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diff --git a/589-0.txt b/589-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d76ed49 --- /dev/null +++ b/589-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10990 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Catriona, by Robert Louis Stevenson + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: Catriona + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: May 15, 1996 [eBook #589] +[Most recently updated: June 6, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATRIONA *** + + + + +Catriona + +by Robert Louis Stevenson + + +Contents + + PART I. THE LORD ADVOCATE + CHAPTER I. A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK + CHAPTER II. THE HIGHLAND WRITER + CHAPTER III. I GO TO PILRIG + CHAPTER IV. LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE + CHAPTER V. IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE + CHAPTER VI. UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT + CHAPTER VII. I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR + CHAPTER VIII. THE BRAVO + CHAPTER IX. THE HEATHER ON FIRE + CHAPTER X. THE RED-HEADED MAN + CHAPTER XI. THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS + CHAPTER XII. ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN + CHAPTER XIII. GILLANE SANDS + CHAPTER XIV. THE BASS + CHAPTER XV. BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK + CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING WITNESS + CHAPTER XVII. THE MEMORIAL + CHAPTER XVIII. THE TEE’D BALL + CHAPTER XIX. I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES + CHAPTER XX. I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY + + PART II. FATHER AND DAUGHTER + CHAPTER XXI. THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND + CHAPTER XXII. HELVOETSLUYS + CHAPTER XXIII. TRAVELS IN HOLLAND + CHAPTER XXIV. FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS + CHAPTER XXV. THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE + CHAPTER XXVI. THE THREESOME + CHAPTER XXVII. A TWOSOME + CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE + CHAPTER XXIX. WE MEET IN DUNKIRK + CHAPTER XXX. THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP + + + + +DEDICATION. + +To +CHARLES BAXTER, _Writer to the Signet_. + +My Dear Charles, + +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. + +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. + +R. L. S. + +_Vailima_, _Upolu_, +_Samoa_, 1892. + + + + +CATRIONA + + + + +PART I. +THE LORD ADVOCATE + + + + +CHAPTER I. +A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Naething kenspeckle,”[1] 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.” + +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 _caddie_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I followed, accordingly, and took off my new hat to her the best that I +was able. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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 +[2] 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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I lived with a very honest, kind man called Duncan Dhu Maclaren,” I +replied. + +“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.” + +“Ay,” said I, “they are fine people, and the place is a bonny place.” + +“Where in the great world is such another!” she cries; “I am loving the +smell of that place and the roots that grow there.” + +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.” + +“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. [3] Catriona Drummond +is the one I use.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Did ye so?” cries she. “Ye met Rob?” + +“I passed the night with him,” said I. + +“He is a fowl of the night,” said she. + +“There was a set of pipes there,” I went on, “so you may judge if the +time passed.” + +“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.” + +“Is it so?” cried I. “Are you a daughter of James More’s?” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It was not one of my people gave it,” said she. + +“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.” + +“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. . . .” + +“The Advocate’s!” I cried. “Is that . . . ?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Ah!” she said, “you are a friend to the Gregara!” + +“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.” + +“The one cannot be without the other,” said she. + +“I will even try,” said I. + +“And what will you be thinking of myself!” she cried, “to be holding my +hand to the first stranger!” + +“I am thinking nothing but that you are a good daughter,” said I. + +“I must not be without repaying it,” she said; “where is it you stop!” + +“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.” + +“Will I can trust you for that?” she asked. + +“You need have little fear,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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!” + +“If you dare to speak of the young lady. . . ” I began. + +“Leddy!” he cried. “Haud us and safe us, whatten leddy? Ca’ _thon_ a +leddy? The toun’s fu’ o’ them. Leddies! Man, its weel seen ye’re no +very acquant in Embro!” + +A clap of anger took me. + +“Here,” said I, “lead me where I told you, and keep your foul mouth +shut!” + +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— + +“As Mally Lee cam doun the street, her capuchin did flee, +She cuist a look ahint her to see her negligee. +And we’re a’ gaun east and wast, we’re a’ gann ajee, +We’re a’ gaun east and wast courtin’ Mally Lee.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. +THE HIGHLAND WRITER + + +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. + +“Awa’ east and west wi’ ye!” said I, took the money bag out of his +hands, and followed the clerk in. + +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. + +I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer. + +“The same,” says he; “and, if the question is equally fair, who may you +be yourself?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“I needn’t ask your politics,” said he. + +“Ye need not,” said I, smiling, “for I’m as big a Whig as grows.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I hear you say so,” said Stewart. + +“More than you are to hear me say so, before long,” said I. “Alan Breck +is innocent, and so is James.” + +“Oh!” says he, “the two cases hang together. If Alan is out, James can +never be in.” + +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?” + +“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. + +“The first point is to smuggle Alan forth of this country,” said I, +“but I need not be repeating that.” + +“I am little likely to forget it,” said Stewart. + +“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.” + +He noted it. + +“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.” + +“How much snuff are we to say?” he asked. + +“I was thinking of two pounds,” said I. + +“Two,” said he. + +“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.” + +“I am glad so see you are thrifty, Mr. Balfour,” says he, making his +notes. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He said this with a plain sneer. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +I saw I had got to the wrong side of the man. + +“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.” + +“When ye _call_ on him!” repeated Mr. Stewart. “Am I daft, or are you! +What takes ye near the Advocate!” + +“O, just to give myself up,” said I. + +“Mr. Balfour,” he cried, “are ye making a mock of me?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He was silent for a breathing-space, and then, “My man,” said he, +“you’ll never be allowed to give such evidence.” + +“We’ll have to see about that,” said I; “I’m stiff-necked when I like.” + +“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.” + +“I think better of the Advocate than that,” said I. + +“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. + +“Ay,” said I, “I was told that same no further back than this morning +by another lawyer.” + +“And who was he?” asked Stewart, “He spoke sense at least.” + +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. + +“I think all the world seems to be mixed up in it!” cries Stewart. “But +what said you?” + +“I told him what had passed between Rankeillor and myself before the +house of Shaws. + +“Well, and so ye will hang!” said he. “Ye’ll hang beside James Stewart. +There’s your fortune told.” + +“I hope better of it yet than that,” said I; “but I could never deny +there was a risk.” + +“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.” + +“It’s a different way of thinking, I suppose,” said I; “I was brought +up to this one by my father before me.” + +“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.” + +“Is that a fact?” cried I. “It’s what I would think of a man of your +intelligence.” + +“Hut! none of your whillywhas!” [4] 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?” + +“Well,” said I, “it’s a fact ye have little of the wild Highlandman.” + +“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, _disaffected_, 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!” + +“It’s rather a hard position,” said I. + +“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.” + +“I hope it will be that,” said I. + +“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.” + +I made him a sign that his clerk was within hearing. + +“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!” + +“There’ll be Andie Scougal, in the _Thristle_,” 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.” + +“The head’s worth two hundred pounds, Robin,” said Stewart. + +“Gosh, that’ll no be Alan Breck!” cried the clerk. + +“Just Alan,” said his master. + +“Weary winds! that’s sayrious,” cried Robin. “I’ll try Andie, then; +Andie’ll be the best.” + +“It seems it’s quite a big business,” I observed. + +“Mr. Balfour, there’s no end to it,” said Stewart. + +“There was a name your clerk mentioned,” I went on: “Hoseason. That +must be my man, I think: Hoseason, of the brig _Covenant_. Would you +set your trust on him?” + +“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?” + +“No more honest skipper in the trade than Eli,” said the clerk. “I +would lippen to [5] Eli’s word—ay, if it was the Chevalier, or Appin +himsel’,” he added. + +“And it was him that brought the doctor, wasnae’t?” asked the master. + +“He was the very man,” said the clerk. + +“And I think he took the doctor back?” says Stewart. + +“Ay, with his sporran full!” cried Robin. “And Eli kent of that!” [6] + +“Well, it seems it’s hard to ken folk rightly,” said I. + +“That was just what I forgot when ye came in, Mr. Balfour!” says the +Writer. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +I GO TO PILRIG + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed to the corpses. + +“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa joes [7] o’mine: +just two o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.” + +“What did they suffer for?” I asked. + +“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 [8] +belanged to Brouchton.” + +“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.” + +“Gie’s your loof, [9] hinny,” says she, “and let me spae your weird to +ye.” + +“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco +thing to see too far in front.” + +“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, [10] joe, that lies +braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren +spae it to ye bonny.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,” says he. + +“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. [11] “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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I have Rankeillor’s word for it,” said Mr. Balfour, “and I count that +a warran-dice against all deadly.” + +“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. + +“None of which will do you any harm,” said Mr. Balfour. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,” said +I. + +“Perhaps that would be the best,” said he. + +“Well, it’s the Appin murder,” said I. + +He held up both his hands. “Sirs! sirs!” cried he. + +I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my +helper. + +“Let me explain. . .” I began. + +“I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,” says he. “I decline +_in toto_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward in God’s name,” +said I. + +“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— + +“Pilrig, _August_ 26th, 1751. + + +“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. + + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE + + +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. + +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. + +“Is anybody there?” he asked. “Who in that?” + +“I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord +Advocate,” said I. + +“Have you been here long?” he asked. + +“I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours,” said I. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Well, sir, sit ye down,” said he, “and let us see Pilrig’s letter.” + +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. + +“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Balfour,” he said, when he +had done. “Let me offer you a glass of claret.” + +“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.” + +“You shall be the judge,” said he. “But if you will permit, I believe I +will even have the bottle in myself.” + +He touched a bell, and a footman came, as at a signal, bringing wine +and glasses. + +“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?” + +“I should, perhaps, begin by telling you, my lord, that I am here at +your own pressing invitation,” said I. + +“You have the advantage of me somewhere,” said he, “for I profess I +think I never heard of you before this evening.” + +“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.” + +“I wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I am no Daniel.” + +“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.” + +“In what sense?” he inquired. + +“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” said I. + +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. + +“_A tall strong lad of about eighteen_,” I quoted, “_speaks like a +Lowlander and has no beard_.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim to be innocent,” +said he. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And unfortunately, my lord,” I added, a little drily, “directly +personal to another great personage who may be nameless.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I had thought it was rather I that should learn the same from your +lordship,” said I. + +“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.” + +“Meaning how?” I asked. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“And have no cause to be,” says he, encouragingly. “Nor yet (if you are +careful) to fear the consequences.” + +“My lord,” said I, “speaking under your correction, I am not very easy +to be frightened.” + +“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.” + +“I shall try to follow your lordship’s advice,” said I. + +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?” + +“By accident,” said I. + +“How came you in speech with Colin Campbell?” he asked. + +“I was inquiring my way of him to Aucharn,” I replied. + +I observed he did not write this answer down. + +“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.” + +“I had thought, my lord, that all points of fact were equally material +in such a case,” said I. + +“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?” + +“Not immediately, my lord, and the cause was my seeing of the +murderer.” + +“You saw him, then?” + +“As plain as I see your lordship, though not so near hand.” + +“You know him?” + +“I should know him again.” + +“In your pursuit you were not so fortunate, then, as to overtake him?” + +“I was not.” + +“Was he alone?” + +“He was alone.” + +“There was no one else in that neighbourhood?” + +“Alan Breck Stewart was not far off, in a piece of a wood.” + +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.” + +“I content myself with following your lordship’s advice, and answering +what I am asked,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. +_Salus populi suprema lex_ 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—” + +“Under your pardon, my lord, I would have you to believe nothing but +that which I can prove,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You are at the head of Justice in this country,” I cried, “and you +propose to me a crime!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. . .” + +“I can bear you out in that,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +He had heard me motionless, and stood so a while longer. + +“This is an unexpected obstacle,” says he, aloud, but to himself. + +“And how is your lordship to dispose of me?” I asked. + +“If I wished,” said he, “you know that you might sleep in gaol?” + +“My lord,” said I, “I have slept in worse places.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I had no thought to entrap you,” said he. + +“I am sure of that,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You will observe,” he said next, “that I have made no employment of +menaces.” + +“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.” + +“Well,” said he, “good-night to you. May you sleep well, for I think it +is more than I am like to do.” + +With that he sighed, took up a candle, and gave me his conveyance as +far as the street door. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE + + +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. + +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. + +“Give you a good-morning, sir,” said I. + +“And a good-morning to you, sir,” said he. + +“You bide tryst with Prestongrange?” I asked. + +“I do, sir, and I pray your business with that gentleman be more +agreeable than mine,” was his reply. + +“I hope at least that yours will be brief, for I suppose you pass +before me,” said I. + +“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.” + +There came a kind of Highland snuffle out of the man that raised my +dander strangely. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I believe that would be a brother to Balfour of Baith,” said I, for I +was ready for the surgeon now. + +“The same, sir,” said James More. “And since I have been fellow-soldier +with your kinsman, you must suffer me to grasp your hand.” + +He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beaming on me the while as +though he had found a brother. + +“Ah!” says he, “these are changed days since your cousin and I heard +the balls whistle in our lugs.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“In the year you refer to, Mr. Macgregor, I was getting skelped in the +parish school,” said I. + +“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_cess_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—” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 _three braw +dauchters_. 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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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— + +“Haenae I got just the lilt of it? +Isnae this the tune that ye whustled?” + + +“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too, only it won’t rhyme. And +then again: + +“I am Miss Grant, sib to the Advocate: +You, I believe, are Dauvit Balfour.” + + +I told her how much astonished I was by her genius. + +“And what do you call the name of it?” she asked. + +“I do not know the real name,” said I. “I just call it _Alan’s air_.” + +She looked at me directly in the face. “I shall call it _David’s air_,” +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.” + +This was said with a significance that gave my heart a jog. “Why that, +Miss Grant?” I asked. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 “_Grey eyes_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Presently papa returned, the same kind, happy-like, pleasant-spoken +man. + +“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.” + +So they each made me a little farthing compliment, and I was led away. + +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. + +Well, I was to be served to my desire, for the scene to which he was +conducting me was of a different character. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT + + +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. + +The Advocate presented us in a familiar, friendly way. + +“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.” + +With that he stepped aside to his book-shelves, and made believe to +consult a quarto volume in the far end. + +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. + +“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all this I hear of ye?” + +“It would not become me to prejudge,” said I, “but if the Advocate was +your authority he is fully possessed of my opinions.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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: +_experto-crede_. 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.” + +“Doubtless a proud position for your father’s son,” says I. + +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.” + +“I am thinking that I lack the docility of the son,” says I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I was waiting for you there,” said I. + +“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.” + +“I own to a natural weakness,” said I. “I think no shame for that. +Shame. . .” I was going on. + +“Shame waits for you on the gibbet,” he broke in. + +“Where I shall but be even’d with my lord your father,” said I. + +“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 _will_ be shown, trust _me_ 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.” + +There was a touch of the truth in these words that knocked me like a +blow: clothes, a bottle of _usquebaugh_, 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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“There is a gentleman in this room,” cried I. “I appeal to him. I put +my life and credit in his hands.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +The voices of two of Prestongrange’s liveried men upon his doorstep +recalled me to myself. + +“Ha’e,” said the one, “this billet as fast as ye can link to the +captain.” + +“Is that for the cateran back again?” asked the other. + +“It would seem sae,” returned the first. “Him and Simon are seeking +him.” + +“I think Prestongrange is gane gyte,” says the second. “He’ll have +James More in bed with him next.” + +“Weel, it’s neither your affair nor mine’s,” said the first. + +And they parted, the one upon his errand, and the other back into the +house. + +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. + +I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscious only of a desire for +movement, air, and the open country. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR + + +I came forth, I vow I know not how, on the _Lang Dykes_ [12]. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What do ye come seeking here?” she asked. + +I told her I was after Miss Drummond. + +“And what may be your business with Miss Drummond?” says she. + +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. + +“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. + +I told my name. + +“Preserve me!” she cried. “Has Ebenezer gotten a son?” + +“No, ma’am,” said I. “I am a son of Alexander’s. It’s I that am the +Laird of Shaws.” + +“Ye’ll find your work cut out for ye to establish that,” quoth she. + +“I perceive you know my uncle,” said I; “and I daresay you may be the +better pleased to hear that business is arranged.” + +“And what brings ye here after Miss Drummond?” she pursued. + +“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.” + +“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 _lucky day_ and your _sake of Balwhidder_”—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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. +. .” + +“Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” I interrupted. “I +saw her again this morning from a window at Prestongrange’s.” + +This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but I was properly +paid for my ostentation on the return. + +“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.” + +I told her that was so. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“O!” she cried, “you have been seeking your sixpence; did you get it?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“That was Miss Grant,” said I, “the eldest and the bonniest.” + +“They say they are all beautiful,” said she. + +“They think the same of you, Miss Drummond,” I replied, “and were all +crowding to the window to observe you.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, at which we both +of us laughed. + +“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.” + +“O, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. “My father is +afraid of her himself.” + +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. + +“Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no later than this +morning.” + +“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?” + +“I did even that,” said I. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and +he is much made up to you for your sorrow.” + +“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world.” + +“And I am not wondering at that,” said she. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Glenure! It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, but with a very +deep surprise. + +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. + +“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!” + +“In the name of heaven, what ails you now!” she cried. + +“I gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my honour and now I have broke +it. O, Catriona!” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Catriona,” said I, looking at her, hang-dog, “is this true of it? +Would ye trust me yet?” + +“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.” + +“And maybe all this while I am but a child frighted with bogles,” said +I. “Maybe they but make a mock of me.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +Indeed, it was already dipping towards the mountains. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +THE BRAVO + + +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. + +“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.” + +“You have news for me?” cried I. + +“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 _proximo_.” + +I was too much amazed to find words. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“I did, my lord,” said I. + +“This was immediately after the murder?” + +“It was.” + +“Did you speak to him?” + +“I did.” + +“You had known him before, I think?” says my lord, carelessly. + +“I cannot guess your reason for so thinking, my lord,” I replied, “but +such in the fact.” + +“And when did you part with him again?” said he. + +“I reserve my answer,” said I. “The question will be put to me at the +assize.” + +“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.” + +“My lord,” said I, “I give you my word I do not so much as guess where +Alan is.” + +He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” he asked. + +I sat before him like a log of wood. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +I told him it was, not very kindly, for his manner was scant civil. + +“Ha, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it, “Palfour, Palfour!” + +“I am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” says I, annoyed with myself +to be annoyed with such a rustical fellow. + +“No,” says he, “but I wass thinking.” + +“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.” + +“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the tangs?” said he. + +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. + +There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek burned. + +“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” said I, “I think I +would learn the English language first.” + +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. + +I paid him as good or better on the return; whereupon he stepped a +little back and took off his hat to me decorously. + +“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?” + +I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed him. As he went +I heard him grumble to himself about _Cot’s English_ and the _King’s +coat_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Fat deil ails her?” cries the lieutenant. + +And suddenly engaging, he twitched the sword out of my grasp and sent +it flying far among the rushes. + +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. + +“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. + +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? + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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: “_Surely the +bitterness of death is passed_.” 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Well, well, Mr. Balfour, and what brings you here again? and who is +this you bring with you?” says Prestongrange. + +As for Fraser, he looked before him on the table. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I thank you for your honest expressions,” said I. + +Whereupon Duncansby made his bow to the company, and left the chamber, +as we had agreed upon before. + +“What have I to do with this?” says Prestongrange. + +“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.” + +The veins swelled on Prestongrange’s brow, and he regarded me with +fury. + +“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!” + +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.” + +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.” + +His coolness brought the others to their prudence; and they made haste, +with a somewhat distracted civility, to pack me from the house. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +THE HEATHER ON FIRE + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“How’s it with Alan?” I asked. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Hout awa!” cried Stewart. “I’ll never believe that.” + +“I have maybe a suspicion of my own,” says I, “but I would like fine to +hear your reasons.” + +“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.” + +“And how are they to bring in Alan till they can catch him?” says I. + +“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) _at the cross of Edinburgh_, _and the pier and shore +of Leith_, _for sixty days_. 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.” + +“You have given the very words,” said I. “Here at the cross, and at the +pier and shore of Leith, for sixty days.” + +“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.” + +“What do you mean?” I cried. “Not seeking him?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“See,” said Stewart, “he couldn’t dare to refuse me access to my +client, so he _recommends the commanding officer to let me in_. +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?” + +“It will bear that colour,” said I. + +“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: _For the rest_, _refuses to give any orders to keepers of +prisons who are not accused as having done anything contrary to the +duties of their office_. 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.” + +“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?” + +“And I am not to see them until Inverary, when the court is set!” cries +he, “and then to hear Prestongrange upon _the anxious responsibilities +of his office and the great facilities afforded the defence_! 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 _military man notoriously ignorant of the law_ that shall +command the party.” + +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. + +“There is nothing that would surprise me in this business,” I remarked. + +“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?” + +“I suppose it would likely be King George,” said I. + +“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_ 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.” + +“Is not this against the law?” I asked. + +“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: +_sumptibus moesti rei_; 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?” + +“Troth, I think you would enjoy it ill,” said I. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Disappear yourself,” said he. + +“I do not take you,” said I. + +“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 _expedient_!” + +“You make me think,” said I, and told him of the whistle and the +red-headed retainer, Neil. + +“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.” + +“Ye make a strong case,” I admitted. + +“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.” + +“I will tell you one thing,” said I. “I saw the murderer and it was not +Alan.” + +“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.” + +“Where am I to go, then?” I inquired. + +“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 _King’s Arms_ in Stirling; +and if ye’ve managed for yourself as long as that, I’ll see that ye +reach Inverary.” + +“One thing more,” said I. “Can I no see Alan?” + +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!” + + + + +CHAPTER X. +THE RED-HEADED MAN + + +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. + +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. + +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 +_countryfeed_; 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. + +“Saxpence had better take his broth with us, Catrine,” says she. “Run +and tell the lasses.” + +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. + +“I must not ask?” says she, eagerly, the same moment we were left +alone. + +“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.” + +“Tell me,” she said. “My cousin will not be so long.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You are a bloodthirsty maid,” said I. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But how did you feel, then—after it?” she asked. + +‘”Deed, I sat down and grat like a bairn,” said I. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Yes,” said she, “you are brave. And your friend, I admire and love +him.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I never heard tell of that,” said I. + +“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.” + +“What country is that?” I asked. + +“My country and yours,” said she. + +“This is my day for discovering I think,” said I, “for I always thought +the name of it was Scotland.” + +“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.” + +“Troth,” said I, “and that I never learned!” For I lacked heart to take +her up about the Macedonian. + +“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.” + +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. + +“It is long till I see you now?” she asked. + +“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be long, it may be +never.” + +“It may be so,” said she. “And you are sorry?” + +I bowed my head, looking upon her. + +“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. _God go with you and guide you_, _prays your little +friend_: so I said—I will be telling them—and here is what I did.” + +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. + +“O yes, Mr. David,” said she, “that is what I think of you. The head +goes with the lips.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +Catriona was yet in the garden walking by herself. + +“Catriona,” said I, “you see me back again.” + +“With a changed face,” said she. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“To be sure you are mistaken there,” she said, with a white face. “Neil +is in Edinburgh on errands from my father.” + +“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?” + +“Why, how will you know that?” says she. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Twice or thrice they spoke together, and I could make out that Neil +(for all his obsequiousness) was an angry man. + +Then she turned to me. “He swears it is not,” she said. + +“Catriona,” said I, “do you believe the man yourself?” + +She made a gesture like wringing the hands. + +“How will I can know?” she cried. + +“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.” + +They spoke together once more in the Gaelic. + +“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. + +“It is pretty plain now,” said I, “and may God forgive the wicked!” + +She said never anything to that, but continued gazing at me with the +same white face. + +“This is a fine business,” said I again. “Am I to fall, then, and those +two along with me?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Here,” said I, “keep him but the one hour; and I’ll chance it, and may +God bless you.” + +She put out her hand to me, “I will he needing one good word,” she +sobbed. + +“The full hour, then?” said I, keeping her hand in mine. “Three lives +of it, my lass!” + +“The full hour!” she said, and cried aloud on her Redeemer to forgive +her. + +I thought it no fit place for me, and fled. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS + + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, “_How can Satan cast out Satan_?” 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is this you at last, Davie?” he whispered. + +“Just myself,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“We’ll have a long crack of it first,” said he. + +“Well, indeed, and I have a good deal it will be telling you to hear,” +said I. + +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. + +“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!” + +“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?” + +“And what’s your ain opinion, you that’s a man of so much experience?” +said he. + +“It passes me,” said I. + +“And me too,” says Alan. “Do ye think this lass would keep her word to +ye?” he asked. + +“I do that,” said I. + +“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.” + +“How many would ye think there would be of them?” I asked. + +“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. + +It was no use, I gave a little crack of laughter. + +“And I think your own two eyes will have seen me drive that number, or +the double of it, nearer hand!” cries he. + +“It matters the less,” said I, “because I am well rid of them for this +time.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt that’s a branch of education that was left out with me,” said +I. + +“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? +_Because I couldnae see them_, says you. Ye blockhead, that’s their +livelihood.” + +“Take the worst of it,” said I, “and what are we to do?” + +“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.” + +“Have with ye, then!” says I. “Do ye gang back where you were +stopping?” + +“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.” + +With which he rose from his place, and we began to move quietly +eastward through the wood. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“And what was that?” said I. + +“O, just said my prayers,” said he. + +“And where are my gentry, as ye call them?” I asked. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Ay, but ye wouldnae, Alan,” said I. + +“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.” + +“If that’s all you have to complain of, Alan, it’s no such great +affair,” said I. + +“And it sets me ill to be complaining, whatever,” said he, “and me but +new out of yon deil’s haystack.” + +“And so you were unco weary of your haystack?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“How did you know the hour to bide your tryst?” I asked. + +“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!” + +“What did you do with yourself?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“What were they about?” says I. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“So ye were frich’ened of Sim Fraser?” he asked once. + +“In troth was I!” cried I. + +“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.” + +“Is he so brave?” I asked. + +“Brave!” said he. “He is as brave as my steel sword.” + +The story of my duel set him beside himself. + +“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.” + +“Alan,” said I, “this is midsummer madness. Here is no time for fencing +lessons.” + +“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.” + +“You silly fellow,” said I, “you forget it was just me.” + +“Na,” said he, “but three times!” + +“When ye ken yourself that I am fair incompetent,” I cried. + +“Well, I never heard tell the equal of it,” said he. + +“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.” + +“Ay, the next time!” says he. “And when will that be, I would like to +ken?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“There’s some sense in that,” he admitted. + +“An advocate, then, it’ll have to be,” I continued, “and I think it a +more suitable trade for a gentleman that was _three times_ 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 _Royal Ecossais_ get a furlough, slip over the +marches, and call in upon a Leyden student?” + +“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.” + +“Is Lord Meloort an author, then?” I asked, for much as Alan thought of +soldiers, I thought more of the gentry that write books. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. . . ” + +“Sir,” says I, cutting very quietly in, “there’s a friend of mine gone +by the house.” + +“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. + +Presently, however, he paid her with a half-crown piece, and she must +go forth after the change. + +“Was it him with the red head?” asked Alan. + +“Ye have it,” said I. + +“What did I tell you in the wood?” he cried. “And yet it’s strange he +should be here too! Was he his lane?” + +“His lee-lane for what I could see,” said I. + +“Did he gang by?” he asked. + +“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the right nor left.” + +“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. + +“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “that now we have money in +our pockets.” + +“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. + +“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the goodwife returned, “have ye a +back road out of this change house?” + +She told him there was and where it led to. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“I’ll try, Alan,” said I. + +“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast or slow?” + +“Betwixt and between,” said I. + +“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked. + +“Never a sign of it,” said I. + +“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.” + +“They ken?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. _But_,” says he, “_if I +can get a bit of a wind out of the west I’ll be there long or that_,” +he says, “_and lie-to for ye behind the Isle of Fidra_. 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.” + +“I believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have on with ye, Alan!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +GILLANE SANDS + + +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. + +“Has ye seen my horse?” he gasped. + +“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied the countryman. + +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. + +“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.” + +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 _Thistle_ riding. + +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. + +But here Alan came to a full stop. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Time flies, Alan,” said I. + +“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!” + +“Alan,” said I, “this is no like you. It’s got to be now or never.” + +“This is no me, quo’ he,” + + +sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and drollery. + +“Neither you nor me, quo’ he, neither you nor me. +Wow, na, Johnnie man! neither you nor me.” + + +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 _my gentry_ watching on the other side. Then they +awoke on board the _Thistle_, 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. + +Alan had not seen this, looking straight to seaward at the ship and +skiff. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I believe ye’ll be in the right,” says Alan. “For all which I am +wearing a good deal for yon boat.” + +And he snapped his fingers and whistled to it like a dog. + +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. + +“This is a fine, bright, caller place to get shot in,” says Alan +suddenly; “and, man, I wish that I had your courage!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Remembrance of my temptation in the wood made me strong as iron. + +“I have a tryst to keep,” I continued. “I am trysted with your cousin +Charlie; I have passed my word.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Aweel aweel,” said Alan. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he was come within an +easy hail. + +“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.” + +“Not a hair of me,” said I. + +“He stood part of a second where he was to his knees in the salt water, +hesitating. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Under protest,” said I, “if ye ken what that means, which I misdoubt.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +He assured me in answer I should be tenderly used, for he knew he was +“acquent wi’ the leddy.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +THE BASS + + +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_ twenty-pounders_. 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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. + +“Nae harm,” said he, “nae harm ava’. Ye’ll have strong freens, I’m +thinking. Ye’ll be richt eneuch yet.” + +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. + +At the sight the truth came in upon me in a clap. + +“It’s there you’re taking me!” I cried. + +“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.” + +“But none dwells there now,” I cried; “the place is long a ruin.” + +“It’ll be the mair pleisand a change for the solan geese, then,” quoth +Andie dryly. + +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: + +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. + +This bed he now offered me to use, saying he supposed I would set up to +be gentry. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _Seahorse_, 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 _Seahorse_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Ay, you’re funny, Mr. Dale,” said I, “but perhaps if you’ll glance an +eye upon that paper you may change your note.” + +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. + +He read it. “Troth, and ye’re nane sae ill aff,” said he. + +“I thought that would maybe vary your opinions,” said I. + +“Hout!” said he. “It shows me ye can bribe; but I’m no to be bribit.” + +“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.” + +“Ye’re no a’thegether wrong either,” says Andie. “I’m to let you gang, +bar orders contrair, on Saturday, the 23rd.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, “and a grand +Presbyterian.” + +“I ken naething by him,” said he. “I hae nae trokings wi’ Lovats.” + +“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing with,” said I. + +“Ah, but I’ll no tell ye that,” said Andie. + +“Little need when I ken,” was my retort. + +“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. + +“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. + +He heard me out with some serious interest, and when I had done, seemed +to consider a little with himself. + +“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.” + +“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s +innocent.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK + + +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. + +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. + +“Ay,” he would say, “_it’s an unco place_, _the Bass_.” + +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. + +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.” + +“Not canny?” I asked. “How can that be?” + +“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta heid upon +his body.” [13] + +“Well,” said I, “there can be no bogles here, Neil; for it’s not likely +they would fash themselves to frighten geese.” + +“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it! But I’ll can tell ye +there’s been waur nor bogles here.” + +“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I. + +“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.” + +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. + +The Tale of Tod Lapraik + +My 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. + +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. + +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. + +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! +_Deil hae me_, 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. + +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. + +“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?” + +He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.” + +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. + +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’. + +“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind, +or what was left of it. Up he sat. + +“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he +cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he. + +“On the Bass?” says grandfaither. + +“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.” + +“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething +on the Bass but just the sheep.” + +“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in. + +“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. + +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’. + +“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie. + +“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie. + +“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment surely, and be damned +to it,” says he. + +“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. + +This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,” +says he, “and what would be your way of it?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story of +Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.” + +“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!” + +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. + +“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil. + +“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.” + +There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife +was in his hand that moment. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. +THE MISSING WITNESS + + +On the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much +rebellion against fate. The thought of him waiting in the _King’s +Arms_, 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. + +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. + +“If I thoucht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said he, staring at me +over his spectacles. + +“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! _What shall it profit a man if he gain the +whole world_?” + +“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?” + +“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I. + +“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 _you_ were to hang, where would +_I_ be? Na: the thing’s no possible. And just awa’ wi’ ye like a bonny +lad! and let Andie read his chapter.” + +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. + +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. + +But the second enclosure was by far the more surprising. It was in a +lady’s hand of writ. “_Maister Dauvit Balfour is informed a friend was +speiring for him and her eyes were of the grey_,” 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? + +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! _In vain is the +net prepared in the sight of any fowl_, the Scripture says. Well, fowls +must be wiser than folk! For I thought I perceived the policy, and yet +fell in with it. + +I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes plain before me +like two stars, when Andie broke in upon my musing. + +“I see ye has gotten guid news,” said he. + +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. + +“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?” + +He told me nothing was changed. + +“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked. + +He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon. + +“And about the place?” I pursued. + +“Whatten place?” says Andie. + +“The place I am to be landed at?” said I. + +He owned there was nothing as to that. + +“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.” + +“Ye daft callant!” he cried; “ye would try for Inverary after a’!” + +“Just that, Andie,” says I. + +“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.” + +Here was a spur to a lame horse! + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. +THE MEMORIAL + + +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. + +“Am I yet in time?” I asked. + +“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, +‘_Ye may do what ye will for me_,’ whispers he two days ago. ‘_Ye ken +my fate by what the Duke of Argyle has just said to Mr. Macintosh_.’ O, +it’s been a scandal! + +“The great Agyle he gaed before, +He gart the cannons and guns to roar,” + + +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!” + +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? + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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, _exempli gratia_, 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.” + +The whole table turned to him with a common movement. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, what care I?” cries +Stewart, smiting down his fist. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +I gave them a chance to answer, but none volunteered. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, for the former +alternative was doubtless more after their inclination. + +“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.”’ + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +Colstoun hummed and hawed. “This is a very confidential document,” said +he. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“So, Mr. David, this is you?” said he. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Rather for your indulgence to that unlucky young man, my lord,” said +I. + +He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his spirits seemed to +mend. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Prestongrange smiled. “These are our friends,” said he. “And what were +your reasons for dissenting, Mr. David?” + +I told them without concealment, expressing, however, with more force +and volume those which regarded Prestongrange himself. + +“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.” + +I was not of course, going to betray Andie. + +“I suspect there is some very weary cattle by the road,” said I. + +“If I had known you were such a mosstrooper you should have tasted +longer of the Bass,” says he. + +“Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter.” And I gave him the +enclosure in the counterfeit hand. + +“There was the cover also with the seal,” said he. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“My lord . . .” I began. + +“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.” + +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. + +“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?” said I. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“If you will name the time and place, I will be punctually ready to +attend your lordship,” said I. + +He shook hands with me. “And I think my misses have some news for you,” +says he, dismissing me. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. +THE TEE’D BALL + + +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.” + +“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: + +“What do ye want the bluid of, bluid of? +Is it a name, or is it a clan, +Or is it an aefauld Hielandman, +That ye want the bluid of, bluid of?” + + +Another went to my old favourite air, _The House of Airlie_, and began +thus: + +“It fell on a day when Argyle was on the bench, +That they served him a Stewart for his denner.” + + +And one of the verses ran: + +“Then up and spak’ the Duke, and flyted on his cook, +I regard it as a sensible aspersion, +That I would sup ava’, an’ satiate my maw, +With the bluid of ony clan of my aversion.” + + +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, _alias_ Macgregor, _alias_ 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. + +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. + +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 _the Tee’d Ball_. [14] 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. + +“Why” says he, “it was Miss Grant herself presented me! My name is +so-and-so.” + +“It may very well be, sir,” said I; “but I have kept no mind of it.” + +At which he desisted; and in the midst of the disgust that commonly +overflowed my spirits I had a glisk of pleasure. + +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. + +I told him I was slow of making friends. + +“I will take the word back,” said he. “But there is such a thing as +_Fair gude s’en and fair gude day_, 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.” + +“It will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear,” said I. + +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. + +“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.” + +I suppose I blushed. + +“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.” + +I cried out. + +“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.” + +“But what has she done? What is her offence?” I cried. + +“It might be almost construed a high treason,” he returned, “for she +has broke the king’s Castle of Edinburgh.” + +“The lady is much my friend,” I said. “I know you would not mock me if +the thing were serious.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“Ah! I was expecting that!” + +“You have at times a great deal of discretion, too!” says +Prestongrange. + +“And what is my lord pleased to mean by that?” I asked. + +“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 _protégée_ 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 _Gude kens whaur_, clap two pair of boot-hose upon +her legs, take a pair of _clouted brogues_ [15] in her hand, and off to +the Castle! Here she gives herself out to be a soutar [16] 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 +_gomerals_, do tell _Dauvit Balfour_. 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.” + +“The gomeral is much obliged,” said I. + +“And was not this prettily done!” he went on. “Is not this Highland +maid a piece of a heroine?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I am not your lordship’s daughter. . . ” I began. + +“That I know of!” he put in, smiling. + +“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.” + +“So-ho, Mr. David,” says he; “I thought that you and I were in a +bargain?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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!” + +I stopped at this, confounded that I had run so far; he was observing +me with an unfathomable face. + +“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.” + +“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’.” + +“Ah, but, my lord, I think ye take me not yet entirely!” cried I. “For +_your_ 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.” + +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.” + +“Perhaps not just entirely in the same direction though, my lord!” says +I. + +“And you shall have the last word, too!” cries he gaily. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES + + +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. + +“H’m,” says he; “ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. Balfour. The +bird’s flaen—we hae letten her out.” + +“Miss Drummond is set free?” I cried. + +“Achy!” said he. “What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae made a +steer about the bairn would has pleased naebody.” + +“And where’ll she be now?” says I. + +“Gude kens!” says Doig, with a shrug. + +“She’ll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I’m thinking,” said I. + +“That’ll be it,” said he. + +“Then I’ll gang there straight,” says I. + +“But ye’ll be for a bite or ye go?” said he. + +“Neither bite nor sup,” said I. “I had a good wauch of milk in by +Ratho.” + +“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.” + +“Na, na”, said I. “Tamson’s mear [17] would never be the thing for me +this day of all days.” + +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: + +“Gae saddle me the bonny black, +Gae saddle sune and mak’ him ready +For I will down the Gatehope-slack, +And a’ to see my bonny leddy.” + + +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. + +“My best respects to you, Mistress Grant,” said I, bowing. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Unsigned paper?” says she, and made a droll face, which was likewise +wondrous beautiful, as of one trying to remember. + +“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 _gomeral_ begs you at this +time only for the favour of his liberty.” + +“You give yourself hard names,” said she. + +“Mr. Doig and I would be blythe to take harder at your clever pen,” +says I. + +“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. + +“He has lowpen on his bonny grey, +He rade the richt gate and the ready +I trow he would neither stint nor stay, +For he was seeking his bonny leddy.” + + +I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did justice to Miss Grant’s +citation on the way to Dean. + +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 _congees_, +I could see the blood come in her face, and her head fling into the air +like what I had conceived of empresses. + +“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 [18]—and a baird there is, and that’s the +worst of it yet!” she added partly to herself. + +I was extremely put out at this reception, and the last remark, which +seemed like a daft wife’s, left me near hand speechless. + +“I see I have fallen under your displeasure, ma’am,” said I. “Yet I +will still be so bold as ask after Mistress Drummond.” + +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!” + +“She is not here?” I cried. + +She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry at me, so that I fell +back incontinent. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“In what manner, Mistress Grant?” I asked. “I trust I have never seemed +to fail in due respect.” + +“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. + +“I was so bold as to suppose so upon inference,” said I, “and it was +kindly thought upon.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Through all this raillery there was something indulgent in the lady’s +eye which made me suppose there might be better coming. + +“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.” + +“Do you call her by that name to her face, Mr. Balfour?” she asked. + +“In troth, and I am not very sure,” I stammered. + +“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?” + +“I heard she was in prison,” said I. + +“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.” + +“I may have the greater need of her, ma’am,” said I. + +“Come, this is better!” says Miss Grant. “But look me fairly in the +face; am I not bonnier than she?” + +“I would be the last to be denying it,” said I. “There is not your +marrow in all Scotland.” + +“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.” + +“But, mistress,” said I, “there are surely other things besides mere +beauty.” + +“By which I am to understand that I am no better than I should be, +perhaps?” she asked. + +“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.” + +“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. ‘_Grey Eyes_!’ says I to myself, but was more wise than to let +on. _You will be Miss Grant at last_? she says, rising and looking at +me hard and pitiful. _Ay_, _it was true he said_, _you are bonny at all +events_.—_The way God made me_, _my dear_, I said, _but I would be gey +and obliged if you could tell me what brought you here at such a time +of the night_.—_Lady_, she said, _we are kinsfolk_, _we are both come +of the blood of the sons of Alpin_.—_My dear_, I replied, _I think no +more of Alpin or his sons than what I do of a kalestock_. _You have a +better argument in these tears upon your bonny face_. 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.” + +“She is e’en’t!” I cried. + +“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. _And then I minded at long +last_, says she, _that we were kinswomen_, _and that Mr. David should +have given you the name of the bonniest of the bonny_, _and I was +thinking to myself_ ‘_If she is so bonny she will be good at all +events_’; _and I took up my foot soles out of that_. 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.” + +“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.” + +“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. _Here is Grey Eyes that you have been deaved with these days past_, +said I, _she is come to prove that we spoke true_, _and I lay the +prettiest lass in the three Lothians at your feet_—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.” + +“He has been a good man to me,” said I. + +“Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was there to see to it,” +said she. + +“And she pled for me?” say I. + +“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.” + +“God reward her for it!” cried I. + +“With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?” says she. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland,” says she. + +“Troth they are no very small,” said I, looking down. + +“Ah, poor Catriona!” cries Miss Grant. + +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. + +“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.” + +“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed. + +“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she. + +“Why that?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well,” she said, “be brief; I have spent half the day on you already.” + +“My Lady Allardyce believes,” I began—“she supposes—she thinks that I +abducted her.” + +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— + +“I will take up the defence of your reputation,” she said. “You may +leave it in my hands.” + +And with that she withdrew out of the library. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY + + +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. + +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 _Covenant_, 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. + +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! + +“There is my home,” said I; “and my family.” + +“Poor David Balfour!” said Miss Grant. + +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. + +“I think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. Davie,” says he, +turning half about with the one foot in the stirrup. + +“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. + +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. + +“Is this all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding out my hand. +“And have you no more memory of old friends?” + +“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, “God’s truth, it’s +the tautit [19] laddie!” + +“The very same,” says I. + +“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am I +to see in your braws,” [20] 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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I never saw you so well adorned,” said I. + +“O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said she, and was more than +usually sharp to me the remainder of the day. + +About candlelight we came home from this excursion. + +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. + +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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“O Davie!” she said. “Not if I was to beg you?” + +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. + +“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. + +“There!” she cried. “There is the proper station, there is where I have +been manoeuvring to bring you.” And then, suddenly, “Kep,” [21] said +she, flung me a folded billet, and ran from the apartment laughing. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Here, Shaws!” she cried, “keek out of the window and see what I have +broughten you.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Catriona!” was all I could get out. + +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. + +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. + +On the way home, as soon as I was set free, I upbraided Miss Grant with +her cruelty. + +“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. + +“O!” cried I, “leave my feet be—they are no bigger than my +neighbours’.” + +“They are even smaller than some,” said she, “but I speak in parables +like a Hebrew prophet.” + +“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?” + +“Love is like folk,” says she; “it needs some kind of vivers.” [22] + +“Oh, Barbara, let me see her properly!” I pleaded. “_You_ can—you see +her when you please; let me have half an hour.” + +“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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“Have I not given you my advice?” she asked. + +“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 [23] to +entirely.” + +“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.” + +Since I could make no more of her, I was fain to be content with this. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 _ask_ 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.” + +“Since I am so soon to lose my bonny professor,” I began. + +“This is gallant, indeed,” says she curtseying. + +“I would put the one question,” I went on. “May I ask a lass to marry +to me?” + +“You think you could not marry her without!” she asked. “Or else get +her to offer?” + +“You see you cannot be serious,” said I. + +“I shall be very serious in one thing, David,” said she: “I shall +always be your friend.” + +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. + + + + +PART II. +FATHER AND DAUGHTER + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND + + +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. + +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 [24] 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 _braw_, if she could make but the one _bonny_. + +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. + +“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: + +“Dear Davie,—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 ken the answer_. So fill up here with +good advice. Do not be too blate, [25] and for God’s sake do not try to +be too forward; nothing acts you worse. I am + + +“Your affectionate friend and governess, +“Barbara Grant.” + + +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. + +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. + +“Catriona?” said I. It seemed that was the first and last word of my +eloquence. + +“You will be glad to see me again?” says she. + +“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are too deep friends to +make speech upon such trifles.” + +“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cried again. “I was never +knowing such a girl so honest and so beautiful.” + +“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she did for a +kale-stock,” said I. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Everybody?” says she. + +“Every living soul!” said I. + +“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle took me up!” she +cried. + +“Barbara has been teaching you to catch me,” said I. + +“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?” + +I told her. + +“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.” + +I could say no more than just “O!” the name of James More always drying +up my very voice. + +She was quick to perceive it, and to guess some portion of my thought. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _Rose_, 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. + +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 _beau_, 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Catriona!” says I, “how do you make out that?” + +“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.” + +“And through all you had no friends?” said I. + +“No,” said she; “I have been pretty chief with two-three lasses on the +braes, but not to call it friends.” + +“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said I. “I never had a friend to my name +till I met in with you.” + +“And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked. + +“O, yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is a man, and that is +very different.” + +“I would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite different.” + +“And then there was one other,” said I. “I once thought I had a friend, +but it proved a disappointment.” + +She asked me who she was? + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 [26] as +well as I do.” + +“Will you let me read them, then?” says she. + +I told her, _if she would be at the pains_; 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. + +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. + +When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a +buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet. + +“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. + +“Did you mean me to read all?” she asked. + +I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice. + +“The last of them as well?” said she. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?” said I. + +“There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend,” +said she, quoting my own expression. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“This is your fine gratitude!” says I. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I have no guess how I have offended,” said I; “it should scarce be +beyond pardon, then. O, try if you can pardon me.” + +“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. + +But I had schooled myself beforehand to say more, and I was going to +say it too. + +“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—” + +“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. + +“Indeed, and I will never be so unjust then,” said I; “nor yet so +ungrateful.” + +And now it was I that turned away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. +HELVOETSLUYS + + +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. + +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 _Rose_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“But you ken nae French and nae Dutch neither,” said one. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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 _Rose_ had got her anchor and was off again before we had +approached the harbour mouth. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yet there are very few that would have made that leap, and all to obey +a father’s orders,” I observed. + +“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. + +“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. + +“You forget James More, my father, is a poor gentleman,” said she. “He +is a hunted exile.” + +“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. + +“I will have lied to all of them,” she replied. “I will have told them +all that I had plenty. I told _her_ too. I could not be lowering James +More to them.” + +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. + +“Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn more sense.” + +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. + +“Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” says I. + +“I ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient-like. + +“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, _alias_ +Macgregor, _alias_ James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?” + +“Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my part I +wish he was.” + +“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.” + +“I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!” cries he in +his gross voice. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And just this once again,” said I, “I will remind you it was a +blessing that I came alongst with you.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. +TRAVELS IN HOLLAND + + +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 _Rose_: 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. + +“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.” + +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 _Rose_ 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. + +She came out of the ordinary clinging to me close. “Take me away, +David,” she said. “_You_ keep me. I am not afraid with you.” + +“And have no cause, my little friend!” cried I, and could have found it +in my heart to weep. + +“Where will you be taking me?” she said again. “Don’t leave me at all +events—never leave me.” + +“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.” + +She crept close into me by way of a reply. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You will have thought of something good,” said she, observing me to +pause. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Can you start now and march all night?” said I. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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 ‘_seven Bens_, _the seven glens and the seven mountain +moors_’.” Which was a common byword or overcome in those tales of hers +that had stuck in my memory. + +“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.” + +“I wish we could say as much for our own folk,” says I, recalling +Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James More himself. + +“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. + +I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling (for my pains) on the +black ice. + +“I do not know what _you_ 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.” + +“It was a good day when you showed me so much love,” said she. + +“And yet I think shame to be happy too,” I went on, “and you here on +the road in the black night.” + +“Where in the great world would I be else?” she cried. “I am thinking I +am safest where I am with you.” + +“I am quite forgiven, then?” I asked. + +“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.” + +“Is this Miss Grant again?” said I. “You said yourself she was the best +lady in the world.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +But Catriona stopped square in the midst of the highway. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Well, then, have you done?” said she. + +“I have done,” said I. + +“A very good thing,” said she, and we went on again, but now in +silence. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“You must try to be more patient of your friend,” said I. + +I thought she seemed to lean the least thing in the world against my +bosom, or perhaps it was but fancy. + +“There will be no end to your goodness,” said she. + +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. + +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. + +“Catriona,” said I, “I believe you have yet a shilling and three +baubees?” + +“Are you wanting it?” said she, and passed me her purse. “I am wishing +it was five pounds! What will you want it for?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“And now, Davie,” said she, “what will you do with me at all events?” + +“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?” + +“It will be more than seeming then,” said she. + +“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?” + +“And what for no?” said she, “if you would let me!” + +“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.” + +“And now I will be Catriona Balfour,” she said. “And who is to ken? +They are all strange folk here.” + +“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.” + +“David, I have no friend here but you,” she said. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Well, and here I am,” said she. “So that’s soon settled.” + +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. + +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. + +“I must not be disgracing my brother,” said she, and was very merry +with it all, although her face told tales of her. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. +FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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? + +So the rest of the evening flowed by almost without speech. + +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: _What must she +think of me_? was my one thought that softened me continually into +weakness. _What is to become of us_? 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Are we not to have our walk to-day?” said she. + +I was looking at her in a maze. “Where is your brooch?” says I. + +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?” + +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. + +“I bought it for you, Catriona,” said I. + +She fixed it in the midst of her bosom with the brooch, I could have +thought tenderly. + +“It is none the better of my handling,” said I again, and blushed. + +“I will be liking it none the worse, you may be sure of that,” said +she. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Suddenly she called out aloud. “O, why does not my father come?” she +cried, and fell at once into a storm of tears. + +I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran to her side, and +cast an arm around her sobbing body. + +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?” + +“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?” + +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. + +“Did you kiss her truly?” she asked. + +There went through me so great a heave of surprise that I was all shook +with it. + +“Miss Grant?” I cried, all in a disorder. “Yes, I asked her to kiss me +good-bye, the which she did.” + +“Ah, well!” said she, “you have kissed me too, at all events.” + +At the strangeness and sweetness of that word, I saw where we had +fallen; rose, and set her on her feet. + +“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.” + +She turned to obey me like a child, and the next I knew of it, had +stopped in the very doorway. + +“Good night, Davie!” said she. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I think, sir,” said I, with a very painful air, “that it will be +necessary we two should have an explanation.” + +“There is nothing amiss?” he asked. “My agent, Mr. Sprott—” + +“For God’s sake moderate your voice!” I cried. “She must not hear till +we have had an explanation.” + +“She is in this place?” cries he. + +“That is her chamber door,” said I. + +“You are here with her alone?” he asked. + +“And who else would I have got to stay with us?” cries I. + +I will do him the justice to admit that he turned pale. + +“This is very unusual,” said he. “This is a very unusual circumstance. +You are right, we must hold an explanation.” + +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. + +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. + +“Well?” says he. + +And “Well,” I began, but found myself unable to go further. + +“You tell me she is here?” said he again, but now with a spice of +impatience that seemed to brace me up. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I shall have a word to say to Mr. Gebbie before long,” said he. “As +for yourself, I think it might have occurred that you were somewhat +young for such a post.” + +“But the choice was not between me and somebody else, it was between me +and nobody,” 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.” + +“I shall wait until I understand my obligation a little more in the +particular,” says he. + +“Indeed, and I think it stares you in the face, then,” said I. “Your +child was deserted, she was clean flung away in the midst of Europe, +with scarce two shillings, and not two words of any language spoken +there: I must say, a bonny business! I brought her to this place. I +gave her the name and the tenderness due to a sister. All this has not +gone without expense, but that I scarce need to hint at. They were +services due to the young lady’s character which I respect; and I think +it would be a bonny business too, if I was to be singing her praises to +her father.” + +“You are a young man,” he began. + +“So I hear you tell me,” said I, with a good deal of heat. + +“You are a very young man,” he repeated, “or you would have understood +the significancy of the step.” + +“I think you speak very much at your ease,” cried I. “What else was I +to do? It is a fact I might have hired some decent, poor woman to be a +third to us, and I declare I never thought of it until this moment! But +where was I to find her, that am a foreigner myself? And let me point +out to your observation, Mr. Drummond, that it would have cost me money +out of my pocket. For here is just what it comes to, that I had to pay +through the nose for your neglect; and there is only the one story to +it, just that you were so unloving and so careless as to have lost your +daughter.” + +“He that lives in a glass house should not be casting stones,” says he; +“and we will finish inquiring into the behaviour of Miss Drummond +before we go on to sit in judgment on her father.” + +“But I will be entrapped into no such attitude,” said I. “The character +of Miss Drummond is far above inquiry, as her father ought to know. So +is mine, and I am telling you that. There are but the two ways of it +open. The one is to express your thanks to me as one gentleman to +another, and to say no more. The other (if you are so difficult as to +be still dissatisfied) is to pay me, that which I have expended and be +done.” + +He seemed to soothe me with a hand in the air. “There, there,” said he. +“You go too fast, you go too fast, Mr. Balfour. It is a good thing that +I have learned to be more patient. And I believe you forget that I have +yet to see my daughter.” + +I began to be a little relieved upon this speech and a change in the +man’s manner that I spied in him as soon as the name of money fell +between us. + +“I was thinking it would be more fit—if you will excuse the plainness +of my dressing in your presence—that I should go forth and leave you to +encounter her alone?” said I. + +“What I would have looked for at your hands!” says he; and there was no +mistake but what he said it civilly. + +I thought this better and better still, and as I began to pull on my +hose, recalling the man’s impudent mendicancy at Prestongrange’s, I +determined to pursue what seemed to be my victory. + +“If you have any mind to stay some while in Leyden,” said I, “this room +is very much at your disposal, and I can easy find another for myself: +in which way we shall have the least amount of flitting possible, there +being only one to change.” + +“Why, sir,” said he, making his bosom big, “I think no shame of a +poverty I have come by in the service of my king; I make no secret that +my affairs are quite involved; and for the moment, it would be even +impossible for me to undertake a journey.” + +“Until you have occasion to communicate with your friends,” said I, +“perhaps it might be convenient for you (as of course it would be +honourable to myself) if you were to regard yourself in the light of my +guest?” + +“Sir,” said he, “when an offer is frankly made, I think I honour myself +most to imitate that frankness. Your hand, Mr. David; you have the +character that I respect the most; you are one of those from whom a +gentleman can take a favour and no more words about it. I am an old +soldier,” he went on, looking rather disgusted-like around my chamber, +“and you need not fear I shall prove burthensome. I have ate too often +at a dyke-side, drank of the ditch, and had no roof but the rain.” + +“I should be telling you,” said I, “that our breakfasts are sent +customarily in about this time of morning. I propose I should go now to +the tavern, and bid them add a cover for yourself and delay the meal +the matter of an hour, which will give you an interval to meet your +daughter in.” + +Methought his nostrils wagged at this. “O, an hour?” says he. “That is +perhaps superfluous. Half an hour, Mr. David, or say twenty minutes; I +shall do very well in that. And by the way,” he adds, detaining me by +the coat, “what is it you drink in the morning, whether ale or wine?” + +“To be frank with you, sir,” says I, “I drink nothing else but spare, +cold water.” + +“Tut-tut,” says he, “that is fair destruction to the stomach, take an +old campaigner’s word for it. Our country spirit at home is perhaps the +most entirely wholesome; but as that is not come-at-able, Rhenish or a +white wine of Burgundy will be next best.” + +“I shall make it my business to see you are supplied,” said I. + +“Why, very good,” said he, “and we shall make a man of you yet, Mr. +David.” + +By this time, I can hardly say that I was minding him at all, beyond an +odd thought of the kind of father-in-law that he was like to prove; and +all my cares centred about the lass his daughter, to whom I determined +to convey some warning of her visitor. I stepped to the door +accordingly, and cried through the panels, knocking thereon at the same +time: “Miss Drummond, here is your father come at last.” + +With that I went forth upon my errand, having (by two words) +extraordinarily damaged my affairs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +THE THREESOME + + +Whether or not I was to be so much blamed, or rather perhaps pitied, I +must leave others to judge. My shrewdness (of which I have a good deal, +too) seems not so great with the ladies. No doubt, at the moment when I +awaked her, I was thinking a good deal of the effect upon James More; +and similarly when I returned and we were all sat down to breakfast, I +continued to behave to the young lady with deference and distance; as I +still think to have been most wise. Her father had cast doubts upon the +innocence of my friendship; and these, it was my first business to +allay. But there is a kind of an excuse for Catriona also. We had +shared in a scene of some tenderness and passion, and given and +received caresses: I had thrust her from me with violence; I had called +aloud upon her in the night from the one room to the other; she had +passed hours of wakefulness and weeping; and it is not to be supposed I +had been absent from her pillow thoughts. Upon the back of this, to be +awaked, with unaccustomed formality, under the name of Miss Drummond, +and to be thenceforth used with a great deal of distance and respect, +led her entirely in error on my private sentiments; and she was indeed +so incredibly abused as to imagine me repentant and trying to draw off! + +The trouble betwixt us seems to have been this: that whereas I (since I +had first set eyes on his great hat) thought singly of James More, his +return and suspicions, she made so little of these that I may say she +scarce remarked them, and all her troubles and doings regarded what had +passed between us in the night before. This is partly to be explained +by the innocence and boldness of her character; and partly because +James More, having sped so ill in his interview with me, or had his +mouth closed by my invitation, said no word to her upon the subject. At +the breakfast, accordingly, it soon appeared we were at cross purposes. +I had looked to find her in clothes of her own: I found her (as if her +father were forgotten) wearing some of the best that I had bought for +her, and which she knew (or thought) that I admired her in. I had +looked to find her imitate my affectation of distance, and be most +precise and formal; instead I found her flushed and wild-like, with +eyes extraordinary bright, and a painful and varying expression, +calling me by name with a sort of appeal of tenderness, and referring +and deferring to my thoughts and wishes like an anxious or a suspected +wife. + +But this was not for long. As I behold her so regardless of her own +interests, which I had jeopardised and was now endeavouring to recover, +I redoubled my own coldness in the manner of a lesson to the girl. The +more she came forward, the farther I drew back; the more she betrayed +the closeness of our intimacy, the more pointedly civil I became, until +even her father (if he had not been so engrossed with eating) might +have observed the opposition. In the midst of which, of a sudden, she +became wholly changed, and I told myself, with a good deal of relief, +that she had took the hint at last. + +All day I was at my classes or in quest of my new lodging; and though +the hour of our customary walk hung miserably on my hands, I cannot say +but I was happy on the whole to find my way cleared, the girl again in +proper keeping, the father satisfied or at least acquiescent, and +myself free to prosecute my love with honour. At supper, as at all our +meals, it was James More that did the talking. No doubt but he talked +well if anyone could have believed him. But I will speak of him +presently more at large. The meal at an end, he rose, got his great +coat, and looking (as I thought) at me, observed he had affairs abroad. +I took this for a hint that I was to be going also, and got up; +whereupon the girl, who had scarce given me greeting at my entrance, +turned her eyes upon me wide open with a look that bade me stay. I +stood between them like a fish out of water, turning from one to the +other; neither seemed to observe me, she gazing on the floor, he +buttoning his coat: which vastly swelled my embarrassment. This +appearance of indifference argued, upon her side, a good deal of anger +very near to burst out. Upon his, I thought it horribly alarming; I +made sure there was a tempest brewing there; and considering that to be +the chief peril, turned towards him and put myself (so to speak) in the +man’s hands. + +“Can I do anything for _you_, Mr. Drummond?” says I. + +He stifled a yawn, which again I thought to be duplicity. “Why, Mr. +David,” said he, “since you are so obliging as to propose it, you might +show me the way to a certain tavern” (of which he gave the name) “where +I hope to fall in with some old companions in arms.” + +There was no more to say, and I got my hat and cloak to bear him +company. + +“And as for you,” say he to his daughter, “you had best go to your bed. +I shall be late home, and _Early to bed and early to rise_, _gars bonny +lasses have bright eyes_.” + +Whereupon he kissed her with a good deal of tenderness, and ushered me +before him from the door. This was so done (I thought on purpose) that +it was scarce possible there should be any parting salutation; but I +observed she did not look at me, and set it down to terror of James +More. + +It was some distance to that tavern. He talked all the way of matters +which did not interest me the smallest, and at the door dismissed me +with empty manners. Thence I walked to my new lodging, where I had not +so much as a chimney to hold me warm, and no society but my own +thoughts. These were still bright enough; I did not so much as dream +that Catriona was turned against me; I thought we were like folk +pledged; I thought we had been too near and spoke too warmly to be +severed, least of all by what were only steps in a most needful policy. +And the chief of my concern was only the kind of father-in-law that I +was getting, which was not at all the kind I would have chosen: and the +matter of how soon I ought to speak to him, which was a delicate point +on several sides. In the first place, when I thought how young I was I +blushed all over, and could almost have found it in my heart to have +desisted; only that if once I let them go from Leyden without +explanation, I might lose her altogether. And in the second place, +there was our very irregular situation to be kept in view, and the +rather scant measure of satisfaction I had given James More that +morning. I concluded, on the whole, that delay would not hurt anything, +yet I would not delay too long neither; and got to my cold bed with a +full heart. + +The next day, as James More seemed a little on the complaining hand in +the matter of my chamber, I offered to have in more furniture; and +coming in the afternoon, with porters bringing chairs and tables, found +the girl once more left to herself. She greeted me on my admission +civilly, but withdrew at once to her own room, of which she shut the +door. I made my disposition, and paid and dismissed the men so that she +might hear them go, when I supposed she would at once come forth again +to speak to me. I waited yet awhile, then knocked upon her door. + +“Catriona!” said I. + +The door was opened so quickly, even before I had the word out, that I +thought she must have stood behind it listening. She remained there in +the interval quite still; but she had a look that I cannot put a name +on, as of one in a bitter trouble. + +“Are we not to have our walk to-day either?” so I faltered. + +“I am thanking you,” said she. “I will not be caring much to walk, now +that my father is come home.” + +“But I think he has gone out himself and left you here alone,” said I. + +“And do you think that was very kindly said?” she asked. + +“It was not unkindly meant,” I replied. “What ails you, Catriona? What +have I done to you that you should turn from me like this?” + +“I do not turn from you at all,” she said, speaking very carefully. “I +will ever be grateful to my friend that was good to me; I will ever be +his friend in all that I am able. But now that my father James More is +come again, there is a difference to be made, and I think there are +some things said and done that would be better to be forgotten. But I +will ever be your friend in all that I am able, and if that is not all +that . . . . if it is not so much . . . . Not that you will be caring! +But I would not have you think of me too hard. It was true what you +said to me, that I was too young to be advised, and I am hoping you +will remember I was just a child. I would not like to lose your +friendship, at all events.” + +She began this very pale; but before she was done, the blood was in her +face like scarlet, so that not her words only, but her face and the +trembling of her very hands, besought me to be gentle. I saw, for the +first time, how very wrong I had done to place the child in that +position, where she had been entrapped into a moment’s weakness, and +now stood before me like a person shamed. + +“Miss Drummond,” I said, and stuck, and made the same beginning once +again, “I wish you could see into my heart,” I cried. “You would read +there that my respect is undiminished. If that were possible, I should +say it was increased. This is but the result of the mistake we made; +and had to come; and the less said of it now the better. Of all of our +life here, I promise you it shall never pass my lips; I would like to +promise you too that I would never think of it, but it’s a memory that +will be always dear to me. And as for a friend, you have one here that +would die for you.” + +“I am thanking you,” said she. + +We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself began to get the upper +hand; for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumble, and my love +lost, and myself alone again in the world as at the beginning. + +“Well,” said I, “we shall be friends always, that’s a certain thing. +But this is a kind of farewell, too: it’s a kind of a farewell after +all; I shall always ken Miss Drummond, but this is a farewell to my +Catriona.” + +I looked at her; I could hardly say I saw her, but she seemed to grow +great and brighten in my eyes; and with that I suppose I must have lost +my head, for I called out her name again and made a step at her with my +hands reached forth. + +She shrank back like a person struck, her face flamed; but the blood +sprang no faster up into her cheeks, than what it flowed back upon my +own heart, at sight of it, with penitence and concern. I found no words +to excuse myself, but bowed before her very deep, and went my ways out +of the house with death in my bosom. + +I think it was about five days that followed without any change. I saw +her scarce ever but at meals, and then of course in the company of +James More. If we were alone even for a moment, I made it my devoir to +behave the more distantly and to multiply respectful attentions, having +always in my mind’s eye that picture of the girl shrinking and flaming +in a blush, and in my heart more pity for her than I could depict in +words. I was sorry enough for myself, I need not dwell on that, having +fallen all my length and more than all my height in a few seconds; but, +indeed, I was near as sorry for the girl, and sorry enough to be scarce +angry with her save by fits and starts. Her plea was good; she had been +placed in an unfair position; if she had deceived herself and me, it +was no more than was to have been looked for. + +And for another thing she was now very much alone. Her father, when he +was by, was rather a caressing parent; but he was very easy led away by +his affairs and pleasures, neglected her without compunction or remark, +spent his nights in taverns when he had the money, which was more often +than I could at all account for; and even in the course of these few +days, failed once to come to a meal, which Catriona and I were at last +compelled to partake of without him. It was the evening meal, and I +left immediately that I had eaten, observing I supposed she would +prefer to be alone; to which she agreed and (strange as it may seem) I +quite believed her. Indeed, I thought myself but an eyesore to the +girl, and a reminder of a moment’s weakness that she now abhorred to +think of. So she must sit alone in that room where she and I had been +so merry, and in the blink of that chimney whose light had shone upon +our many difficult and tender moments. There she must sit alone, and +think of herself as of a maid who had most unmaidenly proffered her +affections and had the same rejected. And in the meanwhile I would be +alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was tempted to +be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female delicacy. And +altogether I suppose there were never two poor fools made themselves +more unhappy in a greater misconception. + +As for James, he paid not so much heed to us, or to anything in nature +but his pocket, and his belly, and his own prating talk. Before twelve +hours were gone he had raised a small loan of me; before thirty, he had +asked for a second and been refused. Money and refusal he took with the +same kind of high good nature. Indeed, he had an outside air of +magnanimity that was very well fitted to impose upon a daughter; and +the light in which he was constantly presented in his talk, and the +man’s fine presence and great ways went together pretty harmoniously. +So that a man that had no business with him, and either very little +penetration or a furious deal of prejudice, might almost have been +taken in. To me, after my first two interviews, he was as plain as +print; I saw him to be perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in +the same; and I would hearken to his swaggering talk (of arms, and “an +old soldier,” and “a poor Highland gentleman,” and “the strength of my +country and my friends”) as I might to the babbling of a parrot. + +The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some part of it himself, or +did at times; I think he was so false all through that he scarce knew +when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection must +have been wholly genuine. There were times when he would be the most +silent, affectionate, clinging creature possible, holding Catriona’s +hand like a big baby, and begging of me not to leave if I had any love +to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the more to his daughter. +He would press and indeed beseech us to entertain him with our talk, a +thing very difficult in the state of our relations; and again break +forth in pitiable regrets for his own land and friends, or into Gaelic +singing. + +“This is one of the melancholy airs of my native land,” he would say. +“You may think it strange to see a soldier weep, and indeed it is to +make a near friend of you,” says he. “But the notes of this singing are +in my blood, and the words come out of my heart. And when I mind upon +my red mountains and the wild birds calling there, and the brave +streams of water running down, I would scarce think shame to weep +before my enemies.” Then he would sing again, and translate to me +pieces of the song, with a great deal of boggling and much expressed +contempt against the English language. “It says here,” he would say, +“that the sun is gone down, and the battle is at an end, and the brave +chiefs are defeated. And it tells here how the stars see them fleeing +into strange countries or lying dead on the red mountain; and they will +never more shout the call of battle or wash their feet in the streams +of the valley. But if you had only some of this language, you would +weep also because the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is +mere mockery to tell you it in English.” + +Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery in the business, one +way and another; and yet, there was some feeling too, for which I hated +him, I think, the worst of all. And it used to cut me to the quick to +see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, and weeping herself +to see him weep, when I was sure one half of his distress flowed from +his last night’s drinking in some tavern. There were times when I was +tempted to lend him a round sum, and see the last of him for good; but +this would have been to see the last of Catriona as well, for which I +was scarcely so prepared; and besides, it went against my conscience to +squander my good money on one who was so little of a husband. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +A TWOSOME + + +I believe it was about the fifth day, and I know at least that James +was in one of his fits of gloom, when I received three letters. The +first was from Alan, offering to visit me in Leyden; the other two were +out of Scotland and prompted by the same affair, which was the death of +my uncle and my own complete accession to my rights. Rankeillor’s was, +of course, wholly in the business view; Miss Grant’s was like herself, +a little more witty than wise, full of blame to me for not having +written (though how was I to write with such intelligence?) and of +rallying talk about Catriona, which it cut me to the quick to read in +her very presence. + +For it was of course in my own rooms that I found them, when I came to +dinner, so that I was surprised out of my news in the very first moment +of reading it. This made a welcome diversion for all three of us, nor +could any have foreseen the ill consequences that ensued. It was +accident that brought the three letters the same day, and that gave +them into my hand in the same room with James More; and of all the +events that flowed from that accident, and which I might have prevented +if I had held my tongue, the truth is that they were preordained before +Agricola came into Scotland or Abraham set out upon his travels. + +The first that I opened was naturally Alan’s; and what more natural +than that I should comment on his design to visit me? but I observed +James to sit up with an air of immediate attention. + +“Is that not Alan Breck that was suspected of the Appin accident?” he +inquired. + +I told him, “Ay,” it was the same; and he withheld me some time from my +other letters, asking of our acquaintance, of Alan’s manner of life in +France, of which I knew very little, and further of his visit as now +proposed. + +“All we forfeited folk hang a little together,” he explained, “and +besides I know the gentleman: and though his descent is not the thing, +and indeed he has no true right to use the name of Stewart, he was very +much admired in the day of Drummossie. He did there like a soldier; if +some that need not be named had done as well, the upshot need not have +been so melancholy to remember. There were two that did their best that +day, and it makes a bond between the pair of us,” says he. + +I could scarce refrain from shooting out my tongue at him, and could +almost have wished that Alan had been there to have inquired a little +further into that mention of his birth. Though, they tell me, the same +was indeed not wholly regular. + +Meanwhile, I had opened Miss Grant’s, and could not withhold an +exclamation. + +“Catriona,” I cried, forgetting, the first time since her father was +arrived, to address her by a handle, “I am come into my kingdom fairly, +I am the laird of Shaws indeed—my uncle is dead at last.” + +She clapped her hands together leaping from her seat. The next moment +it must have come over both of us at once what little cause of joy was +left to either, and we stood opposite, staring on each other sadly. + +But James showed himself a ready hypocrite. “My daughter,” says he, “is +this how my cousin learned you to behave? Mr. David has lost a new +friend, and we should first condole with him on his bereavement.” + +“Troth, sir,” said I, turning to him in a kind of anger, “I can make no +such great faces. His death is as blithe news as ever I got.” + +“It’s a good soldier’s philosophy,” says James. “’Tis the way of flesh, +we must all go, all go. And if the gentleman was so far from your +favour, why, very well! But we may at least congratulate you on your +accession to your estates.” + +“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with the same heat. “It is a +good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough already? I +had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for the man’s +death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess it!—I see not +how anyone is to be bettered by this change.” + +“Come, come,” said he, “you are more affected than you let on, or you +would never make yourself out so lonely. Here are three letters; that +means three that wish you well; and I could name two more, here in this +very chamber. I have known you not so very long, but Catriona, when we +are alone, is never done with the singing of your praises.” + +She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at once +into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during the most of +the dinner time) he continued to dwell upon with interest. But it was +to no purpose he dissembled; he had touched the matter with too gross a +hand: and I knew what to expect. Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly +discovered his designs. He reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her +attend to it. “I do not see you should be one beyond the hour,” he +added, “and friend David will be good enough to bear me company till +you return.” She made haste to obey him without words. I do not know if +she understood, I believe not; but I was completely satisfied, and sat +strengthening my mind for what should follow. + +The door had scarce closed behind her departure, when the man leaned +back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectation of easiness. +Only the one thing betrayed him, and that was his face; which suddenly +shone all over with fine points of sweat. + +“I am rather glad to have a word alone with you,” says he, “because in +our first interview there were some expressions you misapprehended and +I have long meant to set you right upon. My daughter stands beyond +doubt. So do you, and I would make that good with my sword against all +gainsayers. But, my dear David, this world is a censorious place—as who +should know it better than myself, who have lived ever since the days +of my late departed father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of +calumnies? We have to face to that; you and me have to consider of +that; we have to consider of that.” And he wagged his head like a +minister in a pulpit. + +“To what effect, Mr. Drummond?” said I. “I would be obliged to you if +you would approach your point.” + +“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “like your character, indeed! and what I +most admire in it. But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes in a +kittle bit.” He filled a glass of wine. “Though between you and me, +that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long. The point, I +need scarcely tell you, is my daughter. And the first thing is that I +have no thought in my mind of blaming you. In the unfortunate +circumstances, what could you do else? ’Deed, and I cannot tell.” + +“I thank you for that,” said I, pretty close upon my guard. + +“I have besides studied your character,” he went on; “your talents are +fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which does no harm; and +one thing with another, I am very happy to have to announce to you that +I have decided on the latter of the two ways open.” + +“I am afraid I am dull,” said I. “What ways are these?” + +He bent his brows upon me formidably and uncrossed his legs. “Why, +sir,” says he, “I think I need scarce describe them to a gentleman of +your condition; either that I should cut your throat or that you should +marry my daughter.” + +“You are pleased to be quite plain at last,” said I. + +“And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!” cries he +robustiously. “I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank God, a +patient and deleeborate man. There is many a father, sir, that would +have hirsled you at once either to the altar or the field. My esteem +for your character—” + +“Mr. Drummond,” I interrupted, “if you have any esteem for me at all, I +will beg of you to moderate your voice. It is quite needless to rowt at +a gentleman in the same chamber with yourself and lending you his best +attention.” + +“Why, very true,” says he, with an immediate change. “And you must +excuse the agitations of a parent.” + +“I understand you then,” I continued—“for I will take no note of your +other alternative, which perhaps it was a pity you let fall—I +understand you rather to offer me encouragement in case I should desire +to apply for your daughter’s hand?” + +“It is not possible to express my meaning better,” said he, “and I see +we shall do well together.” + +“That remains to be yet seen,” said I. “But so much I need make no +secret of, that I bear the lady you refer to the most tender affection, +and I could not fancy, even in a dream, a better fortune than to get +her.” + +“I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David,” he cried, and reached +out his hand to me. + +I put it by. “You go too fast, Mr. Drummond,” said I. “There are +conditions to be made; and there is a difficulty in the path, which I +see not entirely how we shall come over. I have told you that, upon my +side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have good reason to +believe there will be much on the young lady’s.” + +“This is all beside the mark,” says he. “I will engage for her +acceptance.” + +“I think you forget, Mr. Drummond,” said I, “that, even in dealing with +myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalatable expressions. +I will have none such employed to the young lady. I am here to speak +and think for the two of us; and I give you to understand that I would +no more let a wife be forced upon myself, than what I would let a +husband be forced on the young lady.” + +He sat and glowered at me like one in doubt and a good deal of temper. + +“So that is to be the way of it,” I concluded. “I will marry Miss +Drummond, and that blithely, if she is entirely willing. But if there +be the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear—marry her will I +never.” + +“Well well,” said he, “this is a small affair. As soon as she returns I +will sound her a bit, and hope to reassure you—” + +But I cut in again. “Not a finger of you, Mr. Drummond, or I cry off, +and you can seek a husband to your daughter somewhere else,” said I. +“It is I that am to be the only dealer and the only judge. I shall +satisfy myself exactly; and none else shall anyways meddle—you the +least of all.” + +“Upon my word, sir!” he exclaimed, “and who are you to be the judge?” + +“The bridegroom, I believe,” said I. + +“This is to quibble,” he cried. “You turn your back upon the fact. The +girl, my daughter, has no choice left to exercise. Her character is +gone.” + +“And I ask your pardon,” said I, “but while this matter lies between +her and you and me, that is not so.” + +“What security have I!” he cried. “Am I to let my daughter’s reputation +depend upon a chance?” + +“You should have thought of all this long ago,” said I, “before you +were so misguided as to lose her; and not afterwards when it is quite +too late. I refuse to regard myself as any way accountable for your +neglect, and I will be browbeat by no man living. My mind is quite made +up, and come what may, I will not depart from it a hair’s breadth. You +and me are to sit here in company till her return: upon which, without +either word or look from you, she and I are to go forth again to hold +our talk. If she can satisfy me that she is willing to this step, I +will then make it; and if she cannot, I will not.” + +He leaped out of his chair like a man stung. “I can spy your manœuvre,” +he cried; “you would work upon her to refuse!” + +“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” said I. “That is the way it is to be, +whatever.” + +“And if I refuse?” cries he. + +“Then, Mr. Drummond, it will have to come to the throat-cutting,” said +I. + +What with the size of the man, his great length of arm in which he came +near rivalling his father, and his reputed skill at weapons, I did not +use this word without trepidation, to say nothing at all of the +circumstance that he was Catriona’s father. But I might have spared +myself alarms. From the poorness of my lodging—he does not seem to have +remarked his daughter’s dresses, which were indeed all equally new to +him—and from the fact that I had shown myself averse to lend, he had +embraced a strong idea of my poverty. The sudden news of my estate +convinced him of his error, and he had made but the one bound of it on +this fresh venture, to which he was now so wedded, that I believe he +would have suffered anything rather than fall to the alternative of +fighting. + +A little while longer he continued to dispute with me, until I hit upon +a word that silenced him. + +“If I find you so averse to let me see the lady by herself,” said I, “I +must suppose you have very good grounds to think me in the right about +her unwillingness.” + +He gabbled some kind of an excuse. + +“But all this is very exhausting to both of our tempers,” I added, “and +I think we would do better to preserve a judicious silence.” + +The which we did until the girl returned, and I must suppose would have +cut a very ridiculous figure had there been any there to view us. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE + + +I opened the door to Catriona and stopped her on the threshold. + +“Your father wishes us to take our walk,” said I. + +She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, like a trained +soldier, she turned to go with me. + +We took one of our old ways, where we had gone often together, and been +more happy than I can tell of in the past. I came a half a step behind, +so that I could watch her unobserved. The knocking of her little shoes +upon the way sounded extraordinary pretty and sad; and I thought it a +strange moment that I should be so near both ends of it at once, and +walk in the midst between two destinies, and could not tell whether I +was hearing these steps for the last time, or whether the sound of them +was to go in and out with me till death should part us. + +She avoided even to look at me, only walked before her, like one who +had a guess of what was coming. I saw I must speak soon before my +courage was run out, but where to begin I knew not. In this painful +situation, when the girl was as good as forced into my arms and had +already besought my forbearance, any excess of pressure must have +seemed indecent; yet to avoid it wholly would have a very cold-like +appearance. Between these extremes I stood helpless, and could have bit +my fingers; so that, when at last I managed to speak at all, it may be +said I spoke at random. + +“Catriona,” said I, “I am in a very painful situation; or rather, so we +are both; and I would be a good deal obliged to you if you would +promise to let me speak through first of all, and not to interrupt me +till I have done.” + +She promised me that simply. + +“Well,” said I, “this that I have got to say is very difficult, and I +know very well I have no right to be saying it. After what passed +between the two of us last Friday, I have no manner of right. We have +got so ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I know very well the +least I could do is just to hold my tongue, which was what I intended +fully, and there was nothing further from my thoughts than to have +troubled you again. But, my dear, it has become merely necessary, and +no way by it. You see, this estate of mine has fallen in, which makes +of me rather a better match; and the—the business would not have quite +the same ridiculous-like appearance that it would before. Besides +which, it’s supposed that our affairs have got so much ravelled up (as +I was saying) that it would be better to let them be the way they are. +In my view, this part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were +you I would not wear two thoughts on it. Only it’s right I should +mention the same, because there’s no doubt it has some influence on +James More. Then I think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together +in this town before. I think we did pretty well together. If you would +look back, my dear—” + +“I will look neither back nor forward,” she interrupted. “Tell me the +one thing: this is my father’s doing?” + +“He approves of it,” said I. “He approved I that I should ask your hand +in marriage,” and was going on again with somewhat more of an appeal +upon her feelings; but she marked me not, and struck into the midst. + +“He told you to!” she cried. “It is no sense denying it, you said +yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts. He told you +to.” + +“He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean,” I began. + +She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her; but +at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she would +have run. + +“Without which,” I went on, “after what you said last Friday, I would +never have been so troublesome as make the offer. But when he as good +as asked me, what was I to do?” + +She stopped and turned round upon me. + +“Well, it is refused at all events,” she cried, “and there will be an +end of that.” + +And she began again to walk forward. + +“I suppose I could expect no better,” said I, “but I think you might +try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it. I see not why you +should be harsh. I have loved you very well, Catriona—no harm that I +should call you so for the last time. I have done the best that I could +manage, I am trying the same still, and only vexed that I can do no +better. It is a strange thing to me that you can take any pleasure to +be hard to me.” + +“I am not thinking of you,” she said, “I am thinking of that man, my +father.” + +“Well, and that way, too!” said I. “I can be of use to you that way, +too; I will have to be. It is very needful, my dear, that we should +consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone, an angry man +will be James More.” + +She stopped again. “It is because I am disgraced?” she asked. + +“That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have told you already +to make nought of it.” + +“It will be all one to me,” she cried. “I prefer to be disgraced!” + +I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent. + +There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last cry; +presently she broke out, “And what is the meaning of all this? Why is +all this shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it, David +Balfour?” + +“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?” + +“I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy you to be calling me these +words.” + +“I am not thinking of my words,” said I. “My heart bleeds for you, Miss +Drummond. Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in your +difficult position. But there is just the one thing that I wish you +would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss it quietly; +for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two get home. Take my +word for it, it will need the two of us to make this matter end in +peace.” + +“Ay,” said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her cheeks. +“Was he for fighting you?” said she. + +“Well, he was that,” said I. + +She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. “At all events, it is complete!” she +cried. And then turning on me. “My father and I are a fine pair,” said +she, “but I am thanking the good God there will be somebody worse than +what we are. I am thanking the good God that he has let me see you so. +There will never be the girl made that will not scorn you.” + +I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this was over the mark. + +“You have no right to speak to me like that,” said I. “What have I done +but to be good to you, or try to be? And here is my repayment! O, it is +too much.” + +She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. “Coward!” said she. + +“The word in your throat and in your father’s!” I cried. “I have dared +him this day already in your interest. I will dare him again, the nasty +pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall! Come,” said I, “back +to the house with us; let us be done with it, let me be done with the +whole Hieland crew of you! You will see what you think when I am dead.” + +She shook her head at me with that same smile I could have struck her +for. + +“O, smile away!” I cried. “I have seen your bonny father smile on the +wrong side this day. Not that I mean he was afraid, of course,” I added +hastily, “but he preferred the other way of it.” + +“What is this?” she asked. + +“When I offered to draw with him,” said I. + +“You offered to draw upon James More!” she cried. + +“And I did so,” said I, “and found him backward enough, or how would we +be here?” + +“There is a meaning upon this,” said she. “What is it you are meaning?” + +“He was to make you take me,” I replied, “and I would not have it. I +said you should be free, and I must speak with you alone; little I +supposed it would be such a speaking! ‘_And what if I refuse_?’ said +he.—‘_Then it must come to the throat-cutting_,’ says I, ‘_for I will +no more have a husband forced on that young lady_, _than what I would +have a wife forced upon myself_.’ These were my words, they were a +friend’s words; bonnily have I paid for them! Now you have refused me +of your own clear free will, and there lives no father in the +Highlands, or out of them, that can force on this marriage. I will see +that your wishes are respected; I will make the same my business, as I +have all through. But I think you might have that decency as to affect +some gratitude. ’Deed, and I thought you knew me better! I have not +behaved quite well to you, but that was weakness. And to think me a +coward, and such a coward as that—O, my lass, there was a stab for the +last of it!” + +“Davie, how would I guess?” she cried. “O, this is a dreadful business! +Me and mine,”—she gave a kind of a wretched cry at the word—“me and +mine are not fit to speak to you. O, I could be kneeling down to you in +the street, I could be kissing your hands for forgiveness!” + +“I will keep the kisses I have got from you already,” cried I. “I will +keep the ones I wanted and that were something worth; I will not be +kissed in penitence.” + +“What can you be thinking of this miserable girl?” says she. + +“What I am trying to tell you all this while!” said I, “that you had +best leave me alone, whom you can make no more unhappy if you tried, +and turn your attention to James More, your father, with whom you are +like to have a queer pirn to wind.” + +“O, that I must be going out into the world alone with such a man!” she +cried, and seemed to catch herself in with a great effort. “But trouble +yourself no more for that,” said she. “He does not know what kind of +nature is in my heart. He will pay me dear for this day of it; dear, +dear, will he pay.” + +She turned, and began to go home and I to accompany her. At which she +stopped. + +“I will be going alone,” she said. “It is alone I must be seeing him.” + +Some little time I raged about the streets, and told myself I was the +worst used lad in Christendom. Anger choked me; it was all very well +for me to breathe deep; it seemed there was not air enough about Leyden +to supply me, and I thought I would have burst like a man at the bottom +of the sea. I stopped and laughed at myself at a street corner a minute +together, laughing out loud, so that a passenger looked at me, which +brought me to myself. + +“Well,” I thought, “I have been a gull and a ninny and a soft Tommy +long enough. Time it was done. Here is a good lesson to have nothing to +do with that accursed sex, that was the ruin of the man in the +beginning and will be so to the end. God knows I was happy enough +before ever I saw her; God knows I can be happy enough again when I +have seen the last of her.” + +That seemed to me the chief affair: to see them go. I dwelled upon the +idea fiercely; and presently slipped on, in a kind of malevolence, to +consider how very poorly they were likely to fare when Davie Balfour +was no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which, to my very own great +surprise, the disposition of my mind turned bottom up. I was still +angry; I still hated her; and yet I thought I owed it to myself that +she should suffer nothing. + +This carried me home again at once, where I found the mails drawn out +and ready fastened by the door, and the father and daughter with every +mark upon them of a recent disagreement. Catriona was like a wooden +doll; James More breathed hard, his face was dotted with white spots, +and his nose upon one side. As soon as I came in, the girl looked at +him with a steady, clear, dark look that might have been followed by a +blow. It was a hint that was more contemptuous than a command, and I +was surprised to see James More accept it. It was plain he had had a +master talking-to; and I could see there must be more of the devil in +the girl than I had guessed, and more good humour about the man than I +had given him the credit of. + +He began, at least, calling me Mr. Balfour, and plainly speaking from a +lesson; but he got not very far, for at the first pompous swell of his +voice, Catriona cut in. + +“I will tell you what James More is meaning,” said she. “He means we +have come to you, beggar-folk, and have not behaved to you very well, +and we are ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour. Now we are +wanting to go away and be forgotten; and my father will have guided his +gear so ill, that we cannot even do that unless you will give us some +more alms. For that is what we are, at an events, beggar-folk and +sorners.” + +“By your leave, Miss Drummond,” said I, “I must speak to your father by +myself.” + +She went into her own room and shut the door, without a word or a look. + +“You must excuse her, Mr. Balfour,” says James More. “She has no +delicacy.” + +“I am not here to discuss that with you,” said I, “but to be quit of +you. And to that end I must talk of your position. Now, Mr. Drummond, I +have kept the run of your affairs more closely than you bargained for. +I know you had money of your own when you were borrowing mine. I know +you have had more since you were here in Leyden, though you concealed +it even from your daughter.” + +“I bid you beware. I will stand no more baiting,” he broke out. “I am +sick of her and you. What kind of a damned trade is this to be a +parent! I have had expressions used to me—” There he broke off. “Sir, +this is the heart of a soldier and a parent,” he went on again, laying +his hand on his bosom, “outraged in both characters—and I bid you +beware.” + +“If you would have let me finish,” says I, “you would have found I +spoke for your advantage.” + +“My dear friend,” he cried, “I know I might have relied upon the +generosity of your character.” + +“Man! will you let me speak?” said I. “The fact is that I cannot win to +find out if you are rich or poor. But it is my idea that your means, as +they are mysterious in their source, so they are something insufficient +in amount; and I do not choose your daughter to be lacking. If I durst +speak to herself, you may be certain I would never dream of trusting it +to you; because I know you like the back of my hand, and all your +blustering talk is that much wind to me. However, I believe in your way +you do still care something for your daughter after all; and I must +just be doing with that ground of confidence, such as it is.” + +Whereupon, I arranged with him that he was to communicate with me, as +to his whereabouts and Catriona’s welfare, in consideration of which I +was to serve him a small stipend. + +He heard the business out with a great deal of eagerness; and when it +was done, “My dear fellow, my dear son,” he cried out, “this is more +like yourself than any of it yet! I will serve you with a soldier’s +faithfulness—” + +“Let me hear no more of it!” says I. “You have got me to that pitch +that the bare name of soldier rises on my stomach. Our traffic is +settled; I am now going forth and will return in one half-hour, when I +expect to find my chambers purged of you.” + +I gave them good measure of time; it was my one fear that I might see +Catriona again, because tears and weakness were ready in my heart, and +I cherished my anger like a piece of dignity. Perhaps an hour went by; +the sun had gone down, a little wisp of a new moon was following it +across a scarlet sunset; already there were stars in the east, and in +my chambers, when at last I entered them, the night lay blue. I lit a +taper and reviewed the rooms; in the first there remained nothing so +much as to awake a memory of those who were gone; but in the second, in +a corner of the floor, I spied a little heap that brought my heart into +my mouth. She had left behind at her departure all that she had ever +had of me. It was the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was +the last; and I fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved myself more +foolish than I care to tell of. + +Late in the night, in a strict frost, and my teeth chattering, I came +again by some portion of my manhood and considered with myself. The +sight of these poor frocks and ribbons, and her shifts, and the clocked +stockings, was not to be endured; and if I were to recover any +constancy of mind, I saw I must be rid of them ere the morning. It was +my first thought to have made a fire and burned them; but my +disposition has always been opposed to wastery, for one thing; and for +another, to have burned these things that she had worn so close upon +her body seemed in the nature of a cruelty. There was a corner cupboard +in that chamber; there I determined to bestow them. The which I did and +made it a long business, folding them with very little skill indeed but +the more care; and sometimes dropping them with my tears. All the heart +was gone out of me, I was weary as though I had run miles, and sore +like one beaten; when, as I was folding a kerchief that she wore often +at her neck, I observed there was a corner neatly cut from it. It was a +kerchief of a very pretty hue, on which I had frequently remarked; and +once that she had it on, I remembered telling her (by way of a banter) +that she wore my colours. There came a glow of hope and like a tide of +sweetness in my bosom; and the next moment I was plunged back in a +fresh despair. For there was the corner crumpled in a knot and cast +down by itself in another part of the floor. + +But when I argued with myself, I grew more hopeful. She had cut that +corner off in some childish freak that was manifestly tender; that she +had cast it away again was little to be wondered at; and I was inclined +to dwell more upon the first than upon the second, and to be more +pleased that she had ever conceived the idea of that keepsake, than +concerned because she had flung it from her in an hour of natural +resentment. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +WE MEET IN DUNKIRK + + +Altogether, then, I was scare so miserable the next days but what I had +many hopeful and happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal of +constancy upon my studies; and made out to endure the time till Alan +should arrive, or I might hear word of Catriona by the means of James +More. I had altogether three letters in the time of our separation. One +was to announce their arrival in the town of Dunkirk in France, from +which place James shortly after started alone upon a private mission. +This was to England and to see Lord Holderness; and it has always been +a bitter thought that my good money helped to pay the charges of the +same. But he has need of a long spoon who soups with the de’il, or +James More either. During this absence, the time was to fall due for +another letter; and as the letter was the condition of his stipend, he +had been so careful as to prepare it beforehand and leave it with +Catriona to be despatched. The fact of our correspondence aroused her +suspicions, and he was no sooner gone than she had burst the seal. What +I received began accordingly in the writing of James More: + +“My dear Sir,—Your esteemed favour came to hand duly, and I have to +acknowledge the inclosure according to agreement. It shall be all +faithfully expended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to be +remembered to her dear friend. I find her in rather a melancholy +disposition, but trust in the mercy of God to see her re-established. +Our manner of life is very much alone, but we solace ourselves with the +melancholy tunes of our native mountains, and by walking up the margin +of the sea that lies next to Scotland. It was better days with me when +I lay with five wounds upon my body on the field of Gladsmuir. I have +found employment here in the _haras_ of a French nobleman, where my +experience is valued. But, my dear Sir, the wages are so exceedingly +unsuitable that I would be ashamed to mention them, which makes your +remittances the more necessary to my daughter’s comfort, though I +daresay the sight of old friends would be still better. + + +“My dear Sir, +“Your affectionate, obedient servant, +“James Macgregor Drummond.” + + +Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:— + +“Do not be believing him, it is all lies together,—C. M. D.” + + +Not only did she add this postscript, but I think she must have come +near suppressing the letter; for it came long after date, and was +closely followed by the third. In the time betwixt them, Alan had +arrived, and made another life to me with his merry conversation; I had +been presented to his cousin of the Scots-Dutch, a man that drank more +than I could have thought possible and was not otherwise of interest; I +had been entertained to many jovial dinners and given some myself, all +with no great change upon my sorrow; and we two (by which I mean Alan +and myself, and not at all the cousin) had discussed a good deal the +nature of my relations with James More and his daughter. I was +naturally diffident to give particulars; and this disposition was not +anyway lessened by the nature of Alan’s commentary upon those I gave. + +“I cannae make heed nor tail of it,” he would say, “but it sticks in my +mind ye’ve made a gowk of yourself. There’s few people that has had +more experience than Alan Breck: and I can never call to mind to have +heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours. The way that you tell +it, the thing’s fair impossible. Ye must have made a terrible hash of +the business, David.” + +“There are whiles that I am of the same mind,” said I. + +“The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind of fancy for her +too!” said Alan. + +“The biggest kind, Alan,” said I, “and I think I’ll take it to my grave +with me.” + +“Well, ye beat me, whatever!” he would conclude. + +I showed him the letter with Catriona’s postscript. “And here again!” +he cried. “Impossible to deny a kind of decency to this Catriona, and +sense forby! As for James More, the man’s as boss as a drum; he’s just +a wame and a wheen words; though I’ll can never deny that he fought +reasonably well at Gladsmuir, and it’s true what he says here about the +five wounds. But the loss of him is that the man’s boss.” + +“Ye see, Alan,” said I, “it goes against the grain with me to leave the +maid in such poor hands.” + +“Ye couldnae weel find poorer,” he admitted. “But what are ye to do +with it? It’s this way about a man and a woman, ye see, Davie: The +weemenfolk have got no kind of reason to them. Either they like the +man, and then a’ goes fine; or else they just detest him, and ye may +spare your breath—ye can do naething. There’s just the two sets of +them—them that would sell their coats for ye, and them that never look +the road ye’re on. That’s a’ that there is to women; and you seem to be +such a gomeral that ye cannae tell the tane frae the tither.” + +“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I. + +“And yet there’s naething easier!” cried Alan. “I could easy learn ye +the science of the thing; but ye seem to me to be born blind, and +there’s where the deefficulty comes in.” + +“And can _you_ no help me?” I asked, “you that are so clever at the +trade?” + +“Ye see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like a field officer that +has naebody but blind men for scouts and _éclaireurs_; and what would +he ken? But it sticks in my mind that ye’ll have made some kind of +bauchle; and if I was you I would have a try at her again.” + +“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I. + +“I would e’en’t,” says he. + +The third letter came to my hand while we were deep in some such talk: +and it will be seen how pat it fell to the occasion. James professed to +be in some concern upon his daughter’s health, which I believe was +never better; abounded in kind expressions to myself; and finally +proposed that I should visit them at Dunkirk. + +“You will now be enjoying the society of my old comrade Mr. Stewart,” +he wrote. “Why not accompany him so far in his return to France? I have +something very particular for Mr. Stewart’s ear; and, at any rate, I +would be pleased to meet in with an old fellow-soldier and one so +mettle as himself. As for you, my dear sir, my daughter and I would be +proud to receive our benefactor, whom we regard as a brother and a son. +The French nobleman has proved a person of the most filthy avarice of +character, and I have been necessitate to leave the _haras_. You will +find us in consequence a little poorly lodged in the _auberge_ of a man +Bazin on the dunes; but the situation is caller, and I make no doubt +but we might spend some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I +could recall our services, and you and my daughter divert yourselves in +a manner more befitting your age. I beg at least that Mr. Stewart would +come here; my business with him opens a very wide door.” + +“What does the man want with me?” cried Alan, when he had read. “What +he wants with you is clear enough—it’s siller. But what can he want +with Alan Breck?” + +“O, it’ll be just an excuse,” said I. “He is still after this marriage, +which I wish from my heart that we could bring about. And he asks you +because he thinks I would be less likely to come wanting you.” + +“Well, I wish that I kent,” says Alan. “Him and me were never onyways +pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers. ‘Something for my +ear,’ quo’ he! I’ll maybe have something for his hinder-end, before +we’re through with it. Dod, I’m thinking it would be a kind of +divertisement to gang and see what he’ll be after! Forby that I could +see your lassie then. What say ye, Davie? Will ye ride with Alan?” + +You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan’s furlough running towards +an end, we set forth presently upon this joint adventure. + +It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into the town of +Dunkirk. We left our horses at the post, and found a guide to Bazin’s +Inn, which lay beyond the walls. Night was quite fallen, so that we +were the last to leave that fortress, and heard the doors of it close +behind us as we passed the bridge. On the other side there lay a +lighted suburb, which we thridded for a while, then turned into a dark +lane, and presently found ourselves wading in the night among deep sand +where we could hear a bullering of the sea. We travelled in this +fashion for some while, following our conductor mostly by the sound of +his voice; and I had begun to think he was perhaps misleading us, when +we came to the top of a small brae, and there appeared out of the +darkness a dim light in a window. + +“_Voilà l’auberge à Bazin_,” says the guide. + +Alan smacked his lips. “An unco lonely bit,” said he, and I thought by +his tone he was not wholly pleased. + +A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that house, which +was all in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the chambers at +the side, benches and tables by the wall, the cooking fire at the one +end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-trap at the other. +Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man, told us the Scottish +gentleman was gone abroad he knew not where, but the young lady was +above, and he would call her down to us. + +I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner, and knotted it +about my throat. I could hear my heart go; and Alan patting me on the +shoulder with some of his laughable expressions, I could scarce refrain +from a sharp word. But the time was not long to wait. I heard her step +pass overhead, and saw her on the stair. This she descended very +quietly, and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming of +earnestness, or uneasiness, in her manner that extremely dashed me. + +“My father, James More, will be here soon. He will be very pleased to +see you,” she said. And then of a sudden her face flamed, her eyes +lightened, the speech stopped upon her lips; and I made sure she had +observed the kerchief. It was only for a breath that she was +discomposed; but methought it was with a new animation that she turned +to welcome Alan. “And you will be his friend, Alan Breck?” she cried. +“Many is the dozen times I will have heard him tell of you; and I love +you already for all your bravery and goodness.” + +“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his and viewing her, “and +so this is the young lady at the last of it! David, ye’re an awful poor +hand of a description.” + +I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to people’s +hearts; the sound of his voice was like song. + +“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried. + +“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he, “forby a +bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood by +Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said. +And now there’s one thing sure; you and me are to be a pair of friends. +I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I’m like a tyke at his heels; +and whatever he cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by the holy +airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see what way you stand +with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find ye’ll hardly lose on the transaction. +He’s no very bonnie, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.” + +“I thank you from my heart for your good words,” said she. “I have that +honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot find any to be answering +with.” + +Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for James More, and sat +down to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon +his wants: he made her drink first out of his glass, he surrounded her +with continual kind gallantries, and yet never gave me the most small +occasion to be jealous; and he kept the talk so much in his own hand, +and that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I remembered to be +embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it must have been supposed that +Alan was the old friend and I the stranger. Indeed, I had often cause +to love and to admire the man, but I never loved or admired him better +than that night; and I could not help remarking to myself (what I was +sometimes rather in danger of forgetting) that he had not only much +experience of life, but in his own way a great deal of natural ability +besides. As for Catriona, she seemed quite carried away; her laugh was +like a peal of bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own, +although I was well pleased, yet I was a little sad also, and thought +myself a dull, stockish character in comparison of my friend, and very +unfit to come into a young maid’s life, and perhaps ding down her +gaiety. + +But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least I was not +alone in it; for, James More returning suddenly, the girl was changed +into a piece of stone. Through the rest of that evening, until she made +an excuse and slipped to bed, I kept an eye upon her without cease; and +I can bear testimony that she never smiled, scarce spoke, and looked +mostly on the board in front of her. So that I really marvelled to see +so much devotion (as it used to be) changed into the very sickness of +hate. + +Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you know the man already, +what there was to know of him; and I am weary of writing out his lies. +Enough that he drank a great deal, and told us very little that was to +any possible purpose. As for the business with Alan, that was to be +reserved for the morrow and his private hearing. + +It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were pretty +weary with four day’s ride, and sat not very late after Catriona. + +We were soon alone in a chamber where we were to make-shift with a +single bed. Alan looked on me with a queer smile. + +“Ye muckle ass!” said he. + +“What do ye mean by that?” I cried. + +“Mean? What do I mean! It’s extraordinar, David man,” say he, “that you +should be so mortal stupit.” + +Again I begged him to speak out. + +“Well, it’s this of it,” said he. “I told ye there were the two kinds +of women—them that would sell their shifts for ye, and the others. Just +you try for yoursel, my bonny man! But what’s that neepkin at your +craig?” + +I told him. + +“I thocht it was something thereabout,” said he. + +Nor would he say another word though I besieged him long with +importunities. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. +THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP + + +Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was plainly hard upon +the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset on every side with +scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in the nature +of a prospect, where there stood out over a brae the two sails of a +windmill, like an ass’s ears, but with the ass quite hidden. It was +strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the +turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the +hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways +travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door. The +truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of them honest, and +the position of his inn was the best of his livelihood. Smugglers +frequented it; political agents and forfeited persons bound across the +water came there to await their passages; and I daresay there was worse +behind, for a whole family might have been butchered in that house and +nobody the wiser. + +I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside +my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro +before the door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, sprang +up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun, +and set the mill to the turning. There was something of spring in the +sunshine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great +sails one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At +times I could hear a creak of the machinery; and by half-past eight of +the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place was like a paradise. + +For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to be +aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed there was +trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and went down +over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside of all fancy, it +was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a young lady to be +brought to dwell in. + +At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was +in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same, +and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one +side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live coals. The meal was +no sooner over than James seemed to come began to make apologies. He +had an appointment of a private nature in the town (it was with the +French nobleman, he told me), and we would please excuse him till about +noon. Meanwhile he carried his daughter aside to the far end of the +room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen with +much inclination. + +“I am caring less and less about this man James,” said Alan. “There’s +something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae wonder but what +Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine to see +yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to +yoursel, and that would be to speir at the lassie for some news o’ your +affair. Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle ass at the +off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would +just mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes +that.” + +“I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, mocking him. + +“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can tell her that I +recommended it; that’ll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae wonder +but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I +didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and +chief with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about +you.” + +“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked. + +“She thinks a heap of me,” says he. “And I’m no like you: I’m one that +can tell. That she does—she thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I’m +thinking a good deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws, +I’ll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so that I can see what way +James goes.” + +One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast +table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs to +her own chamber. I could very well understand how she should avoid to +be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it for that, and +bent my mind to entrap her to an interview before the men returned. +Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out +of view among the sandhills, the fine morning would decoy her forth; +and once I had her in the open, I could please myself. + +No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock +before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing +nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I +followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the further +she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground +being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and +came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the +first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in; +where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin’s +and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and two or +three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely +close in to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new +suspicion, when I recognised the trim of the _Seahorse_. What should an +English ship be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into +her neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue? +and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More +should walk that day to the seaside? + +Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and +above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o’-war’s +boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in +charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the +rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow. +Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with +civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands; +and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were all +her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for +the _Seahorse_. But I observed the officer to remain behind and +disappear among the bents. + +I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it +less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near +with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender +a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she +raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on +again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at +that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, suspicions, the +care of my friend’s life—was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet +and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope. + +I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which she returned with a +good deal of composure. + +“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I. + +“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she replied; and then, with a +little outburst, “but why will you be sending money to that man! It +must not be.” + +“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know well.” + +“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” she said. +“David, it is not right.” + +“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I, “and I pray God he will help this +dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona, +this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the +word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.” + +“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry. + +“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking, +O, be sure of that!” says I. “I think of the one thing. I have been +alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my +studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among +soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And +it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do +you see this napkin at my throat! You cut a corner from it once and +then cast it from you. They’re _your_ colours now; I wear them in my +heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!” + +I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on. + +“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with a little.” + +Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a +fear of death. + +“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again? Am I +quite lost?” + +She raised her face to me, breathless. + +“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her +say it. + +“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do that.” + +“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she. “I was all +yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she +said. + +This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous, +we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down +before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that +storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was +wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew +not where I was. I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped, +and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words +out of a whirl. + +“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me! Is it +so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!” + +With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect +gladness. + +It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of +what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her +hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure +like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen +the place that looked so pretty as those bents by Dunkirk; and the +windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of +music. + +I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else +besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father, +which brought us to reality. + +“My little friend,” I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to +summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and +to be a little distant—“My little friend, now you are mine altogether; +mine for good, my little friend and that man’s no longer at all.” + +There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from +mine. + +“Davie, take me away from him!” she cried. “There’s something wrong; +he’s not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror +here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that +King’s ship? What will this word be saying?” And she held the letter +forth. “My mind misgives me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it, +Davie—open it and see.” + +I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head. + +“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a man’s letter.” + +“Not to save your friend?” she cried. + +“I cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only sure!” + +“And you have but to break the seal!” said she. + +“I know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.” + +“Give it here,” said she, “and I will open it myself.” + +“Nor you neither,” said I. “You least of all. It concerns your father, +and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No question but +the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and your +father having word from it, and yon officer that stayed ashore. He +would not be alone either; there must be more along with him; I daresay +we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be +opened; but somehow, not by you nor me.” + +I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a +sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back again +from following James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. He +was in his soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not +avoid to shudder when I thought how little that jacket would avail him, +if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of +the _Seahorse_, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned murderer. + +“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best right to open it: +or not, as he thinks fit.” + +With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark +for him. + +“If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear it?” she asked, +looking upon me with a burning eye. + +“I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the +once,” said I. “What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I +thought I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would marry you at his +gallows’ foot.” + +The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me, +holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan. + +He came with one of his queer smiles. “What was I telling ye, David?” +says he. + +“There is a time for all things, Alan,” said I, “and this time is +serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this friend +of ours.” + +“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he. + +“I doubt we have done better than you, then,” said I; “and, at least, +here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see +that?” I went on, pointing to the ship. “That is the _Seahorse_, +Captain Palliser.” + +“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when +she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so +close?” + +“I will tell you why he came there first,” said I. “It was to bring +this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it’s delivered, +what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the +bents, and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I would rather +you considered for yourself.” + +“A letter to James More?” said he. + +“The same,” said I. + +“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the last +night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some +one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and +shut.” + +“Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove it.” + +“Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!” +says he. “But the business looks bad. Let’s see the letter.” + +I gave it him. + +“Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but there’s +nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I’ll have to +break this seal.” + +“It is my wish,” said Catriona. + +He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air. + +“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket. +“Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to me.” +And he began to walk towards the inn. + +It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked. + +“Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to you and Davie, I’ll can +jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse,” he added. + +“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic +with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my +hand to her side. + +“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work +that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye +make a real, bonny couple.” + +The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill, +where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be +spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear. + +“See, Alan!” + +“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.” + +The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill, +and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he +was a big fellow with a mahogany face. + +“I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the English?” + +“_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent. + +“_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn +you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots +boot to your English hurdies!” + +And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick +that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and +watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-hills. + +“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty bents!” said Alan; and +continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the backdoor +of Bazin’s inn. + +It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with +James More entering by the other. + +“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with you and make your +packets; this is no fit scene for you.” + +In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long room. +She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she was some +way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though without pausing. +Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as they met one of his +best appearances of courtesy and friendliness, yet with something +eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the man, as folk +smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for accidents. + +Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary place, and his enemies +about him, might have daunted Cæsar. It made no change in him; and it +was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the +interview. + +“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” said he. “What’ll yon +business of yours be just about?” + +“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story,” says James, +“I think it will keep very well till we have eaten.” + +“I’m none so sure of that,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind it’s +either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have +gotten a line, and we’re thinking of the road.” + +I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held himself stoutly. + +“I have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” said he, “and +that is the name of my business.” + +“Say it then,” says Alan. “Hout! wha minds for Davie?” + +“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” said James. + +“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan. + +“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is Cluny’s +Treasure.” + +“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?” + +“I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there,” said James. + +“This crowns all!” says Alan. “Well, and I’m glad I came to Dunkirk. +And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I’m thinking?” + +“That is the business, sir,” said James. + +“Well, well,” said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike +interest, “it has naething to do with the _Seahorse_, then?” he asked. + +“With what?” says James. + +“Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon windmill?” +pursued Alan. “Hut, man! have done with your lees! I have Palliser’s +letter here in my pouch. You’re by with it, James More. You can never +show your face again with dacent folk.” + +James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless and +white, then swelled with the living anger. + +“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out. + +“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the +mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together. + +At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back from +the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so nearly that I +thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s +father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew and ran in to sever +them. + +“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!” roared Alan. “Your +blood be on your ain heid then!” + +I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the wall; +I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at +each other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided being +stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two Rodomonts, and the whole +business turned about me like a piece of a dream; in the midst of which +I heard a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before her +father. In the same moment the point of my sword encountered some thing +yielding. It came back to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the +girl’s kerchief, and stood sick. + +“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after +all!” she cried. + +“My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and went, and sat on a +table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand. + +Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung +suddenly about and faced him. + +“Begone!” was her word, “take your shame out of my sight; leave me with +clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin, +begone!” + +It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my own +bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain on her +kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must have +pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he betook himself to a +bravado air. + +“Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye on +Alan, “if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—” + +“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me,” says Alan. + +“Sir!” cries James. + +“James More,” says Alan, “this lady daughter of yours is to marry my +friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale +carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of +harm’s way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are leemits to +my temper.” + +“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James. + +“I’m vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his funny face, “but now, +ye see, it’s mines.” And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James +More, you leave this house.” + +James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it’s to be +thought he had enough of Alan’s swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off +his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us farewell +in a series. With which he was gone. + +At the same time a spell was lifted from me. + +“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much hurt?” + +“I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done +defending that bad man, my father. See!” she said, and showed me a +bleeding scratch, “see, you have made a man of me now. I will carry a +wound like an old soldier.” + +Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave +nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound. + +“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?” says +Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either shoulder, “My +dear,” he said, “you’re a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he +was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. If ever I was to +get married, it’s the marrow of you I would be seeking for a mother to +my sons. And I bear’s a king’s name and speak the truth.” + +He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the +girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all James +More’s disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself again. + +“And now by your leave, my dawties,” said he, “this is a’ very bonny; +but Alan Breck’ll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than he’s caring +for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be leaving.” + +The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and returned +with our saddle-bags and James More’s portmanteau; I picked up +Catriona’s bundle where she had dropped it on the stair; and we were +setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin stopped the way +with cries and gesticulations. He had whipped under a table when the +swords were drawn, but now he was as bold as a lion. There was his bill +to be settled, there was a chair broken, Alan had sat among his dinner +things, James More had fled. + +“Here,” I cried, “pay yourself,” and flung him down some Lewie d’ors; +for I thought it was no time to be accounting. + +He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into the +open. Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and closing in; +a little nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry them; and +right behind him, like some foolish person holding up his hands, were +the sails of the windmill turning. + +Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried a +great weight in James More’s portmanteau; but I think he would as soon +have lost his life as cast away that booty which was his revenge; and +he ran so that I was distressed to follow him, and marvelled and +exulted to see the girl bounding at my side. + +As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other side; +and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start +of some two hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins +after all, that could not hope to better us at such an exercise. I +suppose they were armed, but did not care to use their pistols on +French ground. And as soon as I perceived that we not only held our +advantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite easy of the +issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk bit of work, so long as it +lasted; Dunkirk was still far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and +found a company of the garrison marching on the other side on some +manœuvre, I could very well understand the word that Alan had. + +He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, “They’re a real +bonny folk, the French nation,” says he. + +CONCLUSION + + +No sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a very +necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a daughter from +her father at the sword’s point; any judge would give her back to him +at once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan into jail; and though +we had an argument upon our side in Captain Palliser’s letter, neither +Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all +accounts it seemed the most prudent to carry the girl to Paris to the +hands of her own chieftain, Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very +willing to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all anxious +to dishonour James upon other. + +We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good at +the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle since the +’Forty-five. But we made it out at last, reached Paris early of a +Sabbath morning, and made all speed, under Alan’s guidance, to find +Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a good style, having a +pension on the Scots Fund, as well as private means; greeted Catriona +like one of his own house, and seemed altogether very civil and +discreet, but not particularly open. We asked of the news of James +More. “Poor James!” said he, and shook his head and smiled, so that I +thought he knew further than he meant to tell. Then we showed him +Palliser’s letter, and he drew a long face at that. + +“Poor James!” said he again. “Well, there are worse folk than James +More, too. But this is dreadful bad. Tut, tut, he must have forgot +himself entirely! This is a most undesirable letter. But, for all that, +gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it public for. It’s +an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and we are all Scots folk and all +Hieland.” + +Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the +question of our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as +though there had been no such person as James More, and gave Catriona +away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in French. It +was not till all was over, and our healths drunk, that he told us James +was in that city, whither he had preceded us some days, and where he +now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my wife’s face what +way her inclination pointed. + +“And let us go see him, then,” said I. + +“If it is your pleasure,” said Catriona. These were early days. + +He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with his chief, in a +great house upon a corner; and we were guided up to the garret where he +lay by the sound of Highland piping. It seemed he had just borrowed a +set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness; though he was no such +hand as was his brother Rob, he made good music of the kind; and it was +strange to observe the French folk crowding on the stairs, and some of +them laughing. He lay propped in a pallet. The first look of him I saw +he was upon his last business; and, doubtless, this was a strange place +for him to die in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell upon his end +with patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had prepared him; he seemed to know +we were married, complimented us on the event, and gave us a +benediction like a patriarch. + +“I have been never understood,” said he. “I forgive you both without an +afterthought;” after which he spoke for all the world in his old +manner, was so obliging as to play us a tune or two upon his pipes, and +borrowed a small sum before I left. + +I could not trace even a hint of shame in any part of his behaviour; +but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed always fresh to him. I +think he forgave me every time we met; and when after some four days he +passed away in a kind of odour of affectionate sanctity, I could have +torn my hair out for exasperation. I had him buried; but what to put +upon his tomb was quite beyond me, till at last I considered the date +would look best alone. + +I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, where we had +appeared once as brother and sister, and it would certainly look +strange to return in a new character. Scotland would be doing for us; +and thither, after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we +sailed in a Low Country ship. + + +And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr. Alan +Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to an end. A +great many of the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you +think well) that you have seen and spoken with. Alison Hastie in +Limekilns was the lass that rocked your cradle when you were too small +to know of it, and walked abroad with you in the policy when you were +bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss Barbara’s name-mamma is +no other than the same Miss Grant that made so much a fool of David +Balfour in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder whether you +remember a little, lean, lively gentleman in a scratch-wig and a +wraprascal, that came to Shaws very late of a dark night, and whom you +were awakened out of your beds and brought down to the dining-hall to +be presented to, by the name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten +what he did at Mr. Jamieson’s request—a most disloyal act—for which, by +the letter of the law, he might be hanged—no less than drinking the +king’s health _across the water_? These were strange doings in a good +Whig house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and might set fire to +my corn-barn; and the name they know him by now in France is the +Chevalier Stewart. + +As for Davie and Catriona, I shall watch you pretty close in the next +days, and see if you are so bold as to be laughing at papa and mamma. +It is true we were not so wise as we might have been, and made a great +deal of sorrow out of nothing; but you will find as you grow up that +even the artful Miss Barbara, and even the valiant Mr. Alan, will be +not so very much wiser than their parents. For the life of man upon +this world of ours is a funny business. They talk of the angels +weeping; but I think they must more often be holding their sides as +they look on; and there was one thing I determined to do when I began +this long story, and that was to tell out everything as it befell. + + + + +Footnotes + +[1] Conspicuous. + +[2] Country. + +[3] The Fairies. + +[4] Flatteries. + +[5] Trust to. + +[6] This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first visit.—D. B. + +[7] Sweetheart. + +[8] Child. + +[9] Palm. + +[10] Gallows. + +[11] My Catechism. + +[12] Now Prince’s Street. + +[13] A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby identifies Alan’s +air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell’s _Tales of the West +Highlands_, Vol. II., p. 91. Upon examination it would really seem as +if Miss Grant’s unrhymed doggrel (see Chapter V.) would fit with little +humouring to the notes in question. + +[14] A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of striking. + +[15] Patched shoes. + +[16] Shoemaker. + +[17] Tamson’s mere—to go afoot. + +[18] Beard. + +[19] Ragged. + +[20] Fine things. + +[21] Catch. + +[22] Victuals. + +[23] Trust. + +[24] Sea fog. + +[25] Bashful. + +[26] Rest. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CATRIONA *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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