to terror of James More.

It was some distance to that tavern. He talked all the way of
matters which did not interest me the smallest, and at the door
dismissed me with empty manners. Thence I walked to my new
lodging, where I had not so much as a chimney to hold me warm, and
no society but my own thoughts. These were still bright enough; I
did not so much as dream that Catriona was turned against me; I
thought we were like folk pledged; I thought we had been too near
and spoke too warmly to be severed, least of all by what were only
steps in a most needful policy. And the chief of my concern was
only the kind of father-in-law that I was getting, which was not at
all the kind I would have chosen: and the matter of how soon I
ought to speak to him, which was a delicate point on several sides.
In the first place, when I thought how young I was I blushed all
over, and could almost have found it in my heart to have desisted;
only that if once I let them go from Leyden without explanation, I
might lose her altogether. And in the second place, there was our
very irregular situation to be kept in view, and the rather scant
measure of satisfaction I had given James More that morning. I
concluded, on the whole, that delay would not hurt anything, yet I
would not delay too long neither; and got to my cold bed with a
full heart.

The next day, as James More seemed a little on the complaining hand
in the matter of my chamber, I offered to have in more furniture;
and coming in the afternoon, with porters bringing chairs and
tables, found the girl once more left to herself. She greeted me
on my admission civilly, but withdrew at once to her own room, of
which she shut the door. I made my disposition, and paid and
dismissed the men so that she might hear them go, when I supposed
she would at once come forth again to speak to me. I waited yet
awhile, then knocked upon her door.

"Catriona!" said I.

The door was opened so quickly, even before I had the word out,
that I thought she must have stood behind it listening. She
remained there in the interval quite still; but she had a look that
I cannot put a name on, as of one in a bitter trouble.

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

"I am thanking you," said she. "I will not be caring much to walk,
now that my father is come home."

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

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

"It was not unkindly meant," I replied. "What ails you, Catriona?
What have I done to you that you should turn from me like this?"

"I do not turn from you at all," she said, speaking very carefully.
"I will ever be grateful to my friend that was good to me; I will
ever be his friend in all that I am able. But now that my father
James More is come again, there is a difference to be made, and I
think there are some things said and done that would be better to
be forgotten. But I will ever be your friend in all that I am
able, and if that is not all that . . . . if it is not so much . .
. . Not that you will be caring! But I would not have you think of
me too hard. It was true what you said to me, that I was too young
to be advised, and I am hoping you will remember I was just a
child. I would not like to lose your friendship, at all events."

She began this very pale; but before she was done, the blood was in
her face like scarlet, so that not her words only, but her face and
the trembling of her very hands, besought me to be gentle. I saw,
for the first time, how very wrong I had done to place the child in
that position, where she had been entrapped into a moment's
weakness, and now stood before me like a person shamed.

"Miss Drummond," I said, and stuck, and made the same beginning
once again, "I wish you could see into my heart," I cried. "You
would read there that my respect is undiminished. If that were
possible, I should say it was increased. This is but the result of
the mistake we made; and had to come; and the less said of it now
the better. Of all of our life here, I promise you it shall never
pass my lips; I would like to promise you too that I would never
think of it, but it's a memory that will be always dear to me. And
as for a friend, you have one here that would die for you."

"I am thanking you," said she.

We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself began to get the
upper hand; for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumble, and
my love lost, and myself alone again in the world as at the
beginning.

"Well," said I, "we shall be friends always, that's a certain
thing. But this is a kind of farewell, too: it's a kind of a
farewell after all; I shall always ken Miss Drummond, but this is a
farewell to my Catriona."

I looked at her; I could hardly say I saw her, but she seemed to
grow great and brighten in my eyes; and with that I suppose I must
have lost my head, for I called out her name again and made a step
at her with my hands reached forth.

She shrank back like a person struck, her face flamed; but the
blood sprang no faster up into her cheeks, than what it flowed back
upon my own heart, at sight of it, with penitence and concern. I
found no words to excuse myself, but bowed before her very deep,
and went my ways out of the house with death in my bosom.

I think it was about five days that followed without any change. I
saw her scarce ever but at meals, and then of course in the company
of James More. If we were alone even for a moment, I made it my
devoir to behave the more distantly and to multiply respectful
attentions, having always in my mind's eye that picture of the girl
shrinking and flaming in a blush, and in my heart more pity for her
than I could depict in words. I was sorry enough for myself, I
need not dwell on that, having fallen all my length and more than
all my height in a few seconds; but, indeed, I was near as sorry
for the girl, and sorry enough to be scarce angry with her save by
fits and starts. Her plea was good; she had been placed in an
unfair position; if she had deceived herself and me, it was no more
than was to have been looked for.

And for another thing she was now very much alone. Her father,
when he was by, was rather a caressing parent; but he was very easy
led away by his affairs and pleasures, neglected her without
compunction or remark, spent his nights in taverns when he had the
money, which was more often than I could at all account for; and
even in the course of these few days, failed once to come to a
meal, which Catriona and I were at last compelled to partake of
without him. It was the evening meal, and I left immediately that
I had eaten, observing I supposed she would prefer to be alone; to
which she agreed and (strange as it may seem) I quite believed her.
Indeed, I thought myself but an eyesore to the girl, and a reminder
of a moment's weakness that she now abhorred to think of. So she
must sit alone in that room where she and I had been so merry, and
in the blink of that chimney whose light had shone upon our many
difficult and tender moments. There she must sit alone, and think
of herself as of a maid who had most unmaidenly proffered her
affections and had the same rejected. And in the meanwhile I would
be alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was
tempted to be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female
delicacy. And altogether I suppose there were never two poor fools
made themselves more unhappy in a greater misconception.

As for James, he paid not so much heed to us, or to anything in
nature but his pocket, and his belly, and his own prating talk.
Before twelve hours were gone he had raised a small loan of me;
before thirty, he had asked for a second and been refused. Money
and refusal he took with the same kind of high good nature.
Indeed, he had an outside air of magnanimity that was very well
fitted to impose upon a daughter; and the light in which he was
constantly presented in his talk, and the man's fine presence and
great ways went together pretty harmoniously. So that a man that
had no business with him, and either very little penetration or a
furious deal of prejudice, might almost have been taken in. To me,
after my first two interviews, he was as plain as print; I saw him
to be perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in the same; and
I would hearken to his swaggering talk (of arms, and "an old
soldier," and "a poor Highland gentleman," and "the strength of my
country and my friends") as I might to the babbling of a parrot.

The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some part of it himself,
or did at times; I think he was so false all through that he scarce
knew when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection
must have been wholly genuine. There were times when he would be
the most silent, affectionate, clinging creature possible, holding
Catriona's hand like a big baby, and begging of me not to leave if
I had any love to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the
more to his daughter. He would press and indeed beseech us to
entertain him with our talk, a thing very difficult in the state of
our relations; and again break forth in pitiable regrets for his
own land and friends, or into Gaelic singing.

"This is one of the melancholy airs of my native land," he would
say. "You may think it strange to see a soldier weep, and indeed
it is to make a near friend of you," says he. "But the notes of
this singing are in my blood, and the words come out of my heart.
And when I mind upon my red mountains and the wild birds calling
there, and the brave streams of water running down, I would scarce
think shame to weep before my enemies." Then he would sing again,
and translate to me pieces of the song, with a great deal of
boggling and much expressed contempt against the English language.
"It says here," he would say, "that the sun is gone down, and the
battle is at an end, and the brave chiefs are defeated. And it
tells here how the stars see them fleeing into strange countries or
lying dead on the red mountain; and they will never more shout the
call of battle or wash their feet in the streams of the valley.
But if you had only some of this language, you would weep also
because the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is mere
mockery to tell you it in English."

Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery in the business,
one way and another; and yet, there was some feeling too, for which
I hated him, I think, the worst of all. And it used to cut me to
the quick to see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, and
weeping herself to see him weep, when I was sure one half of his
distress flowed from his last night's drinking in some tavern.
There were times when I was tempted to lend him a round sum, and
see the last of him for good; but this would have been to see the
last of Catriona as well, for which I was scarcely so prepared; and
besides, it went against my conscience to squander my good money on
one who was so little of a husband.



CHAPTER XXVII—A TWOSOME



I believe it was about the fifth day, and I know at least that
James was in one of his fits of gloom, when I received three
letters. The first was from Alan, offering to visit me in Leyden;
the other two were out of Scotland and prompted by the same affair,
which was the death of my uncle and my own complete accession to my
rights. Rankeillor's was, of course, wholly in the business view;
Miss Grant's was like herself, a little more witty than wise, full
of blame to me for not having written (though how was I to write
with such intelligence?) and of rallying talk about Catriona, which
it cut me to the quick to read in her very presence.

For it was of course in my own rooms that I found them, when I came
to dinner, so that I was surprised out of my news in the very first
moment of reading it. This made a welcome diversion for all three
of us, nor could any have foreseen the ill consequences that
ensued. It was accident that brought the three letters the same
day, and that gave them into my hand in the same room with James
More; and of all the events that flowed from that accident, and
which I might have prevented if I had held my tongue, the truth is
that they were preordained before Agricola came into Scotland or
Abraham set out upon his travels.

The first that I opened was naturally Alan's; and what more natural
than that I should comment on his design to visit me? but I
observed James to sit up with an air of immediate attention.

"Is that not Alan Breck that was suspected of the Appin accident?"
he inquired.

I told him, "Ay," it was the same; and he withheld me some time
from my other letters, asking of our acquaintance, of Alan's manner
of life in France, of which I knew very little, and further of his
visit as now proposed.

"All we forfeited folk hang a little together," he explained, "and
besides I know the gentleman: and though his descent is not the
thing, and indeed he has no true right to use the name of Stewart,
he was very much admired in the day of Drummossie. He did there
like a soldier; if some that need not be named had done as well,
the upshot need not have been so melancholy to remember. There
were two that did their best that day, and it makes a bond between
the pair of us," says he.

I could scarce refrain from shooting out my tongue at him, and
could almost have wished that Alan had been there to have inquired
a little further into that mention of his birth. Though, they tell
me, the same was indeed not wholly regular.

Meanwhile, I had opened Miss Grant's, and could not withhold an
exclamation.

"Catriona," I cried, forgetting, the first time since her father
was arrived, to address her by a handle, "I am come into my kingdom
fairly, I am the laird of Shaws indeed—my uncle is dead at last."

She clapped her hands together leaping from her seat. The next
moment it must have come over both of us at once what little cause
of joy was left to either, and we stood opposite, staring on each
other sadly.

But James showed himself a ready hypocrite. "My daughter," says
he, "is this how my cousin learned you to behave? Mr. David has
lost a new friend, and we should first condole with him on his
bereavement."

"Troth, sir," said I, turning to him in a kind of anger, "I can
make no such great faces. His death is as blithe news as ever I
got."

"It's a good soldier's philosophy," says James. "'Tis the way of
flesh, we must all go, all go. And if the gentleman was so far
from your favour, why, very well! But we may at least congratulate
you on your accession to your estates."

"Nor can I say that either," I replied, with the same heat. "It is
a good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough
already? I had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for
the man's death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess
it!—I see not how anyone is to be bettered by this change."

"Come, come," said he, "you are more affected than you let on, or
you would never make yourself out so lonely. Here are three
letters; that means three that wish you well; and I could name two
more, here in this very chamber. I have known you not so very
long, but Catriona, when we are alone, is never done with the
singing of your praises."

She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at
once into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during
the most of the dinner time) he continued to dwell upon with
interest. But it was to no purpose he dissembled; he had touched
the matter with too gross a hand: and I knew what to expect.
Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly discovered his designs. He
reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her attend to it. "I do
not see you should be one beyond the hour," he added, "and friend
David will be good enough to bear me company till you return." She
made haste to obey him without words. I do not know if she
understood, I believe not; but I was completely satisfied, and sat
strengthening my mind for what should follow.

The door had scarce closed behind her departure, when the man
leaned back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectation
of easiness. Only the one thing betrayed him, and that was his
face; which suddenly shone all over with fine points of sweat.

"I am rather glad to have a word alone with you," says he, "because
in our first interview there were some expressions you
misapprehended and I have long meant to set you right upon. My
daughter stands beyond doubt. So do you, and I would make that
good with my sword against all gainsayers. But, my dear David,
this world is a censorious place—as who should know it better than
myself, who have lived ever since the days of my late departed
father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of calumnies? We have to
face to that; you and me have to consider of that; we have to
consider of that." And he wagged his head like a minister in a
pulpit.

"To what effect, Mr. Drummond?" said I. "I would be obliged to you
if you would approach your point."

"Ay, ay," said he, laughing, "like your character, indeed! and what
I most admire in it. But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes
in a kittle bit." He filled a glass of wine. "Though between you
and me, that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long.
The point, I need scarcely tell you, is my daughter. And the first
thing is that I have no thought in my mind of blaming you. In the
unfortunate circumstances, what could you do else? 'Deed, and I
cannot tell."

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

"I have besides studied your character," he went on; "your talents
are fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which does no
harm; and one thing with another, I am very happy to have to
announce to you that I have decided on the latter of the two ways
open."

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

He bent his brows upon me formidably and uncrossed his legs. "Why,
sir," says he, "I think I need scarce describe them to a gentleman
of your condition; either that I should cut your throat or that you
should marry my daughter."

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

"And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!" cries he
robustiously. "I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank
God, a patient and deleeborate man. There is many a father, sir,
that would have hirsled you at once either to the altar or the
field. My esteem for your character—"

"Mr. Drummond," I interrupted, "if you have any esteem for me at
all, I will beg of you to moderate your voice. It is quite
needless to rowt at a gentleman in the same chamber with yourself
and lending you his best attention."

"Why, very true," says he, with an immediate change. "And you must
excuse the agitations of a parent."

"I understand you then," I continued—"for I will take no note of
your other alternative, which perhaps it was a pity you let fall—I
understand you rather to offer me encouragement in case I should
desire to apply for your daughter's hand?"

"It is not possible to express my meaning better," said he, "and I
see we shall do well together."

"That remains to be yet seen," said I. "But so much I need make no
secret of, that I bear the lady you refer to the most tender
affection, and I could not fancy, even in a dream, a better fortune
than to get her."

"I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David," he cried, and
reached out his hand to me.

I put it by. "You go too fast, Mr. Drummond," said I. "There are
conditions to be made; and there is a difficulty in the path, which
I see not entirely how we shall come over. I have told you that,
upon my side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have
good reason to believe there will be much on the young lady's."

"This is all beside the mark," says he. "I will engage for her
acceptance."

"I think you forget, Mr. Drummond," said I, "that, even in dealing
with myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalatable
expressions. I will have none such employed to the young lady. I
am here to speak and think for the two of us; and I give you to
understand that I would no more let a wife be forced upon myself,
than what I would let a husband be forced on the young lady."

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

"So that is to be the way of it," I concluded. "I will marry Miss
Drummond, and that blithely, if she is entirely willing. But if
there be the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear—marry
her will I never."

"Well well," said he, "this is a small affair. As soon as she
returns I will sound her a bit, and hope to reassure you—"

But I cut in again. "Not a finger of you, Mr. Drummond, or I cry
off, and you can seek a husband to your daughter somewhere else,"
said I. "It is I that am to be the only dealer and the only judge.
I shall satisfy myself exactly; and none else shall anyways meddle-
-you the least of all."

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

"The bridegroom, I believe," said I.

"This is to quibble," he cried. "You turn your back upon the fact.
The girl, my daughter, has no choice left to exercise. Her
character is gone."

"And I ask your pardon," said I, "but while this matter lies
between her and you and me, that is not so."

"What security have I!" he cried. "Am I to let my daughter's
reputation depend upon a chance?"

"You should have thought of all this long ago," said I, "before you
were so misguided as to lose her; and not afterwards when it is
quite too late. I refuse to regard myself as any way accountable
for your neglect, and I will be browbeat by no man living. My mind
is quite made up, and come what may, I will not depart from it a
hair's breadth. You and me are to sit here in company till her
return: upon which, without either word or look from you, she and
I are to go forth again to hold our talk. If she can satisfy me
that she is willing to this step, I will then make it; and if she
cannot, I will not."

He leaped out of his chair like a man stung. "I can spy your
manoeuvre," he cried; "you would work upon her to refuse!"

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

"And if I refuse?" cries he.

"Then, Mr. Drummond, it will have to come to the throat-cutting,"
said I.

What with the size of the man, his great length of arm in which he
came near rivalling his father, and his reputed skill at weapons, I
did not use this word without trepidation, to say nothing at all of
the circumstance that he was Catriona's father. But I might have
spared myself alarms. From the poorness of my lodging—he does not
seem to have remarked his daughter's dresses, which were indeed all
equally new to him—and from the fact that I had shown myself
averse to lend, he had embraced a strong idea of my poverty. The
sudden news of my estate convinced him of his error, and he had
made but the one bound of it on this fresh venture, to which he was
now so wedded, that I believe he would have suffered anything
rather than fall to the alternative of fighting.

A little while longer he continued to dispute with me, until I hit
upon a word that silenced him.

"If I find you so averse to let me see the lady by herself," said
I, "I must suppose you have very good grounds to think me in the
right about her unwillingness."

He gabbled some kind of an excuse.

"But all this is very exhausting to both of our tempers," I added,
"and I think we would do better to preserve a judicious silence."

The which we did until the girl returned, and I must suppose would
have cut a very ridiculous figure had there been any there to view
us.



CHAPTER XXVIII—IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE



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

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

She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, like a trained
soldier, she turned to go with me.

We took one of our old ways, where we had gone often together, and
been more happy than I can tell of in the past. I came a half a
step behind, so that I could watch her unobserved. The knocking of
her little shoes upon the way sounded extraordinary pretty and sad;
and I thought it a strange moment that I should be so near both
ends of it at once, and walk in the midst between two destinies,
and could not tell whether I was hearing these steps for the last
time, or whether the sound of them was to go in and out with me
till death should part us.

She avoided even to look at me, only walked before her, like one
who had a guess of what was coming. I saw I must speak soon before
my courage was run out, but where to begin I knew not. In this
painful situation, when the girl was as good as forced into my arms
and had already besought my forbearance, any excess of pressure
must have seemed indecent; yet to avoid it wholly would have a very
cold-like appearance. Between these extremes I stood helpless, and
could have bit my fingers; so that, when at last I managed to speak
at all, it may be said I spoke at random.

"Catriona," said I, "I am in a very painful situation; or rather,
so we are both; and I would be a good deal obliged to you if you
would promise to let me speak through first of all, and not to
interrupt me till I have done."

She promised me that simply.

"Well," said I, "this that I have got to say is very difficult, and
I know very well I have no right to be saying it. After what
passed between the two of us last Friday, I have no manner of
right. We have got so ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I
know very well the least I could do is just to hold my tongue,
which was what I intended fully, and there was nothing further from
my thoughts than to have troubled you again. But, my dear, it has
become merely necessary, and no way by it. You see, this estate of
mine has fallen in, which makes of me rather a better match; and
the—the business would not have quite the same ridiculous-like
appearance that it would before. Besides which, it's supposed that
our affairs have got so much ravelled up (as I was saying) that it
would be better to let them be the way they are. In my view, this
part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were you I would
not wear two thoughts on it. Only it's right I should mention the
same, because there's no doubt it has some influence on James More.
Then I think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together in this
town before. I think we did pretty well together. If you would
look back, my dear—"

"I will look neither back nor forward," she interrupted. "Tell me
the one thing: this is my father's doing?"

"He approves of it," said I. "He approved I that I should ask your
hand in marriage," and was going on again with somewhat more of an
appeal upon her feelings; but she marked me not, and struck into
the midst.

"He told you to!" she cried. "It is no sense denying it, you said
yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts. He
told you to."

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

She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her;
but at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she
would have run.

"Without which," I went on, "after what you said last Friday, I
would never have been so troublesome as make the offer. But when
he as good as asked me, what was I to do?"

She stopped and turned round upon me.

"Well, it is refused at all events," she cried, "and there will be
an end of that."

And she began again to walk forward.

"I suppose I could expect no better," said I, "but I think you
might try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it. I see
not why you should be harsh. I have loved you very well, Catriona-
-no harm that I should call you so for the last time. I have done
the best that I could manage, I am trying the same still, and only
vexed that I can do no better. It is a strange thing to me that
you can take any pleasure to be hard to me."

"I am not thinking of you," she said, "I am thinking of that man,
my father."

"Well, and that way, too!" said I. "I can be of use to you that
way, too; I will have to be. It is very needful, my dear, that we
should consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone,
an angry man will be James More."

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

"That is what he is thinking," I replied, "but I have told you
already to make nought of it."

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

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

There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last
cry; presently she broke out, "And what is the meaning of all this?
Why is all this shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it,
David Balfour?"

"My dear," said I, "what else was I to do?"

"I am not your dear," she said, "and I defy you to be calling me
these words."

"I am not thinking of my words," said I. "My heart bleeds for you,
Miss Drummond. Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in
your difficult position. But there is just the one thing that I
wish you would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss
it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two
get home. Take my word for it, it will need the two of us to make
this matter end in peace."

"Ay," said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her
cheeks. "Was he for fighting you?" said she.

"Well, he was that," said I.

She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. "At all events, it is
complete!" she cried. And then turning on me. "My father and I
are a fine pair," said she, "but I am thanking the good God there
will be somebody worse than what we are. I am thanking the good
God that he has let me see you so. There will never be the girl
made that will not scorn you."

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

"You have no right to speak to me like that," said I. "What have I
done but to be good to you, or try to be? And here is my
repayment! O, it is too much."

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

"The word in your throat and in your father's!" I cried. "I have
dared him this day already in your interest. I will dare him
again, the nasty pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall!
Come," said I, "back to the house with us; let us be done with it,
let me be done with the whole Hieland crew of you! You will see
what you think when I am dead."

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

"O, smile away!" I cried. "I have seen your bonny father smile on
the wrong side this day. Not that I mean he was afraid, of
course," I added hastily, "but he preferred the other way of it."

"What is this?" she asked.

"When I offered to draw with him," said I.

"You offered to draw upon James More!" she cried.

"And I did so," said I, "and found him backward enough, or how
would we be here?"

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

"He was to make you take me," I replied, "and I would not have it.
I said you should be free, and I must speak with you alone; little
I supposed it would be such a speaking! 'AND WHAT IF I REFUSE?'
said he.—'THEN IT MUST COME TO THE THROAT-CUTTING,' says I, 'FOR I
WILL NO MORE HAVE A HUSBAND FORCED ON THAT YOUNG LADY, THAN WHAT I
WOULD HAVE A WIFE FORCED UPON MYSELF.' These were my words, they
were a friend's words; bonnily have I paid for them! Now you have
refused me of your own clear free will, and there lives no father
in the Highlands, or out of them, that can force on this marriage.
I will see that your wishes are respected; I will make the same my
business, as I have all through. But I think you might have that
decency as to affect some gratitude. 'Deed, and I thought you knew
me better! I have not behaved quite well to you, but that was
weakness. And to think me a coward, and such a coward as that—O,
my lass, there was a stab for the last of it!"

"Davie, how would I guess?" she cried. "O, this is a dreadful
business! Me and mine,"—she gave a kind of a wretched cry at the
word—"me and mine are not fit to speak to you. O, I could be
kneeling down to you in the street, I could be kissing your hands
for forgiveness!"

"I will keep the kisses I have got from you already," cried I. "I
will keep the ones I wanted and that were something worth; I will
not be kissed in penitence."

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

"What I am trying to tell you all this while!" said I, "that you
had best leave me alone, whom you can make no more unhappy if you
tried, and turn your attention to James More, your father, with
whom you are like to have a queer pirn to wind."

"O, that I must be going out into the world alone with such a man!"
she cried, and seemed to catch herself in with a great effort.
"But trouble yourself no more for that," said she. "He does not
know what kind of nature is in my heart. He will pay me dear for
this day of it; dear, dear, will he pay."

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

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

Some little time I raged about the streets, and told myself I was
the worst used lad in Christendom. Anger choked me; it was all
very well for me to breathe deep; it seemed there was not air
enough about Leyden to supply me, and I thought I would have burst
like a man at the bottom of the sea. I stopped and laughed at
myself at a street corner a minute together, laughing out loud, so
that a passenger looked at me, which brought me to myself.

"Well," I thought, "I have been a gull and a ninny and a soft Tommy
long enough. Time it was done. Here is a good lesson to have
nothing to do with that accursed sex, that was the ruin of the man
in the beginning and will be so to the end. God knows I was happy
enough before ever I saw her; God knows I can be happy enough again
when I have seen the last of her."

That seemed to me the chief affair: to see them go. I dwelled
upon the idea fiercely; and presently slipped on, in a kind of
malevolence, to consider how very poorly they were likely to fare
when Davie Balfour was no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which,
to my very own great surprise, the disposition of my mind turned
bottom up. I was still angry; I still hated her; and yet I thought
I owed it to myself that she should suffer nothing.

This carried me home again at once, where I found the mails drawn
out and ready fastened by the door, and the father and daughter
with every mark upon them of a recent disagreement. Catriona was
like a wooden doll; James More breathed hard, his face was dotted
with white spots, and his nose upon one side. As soon as I came
in, the girl looked at him with a steady, clear, dark look that
might have been followed by a blow. It was a hint that was more
contemptuous than a command, and I was surprised to see James More
accept it. It was plain he had had a master talking-to; and I
could see there must be more of the devil in the girl than I had
guessed, and more good humour about the man than I had given him
the credit of.

He began, at least, calling me Mr. Balfour, and plainly speaking
from a lesson; but he got not very far, for at the first pompous
swell of his voice, Catriona cut in.

"I will tell you what James More is meaning," said she. "He means
we have come to you, beggar-folk, and have not behaved to you very
well, and we are ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour. Now
we are wanting to go away and be forgotten; and my father will have
guided his gear so ill, that we cannot even do that unless you will
give us some more alms. For that is what we are, at an events,
beggar-folk and sorners."

"By your leave, Miss Drummond," said I, "I must speak to your
father by myself."

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

"You must excuse her, Mr. Balfour," says James More. "She has no
delicacy."

"I am not here to discuss that with you," said I, "but to be quit
of you. And to that end I must talk of your position. Now, Mr.
Drummond, I have kept the run of your affairs more closely than you
bargained for. I know you had money of your own when you were
borrowing mine. I know you have had more since you were here in
Leyden, though you concealed it even from your daughter."

"I bid you beware. I will stand no more baiting," he broke out.
"I am sick of her and you. What kind of a damned trade is this to
be a parent! I have had expressions used to me—" There he broke
off. "Sir, this is the heart of a soldier and a parent," he went
on again, laying his hand on his bosom, "outraged in both
characters—and I bid you beware."

"If you would have let me finish," says I, "you would have found I
spoke for your advantage."

"My dear friend," he cried, "I know I might have relied upon the
generosity of your character."

"Man! will you let me speak?" said I. "The fact is that I cannot
win to find out if you are rich or poor. But it is my idea that
your means, as they are mysterious in their source, so they are
something insufficient in amount; and I do not choose your daughter
to be lacking. If I durst speak to herself, you may be certain I
would never dream of trusting it to you; because I know you like
the back of my hand, and all your blustering talk is that much wind
to me. However, I believe in your way you do still care something
for your daughter after all; and I must just be doing with that
ground of confidence, such as it is."

Whereupon, I arranged with him that he was to communicate with me,
as to his whereabouts and Catriona's welfare, in consideration of
which I was to serve him a small stipend.

He heard the business out with a great deal of eagerness; and when
it was done, "My dear fellow, my dear son," he cried out, "this is
more like yourself than any of it yet! I will serve you with a
soldier's faithfulness—"

"Let me hear no more of it!" says I. "You have got me to that
pitch that the bare name of soldier rises on my stomach. Our
traffic is settled; I am now going forth and will return in one
half-hour, when I expect to find my chambers purged of you."

I gave them good measure of time; it was my one fear that I might
see Catriona again, because tears and weakness were ready in my
heart, and I cherished my anger like a piece of dignity. Perhaps
an hour went by; the sun had gone down, a little wisp of a new moon
was following it across a scarlet sunset; already there were stars
in the east, and in my chambers, when at last I entered them, the
night lay blue. I lit a taper and reviewed the rooms; in the first
there remained nothing so much as to awake a memory of those who
were gone; but in the second, in a corner of the floor, I spied a
little heap that brought my heart into my mouth. She had left
behind at her departure all that she had ever had of me. It was
the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was the last; and I
fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved myself more foolish
than I care to tell of.

Late in the night, in a strict frost, and my teeth chattering, I
came again by some portion of my manhood and considered with
myself. The sight of these poor frocks and ribbons, and her
shifts, and the clocked stockings, was not to be endured; and if I
were to recover any constancy of mind, I saw I must be rid of them
ere the morning. It was my first thought to have made a fire and
burned them; but my disposition has always been opposed to wastery,
for one thing; and for another, to have burned these things that
she had worn so close upon her body seemed in the nature of a
cruelty. There was a corner cupboard in that chamber; there I
determined to bestow them. The which I did and made it a long
business, folding them with very little skill indeed but the more
care; and sometimes dropping them with my tears. All the heart was
gone out of me, I was weary as though I had run miles, and sore
like one beaten; when, as I was folding a kerchief that she wore
often at her neck, I observed there was a corner neatly cut from
it. It was a kerchief of a very pretty hue, on which I had
frequently remarked; and once that she had it on, I remembered
telling her (by way of a banter) that she wore my colours. There
came a glow of hope and like a tide of sweetness in my bosom; and
the next moment I was plunged back in a fresh despair. For there
was the corner crumpled in a knot and cast down by itself in
another part of the floor.

But when I argued with myself, I grew more hopeful. She had cut
that corner off in some childish freak that was manifestly tender;
that she had cast it away again was little to be wondered at; and I
was inclined to dwell more upon the first than upon the second, and
to be more pleased that she had ever conceived the idea of that
keepsake, than concerned because she had flung it from her in an
hour of natural resentment.



CHAPTER XXIX—WE MEET IN DUNKIRK.



Altogether, then, I was scare so miserable the next days but what I
had many hopeful and happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal
of constancy upon my studies; and made out to endure the time till
Alan should arrive, or I might hear word of Catriona by the means
of James More. I had altogether three letters in the time of our
separation. One was to announce their arrival in the town of
Dunkirk in France, from which place James shortly after started
alone upon a private mission. This was to England and to see Lord
Holderness; and it has always been a bitter thought that my good
money helped to pay the charges of the same. But he has need of a
long spoon who soups with the de'il, or James More either. During
this absence, the time was to fall due for another letter; and as
the letter was the condition of his stipend, he had been so careful
as to prepare it beforehand and leave it with Catriona to be
despatched. The fact of our correspondence aroused her suspicions,
and he was no sooner gone than she had burst the seal. What I
received began accordingly in the writing of James More:


"My dear Sir,—Your esteemed favour came to hand duly, and I have
to acknowledge the inclosure according to agreement. It shall be
all faithfully expended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to
be remembered to her dear friend. I find her in rather a
melancholy disposition, but trust in the mercy of God to see her
re-established. Our manner of life is very much alone, but we
solace ourselves with the melancholy tunes of our native mountains,
and by walking up the margin of the sea that lies next to Scotland.
It was better days with me when I lay with five wounds upon my body
on the field of Gladsmuir. I have found employment here in the
haras of a French nobleman, where my experience is valued. But, my
dear Sir, the wages are so exceedingly unsuitable that I would be
ashamed to mention them, which makes your remittances the more
necessary to my daughter's comfort, though I daresay the sight of
old friends would be still better.

"My dear Sir,
"Your affectionate, obedient servant,
"JAMES MACGREGOR DRUMMOND."


Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:-


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


Not only did she add this postscript, but I think she must have
come near suppressing the letter; for it came long after date, and
was closely followed by the third. In the time betwixt them, Alan
had arrived, and made another life to me with his merry
conversation; I had been presented to his cousin of the Scots-
Dutch, a man that drank more than I could have thought possible and
was not otherwise of interest; I had been entertained to many
jovial dinners and given some myself, all with no great change upon
my sorrow; and we two (by which I mean Alan and myself, and not at
all the cousin) had discussed a good deal the nature of my
relations with James More and his daughter. I was naturally
diffident to give particulars; and this disposition was not anyway
lessened by the nature of Alan's commentary upon those I gave.

"I cannae make heed nor tail of it," he would say, "but it sticks
in my mind ye've made a gowk of yourself. There's few people that
has had more experience than Alan Breck: and I can never call to
mind to have heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours. The
way that you tell it, the thing's fair impossible. Ye must have
made a terrible hash of the business, David."

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

"The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind of fancy for her
too!" said Alan.

"The biggest kind, Alan," said I, "and I think I'll take it to my
grave with me."

"Well, ye beat me, whatever!" he would conclude.

I showed him the letter with Catriona's postscript. "And here
again!" he cried. "Impossible to deny a kind of decency to this
Catriona, and sense forby! As for James More, the man's as boss as
a drum; he's just a wame and a wheen words; though I'll can never
deny that he fought reasonably well at Gladsmuir, and it's true
what he says here about the five wounds. But the loss of him is
that the man's boss."

"Ye see, Alan," said I, "it goes against the grain with me to leave
the maid in such poor hands."

"Ye couldnae weel find poorer," he admitted. "But what are ye to
do with it? It's this way about a man and a woman, ye see, Davie:
The weemenfolk have got no kind of reason to them. Either they
like the man, and then a' goes fine; or else they just detest him,
and ye may spare your breath—ye can do naething. There's just the
two sets of them—them that would sell their coats for ye, and them
that never look the road ye're on. That's a' that there is to
women; and you seem to be such a gomeral that ye cannae tell the
tane frae the tither."

"Well, and I'm afraid that's true for me," said I.

"And yet there's naething easier!" cried Alan. "I could easy learn
ye the science of the thing; but ye seem to me to be born blind,
and there's where the deefficulty comes in."

"And can YOU no help me?" I asked, "you that are so clever at the
trade?"

"Ye see, David, I wasnae here," said he. "I'm like a field officer
that has naebody but blind men for scouts and eclaireurs; and what
would he ken? But it sticks in my mind that ye'll have made some
kind of bauchle; and if I was you I would have a try at her again."

"Would ye so, man Alan?" said I.

"I would e'en't," says he.

The third letter came to my hand while we were deep in some such
talk: and it will be seen how pat it fell to the occasion. James
professed to be in some concern upon his daughter's health, which I
believe was never better; abounded in kind expressions to myself;
and finally proposed that I should visit them at Dunkirk.

"You will now be enjoying the society of my old comrade Mr.
Stewart," he wrote. "Why not accompany him so far in his return to
France? I have something very particular for Mr. Stewart's ear;
and, at any rate, I would be pleased to meet in with an old fellow-
soldier and one so mettle as himself. As for you, my dear sir, my
daughter and I would be proud to receive our benefactor, whom we
regard as a brother and a son. The French nobleman has proved a
person of the most filthy avarice of character, and I have been
necessitate to leave the haras. You will find us in consequence a
little poorly lodged in the auberge of a man Bazin on the dunes;
but the situation is caller, and I make no doubt but we might spend
some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I could recall our
services, and you and my daughter divert yourselves in a manner
more befitting your age. I beg at least that Mr. Stewart would
come here; my business with him opens a very wide door."

"What does the man want with me?" cried Alan, when he had read.
"What he wants with you in clear enough—it's siller. But what can
he want with Alan Breck?"

"O, it'll be just an excuse," said I. "He is still after this
marriage, which I wish from my heart that we could bring about.
And he asks you because he thinks I would be less likely to come
wanting you."

"Well, I wish that I kent," says Alan. "Him and me were never
onyways pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers.
'Something for my ear,' quo' he! I'll maybe have something for his
hinder-end, before we're through with it. Dod, I'm thinking it
would be a kind of divertisement to gang and see what he'll be
after! Forby that I could see your lassie then. What say ye,
Davie? Will ye ride with Alan?"

You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan's furlough running
towards an end, we set forth presently upon this joint adventure.

It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into the
town of Dunkirk. We left our horses at the post, and found a guide
to Bazin's Inn, which lay beyond the walls. Night was quite
fallen, so that we were the last to leave that fortress, and heard
the doors of it close behind us as we passed the bridge. On the
other side there lay a lighted suburb, which we thridded for a
while, then turned into a dark lane, and presently found ourselves
wading in the night among deep sand where we could hear a bullering
of the sea. We travelled in this fashion for some while, following
our conductor mostly by the sound of his voice; and I had begun to
think he was perhaps misleading us, when we came to the top of a
small brae, and there appeared out of the darkness a dim light in a
window.

"Voila l'auberge a Bazin," says the guide.

Alan smacked his lips. "An unco lonely bit," said he, and I
thought by his tone he was not wholly pleased.

A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that house,
which was all in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the
chambers at the side, benches and tables by the wall, the cooking
fire at the one end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-
trap at the other. Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man,
told us the Scottish gentleman was gone abroad he knew not where,
but the young lady was above, and he would call her down to us.

I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner, and knotted
it about my throat. I could hear my heart go; and Alan patting me
on the shoulder with some of his laughable expressions, I could
scarce refrain from a sharp word. But the time was not long to
wait. I heard her step pass overhead, and saw her on the stair.
This she descended very quietly, and greeted me with a pale face
and a certain seeming of earnestness, or uneasiness, in her manner
that extremely dashed me.

"My father, James More, will be here soon. He will be very pleased
to see you," she said. And then of a sudden her face flamed, her
eyes lightened, the speech stopped upon her lips; and I made sure
she had observed the kerchief. It was only for a breath that she
was discomposed; but methought it was with a new animation that she
turned to welcome Alan. "And you will be his friend, Alan Breck?"
she cried. "Many is the dozen times I will have heard him tell of
you; and I love you already for all your bravery and goodness."

"Well, well," says Alan, holding her hand in his and viewing her,
"and so this is the young lady at the last of it! David, ye're an
awful poor hand of a description."

I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to people's
hearts; the sound of his voice was like song.

"What? will he have been describing me?" she cried.

"Little else of it since I ever came out of France!" says he,
"forby a bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood
by Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye're bonnier than what he
said. And now there's one thing sure; you and me are to be a pair
of friends. I'm a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I'm like a
tyke at his heels; and whatever he cares for, I've got to care for
too—and by the holy airn! they've got to care for me! So now you
can see what way you stand with Alan Breck, and ye'll find ye'll
hardly lose on the transaction. He's no very bonnie, my dear, but
he's leal to them he loves."

"I thank you from my heart for your good words," said she. "I have
that honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot find any to be
answering with."

Using travellers' freedom, we spared to wait for James More, and
sat down to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona sit by him and
wait upon his wants: he made her drink first out of his glass, he
surrounded her with continual kind gallantries, and yet never gave
me the most small occasion to be jealous; and he kept the talk so
much in his own hand, and that in so merry a note, that neither she
nor I remembered to be embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it
must have been supposed that Alan was the old friend and I the
stranger. Indeed, I had often cause to love and to admire the man,
but I never loved or admired him better than that night; and I
could not help remarking to myself (what I was sometimes rather in
danger of forgetting) that he had not only much experience of life,
but in his own way a great deal of natural ability besides. As for
Catriona, she seemed quite carried away; her laugh was like a peal
of bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own, although I was
well pleased, yet I was a little sad also, and thought myself a
dull, stockish character in comparison of my friend, and very unfit
to come into a young maid's life, and perhaps ding down her gaiety.

But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least I was not
alone in it; for, James More returning suddenly, the girl was
changed into a piece of stone. Through the rest of that evening,
until she made an excuse and slipped to bed, I kept an eye upon her
without cease; and I can bear testimony that she never smiled,
scarce spoke, and looked mostly on the board in front of her. So
that I really marvelled to see so much devotion (as it used to be)
changed into the very sickness of hate.

Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you know the man
already, what there was to know of him; and I am weary of writing
out his lies. Enough that he drank a great deal, and told us very
little that was to any possible purpose. As for the business with
Alan, that was to be reserved for the morrow and his private
hearing.

It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were pretty
weary with four day's ride, and sat not very late after Catriona.

We were soon alone in a chamber where we were to make-shift with a
single bed. Alan looked on me with a queer smile.

"Ye muckle ass!" said he.

"What do ye mean by that?" I cried.

"Mean? What do I mean! It's extraordinar, David man," say he,
"that you should be so mortal stupit."

Again I begged him to speak out.

"Well, it's this of it," said he. "I told ye there were the two
kinds of women—them that would sell their shifts for ye, and the
others. Just you try for yoursel, my bonny man! But what's that
neepkin at your craig?"

I told him.

"I thocht it was something thereabout" said he.

Nor would he say another word though I besieged him long with
importunities.



CHAPTER XXX—THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP



Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was plainly hard
upon the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset on every side
with scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in
the nature of a prospect, where there stood out over a brae the two
sails of a windmill, like an ass's ears, but with the ass quite
hidden. It was strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was
dead calm) to see the turning and following of each other of these
great sails behind the hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but
a number of footways travelled among the bents in all directions up
to Mr. Bazin's door. The truth is, he was a man of many trades,
not any one of them honest, and the position of his inn was the
best of his livelihood. Smugglers frequented it; political agents
and forfeited persons bound across the water came there to await
their passages; and I daresay there was worse behind, for a whole
family might have been butchered in that house and nobody the
wiser.

I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from
beside my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking
to and fro before the door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little
after, sprang up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds,
let through the sun, and set the mill to the turning. There was
something of spring in the sunshine, or else it was in my heart;
and the appearing of the great sails one after another from behind
the hill, diverted me extremely. At times I could hear a creak of
the machinery; and by half-past eight of the day, and I thought
this dreary, desert place was like a paradise.

For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to
be aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed
there was trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up
and went down over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside
of all fancy, it was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a
young lady to be brought to dwell in.

At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More
was in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to
the same, and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity
upon the one side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live
coals. The meal was no sooner over than James seemed to come began
to make apologies. He had an appointment of a private nature in
the town (it was with the French nobleman, he told me), and we
would please excuse him till about noon. Meanwhile he carried his
daughter aside to the far end of the room, where he seemed to speak
rather earnestly and she to listen with much inclination.

"I am caring less and less about this man James," said Alan.
"There's something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae
wonder but what Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I
would like fine to see yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay
you could find an employ to yoursel, and that would be to speir at
the lassie for some news o' your affair. Just tell it to her
plainly—tell her ye're a muckle ass at the off-set; and then, if I
were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would just mint to her I
was in some kind of a danger; a' weemenfolk likes that."

"I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural," says I, mocking him.

"The more fool you!" says he. "Then ye'll can tell her that I
recommended it; that'll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae
wonder but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of
them! If I didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was
awful pleased and chief with Alan, I would think there was some
kind of hocus-pocus about you."

"And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?" I asked.

"She thinks a heap of me," says he. "And I'm no like you: I'm one
that can tell. That she does—she thinks a heap of Alan. And
troth! I'm thinking a good deal of him mysel; and with your
permission, Shaws, I'll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so
that I can see what way James goes."

One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast
table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs
to her own chamber. I could very well understand how she should
avoid to be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it
for that, and bent my mind to entrap her to an interview before the
men returned. Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like
Alan. If I was out of view among the sandhills, the fine morning
would decoy her forth; and once I had her in the open, I could
please myself.

No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a
hillock before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there,
and (seeing nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward,
and by which I followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence
known; the further she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my
suit; and the ground being all sandy it was easy to follow her
unheard. The path rose and came at last to the head of a knowe.
Thence I had a picture for the first time of what a desolate
wilderness that inn stood hidden in; where was no man to be seen,
nor any house of man, except just Bazin's and the windmill. Only a
little further on, the sea appeared and two or three ships upon it,
pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely close in to be so
great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new suspicion, when I
recognised the trim of the Seahorse. What should an English ship
be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into her
neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue?
and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James
More should walk that day to the seaside?

Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and
above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o'-
war's boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an
officer in charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat
down where the rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for
what should follow. Catriona went straight to the boat; the
officer met her with civilities; they had ten words together; I saw
a letter changing hands; and there was Catriona returning. At the
same time, as if this were all her business on the Continent, the
boat shoved off and was headed for the Seahorse. But I observed
the officer to remain behind and disappear among the bents.

I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked
it less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She
drew near with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and
made so tender a picture that I could not bear to doubt her
innocence. The next, she raised her face and recognised me; seemed
to hesitate, and then came on again, but more slowly, and I thought
with a changed colour. And at that thought, all else that was upon
my bosom—fears, suspicions, the care of my friend's life—was
clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet and stood waiting her in
a drunkenness of hope.

I gave her "good morning" as she came up, which she returned with a
good deal of composure.

"Will you forgive my having followed you?" said I.

"I know you are always meaning kindly," she replied; and then, with
a little outburst, "but why will you be sending money to that man!
It must not be."

"I never sent it for him," said I, "but for you, as you know well."

"And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us," she
said. "David, it is not right."

"It is not, it is all wrong," said I, "and I pray God he will help
this dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better.
Catriona, this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your
pardon for the word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of
you."

"Do not be speaking of him, even!" was her cry.

"And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am
thinking, O, be sure of that!" says I. "I think of the one thing.
I have been alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by
way of at my studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan
came, and I went among soldier-men to their big dinners; and still
I had the same thought. And it was the same before, when I had her
there beside me. Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat!
You cut a corner from it once and then cast it from you. They're
YOUR colours now; I wear them in my heart. My dear, I cannot be
wanting you. O, try to put up with me!"

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.

"Try to put up with me," I was saying, "try and bear me with a
little."

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a
fear of death.

"Catriona," I cried, gazing on her hard, "is it a mistake again?
Am I quite lost?"

She raised her face to me, breathless.

"Do you want me, Davie, truly?" said she, and I scarce could hear
her say it.

"I do that," said I. "O, sure you know it—I do that."

"I have nothing left to give or to keep back," said she. "I was
all yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!"
she said,

This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and
conspicuous, we were to be seen there even from the English ship;
but I kneeled down before her in the sand, and embraced her knees,
and burst into that storm of weeping that I thought it must have
broken me. All thought was wholly beaten from my mind by the
vehemency of my discomposure. I knew not where I was. I had
forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped, and I felt her
cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words out of a
whirl.

"Davie," she was saying, "O, Davie, is this what you think of me!
Is it so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!"

With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect
gladness.

It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of
what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with
her hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for
pleasure like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I
have never seen the place that looked so pretty as those bents by
Dunkirk; and the windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe,
were like a tune of music.

I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all
else besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her
father, which brought us to reality.

"My little friend," I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to
summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her,
and to be a little distant—"My little friend, now you are mine
altogether; mine for good, my little friend and that man's no
longer at all."

There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands
from mine.

"Davie, take me away from him!" she cried. "There's something
wrong; he's not true. There will be something wrong; I have a
dreadful terror here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all
events with that King's ship? What will this word be saying?" And
she held the letter forth. "My mind misgives me, it will be some
ill to Alan. Open it, Davie—open it and see."

I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.

"No," said I, "it goes against me, I cannot open a man's letter."

"Not to save your friend?" she cried.

"I cannae tell," said I. "I think not. If I was only sure!"

"And you have but to break the seal!" said she.

"I know it," said I, "but the thing goes against me."

"Give it here," said she, "and I will open it myself."

"Nor you neither," said I. "You least of all. It concerns your
father, and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No
question but the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship
being here, and your father having word from it, and yon officer
that stayed ashore. He would not be alone either; there must be
more along with him; I daresay we are spied upon this minute. Ay,
no doubt, the letter should be opened; but somehow, not by you nor
me."

I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with
a sense of danger and hidden enemies, when I spied Alan, come back
again from following James and walking by himself among the sand-
hills. He was in his soldier's coat, of course, and mighty fine;
but I could not avoid to shudder when I thought how little that
jacket would avail him, if he were once caught and flung in a
skiff, and carried on board of the Seahorse, a deserter, a rebel,
and now a condemned murderer.

"There," said I, "there is the man that has the best right to open
it: or not, as he thinks fit."

With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a
mark for him.

"If it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear it?" she
asked, looking upon me with a burning eye.

"I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but
the once," said I. "What do you think I answered? That if I liked
you as I thought I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would
marry you at his gallows' foot."

The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me,
holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.

He came with one of his queer smiles. "What was I telling ye,
David?" says he.

"There is a time for all things, Alan," said I, "and this time is
serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this
friend of ours."

"I have been upon a fool's errand," said he.

"I doubt we have done better than you, then," said I; "and, at
least, here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do
you see that?" I went on, pointing to the ship. "That is the
Seahorse, Captain Palliser."

"I should ken her, too," says Alan. "I had fyke enough with her
when she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come
so close?"

"I will tell you why he came there first," said I. "It was to
bring this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it's
delivered, what it's likely to be about, why there's an officer
hiding in the bents, and whether or not it's probable that he's
alone—I would rather you considered for yourself."

"A letter to James More?" said he.

"The same," said I.

"Well, and I can tell ye more than that," said Alan. "For the last
night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with
some one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened
and shut."

"Alan!" cried I, "you slept all night, and I am here to prove it."

"Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!"
says he. "But the business looks bad. Let's see the letter."

I gave it him.

"Catriona," said he, "you have to excuse me, my dear; but there's
nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I'll have
to break this seal."

"It is my wish," said Catriona.

He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air.

"The stinking brock!" says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket.
"Here, let's get our things together. This place is fair death to
me." And he began to walk towards the inn.

It was Catriona that spoke the first. "He has sold you?" she
asked.

"Sold me, my dear," said Alan. "But thanks to you and Davie, I'll
can jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse," he added.

"Catriona must come with us," said I. "She can have no more
traffic with that man. She and I are to be married." At which she
pressed my hand to her side.

"Are ye there with it?" says Alan, looking back. "The best day's
work that ever either of you did yet! And I'm bound to say, my
dawtie, ye make a real, bonny couple."

The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill,
where I was aware of a man in seaman's trousers, who seemed to be
spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.

"See, Alan!"

"Wheesht!" said, he, "this is my affairs."

The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the
mill, and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and
we saw he was a big fellow with a mahogany face.

"I think, sir," says Alan, "that you speak the English?"

"Non, monsieur," says he, with an incredible bad accent.

"Non, monsieur," cries Alan, mocking him. "Is that how they learn
you French on the Seahorse? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here's a Scots
boot to your English hurdies!"

And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick
that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and
watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand-
hills.

"But it's high time I was clear of these empty bents!" said Alan;
and continued his way at top speed, and we still following, to the
backdoor of Bazin's inn.

It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face
with James More entering by the other.

"Here!" said I to Catriona, "quick! upstairs with you and make your
packets; this is no fit scene for you."

In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the midst of the long
room. She passed them close by to reach the stairs; and after she
was some way up I saw her turn and glance at them again, though
without pausing. Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan wore as
they met one of his best appearances of courtesy and friendliness,
yet with something eminently warlike, so that James smelled danger
off the man, as folk smell fire in a house, and stood prepared for
accidents.

Time pressed. Alan's situation in that solitary place, and his
enemies about him, might have daunted Caesar. It made no change in
him; and it was in his old spirit of mockery and daffing that he
began the interview.

"A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond," said he. "What'll yon
business of yours be just about?"

"Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long story," says
James, "I think it will keep very well till we have eaten."

"I'm none so sure of that," said Alan. "It sticks in my mind it's
either now or never; for the fact is me and Mr. Balfour here have
gotten a line, and we're thinking of the road."

I saw a little surprise in James's eye; but he held himself
stoutly.

"I have but the one word to say to cure you of that," said he, "and
that is the name of my business."

"Say it then," says Alan. "Hout! wha minds for Davie?"

"It is a matter that would make us both rich men," said James.

"Do you tell me that?" cries Alan.

"I do, sir," said James. "The plain fact is that it is Cluny's
Treasure."

"No!" cried Alan. "Have ye got word of it?"

"I ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you there," said James.

"This crowns all!" says Alan. "Well, and I'm glad I came to
Dunkirk. And so this was your business, was it? Halvers, I'm
thinking?"

"That is the business, sir," said James.

"Well, well," said Alan; and then in the same tone of childlike
interest, "it has naething to do with the Seahorse, then?" he
asked,

"With what?" says James.

"Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of behind yon
windmill?" pursued Alan. "Hut, man! have done with your lees! I
have Palliser's letter here in my pouch. You're by with it, James
More. You can never show your face again with dacent folk."

James was taken all aback with it. He stood a second, motionless
and white, then swelled with the living anger.

"Do you talk to me, you bastard?" he roared out.

"Ye glee'd swine!" cried Alan, and hit him a sounding buffet on the
mouth, and the next wink of time their blades clashed together.

At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively leaped back
from the collision. The next I saw, James parried a thrust so
nearly that I thought him killed; and it lowed up in my mind that
this was the girl's father, and in a manner almost my own, and I
drew and ran in to sever them.

"Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft! Damn ye, keep back!" roared Alan.
"Your blood be on your ain heid then!"

I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked reeling against the
wall; I was back again betwixt them. They took no heed of me,
thrusting at each other like two furies. I can never think how I
avoided being stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two
Rodomonts, and the whole business turned about me like a piece of a
dream; in the midst of which I heard a great cry from the stair,
and Catriona sprang before her father. In the same moment the
point of my sword encountered some thing yielding. It came back to
me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the girl's kerchief, and
stood sick.

"Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me his daughter after
all!" she cried.

"My dear, I have done with him," said Alan, and went, and sat on a
table, with his arms crossed and the sword naked in his hand.

Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big eyes, then swung
suddenly about and faced him.

"Begone!" was her word, "take your shame out of my sight; leave me
with clean folk. I am a daughter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of
Alpin, begone!"

It was said with so much passion as awoke me from the horror of my
own bloodied sword. The two stood facing, she with the red stain
on her kerchief, he white as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew
it must have pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but he
betook himself to a bravado air.

"Why," says he, sheathing his sword, though still with a bright eye
on Alan, "if this brawl is over I will but get my portmanteau—"

"There goes no pockmantie out of this place except with me," says
Alan.

"Sir!" cries James.

"James More," says Alan, "this lady daughter of yours is to marry
my friend Davie, upon the which account I let you pack with a hale
carcase. But take you my advice of it and get that carcase out of
harm's way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are
leemits to my temper."

"Be damned, sir, but my money's there!" said James.

"I'm vexed about that, too," says Alan, with his funny face, "but
now, ye see, it's mines." And then with more gravity, "Be you
advised, James More, you leave this house."

James seemed to cast about for a moment in his mind; but it's to be
thought he had enough of Alan's swordsmanship, for he suddenly put
off his hat to us and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us
farewell in a series. With which he was gone.

At the same time a spell was lifted from me.

"Catriona," I cried, "it was me—it was my sword. O, are you much
hurt?"

"I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of it; it was done
defending that bad man, my father. See!" she said, and showed me a
bleeding scratch, "see, you have made a man of me now. I will
carry a wound like an old soldier."

Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of her brave
nature, supported me. I embraced her, I kissed the wound.

"And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never lost a chance?"
says Alan; and putting me aside and taking Catriona by either
shoulder, "My dear," he said, "you're a true daughter of Alpin. By
all accounts, he was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of
you. If ever I was to get married, it's the marrow of you I would
be seeking for a mother to my sons. And I bear's a king's name and
speak the truth."

He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was honey to the
girl, and through her, to me. It seemed to wipe us clean of all
James More's disgraces. And the next moment he was just himself
again.

"And now by your leave, my dawties," said he, "this is a' very
bonny; but Alan Breck'll be a wee thing nearer to the gallows than
he's caring for; and Dod! I think this is a grand place to be
leaving."

The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran upstairs and
returned with our saddle-bags and James More's portmanteau; I
picked up Catriona's bundle where she had dropped it on the stair;
and we were setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin
stopped the way with cries and gesticulations. He had whipped
under a table when the swords were drawn, but now he was as bold as
a lion. There was his bill to be settled, there was a chair
broken, Alan had sat among his dinner things, James More had fled.

"Here," I cried, "pay yourself," and flung him down some Lewie
d'ors; for I thought it was no time to be accounting.

He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, and ran forth into
the open. Upon three sides of the house were seamen hasting and
closing in; a little nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to
hurry them; and right behind him, like some foolish person holding
up his hands, were the sails of the windmill turning.

Alan gave but one glance, and laid himself down to run. He carried
a great weight in James More's portmanteau; but I think he would as
soon have lost his life as cast away that booty which was his
revenge; and he ran so that I was distressed to follow him, and
marvelled and exulted to see the girl bounding at my side.

As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise upon the other
side; and the seamen pursued us with shouts and view-hullohs. We
had a start of some two hundred yards, and they were but bandy-
legged tarpaulins after all, that could not hope to better us at
such an exercise. I suppose they were armed, but did not care to
use their pistols on French ground. And as soon as I perceived
that we not only held our advantage but drew a little away, I began
to feel quite easy of the issue. For all which, it was a hot,
brisk bit of work, so long as it lasted; Dunkirk was still far off;
and when we popped over a knowe, and found a company of the
garrison marching on the other side on some manoeuvre, I could very
well understand the word that Alan had.

He stopped running at once; and mopping at his brow, "They're a
real bonny folk, the French nation," says he.



CONCLUSION



No sooner were we safe within the walls of Dunkirk than we held a
very necessary council-of-war on our position. We had taken a
daughter from her father at the sword's point; any judge would give
her back to him at once, and by all likelihood clap me and Alan
into jail; and though we had an argument upon our side in Captain
Palliser's letter, neither Catriona nor I were very keen to be
using it in public. Upon all accounts it seemed the most prudent
to carry the girl to Paris to the hands of her own chieftain,
Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very willing to help his
kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all anxious to dishonour
James upon other.

We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona was not so good
at the riding as the running, and had scarce sat in the saddle
since the 'Forty-five. But we made it out at last, reached Paris
early of a Sabbath morning, and made all speed, under Alan's
guidance, to find Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a
good style, having a pension on the Scots Fund, as well as private
means; greeted Catriona like one of his own house, and seemed
altogether very civil and discreet, but not particularly open. We
asked of the news of James More. "Poor James!" said he, and shook
his head and smiled, so that I thought he knew further than he
meant to tell. Then we showed him Palliser's letter, and he drew a
long face at that.

"Poor James!" said he again. "Well, there are worse folk than
James More, too. But this is dreadful bad. Tut, tut, he must have
forgot himself entirely! This is a most undesirable letter. But,
for all that, gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it
public for. It's an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and we are
all Scots folk and all Hieland."

Upon this we all agreed, save perhaps Alan; and still more upon the
question of our marriage, which Bohaldie took in his own hands, as
though there had been no such person as James More, and gave
Catriona away with very pretty manners and agreeable compliments in
French. It was not till all was over, and our healths drunk, that
he told us James was in that city, whither he had preceded us some
days, and where he now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw
by my wife's face what way her inclination pointed.

"And let us go see him, then," said I.

"If it is your pleasure," said Catriona. These were early days.

He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with his chief, in a
great house upon a corner; and we were guided up to the garret
where he lay by the sound of Highland piping. It seemed he had
just borrowed a set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness;
though he was no such hand as was his brother Rob, he made good
music of the kind; and it was strange to observe the French folk
crowding on the stairs, and some of them laughing. He lay propped
in a pallet. The first look of him I saw he was upon his last
business; and, doubtless, this was a strange place for him to die
in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell upon his end with
patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had prepared him; he seemed to know
we were married, complimented us on the event, and gave us a
benediction like a patriarch.

"I have been never understood," said he. "I forgive you both
without an afterthought;" after which he spoke for all the world in
his old manner, was so obliging as to play us a tune or two upon
his pipes, and borrowed a small sum before I left.

I could not trace even a hint of shame in any part of his
behaviour; but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed always
fresh to him. I think he forgave me every time we met; and when
after some four days he passed away in a kind of odour of
affectionate sanctity, I could have torn my hair out for
exasperation. I had him buried; but what to put upon his tomb was
quite beyond me, till at last I considered the date would look best
alone.

I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, where we had
appeared once as brother and sister, and it would certainly look
strange to return in a new character. Scotland would be doing for
us; and thither, after I had recovered that which I had left
behind, we sailed in a Low Country ship.


And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies first), and Mr.
Alan Balfour younger of Shaws, here is the story brought fairly to
an end. A great many of the folk that took a part in it, you will
find (if you think well) that you have seen and spoken with.
Alison Hastie in Limekilns was the lass that rocked your cradle
when you were too small to know of it, and walked abroad with you
in the policy when you were bigger. That very fine great lady that
is Miss Barbara's name-mamma is no other than the same Miss Grant
that made so much a fool of David Balfour in the house of the Lord
Advocate. And I wonder whether you remember a little, lean, lively
gentleman in a scratch-wig and a wraprascal, that came to Shaws
very late of a dark night, and whom you were awakened out of your
beds and brought down to the dining-hall to be presented to, by the
name of Mr. Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten what he did at Mr.
Jamieson's request—a most disloyal act—for which, by the letter
of the law, he might be hanged—no less than drinking the king's
health ACROSS THE WATER? These were strange doings in a good Whig
house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and might set fire to
my corn-barn; and the name they know him by now in France is the
Chevalier Stewart.

As for Davie and Catriona, I shall watch you pretty close in the
next days, and see if you are so bold as to be laughing at papa and
mamma. It is true we were not so wise as we might have been, and
made a great deal of sorrow out of nothing; but you will find as
you grow up that even the artful Miss Barbara, and even the valiant
Mr. Alan, will be not so very much wiser than their parents. For
the life of man upon this world of ours is a funny business. They
talk of the angels weeping; but I think they must more often be
holding their sides as they look on; and there was one thing I
determined to do when I began this long story, and that was to tell
out everything as it befell.



Footnotes

{1} Conspicuous.

{2} Country.

{3} The Fairies.

{4} Flatteries.

{5} Trust to.

{6} This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first visit.—
D. B.

{7} Sweetheart.

{8} Child.

{9} Palm.

{10} Gallows.

{11} My Catechism.

{12} Now Prince's Street.

{13} A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby identifies
Alan's air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell's Tales of
the West Highlands, Vol. II., p. 91. Upon examination it would
really seem as if Miss Grant's unrhymed doggrel (see Chapter V.)
would fit with little humouring to the notes in question.

{14} A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of
striking.

{15} Patched shoes.

{16} Shoemaker.

{17} Tamson's mere—to go afoot.

{18} Beard.

{19} Ragged.

{20} Fine things.

{21} Catch.

{22} Victuals.

{23} Trust.

{24} Sea fog.

{25} Bashful.

{26} Rest.





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THE END