroon, according to their beastly +Hollands custom, stopped his boat and required of us our fares. Two guilders +was the man’s demand—between three and four shillings English +money—for each passenger. But at this Catriona began to cry out with a +vast deal of agitation. She had asked of Captain Sang, she said, and the fare +was but an English shilling. “Do you think I will have come on board and +not ask first?” cries she. The patroon scolded back upon her in a lingo +where the oaths were English and the rest right Hollands; till at last (seeing +her near tears) I privately slipped in the rogue’s hand six shillings, +whereupon he was obliging enough to receive from her the other shilling without +more complaint. No doubt I was a good deal nettled and ashamed. I like to see +folk thrifty, but not with so much passion; and I daresay it would be rather +coldly that I asked her, as the boat moved on again for shore, where it was +that she was trysted with her father. +</p> + +<p> +“He is to be inquired of at the house of one Sprott, an honest Scotch +merchant,” says she; and then with the same breath, “I am wishing +to thank you very much—you are a brave friend to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be time enough when I get you to your father,” said I, +little thinking that I spoke so true. “I can tell him a fine tale of a +loyal daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“O, I do not think I will be a loyal girl, at all events,” she +cried, with a great deal of painfulness in the expression. “I do not +think my heart is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet there are very few that would have made that leap, and all to obey a +father’s orders,” I observed. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot have you to be thinking of me so,” she cried again. +“When you had done that same, how would I stop behind? And at all events +that was not all the reasons.” Whereupon, with a burning face, she told +me the plain truth upon her poverty. +</p> + +<p> +“Good guide us!” cried I, “what kind of daft-like proceeding +is this, to let yourself be launched on the continent of Europe with an empty +purse—I count it hardly decent—scant decent!” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“You forget James More, my father, is a poor gentleman,” said she. +“He is a hunted exile.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think not all your friends are hunted exiles,” I exclaimed. +“And was this fair to them that care for you? Was it fair to me? was it +fair to Miss Grant that counselled you to go, and would be driven fair horn-mad +if she could hear of it? Was it even fair to these Gregory folk that you were +living with, and used you lovingly? It’s a blessing you have fallen in my +hands! Suppose your father hindered by an accident, what would become of you +here, and you your lee-lone in a strange place? The thought of the thing +frightens me,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“I will have lied to all of them,” she replied. “I will have +told them all that I had plenty. I told <i>her</i> too. I could not be lowering +James More to them.” +</p> + +<p> +I found out later on that she must have lowered him in the very dust, for the +lie was originally the father’s, not the daughter’s, and she thus +obliged to persevere in it for the man’s reputation. But at the time I +was ignorant of this, and the mere thought of her destitution and the perils in +which see must have fallen, had ruffled me almost beyond reason. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn more +sense.” +</p> + +<p> +I left her mails for the moment in an inn upon the shore, where I got a +direction for Sprott’s house in my new French, and we walked +there—it was some little way—beholding the place with wonder as we +went. Indeed, there was much for Scots folk to admire: canals and trees being +intermingled with the houses; the houses, each within itself, of a brave red +brick, the colour of a rose, with steps and benches of blue marble at the cheek +of every door, and the whole town so clean you might have dined upon the +causeway. Sprott was within, upon his ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat and +clean, and set out with china and pictures, and a globe of the earth in a brass +frame. He was a big-chafted, ruddy, lusty man, with a crooked hard look to him; +and he made us not that much civility as offer us a seat. +</p> + +<p> +“Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“I ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient-like. +</p> + +<p> +“Since you are so particular,” says I, “I will amend my +question, and ask you where we are to find in Helvoet one James Drummond, +<i>alias</i> Macgregor, <i>alias</i> James More, late tenant in +Inveronachile?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my +part I wish he was.” +</p> + +<p> +“The young lady is that gentleman’s daughter, sir,” said I, +“before whom, I think you will agree with me, it is not very becoming to +discuss his character.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!” cries he +in his gross voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Under your favour, Mr. Sprott,” said I, “this young lady is +come from Scotland seeking him, and by whatever mistake, was given the name of +your house for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I think this +places both you and me—who am but her fellow-traveller by +accident—under a strong obligation to help our countrywoman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you ding me daft?” he cries. “I tell ye I ken naething +and care less either for him or his breed. I tell ye the man owes me +money.” +</p> + +<p> +“That may very well be, sir,” said I, who was now rather more angry +than himself. “At least, I owe you nothing; the young lady is under my +protection; and I am neither at all used with these manners, nor in the least +content with them.” +</p> + +<p> +As I said this, and without particularly thinking what I did, I drew a step or +two nearer to his table; thus striking, by mere good fortune, on the only +argument that could at all affect the man. The blood left his lusty +countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“For the Lord’s sake dinna be hasty, sir!” he cried. “I +am truly wishfu’ no to be offensive. But ye ken, sir, I’m like a +wheen guid-natured, honest, canty auld fellows—my bark is waur nor my +bite. To hear me, ye micht whiles fancy I was a wee thing dour; but na, na! +it’s a kind auld fallow at heart, Sandie Sprott! And ye could never +imagine the fyke and fash this man has been to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir,” said I. “Then I will make that much freedom +with your kindness as trouble you for your last news of Mr. Drummond.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re welcome, sir!” said he. “As for the young leddy +(my respects to her!), he’ll just have clean forgotten her. I ken the +man, ye see; I have lost siller by him ere now. He thinks of naebody but just +himsel’; clan, king, or dauchter, if he can get his wameful, he would +give them a’ the go-by! ay, or his correspondent either. For there is a +sense in whilk I may be nearly almost said to be his correspondent. The fact +is, we are employed thegether in a business affair, and I think it’s like +to turn out a dear affair for Sandie Sprott. The man’s as guid’s my +pairtner, and I give ye my mere word I ken naething by where he is. He micht be +coming here to Helvoet; he micht come here the morn, he michtnae come for a +twalmouth; I would wonder at naething—or just at the ae thing, and +that’s if he was to pay me my siller. Ye see what way I stand with it; +and it’s clear I’m no very likely to meddle up with the young +leddy, as ye ca’ her. She cannae stop here, that’s ae thing certain +sure. Dod, sir, I’m a lone man! If I was to tak her in, its highly +possible the hellicat would try and gar me marry her when he turned up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough of this talk,” said I. “I will take the young leddy +among better friends. Give me, pen, ink, and paper, and I will leave here for +James More the address of my correspondent in Leyden. He can inquire from me +where he is to seek his daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +This word I wrote and sealed; which while I was doing, Sprott of his own motion +made a welcome offer, to charge himself with Miss Drummond’s mails, and +even send a porter for them to the inn. I advanced him to that effect a dollar +or two to be a cover, and he gave me an acknowledgment in writing of the sum. +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon (I giving my arm to Catriona) we left the house of this unpalatable +rascal. She had said no word throughout, leaving me to judge and speak in her +place; I, upon my side, had been careful not to embarrass her by a glance; and +even now, although my heart still glowed inside of me with shame and anger, I +made it my affair to seem quite easy. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” said I, “let us get back to yon same inn where they +can speak the French, have a piece of dinner, and inquire for conveyances to +Rotterdam. I will never be easy till I have you safe again in the hands of Mrs. +Gebbie.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it will have to be,” said Catriona, “though +whoever will be pleased, I do not think it will be her. And I will remind you +this once again that I have but one shilling, and three baubees.” +</p> + +<p> +“And just this once again,” said I, “I will remind you it was +a blessing that I came alongst with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What else would I be thinking all this time?” says she, and I +thought weighed a little on my arm. “It is you that are the good friend +to me.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /> +TRAVELS IN HOLLAND</h2> + +<p> +The rattel-waggon, which is a kind of a long waggon set with benches, carried +us in four hours of travel to the great city of Rotterdam. It was long past +dark by then, but the streets were pretty brightly lighted and thronged with +wild-like, outlandish characters—bearded Hebrews, black men, and the +hordes of courtesans, most indecently adorned with finery and stopping seamen +by their very sleeves; the clash of talk about us made our heads to whirl; and +what was the most unexpected of all, we appeared to be no more struck with all +these foreigners than they with us. I made the best face I could, for the +lass’s sake and my own credit; but the truth is I felt like a lost sheep, +and my heart beat in my bosom with anxiety. Once or twice I inquired after the +harbour or the berth of the ship <i>Rose</i>: but either fell on some who spoke +only Hollands, or my own French failed me. Trying a street at a venture, I came +upon a lane of lighted houses, the doors and windows thronged with wauf-like +painted women; these jostled and mocked upon us as we passed, and I was +thankful we had nothing of their language. A little after we issued forth upon +an open place along the harbour. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be doing now,” cries I, as soon as I spied masts. +“Let us walk here by the harbour. We are sure to meet some that has the +English, and at the best of it we may light upon that very ship.” +</p> + +<p> +We did the next best, as happened; for, about nine of the evening, whom should +we walk into the arms of but Captain Sang? He told us they had made their run +in the most incredible brief time, the wind holding strong till they reached +port; by which means his passengers were all gone already on their further +travels. It was impossible to chase after the Gebbies into the High Germany, +and we had no other acquaintance to fall back upon but Captain Sang himself. It +was the more gratifying to find the man friendly and wishful to assist. He made +it a small affair to find some good plain family of merchants, where Catriona +might harbour till the <i>Rose</i> was loaden; declared he would then blithely +carry her back to Leith for nothing and see her safe in the hands of Mr. +Gregory; and in the meanwhile carried us to a late ordinary for the meal we +stood in need of. He seemed extremely friendly, as I say, but what surprised me +a good deal, rather boisterous in the bargain; and the cause of this was soon +to appear. For at the ordinary, calling for Rhenish wine and drinking of it +deep, he soon became unutterably tipsy. In this case, as too common with all +men, but especially with those of his rough trade, what little sense or manners +he possessed deserted him; and he behaved himself so scandalous to the young +lady, jesting most ill-favouredly at the figure she had made on the +ship’s rail, that I had no resource but carry her suddenly away. +</p> + +<p> +She came out of the ordinary clinging to me close. “Take me away, +David,” she said. “<i>You</i> keep me. I am not afraid with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have no cause, my little friend!” cried I, and could have +found it in my heart to weep. +</p> + +<p> +“Where will you be taking me?” she said again. “Don’t +leave me at all events—never leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I taking you to?” says I stopping, for I had been staving +on ahead in mere blindness. “I must stop and think. But I’ll not +leave you, Catriona; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if I should fail or +fash you.” +</p> + +<p> +She crept close into me by way of a reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” I said, “is the stillest place we have hit on yet in +this busy byke of a city. Let us sit down here under yon tree and consider of +our course.” +</p> + +<p> +That tree (which I am little like to forget) stood hard by the harbour side. It +was like a black night, but lights were in the houses, and nearer hand in the +quiet ships; there was a shining of the city on the one hand, and a buzz hung +over it of many thousands walking and talking; on the other, it was dark and +the water bubbled on the sides. I spread my cloak upon a builder’s stone, +and made her sit there; she would have kept her hold upon me, for she still +shook with the late affronts; but I wanted to think clear, disengaged myself, +and paced to and fro before her, in the manner of what we call a +smuggler’s walk, belabouring my brains for any remedy. By the course of +these scattering thoughts I was brought suddenly face to face with a +remembrance that, in the heat and haste of our departure, I had left Captain +Sang to pay the ordinary. At this I began to laugh out loud, for I thought the +man well served; and at the same time, by an instinctive movement, carried my +hand to the pocket where my money was. I suppose it was in the lane where the +women jostled us; but there is only the one thing certain, that my purse was +gone. +</p> + +<p> +“You will have thought of something good,” said she, observing me +to pause. +</p> + +<p> +At the pinch we were in, my mind became suddenly clear as a perspective glass, +and I saw there was no choice of methods. I had not one doit of coin, but in my +pocket-book I had still my letter on the Leyden merchant; and there was now but +the one way to get to Leyden, and that was to walk on our two feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “I know you’re brave and I believe +you’re strong—do you think you could walk thirty miles on a plain +road?” We found it, I believe, scarce the two-thirds of that, but such +was my notion of the distance. +</p> + +<p> +“David,” she said, “if you will just keep near, I will go +anywhere and do anything. The courage of my heart, it is all broken. Do not be +leaving me in this horrible country by myself, and I will do all else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you start now and march all night?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I will do all that you can ask of me,” she said, “and never +ask you why. I have been a bad ungrateful girl to you; and do what you please +with me now! And I think Miss Barbara Grant is the best lady in the +world,” she added, “and I do not see what she would deny you for at +all events.” +</p> + +<p> +This was Greek and Hebrew to me; but I had other matters to consider, and the +first of these was to get clear of that city on the Leyden road. It proved a +cruel problem; and it may have been one or two at night ere we had solved it. +Once beyond the houses, there was neither moon nor stars to guide us; only the +whiteness of the way in the midst and a blackness of an alley on both hands. +The walking was besides made most extraordinary difficult by a plain black +frost that fell suddenly in the small hours and turned that highway into one +long slide. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Catriona,” said I, “here we are like the king’s +sons and the old wives’ daughters in your daft-like Highland tales. Soon +we’ll be going over the ‘<i>seven Bens</i>, <i>the seven glens and +the seven mountain moors</i>’.” Which was a common byword or +overcome in those tales of hers that had stuck in my memory. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” says she, “but here are no glens or mountains! Though I +will never be denying but what the trees and some of the plain places +hereabouts are very pretty. But our country is the best yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish we could say as much for our own folk,” says I, recalling +Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James More himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never complain of the country of my friend,” said she, and +spoke it out with an accent so particular that I seemed to see the look upon +her face. +</p> + +<p> +I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling (for my pains) on the black +ice. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know what <i>you</i> think, Catriona,” said I, when I was +a little recovered, “but this has been the best day yet! I think shame to +say it, when you have met in with such misfortunes and disfavours; but for me, +it has been the best day yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a good day when you showed me so much love,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet I think shame to be happy too,” I went on, “and you +here on the road in the black night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where in the great world would I be else?” she cried. “I am +thinking I am safest where I am with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite forgiven, then?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not forgive me that time so much as not to take it in your +mouth again?” she cried. “There is nothing in this heart to you but +thanks. But I will be honest too,” she added, with a kind of suddenness, +“and I’ll never can forgive that girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this Miss Grant again?” said I. “You said yourself she +was the best lady in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“So she will be, indeed!” says Catriona. “But I will never +forgive her for all that. I will never, never forgive her, and let me hear tell +of her no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “this beats all that ever came to my +knowledge; and I wonder that you can indulge yourself in such bairnly whims. +Here is a young lady that was the best friend in the world to the both of us, +that learned us how to dress ourselves, and in a great manner how to behave, as +anyone can see that knew us both before and after.” +</p> + +<p> +But Catriona stopped square in the midst of the highway. +</p> + +<p> +“It is this way of it,” said she. “Either you will go on to +speak of her, and I will go back to yon town, and let come of it what God +pleases! Or else you will do me that politeness to talk of other things.” +</p> + +<p> +I was the most nonplussed person in this world; but I bethought me that she +depended altogether on my help, that she was of the frail sex and not so much +beyond a child, and it was for me to be wise for the pair of us. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear girl,” said I, “I can make neither head nor tails of +this; but God forbid that I should do anything to set you on the jee. As for +talking of Miss Grant, I have no such a mind to it, and I believe it was +yourself began it. My only design (if I took you up at all) was for your own +improvement, for I hate the very look of injustice. Not that I do not wish you +to have a good pride and a nice female delicacy; they become you well; but here +you show them to excess.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, have you done?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I have done,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“A very good thing,” said she, and we went on again, but now in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +It was an eerie employment to walk in the gross night, beholding only shadows +and hearing nought but our own steps. At first, I believe our hearts burned +against each other with a deal of enmity; but the darkness and the cold, and +the silence, which only the cocks sometimes interrupted, or sometimes the +farmyard dogs, had pretty soon brought down our pride to the dust; and for my +own particular, I would have jumped at any decent opening for speech. +</p> + +<p> +Before the day peeped, came on a warmish rain, and the frost was all wiped away +from among our feet. I took my cloak to her and sought to hap her in the same; +she bade me, rather impatiently, to keep it. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed and I will do no such thing,” said I. “Here am I, a +great, ugly lad that has seen all kinds of weather, and here are you a tender, +pretty maid! My dear, you would not put me to a shame?” +</p> + +<p> +Without more words she let me cover her; which as I was doing in the darkness, +I let my hand rest a moment on her shoulder, almost like an embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“You must try to be more patient of your friend,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +I thought she seemed to lean the least thing in the world against my bosom, or +perhaps it was but fancy. +</p> + +<p> +“There will be no end to your goodness,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +And we went on again in silence; but now all was changed; and the happiness +that was in my heart was like a fire in a great chimney. +</p> + +<p> +The rain passed ere day; it was but a sloppy morning as we came into the town +of Delft. The red gabled houses made a handsome show on either hand of a canal; +the servant lassies were out slestering and scrubbing at the very stones upon +the public highway; smoke rose from a hundred kitchens; and it came in upon me +strongly it was time to break our fasts. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “I believe you have yet a shilling and +three baubees?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you wanting it?” said she, and passed me her purse. “I +am wishing it was five pounds! What will you want it for?” +</p> + +<p> +“And what have we been walking for all night, like a pair of waif +Egyptians!” says I. “Just because I was robbed of my purse and all +I possessed in that unchancy town of Rotterdam. I will tell you of it now, +because I think the worst is over, but we have still a good tramp before us +till we get to where my money is, and if you would not buy me a piece of bread, +I were like to go fasting.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me with open eyes. By the light of the new day she was all black +and pale for weariness, so that my heart smote me for her. But as for her, she +broke out laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“My torture! are we beggars then!” she cried. “You too? O, I +could have wished for this same thing! And I am glad to buy your breakfast to +you. But it would be pleisand if I would have had to dance to get a meal to +you! For I believe they are not very well acquainted with our manner of dancing +over here, and might be paying for the curiosity of that sight.” +</p> + +<p> +I could have kissed her for that word, not with a lover’s mind, but in a +heat of admiration. For it always warms a man to see a woman brave. +</p> + +<p> +We got a drink of milk from a country wife but new come to the town, and in a +baker’s, a piece of excellent, hot, sweet-smelling bread, which we ate +upon the road as we went on. That road from Delft to the Hague is just five +miles of a fine avenue shaded with trees, a canal on the one hand, on the other +excellent pastures of cattle. It was pleasant here indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Davie,” said she, “what will you do with me at all +events?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is what we have to speak of,” said I, “and the sooner yet +the better. I can come by money in Leyden; that will be all well. But the +trouble is how to dispose of you until your father come. I thought last night +you seemed a little sweir to part from me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be more than seeming then,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a very young maid,” said I, “and I am but a very +young callant. This is a great piece of difficulty. What way are we to manage? +Unless indeed, you could pass to be my sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“And what for no?” said she, “if you would let me!” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you were so, indeed,” I cried. “I would be a fine man +if I had such a sister. But the rub is that you are Catriona Drummond.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now I will be Catriona Balfour,” she said. “And who is +to ken? They are all strange folk here.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you think that it would do,” says I. “I own it troubles +me. I would like it very ill, if I advised you at all wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“David, I have no friend here but you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“The mere truth is, I am too young to be your friend,” said I. +“I am too young to advise you, or you to be advised. I see not what else +we are to do, and yet I ought to warn you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will have no choice left,” said she. “My father James More +has not used me very well, and it is not the first time, I am cast upon your +hands like a sack of barley meal, and have nothing else to think of but your +pleasure. If you will have me, good and well. If you will not”—she +turned and touched her hand upon my arm—“David, I am afraid,” +said she. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I ought to warn you,” I began; and then bethought me I was +the bearer of the purse, and it would never do to seem too churlish. +“Catriona,” said I, “don’t misunderstand me: I am just +trying to do my duty by you, girl! Here am I going alone to this strange city, +to be a solitary student there; and here is this chance arisen that you might +dwell with me a bit, and be like my sister; you can surely understand this +much, my dear, that I would just love to have you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and here I am,” said she. “So that’s soon +settled.” +</p> + +<p> +I know I was in duty bounden to have spoke more plain. I know this was a great +blot on my character, for which I was lucky that I did not pay more dear. But I +minded how easy her delicacy had been startled with a word of kissing her in +Barbara’s letter; now that she depended on me, how was I to be more bold? +Besides, the truth is, I could see no other feasible method to dispose of her. +And I daresay inclination pulled me very strong. +</p> + +<p> +A little beyond the Hague she fell very lame and made the rest of the distance +heavily enough. Twice she must rest by the wayside, which she did with pretty +apologies, calling herself a shame to the Highlands and the race she came of, +and nothing but a hindrance to myself. It was her excuse, she said, that she +was not much used with walking shod. I would have had her strip off her shoes +and stockings and go barefoot. But she pointed out to me that the women of that +country, even in the landward roads, appeared to be all shod. +</p> + +<p> +“I must not be disgracing my brother,” said she, and was very merry +with it all, although her face told tales of her. +</p> + +<p> +There is a garden in that city we were bound to, sanded below with clean sand, +the trees meeting overhead, some of them trimmed, some preached, and the whole +place beautified with alleys and arbours. Here I left Catriona, and went +forward by myself to find my correspondent. There I drew on my credit, and +asked to be recommended to some decent, retired lodging. My baggage being not +yet arrived, I told him I supposed I should require his caution with the people +of the house; and explained that, my sister being come for a while to keep +house with me, I should be wanting two chambers. This was all very well; but +the trouble was that Mr. Balfour in his letter of recommendation had +condescended on a great deal of particulars, and never a word of any sister in +the case. I could see my Dutchman was extremely suspicious; and viewing me over +the rims of a great pair of spectacles—he was a poor, frail body, and +reminded me of an infirm rabbit—he began to question me close. +</p> + +<p> +Here I fell in a panic. Suppose he accept my tale (thinks I), suppose he invite +my sister to his house, and that I bring her. I shall have a fine ravelled pirn +to unwind, and may end by disgracing both the lassie and myself. Thereupon I +began hastily to expound to him my sister’s character. She was of a +bashful disposition, it appeared, and be extremely fearful of meeting strangers +that I had left her at that moment sitting in a public place alone. And then, +being launched upon the stream of falsehood, I must do like all the rest of the +world in the same circumstance, and plunge in deeper than was any service; +adding some altogether needless particulars of Miss Balfour’s ill-health +and retirement during childhood. In the midst of which I awoke to a sense of my +behaviour, and was turned to one blush. +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman was not so much deceived but what he discovered a willingness +to be quit of me. But he was first of all a man of business; and knowing that +my money was good enough, however it might be with my conduct, he was so far +obliging as to send his son to be my guide and caution in the matter of a +lodging. This implied my presenting of the young man to Catriona. The poor, +pretty child was much recovered with resting, looked and behaved to perfection, +and took my arm and gave me the name of brother more easily than I could answer +her. But there was one misfortune: thinking to help, she was rather towardly +than otherwise to my Dutchman. And I could not but reflect that Miss Balfour +had rather suddenly outgrown her bashfulness. And there was another thing, the +difference of our speech. I had the Low Country tongue and dwelled upon my +words; she had a hill voice, spoke with something of an English accent, only +far more delightful, and was scarce quite fit to be called a deacon in the +craft of talking English grammar; so that, for a brother and sister, we made a +most uneven pair. But the young Hollander was a heavy dog, without so much +spirit in his belly as to remark her prettiness, for which I scorned him. And +as soon as he had found a cover to our heads, he left us alone, which was the +greater service of the two. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /> +FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS</h2> + +<p> +The place found was in the upper part of a house backed on a canal. We had two +rooms, the second entering from the first; each had a chimney built out into +the floor in the Dutch manner; and being alongside, each had the same prospect +from the window of the top of a tree below us in a little court, of a piece of +the canal, and of houses in the Hollands architecture and a church spire upon +the further side. A full set of bells hung in that spire and made delightful +music; and when there was any sun at all, it shone direct in our two chambers. +From a tavern hard by we had good meals sent in. +</p> + +<p> +The first night we were both pretty weary, and she extremely so. There was +little talk between us, and I packed her off to her bed as soon as she had +eaten. The first thing in the morning I wrote word to Sprott to have her mails +sent on, together with a line to Alan at his chief’s; and had the same +despatched, and her breakfast ready, ere I waked her. I was a little abashed +when she came forth in her one habit, and the mud of the way upon her +stockings. By what inquiries I had made, it seemed a good few days must pass +before her mails could come to hand in Leyden, and it was plainly needful she +must have a shift of things. She was unwilling at first that I should go to +that expense; but I reminded her she was now a rich man’s sister and must +appear suitably in the part, and we had not got to the second merchant’s +before she was entirely charmed into the spirit of the thing, and her eyes +shining. It pleased me to see her so innocent and thorough in this pleasure. +What was more extraordinary was the passion into which I fell on it myself; +being never satisfied that I had bought her enough or fine enough, and never +weary of beholding her in different attires. Indeed, I began to understand some +little of Miss Grant’s immersion in the interest of clothes; for the +truth is, when you have the ground of a beautiful person to adorn, the whole +business becomes beautiful. The Dutch chintzes I should say were extraordinary +cheap and fine; but I would be ashamed to set down what I paid for stockings to +her. Altogether I spent so great a sum upon this pleasuring (as I may call it) +that I was ashamed for a great while to spend more; and by way of a set-off, I +left our chambers pretty bare. If we had beds, if Catriona was a little braw, +and I had light to see her by, we were richly enough lodged for me. +</p> + +<p> +By the end of this merchandising I was glad to leave her at the door with all +our purchases, and go for a long walk alone in which to read myself a lecture. +Here had I taken under my roof, and as good as to my bosom, a young lass +extremely beautiful, and whose innocence was her peril. My talk with the old +Dutchman, and the lies to which I was constrained, had already given me a sense +of how my conduct must appear to others; and now, after the strong admiration I +had just experienced and the immoderacy with which I had continued my vain +purchases, I began to think of it myself as very hazarded. I bethought me, if I +had a sister indeed, whether I would so expose her; then, judging the case too +problematical, I varied my question into this, whether I would so trust +Catriona in the hands of any other Christian being; the answer to which made my +face to burn. The more cause, since I had been entrapped and had entrapped the +girl into an undue situation, that I should behave in it with scrupulous +nicety. She depended on me wholly for her bread and shelter; in case I should +alarm her delicacy, she had no retreat. Besides I was her host and her +protector; and the more irregularly I had fallen in these positions, the less +excuse for me if I should profit by the same to forward even the most honest +suit; for with the opportunities that I enjoyed, and which no wise parent would +have suffered for a moment, even the most honest suit would be unfair. I saw I +must be extremely hold-off in my relations; and yet not too much so neither; +for if I had no right to appear at all in the character of a suitor, I must yet +appear continually, and if possible agreeably, in that of host. It was plain I +should require a great deal of tact and conduct, perhaps more than my years +afforded. But I had rushed in where angels might have feared to tread, and +there was no way out of that position save by behaving right while I was in it. +I made a set of rules for my guidance; prayed for strength to be enabled to +observe them, and as a more human aid to the same end purchased a study-book in +law. This being all that I could think of, I relaxed from these grave +considerations; whereupon my mind bubbled at once into an effervescency of +pleasing spirits, and it was like one treading on air that I turned homeward. +As I thought that name of home, and recalled the image of that figure awaiting +me between four walls, my heart beat upon my bosom. +</p> + +<p> +My troubles began with my return. She ran to greet me with an obvious and +affecting pleasure. She was clad, besides, entirely in the new clothes that I +had bought for her; looked in them beyond expression well; and must walk about +and drop me curtseys to display them and to be admired. I am sure I did it with +an ill grace, for I thought to have choked upon the words. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “if you will not be caring for my pretty +clothes, see what I have done with our two chambers.” And she showed me +the place all very finely swept, and the fires glowing in the two chimneys. +</p> + +<p> +I was glad of a chance to seem a little more severe than I quite felt. +“Catriona,” said I, “I am very much displeased with you, and +you must never again lay a hand upon my room. One of us two must have the rule +while we are here together; it is most fit it should be I who am both the man +and the elder; and I give you that for my command.” +</p> + +<p> +She dropped me one of her curtseys; which were extraordinary taking. “If +you will be cross,” said she, “I must be making pretty manners at +you, Davie. I will be very obedient, as I should be when every stitch upon all +there is of me belongs to you. But you will not be very cross either, because +now I have not anyone else.” +</p> + +<p> +This struck me hard, and I made haste, in a kind of penitence, to blot out all +the good effect of my last speech. In this direction progress was more easy, +being down hill; she led me forward, smiling; at the sight of her, in the +brightness of the fire and with her pretty becks and looks, my heart was +altogether melted. We made our meal with infinite mirth and tenderness; and the +two seemed to be commingled into one, so that our very laughter sounded like a +kindness. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of which I awoke to better recollections, made a lame word of +excuse, and set myself boorishly to my studies. It was a substantial, +instructive book that I had bought, by the late Dr. Heineccius, in which I was +to do a great deal reading these next few days, and often very glad that I had +no one to question me of what I read. Methought she bit her lip at me a little, +and that cut me. Indeed it left her wholly solitary, the more as she was very +little of a reader, and had never a book. But what was I to do? +</p> + +<p> +So the rest of the evening flowed by almost without speech. +</p> + +<p> +I could have beat myself. I could not lie in my bed that night for rage and +repentance, but walked to and fro on my bare feet till I was nearly perished, +for the chimney was gone out and the frost keen. The thought of her in the next +room, the thought that she might even hear me as I walked, the remembrance of +my churlishness and that I must continue to practise the same ungrateful course +or be dishonoured, put me beside my reason. I stood like a man between Scylla +and Charybdis: <i>What must she think of me</i>? was my one thought that +softened me continually into weakness. <i>What is to become of us</i>? the +other which steeled me again to resolution. This was my first night of +wakefulness and divided counsels, of which I was now to pass many, pacing like +a madman, sometimes weeping like a childish boy, sometimes praying (I fain +would hope) like a Christian. +</p> + +<p> +But prayer is not very difficult, and the hitch comes in practice. In her +presence, and above all if I allowed any beginning of familiarity, I found I +had very little command of what should follow. But to sit all day in the same +room with her, and feign to be engaged upon Heineccius, surpassed my strength. +So that I fell instead upon the expedient of absenting myself so much as I was +able; taking out classes and sitting there regularly, often with small +attention, the test of which I found the other day in a note-book of that +period, where I had left off to follow an edifying lecture and actually +scribbled in my book some very ill verses, though the Latinity is rather better +than I thought that I could ever have compassed. The evil of this course was +unhappily near as great as its advantage. I had the less time of trial, but I +believe, while the time lasted, I was tried the more extremely. For she being +so much left to solitude, she came to greet my return with an increasing +fervour that came nigh to overmaster me. These friendly offers I must +barbarously cast back; and my rejection sometimes wounded her so cruelly that I +must unbend and seek to make it up to her in kindness. So that our time passed +in ups and downs, tiffs and disappointments, upon the which I could almost say +(if it may be said with reverence) that I was crucified. +</p> + +<p> +The base of my trouble was Catriona’s extraordinary innocence, at which I +was not so much surprised as filled with pity and admiration. She seemed to +have no thought of our position, no sense of my struggles; welcomed any mark of +my weakness with responsive joy; and when I was drove again to my +retrenchments, did not always dissemble her chagrin. There were times when I +have thought to myself, “If she were over head in love, and set her cap +to catch me, she would scarce behave much otherwise;” and then I would +fall again into wonder at the simplicity of woman, from whom I felt (in these +moments) that I was not worthy to be descended. +</p> + +<p> +There was one point in particular on which our warfare turned, and of all +things, this was the question of her clothes. My baggage had soon followed me +from Rotterdam, and hers from Helvoet. She had now, as it were, two wardrobes; +and it grew to be understood between us (I could never tell how) that when she +was friendly she would wear my clothes, and when otherwise her own. It was +meant for a buffet, and (as it were) the renunciation of her gratitude; and I +felt it so in my bosom, but was generally more wise than to appear to have +observed the circumstance. +</p> + +<p> +Once, indeed, I was betrayed into a childishness greater than her own; it fell +in this way. On my return from classes, thinking upon her devoutly with a great +deal of love and a good deal of annoyance in the bargain, the annoyance began +to fade away out of my mind; and spying in a window one of those forced +flowers, of which the Hollanders are so skilled in the artifice, I gave way to +an impulse and bought it for Catriona. I do not know the name of that flower, +but it was of the pink colour, and I thought she would admire the same, and +carried it home to her with a wonderful soft heart. I had left her in my +clothes, and when I returned to find her all changed and a face to match, I +cast but the one look at her from head to foot, ground my teeth together, flung +the window open, and my flower into the court, and then (between rage and +prudence) myself out of that room again, of which I slammed she door as I went +out. +</p> + +<p> +On the steep stair I came near falling, and this brought me to myself, so that +I began at once to see the folly of my conduct. I went, not into the street as +I had purposed, but to the house court, which was always a solitary place, and +where I saw my flower (that had cost me vastly more than it was worth) hanging +in the leafless tree. I stood by the side of the canal, and looked upon the +ice. Country people went by on their skates, and I envied them. I could see no +way out of the pickle I was in no way so much as to return to the room I had +just left. No doubt was in my mind but I had now betrayed the secret of my +feelings; and to make things worse, I had shown at the same time (and that with +wretched boyishness) incivility to my helpless guest. +</p> + +<p> +I suppose she must have seen me from the open window. It did not seem to me +that I had stood there very long before I heard the crunching of footsteps on +the frozen snow, and turning somewhat angrily (for I was in no spirit to be +interrupted) saw Catriona drawing near. She was all changed again, to the +clocked stockings. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we not to have our walk to-day?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +I was looking at her in a maze. “Where is your brooch?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +She carried her hand to her bosom and coloured high. “I will have +forgotten it,” said she. “I will run upstairs for it quick, and +then surely we’ll can have our walk?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a note of pleading in that last that staggered me; I had neither +words nor voice to utter them; I could do no more than nod by way of answer; +and the moment she had left me, climbed into the tree and recovered my flower, +which on her return I offered her. +</p> + +<p> +“I bought it for you, Catriona,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +She fixed it in the midst of her bosom with the brooch, I could have thought +tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +“It is none the better of my handling,” said I again, and blushed. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be liking it none the worse, you may be sure of that,” said +she. +</p> + +<p> +We did not speak so much that day; she seemed a thought on the reserve, though +not unkindly. As for me, all the time of our walking, and after we came home, +and I had seen her put my flower into a pot of water, I was thinking to myself +what puzzles women were. I was thinking, the one moment, it was the most stupid +thing on earth she should not have perceived my love; and the next, that she +had certainly perceived it long ago, and (being a wise girl with the fine +female instinct of propriety) concealed her knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +We had our walk daily. Out in the streets I felt more safe; I relaxed a little +in my guardedness; and for one thing, there was no Heineccius. This made these +periods not only a relief to myself, but a particular pleasure to my poor +child. When I came back about the hour appointed, I would generally find her +ready dressed, and glowing with anticipation. She would prolong their duration +to the extreme, seeming to dread (as I did myself) the hour of the return; and +there is scarce a field or waterside near Leyden, scarce a street or lane +there, where we have not lingered. Outside of these, I bade her confine herself +entirely to our lodgings; this in the fear of her encountering any +acquaintance, which would have rendered our position very difficult. From the +same apprehension I would never suffer her to attend church, nor even go +myself; but made some kind of shift to hold worship privately in our own +chamber—I hope with an honest, but I am quite sure with a very much +divided mind. Indeed, there was scarce anything that more affected me, than +thus to kneel down alone with her before God like man and wife. +</p> + +<p> +One day it was snowing downright hard. I had thought it not possible that we +should venture forth, and was surprised to find her waiting for me ready +dressed. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not be doing without my walk,” she cried. “You are +never a good boy, Davie, in the house; I will never be caring for you only in +the open air. I think we two will better turn Egyptian and dwell by the +roadside.” +</p> + +<p> +That was the best walk yet of all of them; she clung near to me in the falling +snow; it beat about and melted on us, and the drops stood upon her bright +cheeks like tears and ran into her smiling mouth. Strength seemed to come upon +me with the sight like a giant’s; I thought I could have caught her up +and run with her into the uttermost places in the earth; and we spoke together +all that time beyond belief for freedom and sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +It was the dark night when we came to the house door. She pressed my arm upon +her bosom. “Thank you kindly for these same good hours,” said she, +on a deep note of her voice. +</p> + +<p> +The concern in which I fell instantly on this address, put me with the same +swiftness on my guard; and we were no sooner in the chamber, and the light +made, than she beheld the old, dour, stubborn countenance of the student of +Heineccius. Doubtless she was more than usually hurt; and I know for myself, I +found it more than usually difficult to maintain any strangeness. Even at the +meal, I durst scarce unbuckle and scarce lift my eyes to her; and it was no +sooner over than I fell again to my civilian, with more seeming abstraction and +less understanding than before. Methought, as I read, I could hear my heart +strike like an eight-day clock. Hard as I feigned to study, there was still +some of my eyesight that spilled beyond the book upon Catriona. She sat on the +floor by the side of my great mail, and the chimney lighted her up, and shone +and blinked upon her, and made her glow and darken through a wonder of fine +hues. Now she would be gazing in the fire, and then again at me; and at that I +would be plunged in a terror of myself, and turn the pages of Heineccius like a +man looking for the text in church. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she called out aloud. “O, why does not my father come?” +she cried, and fell at once into a storm of tears. +</p> + +<p> +I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran to her side, and cast an +arm around her sobbing body. +</p> + +<p> +She put me from her sharply, “You do not love your friend,” says +she. “I could be so happy too, if you would let me!” And then, +“O, what will I have done that you should hate me so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hate you!” cries I, and held her firm. “You blind less, can +you not see a little in my wretched heart? Do you not think when I sit there, +reading in that fool-book that I have just burned and be damned to it, I take +ever the least thought of any stricken thing but just yourself? Night after +night I could have grat to see you sitting there your lone. And what was I to +do? You are here under my honour; would you punish me for that? Is it for that +that you would spurn a loving servant?” +</p> + +<p> +At the word, with a small, sudden motion, she clung near to me. I raised her +face to mine, I kissed it, and she bowed her brow upon my bosom, clasping me +tight. I saw in a mere whirl like a man drunken. Then I heard her voice sound +very small and muffled in my clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you kiss her truly?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +There went through me so great a heave of surprise that I was all shook with +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Grant?” I cried, all in a disorder. “Yes, I asked her +to kiss me good-bye, the which she did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well!” said she, “you have kissed me too, at all +events.” +</p> + +<p> +At the strangeness and sweetness of that word, I saw where we had fallen; rose, +and set her on her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“This will never do,” said I. “This will never, never do. O +Catrine, Catrine!” Then there came a pause in which I was debarred from +any speaking. And then, “Go away to your bed,” said I. “Go +away to your bed and leave me.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned to obey me like a child, and the next I knew of it, had stopped in +the very doorway. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night, Davie!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“And O, good night, my love!” I cried, with a great outbreak of my +soul, and caught her to me again, so that it seemed I must have broken her. The +next moment I had thrust her from the room, shut to the door even with +violence, and stood alone. +</p> + +<p> +The milk was spilt now, the word was out and the truth told. I had crept like +an untrusty man into the poor maid’s affections; she was in my hand like +any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon of defence was left +me? It seemed like a symbol that Heineccius, my old protection, was now burned. +I repented, yet could not find it in my heart to blame myself for that great +failure. It seemed not possible to have resisted the boldness of her innocence +or that last temptation of her weeping. And all that I had to excuse me did but +make my sin appear the greater—it was upon a nature so defenceless, and +with such advantages of the position, that I seemed to have practised. +</p> + +<p> +What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in the one +place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without either choice or fault of +ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that narrow place. I had a wild +thought of marrying out of hand; and the next moment put it from me with +revolt. She was a child, she could not tell her own heart; I had surprised her +weakness, I must never go on to build on that surprisal; I must keep her not +only clear of reproach, but free as she had come to me. +</p> + +<p> +Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and repented, and beat my brains in +vain for any means of escape. About two of the morning, there were three red +embers left and the house and all the city was asleep, when I was aware of a +small sound of weeping in the next room. She thought that I slept, the poor +soul; she regretted her weakness—and what perhaps (God help her!) she +called her forwardness—and in the dead of the night solaced herself with +tears. Tender and bitter feelings, love and penitence and pity, struggled in my +soul; it seemed I was under bond to heal that weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“O, try to forgive me!” I cried out, “try, try to forgive me. +Let us forget it all, let us try if we’ll no can forget it!” +</p> + +<p> +There came no answer, but the sobbing ceased. I stood a long while with my +hands still clasped as I had spoken; then the cold of the night laid hold upon +me with a shudder, and I think my reason reawakened. +</p> + +<p> +“You can make no hand of this, Davie,” thinks I. “To bed with +you like a wise lad, and try if you can sleep. To-morrow you may see your +way.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /> +THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE</h2> + +<p> +I was called on the morrow out of a late and troubled slumber by a knocking on +my door, ran to open it, and had almost swooned with the contrariety of my +feelings, mostly painful; for on the threshold, in a rough wraprascal and an +extraordinary big laced hat, there stood James More. +</p> + +<p> +I ought to have been glad perhaps without admixture, for there was a sense in +which the man came like an answer to prayer. I had been saying till my head was +weary that Catriona and I must separate, and looking till my head ached for any +possible means of separation. Here were the means come to me upon two legs, and +joy was the hindmost of my thoughts. It is to be considered, however, that even +if the weight of the future were lifted off me by the man’s arrival, the +present heaved up the more black and menacing; so that, as I first stood before +him in my shirt and breeches, I believe I took a leaping step backward like a +person shot. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said he, “I have found you, Mr. Balfour.” And +offered me his large, fine hand, the which (recovering at the same time my post +in the doorway, as if with some thought of resistance) I took him by +doubtfully. “It is a remarkable circumstance how our affairs appear to +intermingle,” he continued. “I am owing you an apology for an +unfortunate intrusion upon yours, which I suffered myself to be entrapped into +by my confidence in that false-face, Prestongrange; I think shame to own to you +that I was ever trusting to a lawyer.” He shrugged his shoulders with a +very French air. “But indeed the man is very plausible,” says he. +“And now it seems that you have busied yourself handsomely in the matter +of my daughter, for whose direction I was remitted to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think, sir,” said I, with a very painful air, “that it +will be necessary we two should have an explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing amiss?” he asked. “My agent, Mr. +Sprott—” +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake moderate your voice!” I cried. “She +must not hear till we have had an explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is in this place?” cries he. +</p> + +<p> +“That is her chamber door,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You are here with her alone?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“And who else would I have got to stay with us?” cries I. +</p> + +<p> +I will do him the justice to admit that he turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very unusual,” said he. “This is a very unusual +circumstance. You are right, we must hold an explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying he passed me by, and I must own the tall old rogue appeared at that +moment extraordinary dignified. He had now, for the first time, the view of my +chamber, which I scanned (I may say) with his eyes. A bit of morning sun +glinted in by the window pane, and showed it off; my bed, my mails, and washing +dish, with some disorder of my clothes, and the unlighted chimney, made the +only plenishing; no mistake but it looked bare and cold, and the most +unsuitable, beggarly place conceivable to harbour a young lady. At the same +time came in on my mind the recollection of the clothes that I had bought for +her; and I thought this contrast of poverty and prodigality bore an ill +appearance. +</p> + +<p> +He looked all about the chamber for a seat, and finding nothing else to his +purpose except my bed, took a place upon the side of it; where, after I had +closed the door, I could not very well avoid joining him. For however this +extraordinary interview might end, it must pass if possible without waking +Catriona; and the one thing needful was that we should sit close and talk low. +But I can scarce picture what a pair we made; he in his great coat which the +coldness of my chamber made extremely suitable; I shivering in my shirt and +breeks; he with very much the air of a judge; and I (whatever I looked) with +very much the feelings of a man who has heard the last trumpet. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” says he. +</p> + +<p> +And “Well,” I began, but found myself unable to go further. +</p> + +<p> +“You tell me she is here?” said he again, but now with a spice of +impatience that seemed to brace me up. +</p> + +<p> +“She is in this house,” said I, “and I knew the circumstance +would be called unusual. But you are to consider how very unusual the whole +business was from the beginning. Here is a young lady landed on the coast of +Europe with two shillings and a penny halfpenny. She is directed to yon man +Sprott in Helvoet. I hear you call him your agent. All I can say is he could do +nothing but damn and swear at the mere mention of your name, and I must fee him +out of my own pocket even to receive the custody of her effects. You speak of +unusual circumstances, Mr. Drummond, if that be the name you prefer. Here was a +circumstance, if you like, to which it was barbarity to have exposed +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is what I cannot understand the least,” said James. +“My daughter was placed into the charge of some responsible persons, +whose names I have forgot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gebbie was the name,” said I; “and there is no doubt that +Mr. Gebbie should have gone ashore with her at Helvoet. But he did not, Mr. +Drummond; and I think you might praise God that I was there to offer in his +place.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the choice was not between me and somebody else, it was between me +and nobody,” cried I. “Nobody offered in my place, and I must say I +think you show a very small degree of gratitude to me that did.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall wait until I understand my obligation a little more in the +particular,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a young man,” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“So I hear you tell me,” said I, with a good deal of heat. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a very young man,” he repeated, “or you would have +understood the significancy of the step.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What I would have looked for at your hands!” says he; and there +was no mistake but what he said it civilly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be frank with you, sir,” says I, “I drink nothing else +but spare, cold water.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall make it my business to see you are supplied,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, very good,” said he, “and we shall make a man of you +yet, Mr. David.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +With that I went forth upon my errand, having (by two words) extraordinarily +damaged my affairs. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /> +THE THREESOME</h2> + +<p> +Whether or not I was to be so much blamed, or rather perhaps pitied, I must +leave others to judge. My shrewdness (of which I have a good deal, too) seems +not so great with the ladies. No doubt, at the moment when I awaked her, I was +thinking a good deal of the effect upon James More; and similarly when I +returned and we were all sat down to breakfast, I continued to behave to the +young lady with deference and distance; as I still think to have been most +wise. Her father had cast doubts upon the innocence of my friendship; and +these, it was my first business to allay. But there is a kind of an excuse for +Catriona also. We had shared in a scene of some tenderness and passion, and +given and received caresses: I had thrust her from me with violence; I had +called aloud upon her in the night from the one room to the other; she had +passed hours of wakefulness and weeping; and it is not to be supposed I had +been absent from her pillow thoughts. Upon the back of this, to be awaked, with +unaccustomed formality, under the name of Miss Drummond, and to be thenceforth +used with a great deal of distance and respect, led her entirely in error on my +private sentiments; and she was indeed so incredibly abused as to imagine me +repentant and trying to draw off! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But this was not for long. As I behold her so regardless of her own interests, +which I had jeopardised and was now endeavouring to recover, I redoubled my own +coldness in the manner of a lesson to the girl. The more she came forward, the +farther I drew back; the more she betrayed the closeness of our intimacy, the +more pointedly civil I became, until even her father (if he had not been so +engrossed with eating) might have observed the opposition. In the midst of +which, of a sudden, she became wholly changed, and I told myself, with a good +deal of relief, that she had took the hint at last. +</p> + +<p> +All day I was at my classes or in quest of my new lodging; and though the hour +of our customary walk hung miserably on my hands, I cannot say but I was happy +on the whole to find my way cleared, the girl again in proper keeping, the +father satisfied or at least acquiescent, and myself free to prosecute my love +with honour. At supper, as at all our meals, it was James More that did the +talking. No doubt but he talked well if anyone could have believed him. But I +will speak of him presently more at large. The meal at an end, he rose, got his +great coat, and looking (as I thought) at me, observed he had affairs abroad. I +took this for a hint that I was to be going also, and got up; whereupon the +girl, who had scarce given me greeting at my entrance, turned her eyes upon me +wide open with a look that bade me stay. I stood between them like a fish out +of water, turning from one to the other; neither seemed to observe me, she +gazing on the floor, he buttoning his coat: which vastly swelled my +embarrassment. This appearance of indifference argued, upon her side, a good +deal of anger very near to burst out. Upon his, I thought it horribly alarming; +I made sure there was a tempest brewing there; and considering that to be the +chief peril, turned towards him and put myself (so to speak) in the man’s +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I do anything for <i>you</i>, Mr. Drummond?” says I. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no more to say, and I got my hat and cloak to bear him company. +</p> + +<p> +“And as for you,” say he to his daughter, “you had best go to +your bed. I shall be late home, and <i>Early to bed and early to rise</i>, +<i>gars bonny lasses have bright eyes</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was some distance to that tavern. He talked all the way of matters which did +not interest me the smallest, and at the door dismissed me with empty manners. +Thence I walked to my new lodging, where I had not so much as a chimney to hold +me warm, and no society but my own thoughts. These were still bright enough; I +did not so much as dream that Catriona was turned against me; I thought we were +like folk pledged; I thought we had been too near and spoke too warmly to be +severed, least of all by what were only steps in a most needful policy. And the +chief of my concern was only the kind of father-in-law that I was getting, +which was not at all the kind I would have chosen: and the matter of how soon I +ought to speak to him, which was a delicate point on several sides. In the +first place, when I thought how young I was I blushed all over, and could +almost have found it in my heart to have desisted; only that if once I let them +go from Leyden without explanation, I might lose her altogether. And in the +second place, there was our very irregular situation to be kept in view, and +the rather scant measure of satisfaction I had given James More that morning. I +concluded, on the whole, that delay would not hurt anything, yet I would not +delay too long neither; and got to my cold bed with a full heart. +</p> + +<p> +The next day, as James More seemed a little on the complaining hand in the +matter of my chamber, I offered to have in more furniture; and coming in the +afternoon, with porters bringing chairs and tables, found the girl once more +left to herself. She greeted me on my admission civilly, but withdrew at once +to her own room, of which she shut the door. I made my disposition, and paid +and dismissed the men so that she might hear them go, when I supposed she would +at once come forth again to speak to me. I waited yet awhile, then knocked upon +her door. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona!” said I. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we not to have our walk to-day either?” so I faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“I am thanking you,” said she. “I will not be caring much to +walk, now that my father is come home.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think he has gone out himself and left you here alone,” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think that was very kindly said?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am thanking you,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself began to get the upper hand; +for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumble, and my love lost, and myself +alone again in the world as at the beginning. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “we shall be friends always, that’s a +certain thing. But this is a kind of farewell, too: it’s a kind of a +farewell after all; I shall always ken Miss Drummond, but this is a farewell to +my Catriona.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I think it was about five days that followed without any change. I saw her +scarce ever but at meals, and then of course in the company of James More. If +we were alone even for a moment, I made it my devoir to behave the more +distantly and to multiply respectful attentions, having always in my +mind’s eye that picture of the girl shrinking and flaming in a blush, and +in my heart more pity for her than I could depict in words. I was sorry enough +for myself, I need not dwell on that, having fallen all my length and more than +all my height in a few seconds; but, indeed, I was near as sorry for the girl, +and sorry enough to be scarce angry with her save by fits and starts. Her plea +was good; she had been placed in an unfair position; if she had deceived +herself and me, it was no more than was to have been looked for. +</p> + +<p> +And for another thing she was now very much alone. Her father, when he was by, +was rather a caressing parent; but he was very easy led away by his affairs and +pleasures, neglected her without compunction or remark, spent his nights in +taverns when he had the money, which was more often than I could at all account +for; and even in the course of these few days, failed once to come to a meal, +which Catriona and I were at last compelled to partake of without him. It was +the evening meal, and I left immediately that I had eaten, observing I supposed +she would prefer to be alone; to which she agreed and (strange as it may seem) +I quite believed her. Indeed, I thought myself but an eyesore to the girl, and +a reminder of a moment’s weakness that she now abhorred to think of. So +she must sit alone in that room where she and I had been so merry, and in the +blink of that chimney whose light had shone upon our many difficult and tender +moments. There she must sit alone, and think of herself as of a maid who had +most unmaidenly proffered her affections and had the same rejected. And in the +meanwhile I would be alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was +tempted to be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female delicacy. And +altogether I suppose there were never two poor fools made themselves more +unhappy in a greater misconception. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /> +A TWOSOME</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that not Alan Breck that was suspected of the Appin accident?” +he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, I had opened Miss Grant’s, and could not withhold an +exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But James showed himself a ready hypocrite. “My daughter,” says he, +“is this how my cousin learned you to behave? Mr. David has lost a new +friend, and we should first condole with him on his bereavement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Troth, sir,” said I, turning to him in a kind of anger, “I +can make no such great faces. His death is as blithe news as ever I got.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with the same heat. +“It is a good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough +already? I had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for the +man’s death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess +it!—I see not how anyone is to be bettered by this change.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at once into +another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during the most of the dinner +time) he continued to dwell upon with interest. But it was to no purpose he +dissembled; he had touched the matter with too gross a hand: and I knew what to +expect. Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly discovered his designs. He +reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her attend to it. “I do not see +you should be one beyond the hour,” he added, “and friend David +will be good enough to bear me company till you return.” She made haste +to obey him without words. I do not know if she understood, I believe not; but +I was completely satisfied, and sat strengthening my mind for what should +follow. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am rather glad to have a word alone with you,” says he, +“because in our first interview there were some expressions you +misapprehended and I have long meant to set you right upon. My daughter stands +beyond doubt. So do you, and I would make that good with my sword against all +gainsayers. But, my dear David, this world is a censorious place—as who +should know it better than myself, who have lived ever since the days of my +late departed father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of calumnies? We have to +face to that; you and me have to consider of that; we have to consider of +that.” And he wagged his head like a minister in a pulpit. +</p> + +<p> +“To what effect, Mr. Drummond?” said I. “I would be obliged +to you if you would approach your point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “like your character, indeed! +and what I most admire in it. But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes in +a kittle bit.” He filled a glass of wine. “Though between you and +me, that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long. The point, I need +scarcely tell you, is my daughter. And the first thing is that I have no +thought in my mind of blaming you. In the unfortunate circumstances, what could +you do else? ’Deed, and I cannot tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for that,” said I, pretty close upon my guard. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I am dull,” said I. “What ways are these?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are pleased to be quite plain at last,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!” cries he +robustiously. “I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank God, a +patient and deleeborate man. There is many a father, sir, that would have +hirsled you at once either to the altar or the field. My esteem for your +character—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, very true,” says he, with an immediate change. “And you +must excuse the agitations of a parent.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not possible to express my meaning better,” said he, +“and I see we shall do well together.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David,” he cried, and +reached out his hand to me. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is all beside the mark,” says he. “I will engage for +her acceptance.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat and glowered at me like one in doubt and a good deal of temper. +</p> + +<p> +“So that is to be the way of it,” I concluded. “I will marry +Miss Drummond, and that blithely, if she is entirely willing. But if there be +the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear—marry her will I +never.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, sir!” he exclaimed, “and who are you to be the +judge?” +</p> + +<p> +“The bridegroom, I believe,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“This is to quibble,” he cried. “You turn your back upon the +fact. The girl, my daughter, has no choice left to exercise. Her character is +gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I ask your pardon,” said I, “but while this matter lies +between her and you and me, that is not so.” +</p> + +<p> +“What security have I!” he cried. “Am I to let my +daughter’s reputation depend upon a chance?” +</p> + +<p> +“You should have thought of all this long ago,” said I, +“before you were so misguided as to lose her; and not afterwards when it +is quite too late. I refuse to regard myself as any way accountable for your +neglect, and I will be browbeat by no man living. My mind is quite made up, and +come what may, I will not depart from it a hair’s breadth. You and me are +to sit here in company till her return: upon which, without either word or look +from you, she and I are to go forth again to hold our talk. If she can satisfy +me that she is willing to this step, I will then make it; and if she cannot, I +will not.” +</p> + +<p> +He leaped out of his chair like a man stung. “I can spy your +manœuvre,” he cried; “you would work upon her to +refuse!” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” said I. “That is the way it is to +be, whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if I refuse?” cries he. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Mr. Drummond, it will have to come to the throat-cutting,” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +What with the size of the man, his great length of arm in which he came near +rivalling his father, and his reputed skill at weapons, I did not use this word +without trepidation, to say nothing at all of the circumstance that he was +Catriona’s father. But I might have spared myself alarms. From the +poorness of my lodging—he does not seem to have remarked his +daughter’s dresses, which were indeed all equally new to him—and +from the fact that I had shown myself averse to lend, he had embraced a strong +idea of my poverty. The sudden news of my estate convinced him of his error, +and he had made but the one bound of it on this fresh venture, to which he was +now so wedded, that I believe he would have suffered anything rather than fall +to the alternative of fighting. +</p> + +<p> +A little while longer he continued to dispute with me, until I hit upon a word +that silenced him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He gabbled some kind of an excuse. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /> +IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE</h2> + +<p> +I opened the door to Catriona and stopped her on the threshold. +</p> + +<p> +“Your father wishes us to take our walk,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, like a trained soldier, she +turned to go with me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said I, “I am in a very painful situation; or +rather, so we are both; and I would be a good deal obliged to you if you would +promise to let me speak through first of all, and not to interrupt me till I +have done.” +</p> + +<p> +She promised me that simply. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said I, “this that I have got to say is very +difficult, and I know very well I have no right to be saying it. After what +passed between the two of us last Friday, I have no manner of right. We have +got so ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I know very well the least I +could do is just to hold my tongue, which was what I intended fully, and there +was nothing further from my thoughts than to have troubled you again. But, my +dear, it has become merely necessary, and no way by it. You see, this estate of +mine has fallen in, which makes of me rather a better match; and the—the +business would not have quite the same ridiculous-like appearance that it would +before. Besides which, it’s supposed that our affairs have got so much +ravelled up (as I was saying) that it would be better to let them be the way +they are. In my view, this part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were +you I would not wear two thoughts on it. Only it’s right I should mention +the same, because there’s no doubt it has some influence on James More. +Then I think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together in this town +before. I think we did pretty well together. If you would look back, my +dear—” +</p> + +<p> +“I will look neither back nor forward,” she interrupted. +“Tell me the one thing: this is my father’s doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“He approves of it,” said I. “He approved I that I should ask +your hand in marriage,” and was going on again with somewhat more of an +appeal upon her feelings; but she marked me not, and struck into the midst. +</p> + +<p> +“He told you to!” she cried. “It is no sense denying it, you +said yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts. He told you +to.” +</p> + +<p> +“He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean,” I began. +</p> + +<p> +She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her; but at this +she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she would have run. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped and turned round upon me. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is refused at all events,” she cried, “and there +will be an end of that.” +</p> + +<p> +And she began again to walk forward. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not thinking of you,” she said, “I am thinking of that +man, my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped again. “It is because I am disgraced?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have told +you already to make nought of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be all one to me,” she cried. “I prefer to be +disgraced!” +</p> + +<p> +I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy you to be calling +me these words.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her +cheeks. “Was he for fighting you?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he was that,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. “At all events, it is complete!” +she cried. And then turning on me. “My father and I are a fine +pair,” said she, “but I am thanking the good God there will be +somebody worse than what we are. I am thanking the good God that he has let me +see you so. There will never be the girl made that will not scorn you.” +</p> + +<p> +I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this was over the mark. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. “Coward!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head at me with that same smile I could have struck her for. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“When I offered to draw with him,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“You offered to draw upon James More!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“And I did so,” said I, “and found him backward enough, or +how would we be here?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is a meaning upon this,” said she. “What is it you are +meaning?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! ‘<i>And what if I +refuse</i>?’ said he.—‘<i>Then it must come to the +throat-cutting</i>,’ says I, ‘<i>for I will no more have a husband +forced on that young lady</i>, <i>than what I would have a wife forced upon +myself</i>.’ These were my words, they were a friend’s words; +bonnily have I paid for them! Now you have refused me of your own clear free +will, and there lives no father in the Highlands, or out of them, that can +force on this marriage. I will see that your wishes are respected; I will make +the same my business, as I have all through. But I think you might have that +decency as to affect some gratitude. ’Deed, and I thought you knew me +better! I have not behaved quite well to you, but that was weakness. And to +think me a coward, and such a coward as that—O, my lass, there was a stab +for the last of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Davie, how would I guess?” she cried. “O, this is a dreadful +business! Me and mine,”—she gave a kind of a wretched cry at the +word—“me and mine are not fit to speak to you. O, I could be +kneeling down to you in the street, I could be kissing your hands for +forgiveness!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can you be thinking of this miserable girl?” says she. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned, and began to go home and I to accompany her. At which she stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“I will be going alone,” she said. “It is alone I must be +seeing him.” +</p> + +<p> +Some little time I raged about the streets, and told myself I was the worst +used lad in Christendom. Anger choked me; it was all very well for me to +breathe deep; it seemed there was not air enough about Leyden to supply me, and +I thought I would have burst like a man at the bottom of the sea. I stopped and +laughed at myself at a street corner a minute together, laughing out loud, so +that a passenger looked at me, which brought me to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +That seemed to me the chief affair: to see them go. I dwelled upon the idea +fiercely; and presently slipped on, in a kind of malevolence, to consider how +very poorly they were likely to fare when Davie Balfour was no longer by to be +their milk-cow; at which, to my very own great surprise, the disposition of my +mind turned bottom up. I was still angry; I still hated her; and yet I thought +I owed it to myself that she should suffer nothing. +</p> + +<p> +This carried me home again at once, where I found the mails drawn out and ready +fastened by the door, and the father and daughter with every mark upon them of +a recent disagreement. Catriona was like a wooden doll; James More breathed +hard, his face was dotted with white spots, and his nose upon one side. As soon +as I came in, the girl looked at him with a steady, clear, dark look that might +have been followed by a blow. It was a hint that was more contemptuous than a +command, and I was surprised to see James More accept it. It was plain he had +had a master talking-to; and I could see there must be more of the devil in the +girl than I had guessed, and more good humour about the man than I had given +him the credit of. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you what James More is meaning,” said she. “He +means we have come to you, beggar-folk, and have not behaved to you very well, +and we are ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour. Now we are wanting to +go away and be forgotten; and my father will have guided his gear so ill, that +we cannot even do that unless you will give us some more alms. For that is what +we are, at an events, beggar-folk and sorners.” +</p> + +<p> +“By your leave, Miss Drummond,” said I, “I must speak to your +father by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +She went into her own room and shut the door, without a word or a look. +</p> + +<p> +“You must excuse her, Mr. Balfour,” says James More. “She has +no delicacy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would have let me finish,” says I, “you would have +found I spoke for your advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear friend,” he cried, “I know I might have relied upon +the generosity of your character.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I gave them good measure of time; it was my one fear that I might see Catriona +again, because tears and weakness were ready in my heart, and I cherished my +anger like a piece of dignity. Perhaps an hour went by; the sun had gone down, +a little wisp of a new moon was following it across a scarlet sunset; already +there were stars in the east, and in my chambers, when at last I entered them, +the night lay blue. I lit a taper and reviewed the rooms; in the first there +remained nothing so much as to awake a memory of those who were gone; but in +the second, in a corner of the floor, I spied a little heap that brought my +heart into my mouth. She had left behind at her departure all that she had ever +had of me. It was the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was the last; +and I fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved myself more foolish than I +care to tell of. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /> +WE MEET IN DUNKIRK</h2> + +<p> +Altogether, then, I was scare so miserable the next days but what I had many +hopeful and happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal of constancy upon my +studies; and made out to endure the time till Alan should arrive, or I might +hear word of Catriona by the means of James More. I had altogether three +letters in the time of our separation. One was to announce their arrival in the +town of Dunkirk in France, from which place James shortly after started alone +upon a private mission. This was to England and to see Lord Holderness; and it +has always been a bitter thought that my good money helped to pay the charges +of the same. But he has need of a long spoon who soups with the de’il, or +James More either. During this absence, the time was to fall due for another +letter; and as the letter was the condition of his stipend, he had been so +careful as to prepare it beforehand and leave it with Catriona to be +despatched. The fact of our correspondence aroused her suspicions, and he was +no sooner gone than she had burst the seal. What I received began accordingly +in the writing of James More: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My dear Sir,—Your esteemed favour came to hand duly, and I have to +acknowledge the inclosure according to agreement. It shall be all faithfully +expended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to be remembered to her dear +friend. I find her in rather a melancholy disposition, but trust in the mercy +of God to see her re-established. Our manner of life is very much alone, but we +solace ourselves with the melancholy tunes of our native mountains, and by +walking up the margin of the sea that lies next to Scotland. It was better days +with me when I lay with five wounds upon my body on the field of Gladsmuir. I +have found employment here in the <i>haras</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“My dear Sir,<br /> +“Your affectionate, obedient servant,<br /> +“<span class="smcap">James Macgregor Drummond</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Do not be believing him, it is all lies together,—C. M. D.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannae make heed nor tail of it,” he would say, “but it +sticks in my mind ye’ve made a gowk of yourself. There’s few people +that has had more experience than Alan Breck: and I can never call to mind to +have heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours. The way that you tell it, +the thing’s fair impossible. Ye must have made a terrible hash of the +business, David.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are whiles that I am of the same mind,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind of fancy for her +too!” said Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“The biggest kind, Alan,” said I, “and I think I’ll +take it to my grave with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ye beat me, whatever!” he would conclude. +</p> + +<p> +I showed him the letter with Catriona’s postscript. “And here +again!” he cried. “Impossible to deny a kind of decency to this +Catriona, and sense forby! As for James More, the man’s as boss as a +drum; he’s just a wame and a wheen words; though I’ll can never +deny that he fought reasonably well at Gladsmuir, and it’s true what he +says here about the five wounds. But the loss of him is that the man’s +boss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye see, Alan,” said I, “it goes against the grain with me to +leave the maid in such poor hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye couldnae weel find poorer,” he admitted. “But what are ye +to do with it? It’s this way about a man and a woman, ye see, Davie: The +weemenfolk have got no kind of reason to them. Either they like the man, and +then a’ goes fine; or else they just detest him, and ye may spare your +breath—ye can do naething. There’s just the two sets of +them—them that would sell their coats for ye, and them that never look +the road ye’re on. That’s a’ that there is to women; and you +seem to be such a gomeral that ye cannae tell the tane frae the tither.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And can <i>you</i> no help me?” I asked, “you that are so +clever at the trade?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like a +field officer that has naebody but blind men for scouts and +<i>éclaireurs</i>; 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I would e’en’t,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>haras</i>. You will find us in +consequence a little poorly lodged in the <i>auberge</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I wish that I kent,” says Alan. “Him and me were never +onyways pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers. ‘Something +for my ear,’ quo’ he! I’ll maybe have something for his +hinder-end, before we’re through with it. Dod, I’m thinking it +would be a kind of divertisement to gang and see what he’ll be after! +Forby that I could see your lassie then. What say ye, Davie? Will ye ride with +Alan?” +</p> + +<p> +You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan’s furlough running towards +an end, we set forth presently upon this joint adventure. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Voilà l’auberge à Bazin</i>,” says the +guide. +</p> + +<p> +Alan smacked his lips. “An unco lonely bit,” said he, and I thought +by his tone he was not wholly pleased. +</p> + +<p> +A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that house, which was all +in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the chambers at the side, +benches and tables by the wall, the cooking fire at the one end of it, and +shelves of bottles and the cellar-trap at the other. Here Bazin, who was an +ill-looking, big man, told us the Scottish gentleman was gone abroad he knew +not where, but the young lady was above, and he would call her down to us. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his and viewing her, +“and so this is the young lady at the last of it! David, ye’re an +awful poor hand of a description.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to people’s hearts; +the sound of his voice was like song. +</p> + +<p> +“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he, +“forby a bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood by +Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said. And +now there’s one thing sure; you and me are to be a pair of friends. +I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I’m like a tyke at his +heels; and whatever he cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by +the holy airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see what way +you stand with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find ye’ll hardly lose on the +transaction. He’s no very bonnie, my dear, but he’s leal to them he +loves.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you from my heart for your good words,” said she. “I +have that honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot find any to be answering +with.” +</p> + +<p> +Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for James More, and sat down +to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon his wants: he +made her drink first out of his glass, he surrounded her with continual kind +gallantries, and yet never gave me the most small occasion to be jealous; and +he kept the talk so much in his own hand, and that in so merry a note, that +neither she nor I remembered to be embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it +must have been supposed that Alan was the old friend and I the stranger. +Indeed, I had often cause to love and to admire the man, but I never loved or +admired him better than that night; and I could not help remarking to myself +(what I was sometimes rather in danger of forgetting) that he had not only much +experience of life, but in his own way a great deal of natural ability besides. +As for Catriona, she seemed quite carried away; her laugh was like a peal of +bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own, although I was well pleased, +yet I was a little sad also, and thought myself a dull, stockish character in +comparison of my friend, and very unfit to come into a young maid’s life, +and perhaps ding down her gaiety. +</p> + +<p> +But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least I was not alone in +it; for, James More returning suddenly, the girl was changed into a piece of +stone. Through the rest of that evening, until she made an excuse and slipped +to bed, I kept an eye upon her without cease; and I can bear testimony that she +never smiled, scarce spoke, and looked mostly on the board in front of her. So +that I really marvelled to see so much devotion (as it used to be) changed into +the very sickness of hate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were pretty weary with +four day’s ride, and sat not very late after Catriona. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye muckle ass!” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“What do ye mean by that?” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Mean? What do I mean! It’s extraordinar, David man,” say he, +“that you should be so mortal stupit.” +</p> + +<p> +Again I begged him to speak out. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I told him. +</p> + +<p> +“I thocht it was something thereabout,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +Nor would he say another word though I besieged him long with importunities. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /> +THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside my +bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro before the +door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, sprang up a wind out of the +west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun, and set the mill to the +turning. There was something of spring in the sunshine, or else it was in my +heart; and the appearing of the great sails one after another from behind the +hill, diverted me extremely. At times I could hear a creak of the machinery; +and by half-past eight of the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place was +like a paradise. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was in some +danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same, and watched him +close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one side, and vigilance upon +the other, held me on live coals. The meal was no sooner over than James seemed +to come began to make apologies. He had an appointment of a private nature in +the town (it was with the French nobleman, he told me), and we would please +excuse him till about noon. Meanwhile he carried his daughter aside to the far +end of the room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen +with much inclination. +</p> + +<p> +“I am caring less and less about this man James,” said Alan. +“There’s something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae +wonder but what Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine +to see yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to +yoursel, and that would be to speir at the lassie for some news o’ your +affair. Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle ass at +the off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would just +mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, mocking him. +</p> + +<p> +“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can tell her +that I recommended it; that’ll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae +wonder but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I +didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and chief +with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock before +she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing nobody) set +out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I followed her. I was in +no haste to make my presence known; the further she went I made sure of the +longer hearing to my suit; and the ground being all sandy it was easy to follow +her unheard. The path rose and came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I +had a picture for the first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood +hidden in; where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just +Bazin’s and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and +two or three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely +close in to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new suspicion, +when I recognised the trim of the <i>Seahorse</i>. 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? +</p> + +<p> +Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and above the +beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o’-war’s boat +drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in charge and pacing +the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the rough grass a good deal +covered me, and looked for what should follow. Catriona went straight to the +boat; the officer met her with civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a +letter changing hands; and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as +if this were all her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was +headed for the <i>Seahorse</i>. But I observed the officer to remain behind and +disappear among the bents. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which she returned with a +good deal of composure. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know +well.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” she +said. “David, it is not right.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>your</i> colours now; I wear them in my heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting +you. O, try to put up with me!” +</p> + +<p> +I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on. +</p> + +<p> +“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with +a little.” +</p> + +<p> +Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a fear of +death. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake +again? Am I quite lost?” +</p> + +<p> +She raised her face to me, breathless. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear +her say it. +</p> + +<p> +“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect gladness. +</p> + +<p> +It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of what a +mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her hands in mine, +gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure like a child, and called +her foolish and kind names. I have never seen the place that looked so pretty +as those bents by Dunkirk; and the windmill sails, as they bobbed over the +knowe, were like a tune of music. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from mine. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a +man’s letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not to save your friend?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only +sure!” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have but to break the seal!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Give it here,” said she, “and I will open it myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a sense of +danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again from following +James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He was in his +soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not avoid to +shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him, if he were once +caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of the <i>Seahorse</i>, a +deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best right to +open it: or not, as he thinks fit.” +</p> + +<p> +With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark for him. +</p> + +<p> +“If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear +it?” she asked, looking upon me with a burning eye. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He came with one of his queer smiles. “What was I telling ye, +David?” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>Seahorse</i>, Captain Palliser.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A letter to James More?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the +last night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some one +in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and shut.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I gave it him. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but +there’s nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and +I’ll have to break this seal.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my wish,” said Catriona. +</p> + +<p> +He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket. +“Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to +me.” And he began to walk towards the inn. +</p> + +<p> +It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best +day’s work that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, +my dawtie, ye make a real, bonny couple.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“See, Alan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the +English?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non</i>, <i>monsieur</i>,” says he, with an incredible bad +accent. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non</i>, <i>monsieur</i>,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is +that how they learn you French on the <i>Seahorse</i>? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, +here’s a Scots boot to your English hurdies!” +</p> + +<p> +And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick that laid +him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and watched him scramble +to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills. +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty bents!” said +Alan; and continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the +backdoor of Bazin’s inn. +</p> + +<p> +It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with James +More entering by the other. +</p> + +<p> +“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with you and +make your packets; this is no fit scene for you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary place, and his enemies +about him, might have daunted Cæsar. It made no change in him; and it was +in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the interview. +</p> + +<p> +“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” said he. +“What’ll yon business of yours be just about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story,” says +James, “I think it will keep very well till we have eaten.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held himself stoutly. +</p> + +<p> +“I have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” said he, +“and that is the name of my business.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say it then,” says Alan. “Hout! wha minds for Davie?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” said James. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is +Cluny’s Treasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there,” said James. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the business, sir,” said James. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike +interest, “it has naething to do with the <i>Seahorse</i>, then?” +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“With what?” says James. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and white, +then swelled with the living anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet +on the mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. +“Your blood be on your ain heid then!” +</p> + +<p> +I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall; I was +back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at each other like +two furies. I can never think how I avoided being stabbed myself or stabbing +one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole business turned about me like a piece +of a dream; in the midst of which I heard a great cry from the stair, and +Catriona sprang before her father. In the same moment the point of my sword +encountered some thing yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood +flow on the girl’s kerchief, and stood sick. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after +all!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung suddenly +about and faced him. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says +Alan. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir!” cries James. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, +“but now, ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, +“Be you advised, James More, you leave this house.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the same time a spell was lifted from me. +</p> + +<p> +“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are +you much hurt?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave nature, +supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound. +</p> + +<p> +“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?” +says Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, +“My dear,” he said, “you’re a true daughter of Alpin. +By all accounts, he was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If +ever I was to get married, it’s the marrow of you I would be seeking for +a mother to my sons. And I bear’s a king’s name and speak the +truth.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” I cried, “pay yourself,” and flung him down +some Lewie d’ors; for I thought it was no time to be accounting. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into the open. +Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and closing in; a little +nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry them; and right behind +him, like some foolish person holding up his hands, were the sails of the +windmill turning. +</p> + +<p> +Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried a great +weight in James More’s portmanteau; but I think he would as soon have +lost his life as cast away that booty which was his revenge; and he ran so that +I was distressed to follow him, and marvelled and exulted to see the girl +bounding at my side. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other side; and the +seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start of some two +hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins after all, that could +not hope to better us at such an exercise. I suppose they were armed, but did +not care to use their pistols on French ground. And as soon as I perceived that +we not only held our advantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite +easy of the issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk bit of work, so long as +it lasted; Dunkirk was still far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and +found a company of the garrison marching on the other side on some +manœuvre, I could very well understand the word that Alan had. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, “They’re a +real bonny folk, the French nation,” says he. +</p> + +<h2>CONCLUSION</h2> + +<p> +No sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a very +necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a daughter from her +father at the sword’s point; any judge would give her back to him at +once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan into jail; and though we had an +argument upon our side in Captain Palliser’s letter, neither Catriona nor +I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all accounts it seemed the most +prudent to carry the girl to Paris to the hands of her own chieftain, Macgregor +of Bohaldie, who would be very willing to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, +and not at all anxious to dishonour James upon other. +</p> + +<p> +We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good at the riding +as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle since the ’Forty-five. +But we made it out at last, reached Paris early of a Sabbath morning, and made +all speed, under Alan’s guidance, to find Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, +and lived in a good style, having a pension on the Scots Fund, as well as +private means; greeted Catriona like one of his own house, and seemed +altogether very civil and discreet, but not particularly open. We asked of the +news of James More. “Poor James!” said he, and shook his head and +smiled, so that I thought he knew further than he meant to tell. Then we showed +him Palliser’s letter, and he drew a long face at that. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the question of +our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as though there had been no +such person as James More, and gave Catriona away with very pretty manners and +agreeable compliments in French. It was not till all was over, and our healths +drunk, that he told us James was in that city, whither he had preceded us some +days, and where he now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my +wife’s face what way her inclination pointed. +</p> + +<p> +“And let us go see him, then,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“If it is your pleasure,” said Catriona. These were early days. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> + +And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr. Alan Balfour +younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to an end. A great many of +the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you think well) that you +have seen and spoken with. Alison Hastie in Limekilns was the lass that rocked +your cradle when you were too small to know of it, and walked abroad with you +in the policy when you were bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss +Barbara’s name-mamma is no other than the same Miss Grant that made so +much a fool of David Balfour in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder +whether you remember a little, lean, lively gentleman in a scratch-wig and a +wraprascal, that came to Shaws very late of a dark night, and whom you were +awakened out of your beds and brought down to the dining-hall to be presented +to, by the name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten what he did at Mr. +Jamieson’s request—a most disloyal act—for which, by the +letter of the law, he might be hanged—no less than drinking the +king’s health <i>across the water</i>? 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Footnotes</h2> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1" +class="footnote">[1]</a> Conspicuous. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2" +class="footnote">[2]</a> Country. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3" +class="footnote">[3]</a> The Fairies. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote4"></a><a href="#citation4" +class="footnote">[4]</a> Flatteries. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5" +class="footnote">[5]</a> Trust to. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote6"></a><a href="#citation6" +class="footnote">[6]</a> This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first +visit.—D. B. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote7"></a><a href="#citation7" +class="footnote">[7]</a> Sweetheart. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8" +class="footnote">[8]</a> Child. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote9"></a><a href="#citation9" +class="footnote">[9]</a> Palm. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote10"></a><a href="#citation10" +class="footnote">[10]</a> Gallows. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote11"></a><a href="#citation11" +class="footnote">[11]</a> My Catechism. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12" +class="footnote">[12]</a> Now Prince’s Street. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote13"></a><a href="#citation13" +class="footnote">[13]</a> A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby +identifies Alan’s air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell’s +<i>Tales of the West Highlands</i>, Vol. II., p. 91. Upon examination it would +really seem as if Miss Grant’s unrhymed doggrel (see Chapter V.) would +fit with little humouring to the notes in question. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote14"></a><a href="#citation14" +class="footnote">[14]</a> A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of +striking. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote15"></a><a href="#citation15" +class="footnote">[15]</a> Patched shoes. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote16"></a><a href="#citation16" +class="footnote">[16]</a> Shoemaker. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote17"></a><a href="#citation17" +class="footnote">[17]</a> Tamson’s mere—to go afoot. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote18"></a><a href="#citation18" +class="footnote">[18]</a> Beard. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote19"></a><a href="#citation19" +class="footnote">[19]</a> Ragged. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote20"></a><a href="#citation20" +class="footnote">[20]</a> Fine things. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote21"></a><a href="#citation21" +class="footnote">[21]</a> Catch. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote22"></a><a href="#citation22" +class="footnote">[22]</a> Victuals. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote23"></a><a href="#citation23" +class="footnote">[23]</a> Trust. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote24"></a><a href="#citation24" +class="footnote">[24]</a> Sea fog. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote25"></a><a href="#citation25" +class="footnote">[25]</a> Bashful. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote26"></a><a href="#citation26" +class="footnote">[26]</a> Rest. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATRIONA ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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