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Catriona
By
Robert Louis Stevenson
Contents
CATRIONA—Part I—THE L=
ORD
ADVOCATE
CHAPTER I—A BEGGAR ON
HORSEBACK
CHAPTER II—THE HIGHLA=
ND
WRITER
CHAPTER IV—LORD ADVOC=
ATE
PRESTONGRANGE
CHAPTER V—IN THE ADVO=
CATE’S
HOUSE
CHAPTER VI—UMQUILE TH=
E MASTER
OF LOVAT
CHAPTER VII—I MAKE A =
FAULT IN
HONOUR
CHAPTER IX—THE HEATHE=
R ON
FIRE
CHAPTER X—THE RED-HEA=
DED MAN
CHAPTER XI—THE WOOD BY
SILVERMILLS
CHAPTER XII—ON THE MA=
RCH
AGAIN WITH ALAN
CHAPTER XV—BLACK ANDI=
E’S TALE
OF TOD LAPRAIK
CHAPTER XVI—THE MISSI=
NG
WITNESS
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
CHAPTER XXI—THE VOYAG=
E INTO
HOLLAND
CHAPTER XXIII—TRAVELS=
IN
HOLLAND
CHAPTER XXIV—FULL STO=
RY OF A
COPY OF HEINECCIUS
CHAPTER XXV—THE RETUR=
N OF
JAMES MORE
CHAPTER XXVIII—IN WHI=
CH I AM
LEFT ALONE
CHAPTER XXIX—WE MEET =
IN DUNKIRK
CHAPTER XXX—THE LETTE=
R FROM
THE SHIP
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, a=
nd
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 w=
eigh
with surprise his momentous and nugatory gift of life.
You are still—as when first I saw, as when I l=
ast
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 yout=
h of
my father, and of his father, and the whole stream of lives flowing down th=
ere
far in the north, with the sound of laughter and tears, to cast me out in t=
he
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.
The 2=
5th
day of August, 1751, about two in the afternoon, I, David Balfour, came for=
th
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, brough=
t down
to my last shillings, my companion a condemned traitor, a price set on my o=
wn
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 busine=
ss I
had still to handle; the second, the place that I was in. The tall, black city, and the numbers a=
nd
movement and noise of so many folk, made a new world for me, after the moor=
land
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 clot=
hes 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 myse=
lf
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Thence to an armourer’s, where I got a =
plain
sword, to suit with my degree in life. =
span>I
felt safer with the weapon, though (for one so ignorant of defence) it migh=
t 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, da=
cent
claes. As for the rapier, nae doub=
t it
sits wi’ your degree; but an I had been you, I would has waired my siller
better-gates than that.” And he pr=
oposed
I should buy winter-hosen from a wife in the Cowgate-back, that was a cousi=
n 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 num=
ber
of its indwellers, but the complication of its passages and holes. It was, indeed, a place where no strang=
er had
a chance to find a friend, let be another stranger. Suppose him even to hit on the right cl=
ose,
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 guid=
e 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 havi=
ng
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 Wr=
iter
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 bol=
d to
find the way to it myself, with the help of my two legs and a Scots
tongue. But the rest were in a dif=
ferent
case. Not only was the visit to Ap=
pin’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 Gra=
nt,
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 lit=
tle
to my fancy. I determined, therefo=
re, to
be done at once with Mr. Stewart and the whole Jacobitical side of my busin=
ess,
and to profit for that purpose by the guidance of the porter at my side.
Being strange to what I saw, I stepped a little
farther in. The narrow paved way d=
escended
swiftly. Prodigious tall houses sp=
rang
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 t=
ale.
I was still gazing, when there came a sudden b=
risk
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 we=
nt,
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 Highla=
nd
journey. They all spoke together
earnestly in Gaelic, the sound of which was pleasant in my ears for the sak=
e 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 ma=
king
apologies and cringeing before her, so that I made sure she was come of a
chief’s house. All the while the t=
hree
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 wonde=
rful
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 caus=
e, 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 si=
ght
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 dispu=
te,
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 t=
han
to come forward, for I was much in fear of mockery from the womenkind. You would have thought I had now all th=
e 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 h=
at
to her the best that I was able.
“Madam,” said I, “I think it only fair to myse=
lf
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 th=
em.”
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 nev=
er
before this day set foot inside the doors of Edinburgh. Take me for a country lad—it’s what I a=
m; 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 wi=
ll be
different. I am as landward as you=
rself;
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 wa=
s 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 lo=
ng
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 p=
lace
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 br=
ought
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 f=
or 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 g=
reat
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 s=
ame
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 t=
alk
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 ‘sneesh=
in,’
wanting siller! It will teach you
another time to be more careful; and I think James More will not be very we=
ll
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-p=
orter
at my tail. And remember I have ha=
d the
hospitality of your own country of Balwhidder.”
“It was not one of my people gave it,” said sh=
e.
“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 Nei=
l,
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 Grega=
ra!”
“I would not like to deceive you, either,” said
I. “I know very little of the Greg=
ara
and less of James More and his doings, but since the while I have been stan=
ding
in this close, I seem to know something of yourself; and if you will just s=
ay
‘a friend to Miss Catriona’ I will see you are the less cheated.”
“The one cannot be without the other,” said sh=
e.
“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 yo=
ur
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 ha=
ve
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 acquan=
t 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 m=
ore
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 eas=
t and
wast, we’re a’ gann ajee, We’re=
a’
gaun east and wast courtin’ Mally Lee.”
Mr. C=
harles
Stewart the Writer dwelt at the top of the longest stair ever mason set a h=
and
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; inde=
ed,
he still kept his finger in the place, as though prepared to show me out an=
d 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 Writ=
er.
“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 repea=
ted,
lowering my voice, “but maybe are not just so keen to hear from at this pre=
sent
being. And the bits of business th=
at 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 p=
aper
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. =
span>A
good name it is, and one it would ill-become my father’s son to lightly.
“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David
Balfour of Shaws. As for him that =
sent
me, I will let his token speak.” A=
nd 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 h=
ad
some sure place (or thought he had) about the north side, where he was to l=
ie
until a ship was found for him; and how and where he had appointed to be sp=
oken
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, a=
nd 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 bi=
g a
Whig as grows.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” says Mr. Stewart.
“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 inno=
cent,
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 h=
ave
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 t=
his
country,” said I, “but I need not be repeating that.”
“I am little likely to forget it,” said Stewar=
t.
“The next thing is the bit money I am owing to
Cluny,” I went on. “It would be il=
l 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 A=
lan
and me across the Forth. I was thi=
nking
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 kno=
w 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 th=
at I
lack more; but having drawn so much the one day, I think it would have a ve=
ry
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 tha=
t he
doesnae ken of your existence.”
I saw I had got to the wrong side of the man.<= o:p>
“There’s a braw day coming for him, then,” sai=
d 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 n=
ear
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 strai=
ght
out of my office to make your peace with the Advocate! Alan’s button here or Alan’s button the=
re,
the four quarters of Alan wouldnae bribe me further in.”
“I would take it with a little more temper,” s=
aid
I, “and perhaps we can avoid what you object to. I can see no way for it but to give mys=
elf
up, but perhaps you can see another; and if you could, I could never deny b=
ut
what I would be rather relieved. F=
or 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 charac=
ter
(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 th=
ey
want; James has got to hang—Alan, too, if they could catch him—but James
whatever! Go near the Advocate wit=
h any
such business, and you’ll see! he’ll find a way to muzzle, ye.”
“I think better of the Advocate than that,” sa=
id
I.
“The Advocate be dammed!” cries he. “It’s the Campbells, man! You’ll have the whole clanjamfry of the=
m 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 s=
top
your gab, there’s a foul one gaping.
They can put ye in the dock, do ye no see that?” he cried, and stabb=
ed
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 sen=
se
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.
“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 tel=
l 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 yo=
ur
intelligence.”
“Hut! none of your whillywhas!” {4} cries he.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “There’s intelligence upon both sides.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But for my private part I have no parti=
cular
desire to harm King George; and as for King James, God bless him! he does v=
ery
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 c=
rack
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! Th=
e 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 w=
as
nonsense: muckle they cared! And t=
here
was I cocking behind a yadvocate that liked the business as little as mysel=
f,
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 St=
ewart,
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 dir=
ection
of a very decent man, that’ll be very fain to have you for a lodger. And I’ll fill your pockets to ye, forby=
e, 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 Rob=
in
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 o=
ther
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 cl=
erk.
“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 observ=
ed.
“Mr. Balfour, there’s no end to it,” said Stew=
art.
“There was a name your clerk mentioned,” I went
on: “Hoseason. That must be my man=
, I think:
Hoseason, of the brig Covenant. Wo=
uld
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.
The n=
ext
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, w=
as
fended for; James was like to be a more difficult affair, and I could not b=
ut
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 u=
p,
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 do=
wn
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 mat=
ter
to my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or from a scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but s=
o 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, whil=
e 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 w=
hole
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 bu=
t 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 o=
f 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 clea=
red
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 doub=
t,
in case I could manage my declaration with success, I should breathe more f=
ree
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 road=
s,” 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 committ=
ed
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 t=
his
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 battl=
e,
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 dang=
ers
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 pl=
ain,
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 i=
t was
not the customary time of year for that diversion, some children were crying
and running with their kites. Thes=
e toys
appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the win=
d 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 bumm=
ed
in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the doorsteps talked in a stra=
nge
tongue; and I found out later that this was Picardy, a village where the Fr=
ench
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 unca=
nny
jumping-jacks and cried. The sight=
coming
on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done wi=
th
examining it and drinking in discomfort.
And, as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I str=
ike
on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded, and talk=
ed
aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.
“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and poin=
ted
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 l=
et
me spae your weird to ye.”
“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the wa=
y 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 brich=
t 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 Me=
rren
spae it to ye bonny.”
The two chance shots that seemed to point at A=
lan
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 un=
der
the moving shadows of the hanged.
My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would h=
ave
been more pleasant to me but for this encounter. The old rampart ran among fields, the l=
ike 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 clattere=
d 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 D=
avid
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 g=
enty
maids go by, and look to the other aide, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had grey eye=
s, and
their screens upon their heads were of the Drummed colours.
I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though s=
till
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 p=
retty
well, and when he had read Rankeillor’s letter, placed himself obligingly a=
t 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 t=
he
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. Balfo=
ur,”
said I; “I have nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but j=
ust
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 hav=
e 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, “ho=
w, 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 w=
ord
for so much) that I am a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so broug=
ht
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 lai=
rd,
“I will not take upon myself to qualify its weight. ‘Great moment’ therefore falls, and ‘mo=
ment’
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 vo=
ice
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 hea=
r 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 he=
lp
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 y=
ou are
a young man. Be cautious and think
twice.”
“It is to be supposed I will have thought ofte=
ner
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 appro=
val
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 cl=
osing,
and give into your hands open, as the form requires. But, since I am acting in the dark, I w=
ill
just read it to you, so that you may see if it will secure your end—
“PILRIG, August 26th, 1751.
“M=
y Lord,—This
is to bring to your notice my namesake and cousin, David Balfour Esquire of Shaws, a yo=
ung
gentleman of unblemished descen=
t and
good estate. He has enjoyed, besid=
es,
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 matte=
r 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 justi=
fy
my plural?”
“Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and appro=
ved
by more than one,” said I. “And yo=
ur
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.”
My ki=
nsman
kept me to a meal, “for the honour of the roof,” he said; and I believe I m=
ade
the better speed on my return. I h=
ad 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 hesita=
tion
and temptation was itself extremely tempting; and I was the more disappoint=
ed,
when I came to Prestongrange’s house, to be informed he was abroad. I believe it was true at the moment, an=
d 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 do=
ne
with my declaration out of hand and be able to lay me down to sleep with a =
free
conscience. At first I read, for t=
he
little cabinet where I was left contained a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit; a=
nd the
weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and my cabin=
et
being lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at last obliged to des=
ist
from this diversion (such as it was), and pass the rest of my time of waiti=
ng
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 l=
ong
come, when the door of the cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light be=
hind
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 Pil=
rig
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, wi=
th a
chuckle. “The lads must have forgo=
tten
you. But you are in the bit at las=
t, for
I am Prestongrange.”
So saying, he passed before me into the next r=
oom,
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 s=
truck
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 liberall=
y;
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 careles=
sly,
looking up and bowing when he came to my name; but at the last words I thou=
ght
I observed his attention to redouble, and I made sure he read them twice. All this while you are to suppose my he=
art
was beating, for I had now crossed my Rubicon and was come fairly on the fi=
eld
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 wi=
ll
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 be=
tter
acquaintance! In what way can I se=
rve
you?”
“I should, perhaps, begin by telling you, my l=
ord,
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 y=
ou,”
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “I am no Daniel.”
“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “tha=
t 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 quote=
d,
“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 enti=
rely
as serious as life and death, and you have understood me perfectly. I am the boy who was speaking with Glen=
ure
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 Geor=
ge,
but if I had anything to reproach myself with, I would have had more discre=
tion
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 Maj=
esty
and our whole frame of laws, by those who are their known and public
oppugnants. I take a very high sen=
se of
this. I will not deny that I consi=
der
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.”<= o:p>
“If you mean anything by those words, I must t=
ell
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 t=
he
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 speec=
h,
my lord,” said I. “I did but repea=
t 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 barbari=
ty,
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 Ca=
mpbell
who has fallen martyr to his duty—as who else but the Campbells have ever p=
ut
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 lea=
rn
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 hones=
t Whig
name to this letter,” says he, picking it up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, Mr. Balfour—ther=
e 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 sa=
id 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 asha=
med 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It may consist very immediately with yo=
ur
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 wr=
ote
a heading. “It appears you were pr=
esent,
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.<= o:p>
“H’m, true,” said he, “I had forgotten that. And do you know, Mr. Balfour, I would d=
well,
if I were you, as little as might be on your relations with these
Stewarts. It might be found to com=
plicate
our business. I am not yet incline=
d to
regard these matters as essential.”
“I had thought, my lord, that all points of fa=
ct
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 p=
ress
these very questions that I am now willing to glide upon. But to resume: I have it here in Mr. Mu=
ngo
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, th=
en,
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 piec=
e of
a wood.”
The Advocate laid his pen down. “I think we are playing at cross purpos= es,” said he, “which you will find to prove a very ill amusement for yourself.”<= o:p>
“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,” s=
aid
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 c=
ome
to grips at last. “I am here to lay
before you certain information, by which I shall convince you Alan had no h=
and
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 de=
sign,
and that is to see justice executed and the innocent go clear. If in pursuit of that I come to fall un=
der
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 fac=
e,
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 educatio=
n,
we approach with very different thoughts from one which is criminal only. S=
alus
populi suprema lex is a maxim susceptible of great abuse, but it has that f=
orce
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 m=
ore)
to employ his own imperfect language, and express his own poor thoughts, ev=
en
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 li=
ttle
account, the more so as we cannot catch our man. But the matter of Breck’s innocence sho=
ots
beyond itself. Once admitted, it w=
ould
destroy the whole presumptions of our case against another and a very diffe=
rent
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 plainn=
ess,
Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that (in that case) your testimony will not be call=
ed
by me, and I desire you to withhold it altogether.”
“You are at the head of Justice in this countr=
y,”
I cried, “and you propose to me a crime!”
“I am a man nursing with both hands the intere=
sts
of this country,” he replied, “and I press on you a political necessity.
“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 f=
ro
in the room. “You are not so young=
,” he
said, “but what you must remember very clearly the year ’45 and the shock t=
hat
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. W=
ho
saved it? I repeat; who saved the
Protestant religion and the whole frame of our civil institutions? The late Lord President Culloden, for o=
ne; 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. No=
w 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 i=
t 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 t=
he
Stewarts were barbarians on the wrong.
Now be you the judge. The
Campbells expect vengeance. If the=
y 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 lif=
e 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 m=
e,
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 yo=
ur
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 fo=
r me,
who am just a plain man—or scarce a man yet—the plain duties must suffice.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I can think but of two things, of a poo=
r 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 whi=
le
longer.
“This is an unexpected obstacle,” says he, alo=
ud,
but to himself.
“And how is your lordship to dispose of me?” I
asked.
“If I wished,” said he, “you know that you mig=
ht
sleep in gaol?”
“My lord,” said I, “I have slept in worse plac=
es.”
“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 ne=
ar
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 mo=
rning,
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 dul=
l 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 m=
ore
than I am like to do.”
With that he sighed, took up a candle, and gav=
e me
his conveyance as far as the street door.
The n=
ext
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! a=
nd 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 t=
o 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 youn=
g lady
and her gillies: there was never a sign of them. But I was no sooner shown into the cabi=
net 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 uneasines=
s,
reaching forth his feet and hands, and his eyes speeding here and there wit=
hout
rest about the walls of the small chamber, which recalled to me with a sens=
e 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.<= o:p>
“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 an=
d 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 t=
he
man that raised my dander strangely.
“Well, Mr. Macgregor,” said I, “I understand t=
he
main thing for a soldier is to be silent, and the first of his virtues neve=
r 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 kno=
wn 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; “the=
re
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 w=
ith
your kinsman, you must suffer me to grasp your hand.”
He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beam=
ing
on me the while as though he had found a brother.
“Ah!” says he, “these are changed days since y=
our
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.
“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 th=
ink
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 blo=
od
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 k=
ing;
my sword, my mountains, and the faith of my friends and kinsmen sufficed for
me. Now I lie in a stinking dungeo=
n; 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 necessaries? The malice of my foes has quite sequest=
ered
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 Bai=
th
himself. Either would, I know, hav=
e been
rejoiced to help me; while a comparative stranger like yourself—”
I would be ashamed to set down all he poured o=
ut
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 s=
hame
or pride—whether it was for my own sake or Catriona’s—whether it was becaus=
e 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 w=
as
clean beyond me. And I was still b=
eing
wheedled and preached to, and still being marched to and fro, three steps a=
nd a
turn, in that small chamber, and had already, by some very short replies, h=
ighly
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 fa=
mous
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 w=
omen
(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? An=
d 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 ver=
ses
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 f=
orth
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 mu=
st
say the ladies were well drilled to have so long a patience with me. The aunt indeed sat close at her embroi=
dery,
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 wh=
ich
I was very ill able to repay. It w=
as 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 chang=
e 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 kn=
ew
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 san=
g,
as she played, with a very droll expression and broad accent—
“H=
aenae
I got just the lilt of it? Isna=
e this
the tune that ye whustled?”
“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too,
only it won’t rhyme. And then agai=
n:
“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 ask=
ed.
“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 melanc=
holy
music. Your other name I do not li=
ke; so
if you was ever wishing to hear your tune again you are to ask for it by mi=
ne.”
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 g=
et
hanged, I will set your last dying speech and confession to that tune and s=
ing
it.”
This put it beyond a doubt that she was partly
informed of my story and peril. Ho=
w, or
just how much, it was more difficult to guess.
It was plain she knew there was something of danger in the name of A=
lan,
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 admir=
e,
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 hou=
rs of
the Sunday had been well employed, the bank porter had been found and exami=
ned,
my visit to Charles Stewart was discovered, and the deduction made that I w=
as
pretty deep with James and Alan, and most likely in a continued corresponde=
nce
with the last. Hence this broad hi=
nt
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 clos=
e-head
these last days, always with some wretched-like gillies, and yet seems quit=
e a
lady.”
I had no need to look; neither did I look twic=
e,
or long. I was afraid she might ha=
ve
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 h=
er
like a coal of fire. As much as the
others cast me down, she lifted me up. =
span>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 fu=
n;
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 complim=
ent,
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 of=
f 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 lon=
ged
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.
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, frien=
dly
way.
“Here, Fraser,” said he, “here is Mr. Balfour =
whom
we talked about. Mr. David, this i=
s 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 fa=
mily
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 e=
ven
to the extent of acting Advocate-Depute in the Appin murder.
“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all thi=
s 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, w=
ill
certify his hanging.”
“It will be rather ill to hang him till you ca=
tch
him,” I observed. “And for other m=
atters
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. B=
alfour,
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.
“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 va=
in
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; choos=
e what
you will to be advanced in, the Duke will watch upon you with the affection=
ate
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 cho=
ice
when you mixed in with that unnatural rebellion,” I remarked. “My case is happily otherwise; I am a t=
rue
man, and can look either the Duke or King George in the face without concer=
n.”
“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 guil=
ty.”
“I was waiting for you there,” said I.
“The evidence of Mungo Campbell; your flight a=
fter
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 tria=
l; 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 wa=
ver,
Mr. David! You see the grave and t=
he
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 y=
et
see to the bottom of this business. My
father suffered in a great cause, and for dealing in the affairs of kings.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 t=
he
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 a=
ct
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 A=
lan
and I had carried from Auchurn; and I saw that some of James’s people had b=
een
blabbing in their dungeons.
“You see I know more than you fancied,” he res=
umed
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 swe=
ar out
their lives as we direct them; as I direct, if you prefer the phrase. So now you are to guess your part of gl=
ory 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 y=
our
craig, and a gibbet to clatter your bones on, and the lousiest, lowest stor=
y 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.
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 glor=
ied 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 h=
ave
played your hand for all it was worth, and you have lost. Mr. David,” he we=
nt
on, “I wish you to believe it was by no choice of mine you were subjected to
this proof. I wish you could under=
stand
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 appea=
red
that he was a better judge of men than I; it might have appeared we were al=
together
in the wrong situations, Mr. Simon and myself.
And I know our friend Simon to be ambitious,” says he, striking ligh=
tly
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 we=
re
in earnest to try me by all methods; and now (persuasion, flattery, and men=
aces
having been tried in vain) I could not but wonder what would be their next
expedient. My eyes besides were st=
ill
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 b=
ear
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 pro=
per
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, b=
ut
in truth I was beside the power of reasoning; did as I was bid; took my lea=
ve 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 i=
t) 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 t=
hat
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 fr=
om
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,” s=
aid
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 hange=
d for
pretty indefensible misconduct. Wh=
at was
yet more unpalatable, it now seemed he was prepared to save his four quarte=
rs
by the worst of shame and the most foul of cowardly murders—murder by the f=
alse
oath; and to complete our misfortunes, it seemed myself was picked out to b=
e the
victim.
I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscio=
us
only of a desire for movement, air, and the open country.
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 sta=
nds
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 i=
nured
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, p=
eril of
sword and shot, I had stood all of these without discredit; but the peril t=
here
was in the sharp voice and the fat face of Simon, properly Lord Lovat, daun=
ted
me wholly.
I sat by the lake side in a place where the ru=
shes
went down into the water, and there steeped my wrists and laved my
temples. If I could have done so w=
ith
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 w=
hat
might, I would stand by the word spoken.
The sense of my own constancy somewhat uplifte=
d my
spirits, but not much. At the best of it there was an icy place about my he=
art,
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 cl=
ean
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 t=
he
girl and me. I had seen her before=
only
as a wayside appearance, though one that pleased me strangely; I saw her no=
w 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 persec=
uted
all my days for other folks’ affairs, and have no manner of pleasure
myself. I got meals and a bed to s=
leep
in when my concerns would suffer it; beyond that my wealth was of no help t=
o 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 y=
et
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 sh=
ould
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, wh=
ere it
sits in the bottom of a glen beside the river, I inquired my way of a mille=
r’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 a=
nd
fierce old lady, walking there in a white mutch with a man’s hat strapped u=
pon
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 b=
onny
gentleman. And hae ye ony ither na=
me 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 establ=
ish
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 n=
ephew,
I would be found a careful lad.”
“So ye have a spark of sleeness in ye?” observ=
ed
the old lady, with some approval. =
“I
thought ye had just been a cuif—you and your saxpence, and your lucky day a=
nd
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, wo=
rse
fortune. I have but seen her the
once. I’ll not deny,” I added, mak=
ing 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 charg=
e 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 daughte=
r,
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. Yo=
u 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 k=
insman
of mine, to my shame be it spoken. But
the better the family, the mair men hanged or headed, that’s always been po=
or
Scotland’s story. And if it was ju=
st the
hanging! For my part I think I wou=
ld 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 wif=
e like
me. But, ye see, there’s the weak
bit. She’s daft about that long, f=
alse,
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 sa=
id,”
I interrupted. “I saw her again th=
is
morning from a window at Prestongrange’s.”
This I daresay I put in because it sounded wel=
l;
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 thin=
k 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 rathe=
r a
scolding tone, “I have your bare word for it,” she cries, “as to who and wh=
at
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 t=
heir
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 s=
ent
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 spee=
ch
stuck in my throat. I stood and lo=
oked
murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed and turned away.
“Here!
Hoots! The callant’s in a c=
reel!”
she cried. “Think ye a spy? what e=
lse
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 apol=
ogise. 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 fr=
om 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 mirt=
h,
“you have the finest timber face—and you to marry the daughter of a Hieland
cateran! Davie, my dear, I think w=
e’ll
have to make a match of it—if it was just to see the weans. And now,” she went on, “there’s no mann=
er 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 f=
or
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 gl=
int
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, whe=
re
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 le=
arn,
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 t=
he
truth. I knew that he was quite un=
fit to
be a husband who was not prepared to be a father also; and for a boy like m=
e 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 troub=
le
of my heart was heightened. It see=
med 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 w=
alk
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 s=
inging
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 s=
he,
“or I might have seen them too. An=
d you
were in the house? You must have b=
een
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!” s=
aid
she, at which we both of us laughed.
“It is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the least afraid with you, ye=
t 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 sid=
e; 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 fathe=
r 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 th=
en
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 dare=
say we
both have anxious business there, for it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to h=
im 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 le=
ave
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 e=
asy 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 wi=
ll
have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk.”
“O, let me have one to believe in me!” I plead=
ed,
“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 bel=
ieve
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.
“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 lie=
s 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—Catri=
ona,
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 surpr=
ise.
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, wh=
at
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 thing=
s!”
“In the name of heaven, what ails you now!” she
cried.
“I gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my hono=
ur
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 righ=
t 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-f=
aced
them, that risked rather to die disgraced upon the gallows than do wrong—an=
d 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, b=
ut 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 beli=
eve
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 destr=
oy
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 d=
ie
ere she betrayed you—to make such a matter! It is one thing that we must bo=
th
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 think=
ing of
you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them h=
ang
you; I will never forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it is great to die so: I will e=
nvy
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 m=
ust
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 ar=
e a
hero, surely, and I never would have thought that same! And I think you are in peril, too. O, S=
imon
Fraser! to think upon that man! Fo=
r 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; b=
ut
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 th=
at I
seemed to bear her in my arms.
The n=
ext
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.”<= o:p>
“You have news for me?” cried I.
“Beyond anticipation,” he replied. “Your testimony is after all to be rece=
ived;
and you may go, if you will, in my company to the trial, which in to be hel=
d at
Inverary, Thursday, 21st proximo.”
I was too much amazed to find words.
“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “though I wi=
ll
not ask you to renew your pledge, I must caution you strictly to be
reticent. To-morrow your precognit=
ion
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 t=
hank
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 testi=
mony,
which I shall not trouble you for to-day, will doubtless alter the complexi=
on
of the case for all concerned, and this makes it less delicate for me to en=
ter
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 Saturda=
y 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 pape=
r,
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 Al=
an
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 l=
ord,
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 h=
e.
“I reserve my answer,” said I. “The question will be put to me at the
assize.”
“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “will you not understa=
nd
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 a=
ll
anxiety. Alan, it appears, you sup=
pose
you can protect; and you talk to me of your gratitude, which I think (if you
push me) is not ill-deserved. Ther=
e 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 no=
t so
much as guess where Alan is.”
He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” he asked.<= o:p>
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 re=
ceive
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 forgi=
ve me
if I detain their cavalier.”
Into the hands of these Graces I was according=
ly
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 m=
oment
he was gone again, nor could I see so much as the skirt-tail of Catriona, u=
pon
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, a=
nd
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 tim=
es
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 al=
l of
them in very good words, it seemed I was by all immediately forgotten. Young folk in a company are like to sav=
age
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 swor=
ds and
coat-skirts, for the which (in mere black envy) I could have kicked them fr=
om
the park. I daresay, upon their si=
de,
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 office=
rs,
Lieutenant Hector Duncansby, a gawky, leering Highland boy, asking if my na=
me
was not “Palfour.”
I told him it was, not very kindly, for his ma=
nner
was scant civil.
“Ha, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it,
“Palfour, Palfour!”
“I am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” sa=
ys
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 y=
ou
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 poke=
r in
the same place and swallowed it.
There could be no mistake about this, and my c=
heek
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 lowl= and scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the jaw with his closed fist.<= o:p>
I paid him as good or better on the return;
whereupon he stepped a little back and took off his hat to me decorously.
“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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Will ye walk first, or let me show ye t=
he
way?”
I returned his bow, told him to go first, and
followed him. As he went I heard h=
im
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 tak=
en
in a fresh contrivance of my enemies; and to me (conscious as I was of my d=
eficiencies)
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 d=
ie
or even to be wounded. But I consi=
dered
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 proba=
bly
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.
“Fat deil ails her?” cries the lieutenant.
And suddenly engaging, he twitched the sword o=
ut
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 aske=
d me
bitterly what right I had to stand up before “shentlemans” when I did not k=
now
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 y=
ou ken
naething of fence!—the way that you did, I declare it was peyond me. And I am sorry for the plow; though I d=
eclare
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 qua=
rrel
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 t=
hat
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 hou=
se
of one of my enemies, and testify how I have carried myself this day,” I to=
ld
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. The=
re
will be a second and then a third; and by what you have seen of my cleverne=
ss
with the cold steel, you can judge for yourself what is like to be the upsh=
ot.”
“And I would not like it myself, if I was no m=
ore
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 dow=
n,
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 ve=
ry
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 th=
is
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 tab=
le.
“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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And I have creat respects for Palfour,”=
he
added.
“I thank you for your honest expressions,” sai=
d I.
Whereupon Duncansby made his bow to the compan=
y,
and left the chamber, as we had agreed upon before.
“What have I to do with this?” says Prestongra=
nge.
“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 wi=
ll 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, “T=
his
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 ag=
reed
upon one expedient, to follow another in the dark. You are disloyal to me. What! you let me send this lad to the p=
lace
with my very daughters! And becaus=
e 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. “Ei=
ther
come to an agreement, or come to a differ, and have it out among yourselves=
. But I will no longer fetch and carry, a=
nd 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 t=
he
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 prude=
nce;
and they made haste, with a somewhat distracted civility, to pack me from t=
he
house.
When =
I left
Prestongrange that afternoon I was for the first time angry. The Advocate h=
ad
made a mock of me. He had pretende=
d my
testimony was to be received and myself respected; and in that very hour, n=
ot
only was Simon practising against my life by the hands of the Highland sold=
ier,
but (as appeared from his own language) Prestongrange himself had some desi=
gn
in operation. I counted my enemies;
Prestongrange with all the King’s authority behind him; and the Duke with t=
he
power of the West Highlands; and the Lovat interest by their side to help t=
hem
with so great a force in the north, and the whole clan of old Jacobite spies
and traffickers. And when I rememb=
ered
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 fri=
end 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 th=
ink
that I might brush against my champions in the street and be no wiser.
And just then (like an answer) a gentleman bru=
shed
against me going by, gave me a meaning look, and turned into a close. I knew him with the tail of my eye—it w=
as
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 storey=
s up,
there he was again in a house door, the which he looked behind us after we =
had
entered. The house was quite disma=
ntled,
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 t=
hat
my testimony was accepted, and I was to travel to Inverary with the Advocat=
e,
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 Ap=
pin
and for James of the Glens; and, of course, it’s my duty to defend my kinsm=
an
for his life. Hear how it goes wit=
h 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 p=
art
until they’ve brought in Alan first as principal; that’s sound law: they co=
uld
never put the cart before the horse.”
“And how are they to bring in Alan till they c=
an
catch him?” says I.
“Ah, but there is a way to evite that arrestme=
nt,”
said he. “Sound law, too. It would be a bonny thing if, by the es=
cape
of one ill-doer another was to go scatheless, and the remeid is to summon t=
he
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 ther=
e be
ground to think him forth of Scotland) at the cross of Edinburgh, and the p=
ier
and shore of Leith, for sixty days. The
purpose of which last provision is evident upon its face: being that outgoi=
ng
ships may have time to carry news of the transaction, and the summonsing be
something other than a form. Now t=
ake
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 s=
hire
where he resorts whether ordinarily or extraordinarily; if he has a domicil=
e 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 mu=
st
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 Prestongran=
ge,
then!” cries the Writer. “He has h=
ad
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Not wanting to find him, in my poor
thought. They think perhaps he mig=
ht set
up a fair defence, upon the back of which James, the man they’re really aft=
er,
might climb out. This is not a cas=
e, 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 t=
he
easiest put by.”
“See that!” says he. “But there!
I may be right or wrong, that’s guesswork at the best, and let me ge=
t to
my facts again. It comes to my ear=
s 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 refu=
se
me access to my client, so he recommends the commanding officer to let me
in. Recommends!—the Lord Justice C=
lerk of
Scotland recommends. Is not the pu=
rpose
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 ma=
ke 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, notorious=
ly
ignorant of the law, and that—I ken the cant of it. Then the journey a third time; and ther=
e 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 J=
ames
in prison, yet they cannot deny me to visit him. They have no right to hold the witnesse=
s; but
am I to get a sight of them, that should be as free as the Lord Justice Cle=
rk
himself! See—read: For the rest, r=
efuses
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 in=
side
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 th=
em?”
“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 defenc=
e! But I’ll begowk them there, Mr. David.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have a plan to waylay the witnesses u=
pon
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 ways=
ide
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 th=
is
business,” I remarked.
“I’ll surprise you ere I’m done!” cries he.
“I suppose it would likely be King George,” sa=
id
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 cons=
tantly
rendered (till this nonesuch business) that the law has never looked to
it. And now admire the hand of
Providence! A stranger is in Flemi=
ng’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 ev=
er
man the like of it?—and here it is for anybody, the muckle secret out—all m=
ay
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 fi=
rst
talk, according to promise, I said nothing, nor indeed was it necessary.
“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 s=
punks
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 w=
ords
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 kidnap=
ped
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 t=
he
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 sid=
e 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 m=
ade
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 sh=
ould
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, t=
hat
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 y=
our
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 hav=
e 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 Edinbu=
rgh
till the clash is over.”
“Where am I to go, then?” I inquired.
“And I wish that I could tell ye!” says he, “b=
ut
all the places that I could send ye to, would be just the places they would
seek. No, ye must fend for yoursel=
f, and
God be your guiding! Five days bef=
ore
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 extr=
emely
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 w=
ould
be a dreadful business if both you and him was to miscarry!”
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. A=
s 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 mi=
ller’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 sh=
e 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 cou=
ld
scarce have seen more clear in her designs.
Maybe I was countryfeed; at least, I was not so much so as she thoug=
ht;
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 appearan=
ce
of a banter, still calling me Saxpence, but with such a turn that should ra=
ther
uplift me in my own opinion. When
Catriona returned, the design became if possible more obvious; and she show=
ed
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 carli=
ne
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.
“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 ligh=
tened
of my pledge, and indeed (after what has come and gone since morning) I wou=
ld
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 L=
atin
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 i=
s 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 o=
f the
fighting, and it comes over me that I am only a girl at all events, and can=
not
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 s=
hould
be at the college,” said I. “But y=
et, in
the look-back, I take no shame for it.”
“But how did you feel, then—after it?” she ask=
ed.
‘”Deed, I sat down and grat like a bairn,” sai=
d 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. Tha=
t 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 dea=
th
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 l=
ike 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 batt=
le
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 th=
at
she might visit him to-morrow in the castle whither he was now transferred,=
and
that his affairs were mending. “Yo=
u do
not like to hear it,” said she. “W=
ill
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 fath=
er,
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 m=
ade
of, will be Alban. It was Alban th=
ey
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 yo=
ur
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 goo=
d,
served in fine old plate, and the wine excellent, for it seems that Mrs. Og=
ilvy
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 fare=
well
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 a=
re
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 c=
ome to
fall as we are afraid—O well! think you have the one friend. Long after you are dead and me an old w=
ife, I
will be telling the bairns about David Balfour, and my tears running. I will be telling how we parted, and wh=
at I
said to you, and did to you. God g=
o 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 cri=
ed out
like one hurt. The colour came str=
ong 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 t=
he
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 P=
rince
Charlie’s, with a higher passion than the common kind of clay has any sense
of. Nothing before had taught me h=
ow
deep I was her lover, nor how far I had yet to climb to make her think of m=
e 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 offe=
r 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!” g=
iving
her that name which she had given to herself; with which I bowed and left h=
er.
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 val=
ley
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, t=
hat 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 onfal=
l. No such thing befell, I went by unmeddl=
ed
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 upo=
n my
spirit with the weight of two grown bullocks. Catriona was yet in the garden walking by hers=
elf. “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 no=
t to
walk carefully. I was doubtful whe=
ther I
did right to come here. I would li=
ke 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 tim=
e,”
she cried. “What have I done, at a=
ll
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 Edi=
nburgh
on errands from my father.” “It is what I fear,” said I, “the last of it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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, i=
f 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 fol=
ly
to have stuck my head in such a byke of wasps.
Catriona set her fingers to her lips and whist=
led
once, with an exceeding clear, strong, mounting note, as full as a
ploughman’s. A while we stood sile=
nt;
and I was about to ask her to repeat the same, when I heard the sound of so=
me
one bursting through the bushes below on the braeside. I pointed in that direction with a smil=
e, 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Ask himself.
If I am to lose my life, or the lives of those that hang by me, thro=
ugh
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 cou=
ld
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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. 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 alon=
g 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 han=
d 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. I los=
t no
time, but down through the valley and by Stockbridge and Silvermills as har=
d 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 w=
ith
Catriona. It was not to be suppose=
d that
Neil was sent alone upon his errand, but perhaps he was the only man belong=
ing
to James More; in which case I should have done all I could to hang Catrion=
a’s
father, and nothing the least material to help myself. To tell the truth, I fancied neither on=
e of
these ideas. Suppose by holding ba=
ck
Neil, the girl should have helped to hang her father, I thought she would n=
ever
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 t=
hese
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 counselle=
d 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, an=
d my
heart began to rise. For more than an hour I sat close in the borde=
r of
the trees, and no hare or eagle could have kept a more particular watch. The strain of my attention had been great, for=
I
had watched not the path only, but every bush and field within my vision. Two things became plain to me first: that I ha=
d no
right to go that day to Dean, and (having gone there) had now no right to be
lying where I was. This (where Ala=
n was
to come) was just the one wood in all broad Scotland that was, by every pro=
per
feeling, closed against me; I admitted that, and yet stayed on, wondering at
myself. I thought of the measure w=
ith
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 ho=
w I
was here exposing them again, it seemed in wantonness. A good conscience is eight parts of
courage. No sooner had I lost conc=
eit of
my behaviour, than I seemed to stand disarmed amidst a throng of terrors. At first I thought no shame of this capitulati=
on;
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 tex=
t 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 con=
ceit
with my own character, and jeopardised the lives of James and Alan? And I was to seek the way out by the sa=
me
road as I had entered in? No; the =
hurt
that had been caused by self-indulgence must be cured by self-denial; the f=
lesh
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 s=
erve
as an example to young men. But th=
ere 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 m=
ight
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 equa=
lly
marvelling at my past weakness and rejoicing in my present composure. Presently after came a crackling in the
thicket. Putting my mouth near dow=
n 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 finge=
rs;
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 ro=
ad 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 lik=
e 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, do=
d! 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 r=
eek
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? “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 w=
ord to
ye?” he asked. “I do that,” said I. “Well, there’s nae telling,” said he. “And anyway, that’s over and done: he’l=
l be
joined to the rest of them lang syne.” “How many would ye think there would be of the=
m?”
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 ap=
pear
in the employ, I daresay ten or twelve,” said he. It was no use, I gave a little crack of laught=
er. “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 w=
ell
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 sp=
reagh
of neat cattle (say) ten miles through a throng lowland country and the bla=
ck
soldiers maybe at his tail. It’s t=
here
that I learned a great part of my penetration.
And ye need nae tell me: it’s better than war; which is the next bes=
t,
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 constan=
tly,”
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 Hebr=
ew;
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 bie=
ld of
this wood, and ye tell me that ye’ve cuist off these Frasers and
Macgregors. Why? Because I couldnae see them, says you.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 g=
ive
them the clean slip. If we keep to=
gether,
we make but the ae line of it; if we gang separate, we make twae of them: t=
he
more likelihood to stave in upon some of these gentry of yours. And then, second, if they keep the trac=
k of
us, it may come to a fecht for it yet, Davie; and then, I’ll confess I woul=
d 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 ne=
xt
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.”<=
o:p> “Have with ye, then!” says I. “Do ye gang back where you were stoppin=
g?” “Deil a fear!” said Alan. “They were good folks to me, but I thin=
k they
would be a good deal disappointed if they saw my bonny face again. For (the way times go) I am nae just wh=
at 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 bega=
n to
move quietly eastward through the wood. 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; a=
nd
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 upp=
er
window of Lochend. Steering by thi=
s, 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 fo=
rth
at last upon the linky, boggy muirland that they call the Figgate Whins. The day called us about five. A beautiful morning it was, the high we=
sterly
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 sotter=
ing
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 l=
ong
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, towar=
ds
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 pleasantne=
ss of
the day appeared to set Alan among nettles. “I feel like a gomeral,” says he, “to be leavi=
ng
Scotland on a day like this. It st=
icks
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, whateve=
r,”
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 ea=
sily
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 nigh=
ts,
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 bra=
ndy,
and a candle-dowp to eat it by, about eleeven,” said he. “So, when I had swallowed a bit, it wou=
ld he
time to be getting to the wood. Th=
ere 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 wo=
uld
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. “What were they about?” says I.
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. Of a sudden I sat up. How if I went now to Prestongrange, cau=
ght
him (as I still easily might) before he slept, and made a full submission?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Who could blame me? Not Stewart the Writer; I had but to sa=
y 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 a=
ble
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.
“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 ab=
out
what songs are about in general. A=
nd
then whiles I would make believe I had a set of pipes and I was playing.
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, o=
ut
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.
“I cannae well say no to that,” he admitted. “But three times, man! And you standing there like a straw bog=
le and
rinning to fetch your ain sword like a doggie with a pocket-napkin! David, this man Duncansby must be somet=
hing
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 incompete=
nt,”
I cried.
“Well, I never heard tell the equal of it,” sa=
id
he.
“I promise you the one thing, Alan,” said I. “The next time that we forgather, I’ll =
be
better learned. You shall not cont=
inue
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 wo=
uld 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 meeti=
ng
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 t=
hree
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 ca=
det of
Royal Ecossais get a furlough, slip over the marches, and call in upon a Le=
yden
student?”
“Well, and I would think he could!” cried he.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Ye see, I stand well in with my colone=
l,
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 sciente=
efic
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 sho=
uld
give me an address to write you at in France; and as soon as I am got to Le=
yden
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 Musselbur=
gh,
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 we=
nt
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 h=
im
with in return.
We left Musselburgh before the first ninepenny
coach was due from Edinburgh for (as Alan said) that was a rencounter we mi=
ght
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 ha=
d 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 trave=
lled
to Cockenzie. Though they were bui=
lding
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 Al=
an,
who was now in a glowing heat, must indulge himself with a bottle of ale, a=
nd
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 bro=
ught
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 for=
rit
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 you=
ng
lassie, or onyways bonnie, she would never have heard tell of my stomach,
Davie. But aince they’re too old t=
o 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 b=
e a
gomeral that didnae give his attention to the same.”
And here, the luckie coming back, he turned fr=
om
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 l=
ast
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 wind=
ow
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-w=
ife
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-cr=
own
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 s=
hould
be stirring. But where to?—deil
hae’t! This is like old days fairl=
y,”
cries he.
“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “th=
at
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 goodwi=
fe
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 wate=
r.”
We went out by way of the woman’s kale yard, a=
nd
up a lane among fields. Alan looked sharply to all sides, and seeing we wer=
e in
a little hollow place of the country, out of view of men, sat down.
“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he.
“I’ll try, Alan,” said I.
“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “w=
as
he gaun fast or slow?”
“Betwixt and between,” said I.
“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked.<= o:p>
“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 t=
ake 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 ma=
te
wha kent some part of the affair—or else Charlie’s clerk callant, which wou=
ld
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 cha=
nce
of it. It’s this way, Davie. I’m no trysted with this man Scougal ti=
ll 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 J=
ohnnie
Cope and other red-coat gomerals, I should ken this country like the back o=
f 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!”
I did=
not
profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done by his marchings under General Cop=
e;
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. T=
wice,
while we were at top speed, we ran against country-folk; but though we plum=
ped
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 tha=
t we
were travelling “ride and tie”; that our charger had escaped, and it was fe=
ared
he had gone home to Linton. Not on=
ly
that, but he expended some breath (of which he had not very much left) to c=
urse
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 terrib=
le
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 stru=
ck
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 mo=
st
particular, being a strange grey islet of two humps, made the more conspicu=
ous
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Gillane is a small place on the far sid=
e of
the Ness, the folk of Dirleton go to their business in the inland fields, a=
nd
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 o=
ur
ribs, there was such a shining of the sun and the sea, such a stir of the w=
ind
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 o=
ut,
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 t=
he
brig, it’s another matter. For whe=
re
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 a=
ll
arranged to take us, that’s true. =
But
they’ll have arranged for our coming from the east and here we are upon the=
ir
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 fol=
k 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.”
“T=
his is
no me, quo’ he,”
sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and
drollery.
“N=
either
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 wher=
e he
was, and with a handkerchief flying in his right hand, marched down upon the
beach. I stood up myself, but ling=
ered
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 b=
egin
to pull lively for the coast. Almo=
st 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 continue=
d 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 t=
old
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 to=
p of
that lang sandy bank.”
“Morally impossible,” said I. “The point is that they can have no gun=
s.
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 muc=
h 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 s=
hot
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; i=
t’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 coura=
ge, 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 t=
he
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 wi=
ves,
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 a=
nd for
a’ with the gentry in the bents. A=
nd
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 i=
n your
inside and bury ye in the bents? O=
r 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 o=
f 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 su=
ch 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 mi=
nd 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 t=
hem
unawares; their whole party (as I was to learn afterwards) had not yet reac=
hed
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 capta=
in:
he was in the skiff himself, steering and stirring up his oarsmen, like a m=
an
with his heart in his employ. Alre=
ady he
was near in, and the boat securing—already Alan’s face had flamed crimson w=
ith
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 An=
die,
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, fo=
r he
was come within an easy hail.
“Freens o’mine,” says Alan, and began immediat=
ely
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 h=
e,
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 be=
hind
my back; Alan sat with his head turned watching me; and the boat drew smoot=
hly
away. Of a sudden I came the neare=
st
hand to shedding tears, and seemed to myself the most deserted solitary lad=
in
Scotland. With that I turned my ba=
ck
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 t=
hat
unchancy place. And yet I knew the=
re
were folk there, observing me, upon some secret purpose. They were no soldiers, or they would ha=
ve
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 re=
sistance. 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 ea=
rs
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 b=
oat
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 u=
p 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 aga=
in,
the rogues were crept the least thing nearer without speech or hurry. Every eye was upon mine, which struck m=
e with
a strange sensation of their brightness, and of the fear with which they
continued to approach me. I held o=
ut 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 ab=
out
their captive in a part of a circle and gazed upon him silently like someth=
ing
dangerous, perhaps a lion or a tiger on the spring. Presently this attention was relaxed. They drew nearer together, fell to spee=
ch 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 ve=
ry
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 priso=
ner.
“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 u=
sed,
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, le=
an,
bony-like Lothian man of a very swarthy countenance, that came towards us a=
mong
the bents on a farm horse.
“Lads,” cried he, “has ye a paper like this?” =
and
held up one in his hand. Neil prod=
uced 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, a=
nd
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 hill=
s, 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 t=
he
sea. There was moonlight, though n=
ot
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 carr=
ied
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.
<=
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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 u=
nder
the whip’s lash. The thought chill=
ed 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 fu=
ll
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 busines=
s 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 r=
ock,
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 t=
he
sea’s edge.
At the sight the truth came in upon me in a cl=
ap.
“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 pla=
ce
is long a ruin.”
“It’ll be the mair pleisand a change for the s=
olan
geese, then,” quoth Andie dryly.
The day coming slowly brighter I observed on t=
he
bilge, among the big stones with which fisherfolk ballast their boats, seve=
ral
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 mo=
ved
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 jocular=
ly
call him) of the Bass, being at once the shepherd and the gamekeeper of that
small and rich estate. He had to m=
ind
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 gees=
e that
roosted in the crags; and from these an extraordinary income is derived.
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 li=
e,”
said I. “I bless God I have lain h=
ard
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, whic=
h I
own I like ill.”
He grumbled a little at this speech, but seemed
upon reflection to approve it. Ind=
eed,
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 i=
s 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 memora=
ble
by a consequence it had long after.
There was a warship at this time stationed in the Firth, the Seahors=
e,
Captain Palliser. It chanced she w=
as
cruising in the month of September, plying between Fife and Lothian, and
sounding for sunk dangers. Early o=
ne
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 dan=
gers
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 troublesom=
e to
Andie and the Highlanders; the whole business of my sequestration was desig=
ned
for privacy, and here, with a navy captain perhaps blundering ashore, it lo=
oked
to become public enough, if it were nothing worse. I was in a minority of one, I am no Ala=
n to
fall upon so many, and I was far from sure that a warship was the least lik=
ely
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 ed=
ge,
in different places of observation and concealment. The Seahorse came strai=
ght
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 t=
he lead. Then she suddenly wore and let fly a vo=
lley
of I know not how many great guns. The
rock was shaken with the thunder of the sound, the smoke flowed over our he=
ads,
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 tou=
ch,
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 scar=
ing
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, wher=
e I
now bivouacked with Highland cattle-thieves, was a place full of history, b=
oth
human and divine. I thought it str=
ange
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 t=
he
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 seem=
ed
to speak and the things to be done before your face. This gift of his and my assiduity to li=
sten
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 present=
ly)
effected this beyond my expectation; but even in early days we made a frien=
dly
pair to be a prisoner and his gaoler.
I should trifle with my conscience if I preten=
ded
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 offere=
d 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 gentleme=
n,
at least, I must pass for a boaster and a coward. Now I would take this lightly enough; t=
ell
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 t=
hose
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 sca=
rce
begun to be concerned about men’s judgments of myself, than I was haunted w=
ith
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 w=
ere
a man at all) that I could fly or swim out of my place of safety; and it wa=
s 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 per=
haps
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.
“Ye’re no a’thegether wrong either,” says
Andie. “I’m to let you gang, bar o=
rders
contrair, on Saturday, the 23rd.”
I could not but feel there was something extre=
mely
insidious in this arrangement. Tha=
t I
was to re-appear precisely in time to be too late would cast the more discr=
edit
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, lis=
ten
to me, and think while ye listen,” said I.
“I know there are great folks in the business, and I make no doubt y=
ou
have their names to go upon. I hav=
e seen
some of them myself since this affair began, and said my say into their fac=
es
too. But what kind of a crime would this be that I had committed? or what k=
ind
of a process is this that I am fallen under?
To be apprehended by some ragged John-Hielandman on August 30th, car=
ried
to a rickle of old stones that is now neither fort nor gaol (whatever it on=
ce
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 la=
w to
you? or does it sound like justice? or does it not sound honestly like a pi=
ece
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 dea=
ling
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 su=
re
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. A=
s for
yoursel’, ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, that’s aulder and mair judeecio=
us,
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 your=
sel’
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—ju=
st ae
mair Hielantman hangit—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On the ither hand, it would be consider=
able
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.”
I hav=
e yet
said little of the Highlanders. Th=
ey
were all three of the followers of James More, which bound the accusation v=
ery
tight about their master’s neck. A=
ll
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 t=
hese
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 lo=
ok
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 t=
he
sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that we were in
favourable to alarms. I can find n=
o 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 wave=
s were
anyway great they roared about the rock like thunder and the drums of armie=
s,
dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man could da=
unt
himself with listening—not a Highlandman only, as I several times experimen=
ted
on myself, so many still, hollow noises haunted and reverberated in the por=
ches
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 effe=
ct
on my departure. It chanced one ni=
ght I
fell in a muse beside the fire and (that little air of Alan’s coming back t=
o my
memory) began to whistle. A hand w=
as
laid upon my arm, and the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for it was not “ca=
nny
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 b=
een
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 ev=
en
the Highlander that had the least English of the three set himself to listen
with all his might.
THE T=
ALE OF
TOD LAPRAIK
MY fa=
ither,
Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild, sploring lad in his young days, w=
i’
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! T=
he
governor brewed his ain ale; it seems it was the warst conceivable. The rock was proveesioned free the shor=
e with
vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there were whiles when they but to fi=
sh
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 riv=
ing
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 o=
n his
saul; his sins hove up before him muckle as the Bass, and above a’, that ch=
ief
sin, that he should have a hand in hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk.
In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of G=
od,
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 ev=
er
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 lik=
e a
solan’s and dinnle’d in folks’ lugs, and the words of him like coals of fir=
e.
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 lassi=
e 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 o=
n 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 T=
am
Dale; but it passed again and him none the better. Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither
sodger-lad. “Deil hae me!” quo’ Ta=
m, for
he was a profane swearer. And ther=
e was
Peden glowering at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang chafts an’ lunt=
in’
een, the maud happed about his kist, and the hand of him held out wi’ the b=
lack
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 s=
ee 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!” s=
ays
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 t=
hat
the Bass cam in the hands o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht t=
he
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 value=
s of
them. Forby that they were baith—o=
r they
baith seemed—earnest professors and men of comely conversation. The first of them was just Tam Dale, my
faither. The second was ane Laprai=
k,
whom the folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or his nat=
ure
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. I=
t’s a
dark uncanny loan, forby that the kirk has aye had an ill name since the da=
ys
o’ James the Saxt and the deevil’s cantrips played therein when the Queen w=
as
on the seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in the mirkest end, and was lit=
tle
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 ca=
m to
himsel’.
“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man!
I’m blythe to see ye. I whi=
les
fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “its frae the stamach.”
Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and w=
hich
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 t=
ake
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’ b=
y a
line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauld=
in’
the line and mindin’ for his signals.
But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea bel=
aw,
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 t=
he
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 the=
re
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 sola=
n 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,” t=
hinks
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’ hi=
m up.
And it seemed the solan understood about
signals. For nae sooner was the si=
gnal
made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a t=
urn
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 t=
he
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 aga=
in.
“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 cr=
aig
o’ Sawtan.”
Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was o=
wer
muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha was sae k=
ind as
come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!
Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fev=
er
had worsened. I kenna for that; bu=
t 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 neith=
er, 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “There cannae be naething on the Bass b=
ut
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 crunk=
le o’
green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and fla=
ng
and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.
“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the g=
less
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 judgm=
ent
surely, and be damned to it,” says he.
“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither,
worthy man! “But have you a mind o=
f 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 teste=
r 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 a=
nd
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 thin=
gs 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 wit=
ches
and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possession=
s)
and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and the=
n 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 Lo=
rd
forgie us!
Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag y=
irk
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’ sk=
irl
frae the Bass. And there were we r=
ubbin’
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 the=
re 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 te=
rror
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 o=
f 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 t=
hey
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 th=
on
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 hadn=
ae
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.
* * * * *<= o:p>
Andie had scarce done when there befell a migh=
ty
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. N=
ow
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’Gi=
llie
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 y=
our
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 Nei=
l,
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, bef= ore I knew what I was doing. His comra= des sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without weapons, the Gregara three to two. It seemed we were beyond salv= ation, 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 kni= fe which (upon a repetition of his promises) I returned to him on the morrow.<= o:p>
Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must=
not
build too high on Andie, who had shrunk against the wall and stood there, as
pale as death, till the affair was over; the second, the strength of my own
position with the Highlanders, who must have received extraordinary charges=
to
be tender of my safety. But if I t=
hought
Andie came not very well out in courage, I had no fault to find with him up=
on 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 a=
fter
a great timidity of our companions, he and I were yet more constantly toget=
her.
On the
seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much rebellion
against fate. The thought of him w=
aiting
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 h=
ad
to grant, and it seemed cruel hard I should be posted as a liar and a cowar=
d,
and have never consciously omitted what it was possible that I should do. I repeated this form of words with a ki=
nd of
bitter relish, and re-examined in that light the steps of my behaviour. It seemed I had behaved to James Stewar=
t as a
brother might; all the past was a picture that I could be proud of, and the=
re
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 a=
ll
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 wi=
th
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 a=
nd 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 m=
e to do,
but just to sell it ye for siller?”
“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” crie=
d 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.
I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratifi=
ed
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 mann=
er,
out of the midst of my dangers, temptations, and perplexities. But this was both too flimsy and too co=
wardly
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 reca=
ll
to have endured, save perhaps upon Isle Earraid only. Much of the time I lay on a brae-side b=
etwixt
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 witn=
ess,
followed me in slumber; and I would wake again with a start to darkness of
spirit and distress of body. I tho=
ught
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 c=
ame
with provisions, and Andie placed a packet in my hand. The cover was without address but seale=
d 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 serv=
ed
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 han=
d 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 rememb=
rance. I thought, with a bound of pleasure, sh=
e 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. H=
er
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-li=
ke
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 you=
ng
lady, and papa might be more under her domination than I knew. And, second, there was the man’s contin=
ual
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 bea=
utiful
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 w=
as
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 t=
hem
off to-morrow. Yon Neil has a quee=
r eye
when he regards you; maybe, if I was once out of the gate there might be kn=
ives
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 tim=
e 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 han=
ds
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, “Ta=
m’ll
can deal with them the best. And t=
roth!
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-hei=
ded
chield when ye like! Forby that I’m
awing ye my life,” he added, with more solemnity, and offered me his hand u=
pon
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 breakfa=
st,
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 prese=
ntly
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 sou=
nd
of the men’s voices. To what terro=
rs
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, wh=
ich
was then so spirited, swiftly declined, but never wholly failed us. All day we kept moving, though often no=
t much
more; and it was after dark ere we were up with the Queensferry. To keep the letter of Andie’s engagemen=
t (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 neces=
sary
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 s=
leep
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 t=
he
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 m=
an
of his bare word, but scarce serving his employers with a heaped measure; a=
nd
by about fifty seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full stretch
for Stirling. In a little more tha=
n 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 f=
or
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 kn=
ow 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 r=
egions
with religious interest; news of it spread from Inverary as swift as men co=
uld
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 gui=
de,
took the road again on foot, with the piece in my hand and munching as I we=
nt. Duncan brought with him a flask of usqu=
ebaugh
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 cha=
nge 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 do=
wn.
“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 wi=
th
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. T=
he
minister himself and a sprinkling of those about the door observed our entr=
ance
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 enem=
ies
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 glue=
d 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 y=
awn,
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 gav=
e me
but the one look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. Erskine; thence aga=
in
to Argyle, where he sat between the other two lords of session, and his Gra=
ce
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 not=
ice;
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.
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.
The l=
ast
word of the blessing was scarce out of the minister’s mouth before Stewart =
had
me by the arm. We were the first t=
o 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 s=
ame
as I could have told it my own self three days ago before the play began. T=
he
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 D=
uke of
Argyle has just said to Mr. Macintosh.’
O, it’s been a scandal!
“T=
he
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!”<= o:p>
He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his
mails upon the floor that I might have a change of clothes, and incommoded =
me
with his assistance as I changed. =
What
remained to be done, or how I was to do it, was what he never told me nor, I
believe, so much as thought of. “W=
e’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 tho=
ught
my friend the Writer none of the least savage.
Who that had only seen him at a counsel’s back before the Lord Ordin=
ary
or following a golf ball and laying down his clubs on Bruntsfield links, co=
uld
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. T=
hese
were covenanted to dine with the Writer after sermon, and I was very obligi=
ngly
included of the party. No sooner t=
he
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 a=
nd
re-examined upon the circumstances of the murder. It will be remembered this was the firs=
t 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) disappointi=
ng
to myself.
“To sum up,” said Colstoun, “you prove that Al=
an
was on the spot; you have heard him proffer menaces against Glenure; and th=
ough
you assure us he was not the man who fired, you leave a strong impression t=
hat
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 accus=
ed. 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 blo=
ck
from the beginning.”
“I am of the same opinion,” said Sheriff
Miller. “I think we may all be ver=
y much
obliged to Prestongrange for taking a most uncomfortable witness out of our
way. And chiefly, I think, Mr. Bal=
four
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. He=
re 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.
“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 dur=
ance;
my friend Mr. Hope of Rankeillor did what was humanly possible; and how did=
he
speed? He never got a warrant! Wel=
l,
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 to=
pic,
and I sat for some time in the midst of my learned counsel, almost deaved w=
ith
their talk but extremely little the wiser for its purport. The Writer was led into some hot expres=
sions;
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 forgotte=
n,
and that was James of the Glens.
Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish gentleman, r=
uddy
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 h=
is
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 th=
eir
duty to their client. His brother
sheriff was pleased, I suppose, with the transition. He took the table in his confidence wit=
h a
gesture and a look.
“That suggests to me a consideration which see=
ms
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, up=
on a
Mr. George Brown, a Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour. Mr. David Balfour has a very good groun=
d 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, f=
rom
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 th=
is of
Mr. Balfour’s would be a remarkable bonny cause to appear in,” he added.
Well, there they all were started on another h=
are;
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 appr=
oach
Simon Fraser, whose testimony, if it could be obtained, would prove certain=
ly
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. T=
he
other was already near the end. St=
ewart
the Writer was out of the body with delight, smelling vengeance on his chief
enemy, the Duke.
“Gentlemen,” cried he, charging his glass, “he=
re
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 com=
es 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 n=
ot my
view to have undergone so many sorrows for the advancement of Sheriff Mille=
r 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 advi=
ce,”
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 vari=
ous
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 go=
od
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, whi=
ch
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 m=
ade
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 writ=
ers
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 whe=
re 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 g=
ood
for King George,” I pursued. “Sher=
iff
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 profitab=
le,”
I went on, “Sheriff Miller gave us the names of several, among the which he=
was
good enough to mention mine. I hop=
e 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 poin=
tedly
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 perha=
ps likelier)
to help our client. Perhaps his Ma=
jesty
would have the goodness to feel a certain gratitude to all concerned in suc=
h 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 broug=
ht
forward.”
They all nodded to each other, not without sig=
hs,
for the former alternative was doubtless more after their inclination.
“Paper, then, Mr. Stewart, if you please,” pur=
sued
Miller; “and I think it might very fittingly be signed by the five of us he=
re
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 l=
ast
ten minutes.
Thereupon they set themselves, not very
enthusiastically, to draft the memorial—a process in the course of which th=
ey
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 apprehensio=
n,
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 ra=
ther
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 bef=
ore
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 high=
ly
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 l=
ying
dead or awaiting my sentence alongside poor James. For which reason I choos=
e 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 ene=
mies
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 consen=
t,
and made only this condition that I was to lay the paper before Prestongran=
ge
with the express compliments of all concerned.
The Advocate was at the castle dining with his
Grace. By the hand of one of Colst=
oun’s
servants I sent him a billet asking for an interview, and received a summon=
s 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 b=
ut
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 th=
ey
now cease.”
“I have heard of your gratitude before,” he
replied drily, “and I think this can scarce be the matter you called me fro=
m 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 y=
our
lordship will but glance an eye along this, you will perhaps think as I do.=
”
He read it sedulously through, frowning heavil=
y;
then turned back to one part and another which he seemed to weigh and compa=
re
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 yo=
ung
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 ha=
ve
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 a=
ll in
favour of a process which should have remarkable consequences in the Parlia=
ment
House, and prove for them (in one of their own expressions) a dripping
roast. Before I intervened, I thin=
k 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 dissent=
ing,
Mr. David?”
I told them without concealment, expressing,
however, with more force and volume those which regarded Prestongrange hims=
elf.
“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.”<= o:p>
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 enclos=
ure 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 enclo=
sure I
have, and with your permission, I desire to keep it.”
I thought he winced a little, but he said noth=
ing
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 y=
oung
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 t=
he
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 soc=
iety
under his protection! That he shou=
ld
have so much good-nature as to forgive me was surprising enough; that he co=
uld
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 offi=
cial
most incriminated. As I thought up=
on
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 yo=
u 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 desiro=
us
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 b=
etter
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 Ba=
r is
the true scene for your talents,” says he, bitterly, and then fell a while
silent. “I will tell you,” he pres=
ently
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 so=
ld;
no memorial can help—no defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow high, blow low, there will be no p=
ardon
for James Stewart: and take that for said!
The question is now of myself: am I to stand or fall? and I do not d=
eny
to you that I am in some danger. B=
ut
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 i=
n 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 wh=
at
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 f=
or
you,” says he, dismissing me.
I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace m=
ade,
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 tho=
ugh
I went early to bed I have no clear mind of how I got there.
On the
morrow, from the justices’ private room, where none could see me, I heard t=
he
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-Ge=
neral
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, mig=
ht
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 ha=
d an
aversion.”
“This is to let the cat out of the bag, indeed=
,”
thought I. And that was the general
impression. It was extraordinary h=
ow the
young advocate lads took hold and made a mock of this speech, and how scarc=
e a
meal passed but what someone would get in the words: “And then you might ha=
ve
been satiated.” Many songs were ma=
de in
time for the hour’s diversion, and are near all forgot. I remember one began:
“W=
hat 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 wan=
t the
bluid of, bluid of?”
Another went to my old favourite air, The Hous=
e of
Airlie, and began thus:
“I=
t 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:
“T=
hen 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 certai=
nly
this sally of the justice’s. It wa=
s 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 fou=
rth
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 wi=
th
my parts or station; so that, on strangers being present, I would often blu=
sh
for Prestongrange. It must be owne=
d 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 resp=
ect
them. Prestongrange was the best y=
et; 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 fi=
nd
pleasure in my discourse almost surprised me out of my patience. I would sit and watch him with a kind o=
f 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 t=
he
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 ma=
n, 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 H=
ope
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 tim=
e 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, a=
nd
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. Thes=
e 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 litt=
le
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 Preston=
grange,
where he was sitting in his bedgown and nightcap, with his letters round hi=
m.
“Mr. David,” add he, “I have a piece of news f=
or
you. It concerns some friends of y=
ours,
of whom I sometimes think you are a little ashamed, for you have never refe=
rred
to their existence.”
I suppose I blushed.
“See you understand, since you make the answer=
ing
signal,” said he. “And I must comp=
liment
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 unab=
le 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 stor=
y,
the authorities have decided you are to hear it otherwise and from a liveli=
er
narrator. This new example is more
serious, however; and I am afraid I must alarm you with the intelligence th=
at
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 fri=
ends
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 th=
ing
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 r=
eward,
and he was free. It might please t=
he
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 pris=
on 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 bei=
ng
so clever as to draw these inferences, you should not be clever enough to k=
eep
them to yourself. But I think you =
would
like to hear the details of the affair. I have received two versions: and t=
he
least official is the more full and far the more entertaining, being from t=
he
lively pen of my eldest daughter. =
‘Here
is all the town bizzing with a fine piece of work,’ she writes, ‘and what w=
ould
make the thing more noted (if it were only known) the malefactor is a proté=
gée
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 grava=
tt;
kilt her coats up to Gude kens whaur, clap two pair of boot-hose upon her l=
egs,
take a pair of clouted brogues {15} in her hand, and off to the Castle! Here she gives herself out to be a sout=
ar
{16} in the employ of James More, and gets admitted to his cell, the lieute=
nant
(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 ab=
out
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-ey=
ed
lass in the female habit! As for t=
he
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 priso=
n 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. Th=
e 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 f=
ace of
him at the thought of a long-legged lass in such a predicament; to say noth=
ing
of the levities of your affectionate daughter, and his respectful friend.’<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So my rascal signs herself!” continued
Prestongrange. “And you see, Mr. D=
avid,
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 nothin=
g . .
. But I beg your pardon, this is to tread upon forbidden subjects.”
“I will go bail she did not,” he returned, qui=
te
openly. “I will go bail she though=
t 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 habi=
t of
mockery, her admiration shone out plain.
A kind of a heat came on me.
“I am not your lordship’s daughter. . . ” I be=
gan.
“That I know of!” he put in, smiling.
“I speak like a fool,” said I; “or rather I be=
gan
wrong. It would doubtless be unwis=
e in
Mistress Grant to go to her in prison; but for me, I think I would look lik=
e a
half-hearted friend if I did not fly there instantly.”
“So-ho, Mr. David,” says he; “I thought that y=
ou
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 m=
oved
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 t=
hink,”
says he. “That which I had given w=
as 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 yourse=
lf,”
he added. “Youth is a hasty season; you will think better of all this befor=
e a
year.”
“Well, and I would like to be that kind of you=
th!”
I cried. “I have seen too much of =
the
other party in these young advocates that fawn upon your lordship and are e=
ven
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. W=
hy
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 b=
e 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 i=
s 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 ma=
ke 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 n=
ose,”
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. Da=
vid’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 directi=
on
though, my lord!” says I.
“And you shall have the last word, too!” cries=
he
gaily.
Indeed, he had some cause for gaiety, having n=
ow
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 sti=
nt
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 Gl=
asgow
by that job of copying, which in mere outward decency I could not well refu=
se;
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.
The c=
opying
was a weary business, the more so as I perceived very early there was no so=
rt
of urgency in the matters treated, and began very early to consider my
employment a pretext. I had no soo=
ner
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-Wat=
er
side. I was in the saddle again be=
fore
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 l=
ike a
chapter in his Bible.
“H’m,” says he; “ye come a wee thing ahint-han=
d,
Mr. Balfour. The bird’s flaen—we h=
ae
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 an=
d 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 balla=
d:
“G=
ae
saddle me the bonny black, Gae =
saddle
sune and mak’ him ready For I w=
ill
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,” sai=
d 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 me=
at
and mass never hindered man. The m=
ass 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 alre=
ady
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 f=
ace,
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.
“H=
e has
lowpen on his bonny grey, He ra=
de the
richt gate and the ready I trow=
he
would neither stint nor stay, F=
or he
was seeking his bonny leddy.”
I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did jus=
tice
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 bla=
ck
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 hou=
se 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 cr=
y 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—tha=
t’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 raire=
d.”
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 w=
hat
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 pleas=
ure
in the sight of my impatience. At last, after I had endured a meal with the=
m,
and was come very near the point of appealing for an interview before her a=
unt,
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.”
“Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us h=
ave
a two-handed crack,” said she. “Fo=
r I
have much to tell you, and it appears besides that I have been grossly unju=
st
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “Your respect, whether to yourself or y=
our
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 fo=
rgot a
day when you were so kind as to escort three very tedious misses to Hope
Park? I have the less cause to for=
get 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, overc=
ome
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 dese=
rt
your charge? ‘He has thrown her ou=
t,
overboard, his ain dear Annie!’” she hummed; “and his ain dear Annie and he=
r two
sisters had to taigle home by theirselves like a string of green geese! It seems you returned to my papa’s, whe=
re 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 com=
ing.
“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 stammere=
d.
“I would not do so in any case to strangers,” =
said
Miss Grant. “And why are you so mu=
ch
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,” s=
aid
I.
“Come, this is better!” says Miss Grant. “But look me fairly in the face; am I n=
ot
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 yo=
ur
hand, and must needs speak of the other,” said she. “This is never the way to please the la=
dies,
Mr. Balfour.”
“But, mistress,” said I, “there are surely oth=
er
things besides mere beauty.”
“By which I am to understand that I am no bett=
er
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 t=
o 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?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She had been there an hour or better, s=
aid
the servant-lass, and she grat in to herself as she sat waiting. I went to her direct; she rose as I cam=
e 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 oblige=
d 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 argum=
ent 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 k=
new 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 o=
ut
to me. I will never betray the sec=
rets
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 ta=
king
about yourself, with very little cause, and in what a perplexity she had fo=
und
herself after you was gone away. A=
nd
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 th=
at
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,” sai=
d 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. Davi=
d,”
said she. “The lasses have clear
eyes. But at least she is your fri=
end
entirely, as I was to see. I carri=
ed 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 h=
im—I
would not like to swear but he saw two of her, which doubtless made her app=
eal
the more irresistible, for you are all a pack of Mahomedans—told him what h=
ad
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 becaus=
e 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 discover=
ed
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 y=
ou
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 o=
f 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! =
span>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 play=
ing 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 b=
ut me
and poor Prince Charlie had that honour done them. Was this not to make a god of me? and d=
o 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 n=
ow
see very well what she was driving at (and perhaps some justification for t=
he
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.
“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed.
“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” s=
aid
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 m=
elt 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.
“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 tha=
t 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 confir=
med
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.=
For a=
bout
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 Edinbur=
gh
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 suggesti=
on
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. Howe=
ver,
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 thi=
ng
of weight. One way with another, no
doubt I was a good deal improved to look at, and acquired a bit of modest a=
ir
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 chi=
ef
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 weari=
ed
them. As for the aunt, she was a
wonderful still woman; and I think she gave me much the same attention as s=
he
gave the rest of the family, which was little enough. The eldest daughter and the Advocate hi=
mself
were thus my principal friends, and our familiarity was much increased by a
pleasure that we took in common. B=
efore
the court met we spent a day or two at the house of Grange, living very nob=
ly
with an open table, and here it was that we three began to ride out togethe=
r 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, t=
he
difficulties of the way, or the accidents of bad weather, my shyness wore e=
ntirely
off; we forgot that we were strangers, and speech not being required, it fl=
owed
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 h=
ouse
of Shaws, where it stood smokeless in a great field of white frost, for it =
was
yet early in the day. Here Preston=
grange
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 hear=
d;
but it would doubtless not be very agreeable to Ebenezer, for when the Advo=
cate
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 pl=
ace
in fancy with plantations, parterres, and a terrace—much as I have since
carried out in fact.
Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Ran=
keillor
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 ov=
er
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 won=
der
(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 t=
he
boat, while she and I passed a little further to the alehouse. This was her own thought, for she had b=
een
taken with my account of Alison Hastie, and desired to see the lass
herself. We found her once more al=
one—indeed,
I believe her father wrought all day in the fields—and she curtsied dutiful=
ly
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 th=
en,
“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 hea=
rt.”
“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by wi=
th
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 s=
he,
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 s=
mile
continually bitten in as she regarded me.
She seemed indeed like the very spirit of mischief, and, walking bri=
skly
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 u=
pon
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 ke=
ep
for God.”
“And as a goddess I am to be served!” she crie=
d,
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, yo=
u can
go to others.”
“O Davie!” she said. “Not if I was to beg you?”
I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, wh=
ich
is the same as to say a child, and that upon a point entirely formal.
“I think it a bairnly thing,” I said, “not wor=
thy
in you to ask, or me to render. Ye=
t I
will not refuse you, neither,” said I; “and the stain, if there be any, res=
ts
with yourself.” And at that I knee=
led
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, a=
nd
oversees the same. I will be askin=
g 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. B=
ut the
old lady was now entirely changed and supple as a glove. By what means Miss Grant had brought th=
is
round I could never guess; I am sure, at least, she dared not to appear ope=
nly
in the affair, for her papa was compromised in it pretty deep. It was he, indeed, who had persuaded Ca=
triona
to leave, or rather, not to return, to her cousin’s, placing her instead wi=
th 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 a=
nd
family. These kept her private til=
l all
was ripe, heated and helped her to attempt her father’s rescue, and after s=
he
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 wi=
th
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 r=
ank,
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 n=
ews
whenever (as she said) I “had behaved myself.”
At last she treated me to what she called an indulgence, and I thoug=
ht
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. Mi=
ss
Grant was very fond to carry me there and put me to entertain her friend wi=
th
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 f=
olks
and past affairs in Scotland. I sh=
ould
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 win=
dow
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 din=
gy;
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 f=
rom
before the loophole.
That vision was no sooner lost than I ran to t=
he
house door, where I found I was locked in; thence back to Miss Ramsay, cryi=
ng
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 le=
ap
from the window, being seven storeys above ground. All I could do was to crane over the cl=
ose
and watch for their reappearance from the stair. It was little to see, being no more tha=
n the
tops of their two heads each on a ridiculous bobbin of skirts, like to a pa=
ir
of pincushions. Nor did Catriona s=
o 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 ar=
e 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 bi=
gger
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 c=
ould
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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 cours=
e of
time, on November 8th, and in the midst of a prodigious storm of wind and r=
ain,
poor James of the Glens was duly hanged at Lettermore by Ballachulish.
So there was the final upshot of my politics!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 you=
ng 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 eve=
nts
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 violenc=
e, 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 busin=
ess
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 pat=
h 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 h=
ad not
done so grandly, after all; but with the greatest possible amount of big sp=
eech
and preparation, had accomplished nothing.
The 25th of the same month a ship was advertis=
ed
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 hou=
se
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 muc=
h 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 foreno=
on;
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 in=
timate
and familiar; I was much in her debt; and what way we were to part was a th=
ing
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 k=
new
not what to think, far less to say, when of a sudden she cast her arms abou=
t 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 kee=
p my
gravity at you five minutes on end, you must not dream I do not love you ve=
ry
well: I am all love and laughter, every time I cast an eye on you! And now I will give you an advice to co=
nclude
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!” s=
he
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 Catri=
ona,
and all cried farewell and waved their pocket napkins as I rode away. One out of the four I knew was truly so=
rry;
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.
The s=
hip
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 t=
he
reason that the day was a flat calm, very frosty and cloudy, and with a low
shifting fog upon the water. The b=
ody of
the vessel was thus quite hid as I drew near, but the tall spars of her sto=
od
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 prosp=
ect
and wondering a good deal what these farewells should be which I was promis=
ed.
All Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills glinted a=
bove
me in a kind of smuisty brightness, now and again overcome with blots of cl=
oud;
of Leith there was no more than the tops of chimneys visible, and on the fa=
ce
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 bo=
at
issued. There sat a grave man in t=
he
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 breat=
h 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 we=
re
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 high=
ly
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!” s=
he
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:
“D=
EAR
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 lea=
ve the
purport of my question doubtful=
, and
in my own case I ken the answer. S=
o fill
up here with good advice. Do not be too blate, {25} and for God’s=
sake
do not try to be too forward; n=
othing
acts you worse. I am
“Your
affectionate friend and governess, “BARBARA GRANT.”
I wrote a word of answer and compliment on a l=
eaf
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 w=
ord of
my eloquence.
“You will be glad to see me again?” says she.<= o:p>
“And I think that is an idle word,” said I.
“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cr=
ied
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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.
“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,” s=
aid
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 th=
e 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 pl=
ace
of him. But for James More, my fat=
her, 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 n=
ever
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 friendship=
s, 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 o=
ne
thing—that you went to Prestongrange and begged my life upon your knees.
We stood after that silent, Catriona looking on
the deck and I on her; and before there was more speech, a little wind havi=
ng
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 selv=
es,
which made of it a full cabin. Thr=
ee
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 a=
ll
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 almo=
st
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 so=
ft
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, clipp=
ed
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 tel=
l me
old wives’ tales, of which she had a wonderful variety, many of them from my
friend red-headed Niel. She told t=
hem
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 f=
or
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 e=
nough
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 e=
ach
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 gues=
sed
of it, and how it made life a new thing, and a thousand covered things of t=
he
same kind that will have been said, since the foundation of the world, by y=
oung
folk in the same predicament. Then=
we
remarked upon the strangeness of that circumstance, that friends came toget=
her
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 be=
fall a
girl, at all events? But I went wi=
th the
clan in the year ’45. The men marc=
hed
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 rod=
e 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 h=
e)
‘my kinswoman, you are the only lady of the clan that has come out,’ and me=
a
little maid of maybe twelve years old! =
span>I
saw Prince Charlie too, and the blue eyes of him; he was pretty indeed! 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 a=
gain
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 ma=
ybe
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.<= o:p>
“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 in 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 Gla=
sgow
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 l=
ooks
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, th=
ere
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, a=
nd
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 thoug=
ht
of my friend that it mattered not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in h=
er
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 wakin=
g 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 prolon=
ged
my absence like a variety in pleasure. =
span>I
do not think I am by nature much of an Epicurean: and there had come till t=
hen
so small a share of pleasure in my way that I might be excused perhaps to d=
well
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 packe=
t.
“You have read them?” said I; and I thought my
voice sounded not wholly natural, for I was turning in my mind for what cou=
ld
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 witho=
ut
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 lo=
se a
fancied friend,” said she, quoting my own expression.
“I think it is sometimes the friendship that w=
as
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 i=
nto
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 il=
l 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 grow=
n)
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 cur=
dled
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 occasio=
n 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 th=
an 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 w=
hile
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 yo=
ur
friendships.” And she made me an e=
ighth
part of a curtsey.
But I had schooled myself beforehand to say mo=
re,
and I was going to say it too.
“There is one thing,” said I. “If I have shocked your particularity b=
y the
showing of that letter, it cannot touch Miss Grant. She wrote not to you, but to a poor, co=
mmon,
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 g=
irl,
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 b=
ack. “Will you swear you will have no more t=
o 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.
The w=
eather
in the end considerably worsened; the wind sang in the shrouds, the sea swe=
lled
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 li=
ne
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 el=
even,
outside the harbour of Helvoetsluys, in a place where the sea sometimes bro=
ke
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 cou=
ld
imitate.
Presently a boat, that was backed like a
partancrab, came gingerly alongside, and the skipper of it hailed our maste=
r in
the Dutch. Thence Captain Sang tur=
ned,
very troubled-like, to Catriona; and the rest of us crowding about, the nat=
ure
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 du=
e to
leave that very evening in the direction of the Upper Germany. This, with the present half-gale of win=
d, the
captain (if no time were lost) declared himself still capable to save. Now James More had trysted in Helvoet w=
ith
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 p=
lace
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 arran=
ged 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 sta=
nd
opposite to so much kind advice; but the fact is she had a very good reason=
, if
she would have told us. Sailing sc=
oots
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 bei=
ng
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 ye=
ar
’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 char=
ge
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 n=
ot
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 swi=
ft,
and menaced us so perpetually with her plunging and passaging upon the anch=
or
cable. I began to think I had made=
a
fool’s bargain, that it was merely impossible Catriona should be got on boa=
rd
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 wa=
nt
to. But this was to reckon without=
the
lass’s courage. She had seen me le=
ap
with very little appearance (however much reality) of hesitation; to be sur=
e,
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 mo=
re
of a view of her stockings than would be thought genteel in cities. There was no minute lost, and scarce ti=
me
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 th=
an
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 s=
he
unhanded me suddenly, but said no word.
No more did I; and indeed the whistling of the wind and the breachin=
g of
the sprays made it no time for speech; and our crew not only toiled excessi=
vely
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 a=
nd
four shillings English money—for each passenger. But at this Catriona began to cry out w=
ith a
vast deal of agitation. She had as=
ked 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 pat=
roon
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 wit=
h 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 t=
hat
leap, and all to obey a father’s orders,” I observed.
“I cannot have you to be thinking of me so,” s=
he cried
again. “When you had done that sam=
e, how
would I stop behind? And at all ev=
ents
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-l=
ike
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 hun=
ted
exile.”
“But I think not all your friends are hunted
exiles,” I exclaimed. “And was thi=
s 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 dr=
iven
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 y=
our
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 al=
l that
I had plenty. I told her too. I could not be lowering James More to t=
hem.”
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 S=
cots
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 gl=
obe
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 he=
r,
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 tel=
l 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 think=
ing
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 li=
ke 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 wit=
h 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. F=
or
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 Hel=
voet;
he micht come here the morn, he michtnae come for a twalmouth; I would wond=
er
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 wi=
th 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 h=
ighly
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 bett=
er
friends. Give me, pen, ink, and pa=
per,
and I will leave here for James More the address of my correspondent in Ley=
den. He can inquire from me where he is to s=
eek
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 t=
hat I
have but one shilling, and three baubees.”
“And just this once again,” said I, “I will re=
mind
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.”
The
rattel-waggon, which is a kind of a long waggon set with benches, carried u=
s 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; t=
he
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 foreigne=
rs
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 lik=
e a
lost sheep, and my heart beat in my bosom with anxiety. Once or twice I inquired after the harb=
our 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 t=
he
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was impossible to chase after the Ge=
bbies
into the High Germany, and we had no other acquaintance to fall back upon b=
ut
Captain Sang himself. It was the m=
ore
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 t=
o 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, calli=
ng for
Rhenish wine and drinking of it deep, he soon became unutterably tipsy. In this case, as too common with all me=
n, 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 l=
ady,
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, f=
or 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 f=
ail
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) s=
tood
hard by the harbour side. It was l=
ike a
black night, but lights were in the houses, and nearer hand in the quiet sh=
ips;
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 thoug=
hts 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 moveme=
nt,
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 sudden=
ly
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, sca=
rce
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 sa=
id,
“and never ask you why. I have been a bad ungrateful girl to you; and do wh=
at you
please with me now! And I think Mi=
ss
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 oth=
er
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 neith=
er
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 th=
e king’s
sons and the old wives’ daughters in your daft-like Highland tales. Soon we’ll be going over the ‘seven Ben=
s, 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 see=
med
to see the look upon her face.
I caught in my breath sharp and came near fall=
ing
(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, w=
ith 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 lad=
y in
the world.”
“So she will be, indeed!” says Catriona. “But I will never forgive her for all t=
hat. I will never, never forgive her, and le=
t 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 w=
as 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 he=
ad
nor tails of this; but God forbid that I should do anything to set you on t=
he
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 go=
od
pride and a nice female delicacy; they become you well; but here you show t=
hem
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 a=
gainst
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 farmy=
ard
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 ha=
p her
in the same; she bade me, rather impatiently, to keep it.
“Indeed and I will do no such thing,” said I.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 sham=
e?”
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 frien=
d,”
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 w=
as
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 up=
on
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 n=
ow,
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 br=
ead,
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “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 ve=
ry 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 wit=
h 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-smelli=
ng
bread, which we ate upon the road as we went on. That road from Delft to the Hague is ju=
st
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 di=
spose
of you until your father come. I t=
hought
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 sa=
id.
“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 v=
ery
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 th=
en
bethought me I was the bearer of the purse, and it would never do to seem t=
oo
churlish. “Catriona,” said I, “don’t misunderstand me: I am just trying to =
do
my duty by you, girl! Here am I go=
ing
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 yo=
u?”
“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 blo=
t 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 depen=
ded
on me, how was I to be more bold?
Besides, the truth is, I could see no other feasible method to dispo=
se
of her. And I daresay inclination =
pulled
me very strong.
A little beyond the Hague she fell very lame a=
nd
made the rest of the distance heavily enough.
Twice she must rest by the wayside, which she did with pretty apolog=
ies,
calling herself a shame to the Highlands and the race she came of, and noth=
ing
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 shoe=
s and
stockings and go barefoot. But she
pointed out to me that the women of that country, even in the landward road=
s,
appeared to be all shod.
“I must not be disgracing my brother,” said sh=
e,
and was very merry with it all, although her face told tales of her.
There is a garden in that city we were bound t=
o,
sanded below with clean sand, the trees meeting overhead, some of them trim=
med,
some preached, and the whole place beautified with alleys and arbours. Here I left Catriona, and went forward =
by
myself to find my correspondent. T=
here 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 hou=
se
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, a=
nd
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 remin=
ded
me of an infirm rabbit—he began to question me close.
Here I fell in a panic. Suppose he accept my tale (thinks I), s=
uppose
he invite my sister to his house, and that I bring her. I shall have a fine ravelled pirn to un=
wind,
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 stran=
gers
that I had left her at that moment sitting in a public place alone. And then, being launched upon the strea=
m of
falsehood, I must do like all the rest of the world in the same circumstanc=
e,
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 sens=
e 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 busine=
ss;
and knowing that my money was good enough, however it might be with my cond=
uct,
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 co=
uld
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 gram=
mar;
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.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER XXIV—FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
The p=
lace
found was in the upper part of a house backed on a canal. We had two rooms, the second entering f=
rom
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 ha=
rd 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 s=
he
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 shoul=
d 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 be=
fore
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 litt=
le of
Miss Grant’s immersion in the interest of clothes; for the truth is, when y=
ou
have the ground of a beautiful person to adorn, the whole business becomes
beautiful. The Dutch chintzes I sh=
ould
say were extraordinary cheap and fine; but I would be ashamed to set down w=
hat
I paid for stockings to her. Altog=
ether
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 be=
ds, 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. He=
re 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 constrain=
ed,
had already given me a sense of how my conduct must appear to others; and n=
ow,
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 v=
ery
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 mad=
e my
face to burn. The more cause, sinc=
e 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 neith=
er;
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 d=
eal 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, a=
nd
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 t=
hat
I turned homeward. As I thought th=
at
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 t=
hem
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 f=
or
my pretty clothes, see what I have done with our two chambers.” And she showed me the place all very fi=
nely
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 wi=
th
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 el=
der;
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 ki=
nd
of penitence, to blot out all the good effect of my last speech. In this direction progress was more eas=
y,
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 mea=
l 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 fo=
r 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 cours=
e 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. Th=
is was
my first night of wakefulness and divided counsels, of which I was now to p=
ass
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 lit=
tle
command of what should follow. But=
to
sit all day in the same room with her, and feign to be engaged upon Heinecc=
ius,
surpassed my strength. So that I f=
ell
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 te=
st
of which I found the other day in a note-book of that period, where I had l=
eft
off to follow an edifying lecture and actually scribbled in my book some ve=
ry
ill verses, though the Latinity is rather better than I thought that I could
ever have compassed. The evil of t=
his
course was unhappily near as great as its advantage. I had the less time of trial, but I bel=
ieve,
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 overma=
ster
me. These friendly offers I must
barbarously cast back; and my rejection sometimes wounded her so cruelly th=
at I
must unbend and seek to make it up to her in kindness. So that our time passed in ups and down=
s,
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 retrenchment=
s,
did not always dissemble her chagrin.
There were times when I have thought to myself, “If she were over he=
ad
in love, and set her cap to catch me, she would scarce behave much otherwis=
e;”
and then I would fall again into wonder at the simplicity of woman, from wh=
om 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.
Once, indeed, I was betrayed into a childishne=
ss greater
than her own; it fell in this way. On my
return from classes, thinking upon her devoutly with a great deal of love a=
nd 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 bou=
ght
it for Catriona. I do not know the=
name
of that flower, but it was of the pink colour, and I thought she would admi=
re
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 lo=
ok
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 th=
is
brought me to myself, so that I began at once to see the folly of my
conduct. I went, not into the stre=
et 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) hang=
ing
in the leafless tree. I stood by t=
he 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 froz=
en
snow, and turning somewhat angrily (for I was in no spirit to be interrupte=
d)
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 q=
uick,
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 mo=
re
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 wh=
at
puzzles women were. I was thinking=
, the
one moment, it was the most stupid thing on earth she should not have perce=
ived
my love; and the next, that she had certainly perceived it long ago, and (b=
eing
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 Heinecc=
ius.
This made these periods not only a relief to myself, but a particular pleas=
ure
to my poor child. When I came back=
about
the hour appointed, I would generally find her ready dressed, and glowing w=
ith
anticipation. She would prolong their duration to the extreme, seeming to d=
read
(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 encounter=
ing
any acquaintance, which would have rendered our position very difficult.
One day it was snowing downright hard. I had thought it not possible that we s= hould venture forth, and was surprised to find her waiting for me ready dressed.<= o:p>
“I will not be doing without my walk,” she
cried. “You are never a good boy, =
Davie,
in the house; I will never be caring for you only in the open air. I think we two will better turn Egyptia=
n 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 t=
he
drops stood upon her bright cheeks like tears and ran into her smiling
mouth. Strength seemed to come upo=
n 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 f=
ound
it more than usually difficult to maintain any strangeness. Even at the meal, I durst scarce unbuck=
le 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 co=
uld
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 c=
ried,
and fell at once into a storm of tears.
I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fi=
re,
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 the=
n, “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 litt=
le in
my wretched heart? Do you not thin=
k when
I sit there, reading in that fool-book that I have just burned and be damne=
d 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 und=
er 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 fac=
e 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 surp=
rise
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 th=
en,
“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 ne=
xt 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 t=
he
truth told. I had crept like an un=
trusty
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 weepi=
ng.
And all that I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear the greater—it w=
as
upon a nature so defenceless, and with such advantages of the position, tha=
t I
seemed to have practised.
What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in t=
he one
place. But where was I to go? or w=
here
she? Without either choice or faul=
t 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 h=
er
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 th=
ree
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 la=
d, and
try if you can sleep. To-morrow yo=
u may
see your way.”
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 m=
ore
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 c=
ircumstance
how our affairs appear to intermingle,” he continued. “I am owing you an apology for an unfor=
tunate
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 t=
hat
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 ai=
r,
“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 tur=
ned
pale.
“This is very unusual,” said he. “This is a very unusual circumstance. Y=
ou 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 vie=
w 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 diso=
rder
of my clothes, and the unlighted chimney, made the only plenishing; no mist=
ake
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 si=
de
of it; where, after I had closed the door, I could not very well avoid join=
ing
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 suitab=
le;
I shivering in my shirt and breeks; he with very much the air of a judge; a=
nd 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 t=
o 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 la=
nded
on the coast of Europe with two shillings and a penny halfpenny. She is directed to yon man Sprott in He=
lvoet. I hear you call him your agent. All I c=
an 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 leas=
t,”
said James. “My daughter was place=
d 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 thi=
nk you
might praise God that I was there to offer in his place.”
“I shall have a word to say to Mr. Gebbie befo=
re
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 des=
erted,
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 wi=
thout
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 d=
eal
of heat.
“You are a very young man,” he repeated, “or y=
ou
would have understood the significancy of the step.”
“I think you speak very much at your ease,” cr=
ied
I. “What else was I to do? It is a fact I might have hired some de=
cent,
poor woman to be a third to us, and I declare I never thought of it until t=
his
moment! But where was I to find he=
r,
that am a foreigner myself? And le=
t me
point out to your observation, Mr. Drummond, that it would have cost me mon=
ey
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 Dru=
mmond
is far above inquiry, as her father ought to know. So is mine, and I am telling you that.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There are but the two ways of it open.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 ye=
t to
see my daughter.”
I began to be a little relieved upon this spee=
ch
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 wi=
ll
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 f=
ind
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 mak=
e 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 y=
our
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 char=
acter
that I respect the most; you are one of those from whom a gentleman can tak=
e a
favour and no more words about it. I am
an old soldier,” he went on, looking rather disgusted-like around my chambe=
r,
“and you need not fear I shall prove burthensome. I have ate too often at a dyke-side, dr=
ank 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 morni=
ng,
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 t=
he
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 mind=
ing
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.
Wheth=
er or
not I was to be so much blamed, or rather perhaps pitied, I must leave othe=
rs
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 h=
er, 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 u=
pon
the innocence of my friendship; and these, it was my first business to alla=
y.
But there is a kind of an excuse for Catriona also. We had shared in a scene of some tender=
ness
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, wi=
th
unaccustomed formality, under the name of Miss Drummond, and to be thencefo=
rth
used with a great deal of distance and respect, led her entirely in error o=
n 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 m=
ay
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, accordi=
ngly,
it soon appeared we were at cross purposes.
I had looked to find her in clothes of her own: I found her (as if h=
er
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 pointed=
ly
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 han=
ds,
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 talki=
ng. No doubt but he talked well if anyone c=
ould
have believed him. But I will spea=
k of
him presently more at large. The m=
eal at
an end, he rose, got his great coat, and looking (as I thought) at me, obse=
rved
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; neith=
er
seemed to observe me, she gazing on the floor, he buttoning his coat: which
vastly swelled my embarrassment. T=
his
appearance of indifference argued, upon her side, a good deal of anger very
near to burst out. Upon his, I tho=
ught
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?” say=
s 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 s=
ome
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 ri=
se,
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 observ=
ed
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 socie=
ty
but my own thoughts. These were still bright enough; I did not so much as d=
ream
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 a=
ll
by what were only steps in a most needful policy. And the chief of my concern was only th=
e 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. I=
n 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 w=
ould
not hurt anything, yet I would not delay too long neither; and got to my co=
ld
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 dis=
missed
the men so that she might hear them go, when I supposed she would at once c=
ome
forth again to speak to me. I wait=
ed 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?” s=
o 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 e=
ver 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 fa=
ther
James More is come again, there is a difference to be made, and I think the=
re
are some things said and done that would be better to be forgotten. But I will ever be your friend in all t=
hat I
am able, and if that is not all that . . . . if it is not so much . . . . N=
ot
that you will be caring! But I wou=
ld 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 hopi=
ng
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 d=
one,
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 wro=
ng 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 t=
he
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 possibl=
e, 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 her=
e, I
promise you it shall never pass my lips; I would like to promise you too th=
at I
would never think of it, but it’s a memory that will be always dear to me.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'>
“I am thanking you,” said she.
We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myse= lf began to get the upper hand; for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumb= le, and my love lost, and myself alone again in the world as at the beginning.<= o:p>
“Well,” said I, “we shall be friends always,
that’s a certain thing. But this i=
s 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 flo=
wed
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 bo=
som.
I think it was about five days that followed
without any change. I saw her scar=
ce
ever but at meals, and then of course in the company of James More. If we were alone even for a moment, I m=
ade it
my devoir to behave the more distantly and to multiply respectful attention=
s,
having always in my mind’s eye that picture of the girl shrinking and flami=
ng
in a blush, and in my heart more pity for her than I could depict in
words. I was sorry enough for myse=
lf, I
need not dwell on that, having fallen all my length and more than all my he=
ight
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 wa=
s 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 acc=
ount
for; and even in the course of these few days, failed once to come to a mea=
l,
which Catriona and I were at last compelled to partake of without him. It was the evening meal, and I left imm=
ediately
that I had eaten, observing I supposed she would prefer to be alone; to whi=
ch
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 th=
ink
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 l=
ight
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 h=
ad
the same rejected. And in the mean=
while
I would be alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was tempt=
ed
to be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female delicacy. And altogether I suppose there were nev=
er 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 gon=
e 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 fitt=
ed
to impose upon a daughter; and the light in which he was constantly present=
ed
in his talk, and the man’s fine presence and great ways went together pretty
harmoniously. So that a man that h=
ad 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 wo=
uld
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 th=
at
he scarce knew when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejecti=
on
must have been wholly genuine. The=
re
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 m=
ore
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 o=
wn
land and friends, or into Gaelic singing.
“This is one of the melancholy airs of my nati=
ve
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 the=
re,
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 defeate=
d. 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 beca=
use
the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is mere mockery to tell y=
ou
it in English.”
Well, I thought there was a good deal of mocke=
ry
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 hal=
f 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.
I bel=
ieve
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 t=
wo
were out of Scotland and prompted by the same affair, which was the death o=
f 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 fo=
und
them, when I came to dinner, so that I was surprised out of my news in the =
very
first moment of reading it. This m=
ade 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 in=
to
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 tongu=
e,
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 with=
held
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 v=
isit
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 v=
ery
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 to=
ngue
at him, and could almost have wished that Alan had been there to have inqui=
red
a little further into that mention of his birth. Though, they tell me, the same was inde=
ed 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.
“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 gentlem=
an was
so far from your favour, why, very well!
But we may at least congratulate you on your accession to your estat=
es.”
“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with t=
he
same heat. “It is a good estate; w=
hat
matters that to a lone man that has enough already? I had a good revenue before in my fruga=
lity;
and but for the man’s death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confe=
ss
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 thre=
e 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; a=
nd
he slid off at once into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (du=
ring
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.
The door had scarce closed behind her departur=
e,
when the man leaned back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectat=
ion
of easiness. Only the one thing be=
trayed
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 yo=
u,”
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 e=
ver
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 charac=
ter,
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 su=
ch
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 t=
hought
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 u=
pon
my guard.
“I have besides studied your character,” he we=
nt
on; “your talents are fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which d=
oes
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 uncro=
ssed
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,” s=
aid
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 gentl=
eman
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 wi=
ll
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 des=
ire
to apply for your daughter’s hand?”
“It is not possible to express my meaning bett=
er,”
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, Davi=
d,”
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 p=
ath,
which I see not entirely how we shall come over. I have told you that, upon my side, the=
re 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, “t=
hat,
even in dealing with myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalata=
ble
expressions. I will have none such
employed to the young lady. I am h=
ere to
speak and think for the two of us; and I give you to understand that I woul=
d 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 an=
d a
good deal of temper.
“So that is to be the way of it,” I
concluded. “I will marry Miss Drum=
mond,
and that blithely, if she is entirely willing.
But if there be the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear—ma=
rry
her will I never.”
“Well well,” said he, “this is a small
affair. As soon as she returns I w=
ill
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 my=
self 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 le= ft to exercise. Her character is gone.”<= o:p>
“And I ask your pardon,” said I, “but while th=
is
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 d=
epend
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 wh=
en
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 t=
ill
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; “y=
ou
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 t=
he
throat-cutting,” said I.
What with the size of the man, his great lengt=
h 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 f=
act
that I had shown myself averse to lend, he had embraced a strong idea of my
poverty. The sudden news of my est=
ate
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 lad=
y 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 the=
re
to view us.
I ope=
ned
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 t=
hat,
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 onc=
e,
and walk in the midst between two destinies, and could not tell whether I w=
as
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 be=
fore
her, like one who had a guess of what was coming. I saw I must speak soon before my coura=
ge 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 h=
ave
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 mana=
ged
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 inter=
rupt
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 lea=
st I
could do is just to hold my tongue, which was what I intended fully, and th=
ere
was nothing further from my thoughts than to have troubled you again. But, my dear, it has become merely nece=
ssary,
and no way by it. You see, this estate of mine has fallen in, which makes o=
f 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 a=
ffairs
have got so much ravelled up (as I was saying) that it would be better to l=
et
them be the way they are. In my vi=
ew,
this part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were you I would not w=
ear
two thoughts on it. Only it’s righ=
t I
should mention the same, because there’s no doubt it has some influence on
James More. Then I think we were n=
one so
unhappy when we dwelt together in this town before. I think we did pretty w=
ell
together. If you would look back, =
my
dear—”
“I will look neither back nor forward,” she
interrupted. “Tell me the one thin=
g:
this is my father’s doing?”
“He approves of it,” said I. “He approved I that I should ask your h=
and 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 yo=
urself
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 f=
ain
in front of her; but at this she made a little noise in her head, and I tho=
ught
she would have run.
“Without which,” I went on, “after what you sa=
id
last Friday, I would never have been so troublesome as make the offer. But when he as good as asked me, what w=
as 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 har=
d 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 s=
tood
silent.
There seemed to be something working in her bo=
som
after that last cry; presently she broke out, “And what is the meaning of a=
ll
this? Why is all this shame lounde=
red on
my head? How could you dare it, Da=
vid
Balfour?”
“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?”
“I am not your dear,” she said, “and I defy yo=
u 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 th=
ere 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 th=
at 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 goo=
d 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 d=
are
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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You will see what you think when I am d=
ead.”
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 me=
an 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 cri=
ed.
“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 shou=
ld 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 u=
pon
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 respect=
ed; 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 co=
ward
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 f= it to speak to you. O, I could be kne= eling down to you in the street, I could be kissing your hands for forgiveness!”<= o:p>
“I will keep the kisses I have got from you
already,” cried I. “I will keep th=
e ones
I wanted and that were something worth; I will not be kissed in penitence.”=
“What can you be thinking of this miserable gi=
rl?”
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 unhapp=
y 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 al=
one
with such a man!” she cried, and seemed to catch herself in with a great
effort. “But trouble yourself no m=
ore
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 stoppe=
d.
“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 f=
or 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 st=
reet
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 n=
inny
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 en=
ough
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 fierce=
ly;
and presently slipped on, in a kind of malevolence, to consider how very po=
orly
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 mi=
nd
turned bottom up. I was still angr=
y; I
still hated her; and yet I thought I owed it to myself that she should suff=
er
nothing.
This carried me home again at once, where I fo=
und
the mails drawn out and ready fastened by the door, and the father and daug=
hter
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 gi=
rl
looked at him with a steady, clear, dark look that might have been followed=
by
a blow. It was a hint that was mor=
e contemptuous
than a command, and I was surprised to see James More accept it. It was plain he had had a master talkin=
g-to;
and I could see there must be more of the devil in the girl than I had gues=
sed,
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 o=
ur
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 y=
ou
were borrowing mine. I know you ha=
ve 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, t=
his 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 ha=
ve
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 someth=
ing
insufficient in amount; and I do not choose your daughter to be lacking.
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! =
span>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 go=
ne
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 l=
eft
behind at her departure all that she had ever had of me. It was the blow that I felt sorest, per=
haps
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 t=
eeth
chattering, I came again by some portion of my manhood and considered with
myself. The sight of these poor fr=
ocks
and ribbons, and her shifts, and the clocked stockings, was not to be endur=
ed;
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 thoug=
ht to
have made a fire and burned them; but my disposition has always been oppose=
d to
wastery, for one thing; and for another, to have burned these things that s=
he
had worn so close upon her body seemed in the nature of a cruelty. There was a corner cupboard in that cha=
mber;
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 nea=
tly
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 ti=
de 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 o=
ff in
some childish freak that was manifestly tender; that she had cast it away a=
gain
was little to be wondered at; and I was inclined to dwell more upon the fir=
st
than upon the second, and to be more pleased that she had ever conceived th=
e idea
of that keepsake, than concerned because she had flung it from her in an ho=
ur
of natural resentment.
Altog=
ether,
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 th=
e town
of Dunkirk in France, from which place James shortly after started alone up=
on 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 conditio=
n of
his stipend, he had been so careful as to prepare it beforehand and leave it
with Catriona to be despatched. Th=
e fact
of our correspondence aroused her suspicions, and he was no sooner gone than
she had burst the seal. What I rec=
eived began
accordingly in the writing of James More:
“M=
y 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 remembe=
red to
her dear friend. I find her in rat=
her 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 Gladsmu=
ir. I have found employment here in the har=
as 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 t=
he
more necessary to my daughter’s
comfort, though I daresay the sight of old friends would be still better.
=
“My dear Sir, “Yo=
ur
affectionate, obedient servant,
“JAMES MACGREGOR DRUMMOND.”
Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:—=
“D=
o not
be believing him, it is all lies together,—C. M. D.”
Not only did she add this postscript, but I th=
ink
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 w=
as
not otherwise of interest; I had been entertained to many jovial dinners an=
d 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 parti=
culars;
and this disposition was not anyway lessened by the nature of Alan’s commen=
tary
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 ex=
perience
than Alan Breck: and I can never call to mind to have heard tell of a lassie
like this one of yours. The way th=
at 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 k=
ind
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 conclud=
e. 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 l=
oss
of him is that the man’s boss.” “Ye see, Alan,” said I, “it goes against the g=
rain
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’ g=
oes
fine; or else they just detest him, and ye may spare your breath—ye can do
naething. There’s just the two set=
s 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,” sai=
d I.
“And yet there’s naething easier!” cried
Alan. “I could easy learn ye the s=
cience
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 a=
re
so clever at the trade?”
“Ye see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like a field officer that has naeb=
ody
but blind men for scouts and éclaireurs; and what would he ken? But it sticks in my mind that ye’ll hav=
e 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; aboun=
ded
in kind expressions to myself; and finally proposed that I should visit the=
m at
Dunkirk.
“You will now be enjoying the society of my old
comrade Mr. Stewart,” he wrote. “W=
hy 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 re=
gard
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 auberg=
e 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 befitt=
ing
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 y=
ou 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 wan=
ting
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 w=
ith
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 be=
hind
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 d=
eep
sand where we could hear a bullering of the sea. We travelled in this fashion for some w=
hile,
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 th=
ought
by his tone he was not wholly pleased.
A little after, and we stood in the lower stor=
ey
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 t=
he
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 y=
oung
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 s=
ome
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 v=
ery
quietly, and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming of earnestne=
ss,
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 su=
re
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 do=
zen
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 h=
is
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 c=
ried.
“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 sh=
aw
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 w=
ith
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 f=
or
James More, and sat down to meat, we threesome.
Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon his wants: he made her dr=
ink
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 ta=
lk
so much in his own hand, and that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I
remembered to be embarrassed. If a=
ny 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 carri=
ed
away; her laugh was like a peal of bells, her face gay as a May morning; an=
d 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 unfi=
t 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 th=
at
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 slipp=
ed
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; y=
ou
know the man already, what there was to know of him; and I am weary of writ=
ing
out his lies. Enough that he drank a great deal, and told us very little th=
at
was to any possible purpose. As fo=
r 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 Al=
an
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 h=
e.
Nor would he say another word though I besiege=
d him
long with importunities.
Dayli=
ght
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. T=
here
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 a=
ss
quite hidden. It was strange (afte=
r 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 nu=
mber
of footways travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s d=
oor. The truth is, he was a man of many trad=
es,
not any one of them honest, and the position of his inn was the best of his
livelihood. Smugglers frequented i=
t;
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 fam=
ily
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 f=
ro
before the door. Dawn broke mighty
sullen; but a little after, sprang up a wind out of the west, which burst t=
he
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, de=
sert
place was like a paradise.
For all which, as the day drew on and nobody c=
ame
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 per=
sons
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 manif=
est
that James More was in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was al=
ive
to the same, and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon t=
he 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. H=
e 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 Jame=
s,”
said Alan. “There’s something no r=
ight
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 t=
o 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 recomme=
nded
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 lassi=
e, 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 h=
eap of
Alan. And troth! I’m thinking a go=
od
deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws, I’ll be getting a wee y=
ont
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 inter=
view
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 dec=
oy
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 the=
re,
and (seeing nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by whi=
ch I
followed her. I was in no haste to=
make
my presence known; the further she went I made sure of the longer hearing t=
o my
suit; and the ground being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and came at last to the h=
ead of
a knowe. Thence I had a picture fo=
r the
first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in; where wa=
s 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 recogni=
sed
the trim of the Seahorse. What sho=
uld 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 mid=
dle
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 h=
er
business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for the
Seahorse. But I observed the offic=
er to
remain behind and disappear among the bents.
I liked the business little; and the more I
considered of it, liked it less. W=
as 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 recog=
nised
me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on again, but more slowly, and I thou=
ght
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 waiti=
ng
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?” sai=
d I.
“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she
replied; and then, with a little outburst, “but why will you be sending mon=
ey
to that man! It must not be.”
“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for yo=
u,
as you know well.”
“And you have no right to be sending it to eit=
her
one of us,” she said. “David, it is not right.”
“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I, “and I p=
ray
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 a=
mong
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 i=
t 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 in=
to
that storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was wholly beaten from my m=
ind 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 wh=
at
you think of me! Is it so that you=
were
caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davi=
e!”
With that she wept also, and our tears were
commingled in a perfect gladness.
It might have been ten in the day before I cam=
e 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 ov=
er
the knowe, were like a tune of music.
I know not how much longer we might have conti=
nued
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 acro=
ss
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 op=
en 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 again=
st
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 mus=
t be
more along with him; I daresay we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be open=
ed;
but somehow, not by you nor me.”
I was about thus far with it, and my spirit ve=
ry
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 c=
an
bear it?” she asked, looking upon me with a burning eye.
“I was asked something of the same question wh=
en 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 hav=
e you
sped? You can speak out plain befo=
re
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 t=
o the
ship. “That is the Seahorse, Capta=
in
Palliser.”
“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when she was
stationed in the Forth. But what a=
ils
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 i=
t’s
delivered, what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in t=
he
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 yo=
u were
fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some one in the French, and th=
en
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 w=
as
asleep or waking!” says he. “But t=
he
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 h=
orse,”
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 sid=
e.
“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking
back. “The best day’s work that ev=
er
either of you did yet! And I’m bou=
nd 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 t=
o be
spying from behind it. Only, of co=
urse,
we took him in the rear.
“See, Alan!”
“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.”
The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by th=
e 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 b=
ad
accent.
“Non, monsieur,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn you French on t=
he
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 followi=
ng,
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 w=
ith
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 a=
fter
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,” s=
aid
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 m=
en,”
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? Ha=
lvers,
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 ou=
t.
“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 s=
tabbed
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 t=
he
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 o=
f my
sight; leave me with clean folk. I=
am a
daughter of Alpin! Shame of the so=
ns of
Alpin, begone!”
It was said with so much passion as awoke me f=
rom
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 st=
ill
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 ex=
cept
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 wi=
th 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 su=
ppose
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 h=
is
funny face, “but now, ye see, it’s mines.”
And then with more gravity, “Be you advised, James More, you leave t=
his
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) bad=
e us
farewell in a series. With which h=
e 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 pai=
n 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 ne=
ver
lost a chance?” says Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by eith=
er
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 ev=
er 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 nam=
e and
speak the truth.”
He said it with a serious heat of admiration t=
hat
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 gall=
ows
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 whe=
re
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had whipped under a table when the s=
words
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 b=
y,
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 so=
me
foolish person holding up his hands, were the sails of the windmill turning=
.
Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself dow= n 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.<= o:p>
As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disg=
uise
upon the other side; and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs=
. We had a start of some two hundred yard=
s, and
they were but bandy-legged tarpaulins after all, that could not hope to bet=
ter
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 whe=
n we
popped over a knowe, and found a company of the garrison marching on the ot=
her
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.
No so=
oner
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, neith=
er
Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. Upon all accounts it seemed the most pr=
udent
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 Catri=
ona
was not so good at the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the sad=
dle
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 s=
hook
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 undesirab=
le
letter. But, for all that, gentlem=
en, I
cannot see what we would want to make it public for. It’s an ill bird that fouls his own nes=
t, 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 Catr=
iona
away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in French. It was not till all was over, and our h=
ealths
drunk, that he told us James was in that city, whither he had preceded us s=
ome
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 gar=
ret
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 m=
usic
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 stra=
nge
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 aftertho=
ught;”
after which he spoke for all the world in his old manner, was so obliging a=
s to
play us a tune or two upon his pipes, and borrowed a small sum before I lef=
t.
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 t=
ime 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 thi=
ther,
after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we sailed in a Low Coun=
try
ship.
* * * * *=
And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladi=
es
first), and Mr. Alan Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fa=
irly
to an end. A great many of the fol=
k that
took a part in it, you will find (if you think well) that you have seen and
spoken with. Alison Hastie in Lime=
kilns
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 lit=
tle,
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 wh=
at 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 i=
n 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 nothi=
ng;
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.
{1} Conspicuous.
{2}
Country.
{3} T=
he
Fairies.
{4}
Flatteries.
{5} T=
rust
to.
{6} T=
his
must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first visit.—D. B.
{7}
Sweetheart.
{8} C=
hild.
{9} P=
alm.
{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 Campb=
ell’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.