Catriona

by Robert Louis Stevenson


Contents

 PART I. THE LORD ADVOCATE
 CHAPTER I. A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK
 CHAPTER II. THE HIGHLAND WRITER
 CHAPTER III. I GO TO PILRIG
 CHAPTER IV. LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE
 CHAPTER V. IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE
 CHAPTER VI. UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT
 CHAPTER VII. I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR
 CHAPTER VIII. THE BRAVO
 CHAPTER IX. THE HEATHER ON FIRE
 CHAPTER X. THE RED-HEADED MAN
 CHAPTER XI. THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS
 CHAPTER XII. ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN
 CHAPTER XIII. GILLANE SANDS
 CHAPTER XIV. THE BASS
 CHAPTER XV. BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK
 CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING WITNESS
 CHAPTER XVII. THE MEMORIAL
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE TEE’D BALL
 CHAPTER XIX. I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES
 CHAPTER XX. I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY

 PART II. FATHER AND DAUGHTER
 CHAPTER XXI. THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND
 CHAPTER XXII. HELVOETSLUYS
 CHAPTER XXIII. TRAVELS IN HOLLAND
 CHAPTER XXIV. FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS
 CHAPTER XXV. THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE
 CHAPTER XXVI. THE THREESOME
 CHAPTER XXVII. A TWOSOME
 CHAPTER XXVIII. IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE
 CHAPTER XXIX. WE MEET IN DUNKIRK
 CHAPTER XXX. THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP




DEDICATION.

To
CHARLES BAXTER, _Writer to the Signet_.

My Dear Charles,

It is the fate of sequels to disappoint those who have waited for them;
and my David, having been left to kick his heels for more than a lustre
in the British Linen Company’s office, must expect his late
re-appearance to be greeted with hoots, if not with missiles. Yet, when
I remember the days of our explorations, I am not without hope. There
should be left in our native city some seed of the elect; some
long-legged, hot-headed youth must repeat to-day our dreams and
wanderings of so many years ago; he will relish the pleasure, which
should have been ours, to follow among named streets and numbered
houses the country walks of David Balfour, to identify Dean, and
Silvermills, and Broughton, and Hope Park, and Pilrig, and poor old
Lochend—if it still be standing, and the Figgate Whins—if there be any
of them left; or to push (on a long holiday) so far afield as Gillane
or the Bass. So, perhaps, his eye shall be opened to behold the series
of the generations, and he shall weigh with surprise his momentous and
nugatory gift of life.

You are still—as when first I saw, as when I last addressed you—in the
venerable city which I must always think of as my home. And I have come
so far; and the sights and thoughts of my youth pursue me; and I see
like a vision the youth of my father, and of his father, and the whole
stream of lives flowing down there far in the north, with the sound of
laughter and tears, to cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet,
on these ultimate islands. And I admire and bow my head before the
romance of destiny.

R. L. S.

_Vailima_, _Upolu_,
_Samoa_, 1892.




CATRIONA




PART I.
THE LORD ADVOCATE




CHAPTER I.
A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK


The 25th day of August, 1751, about two in the afternoon, I, David
Balfour, came forth of the British Linen Company, a porter attending me
with a bag of money, and some of the chief of these merchants bowing me
from their doors. Two days before, and even so late as yestermorning, I
was like a beggar-man by the wayside, clad in rags, brought down to my
last shillings, my companion a condemned traitor, a price set on my own
head for a crime with the news of which the country rang. To-day I was
served heir to my position in life, a landed laird, a bank porter by me
carrying my gold, recommendations in my pocket, and (in the words of
the saying) the ball directly at my foot.

There were two circumstances that served me as ballast to so much sail.
The first was the very difficult and deadly business I had still to
handle; the second, the place that I was in. The tall, black city, and
the numbers and movement and noise of so many folk, made a new world
for me, after the moorland braes, the sea-sands and the still
country-sides that I had frequented up to then. The throng of the
citizens in particular abashed me. Rankeillor’s son was short and small
in the girth; his clothes scarce held on me; and it was plain I was ill
qualified to strut in the front of a bank-porter. It was plain, if I
did so, I should but set folk laughing, and (what was worse in my case)
set them asking questions. So that I behooved to come by some clothes
of my own, and in the meanwhile to walk by the porter’s side, and put
my hand on his arm as though we were a pair of friends.

At a merchant’s in the Luckenbooths I had myself fitted out: none too
fine, for I had no idea to appear like a beggar on horseback; but
comely and responsible, so that servants should respect me. Thence to
an armourer’s, where I got a plain sword, to suit with my degree in
life. I felt safer with the weapon, though (for one so ignorant of
defence) it might be called an added danger. The porter, who was
naturally a man of some experience, judged my accoutrement to be well
chosen.

“Naething kenspeckle,”[1] said he; “plain, dacent claes. As for the
rapier, nae doubt it sits wi’ your degree; but an I had been you, I
would has waired my siller better-gates than that.” And he proposed I
should buy winter-hosen from a wife in the Cowgate-back, that was a
cousin of his own, and made them “extraordinar endurable.”

But I had other matters on my hand more pressing. Here I was in this
old, black city, which was for all the world like a rabbit-warren, not
only by the number of its indwellers, but the complication of its
passages and holes. It was, indeed, a place where no stranger had a
chance to find a friend, let be another stranger. Suppose him even to
hit on the right close, people dwelt so thronged in these tall houses,
he might very well seek a day before he chanced on the right door. The
ordinary course was to hire a lad they called a _caddie_, who was like
a guide or pilot, led you where you had occasion, and (your errands
being done) brought you again where you were lodging. But these
caddies, being always employed in the same sort of services, and having
it for obligation to be well informed of every house and person in the
city, had grown to form a brotherhood of spies; and I knew from tales
of Mr. Campbell’s how they communicated one with another, what a rage
of curiosity they conceived as to their employer’s business, and how
they were like eyes and fingers to the police. It would be a piece of
little wisdom, the way I was now placed, to take such a ferret to my
tails. I had three visits to make, all immediately needful: to my
kinsman Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, to Stewart the Writer that was Appin’s
agent, and to William Grant Esquire of Prestongrange, Lord Advocate of
Scotland. Mr. Balfour’s was a non-committal visit; and besides (Pilrig
being in the country) I made bold to find the way to it myself, with
the help of my two legs and a Scots tongue. But the rest were in a
different case. Not only was the visit to Appin’s agent, in the midst
of the cry about the Appin murder, dangerous in itself, but it was
highly inconsistent with the other. I was like to have a bad enough
time of it with my Lord Advocate Grant, the best of ways; but to go to
him hot-foot from Appin’s agent, was little likely to mend my own
affairs, and might prove the mere ruin of friend Alan’s. The whole
thing, besides, gave me a look of running with the hare and hunting
with the hounds that was little to my fancy. I determined, therefore,
to be done at once with Mr. Stewart and the whole Jacobitical side of
my business, and to profit for that purpose by the guidance of the
porter at my side. But it chanced I had scarce given him the address,
when there came a sprinkle of rain—nothing to hurt, only for my new
clothes—and we took shelter under a pend at the head of a close or
alley.

Being strange to what I saw, I stepped a little farther in. The narrow
paved way descended swiftly. Prodigious tall houses sprang upon each
side and bulged out, one storey beyond another, as they rose. At the
top only a ribbon of sky showed in. By what I could spy in the windows,
and by the respectable persons that passed out and in, I saw the houses
to be very well occupied; and the whole appearance of the place
interested me like a tale.

I was still gazing, when there came a sudden brisk tramp of feet in
time and clash of steel behind me. Turning quickly, I was aware of a
party of armed soldiers, and, in their midst, a tall man in a great
coat. He walked with a stoop that was like a piece of courtesy, genteel
and insinuating: he waved his hands plausibly as he went, and his face
was sly and handsome. I thought his eye took me in, but could not meet
it. This procession went by to a door in the close, which a serving-man
in a fine livery set open; and two of the soldier-lads carried the
prisoner within, the rest lingering with their firelocks by the door.

There can nothing pass in the streets of a city without some following
of idle folk and children. It was so now; but the more part melted away
incontinent until but three were left. One was a girl; she was dressed
like a lady, and had a screen of the Drummond colours on her head; but
her comrades or (I should say) followers were ragged gillies, such as I
had seen the matches of by the dozen in my Highland journey. They all
spoke together earnestly in Gaelic, the sound of which was pleasant in
my ears for the sake of Alan; and, though the rain was by again, and my
porter plucked at me to be going, I even drew nearer where they were,
to listen. The lady scolded sharply, the others making apologies and
cringeing before her, so that I made sure she was come of a chief’s
house. All the while the three of them sought in their pockets, and by
what I could make out, they had the matter of half a farthing among the
party; which made me smile a little to see all Highland folk alike for
fine obeisances and empty sporrans.

It chanced the girl turned suddenly about, so that I saw her face for
the first time. There is no greater wonder than the way the face of a
young woman fits in a man’s mind, and stays there, and he could never
tell you why; it just seems it was the thing he wanted. She had
wonderful bright eyes like stars, and I daresay the eyes had a part in
it; but what I remember the most clearly was the way her lips were a
trifle open as she turned. And, whatever was the cause, I stood there
staring like a fool. On her side, as she had not known there was anyone
so near, she looked at me a little longer, and perhaps with more
surprise, than was entirely civil.

It went through my country head she might be wondering at my new
clothes; with that, I blushed to my hair, and at the sight of my
colouring it is to be supposed she drew her own conclusions, for she
moved her gillies farther down the close, and they fell again to this
dispute, where I could hear no more of it.

I had often admired a lassie before then, if scarce so sudden and
strong; and it was rather my disposition to withdraw than to come
forward, for I was much in fear of mockery from the womenkind. You
would have thought I had now all the more reason to pursue my common
practice, since I had met this young lady in the city street, seemingly
following a prisoner, and accompanied with two very ragged
indecent-like Highlandmen. But there was here a different ingredient;
it was plain the girl thought I had been prying in her secrets; and
with my new clothes and sword, and at the top of my new fortunes, this
was more than I could swallow. The beggar on horseback could not bear
to be thrust down so low, or, at least of it, not by this young lady.

I followed, accordingly, and took off my new hat to her the best that I
was able.

“Madam,” said I, “I think it only fair to myself to let you understand
I have no Gaelic. It is true I was listening, for I have friends of my
own across the Highland line, and the sound of that tongue comes
friendly; but for your private affairs, if you had spoken Greek, I
might have had more guess at them.”

She made me a little, distant curtsey. “There is no harm done,” said
she, with a pretty accent, most like the English (but more agreeable).
“A cat may look at a king.”

“I do not mean to offend,” said I. “I have no skill of city manners; I
never before this day set foot inside the doors of Edinburgh. Take me
for a country lad—it’s what I am; and I would rather I told you than
you found it out.”

“Indeed, it will be a very unusual thing for strangers to be speaking
to each other on the causeway,” she replied. “But if you are landward
[2] bred it will be different. I am as landward as yourself; I am
Highland, as you see, and think myself the farther from my home.”

“It is not yet a week since I passed the line,” said I. “Less than a
week ago I was on the braes of Balwhidder.”

“Balwhither?” she cries. “Come ye from Balwhither! The name of it makes
all there is of me rejoice. You will not have been long there, and not
known some of our friends or family?”

“I lived with a very honest, kind man called Duncan Dhu Maclaren,” I
replied.

“Well, I know Duncan, and you give him the true name!” she said; “and
if he is an honest man, his wife is honest indeed.”

“Ay,” said I, “they are fine people, and the place is a bonny place.”

“Where in the great world is such another!” she cries; “I am loving the
smell of that place and the roots that grow there.”

I was infinitely taken with the spirit of the maid. “I could be wishing
I had brought you a spray of that heather,” says I. “And, though I did
ill to speak with you at the first, now it seems we have common
acquaintance, I make it my petition you will not forget me. David
Balfour is the name I am known by. This is my lucky day, when I have
just come into a landed estate, and am not very long out of a deadly
peril. I wish you would keep my name in mind for the sake of
Balwhidder,” said I, “and I will yours for the sake of my lucky day.”

“My name is not spoken,” she replied, with a great deal of haughtiness.
“More than a hundred years it has not gone upon men’s tongues, save for
a blink. I am nameless, like the Folk of Peace. [3] Catriona Drummond
is the one I use.”

Now indeed I knew where I was standing. In all broad Scotland there was
but the one name proscribed, and that was the name of the Macgregors.
Yet so far from fleeing this undesirable acquaintancy, I plunged the
deeper in.

“I have been sitting with one who was in the same case with yourself,”
said I, “and I think he will be one of your friends. They called him
Robin Oig.”

“Did ye so?” cries she. “Ye met Rob?”

“I passed the night with him,” said I.

“He is a fowl of the night,” said she.

“There was a set of pipes there,” I went on, “so you may judge if the
time passed.”

“You should be no enemy, at all events,” said she. “That was his
brother there a moment since, with the red soldiers round him. It is
him that I call father.”

“Is it so?” cried I. “Are you a daughter of James More’s?”

“All the daughter that he has,” says she: “the daughter of a prisoner;
that I should forget it so, even for one hour, to talk with strangers!”

Here one of the gillies addressed her in what he had of English, to
know what “she” (meaning by that himself) was to do about “ta
sneeshin.” I took some note of him for a short, bandy-legged,
red-haired, big-headed man, that I was to know more of to my cost.

“There can be none the day, Neil,” she replied. “How will you get
‘sneeshin,’ wanting siller! It will teach you another time to be more
careful; and I think James More will not be very well pleased with Neil
of the Tom.”

“Miss Drummond,” I said, “I told you I was in my lucky day. Here I am,
and a bank-porter at my tail. And remember I have had the hospitality
of your own country of Balwhidder.”

“It was not one of my people gave it,” said she.

“Ah, well,” said I, “but I am owing your uncle at least for some
springs upon the pipes. Besides which, I have offered myself to be your
friend, and you have been so forgetful that you did not refuse me in
the proper time.”

“If it had been a great sum, it might have done you honour,” said she;
“but I will tell you what this is. James More lies shackled in prison;
but this time past they will be bringing him down here daily to the
Advocate’s. . . .”

“The Advocate’s!” I cried. “Is that . . . ?”

“It is the house of the Lord Advocate Grant of Prestongrange,” said
she. “There they bring my father one time and another, for what purpose
I have no thought in my mind; but it seems there is some hope dawned
for him. All this same time they will not let me be seeing him, nor yet
him write; and we wait upon the King’s street to catch him; and now we
give him his snuff as he goes by, and now something else. And here is
this son of trouble, Neil, son of Duncan, has lost my four-penny piece
that was to buy that snuff, and James More must go wanting, and will
think his daughter has forgotten him.”

I took sixpence from my pocket, gave it to Neil, and bade him go about
his errand. Then to her, “That sixpence came with me by Balwhidder,”
said I.

“Ah!” she said, “you are a friend to the Gregara!”

“I would not like to deceive you, either,” said I. “I know very little
of the Gregara and less of James More and his doings, but since the
while I have been standing in this close, I seem to know something of
yourself; and if you will just say ‘a friend to Miss Catriona’ I will
see you are the less cheated.”

“The one cannot be without the other,” said she.

“I will even try,” said I.

“And what will you be thinking of myself!” she cried, “to be holding my
hand to the first stranger!”

“I am thinking nothing but that you are a good daughter,” said I.

“I must not be without repaying it,” she said; “where is it you stop!”

“To tell the truth, I am stopping nowhere yet,” said I, “being not full
three hours in the city; but if you will give me your direction, I will
be so bold as come seeking my sixpence for myself.”

“Will I can trust you for that?” she asked.

“You need have little fear,” said I.

“James More could not bear it else,” said she. “I stop beyond the
village of Dean, on the north side of the water, with Mrs.
Drummond-Ogilvy of Allardyce, who is my near friend and will be glad to
thank you.”

“You are to see me, then, so soon as what I have to do permits,” said
I; and, the remembrance of Alan rolling in again upon my mind, I made
haste to say farewell.

I could not but think, even as I did so, that we had made extraordinary
free upon short acquaintance, and that a really wise young lady would
have shown herself more backward. I think it was the bank-porter that
put me from this ungallant train of thought.

“I thoucht ye had been a lad of some kind o’ sense,” he began, shooting
out his lips. “Ye’re no likely to gang far this gate. A fule and his
siller’s shune parted. Eh, but ye’re a green callant!” he cried, “an’ a
veecious, tae! Cleikin’ up wi’ baubeejoes!”

“If you dare to speak of the young lady. . . ” I began.

“Leddy!” he cried. “Haud us and safe us, whatten leddy? Ca’ _thon_ a
leddy? The toun’s fu’ o’ them. Leddies! Man, its weel seen ye’re no
very acquant in Embro!”

A clap of anger took me.

“Here,” said I, “lead me where I told you, and keep your foul mouth
shut!”

He did not wholly obey me, for, though he no more addressed me
directly, he very impudent sang at me as he went in a manner of
innuendo, and with an exceedingly ill voice and ear—

“As Mally Lee cam doun the street, her capuchin did flee,
She cuist a look ahint her to see her negligee.
And we’re a’ gaun east and wast, we’re a’ gann ajee,
We’re a’ gaun east and wast courtin’ Mally Lee.”




CHAPTER II.
THE HIGHLAND WRITER


Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer dwelt at the top of the longest stair
ever mason set a hand to; fifteen flights of it, no less; and when I
had come to his door, and a clerk had opened it, and told me his master
was within, I had scarce breath enough to send my porter packing.

“Awa’ east and west wi’ ye!” said I, took the money bag out of his
hands, and followed the clerk in.

The outer room was an office with the clerk’s chair at a table spread
with law papers. In the inner chamber, which opened from it, a little
brisk man sat poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes on
my entrance; indeed, he still kept his finger in the place, as though
prepared to show me out and fall again to his studies. This pleased me
little enough; and what pleased me less, I thought the clerk was in a
good posture to overhear what should pass between us.

I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer.

“The same,” says he; “and, if the question is equally fair, who may you
be yourself?”

“You never heard tell of my name nor of me either,” said I, “but I
bring you a token from a friend that you know well. That you know
well,” I repeated, lowering my voice, “but maybe are not just so keen
to hear from at this present being. And the bits of business that I
have to propone to you are rather in the nature of being confidential.
In short, I would like to think we were quite private.”

He rose without more words, casting down his paper like a man
ill-pleased, sent forth his clerk of an errand, and shut to the
house-door behind him.

“Now, sir,” said he, returning, “speak out your mind and fear nothing;
though before you begin,” he cries out, “I tell you mine misgives me! I
tell you beforehand, ye’re either a Stewart or a Stewart sent ye. A
good name it is, and one it would ill-become my father’s son to
lightly. But I begin to grue at the sound of it.”

“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David Balfour of Shaws. As for
him that sent me, I will let his token speak.” And I showed the silver
button.

“Put it in your pocket, sir!” cries he. “Ye need name no names. The
deevil’s buckie, I ken the button of him! And de’il hae’t! Where is he
now!”

I told him I knew not where Alan was, but he had some sure place (or
thought he had) about the north side, where he was to lie until a ship
was found for him; and how and where he had appointed to be spoken
with.

“It’s been always my opinion that I would hang in a tow for this family
of mine,” he cried, “and, dod! I believe the day’s come now! Get a ship
for him, quot’ he! And who’s to pay for it? The man’s daft!”

“That is my part of the affair, Mr. Stewart,” said I. “Here is a bag of
good money, and if more be wanted, more is to be had where it came
from.”

“I needn’t ask your politics,” said he.

“Ye need not,” said I, smiling, “for I’m as big a Whig as grows.”

“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” says Mr. Stewart. “What’s all this? A Whig?
Then why are you here with Alan’s button? and what kind of a black-foot
traffic is this that I find ye out in, Mr. Whig? Here is a forfeited
rebel and an accused murderer, with two hundred pounds on his life, and
ye ask me to meddle in his business, and then tell me ye’re a Whig! I
have no mind of any such Whigs before, though I’ve kent plenty of
them.”

“He’s a forfeited rebel, the more’s the pity,” said I, “for the man’s
my friend. I can only wish he had been better guided. And an accused
murderer, that he is too, for his misfortune; but wrongfully accused.”

“I hear you say so,” said Stewart.

“More than you are to hear me say so, before long,” said I. “Alan Breck
is innocent, and so is James.”

“Oh!” says he, “the two cases hang together. If Alan is out, James can
never be in.”

Hereupon I told him briefly of my acquaintance with Alan, of the
accident that brought me present at the Appin murder, and the various
passages of our escape among the heather, and my recovery of my estate.
“So, sir, you have now the whole train of these events,” I went on,
“and can see for yourself how I come to be so much mingled up with the
affairs of your family and friends, which (for all of our sakes) I wish
had been plainer and less bloody. You can see for yourself, too, that I
have certain pieces of business depending, which were scarcely fit to
lay before a lawyer chosen at random. No more remains, but to ask if
you will undertake my service?”

“I have no great mind to it; but coming as you do with Alan’s button,
the choice is scarcely left me,” said he. “What are your instructions?”
he added, and took up his pen.

“The first point is to smuggle Alan forth of this country,” said I,
“but I need not be repeating that.”

“I am little likely to forget it,” said Stewart.

“The next thing is the bit money I am owing to Cluny,” I went on. “It
would be ill for me to find a conveyance, but that should be no stick
to you. It was two pounds five shillings and three-halfpence farthing
sterling.”

He noted it.

“Then,” said I, “there’s a Mr. Henderland, a licensed preacher and
missionary in Ardgour, that I would like well to get some snuff into
the hands of; and, as I daresay you keep touch with your friends in
Appin (so near by), it’s a job you could doubtless overtake with the
other.”

“How much snuff are we to say?” he asked.

“I was thinking of two pounds,” said I.

“Two,” said he.

“Then there’s the lass Alison Hastie, in Lime Kilns,” said I. “Her that
helped Alan and me across the Forth. I was thinking if I could get her
a good Sunday gown, such as she could wear with decency in her degree,
it would be an ease to my conscience; for the mere truth is, we owe her
our two lives.”

“I am glad so see you are thrifty, Mr. Balfour,” says he, making his
notes.

“I would think shame to be otherwise the first day of my fortune,” said
I. “And now, if you will compute the outlay and your own proper
charges, I would be glad to know if I could get some spending-money
back. It’s not that I grudge the whole of it to get Alan safe; it’s not
that I lack more; but having drawn so much the one day, I think it
would have a very ill appearance if I was back again seeking, the next.
Only be sure you have enough,” I added, “for I am very undesirous to
meet with you again.”

“Well, and I’m pleased to see you’re cautious, too,” said the Writer.
“But I think ye take a risk to lay so considerable a sum at my
discretion.”

He said this with a plain sneer.

“I’ll have to run the hazard,” I replied. “O, and there’s another
service I would ask, and that’s to direct me to a lodging, for I have
no roof to my head. But it must be a lodging I may seem to have hit
upon by accident, for it would never do if the Lord Advocate were to
get any jealousy of our acquaintance.”

“Ye may set your weary spirit at rest,” said he. “I will never name
your name, sir; and it’s my belief the Advocate is still so much to be
sympathised with that he doesnae ken of your existence.”

I saw I had got to the wrong side of the man.

“There’s a braw day coming for him, then,” said I, “for he’ll have to
learn of it on the deaf side of his head no later than to-morrow, when
I call on him.”

“When ye _call_ on him!” repeated Mr. Stewart. “Am I daft, or are you!
What takes ye near the Advocate!”

“O, just to give myself up,” said I.

“Mr. Balfour,” he cried, “are ye making a mock of me?”

“No, sir,” said I, “though I think you have allowed yourself some such
freedom with myself. But I give you to understand once and for all that
I am in no jesting spirit.”

“Nor yet me,” says Stewart. “And I give yon to understand (if that’s to
be the word) that I like the looks of your behaviour less and less. You
come here to me with all sorts of propositions, which will put me in a
train of very doubtful acts and bring me among very undesirable persons
this many a day to come. And then you tell me you’re going straight out
of my office to make your peace with the Advocate! Alan’s button here
or Alan’s button there, the four quarters of Alan wouldnae bribe me
further in.”

“I would take it with a little more temper,” said I, “and perhaps we
can avoid what you object to. I can see no way for it but to give
myself up, but perhaps you can see another; and if you could, I could
never deny but what I would be rather relieved. For I think my traffic
with his lordship is little likely to agree with my health. There’s
just the one thing clear, that I have to give my evidence; for I hope
it’ll save Alan’s character (what’s left of it), and James’s neck,
which is the more immediate.”

He was silent for a breathing-space, and then, “My man,” said he,
“you’ll never be allowed to give such evidence.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” said I; “I’m stiff-necked when I like.”

“Ye muckle ass!” cried Stewart, “it’s James they want; James has got to
hang—Alan, too, if they could catch him—but James whatever! Go near the
Advocate with any such business, and you’ll see! he’ll find a way to
muzzle, ye.”

“I think better of the Advocate than that,” said I.

“The Advocate be dammed!” cries he. “It’s the Campbells, man! You’ll
have the whole clanjamfry of them on your back; and so will the
Advocate too, poor body! It’s extraordinar ye cannot see where ye
stand! If there’s no fair way to stop your gab, there’s a foul one
gaping. They can put ye in the dock, do ye no see that?” he cried, and
stabbed me with one finger in the leg.

“Ay,” said I, “I was told that same no further back than this morning
by another lawyer.”

“And who was he?” asked Stewart, “He spoke sense at least.”

I told I must be excused from naming him, for he was a decent stout old
Whig, and had little mind to be mixed up in such affairs.

“I think all the world seems to be mixed up in it!” cries Stewart. “But
what said you?”

“I told him what had passed between Rankeillor and myself before the
house of Shaws.

“Well, and so ye will hang!” said he. “Ye’ll hang beside James Stewart.
There’s your fortune told.”

“I hope better of it yet than that,” said I; “but I could never deny
there was a risk.”

“Risk!” says he, and then sat silent again. “I ought to thank you for
your staunchness to my friends, to whom you show a very good spirit,”
he says, “if you have the strength to stand by it. But I warn you that
you’re wading deep. I wouldn’t put myself in your place (me that’s a
Stewart born!) for all the Stewarts that ever there were since Noah.
Risk? ay, I take over-many; but to be tried in court before a Campbell
jury and a Campbell judge, and that in a Campbell country and upon a
Campbell quarrel—think what you like of me, Balfour, it’s beyond me.”

“It’s a different way of thinking, I suppose,” said I; “I was brought
up to this one by my father before me.”

“Glory to his bones! he has left a decent son to his name,” says he.
“Yet I would not have you judge me over-sorely. My case is dooms hard.
See, sir, ye tell me ye’re a Whig: I wonder what I am. No Whig to be
sure; I couldnae be just that. But—laigh in your ear, man—I’m maybe no
very keen on the other side.”

“Is that a fact?” cried I. “It’s what I would think of a man of your
intelligence.”

“Hut! none of your whillywhas!” [4] cries he. “There’s intelligence
upon both sides. But for my private part I have no particular desire to
harm King George; and as for King James, God bless him! he does very
well for me across the water. I’m a lawyer, ye see: fond of my books
and my bottle, a good plea, a well-drawn deed, a crack in the
Parliament House with other lawyer bodies, and perhaps a turn at the
golf on a Saturday at e’en. Where do ye come in with your Hieland
plaids and claymores?”

“Well,” said I, “it’s a fact ye have little of the wild Highlandman.”

“Little?” quoth he. “Nothing, man! And yet I’m Hieland born, and when
the clan pipes, who but me has to dance! The clan and the name, that
goes by all. It’s just what you said yourself; my father learned it to
me, and a bonny trade I have of it. Treason and traitors, and the
smuggling of them out and in; and the French recruiting, weary fall it!
and the smuggling through of the recruits; and their pleas—a sorrow of
their pleas! Here have I been moving one for young Ardsheil, my cousin;
claimed the estate under the marriage contract—a forfeited estate! I
told them it was nonsense: muckle they cared! And there was I cocking
behind a yadvocate that liked the business as little as myself, for it
was fair ruin to the pair of us—a black mark, _disaffected_, branded on
our hurdies, like folk’s names upon their kye! And what can I do? I’m a
Stewart, ye see, and must fend for my clan and family. Then no later by
than yesterday there was one of our Stewart lads carried to the Castle.
What for? I ken fine: Act of 1736: recruiting for King Lewie. And
you’ll see, he’ll whistle me in to be his lawyer, and there’ll be
another black mark on my chara’ter! I tell you fair: if I but kent the
heid of a Hebrew word from the hurdies of it, be dammed but I would
fling the whole thing up and turn minister!”

“It’s rather a hard position,” said I.

“Dooms hard!” cries he. “And that’s what makes me think so much of
ye—you that’s no Stewart—to stick your head so deep in Stewart
business. And for what, I do not know: unless it was the sense of
duty.”

“I hope it will be that,” said I.

“Well,” says he, “it’s a grand quality. But here is my clerk back; and,
by your leave, we’ll pick a bit of dinner, all the three of us. When
that’s done, I’ll give you the direction of a very decent man, that’ll
be very fain to have you for a lodger. And I’ll fill your pockets to
ye, forbye, out of your ain bag. For this business’ll not be near as
dear as ye suppose—not even the ship part of it.”

I made him a sign that his clerk was within hearing.

“Hoot, ye neednae mind for Robbie,” cries he. “A Stewart, too, puir
deevil! and has smuggled out more French recruits and trafficking
Papists than what he has hairs upon his face. Why, it’s Robin that
manages that branch of my affairs. Who will we have now, Rob, for
across the water!”

“There’ll be Andie Scougal, in the _Thristle_,” replied Rob. “I saw
Hoseason the other day, but it seems he’s wanting the ship. Then
there’ll be Tam Stobo; but I’m none so sure of Tam. I’ve seen him
colloguing with some gey queer acquaintances; and if was anybody
important, I would give Tam the go-by.”

“The head’s worth two hundred pounds, Robin,” said Stewart.

“Gosh, that’ll no be Alan Breck!” cried the clerk.

“Just Alan,” said his master.

“Weary winds! that’s sayrious,” cried Robin. “I’ll try Andie, then;
Andie’ll be the best.”

“It seems it’s quite a big business,” I observed.

“Mr. Balfour, there’s no end to it,” said Stewart.

“There was a name your clerk mentioned,” I went on: “Hoseason. That
must be my man, I think: Hoseason, of the brig _Covenant_. Would you
set your trust on him?”

“He didnae behave very well to you and Alan,” said Mr. Stewart; “but my
mind of the man in general is rather otherwise. If he had taken Alan on
board his ship on an agreement, it’s my notion he would have proved a
just dealer. How say ye, Rob?”

“No more honest skipper in the trade than Eli,” said the clerk. “I
would lippen to [5] Eli’s word—ay, if it was the Chevalier, or Appin
himsel’,” he added.

“And it was him that brought the doctor, wasnae’t?” asked the master.

“He was the very man,” said the clerk.

“And I think he took the doctor back?” says Stewart.

“Ay, with his sporran full!” cried Robin. “And Eli kent of that!” [6]

“Well, it seems it’s hard to ken folk rightly,” said I.

“That was just what I forgot when ye came in, Mr. Balfour!” says the
Writer.




CHAPTER III.
I GO TO PILRIG


The next morning, I was no sooner awake in my new lodging than I was up
and into my new clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed, than I
was forth on my adventurers. Alan, I could hope, was fended for; James
was like to be a more difficult affair, and I could not but think that
enterprise might cost me dear, even as everybody said to whom I had
opened my opinion. It seemed I was come to the top of the mountain only
to cast myself down; that I had clambered up, through so many and hard
trials, to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city clothes and a sword
to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the last end of it, and the
worst kind of suicide, besides, which is to get hanged at the King’s
charges.

What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down the high Street and
out north by Leith Wynd. First I said it was to save James Stewart; and
no doubt the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a word
or so I had let drop on that occasion worked upon me strongly. At the
same time I reflected that it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent
matter to my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or from a
scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but so far as regarded
Alan, the best thing would be to lie low, and let the King, and his
Grace of Argyll, and the corbie crows, pick the bones of his kinsman
their own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all in the pot
together, James had shown no such particular anxiety whether for Alan
or me.

Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of justice: and I
thought that a fine word, and reasoned it out that (since we dwelt in
polities, at some discomfort to each one of us) the main thing of all
must still be justice, and the death of any innocent man a wound upon
the whole community. Next, again, it was the Accuser of the Brethren
that gave me a turn of his argument; bade me think shame for pretending
myself concerned in these high matters, and told me I was but a prating
vain child, who had spoken big words to Rankeillor and to Stewart, and
held myself bound upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay,
and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he accused me of a
kind of artful cowardice, going about at the expense of a little risk
to purchase greater safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared
myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s
officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the
heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with
success, I should breathe more free for ever after. But when I looked
this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be ashamed of. As
for the rest, “Here are the two roads,” I thought, “and both go to the
same place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and
it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and then do
nothing. It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted
beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed
to do right. I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it
would be a poor duty that I was wanting in the essence.” And then I
thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking
for what courage I might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty
like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless, as so many do.

This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion;
though it was far from closing up my sense of the dangers that
surrounded me, nor of how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on
the ladder of the gallows. It was a plain, fair morning, but the wind
in the east. The little chill of it sang in my blood, and gave me a
feeling of the autumn, and the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in
their graves. It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to die in that
tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs. On the top of the
Calton Hill, though it was not the customary time of year for that
diversion, some children were crying and running with their kites.
These toys appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one
soar on the wind to a high altitude and then plump among the whins; and
I thought to myself at sight of it, “There goes Davie.”

My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the
braeside among fields. There was a whirr of looms in it went from house
to house; bees bummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the
doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this
was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen
Company. Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a
little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in
chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them,
the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny
jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an
illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and
drinking in discomfort. And, as I thus turned and turned about the
gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind
a leg of it, and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and
courtesies.

“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa joes [7] o’mine:
just two o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.”

“What did they suffer for?” I asked.

“Ou, just for the guid cause,” said she. “Aften I spaed to them the way
that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots: no pickle mair; and there are
twa bonny callants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a wean [8]
belanged to Brouchton.”

“Ay!” said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, “and did they come
to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all indeed.”

“Gie’s your loof, [9] hinny,” says she, “and let me spae your weird to
ye.”

“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco
thing to see too far in front.”

“I read it in your bree,” she said. “There’s a bonnie lassie that has
bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man in a
pouthered wig, and there’s the shadow of the wuddy, [10] joe, that lies
braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren
spae it to ye bonny.”

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of
James More struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature,
casting her a baubee, which she continued to sit and play with under
the moving shadows of the hanged.

My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to
me but for this encounter. The old rampart ran among fields, the like
of them I had never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was pleased,
besides, to be so far in the still countryside; but the shackles of the
gibbet clattered in my head; and the mope and mows of the old witch,
and the thought of the dead men, hag-rode my spirits. To hang on a
gallows, that seemed a hard case; and whether a man came to hang there
for two shillings Scots, or (as Mr. Stewart had it) from the sense of
duty, once he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the difference
seemed small. There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on
their errands and think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at a
leg-foot and spae their fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and
look to the other aide, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had
grey eyes, and their screens upon their heads were of the Drummed
colours.

I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved,
when I came in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the
walkside among some brave young woods. The laird’s horse was standing
saddled at the door as I came up, but himself was in the study, where
he received me in the midst of learned works and musical instruments,
for he was not only a deep philosopher but much of a musician. He
greeted me at first pretty well, and when he had read Rankeillor’s
letter, placed himself obligingly at my disposal.

“And what is it, cousin David!” said he—“since it appears that we are
cousins—what is this that I can do for you! A word to Prestongrange!
Doubtless that is easily given. But what should be the word?”

“Mr. Balfour,” said I, “if I were to tell you my whole story the way it
fell out, it’s my opinion (and it was Rankeillor’s before me) that you
would be very little made up with it.”

“I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,” says he.

“I must not take that at your hands, Mr. Balfour,” said I; “I have
nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but just the
common infirmities of mankind. ‘The guilt of Adam’s first sin, the want
of original righteousness, and the corruption of my whole nature,’ so
much I must answer for, and I hope I have been taught where to look for
help,” I said; for I judged from the look of the man he would think the
better of me if I knew my questions. [11] “But in the way of worldly
honour I have no great stumble to reproach myself with; and my
difficulties have befallen me very much against my will and (by all
that I can see) without my fault. My trouble is to have become dipped
in a political complication, which it is judged you would be blythe to
avoid a knowledge of.”

“Why, very well, Mr. David,” he replied, “I am pleased to see you are
all that Rankeillor represented. And for what you say of political
complications, you do me no more than justice. It is my study to be
beyond suspicion, and indeed outside the field of it. The question is,”
says he, “how, if I am to know nothing of the matter, I can very well
assist you?”

“Why sir,” said I, “I propose you should write to his lordship, that I
am a young man of reasonable good family and of good means: both of
which I believe to be the case.”

“I have Rankeillor’s word for it,” said Mr. Balfour, “and I count that
a warran-dice against all deadly.”

“To which you might add (if you will take my word for so much) that I
am a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so brought up,” I went
on.

“None of which will do you any harm,” said Mr. Balfour.

“Then you might go on to say that I sought his lordship on a matter of
great moment, connected with His Majesty’s service and the
administration of justice,” I suggested.

“As I am not to hear the matter,” says the laird, “I will not take upon
myself to qualify its weight. ‘Great moment’ therefore falls, and
‘moment’ along with it. For the rest I might express myself much as you
propose.”

“And then, sir,” said I, and rubbed my neck a little with my thumb,
“then I would be very desirous if you could slip in a word that might
perhaps tell for my protection.”

“Protection?” says he, “for your protection! Here is a phrase that
somewhat dampens me. If the matter be so dangerous, I own I would be a
little loath to move in it blindfold.”

“I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,” said
I.

“Perhaps that would be the best,” said he.

“Well, it’s the Appin murder,” said I.

He held up both his hands. “Sirs! sirs!” cried he.

I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my
helper.

“Let me explain. . .” I began.

“I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,” says he. “I decline
_in toto_ to hear more of it. For your name’s sake and Rankeillor’s,
and perhaps a little for your own, I will do what I can to help you;
but I will hear no more upon the facts. And it is my first clear duty
to warn you. These are deep waters, Mr. David, and you are a young man.
Be cautious and think twice.”

“It is to be supposed I will have thought oftener than that, Mr.
Balfour,” said I, “and I will direct your attention again to
Rankeillor’s letter, where (I hope and believe) he has registered his
approval of that which I design.”

“Well, well,” said he; and then again, “Well, well! I will do what I
can for you.” There with he took a pen and paper, sat a while in
thought, and began to write with much consideration. “I understand that
Rankeillor approved of what you have in mind?” he asked presently.

“After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward in God’s name,”
said I.

“That is the name to go in,” said Mr. Balfour, and resumed his writing.
Presently, he signed, re-read what he had written, and addressed me
again. “Now here, Mr. David,” said he, “is a letter of introduction,
which I will seal without closing, and give into your hands open, as
the form requires. But, since I am acting in the dark, I will just read
it to you, so that you may see if it will secure your end—

“Pilrig, _August_ 26th, 1751.


“My Lord,—This is to bring to your notice my namesake and cousin, David
Balfour Esquire of Shaws, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and
good estate. He has enjoyed, besides, the more valuable advantages of a
godly training, and his political principles are all that your lordship
can desire. I am not in Mr. Balfour’s confidence, but I understand him
to have a matter to declare, touching His Majesty’s service and the
administration of justice; purposes for which your Lordship’s zeal is
known. I should add that the young gentleman’s intention is known to
and approved by some of his friends, who will watch with hopeful
anxiety the event of his success or failure.


“Whereupon,” continued Mr. Balfour, “I have subscribed myself with the
usual compliments. You observe I have said ‘some of your friends’; I
hope you can justify my plural?”

“Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and approved by more than one,”
said I. “And your letter, which I take a pleasure to thank you for, is
all I could have hoped.”

“It was all I could squeeze out,” said he; “and from what I know of the
matter you design to meddle in, I can only pray God that it may prove
sufficient.”




CHAPTER IV.
LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE


My kinsman kept me to a meal, “for the honour of the roof,” he said;
and I believe I made the better speed on my return. I had no thought
but to be done with the next stage, and have myself fully committed; to
a person circumstanced as I was, the appearance of closing a door on
hesitation and temptation was itself extremely tempting; and I was the
more disappointed, when I came to Prestongrange’s house, to be informed
he was abroad. I believe it was true at the moment, and for some hours
after; and then I have no doubt the Advocate came home again, and
enjoyed himself in a neighbouring chamber among friends, while perhaps
the very fact of my arrival was forgotten. I would have gone away a
dozen times, only for this strong drawing to have done with my
declaration out of hand and be able to lay me down to sleep with a free
conscience. At first I read, for the little cabinet where I was left
contained a variety of books. But I fear I read with little profit; and
the weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier than usual, and
my cabinet being lighted with but a loophole of a window, I was at last
obliged to desist from this diversion (such as it was), and pass the
rest of my time of waiting in a very burthensome vacuity. The sound of
people talking in a near chamber, the pleasant note of a harpsichord,
and once the voice of a lady singing, bore me a kind of company.

I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long come, when the door
of the cabinet opened, and I was aware, by the light behind him, of a
tall figure of a man upon the threshold. I rose at once.

“Is anybody there?” he asked. “Who in that?”

“I am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to the Lord
Advocate,” said I.

“Have you been here long?” he asked.

“I would not like to hazard an estimate of how many hours,” said I.

“It is the first I hear of it,” he replied, with a chuckle. “The lads
must have forgotten you. But you are in the bit at last, for I am
Prestongrange.”

So saying, he passed before me into the next room, whither (upon his
sign) I followed him, and where he lit a candle and took his place
before a business-table. It was a long room, of a good proportion,
wholly lined with books. That small spark of light in a corner struck
out the man’s handsome person and strong face. He was flushed, his eye
watered and sparkled, and before he sat down I observed him to sway
back and forth. No doubt, he had been supping liberally; but his mind
and tongue were under full control.

“Well, sir, sit ye down,” said he, “and let us see Pilrig’s letter.”

He glanced it through in the beginning carelessly, looking up and
bowing when he came to my name; but at the last words I thought I
observed his attention to redouble, and I made sure he read them twice.
All this while you are to suppose my heart was beating, for I had now
crossed my Rubicon and was come fairly on the field of battle.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Balfour,” he said, when he
had done. “Let me offer you a glass of claret.”

“Under your favour, my lord, I think it would scarce be fair on me,”
said I. “I have come here, as the letter will have mentioned, on a
business of some gravity to myself; and, as I am little used with wine,
I might be the sooner affected.”

“You shall be the judge,” said he. “But if you will permit, I believe I
will even have the bottle in myself.”

He touched a bell, and a footman came, as at a signal, bringing wine
and glasses.

“You are sure you will not join me?” asked the Advocate. “Well, here is
to our better acquaintance! In what way can I serve you?”

“I should, perhaps, begin by telling you, my lord, that I am here at
your own pressing invitation,” said I.

“You have the advantage of me somewhere,” said he, “for I profess I
think I never heard of you before this evening.”

“Right, my lord; the name is, indeed, new to you,” said I. “And yet you
have been for some time extremely wishful to make my acquaintance, and
have declared the same in public.”

“I wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I am no Daniel.”

“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “that if I was in a jesting
humour—which is far from the case—I believe I might lay a claim on your
lordship for two hundred pounds.”

“In what sense?” he inquired.

“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” said I.

He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat straight up in the
chair where he had been previously lolling. “What am I to understand?”
said he.

“_A tall strong lad of about eighteen_,” I quoted, “_speaks like a
Lowlander and has no beard_.”

“I recognise those words,” said he, “which, if you have come here with
any ill-judged intention of amusing yourself, are like to prove
extremely prejudicial to your safety.”

“My purpose in this,” I replied, “is just entirely as serious as life
and death, and you have understood me perfectly. I am the boy who was
speaking with Glenure when he was shot.”

“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim to be innocent,”
said he.

“The inference is clear,” I said. “I am a very loyal subject to King
George, but if I had anything to reproach myself with, I would have had
more discretion than to walk into your den.”

“I am glad of that,” said he. “This horrid crime, Mr. Balfour, is of a
dye which cannot permit any clemency. Blood has been barbarously shed.
It has been shed in direct opposition to his Majesty and our whole
frame of laws, by those who are their known and public oppugnants. I
take a very high sense of this. I will not deny that I consider the
crime as directly personal to his Majesty.”

“And unfortunately, my lord,” I added, a little drily, “directly
personal to another great personage who may be nameless.”

“If you mean anything by those words, I must tell you I consider them
unfit for a good subject; and were they spoke publicly I should make it
my business to take note of them,” said he. “You do not appear to me to
recognise the gravity of your situation, or you would be more careful
not to pejorate the same by words which glance upon the purity of
justice. Justice, in this country, and in my poor hands, is no
respecter of persons.”

“You give me too great a share in my own speech, my lord,” said I. “I
did but repeat the common talk of the country, which I have heard
everywhere, and from men of all opinions as I came along.”

“When you are come to more discretion you will understand such talk in
not to be listened to, how much less repeated,” says the Advocate. “But
I acquit you of an ill intention. That nobleman, whom we all honour,
and who has indeed been wounded in a near place by the late barbarity,
sits too high to be reached by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you
see that I deal plainly with you—takes it to heart as I do, and as we
are both bound to do by our judicial functions and the service of his
Majesty; and I could wish that all hands, in this ill age, were equally
clean of family rancour. But from the accident that this is a Campbell
who has fallen martyr to his duty—as who else but the Campbells have
ever put themselves foremost on that path?—I may say it, who am no
Campbell—and that the chief of that great house happens (for all our
advantages) to be the present head of the College of Justice, small
minds and disaffected tongues are set agog in every changehouse in the
country; and I find a young gentleman like Mr. Balfour so ill-advised
as to make himself their echo.” So much he spoke with a very oratorical
delivery, as if in court, and then declined again upon the manner of a
gentleman. “All this apart,” said he. “It now remains that I should
learn what I am to do with you.”

“I had thought it was rather I that should learn the same from your
lordship,” said I.

“Ay, true,” says the Advocate. “But, you see, you come to me well
recommended. There is a good honest Whig name to this letter,” says he,
picking it up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, Mr.
Balfour—there is always the possibility of some arrangement, I tell
you, and I tell you beforehand that you may be the more upon your
guard, your fate lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with
reverence) I am more powerful than the King’s Majesty; and should you
please me—and of course satisfy my conscience—in what remains to be
held of our interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves.”

“Meaning how?” I asked.

“Why, I mean it thus, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that if you give
satisfaction, no soul need know so much as that you visited my house;
and you may observe that I do not even call my clerk.”

I saw what way he was driving. “I suppose it is needless anyone should
be informed upon my visit,” said I, “though the precise nature of my
gains by that I cannot see. I am not at all ashamed of coming here.”

“And have no cause to be,” says he, encouragingly. “Nor yet (if you are
careful) to fear the consequences.”

“My lord,” said I, “speaking under your correction, I am not very easy
to be frightened.”

“And I am sure I do not seek to frighten you,” says he. “But to the
interrogation; and let me warn you to volunteer nothing beyond the
questions I shall ask you. It may consist very immediately with your
safety. I have a great discretion, it is true, but there are bounds to
it.”

“I shall try to follow your lordship’s advice,” said I.

He spread a sheet of paper on the table and wrote a heading. “It
appears you were present, by the way, in the wood of Lettermore at the
moment of the fatal shot,” he began. “Was this by accident?”

“By accident,” said I.

“How came you in speech with Colin Campbell?” he asked.

“I was inquiring my way of him to Aucharn,” I replied.

I observed he did not write this answer down.

“H’m, true,” said he, “I had forgotten that. And do you know, Mr.
Balfour, I would dwell, if I were you, as little as might be on your
relations with these Stewarts. It might be found to complicate our
business. I am not yet inclined to regard these matters as essential.”

“I had thought, my lord, that all points of fact were equally material
in such a case,” said I.

“You forget we are now trying these Stewarts,” he replied, with great
significance. “If we should ever come to be trying you, it will be very
different; and I shall press these very questions that I am now willing
to glide upon. But to resume: I have it here in Mr. Mungo Campbell’s
precognition that you ran immediately up the brae. How came that?”

“Not immediately, my lord, and the cause was my seeing of the
murderer.”

“You saw him, then?”

“As plain as I see your lordship, though not so near hand.”

“You know him?”

“I should know him again.”

“In your pursuit you were not so fortunate, then, as to overtake him?”

“I was not.”

“Was he alone?”

“He was alone.”

“There was no one else in that neighbourhood?”

“Alan Breck Stewart was not far off, in a piece of a wood.”

The Advocate laid his pen down. “I think we are playing at cross
purposes,” said he, “which you will find to prove a very ill amusement
for yourself.”

“I content myself with following your lordship’s advice, and answering
what I am asked,” said I.

“Be so wise as to bethink yourself in time,” said he, “I use you with
the most anxious tenderness, which you scarce seem to appreciate, and
which (unless you be more careful) may prove to be in vain.”

“I do appreciate your tenderness, but conceive it to be mistaken,” I
replied, with something of a falter, for I saw we were come to grips at
last. “I am here to lay before you certain information, by which I
shall convince you Alan had no hand whatever in the killing of
Glenure.”

The Advocate appeared for a moment at a stick, sitting with pursed
lips, and blinking his eyes upon me like an angry cat. “Mr. Balfour,”
he said at last, “I tell you pointedly you go an ill way for your own
interests.”

“My lord,” I said, “I am as free of the charge of considering my own
interests in this matter as your lordship. As God judges me, I have but
the one design, and that is to see justice executed and the innocent go
clear. If in pursuit of that I come to fall under your lordship’s
displeasure, I must bear it as I may.”

At this he rose from his chair, lit a second candle, and for a while
gazed upon me steadily. I was surprised to see a great change of
gravity fallen upon his face, and I could have almost thought he was a
little pale.

“You are either very simple, or extremely the reverse, and I see that I
must deal with you more confidentially,” says he. “This is a political
case—ah, yes, Mr. Balfour! whether we like it or no, the case is
political—and I tremble when I think what issues may depend from it. To
a political case, I need scarce tell a young man of your education, we
approach with very different thoughts from one which is criminal only.
_Salus populi suprema lex_ is a maxim susceptible of great abuse, but
it has that force which we find elsewhere only in the laws of nature: I
mean it has the force of necessity. I will open this out to you, if you
will allow me, at more length. You would have me believe—”

“Under your pardon, my lord, I would have you to believe nothing but
that which I can prove,” said I.

“Tut! tut; young gentleman,” says he, “be not so pragmatical, and
suffer a man who might be your father (if it was nothing more) to
employ his own imperfect language, and express his own poor thoughts,
even when they have the misfortune not to coincide with Mr. Balfour’s.
You would have me to believe Breck innocent. I would think this of
little account, the more so as we cannot catch our man. But the matter
of Breck’s innocence shoots beyond itself. Once admitted, it would
destroy the whole presumptions of our case against another and a very
different criminal; a man grown old in treason, already twice in arms
against his king and already twice forgiven; a fomentor of discontent,
and (whoever may have fired the shot) the unmistakable original of the
deed in question. I need not tell you that I mean James Stewart.”

“And I can just say plainly that the innocence of Alan and of James is
what I am here to declare in private to your lordship, and what I am
prepared to establish at the trial by my testimony,” said I.

“To which I can only answer by an equal plainness, Mr. Balfour,” said
he, “that (in that case) your testimony will not be called by me, and I
desire you to withhold it altogether.”

“You are at the head of Justice in this country,” I cried, “and you
propose to me a crime!”

“I am a man nursing with both hands the interests of this country,” he
replied, “and I press on you a political necessity. Patriotism is not
always moral in the formal sense. You might be glad of it, I think: it
is your own protection; the facts are heavy against you; and if I am
still trying to except you from a very dangerous place, it is in part
of course because I am not insensible to your honesty in coming here;
in part because of Pilrig’s letter; but in part, and in chief part,
because I regard in this matter my political duty first and my judicial
duty only second. For the same reason—I repeat it to you in the same
frank words—I do not want your testimony.”

“I desire not to be thought to make a repartee, when I express only the
plain sense of our position,” said I. “But if your lordship has no need
of my testimony, I believe the other side would be extremely blythe to
get it.”

Prestongrange arose and began to pace to and fro in the room. “You are
not so young,” he said, “but what you must remember very clearly the
year ’45 and the shock that went about the country. I read in Pilrig’s
letter that you are sound in Kirk and State. Who saved them in that
fatal year? I do not refer to His Royal Highness and his ramrods, which
were extremely useful in their day; but the country had been saved and
the field won before ever Cumberland came upon Drummossie. Who saved
it? I repeat; who saved the Protestant religion and the whole frame of
our civil institutions? The late Lord President Culloden, for one; he
played a man’s part, and small thanks he got for it—even as I, whom you
see before you, straining every nerve in the same service, look for no
reward beyond the conscience of my duties done. After the President,
who else? You know the answer as well as I do; ’tis partly a scandal,
and you glanced at it yourself, and I reproved you for it, when you
first came in. It was the Duke and the great clan of Campbell. Now here
is a Campbell foully murdered, and that in the King’s service. The Duke
and I are Highlanders. But we are Highlanders civilised, and it is not
so with the great mass of our clans and families. They have still
savage virtues and defects. They are still barbarians, like these
Stewarts; only the Campbells were barbarians on the right side, and the
Stewarts were barbarians on the wrong. Now be you the judge. The
Campbells expect vengeance. If they do not get it—if this man James
escape—there will be trouble with the Campbells. That means disturbance
in the Highlands, which are uneasy and very far from being disarmed:
the disarming is a farce. . .”

“I can bear you out in that,” said I.

“Disturbance in the Highlands makes the hour of our old watchful
enemy,” pursued his lordship, holding out a finger as he paced; “and I
give you my word we may have a ’45 again with the Campbells on the
other side. To protect the life of this man Stewart—which is forfeit
already on half-a-dozen different counts if not on this—do you propose
to plunge your country in war, to jeopardise the faith of your fathers,
and to expose the lives and fortunes of how many thousand innocent
persons? . . . These are considerations that weigh with me, and that I
hope will weigh no less with yourself, Mr. Balfour, as a lover of your
country, good government, and religious truth.”

“You deal with me very frankly, and I thank you for it,” said I. “I
will try on my side to be no less honest. I believe your policy to be
sound. I believe these deep duties may lie upon your lordship; I
believe you may have laid them on your conscience when you took the
oath of the high office which you hold. But for me, who am just a plain
man—or scarce a man yet—the plain duties must suffice. I can think but
of two things, of a poor soul in the immediate and unjust danger of a
shameful death, and of the cries and tears of his wife that still
tingle in my head. I cannot see beyond, my lord. It’s the way that I am
made. If the country has to fall, it has to fall. And I pray God, if
this be wilful blindness, that He may enlighten me before too late.”

He had heard me motionless, and stood so a while longer.

“This is an unexpected obstacle,” says he, aloud, but to himself.

“And how is your lordship to dispose of me?” I asked.

“If I wished,” said he, “you know that you might sleep in gaol?”

“My lord,” said I, “I have slept in worse places.”

“Well, my boy,” said he, “there is one thing appears very plainly from
our interview, that I may rely on your pledged word. Give me your
honour that you will be wholly secret, not only on what has passed
to-night, but in the matter of the Appin case, and I let you go free.”

“I will give it till to-morrow or any other near day that you may
please to set,” said I. “I would not be thought too wily; but if I gave
the promise without qualification your lordship would have attained his
end.”

“I had no thought to entrap you,” said he.

“I am sure of that,” said I.

“Let me see,” he continued. “To-morrow is the Sabbath. Come to me on
Monday by eight in the morning, and give me your promise until then.”

“Freely given, my lord,” said I. “And with regard to what has fallen
from yourself, I will give it for an long as it shall please God to
spare your days.”

“You will observe,” he said next, “that I have made no employment of
menaces.”

“It was like your lordship’s nobility,” said I. “Yet I am not
altogether so dull but what I can perceive the nature of those you have
not uttered.”

“Well,” said he, “good-night to you. May you sleep well, for I think it
is more than I am like to do.”

With that he sighed, took up a candle, and gave me his conveyance as
far as the street door.




CHAPTER V.
IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE


The next day, Sabbath, August 27th, I had the occasion I had long
looked forward to, to hear some of the famous Edinburgh preachers, all
well known to me already by the report of Mr Campbell. Alas! and I
might just as well have been at Essendean, and sitting under Mr.
Campbell’s worthy self! the turmoil of my thoughts, which dwelt
continually on the interview with Prestongrange, inhibiting me from all
attention. I was indeed much less impressed by the reasoning of the
divines than by the spectacle of the thronged congregation in the
churches, like what I imagined of a theatre or (in my then disposition)
of an assize of trial; above all at the West Kirk, with its three tiers
of galleries, where I went in the vain hope that I might see Miss
Drummond.

On the Monday I betook me for the first time to a barber’s, and was
very well pleased with the result. Thence to the Advocate’s, where the
red coats of the soldiers showed again about his door, making a bright
place in the close. I looked about for the young lady and her gillies:
there was never a sign of them. But I was no sooner shown into the
cabinet or antechamber where I had spent so wearyful a time upon the
Saturday, than I was aware of the tall figure of James More in a
corner. He seemed a prey to a painful uneasiness, reaching forth his
feet and hands, and his eyes speeding here and there without rest about
the walls of the small chamber, which recalled to me with a sense of
pity the man’s wretched situation. I suppose it was partly this, and
partly my strong continuing interest in his daughter, that moved me to
accost him.

“Give you a good-morning, sir,” said I.

“And a good-morning to you, sir,” said he.

“You bide tryst with Prestongrange?” I asked.

“I do, sir, and I pray your business with that gentleman be more
agreeable than mine,” was his reply.

“I hope at least that yours will be brief, for I suppose you pass
before me,” said I.

“All pass before me,” he said, with a shrug and a gesture upward of the
open hands. “It was not always so, sir, but times change. It was not so
when the sword was in the scale, young gentleman, and the virtues of
the soldier might sustain themselves.”

There came a kind of Highland snuffle out of the man that raised my
dander strangely.

“Well, Mr. Macgregor,” said I, “I understand the main thing for a
soldier is to be silent, and the first of his virtues never to
complain.”

“You have my name, I perceive”—he bowed to me with his arms
crossed—“though it’s one I must not use myself. Well, there is a
publicity—I have shown my face and told my name too often in the beards
of my enemies. I must not wonder if both should be known to many that I
know not.”

“That you know not in the least, sir,” said I, “nor yet anybody else;
but the name I am called, if you care to hear it, is Balfour.”

“It is a good name,” he replied, civilly; “there are many decent folk
that use it. And now that I call to mind, there was a young gentleman,
your namesake, that marched surgeon in the year ’45 with my battalion.”

“I believe that would be a brother to Balfour of Baith,” said I, for I
was ready for the surgeon now.

“The same, sir,” said James More. “And since I have been fellow-soldier
with your kinsman, you must suffer me to grasp your hand.”

He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beaming on me the while as
though he had found a brother.

“Ah!” says he, “these are changed days since your cousin and I heard
the balls whistle in our lugs.”

“I think he was a very far-away cousin,” said I, drily, “and I ought to
tell you that I never clapped eyes upon the man.”

“Well, well,” said he, “it makes no change. And you—I do not think you
were out yourself, sir—I have no clear mind of your face, which is one
not probable to be forgotten.”

“In the year you refer to, Mr. Macgregor, I was getting skelped in the
parish school,” said I.

“So young!” cries he. “Ah, then, you will never be able to think what
this meeting is to me. In the hour of my adversity, and here in the
house of my enemy, to meet in with the blood of an old
brother-in-arms—it heartens me, Mr. Balfour, like the skirling of the
highland pipes! Sir, this is a sad look back that many of us have to
make: some with falling tears. I have lived in my own country like a
king; my sword, my mountains, and the faith of my friends and kinsmen
sufficed for me. Now I lie in a stinking dungeon; and do you know, Mr.
Balfour,” he went on, taking my arm and beginning to lead me about, “do
you know, sir, that I lack mere ne_cess_aries? The malice of my foes
has quite sequestered my resources. I lie, as you know, sir, on a
trumped-up charge, of which I am as innocent as yourself. They dare not
bring me to my trial, and in the meanwhile I am held naked in my
prison. I could have wished it was your cousin I had met, or his
brother Baith himself. Either would, I know, have been rejoiced to help
me; while a comparative stranger like yourself—”

I would be ashamed to set down all he poured out to me in this beggarly
vein, or the very short and grudging answers that I made to him. There
were times when I was tempted to stop his mouth with some small change;
but whether it was from shame or pride—whether it was for my own sake
or Catriona’s—whether it was because I thought him no fit father for
his daughter, or because I resented that grossness of immediate falsity
that clung about the man himself—the thing was clean beyond me. And I
was still being wheedled and preached to, and still being marched to
and fro, three steps and a turn, in that small chamber, and had
already, by some very short replies, highly incensed, although not
finally discouraged, my beggar, when Prestongrange appeared in the
doorway and bade me eagerly into his big chamber.

“I have a moment’s engagements,” said he; “and that you may not sit
empty-handed I am going to present you to my three braw daughters, of
whom perhaps you may have heard, for I think they are more famous than
papa. This way.”

He led me into another long room above, where a dry old lady sat at a
frame of embroidery, and the three handsomest young women (I suppose)
in Scotland stood together by a window.

“This is my new friend, Mr Balfour,” said he, presenting me by the arm,
“David, here is my sister, Miss Grant, who is so good as keep my house
for me, and will be very pleased if she can help you. And here,” says
he, turning to the three younger ladies, “here are my _three braw
dauchters_. A fair question to ye, Mr. Davie: which of the three is the
best favoured? And I wager he will never have the impudence to propound
honest Alan Ramsay’s answer!”

Hereupon all three, and the old Miss Grant as well, cried out against
this sally, which (as I was acquainted with the verses he referred to)
brought shame into my own check. It seemed to me a citation
unpardonable in a father, and I was amazed that these ladies could
laugh even while they reproved, or made believe to.

Under cover of this mirth, Prestongrange got forth of the chamber, and
I was left, like a fish upon dry land, in that very unsuitable society.
I could never deny, in looking back upon what followed, that I was
eminently stockish; and I must say the ladies were well drilled to have
so long a patience with me. The aunt indeed sat close at her
embroidery, only looking now and again and smiling; but the misses, and
especially the eldest, who was besides the most handsome, paid me a
score of attentions which I was very ill able to repay. It was all in
vain to tell myself I was a young follow of some worth as well as a
good estate, and had no call to feel abashed before these lasses, the
eldest not so much older than myself, and no one of them by any
probability half as learned. Reasoning would not change the fact; and
there were times when the colour came into my face to think I was
shaved that day for the first time.

The talk going, with all their endeavours, very heavily, the eldest
took pity on my awkwardness, sat down to her instrument, of which she
was a passed mistress, and entertained me for a while with playing and
singing, both in the Scots and in the Italian manners; this put me more
at my ease, and being reminded of Alan’s air that he had taught me in
the hole near Carriden, I made so bold as to whistle a bar or two, and
ask if she knew that.

She shook her head. “I never heard a note of it,” said she. “Whistle it
all through. And now once again,” she added, after I had done so.

Then she picked it out upon the keyboard, and (to my surprise)
instantly enriched the same with well-sounding chords, and sang, as she
played, with a very droll expression and broad accent—

“Haenae I got just the lilt of it?
Isnae this the tune that ye whustled?”


“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too, only it won’t rhyme. And
then again:

“I am Miss Grant, sib to the Advocate:
You, I believe, are Dauvit Balfour.”


I told her how much astonished I was by her genius.

“And what do you call the name of it?” she asked.

“I do not know the real name,” said I. “I just call it _Alan’s air_.”

She looked at me directly in the face. “I shall call it _David’s air_,”
said she; “though if it’s the least like what your namesake of Israel
played to Saul I would never wonder that the king got little good by
it, for it’s but melancholy music. Your other name I do not like; so if
you was ever wishing to hear your tune again you are to ask for it by
mine.”

This was said with a significance that gave my heart a jog. “Why that,
Miss Grant?” I asked.

“Why,” says she, “if ever you should come to get hanged, I will set
your last dying speech and confession to that tune and sing it.”

This put it beyond a doubt that she was partly informed of my story and
peril. How, or just how much, it was more difficult to guess. It was
plain she knew there was something of danger in the name of Alan, and
thus warned me to leave it out of reference; and plain she knew that I
stood under some criminal suspicion. I judged besides that the
harshness of her last speech (which besides she had followed up
immediately with a very noisy piece of music) was to put an end to the
present conversation. I stood beside her, affecting to listen and
admire, but truly whirled away by my own thoughts. I have always found
this young lady to be a lover of the mysterious; and certainly this
first interview made a mystery that was beyond my plummet. One thing I
learned long after, the hours of the Sunday had been well employed, the
bank porter had been found and examined, my visit to Charles Stewart
was discovered, and the deduction made that I was pretty deep with
James and Alan, and most likely in a continued correspondence with the
last. Hence this broad hint that was given me across the harpsichord.

In the midst of the piece of music, one of the younger misses, who was
at a window over the close, cried on her sisters to come quick, for
there was “_Grey eyes_ again.” The whole family trooped there at once,
and crowded one another for a look. The window whither they ran was in
an odd corner of that room, gave above the entrance door, and flanked
up the close.

“Come, Mr. Balfour,” they cried, “come and see. She is the most
beautiful creature! She hangs round the close-head these last days,
always with some wretched-like gillies, and yet seems quite a lady.”

I had no need to look; neither did I look twice, or long. I was afraid
she might have seen me there, looking down upon her from that chamber
of music, and she without, and her father in the same house, perhaps
begging for his life with tears, and myself come but newly from
rejecting his petitions. But even that glance set me in a better
conceit of myself and much less awe of the young ladies. They were
beautiful, that was beyond question, but Catriona was beautiful too,
and had a kind of brightness in her like a coal of fire. As much as the
others cast me down, she lifted me up. I remembered I had talked easily
with her. If I could make no hand of it with these fine maids, it was
perhaps something their own fault. My embarrassment began to be a
little mingled and lightened with a sense of fun; and when the aunt
smiled at me from her embroidery, and the three daughters unbent to me
like a baby, all with “papa’s orders” written on their faces, there
were times when I could have found it in my heart to smile myself.

Presently papa returned, the same kind, happy-like, pleasant-spoken
man.

“Now, girls,” said he, “I must take Mr. Balfour away again; but I hope
you have been able to persuade him to return where I shall be always
gratified to find him.”

So they each made me a little farthing compliment, and I was led away.

If this visit to the family had been meant to soften my resistance, it
was the worst of failures. I was no such ass but what I understood how
poor a figure I had made, and that the girls would be yawning their
jaws off as soon as my stiff back was turned. I felt I had shown how
little I had in me of what was soft and graceful; and I longed for a
chance to prove that I had something of the other stuff, the stern and
dangerous.

Well, I was to be served to my desire, for the scene to which he was
conducting me was of a different character.




CHAPTER VI.
UMQUILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT


There was a man waiting us in Prestongrange’s study, whom I distasted
at the first look, as we distaste a ferret or an earwig. He was bitter
ugly, but seemed very much of a gentleman; had still manners, but
capable of sudden leaps and violences; and a small voice, which could
ring out shrill and dangerous when he so desired.

The Advocate presented us in a familiar, friendly way.

“Here, Fraser,” said he, “here is Mr. Balfour whom we talked about. Mr.
David, this is Mr. Simon Fraser, whom we used to call by another title,
but that is an old song. Mr. Fraser has an errand to you.”

With that he stepped aside to his book-shelves, and made believe to
consult a quarto volume in the far end.

I was thus left (in a sense) alone with perhaps the last person in the
world I had expected. There was no doubt upon the terms of
introduction; this could be no other than the forfeited Master of Lovat
and chief of the great clan Fraser. I knew he had led his men in the
Rebellion; I knew his father’s head—my old lord’s, that grey fox of the
mountains—to have fallen on the block for that offence, the lands of
the family to have been seized, and their nobility attainted. I could
not conceive what he should be doing in Grant’s house; I could not
conceive that he had been called to the bar, had eaten all his
principles, and was now currying favour with the Government even to the
extent of acting Advocate-Depute in the Appin murder.

“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all this I hear of ye?”

“It would not become me to prejudge,” said I, “but if the Advocate was
your authority he is fully possessed of my opinions.”

“I may tell you I am engaged in the Appin case,” he went on; “I am to
appear under Prestongrange; and from my study of the precognitions I
can assure you your opinions are erroneous. The guilt of Breck is
manifest; and your testimony, in which you admit you saw him on the
hill at the very moment, will certify his hanging.”

“It will be rather ill to hang him till you catch him,” I observed.
“And for other matters I very willingly leave you to your own
impressions.”

“The Duke has been informed,” he went on. “I have just come from his
Grace, and he expressed himself before me with an honest freedom like
the great nobleman he is. He spoke of you by name, Mr. Balfour, and
declared his gratitude beforehand in case you would be led by those who
understand your own interests and those of the country so much better
than yourself. Gratitude is no empty expression in that mouth:
_experto-crede_. I daresay you know something of my name and clan, and
the damnable example and lamented end of my late father, to say nothing
of my own errata. Well, I have made my peace with that good Duke; he
has intervened for me with our friend Prestongrange; and here I am with
my foot in the stirrup again and some of the responsibility shared into
my hand of prosecuting King George’s enemies and avenging the late
daring and barefaced insult to his Majesty.”

“Doubtless a proud position for your father’s son,” says I.

He wagged his bald eyebrows at me. “You are pleased to make experiments
in the ironical, I think,” said he. “But I am here upon duty, I am here
to discharge my errand in good faith, it is in vain you think to divert
me. And let me tell you, for a young fellow of spirit and ambition like
yourself, a good shove in the beginning will do more than ten years’
drudgery. The shove is now at your command; choose what you will to be
advanced in, the Duke will watch upon you with the affectionate
disposition of a father.”

“I am thinking that I lack the docility of the son,” says I.

“And do you really suppose, sir, that the whole policy of this country
is to be suffered to trip up and tumble down for an ill-mannered colt
of a boy?” he cried. “This has been made a test case, all who would
prosper in the future must put a shoulder to the wheel. Look at me! Do
you suppose it is for my pleasure that I put myself in the highly
invidious position of persecuting a man that I have drawn the sword
alongside of? The choice is not left me.”

“But I think, sir, that you forfeited your choice when you mixed in
with that unnatural rebellion,” I remarked. “My case is happily
otherwise; I am a true man, and can look either the Duke or King George
in the face without concern.”

“Is it so the wind sits?” says he. “I protest you are fallen in the
worst sort of error. Prestongrange has been hitherto so civil (he tells
me) as not to combat your allegations; but you must not think they are
not looked upon with strong suspicion. You say you are innocent. My
dear sir, the facts declare you guilty.”

“I was waiting for you there,” said I.

“The evidence of Mungo Campbell; your flight after the completion of
the murder; your long course of secresy—my good young man!” said Mr.
Simon, “here is enough evidence to hang a bullock, let be a David
Balfour! I shall be upon that trial; my voice shall be raised; I shall
then speak much otherwise from what I do to-day, and far less to your
gratification, little as you like it now! Ah, you look white!” cries
he. “I have found the key of your impudent heart. You look pale, your
eyes waver, Mr. David! You see the grave and the gallows nearer by than
you had fancied.”

“I own to a natural weakness,” said I. “I think no shame for that.
Shame. . .” I was going on.

“Shame waits for you on the gibbet,” he broke in.

“Where I shall but be even’d with my lord your father,” said I.

“Aha, but not so!” he cried, “and you do not yet see to the bottom of
this business. My father suffered in a great cause, and for dealing in
the affairs of kings. You are to hang for a dirty murder about
boddle-pieces. Your personal part in it, the treacherous one of holding
the poor wretch in talk, your accomplices a pack of ragged Highland
gillies. And it can be shown, my great Mr. Balfour—it can be shown, and
it _will_ be shown, trust _me_ that has a finger in the pie—it can be
shown, and shall be shown, that you were paid to do it. I think I can
see the looks go round the court when I adduce my evidence, and it
shall appear that you, a young man of education, let yourself be
corrupted to this shocking act for a suit of cast clothes, a bottle of
Highland spirits, and three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in copper money.”

There was a touch of the truth in these words that knocked me like a
blow: clothes, a bottle of _usquebaugh_, and
three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in change made up, indeed, the most of
what Alan and I had carried from Auchurn; and I saw that some of
James’s people had been blabbing in their dungeons.

“You see I know more than you fancied,” he resumed in triumph. “And as
for giving it this turn, great Mr. David, you must not suppose the
Government of Great Britain and Ireland will ever be stuck for want of
evidence. We have men here in prison who will swear out their lives as
we direct them; as I direct, if you prefer the phrase. So now you are
to guess your part of glory if you choose to die. On the one hand,
life, wine, women, and a duke to be your handgun: on the other, a rope
to your craig, and a gibbet to clatter your bones on, and the lousiest,
lowest story to hand down to your namesakes in the future that was ever
told about a hired assassin. And see here!” he cried, with a formidable
shrill voice, “see this paper that I pull out of my pocket. Look at the
name there: it is the name of the great David, I believe, the ink
scarce dry yet. Can you guess its nature? It is the warrant for your
arrest, which I have but to touch this bell beside me to have executed
on the spot. Once in the Tolbooth upon this paper, may God help you,
for the die is cast!”

I must never deny that I was greatly horrified by so much baseness, and
much unmanned by the immediacy and ugliness of my danger. Mr. Simon had
already gloried in the changes of my hue; I make no doubt I was now no
ruddier than my shirt; my speech besides trembled.

“There is a gentleman in this room,” cried I. “I appeal to him. I put
my life and credit in his hands.”

Prestongrange shut his book with a snap. “I told you so, Simon,” said
he; “you have played your hand for all it was worth, and you have lost.
Mr. David,” he went on, “I wish you to believe it was by no choice of
mine you were subjected to this proof. I wish you could understand how
glad I am you should come forth from it with so much credit. You may
not quite see how, but it is a little of a service to myself. For had
our friend here been more successful than I was last night, it might
have appeared that he was a better judge of men than I; it might have
appeared we were altogether in the wrong situations, Mr. Simon and
myself. And I know our friend Simon to be ambitious,” says he, striking
lightly on Fraser’s shoulder. “As for this stage play, it is over; my
sentiments are very much engaged in your behalf; and whatever issue we
can find to this unfortunate affair, I shall make it my business to see
it is adopted with tenderness to you.”

These were very good words, and I could see besides that there was
little love, and perhaps a spice of genuine ill-will, between these two
who were opposed to me. For all that, it was unmistakable this
interview had been designed, perhaps rehearsed, with the consent of
both; it was plain my adversaries were in earnest to try me by all
methods; and now (persuasion, flattery, and menaces having been tried
in vain) I could not but wonder what would be their next expedient. My
eyes besides were still troubled, and my knees loose under me, with the
distress of the late ordeal; and I could do no more than stammer the
same form of words: “I put my life and credit in your hands.”

“Well, well,” said he, “we must try to save them. And in the meanwhile
let us return to gentler methods. You must not bear any grudge upon my
friend, Mr. Simon, who did but speak by his brief. And even if you did
conceive some malice against myself, who stood by and seemed rather to
hold a candle, I must not let that extend to innocent members of my
family. These are greatly engaged to see more of you, and I cannot
consent to have my young womenfolk disappointed. To-morrow they will be
going to Hope Park, where I think it very proper you should make your
bow. Call for me first, when I may possibly have something for your
private hearing; then you shall be turned abroad again under the
conduct of my misses; and until that time repeat to me your promise of
secrecy.”

I had done better to have instantly refused, but in truth I was beside
the power of reasoning; did as I was bid; took my leave I know not how;
and when I was forth again in the close, and the door had shut behind
me, was glad to lean on a house wall and wipe my face. That horrid
apparition (as I may call it) of Mr. Simon rang in my memory, as a
sudden noise rings after it is over in the ear. Tales of the man’s
father, of his falseness, of his manifold perpetual treacheries, rose
before me from all that I had heard and read, and joined on with what I
had just experienced of himself. Each time it occurred to me, the
ingenious foulness of that calumny he had proposed to nail upon my
character startled me afresh. The case of the man upon the gibbet by
Leith Walk appeared scarce distinguishable from that I was now to
consider as my own. To rob a child of so little more than nothing was
certainly a paltry enterprise for two grown men; but my own tale, as it
was to be represented in a court by Simon Fraser, appeared a fair
second in every possible point of view of sordidness and cowardice.

The voices of two of Prestongrange’s liveried men upon his doorstep
recalled me to myself.

“Ha’e,” said the one, “this billet as fast as ye can link to the
captain.”

“Is that for the cateran back again?” asked the other.

“It would seem sae,” returned the first. “Him and Simon are seeking
him.”

“I think Prestongrange is gane gyte,” says the second. “He’ll have
James More in bed with him next.”

“Weel, it’s neither your affair nor mine’s,” said the first.

And they parted, the one upon his errand, and the other back into the
house.

This looked as ill as possible. I was scarce gone and they were sending
already for James More, to whom I thought Mr. Simon must have pointed
when he spoke of men in prison and ready to redeem their lives by all
extremities. My scalp curdled among my hair, and the next moment the
blood leaped in me to remember Catriona. Poor lass! her father stood to
be hanged for pretty indefensible misconduct. What was yet more
unpalatable, it now seemed he was prepared to save his four quarters by
the worst of shame and the most foul of cowardly murders—murder by the
false oath; and to complete our misfortunes, it seemed myself was
picked out to be the victim.

I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscious only of a desire for
movement, air, and the open country.




CHAPTER VII.
I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR


I came forth, I vow I know not how, on the _Lang Dykes_ [12]. This is a
rural road which runs on the north side over against the city. Thence I
could see the whole black length of it tail down, from where the castle
stands upon its crags above the loch in a long line of spires and gable
ends, and smoking chimneys, and at the sight my heart swelled in my
bosom. My youth, as I have told, was already inured to dangers; but
such danger as I had seen the face of but that morning, in the midst of
what they call the safety of a town, shook me beyond experience. Peril
of slavery, peril of shipwreck, peril of sword and shot, I had stood
all of these without discredit; but the peril there was in the sharp
voice and the fat face of Simon, properly Lord Lovat, daunted me
wholly.

I sat by the lake side in a place where the rushes went down into the
water, and there steeped my wrists and laved my temples. If I could
have done so with any remains of self-esteem, I would now have fled
from my foolhardy enterprise. But (call it courage or cowardice, and I
believe it was both the one and the other) I decided I was ventured out
beyond the possibility of a retreat. I had out-faced these men, I would
continue to out-face them; come what might, I would stand by the word
spoken.

The sense of my own constancy somewhat uplifted my spirits, but not
much. At the best of it there was an icy place about my heart, and life
seemed a black business to be at all engaged in. For two souls in
particular my pity flowed. The one was myself, to be so friendless and
lost among dangers. The other was the girl, the daughter of James More.
I had seen but little of her; yet my view was taken and my judgment
made. I thought her a lass of a clean honour, like a man’s; I thought
her one to die of a disgrace; and now I believed her father to be at
that moment bargaining his vile life for mine. It made a bond in my
thoughts betwixt the girl and me. I had seen her before only as a
wayside appearance, though one that pleased me strangely; I saw her now
in a sudden nearness of relation, as the daughter of my blood foe, and
I might say, my murderer. I reflected it was hard I should be so
plagued and persecuted all my days for other folks’ affairs, and have
no manner of pleasure myself. I got meals and a bed to sleep in when my
concerns would suffer it; beyond that my wealth was of no help to me.
If I was to hang, my days were like to be short; if I was not to hang
but to escape out of this trouble, they might yet seem long to me ere I
was done with them. Of a sudden her face appeared in my memory, the way
I had first seen it, with the parted lips; at that, weakness came in my
bosom and strength into my legs; and I set resolutely forward on the
way to Dean. If I was to hang to-morrow, and it was sure enough I might
very likely sleep that night in a dungeon, I determined I should hear
and speak once more with Catriona.

The exercise of walking and the thought of my destination braced me yet
more, so that I began to pluck up a kind of spirit. In the village of
Dean, where it sits in the bottom of a glen beside the river, I
inquired my way of a miller’s man, who sent me up the hill upon the
farther side by a plain path, and so to a decent-like small house in a
garden of lawns and apple-trees. My heart beat high as I stepped inside
the garden hedge, but it fell low indeed when I came face to face with
a grim and fierce old lady, walking there in a white mutch with a man’s
hat strapped upon the top of it.

“What do ye come seeking here?” she asked.

I told her I was after Miss Drummond.

“And what may be your business with Miss Drummond?” says she.

I told her I had met her on Saturday last, had been so fortunate as to
render her a trifling service, and was come now on the young lady’s
invitation.

“O, so you’re Saxpence!” she cried, with a very sneering manner. “A
braw gift, a bonny gentleman. And hae ye ony ither name and
designation, or were ye bapteesed Saxpence?” she asked.

I told my name.

“Preserve me!” she cried. “Has Ebenezer gotten a son?”

“No, ma’am,” said I. “I am a son of Alexander’s. It’s I that am the
Laird of Shaws.”

“Ye’ll find your work cut out for ye to establish that,” quoth she.

“I perceive you know my uncle,” said I; “and I daresay you may be the
better pleased to hear that business is arranged.”

“And what brings ye here after Miss Drummond?” she pursued.

“I’m come after my saxpence, mem,” said I. “It’s to be thought, being
my uncle’s nephew, I would be found a careful lad.”

“So ye have a spark of sleeness in ye?” observed the old lady, with
some approval. “I thought ye had just been a cuif—you and your
saxpence, and your _lucky day_ and your _sake of Balwhidder_”—from
which I was gratified to learn that Catriona had not forgotten some of
our talk. “But all this is by the purpose,” she resumed. “Am I to
understand that ye come here keeping company?”

“This is surely rather an early question,” said I. “The maid is young,
so am I, worse fortune. I have but seen her the once. I’ll not deny,” I
added, making up my mind to try her with some frankness, “I’ll not deny
but she has run in my head a good deal since I met in with her. That is
one thing; but it would be quite another, and I think I would look very
like a fool, to commit myself.”

“You can speak out of your mouth, I see,” said the old lady. “Praise
God, and so can I! I was fool enough to take charge of this rogue’s
daughter: a fine charge I have gotten; but it’s mine, and I’ll carry it
the way I want to. Do ye mean to tell me, Mr. Balfour of Shaws, that
you would marry James More’s daughter, and him hanged! Well, then,
where there’s no possible marriage there shall be no manner of
carryings on, and take that for said. Lasses are bruckle things,” she
added, with a nod; “and though ye would never think it by my wrunkled
chafts, I was a lassie mysel’, and a bonny one.”

“Lady Allardyce,” said I, “for that I suppose to be your name, you seem
to do the two sides of the talking, which is a very poor manner to come
to an agreement. You give me rather a home thrust when you ask if I
would marry, at the gallow’s foot, a young lady whom I have seen but
once. I have told you already I would never be so untenty as to commit
myself. And yet I’ll go some way with you. If I continue to like the
lass as well as I have reason to expect, it will be something more than
her father, or the gallows either, that keeps the two of us apart. As
for my family, I found it by the wayside like a lost bawbee! I owe less
than nothing to my uncle and if ever I marry, it will be to please one
person: that’s myself.”

“I have heard this kind of talk before ye were born,” said Mrs. Ogilvy,
“which is perhaps the reason that I think of it so little. There’s much
to be considered. This James More is a kinsman of mine, to my shame be
it spoken. But the better the family, the mair men hanged or headed,
that’s always been poor Scotland’s story. And if it was just the
hanging! For my part I think I would be best pleased with James upon
the gallows, which would be at least an end to him. Catrine’s a good
lass enough, and a good-hearted, and lets herself be deaved all day
with a runt of an auld wife like me. But, ye see, there’s the weak bit.
She’s daft about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father of
hers, and red-mad about the Gregara, and proscribed names, and King
James, and a wheen blethers. And you might think ye could guide her, ye
would find yourself sore mista’en. Ye say ye’ve seen her but the once.
. .”

“Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” I interrupted. “I
saw her again this morning from a window at Prestongrange’s.”

This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but I was properly
paid for my ostentation on the return.

“What’s this of it?” cries the old lady, with a sudden pucker of her
face. “I think it was at the Advocate’s door-cheek that ye met her
first.”

I told her that was so.

“H’m,” she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding tone, “I
have your bare word for it,” she cries, “as to who and what you are. By
your way of it, you’re Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken you may
be Balfour of the Deevil’s oxter. It’s possible ye may come here for
what ye say, and it’s equally possible ye may come here for deil care
what! I’m good enough Whig to sit quiet, and to have keepit all my
men-folk’s heads upon their shoulders. But I’m not just a good enough
Whig to be made a fool of neither. And I tell you fairly, there’s too
much Advocate’s door and Advocate’s window here for a man that comes
taigling after a Macgregor’s daughter. Ye can tell that to the Advocate
that sent ye, with my fond love. And I kiss my loof to ye, Mr.
Balfour,” says she, suiting the action to the word; “and a braw journey
to ye back to where ye cam frae.”

“If you think me a spy,” I broke out, and speech stuck in my throat. I
stood and looked murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed and
turned away.

“Here! Hoots! The callant’s in a creel!” she cried. “Think ye a spy?
what else would I think ye—me that kens naething by ye? But I see that
I was wrong; and as I cannot fight, I’ll have to apologise. A bonny
figure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!” she went on, “you’re none
such a bad lad in your way; I think ye’ll have some redeeming vices.
But, O! Davit Balfour, ye’re damned countryfeed. Ye’ll have to win over
that, lad; ye’ll have to soople your back-bone, and think a wee pickle
less of your dainty self; and ye’ll have to try to find out that
women-folk are nae grenadiers. But that can never be. To your last day
you’ll ken no more of women-folk than what I do of sow-gelding.”

I had never been used with such expressions from a lady’s tongue, the
only two ladies I had known, Mrs. Campbell and my mother, being most
devout and most particular women; and I suppose my amazement must have
been depicted in my countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy burst forth suddenly
in a fit of laughter.

“Keep me!” she cried, struggling with her mirth, “you have the finest
timber face—and you to marry the daughter of a Hieland cateran! Davie,
my dear, I think we’ll have to make a match of it—if it was just to see
the weans. And now,” she went on, “there’s no manner of service in your
daidling here, for the young woman is from home, and it’s my fear that
the old woman is no suitable companion for your father’s son. Forbye
that I have nobody but myself to look after my reputation, and have
been long enough alone with a sedooctive youth. And come back another
day for your saxpence!” she cried after me as I left.

My skirmish with this disconcerting lady gave my thoughts a boldness
they had otherwise wanted. For two days the image of Catriona had mixed
in all my meditations; she made their background, so that I scarce
enjoyed my own company without a glint of her in a corner of my mind.
But now she came immediately near; I seemed to touch her, whom I had
never touched but the once; I let myself flow out to her in a happy
weakness, and looking all about, and before and behind, saw the world
like an undesirable desert, where men go as soldiers on a march,
following their duty with what constancy they have, and Catriona alone
there to offer me some pleasure of my days. I wondered at myself that I
could dwell on such considerations in that time of my peril and
disgrace; and when I remembered my youth I was ashamed. I had my
studies to complete: I had to be called into some useful business; I
had yet to take my part of service in a place where all must serve; I
had yet to learn, and know, and prove myself a man; and I had so much
sense as blush that I should be already tempted with these further-on
and holier delights and duties. My education spoke home to me sharply;
I was never brought up on sugar biscuits but on the hard food of the
truth. I knew that he was quite unfit to be a husband who was not
prepared to be a father also; and for a boy like me to play the father
was a mere derision.

When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about half-way back to
town I saw a figure coming to meet me, and the trouble of my heart was
heightened. It seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, but
nothing to say first; and remembering how tongue-tied I had been that
morning at the Advocate’s I made sure that I would find myself struck
dumb. But when she came up my fears fled away; not even the
consciousness of what I had been privately thinking disconcerted me the
least; and I found I could talk with her as easily and rationally as I
might with Alan.

“O!” she cried, “you have been seeking your sixpence; did you get it?”

I told her no; but now I had met with her my walk was not in vain.
“Though I have seen you to-day already,” said I, and told her where and
when.

“I did not see you,” she said. “My eyes are big, but there are better
than mine at seeing far. Only I heard singing in the house.”

“That was Miss Grant,” said I, “the eldest and the bonniest.”

“They say they are all beautiful,” said she.

“They think the same of you, Miss Drummond,” I replied, “and were all
crowding to the window to observe you.”

“It is a pity about my being so blind,” said she, “or I might have seen
them too. And you were in the house? You must have been having the fine
time with the fine music and the pretty ladies.”

“There is just where you are wrong,” said I; “for I was as uncouth as a
sea-fish upon the brae of a mountain. The truth is that I am better
fitted to go about with rudas men than pretty ladies.”

“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, at which we both
of us laughed.

“It is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the least afraid with
you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of
your cousin too.”

“O, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. “My father is
afraid of her himself.”

The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she
walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the
much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like
a traitor to be silent.

“Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no later than this
morning.”

“Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me.
“You saw James More? You will have spoken with him then?”

“I did even that,” said I.

Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly
possible. She gave me a look of mere gratitude. “Ah, thank you for
that!” says she.

“You thank me for very little,” said I, and then stopped. But it seemed
when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. “I
spoke rather ill to him,” said I; “I did no like him very much; I spoke
him rather ill, and he was angry.”

“I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his
daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do not love and cherish him I
will not know.”

“I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to tremble.
“Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at
Prestongrange’s. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for
it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the
first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my
opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.”

“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and
he is much made up to you for your sorrow.”

“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world.”

“And I am not wondering at that,” said she.

“O, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the once, and then leave
you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word
that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I
knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to
lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you
see the truth of my heart shine out?”

“I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” said she. “I think
we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk.”

“O, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, “I cannae bear it
else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through
with my dreadful fate? If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot
do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.”

She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my
words or the tone of my voice she came to a stop. “What is this you
say?” she asked. “What are you talking of?”

“It is my testimony which may save an innocent life,” said I, “and they
will not suffer me to bear it. What would you do yourself? You know
what this is, whose father lies in danger. Would you desert the poor
soul? They have tried all ways with me. They have sought to bribe me;
they offered me hills and valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me
how I stood, and to what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace
me. I am to be brought in a party to the murder; I am to have held
Glenure in talk for money and old clothes; I am to be killed and
shamed. If this is the way I am to fall, and me scarce a man—if this is
the story to be told of me in all Scotland—if you are to believe it
too, and my name is to be nothing but a by-word—Catriona, how can I go
through with it? The thing’s not possible; it’s more than a man has in
his heart.”

I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the other; and when I
stopped I found her gazing on me with a startled face.

“Glenure! It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, but with a very
deep surprise.

I had turned back to bear her company, and we were now come near the
head of the brae above Dean village. At this word I stepped in front of
her like one suddenly distracted.

“For God’s sake!” I cried, “for God’s sake, what is this that I have
done?” and carried my fists to my temples. “What made me do it? Sure, I
am bewitched to say these things!”

“In the name of heaven, what ails you now!” she cried.

“I gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my honour and now I have broke
it. O, Catriona!”

“I am asking you what it is,” she said; “was it these things you should
not have spoken? And do you think I have no honour, then? or that I am
one that would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to you and
swear.”

“O, I knew you would be true!” said I. “It’s me—it’s here. I that stood
but this morning and out-faced them, that risked rather to die
disgraced upon the gallows than do wrong—and a few hours after I throw
my honour away by the roadside in common talk! ‘There is one thing
clear upon our interview,’ says he, ‘that I can rely on your pledged
word.’ Where is my word now? Who could believe me now? You could not
believe me. I am clean fallen down; I had best die!” All this I said
with a weeping voice, but I had no tears in my body.

“My heart is sore for you,” said she, “but be sure you are too nice. I
would not believe you, do you say? I would trust you with anything. And
these men? I would not be thinking of them! Men who go about to entrap
and to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to crouch. Look up! Do you not
think I will be admiring you like a great hero of the good—and you a
boy not much older than myself? And because you said a word too much in
a friend’s ear, that would die ere she betrayed you—to make such a
matter! It is one thing that we must both forget.”

“Catriona,” said I, looking at her, hang-dog, “is this true of it?
Would ye trust me yet?”

“Will you not believe the tears upon my face?” she cried. “It is the
world I am thinking of you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them hang you; I
will never forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it
is great to die so: I will envy you that gallows.”

“And maybe all this while I am but a child frighted with bogles,” said
I. “Maybe they but make a mock of me.”

“It is what I must know,” she said. “I must hear the whole. The harm is
done at all events, and I must hear the whole.”

I had sat down on the wayside, where she took a place beside me, and I
told her all that matter much as I have written it, my thoughts about
her father’s dealings being alone omitted.

“Well,” she said, when I had finished, “you are a hero, surely, and I
never would have thought that same! And I think you are in peril, too.
O, Simon Fraser! to think upon that man! For his life and the dirty
money, to be dealing in such traffic!” And just then she called out
aloud with a queer word that was common with her, and belongs, I
believe, to her own language. “My torture!” says she, “look at the
sun!”

Indeed, it was already dipping towards the mountains.

She bid me come again soon, gave me her hand, and left me in a turmoil
of glad spirits. I delayed to go home to my lodging, for I had a terror
of immediate arrest; but got some supper at a change house, and the
better part of that night walked by myself in the barley-fields, and
had such a sense of Catriona’s presence that I seemed to bear her in my
arms.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE BRAVO


The next day, August 29th, I kept my appointment at the Advocate’s in a
coat that I had made to my own measure, and was but newly ready.

“Aha,” says Prestongrange, “you are very fine to-day; my misses are to
have a fine cavalier. Come, I take that kind of you. I take that kind
of you, Mr. David. O, we shall do very well yet, and I believe your
troubles are nearly at an end.”

“You have news for me?” cried I.

“Beyond anticipation,” he replied. “Your testimony is after all to be
received; and you may go, if you will, in my company to the trial,
which in to be held at Inverary, Thursday, 21st _proximo_.”

I was too much amazed to find words.

“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “though I will not ask you to renew
your pledge, I must caution you strictly to be reticent. To-morrow your
precognition must be taken; and outside of that, do you know, I think
least said will be soonest mended.”

“I shall try to go discreetly,” said I. “I believe it is yourself that
I must thank for this crowning mercy, and I do thank you gratefully.
After yesterday, my lord, this is like the doors of Heaven. I cannot
find it in my heart to get the thing believed.”

“Ah, but you must try and manage, you must try and manage to believe
it,” says he, soothing-like, “and I am very glad to hear your
acknowledgment of obligation, for I think you may be able to repay me
very shortly”—he coughed—“or even now. The matter is much changed. Your
testimony, which I shall not trouble you for to-day, will doubtless
alter the complexion of the case for all concerned, and this makes it
less delicate for me to enter with you on a side issue.”

“My Lord,” I interrupted, “excuse me for interrupting you, but how has
this been brought about? The obstacles you told me of on Saturday
appeared even to me to be quite insurmountable; how has it been
contrived?”

“My dear Mr. David,” said he, “it would never do for me to divulge
(even to you, as you say) the councils of the Government; and you must
content yourself, if you please, with the gross fact.”

He smiled upon me like a father as he spoke, playing the while with a
new pen; methought it was impossible there could be any shadow of
deception in the man: yet when he drew to him a sheet of paper, dipped
his pen among the ink, and began again to address me, I was somehow not
so certain, and fell instinctively into an attitude of guard.

“There is a point I wish to touch upon,” he began. “I purposely left it
before upon one side, which need be now no longer necessary. This is
not, of course, a part of your examination, which is to follow by
another hand; this is a private interest of my own. You say you
encountered Alan Breck upon the hill?”

“I did, my lord,” said I.

“This was immediately after the murder?”

“It was.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I did.”

“You had known him before, I think?” says my lord, carelessly.

“I cannot guess your reason for so thinking, my lord,” I replied, “but
such in the fact.”

“And when did you part with him again?” said he.

“I reserve my answer,” said I. “The question will be put to me at the
assize.”

“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “will you not understand that all this is
without prejudice to yourself? I have promised you life and honour;
and, believe me, I can keep my word. You are therefore clear of all
anxiety. Alan, it appears, you suppose you can protect; and you talk to
me of your gratitude, which I think (if you push me) is not
ill-deserved. There are a great many different considerations all
pointing the same way; and I will never be persuaded that you could not
help us (if you chose) to put salt on Alan’s tail.”

“My lord,” said I, “I give you my word I do not so much as guess where
Alan is.”

He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” he asked.

I sat before him like a log of wood.

“And so much for your gratitude, Mr. David!” he observed. Again there
was a piece of silence. “Well,” said he, rising, “I am not fortunate,
and we are a couple at cross purposes. Let us speak of it no more; you
will receive notice when, where, and by whom, we are to take your
precognition. And in the meantime, my misses must be waiting you. They
will never forgive me if I detain their cavalier.”

Into the hands of these Graces I was accordingly offered up, and found
them dressed beyond what I had thought possible, and looking fair as a
posy.

As we went forth from the doors a small circumstance occurred which
came afterwards to look extremely big. I heard a whistle sound loud and
brief like a signal, and looking all about, spied for one moment the
red head of Neil of the Tom, the son of Duncan. The next moment he was
gone again, nor could I see so much as the skirt-tail of Catriona, upon
whom I naturally supposed him to be then attending.

My three keepers led me out by Bristo and the Bruntsfield Links; whence
a path carried us to Hope Park, a beautiful pleasance, laid with
gravel-walks, furnished with seats and summer-sheds, and warded by a
keeper. The way there was a little longsome; the two younger misses
affected an air of genteel weariness that damped me cruelly, the eldest
considered me with something that at times appeared like mirth; and
though I thought I did myself more justice than the day before, it was
not without some effort. Upon our reaching the park I was launched on a
bevy of eight or ten young gentlemen (some of them cockaded officers,
the rest chiefly advocates) who crowded to attend upon these beauties;
and though I was presented to all of them in very good words, it seemed
I was by all immediately forgotten. Young folk in a company are like to
savage animals: they fall upon or scorn a stranger without civility, or
I may say, humanity; and I am sure, if I had been among baboons, they
would have shown me quite as much of both. Some of the advocates set up
to be wits, and some of the soldiers to be rattles; and I could not
tell which of these extremes annoyed me most. All had a manner of
handling their swords and coat-skirts, for the which (in mere black
envy) I could have kicked them from the park. I daresay, upon their
side, they grudged me extremely the fine company in which I had
arrived; and altogether I had soon fallen behind, and stepped stiffly
in the rear of all that merriment with my own thoughts.

From these I was recalled by one of the officers, Lieutenant Hector
Duncansby, a gawky, leering Highland boy, asking if my name was not
“Palfour.”

I told him it was, not very kindly, for his manner was scant civil.

“Ha, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it, “Palfour, Palfour!”

“I am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” says I, annoyed with myself
to be annoyed with such a rustical fellow.

“No,” says he, “but I wass thinking.”

“I would not advise you to make a practice of that, sir,” says I. “I
feel sure you would not find it to agree with you.”

“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the tangs?” said he.

I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he answered, with a
heckling laugh, that he thought I must have found the poker in the same
place and swallowed it.

There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek burned.

“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” said I, “I think I
would learn the English language first.”

He took me by the sleeve with a nod and a wink and led me quietly
outside Hope Park. But no sooner were we beyond the view of the
promenaders, than the fashion of his countenance changed. “You tam
lowland scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the jaw with his
closed fist.

I paid him as good or better on the return; whereupon he stepped a
little back and took off his hat to me decorously.

“Enough plows I think,” says he. “I will be the offended shentleman,
for who effer heard of such suffeeciency as tell a shentlemans that is
the king’s officer he cannae speak Cot’s English? We have swords at our
hurdles, and here is the King’s Park at hand. Will ye walk first, or
let me show ye the way?”

I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed him. As he went
I heard him grumble to himself about _Cot’s English_ and the _King’s
coat_, so that I might have supposed him to be seriously offended. But
his manner at the beginning of our interview was there to belie him. It
was manifest he had come prepared to fasten a quarrel on me, right or
wrong; manifest that I was taken in a fresh contrivance of my enemies;
and to me (conscious as I was of my deficiencies) manifest enough that
I should be the one to fall in our encounter.

As we came into that rough rocky desert of the King’s Park I was
tempted half-a-dozen times to take to my heels and run for it, so loath
was I to show my ignorance in fencing, and so much averse to die or
even to be wounded. But I considered if their malice went as far as
this, it would likely stick at nothing; and that to fall by the sword,
however ungracefully, was still an improvement on the gallows. I
considered besides that by the unguarded pertness of my words and the
quickness of my blow I had put myself quite out of court; and that even
if I ran, my adversary would probably pursue and catch me, which would
add disgrace to my misfortune. So that, taking all in all, I continued
marching behind him, much as a man follows the hangman, and certainly
with no more hope.

We went about the end of the long craigs, and came into the Hunter’s
Bog. Here, on a piece of fair turf, my adversary drew. There was nobody
there to see us but some birds; and no resource for me but to follow
his example, and stand on guard with the best face I could display. It
seems it was not good enough for Mr. Dancansby, who spied some flaw in
my manœuvres, paused, looked upon me sharply, and came off and on, and
menaced me with his blade in the air. As I had seen no such proceedings
from Alan, and was besides a good deal affected with the proximity of
death, I grew quite bewildered, stood helpless, and could have longed
to run away.

“Fat deil ails her?” cries the lieutenant.

And suddenly engaging, he twitched the sword out of my grasp and sent
it flying far among the rushes.

Twice was this manœuvre repeated; and the third time when I brought
back my humiliated weapon, I found he had returned his own to the
scabbard, and stood awaiting me with a face of some anger, and his
hands clasped under his skirt.

“Pe tamned if I touch you!” he cried, and asked me bitterly what right
I had to stand up before “shentlemans” when I did not know the back of
a sword from the front of it.

I answered that was the fault of my upbringing; and would he do me the
justice to say I had given him all the satisfaction it was
unfortunately in my power to offer, and had stood up like a man?

“And that is the truth,” said he. “I am fery prave myself, and pold as
a lions. But to stand up there—and you ken naething of fence!—the way
that you did, I declare it was peyond me. And I am sorry for the plow;
though I declare I pelief your own was the elder brother, and my heid
still sings with it. And I declare if I had kent what way it wass, I
would not put a hand to such a piece of pusiness.”

“That is handsomely said,” I replied, “and I am sure you will not stand
up a second time to be the actor for my private enemies.”

“Indeed, no, Palfour,” said he; “and I think I was used extremely
suffeeciently myself to be set up to fecht with an auld wife, or all
the same as a bairn whateffer! And I will tell the Master so, and fecht
him, by Cot, himself!”

“And if you knew the nature of Mr. Simon’s quarrel with me,” said I,
“you would be yet the more affronted to be mingled up with such
affairs.”

He swore he could well believe it; that all the Lovats were made of the
same meal and the devil was the miller that ground that; then suddenly
shaking me by the hand, he vowed I was a pretty enough fellow after
all, that it was a thousand pities I had been neglected, and that if he
could find the time, he would give an eye himself to have me educated.

“You can do me a better service than even what you propose,” said I;
and when he had asked its nature—“Come with me to the house of one of
my enemies, and testify how I have carried myself this day,” I told
him. “That will be the true service. For though he has sent me a
gallant adversary for the first, the thought in Mr. Simon’s mind is
merely murder. There will be a second and then a third; and by what you
have seen of my cleverness with the cold steel, you can judge for
yourself what is like to be the upshot.”

“And I would not like it myself, if I was no more of a man than what
you wass!” he cried. “But I will do you right, Palfour. Lead on!”

If I had walked slowly on the way into that accursed park my heels were
light enough on the way out. They kept time to a very good old air,
that is as ancient as the Bible, and the words of it are: “_Surely the
bitterness of death is passed_.” I mind that I was extremely thirsty,
and had a drink at Saint Margaret’s well on the road down, and the
sweetness of that water passed belief. We went through the sanctuary,
up the Canongate, in by the Netherbow, and straight to Prestongrange’s
door, talking as we came and arranging the details of our affair. The
footman owned his master was at home, but declared him engaged with
other gentlemen on very private business, and his door forbidden.

“My business is but for three minutes, and it cannot wait,” said I.
“You may say it is by no means private, and I shall be even glad to
have some witnesses.”

As the man departed unwillingly enough upon this errand, we made so
bold as to follow him to the ante-chamber, whence I could hear for a
while the murmuring of several voices in the room within. The truth is,
they were three at the one table—Prestongrange, Simon Fraser, and Mr.
Erskine, Sheriff of Perth; and as they were met in consultation on the
very business of the Appin murder, they were a little disturbed at my
appearance, but decided to receive me.

“Well, well, Mr. Balfour, and what brings you here again? and who is
this you bring with you?” says Prestongrange.

As for Fraser, he looked before him on the table.

“He is here to bear a little testimony in my favour, my lord, which I
think it very needful you should hear,” said I, and turned to
Duncansby.

“I have only to say this,” said the lieutenant, “that I stood up this
day with Palfour in the Hunter’s Pog, which I am now fery sorry for,
and he behaved himself as pretty as a shentlemans could ask it. And I
have creat respects for Palfour,” he added.

“I thank you for your honest expressions,” said I.

Whereupon Duncansby made his bow to the company, and left the chamber,
as we had agreed upon before.

“What have I to do with this?” says Prestongrange.

“I will tell your lordship in two words,” said I. “I have brought this
gentleman, a King’s officer, to do me so much justice. Now I think my
character is covered, and until a certain date, which your lordship can
very well supply, it will be quite in vain to despatch against me any
more officers. I will not consent to fight my way through the garrison
of the castle.”

The veins swelled on Prestongrange’s brow, and he regarded me with
fury.

“I think the devil uncoupled this dog of a lad between my legs!” he
cried; and then, turning fiercely on his neighbour, “This is some of
your work, Simon,” he said. “I spy your hand in the business, and, let
me tell you, I resent it. It is disloyal, when we are agreed upon one
expedient, to follow another in the dark. You are disloyal to me. What!
you let me send this lad to the place with my very daughters! And
because I let drop a word to you..... Fy, sir, keep your dishonours to
yourself!”

Simon was deadly pale. “I will be a kick-ball between you and the Duke
no longer,” he exclaimed. “Either come to an agreement, or come to a
differ, and have it out among yourselves. But I will no longer fetch
and carry, and get your contrary instructions, and be blamed by both.
For if I were to tell you what I think of all your Hanover business it
would make your head sing.”

But Sheriff Erskine had preserved his temper, and now intervened
smoothly. “And in the meantime,” says he, “I think we should tell Mr.
Balfour that his character for valour is quite established. He may
sleep in peace. Until the date he was so good as to refer to it shall
be put to the proof no more.”

His coolness brought the others to their prudence; and they made haste,
with a somewhat distracted civility, to pack me from the house.




CHAPTER IX.
THE HEATHER ON FIRE


When I left Prestongrange that afternoon I was for the first time
angry. The Advocate had made a mock of me. He had pretended my
testimony was to be received and myself respected; and in that very
hour, not only was Simon practising against my life by the hands of the
Highland soldier, but (as appeared from his own language) Prestongrange
himself had some design in operation. I counted my enemies;
Prestongrange with all the King’s authority behind him; and the Duke
with the power of the West Highlands; and the Lovat interest by their
side to help them with so great a force in the north, and the whole
clan of old Jacobite spies and traffickers. And when I remembered James
More, and the red head of Neil the son of Duncan, I thought there was
perhaps a fourth in the confederacy, and what remained of Rob Roy’s old
desperate sept of caterans would be banded against me with the others.
One thing was requisite—some strong friend or wise adviser. The country
must be full of such, both able and eager to support me, or Lovat and
the Duke and Prestongrange had not been nosing for expedients; and it
made me rage to think that I might brush against my champions in the
street and be no wiser.

And just then (like an answer) a gentleman brushed against me going by,
gave me a meaning look, and turned into a close. I knew him with the
tail of my eye—it was Stewart the Writer; and, blessing my good
fortune, turned in to follow him. As soon as I had entered the close I
saw him standing in the mouth of a stair, where he made me a signal and
immediately vanished. Seven storeys up, there he was again in a house
door, the which he looked behind us after we had entered. The house was
quite dismantled, with not a stick of furniture; indeed, it was one of
which Stewart had the letting in his hands.

“We’ll have to sit upon the floor,” said he; “but we’re safe here for
the time being, and I’ve been wearying to see ye, Mr. Balfour.”

“How’s it with Alan?” I asked.

“Brawly,” said he. “Andie picks him up at Gillane sands to-morrow,
Wednesday. He was keen to say good-bye to ye, but the way that things
were going, I was feared the pair of ye was maybe best apart. And that
brings me to the essential: how does your business speed?”

“Why,” said I, “I was told only this morning that my testimony was
accepted, and I was to travel to Inverary with the Advocate, no less.”

“Hout awa!” cried Stewart. “I’ll never believe that.”

“I have maybe a suspicion of my own,” says I, “but I would like fine to
hear your reasons.”

“Well, I tell ye fairly, I’m horn-mad,” cries Stewart. “If my one hand
could pull their Government down I would pluck it like a rotten apple.
I’m doer for Appin and for James of the Glens; and, of course, it’s my
duty to defend my kinsman for his life. Hear how it goes with me, and
I’ll leave the judgment of it to yourself. The first thing they have to
do is to get rid of Alan. They cannae bring in James as art and part
until they’ve brought in Alan first as principal; that’s sound law:
they could never put the cart before the horse.”

“And how are they to bring in Alan till they can catch him?” says I.

“Ah, but there is a way to evite that arrestment,” said he. “Sound law,
too. It would be a bonny thing if, by the escape of one ill-doer
another was to go scatheless, and the remeid is to summon the principal
and put him to outlawry for the non-compearance. Now there’s four
places where a person can be summoned: at his dwelling-house; at a
place where he has resided forty days; at the head burgh of the shire
where he ordinarily resorts; or lastly (if there be ground to think him
forth of Scotland) _at the cross of Edinburgh_, _and the pier and shore
of Leith_, _for sixty days_. The purpose of which last provision is
evident upon its face: being that outgoing ships may have time to carry
news of the transaction, and the summonsing be something other than a
form. Now take the case of Alan. He has no dwelling-house that ever I
could hear of; I would be obliged if anyone would show me where he has
lived forty days together since the ’45; there is no shire where he
resorts whether ordinarily or extraordinarily; if he has a domicile at
all, which I misdoubt, it must be with his regiment in France; and if
he is not yet forth of Scotland (as we happen to know and they happen
to guess) it must be evident to the most dull it’s what he’s aiming
for. Where, then, and what way should he be summoned? I ask it at
yourself, a layman.”

“You have given the very words,” said I. “Here at the cross, and at the
pier and shore of Leith, for sixty days.”

“Ye’re a sounder Scots lawyer than Prestongrange, then!” cries the
Writer. “He has had Alan summoned once; that was on the twenty-fifth,
the day that we first met. Once, and done with it. And where? Where,
but at the cross of Inverary, the head burgh of the Campbells? A word
in your ear, Mr. Balfour—they’re not seeking Alan.”

“What do you mean?” I cried. “Not seeking him?”

“By the best that I can make of it,” said he. “Not wanting to find him,
in my poor thought. They think perhaps he might set up a fair defence,
upon the back of which James, the man they’re really after, might climb
out. This is not a case, ye see, it’s a conspiracy.”

“Yet I can tell you Prestongrange asked after Alan keenly,” said I;
“though, when I come to think of it, he was something of the easiest
put by.”

“See that!” says he. “But there! I may be right or wrong, that’s
guesswork at the best, and let me get to my facts again. It comes to my
ears that James and the witnesses—the witnesses, Mr. Balfour!—lay in
close dungeons, and shackled forbye, in the military prison at Fort
William; none allowed in to them, nor they to write. The witnesses, Mr.
Balfour; heard ye ever the match of that? I assure ye, no old, crooked
Stewart of the gang ever out-faced the law more impudently. It’s clean
in the two eyes of the Act of Parliament of 1700, anent wrongous
imprisonment. No sooner did I get the news than I petitioned the Lord
Justice Clerk. I have his word to-day. There’s law for ye! here’s
justice!”

He put a paper in my hand, that same mealy-mouthed, false-faced paper
that was printed since in the pamphlet “by a bystander,” for behoof (as
the title says) of James’s “poor widow and five children.”

“See,” said Stewart, “he couldn’t dare to refuse me access to my
client, so he _recommends the commanding officer to let me in_.
Recommends!—the Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland recommends. Is not the
purpose of such language plain? They hope the officer may be so dull,
or so very much the reverse, as to refuse the recommendation. I would
have to make the journey back again betwixt here and Fort William. Then
would follow a fresh delay till I got fresh authority, and they had
disavowed the officer—military man, notoriously ignorant of the law,
and that—I ken the cant of it. Then the journey a third time; and there
we should be on the immediate heels of the trial before I had received
my first instruction. Am I not right to call this a conspiracy?”

“It will bear that colour,” said I.

“And I’ll go on to prove it you outright,” said he. “They have the
right to hold James in prison, yet they cannot deny me to visit him.
They have no right to hold the witnesses; but am I to get a sight of
them, that should be as free as the Lord Justice Clerk himself!
See—read: _For the rest_, _refuses to give any orders to keepers of
prisons who are not accused as having done anything contrary to the
duties of their office_. Anything contrary! Sirs! And the Act of
seventeen hunner? Mr. Balfour, this makes my heart to burst; the
heather is on fire inside my wame.”

“And the plain English of that phrase,” said I, “is that the witnesses
are still to lie in prison and you are not to see them?”

“And I am not to see them until Inverary, when the court is set!” cries
he, “and then to hear Prestongrange upon _the anxious responsibilities
of his office and the great facilities afforded the defence_! But I’ll
begowk them there, Mr. David. I have a plan to waylay the witnesses
upon the road, and see if I cannae get I a little harle of justice out
of the _military man notoriously ignorant of the law_ that shall
command the party.”

It was actually so—it was actually on the wayside near Tynedrum, and by
the connivance of a soldier officer, that Mr. Stewart first saw the
witnesses upon the case.

“There is nothing that would surprise me in this business,” I remarked.

“I’ll surprise you ere I’m done!” cries he. “Do ye see this?”—producing
a print still wet from the press. “This is the libel: see, there’s
Prestongrange’s name to the list of witnesses, and I find no word of
any Balfour. But here is not the question. Who do ye think paid for the
printing of this paper?”

“I suppose it would likely be King George,” said I.

“But it happens it was me!” he cried. “Not but it was printed by and
for themselves, for the Grants and the Erskines, and yon thief of the
black midnight, Simon Fraser. But could _I_ win to get a copy! No! I
was to go blindfold to my defence; I was to hear the charges for the
first time in court alongst the jury.”

“Is not this against the law?” I asked.

“I cannot say so much,” he replied. “It was a favour so natural and so
constantly rendered (till this nonesuch business) that the law has
never looked to it. And now admire the hand of Providence! A stranger
is in Fleming’s printing house, spies a proof on the floor, picks it
up, and carries it to me. Of all things, it was just this libel.
Whereupon I had it set again—printed at the expense of the defence:
_sumptibus moesti rei_; heard ever man the like of it?—and here it is
for anybody, the muckle secret out—all may see it now. But how do you
think I would enjoy this, that has the life of my kinsman on my
conscience?”

“Troth, I think you would enjoy it ill,” said I.

“And now you see how it is,” he concluded, “and why, when you tell me
your evidence is to be let in, I laugh aloud in your face.”

It was now my turn. I laid before him in brief Mr. Simon’s threats and
offers, and the whole incident of the bravo, with the subsequent scene
at Prestongrange’s. Of my first talk, according to promise, I said
nothing, nor indeed was it necessary. All the time I was talking
Stewart nodded his head like a mechanical figure; and no sooner had my
voice ceased, than he opened his mouth and gave me his opinion in two
words, dwelling strong on both of them.

“Disappear yourself,” said he.

“I do not take you,” said I.

“Then I’ll carry you there,” said he. “By my view of it you’re to
disappear whatever. O, that’s outside debate. The Advocate, who is not
without some spunks of a remainder decency, has wrung your life-safe
out of Simon and the Duke. He has refused to put you on your trial, and
refused to have you killed; and there is the clue to their ill words
together, for Simon and the Duke can keep faith with neither friend nor
enemy. Ye’re not to be tried then, and ye’re not to be murdered; but
I’m in bitter error if ye’re not to be kidnapped and carried away like
the Lady Grange. Bet me what ye please—there was their _expedient_!”

“You make me think,” said I, and told him of the whistle and the
red-headed retainer, Neil.

“Wherever James More is there’s one big rogue, never be deceived on
that,” said he. “His father was none so ill a man, though a kenning on
the wrong side of the law, and no friend to my family, that I should
waste my breath to be defending him! But as for James he’s a brock and
a blagyard. I like the appearance of this red-headed Neil as little as
yourself. It looks uncanny: fiegh! it smells bad. It was old Lovat that
managed the Lady Grange affair; if young Lovat is to handle yours,
it’ll be all in the family. What’s James More in prison for? The same
offence: abduction. His men have had practice in the business. He’ll be
to lend them to be Simon’s instruments; and the next thing we’ll be
hearing, James will have made his peace, or else he’ll have escaped;
and you’ll be in Benbecula or Applecross.”

“Ye make a strong case,” I admitted.

“And what I want,” he resumed, “is that you should disappear yourself
ere they can get their hands upon ye. Lie quiet until just before the
trial, and spring upon them at the last of it when they’ll be looking
for you least. This is always supposing Mr. Balfour, that your evidence
is worth so very great a measure of both risk and fash.”

“I will tell you one thing,” said I. “I saw the murderer and it was not
Alan.”

“Then, by God, my cousin’s saved!” cried Stewart. “You have his life
upon your tongue; and there’s neither time, risk, nor money to be
spared to bring you to the trial.” He emptied his pockets on the floor.
“Here is all that I have by me,” he went on, “Take it, ye’ll want it
ere ye’re through. Go straight down this close, there’s a way out by
there to the Lang Dykes, and by my will of it! see no more of Edinburgh
till the clash is over.”

“Where am I to go, then?” I inquired.

“And I wish that I could tell ye!” says he, “but all the places that I
could send ye to, would be just the places they would seek. No, ye must
fend for yourself, and God be your guiding! Five days before the trial,
September the sixteen, get word to me at the _King’s Arms_ in Stirling;
and if ye’ve managed for yourself as long as that, I’ll see that ye
reach Inverary.”

“One thing more,” said I. “Can I no see Alan?”

He seemed boggled. “Hech, I would rather you wouldnae,” said he. “But I
can never deny that Alan is extremely keen of it, and is to lie this
night by Silvermills on purpose. If you’re sure that you’re not
followed, Mr. Balfour—but make sure of that—lie in a good place and
watch your road for a clear hour before ye risk it. It would be a
dreadful business if both you and him was to miscarry!”




CHAPTER X.
THE RED-HEADED MAN


It was about half-past three when I came forth on the Lang Dykes. Dean
was where I wanted to go. Since Catriona dwelled there, and her
kinsfolk the Glengyle Macgregors appeared almost certainly to be
employed against me, it was just one of the few places I should have
kept away from; and being a very young man, and beginning to be very
much in love, I turned my face in that direction without pause. As a
slave to my conscience and common sense, however, I took a measure of
precaution. Coming over the crown of a bit of a rise in the road, I
clapped down suddenly among the barley and lay waiting. After a while,
a man went by that looked to be a Highlandman, but I had never seen him
till that hour. Presently after came Neil of the red head. The next to
go past was a miller’s cart, and after that nothing but manifest
country people. Here was enough to have turned the most foolhardy from
his purpose, but my inclination ran too strong the other way. I argued
it out that if Neil was on that road, it was the right road to find him
in, leading direct to his chief’s daughter; as for the other
Highlandman, if I was to be startled off by every Highlandman I saw, I
would scarce reach anywhere. And having quite satisfied myself with
this disingenuous debate, I made the better speed of it, and came a
little after four to Mrs. Drumond-Ogilvy’s.

Both ladies were within the house; and upon my perceiving them together
by the open door, I plucked off my hat and said, “Here was a lad come
seeking saxpence,” which I thought might please the dowager.

Catriona ran out to greet me heartily, and, to my surprise, the old
lady seemed scarce less forward than herself. I learned long afterwards
that she had despatched a horseman by daylight to Rankeillor at the
Queensferry, whom she knew to be the doer for Shaws, and had then in
her pocket a letter from that good friend of mine, presenting, in the
most favourable view, my character and prospects. But had I read it I
could scarce have seen more clear in her designs. Maybe I was
_countryfeed_; at least, I was not so much so as she thought; and it
was even to my homespun wits, that she was bent to hammer up a match
between her cousin and a beardless boy that was something of a laird in
Lothian.

“Saxpence had better take his broth with us, Catrine,” says she. “Run
and tell the lasses.”

And for the little while we were alone was at a good deal of pains to
flatter me; always cleverly, always with the appearance of a banter,
still calling me Saxpence, but with such a turn that should rather
uplift me in my own opinion. When Catriona returned, the design became
if possible more obvious; and she showed off the girl’s advantages like
a horse-couper with a horse. My face flamed that she should think me so
obtuse. Now I would fancy the girl was being innocently made a show of,
and then I could have beaten the old carline wife with a cudgel; and
now, that perhaps these two had set their heads together to entrap me,
and at that I sat and gloomed betwixt them like the very image of
ill-will. At last the matchmaker had a better device, which was to
leave the pair of us alone. When my suspicions are anyway roused it is
sometimes a little the wrong side of easy to allay them. But though I
knew what breed she was of, and that was a breed of thieves, I could
never look in Catriona’s face and disbelieve her.

“I must not ask?” says she, eagerly, the same moment we were left
alone.

“Ah, but to-day I can talk with a free conscience,” I replied. “I am
lightened of my pledge, and indeed (after what has come and gone since
morning) I would not have renewed it were it asked.”

“Tell me,” she said. “My cousin will not be so long.”

So I told her the tale of the lieutenant from the first step to the
last of it, making it as mirthful as I could, and, indeed, there was
matter of mirth in that absurdity.

“And I think you will be as little fitted for the rudas men as for the
pretty ladies, after all!” says she, when I had done. “But what was
your father that he could not learn you to draw the sword! It is most
ungentle; I have not heard the match of that in anyone.”

“It is most misconvenient at least,” said I; “and I think my father
(honest man!) must have been wool-gathering to learn me Latin in the
place of it. But you see I do the best I can, and just stand up like
Lot’s wife and let them hammer at me.”

“Do you know what makes me smile?” said she. “Well, it is this. I am
made this way, that I should have been a man child. In my own thoughts
it is so I am always; and I go on telling myself about this thing that
is to befall and that. Then it comes to the place of the fighting, and
it comes over me that I am only a girl at all events, and cannot hold a
sword or give one good blow; and then I have to twist my story round
about, so that the fighting is to stop, and yet me have the best of it,
just like you and the lieutenant; and I am the boy that makes the fine
speeches all through, like Mr. David Balfour.”

“You are a bloodthirsty maid,” said I.

“Well, I know it is good to sew and spin, and to make samplers,” she
said, “but if you were to do nothing else in the great world, I think
you will say yourself it is a driech business; and it is not that I
want to kill, I think. Did ever you kill anyone?”

“That I have, as it chances. Two, no less, and me still a lad that
should be at the college,” said I. “But yet, in the look-back, I take
no shame for it.”

“But how did you feel, then—after it?” she asked.

‘”Deed, I sat down and grat like a bairn,” said I.

“I know that, too,” she cried. “I feel where these tears should come
from. And at any rate, I would not wish to kill, only to be Catherine
Douglas that put her arm through the staples of the bolt, where it was
broken. That is my chief hero. Would you not love to die so—for your
king?” she asked.

“Troth,” said I, “my affection for my king, God bless the puggy face of
him, is under more control; and I thought I saw death so near to me
this day already, that I am rather taken up with the notion of living.”

“Right,” she said, “the right mind of a man! Only you must learn arms;
I would not like to have a friend that cannot strike. But it will not
have been with the sword that you killed these two?”

“Indeed, no,” said I, “but with a pair of pistols. And a fortunate
thing it was the men were so near-hand to me, for I am about as clever
with the pistols as I am with the sword.”

So then she drew from me the story of our battle in the brig, which I
had omitted in my first account of my affairs.

“Yes,” said she, “you are brave. And your friend, I admire and love
him.”

“Well, and I think anyone would!” said I. “He has his faults like other
folk; but he is brave and staunch and kind, God bless him! That will be
a strange day when I forget Alan.” And the thought of him, and that it
was within my choice to speak with him that night, had almost overcome
me.

“And where will my head be gone that I have not told my news!” she
cried, and spoke of a letter from her father, bearing that she might
visit him to-morrow in the castle whither he was now transferred, and
that his affairs were mending. “You do not like to hear it,” said she.
“Will you judge my father and not know him?”

“I am a thousand miles from judging,” I replied. “And I give you my
word I do rejoice to know your heart is lightened. If my face fell at
all, as I suppose it must, you will allow this is rather an ill day for
compositions, and the people in power extremely ill persons to be
compounding with. I have Simon Fraser extremely heavy on my stomach
still.”

“Ah!” she cried, “you will not be evening these two; and you should
bear in mind that Prestongrange and James More, my father, are of the
one blood.”

“I never heard tell of that,” said I.

“It is rather singular how little you are acquainted with,” said she.
“One part may call themselves Grant, and one Macgregor, but they are
still of the same clan. They are all the sons of Alpin, from whom, I
think, our country has its name.”

“What country is that?” I asked.

“My country and yours,” said she.

“This is my day for discovering I think,” said I, “for I always thought
the name of it was Scotland.”

“Scotland is the name of what you call Ireland,” she replied. “But the
old ancient true name of this place that we have our foot-soles on, and
that our bones are made of, will be Alban. It was Alban they called it
when our forefathers will be fighting for it against Rome and
Alexander; and it is called so still in your own tongue that you
forget.”

“Troth,” said I, “and that I never learned!” For I lacked heart to take
her up about the Macedonian.

“But your fathers and mothers talked it, one generation with another,”
said she. “And it was sung about the cradles before you or me were ever
dreamed of; and your name remembers it still. Ah, if you could talk
that language you would find me another girl. The heart speaks in that
tongue.”

I had a meal with the two ladies, all very good, served in fine old
plate, and the wine excellent, for it seems that Mrs. Ogilvy was rich.
Our talk, too, was pleasant enough; but as soon as I saw the sun
decline sharply and the shadows to run out long, I rose to take my
leave. For my mind was now made up to say farewell to Alan; and it was
needful I should see the trysting wood, and reconnoitre it, by
daylight. Catriona came with me as far as to the garden gate.

“It is long till I see you now?” she asked.

“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be long, it may be
never.”

“It may be so,” said she. “And you are sorry?”

I bowed my head, looking upon her.

“So am I, at all events,” said she. “I have seen you but a small time,
but I put you very high. You are true, you are brave; in time I think
you will be more of a man yet. I will be proud to hear of that. If you
should speed worse, if it will come to fall as we are afraid—O well!
think you have the one friend. Long after you are dead and me an old
wife, I will be telling the bairns about David Balfour, and my tears
running. I will be telling how we parted, and what I said to you, and
did to you. _God go with you and guide you_, _prays your little
friend_: so I said—I will be telling them—and here is what I did.”

She took up my hand and kissed it. This so surprised my spirits that I
cried out like one hurt. The colour came strong in her face, and she
looked at me and nodded.

“O yes, Mr. David,” said she, “that is what I think of you. The head
goes with the lips.”

I could read in her face high spirit, and a chivalry like a brave
child’s; not anything besides. She kissed my hand, as she had kissed
Prince Charlie’s, with a higher passion than the common kind of clay
has any sense of. Nothing before had taught me how deep I was her
lover, nor how far I had yet to climb to make her think of me in such a
character. Yet I could tell myself I had advanced some way, and that
her heart had beat and her blood flowed at thoughts of me.

After that honour she had done me I could offer no more trivial
civility. It was even hard for me to speak; a certain lifting in her
voice had knocked directly at the door of my own tears.

“I praise God for your kindness, dear,” said I. “Farewell, my little
friend!” giving her that name which she had given to herself; with
which I bowed and left her.

My way was down the glen of the Leith River, towards Stockbridge and
Silvermills. A path led in the foot of it, the water bickered and sang
in the midst; the sunbeams overhead struck out of the west among long
shadows and (as the valley turned) made like a new scene and a new
world of it at every corner. With Catriona behind and Alan before me, I
was like one lifted up. The place besides, and the hour, and the
talking of the water, infinitely pleased me; and I lingered in my steps
and looked before and behind me as I went. This was the cause, under
Providence, that I spied a little in my rear a red head among some
bushes.

Anger sprang in my heart, and I turned straight about and walked at a
stiff pace to where I came from. The path lay close by the bushes where
I had remarked the head. The cover came to the wayside, and as I passed
I was all strung up to meet and to resist an onfall. No such thing
befell, I went by unmeddled with; and at that fear increased upon me.
It was still day indeed, but the place exceeding solitary. If my
haunters had let slip that fair occasion I could but judge they aimed
at something more than David Balfour. The lives of Alan and James
weighed upon my spirit with the weight of two grown bullocks.

Catriona was yet in the garden walking by herself.

“Catriona,” said I, “you see me back again.”

“With a changed face,” said she.

“I carry two men’s lives besides my own,” said I. “It would be a sin
and shame not to walk carefully. I was doubtful whether I did right to
come here. I would like it ill, if it was by that means we were brought
to harm.”

“I could tell you one that would be liking it less, and will like
little enough to hear you talking at this very same time,” she cried.
“What have I done, at all events?”

“O, you I you are not alone,” I replied. “But since I went off I have
been dogged again, and I can give you the name of him that follows me.
It is Neil, son of Duncan, your man or your father’s.”

“To be sure you are mistaken there,” she said, with a white face. “Neil
is in Edinburgh on errands from my father.”

“It is what I fear,” said I, “the last of it. But for his being in
Edinburgh I think I can show you another of that. For sure you have
some signal, a signal of need, such as would bring him to your help, if
he was anywhere within the reach of ears and legs?”

“Why, how will you know that?” says she.

“By means of a magical talisman God gave to me when I was born, and the
name they call it by is Common-sense,” said I. “Oblige me so far as
make your signal, and I will show you the red head of Neil.”

No doubt but I spoke bitter and sharp. My heart was bitter. I blamed
myself and the girl and hated both of us: her for the vile crew that
she was come of, myself for my wanton folly to have stuck my head in
such a byke of wasps.

Catriona set her fingers to her lips and whistled once, with an
exceeding clear, strong, mounting note, as full as a ploughman’s. A
while we stood silent; and I was about to ask her to repeat the same,
when I heard the sound of some one bursting through the bushes below on
the braeside. I pointed in that direction with a smile, and presently
Neil leaped into the garden. His eyes burned, and he had a black knife
(as they call it on the Highland side) naked in his hand; but, seeing
me beside his mistress, stood like a man struck.

“He has come to your call,” said I; “judge how near he was to
Edinburgh, or what was the nature of your father’s errands. Ask
himself. If I am to lose my life, or the lives of those that hang by
me, through the means of your clan, let me go where I have to go with
my eyes open.”

She addressed him tremulously in the Gaelic. Remembering Alan’s anxious
civility in that particular, I could have laughed out loud for
bitterness; here, sure, in the midst of these suspicions, was the hour
she should have stuck by English.

Twice or thrice they spoke together, and I could make out that Neil
(for all his obsequiousness) was an angry man.

Then she turned to me. “He swears it is not,” she said.

“Catriona,” said I, “do you believe the man yourself?”

She made a gesture like wringing the hands.

“How will I can know?” she cried.

“But I must find some means to know,” said I. “I cannot continue to go
dovering round in the black night with two men’s lives at my girdle!
Catriona, try to put yourself in my place, as I vow to God I try hard
to put myself in yours. This is no kind of talk that should ever have
fallen between me and you; no kind of talk; my heart is sick with it.
See, keep him here till two of the morning, and I care not. Try him
with that.”

They spoke together once more in the Gaelic.

“He says he has James More my father’s errand,” said she. She was
whiter than ever, and her voice faltered as she said it.

“It is pretty plain now,” said I, “and may God forgive the wicked!”

She said never anything to that, but continued gazing at me with the
same white face.

“This is a fine business,” said I again. “Am I to fall, then, and those
two along with me?”

“O, what am I to do?” she cried. “Could I go against my father’s
orders, him in prison, in the danger of his life!”

“But perhaps we go too fast,” said I. “This may be a lie too. He may
have no right orders; all may be contrived by Simon, and your father
knowing nothing.”

She burst out weeping between the pair of us; and my heart smote me
hard, for I thought this girl was in a dreadful situation.

“Here,” said I, “keep him but the one hour; and I’ll chance it, and may
God bless you.”

She put out her hand to me, “I will he needing one good word,” she
sobbed.

“The full hour, then?” said I, keeping her hand in mine. “Three lives
of it, my lass!”

“The full hour!” she said, and cried aloud on her Redeemer to forgive
her.

I thought it no fit place for me, and fled.




CHAPTER XI.
THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS


I lost no time, but down through the valley and by Stockbridge and
Silvermills as hard as I could stave. It was Alan’s tryst to be every
night between twelve and two “in a bit scrog of wood by east of
Silvermills and by south the south mill-lade.” This I found easy
enough, where it grew on a steep brae, with the mill-lade flowing swift
and deep along the foot of it; and here I began to walk slower and to
reflect more reasonably on my employment. I saw I had made but a fool’s
bargain with Catriona. It was not to be supposed that Neil was sent
alone upon his errand, but perhaps he was the only man belonging to
James More; in which case I should have done all I could to hang
Catriona’s father, and nothing the least material to help myself. To
tell the truth, I fancied neither one of these ideas. Suppose by
holding back Neil, the girl should have helped to hang her father, I
thought she would never forgive herself this side of time. And suppose
there were others pursuing me that moment, what kind of a gift was I
come bringing to Alan? and how would I like that?

I was up with the west end of that wood when these two considerations
struck me like a cudgel. My feet stopped of themselves and my heart
along with them. “What wild game is this that I have been playing?”
thought I; and turned instantly upon my heels to go elsewhere.

This brought my face to Silvermills; the path came past the village
with a crook, but all plainly visible; and, Highland or Lowland, there
was nobody stirring. Here was my advantage, here was just such a
conjuncture as Stewart had counselled me to profit by, and I ran by the
side of the mill-lade, fetched about beyond the east corner of the
wood, threaded through the midst of it, and returned to the west
selvage, whence I could again command the path, and yet be myself
unseen. Again it was all empty, and my heart began to rise.

For more than an hour I sat close in the border of the trees, and no
hare or eagle could have kept a more particular watch. When that hour
began the sun was already set, but the sky still all golden and the
daylight clear; before the hour was done it had fallen to be half mirk,
the images and distances of things were mingled, and observation began
to be difficult. All that time not a foot of man had come east from
Silvermills, and the few that had gone west were honest countryfolk and
their wives upon the road to bed. If I were tracked by the most cunning
spies in Europe, I judged it was beyond the course of nature they could
have any jealousy of where I was: and going a little further home into
the wood I lay down to wait for Alan.

The strain of my attention had been great, for I had watched not the
path only, but every bush and field within my vision. That was now at
an end. The moon, which was in her first quarter, glinted a little in
the wood; all round there was a stillness of the country; and as I lay
there on my back, the next three or four hours, I had a fine occasion
to review my conduct.

Two things became plain to me first: that I had no right to go that day
to Dean, and (having gone there) had now no right to be lying where I
was. This (where Alan was to come) was just the one wood in all broad
Scotland that was, by every proper feeling, closed against me; I
admitted that, and yet stayed on, wondering at myself. I thought of the
measure with which I had meted to Catriona that same night; how I had
prated of the two lives I carried, and had thus forced her to
enjeopardy her father’s; and how I was here exposing them again, it
seemed in wantonness. A good conscience is eight parts of courage. No
sooner had I lost conceit of my behaviour, than I seemed to stand
disarmed amidst a throng of terrors. Of a sudden I sat up. How if I
went now to Prestongrange, caught him (as I still easily might) before
he slept, and made a full submission? Who could blame me? Not Stewart
the Writer; I had but to say that I was followed, despaired of getting
clear, and so gave in. Not Catriona: here, too, I had my answer ready;
that I could not bear she should expose her father. So, in a moment, I
could lay all these troubles by, which were after all and truly none of
mine; swim clear of the Appin Murder; get forth out of hand-stroke of
all the Stewarts and Campbells, all the Whigs and Tories, in the land;
and live henceforth to my own mind, and be able to enjoy and to improve
my fortunes, and devote some hours of my youth to courting Catriona,
which would be surely a more suitable occupation than to hide and run
and be followed like a hunted thief, and begin over again the dreadful
miseries of my escape with Alan.

At first I thought no shame of this capitulation; I was only amazed I
had not thought upon the thing and done it earlier; and began to
inquire into the causes of the change. These I traced to my lowness of
spirits, that back to my late recklessness, and that again to the
common, old, public, disconsidered sin of self-indulgence. Instantly
the text came in my head, “_How can Satan cast out Satan_?” What? (I
thought) I had, by self-indulgence; and the following of pleasant
paths, and the lure of a young maid, cast myself wholly out of conceit
with my own character, and jeopardised the lives of James and Alan? And
I was to seek the way out by the same road as I had entered in? No; the
hurt that had been caused by self-indulgence must be cured by
self-denial; the flesh I had pampered must be crucified. I looked about
me for that course which I least liked to follow: this was to leave the
wood without waiting to see Alan, and go forth again alone, in the dark
and in the midst of my perplexed and dangerous fortunes.

I have been the more careful to narrate this passage of my reflections,
because I think it is of some utility, and may serve as an example to
young men. But there is reason (they say) in planting kale, and even in
ethic and religion, room for common sense. It was already close on
Alan’s hour, and the moon was down. If I left (as I could not very
decently whistle to my spies to follow me) they might miss me in the
dark and tack themselves to Alan by mistake. If I stayed, I could at
the least of it set my friend upon his guard which might prove his mere
salvation. I had adventured other peoples’ safety in a course of
self-indulgence; to have endangered them again, and now on a mere
design of penance, would have been scarce rational. Accordingly, I had
scarce risen from my place ere I sat down again, but already in a
different frame of spirits, and equally marvelling at my past weakness
and rejoicing in my present composure.

Presently after came a crackling in the thicket. Putting my mouth near
down to the ground, I whistled a note or two, of Alan’s air; an answer
came in the like guarded tone, and soon we had knocked together in the
dark.

“Is this you at last, Davie?” he whispered.

“Just myself,” said I.

“God, man, but I’ve been wearying to see ye!” says he. “I’ve had the
longest kind of a time. A’ day, I’ve had my dwelling into the inside of
a stack of hay, where I couldnae see the nebs of my ten fingers; and
then two hours of it waiting here for you, and you never coming! Dod,
and ye’re none too soon the way it is, with me to sail the morn! The
morn? what am I saying?—the day, I mean.”

“Ay, Alan, man, the day, sure enough,” said I. “It’s past twelve now,
surely, and ye sail the day. This’ll be a long road you have before
you.”

“We’ll have a long crack of it first,” said he.

“Well, indeed, and I have a good deal it will be telling you to hear,”
said I.

And I told him what behooved, making rather a jumble of it, but clear
enough when done. He heard me out with very few questions, laughing
here and there like a man delighted: and the sound of his laughing
(above all there, in the dark, where neither one of us could see the
other) was extraordinary friendly to my heart.

“Ay, Davie, ye’re a queer character,” says he, when I had done: “a
queer bitch after a’, and I have no mind of meeting with the like of
ye. As for your story, Prestongrange is a Whig like yoursel’, so I’ll
say the less of him; and, dod! I believe he was the best friend ye had,
if ye could only trust him. But Simon Fraser and James More are my ain
kind of cattle, and I’ll give them the name that they deserve. The
muckle black deil was father to the Frasers, a’body kens that; and as
for the Gregara, I never could abye the reek of them since I could
stotter on two feet. I bloodied the nose of one, I mind, when I was
still so wambly on my legs that I cowped upon the top of him. A proud
man was my father that day, God rest him! and I think he had the cause.
I’ll never can deny but what Robin was something of a piper,” he added;
“but as for James More, the deil guide him for me!”

“One thing we have to consider,” said I. “Was Charles Stewart right or
wrong? Is it only me they’re after, or the pair of us?”

“And what’s your ain opinion, you that’s a man of so much experience?”
said he.

“It passes me,” said I.

“And me too,” says Alan. “Do ye think this lass would keep her word to
ye?” he asked.

“I do that,” said I.

“Well, there’s nae telling,” said he. “And anyway, that’s over and
done: he’ll be joined to the rest of them lang syne.”

“How many would ye think there would be of them?” I asked.

“That depends,” said Alan. “If it was only you, they would likely send
two-three lively, brisk young birkies, and if they thought that I was
to appear in the employ, I daresay ten or twelve,” said he.

It was no use, I gave a little crack of laughter.

“And I think your own two eyes will have seen me drive that number, or
the double of it, nearer hand!” cries he.

“It matters the less,” said I, “because I am well rid of them for this
time.”

“Nae doubt that’s your opinion,” said he; “but I wouldnae be the least
surprised if they were hunkering this wood. Ye see, David man; they’ll
be Hieland folk. There’ll be some Frasers, I’m thinking, and some of
the Gregara; and I would never deny but what the both of them, and the
Gregara in especial, were clever experienced persons. A man kens little
till he’s driven a spreagh of neat cattle (say) ten miles through a
throng lowland country and the black soldiers maybe at his tail. It’s
there that I learned a great part of my penetration. And ye need nae
tell me: it’s better than war; which is the next best, however, though
generally rather a bauchle of a business. Now the Gregara have had
grand practice.”

“No doubt that’s a branch of education that was left out with me,” said
I.

“And I can see the marks of it upon ye constantly,” said Alan. “But
that’s the strange thing about you folk of the college learning: ye’re
ignorat, and ye cannae see ’t. Wae’s me for my Greek and Hebrew; but,
man, I ken that I dinnae ken them—there’s the differ of it. Now, here’s
you. Ye lie on your wame a bittie in the bield of this wood, and ye
tell me that ye’ve cuist off these Frasers and Macgregors. Why?
_Because I couldnae see them_, says you. Ye blockhead, that’s their
livelihood.”

“Take the worst of it,” said I, “and what are we to do?”

“I am thinking of that same,” said he. “We might twine. It wouldnae be
greatly to my taste; and forbye that, I see reasons against it. First,
it’s now unco dark, and it’s just humanly possible we might give them
the clean slip. If we keep together, we make but the ae line of it; if
we gang separate, we make twae of them: the more likelihood to stave in
upon some of these gentry of yours. And then, second, if they keep the
track of us, it may come to a fecht for it yet, Davie; and then, I’ll
confess I would be blythe to have you at my oxter, and I think you
would be none the worse of having me at yours. So, by my way of it, we
should creep out of this wood no further gone than just the inside of
next minute, and hold away east for Gillane, where I’m to find my ship.
It’ll be like old days while it lasts, Davie; and (come the time) we’ll
have to think what you should be doing. I’m wae to leave ye here,
wanting me.”

“Have with ye, then!” says I. “Do ye gang back where you were
stopping?”

“Deil a fear!” said Alan. “They were good folks to me, but I think they
would be a good deal disappointed if they saw my bonny face again. For
(the way times go) I am nae just what ye could call a Walcome Guest.
Which makes me the keener for your company, Mr. David Balfour of the
Shaws, and set ye up! For, leave aside twa cracks here in the wood with
Charlie Stewart, I have scarce said black or white since the day we
parted at Corstorphine.”

With which he rose from his place, and we began to move quietly
eastward through the wood.




CHAPTER XII.
ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN


It was likely between one and two; the moon (as I have said) was down;
a strongish wind, carrying a heavy wrack of cloud, had set in suddenly
from the west; and we began our movement in as black a night as ever a
fugitive or a murderer wanted. The whiteness of the path guided us into
the sleeping town of Broughton, thence through Picardy, and beside my
old acquaintance the gibbet of the two thieves. A little beyond we made
a useful beacon, which was a light in an upper window of Lochend.
Steering by this, but a good deal at random, and with some trampling of
the harvest, and stumbling and falling down upon the banks, we made our
way across country, and won forth at last upon the linky, boggy
muirland that they call the Figgate Whins. Here, under a bush of whin,
we lay down the remainder of that night and slumbered.

The day called us about five. A beautiful morning it was, the high
westerly wind still blowing strong, but the clouds all blown away to
Europe. Alan was already sitting up and smiling to himself. It was my
first sight of my friend since we were parted, and I looked upon him
with enjoyment. He had still the same big great-coat on his back; but
(what was new) he had now a pair of knitted boot-hose drawn above the
knee. Doubtless these were intended for disguise; but, as the day
promised to be warm, he made a most unseasonable figure.

“Well, Davie,” said he, “is this no a bonny morning? Here is a day that
looks the way that a day ought to. This is a great change of it from
the belly of my haystack; and while you were there sottering and
sleeping I have done a thing that maybe I do very seldom.”

“And what was that?” said I.

“O, just said my prayers,” said he.

“And where are my gentry, as ye call them?” I asked.

“Gude kens,” says he; “and the short and the long of it is that we must
take our chance of them. Up with your foot-soles, Davie! Forth,
Fortune, once again of it! And a bonny walk we are like to have.”

So we went east by the beach of the sea, towards where the salt-pans
were smoking in by the Esk mouth. No doubt there was a by-ordinary
bonny blink of morning sun on Arthur’s Seat and the green Pentlands;
and the pleasantness of the day appeared to set Alan among nettles.

“I feel like a gomeral,” says he, “to be leaving Scotland on a day like
this. It sticks in my head; I would maybe like it better to stay here
and hing.”

“Ay, but ye wouldnae, Alan,” said I.

“No, but what France is a good place too,” he explained; “but it’s some
way no the same. It’s brawer I believe, but it’s no Scotland. I like it
fine when I’m there, man; yet I kind of weary for Scots divots and the
Scots peat-reek.”

“If that’s all you have to complain of, Alan, it’s no such great
affair,” said I.

“And it sets me ill to be complaining, whatever,” said he, “and me but
new out of yon deil’s haystack.”

“And so you were unco weary of your haystack?” I asked.

“Weary’s nae word for it,” said he. “I’m not just precisely a man
that’s easily cast down; but I do better with caller air and the lift
above my head. I’m like the auld Black Douglas (wasnae’t?) that likit
better to hear the laverock sing than the mouse cheep. And yon place,
ye see, Davie—whilk was a very suitable place to hide in, as I’m free
to own—was pit mirk from dawn to gloaming. There were days (or nights,
for how would I tell one from other?) that seemed to me as long as a
long winter.”

“How did you know the hour to bide your tryst?” I asked.

“The goodman brought me my meat and a drop brandy, and a candle-dowp to
eat it by, about eleeven,” said he. “So, when I had swallowed a bit, it
would he time to be getting to the wood. There I lay and wearied for ye
sore, Davie,” says he, laying his hand on my shoulder “and guessed when
the two hours would be about by—unless Charlie Stewart would come and
tell me on his watch—and then back to the dooms haystack. Na, it was a
driech employ, and praise the Lord that I have warstled through with
it!”

“What did you do with yourself?” I asked.

“Faith,” said he, “the best I could! Whiles I played at the
knucklebones. I’m an extraordinar good hand at the knucklebones, but
it’s a poor piece of business playing with naebody to admire ye. And
whiles I would make songs.”

“What were they about?” says I.

“O, about the deer and the heather,” says he, “and about the ancient
old chiefs that are all by with it lang syne, and just about what songs
are about in general. And then whiles I would make believe I had a set
of pipes and I was playing. I played some grand springs, and I thought
I played them awful bonny; I vow whiles that I could hear the squeal of
them! But the great affair is that it’s done with.”

With that he carried me again to my adventures, which he heard all over
again with more particularity, and extraordinary approval, swearing at
intervals that I was “a queer character of a callant.”

“So ye were frich’ened of Sim Fraser?” he asked once.

“In troth was I!” cried I.

“So would I have been, Davie,” said he. “And that is indeed a driedful
man. But it is only proper to give the deil his due: and I can tell you
he is a most respectable person on the field of war.”

“Is he so brave?” I asked.

“Brave!” said he. “He is as brave as my steel sword.”

The story of my duel set him beside himself.

“To think of that!” he cried. “I showed ye the trick in Corrynakiegh
too. And three times—three times disarmed! It’s a disgrace upon my
character that learned ye! Here, stand up, out with your airn; ye shall
walk no step beyond this place upon the road till ye can do yoursel’
and me mair credit.”

“Alan,” said I, “this is midsummer madness. Here is no time for fencing
lessons.”

“I cannae well say no to that,” he admitted. “But three times, man! And
you standing there like a straw bogle and rinning to fetch your ain
sword like a doggie with a pocket-napkin! David, this man Duncansby
must be something altogether by-ordinar! He maun be extraordinar
skilly. If I had the time, I would gang straight back and try a turn at
him mysel’. The man must be a provost.”

“You silly fellow,” said I, “you forget it was just me.”

“Na,” said he, “but three times!”

“When ye ken yourself that I am fair incompetent,” I cried.

“Well, I never heard tell the equal of it,” said he.

“I promise you the one thing, Alan,” said I. “The next time that we
forgather, I’ll be better learned. You shall not continue to bear the
disgrace of a friend that cannot strike.”

“Ay, the next time!” says he. “And when will that be, I would like to
ken?”

“Well, Alan, I have had some thoughts of that, too,” said I; “and my
plan is this. It’s my opinion to be called an advocate.”

“That’s but a weary trade, Davie,” says Alan, “and rather a blagyard
one forby. Ye would be better in a king’s coat than that.”

“And no doubt that would be the way to have us meet,” cried I. “But as
you’ll be in King Lewie’s coat, and I’ll be in King Geordie’s, we’ll
have a dainty meeting of it.”

“There’s some sense in that,” he admitted.

“An advocate, then, it’ll have to be,” I continued, “and I think it a
more suitable trade for a gentleman that was _three times_ disarmed.
But the beauty of the thing is this: that one of the best colleges for
that kind of learning—and the one where my kinsman, Pilrig, made his
studies—is the college of Leyden in Holland. Now, what say you, Alan?
Could not a cadet of _Royal Ecossais_ get a furlough, slip over the
marches, and call in upon a Leyden student?”

“Well, and I would think he could!” cried he. “Ye see, I stand well in
with my colonel, Count Drummond-Melfort; and, what’s mair to the
purpose I have a cousin of mine lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of the
Scots-Dutch. Naething could be mair proper than what I would get a
leave to see Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart of Halkett’s. And Lord Melfort,
who is a very scienteefic kind of a man, and writes books like Cæsar,
would be doubtless very pleased to have the advantage of my observes.”

“Is Lord Meloort an author, then?” I asked, for much as Alan thought of
soldiers, I thought more of the gentry that write books.

“The very same, Davie,” said he. “One would think a colonel would have
something better to attend to. But what can I say that make songs?”

“Well, then,” said I, “it only remains you should give me an address to
write you at in France; and as soon as I am got to Leyden I will send
you mine.”

“The best will be to write me in the care of my chieftain,” said he,
“Charles Stewart, of Ardsheil, Esquire, at the town of Melons, in the
Isle of France. It might take long, or it might take short, but it
would aye get to my hands at the last of it.”

We had a haddock to our breakfast in Musselburgh, where it amused me
vastly to hear Alan. His great-coat and boot-hose were extremely
remarkable this warm morning, and perhaps some hint of an explanation
had been wise; but Alan went into that matter like a business, or I
should rather say, like a diversion. He engaged the goodwife of the
house with some compliments upon the rizzoring of our haddocks; and the
whole of the rest of our stay held her in talk about a cold he had
taken on his stomach, gravely relating all manner of symptoms and
sufferings, and hearing with a vast show of interest all the old wives’
remedies she could supply him with in return.

We left Musselburgh before the first ninepenny coach was due from
Edinburgh for (as Alan said) that was a rencounter we might very well
avoid. The wind although still high, was very mild, the sun shone
strong, and Alan began to suffer in proportion. From Prestonpans he had
me aside to the field of Gladsmuir, where he exerted himself a great
deal more than needful to describe the stages of the battle. Thence, at
his old round pace, we travelled to Cockenzie. Though they were
building herring-busses there at Mrs. Cadell’s, it seemed a
desert-like, back-going town, about half full of ruined houses; but the
ale-house was clean, and Alan, who was now in a glowing heat, must
indulge himself with a bottle of ale, and carry on to the new luckie
with the old story of the cold upon his stomach, only now the symptoms
were all different.

I sat listening; and it came in my mind that I had scarce ever heard
him address three serious words to any woman, but he was always
drolling and fleering and making a private mock of them, and yet
brought to that business a remarkable degree of energy and interest.
Something to this effect I remarked to him, when the good-wife (as
chanced) was called away.

“What do ye want?” says he. “A man should aye put his best foot forrit
with the womankind; he should aye give them a bit of a story to divert
them, the poor lambs! It’s what ye should learn to attend to, David; ye
should get the principles, it’s like a trade. Now, if this had been a
young lassie, or onyways bonnie, she would never have heard tell of my
stomach, Davie. But aince they’re too old to be seeking joes, they a’
set up to be apotecaries. Why? What do I ken? They’ll be just the way
God made them, I suppose. But I think a man would be a gomeral that
didnae give his attention to the same.”

And here, the luckie coming back, he turned from me as if with
impatience to renew their former conversation. The lady had branched
some while before from Alan’s stomach to the case of a goodbrother of
her own in Aberlady, whose last sickness and demise she was describing
at extraordinary length. Sometimes it was merely dull, sometimes both
dull and awful, for she talked with unction. The upshot was that I fell
in a deep muse, looking forth of the window on the road, and scarce
marking what I saw. Presently had any been looking they might have seen
me to start.

“We pit a fomentation to his feet,” the good-wife was saying, “and a
het stane to his wame, and we gied him hyssop and water of pennyroyal,
and fine, clean balsam of sulphur for the hoast. . . ”

“Sir,” says I, cutting very quietly in, “there’s a friend of mine gone
by the house.”

“Is that e’en sae?” replies Alan, as though it were a thing of small
account. And then, “Ye were saying, mem?” says he; and the wearyful
wife went on.

Presently, however, he paid her with a half-crown piece, and she must
go forth after the change.

“Was it him with the red head?” asked Alan.

“Ye have it,” said I.

“What did I tell you in the wood?” he cried. “And yet it’s strange he
should be here too! Was he his lane?”

“His lee-lane for what I could see,” said I.

“Did he gang by?” he asked.

“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the right nor left.”

“And that’s queerer yet,” said Alan. “It sticks in my mind, Davie, that
we should be stirring. But where to?—deil hae’t! This is like old days
fairly,” cries he.

“There is one big differ, though,” said I, “that now we have money in
our pockets.”

“And another big differ, Mr. Balfour,” says he, “that now we have dogs
at our tail. They’re on the scent; they’re in full cry, David. It’s a
bad business and be damned to it.” And he sat thinking hard with a look
of his that I knew well.

“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the goodwife returned, “have ye a
back road out of this change house?”

She told him there was and where it led to.

“Then, sir,” says he to me, “I think that will be the shortest road for
us. And here’s good-bye to ye, my braw woman; and I’ll no forget thon
of the cinnamon water.”

We went out by way of the woman’s kale yard, and up a lane among
fields. Alan looked sharply to all sides, and seeing we were in a
little hollow place of the country, out of view of men, sat down.

“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he. “But first of all, a bit
lesson to ye. Suppose that I had been like you, what would yon old wife
have minded of the pair of us! Just that we had gone out by the back
gate. And what does she mind now? A fine, canty, friendly, cracky man,
that suffered with the stomach, poor body! and was real ta’en up about
the goodbrother. O man, David, try and learn to have some kind of
intelligence!”

“I’ll try, Alan,” said I.

“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was he gaun fast or slow?”

“Betwixt and between,” said I.

“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked.

“Never a sign of it,” said I.

“Nhm!” said Alan, “it looks queer. We saw nothing of them this morning
on the Whins; he’s passed us by, he doesnae seem to be looking, and yet
here he is on our road! Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion. I think
it’s no you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and I think they ken fine
where they’re gaun.”

“They ken?” I asked.

“I think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him or his mate wha kent some part of
the affair—or else Charlie’s clerk callant, which would be a pity too,”
says Alan; “and if you askit me for just my inward private conviction,
I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane sands.”

“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right there’ll be folk there and to
spare. It’ll be small service to crack heads.”

“It would aye be a satisfaction though,” says Alan. “But bide a bit;
bide a bit; I’m thinking—and thanks to this bonny westland wind, I
believe I’ve still a chance of it. It’s this way, Davie. I’m no trysted
with this man Scougal till the gloaming comes. _But_,” says he, “_if I
can get a bit of a wind out of the west I’ll be there long or that_,”
he says, “_and lie-to for ye behind the Isle of Fidra_. Now if your
gentry kens the place, they ken the time forbye. Do ye see me coming,
Davie? Thanks to Johnnie Cope and other red-coat gomerals, I should ken
this country like the back of my hand; and if ye’re ready for another
bit run with Alan Breck, we’ll can cast back inshore, and come to the
seaside again by Dirleton. If the ship’s there, we’ll try and get on
board of her. If she’s no there, I’ll just have to get back to my weary
haystack. But either way of it, I think we will leave your gentry
whistling on their thumbs.”

“I believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have on with ye, Alan!”




CHAPTER XIII.
GILLANE SANDS


I did not profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done by his marchings
under General Cope; for I can scarce tell what way we went. It is my
excuse that we travelled exceeding fast. Some part we ran, some
trotted, and the rest walked at a vengeance of a pace. Twice, while we
were at top speed, we ran against country-folk; but though we plumped
into the first from round a corner, Alan was as ready as a loaded
musket.

“Has ye seen my horse?” he gasped.

“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied the countryman.

And Alan spared the time to explain to him that we were travelling
“ride and tie”; that our charger had escaped, and it was feared he had
gone home to Linton. Not only that, but he expended some breath (of
which he had not very much left) to curse his own misfortune and my
stupidity which was said to be its cause.

“Them that cannae tell the truth,” he observed to myself as we went on
again, “should be aye mindful to leave an honest, handy lee behind
them. If folk dinnae ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible
taken up with it; but if they think they ken, they care nae mair for it
than what I do for pease porridge.”

As we had first made inland, so our road came in the end to lie very
near due north; the old Kirk of Aberlady for a landmark on the left; on
the right, the top of the Berwick Law; and it was thus we struck the
shore again, not far from Dirleton. From north Berwick west to Gillane
Ness there runs a string of four small islets, Craiglieth, the Lamb,
Fidra, and Eyebrough, notable by their diversity of size and shape.
Fidra is the most particular, being a strange grey islet of two humps,
made the more conspicuous by a piece of ruin; and I mind that (as we
drew closer to it) by some door or window of these ruins the sea peeped
through like a man’s eye. Under the lee of Fidra there is a good
anchorage in westerly winds, and there, from a far way off, we could
see the _Thistle_ riding.

The shore in face of these islets is altogether waste. Here is no
dwelling of man, and scarce any passage, or at most of vagabond
children running at their play. Gillane is a small place on the far
side of the Ness, the folk of Dirleton go to their business in the
inland fields, and those of North Berwick straight to the sea-fishing
from their haven; so that few parts of the coast are lonelier. But I
mind, as we crawled upon our bellies into that multiplicity of heights
and hollows, keeping a bright eye upon all sides, and our hearts
hammering at our ribs, there was such a shining of the sun and the sea,
such a stir of the wind in the bent grass, and such a bustle of
down-popping rabbits and up-flying gulls, that the desert seemed to me,
like a place alive. No doubt it was in all ways well chosen for a
secret embarcation, if the secret had been kept; and even now that it
was out, and the place watched, we were able to creep unperceived to
the front of the sandhills, where they look down immediately on the
beach and sea.

But here Alan came to a full stop.

“Davie,” said he, “this is a kittle passage! As long as we lie here
we’re safe; but I’m nane sae muckle nearer to my ship or the coast of
France. And as soon as we stand up and signal the brig, it’s another
matter. For where will your gentry be, think ye?”

“Maybe they’re no come yet,” said I. “And even if they are, there’s one
clear matter in our favour. They’ll be all arranged to take us, that’s
true. But they’ll have arranged for our coming from the east and here
we are upon their west.”

“Ay,” says Alan, “I wish we were in some force, and this was a battle,
we would have bonnily out-manœuvred them! But it isnae, Davit; and the
way it is, is a wee thing less inspiring to Alan Breck. I swither,
Davie.”

“Time flies, Alan,” said I.

“I ken that,” said Alan. “I ken naething else, as the French folk say.
But this is a dreidful case of heids or tails. O! if I could but ken
where your gentry were!”

“Alan,” said I, “this is no like you. It’s got to be now or never.”

“This is no me, quo’ he,”


sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and drollery.

“Neither you nor me, quo’ he, neither you nor me.
Wow, na, Johnnie man! neither you nor me.”


And then of a sudden he stood straight up where he was, and with a
handkerchief flying in his right hand, marched down upon the beach. I
stood up myself, but lingered behind him, scanning the sand-hills to
the east. His appearance was at first unremarked: Scougal not expecting
him so early, and _my gentry_ watching on the other side. Then they
awoke on board the _Thistle_, and it seemed they had all in readiness,
for there was scarce a second’s bustle on the deck before we saw a
skiff put round her stern and begin to pull lively for the coast.
Almost at the same moment of time, and perhaps half a mile away towards
Gillane Ness, the figure of a man appeared for a blink upon a sandhill,
waving with his arms; and though he was gone again in the same flash,
the gulls in that part continued a little longer to fly wild.

Alan had not seen this, looking straight to seaward at the ship and
skiff.

“It maun be as it will!” said he, when I had told him, “Weel may yon
boatie row, or my craig’ll have to thole a raxing.”

That part of the beach was long and flat, and excellent walking when
the tide was down; a little cressy burn flowed over it in one place to
the sea; and the sandhills ran along the head of it like the rampart of
a town. No eye of ours could spy what was passing behind there in the
bents, no hurry of ours could mend the speed of the boat’s coming: time
stood still with us through that uncanny period of waiting.

“There is one thing I would like to ken,” say Alan. “I would like to
ken these gentry’s orders. We’re worth four hunner pound the pair of
us: how if they took the guns to us, Davie! They would get a bonny shot
from the top of that lang sandy bank.”

“Morally impossible,” said I. “The point is that they can have no guns.
This thing has been gone about too secret; pistols they may have, but
never guns.”

“I believe ye’ll be in the right,” says Alan. “For all which I am
wearing a good deal for yon boat.”

And he snapped his fingers and whistled to it like a dog.

It was now perhaps a third of the way in, and we ourselves already hard
on the margin of the sea, so that the soft sand rose over my shoes.
There was no more to do whatever but to wait, to look as much as we
were able at the creeping nearer of the boat, and as little as we could
manage at the long impenetrable front of the sandhills, over which the
gulls twinkled and behind which our enemies were doubtless marshalling.

“This is a fine, bright, caller place to get shot in,” says Alan
suddenly; “and, man, I wish that I had your courage!”

“Alan!” I cried, “what kind of talk is this of it! You’re just made of
courage; it’s the character of the man, as I could prove myself if
there was nobody else.”

“And you would be the more mistaken,” said he. “What makes the differ
with me is just my great penetration and knowledge of affairs. But for
auld, cauld, dour, deadly courage, I am not fit to hold a candle to
yourself. Look at us two here upon the sands. Here am I, fair hotching
to be off; here’s you (for all that I ken) in two minds of it whether
you’ll no stop. Do you think that I could do that, or would? No me!
Firstly, because I havenae got the courage and wouldnae daur; and
secondly, because I am a man of so much penetration and would see ye
damned first.”

“It’s there ye’re coming, is it?” I cried. “Ah, man Alan, you can wile
your old wives, but you never can wile me.”

Remembrance of my temptation in the wood made me strong as iron.

“I have a tryst to keep,” I continued. “I am trysted with your cousin
Charlie; I have passed my word.”

“Braw trysts that you’ll can keep,” said Alan. “Ye’ll just mistryst
aince and for a’ with the gentry in the bents. And what for?” he went
on with an extreme threatening gravity. “Just tell me that, my mannie!
Are ye to be speerited away like Lady Grange? Are they to drive a dirk
in your inside and bury ye in the bents? Or is it to be the other way,
and are they to bring ye in with James? Are they folk to be trustit?
Would ye stick your head in the mouth of Sim Fraser and the ither
Whigs?” he added with extraordinary bitterness.

“Alan,” cried I, “they’re all rogues and liars, and I’m with ye there.
The more reason there should be one decent man in such a land of
thieves! My word is passed, and I’ll stick to it. I said long syne to
your kinswoman that I would stumble at no risk. Do ye mind of that?—the
night Red Colin fell, it was. No more I will, then. Here I stop.
Prestongrange promised me my life: if he’s to be mansworn, here I’ll
have to die.”

“Aweel aweel,” said Alan.

All this time we had seen or heard no more of our pursuers. In truth we
had caught them unawares; their whole party (as I was to learn
afterwards) had not yet reached the scene; what there was of them was
spread among the bents towards Gillane. It was quite an affair to call
them in and bring them over, and the boat was making speed. They were
besides but cowardly fellows: a mere leash of Highland cattle-thieves,
of several clans, no gentleman there to be the captain and the more
they looked at Alan and me upon the beach, the less (I must suppose)
they liked the look of us.

Whoever had betrayed Alan it was not the captain: he was in the skiff
himself, steering and stirring up his oarsmen, like a man with his
heart in his employ. Already he was near in, and the boat
securing—already Alan’s face had flamed crimson with the excitement of
his deliverance, when our friends in the bents, either in their despair
to see their prey escape them or with some hope of scaring Andie,
raised suddenly a shrill cry of several voices.

This sound, arising from what appeared to be a quite deserted coast,
was really very daunting, and the men in the boat held water instantly.

“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he was come within an
easy hail.

“Freens o’mine,” says Alan, and began immediately to wade forth in the
shallow water towards the boat. “Davie,” he said, pausing, “Davie, are
ye no coming? I am swier to leave ye.”

“Not a hair of me,” said I.

“He stood part of a second where he was to his knees in the salt water,
hesitating.

“He that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar,” said he, and swashing in deeper
than his waist, was hauled into the skiff, which was immediately
directed for the ship.

I stood where he had left me, with my hands behind my back; Alan sat
with his head turned watching me; and the boat drew smoothly away. Of a
sudden I came the nearest hand to shedding tears, and seemed to myself
the most deserted solitary lad in Scotland. With that I turned my back
upon the sea and faced the sandhills. There was no sight or sound of
man; the sun shone on the wet sand and the dry, the wind blew in the
bents, the gulls made a dreary piping. As I passed higher up the beach,
the sand-lice were hopping nimbly about the stranded tangles. The devil
any other sight or sound in that unchancy place. And yet I knew there
were folk there, observing me, upon some secret purpose. They were no
soldiers, or they would have fallen on and taken us ere now; doubtless
they were some common rogues hired for my undoing, perhaps to kidnap,
perhaps to murder me outright. From the position of those engaged, the
first was the more likely; from what I knew of their character and
ardency in this business, I thought the second very possible; and the
blood ran cold about my heart.

I had a mad idea to loosen my sword in the scabbard; for though I was
very unfit to stand up like a gentleman blade to blade, I thought I
could do some scathe in a random combat. But I perceived in time the
folly of resistance. This was no doubt the joint “expedient” on which
Prestongrange and Fraser were agreed. The first, I was very sure, had
done something to secure my life; the second was pretty likely to have
slipped in some contrary hints into the ears of Neil and his
companions; and if I were to show bare steel I might play straight into
the hands of my worst enemy and seal my own doom.

These thoughts brought me to the head of the beach. I cast a look
behind, the boat was nearing the brig, and Alan flew his handkerchief
for a farewell, which I replied to with the waving of my hand. But Alan
himself was shrunk to a small thing in my view, alongside of this pass
that lay in front of me. I set my hat hard on my head, clenched my
teeth, and went right before me up the face of the sand-wreath. It made
a hard climb, being steep, and the sand like water underfoot. But I
caught hold at last by the long bent-grass on the brae-top, and pulled
myself to a good footing. The same moment men stirred and stood up here
and there, six or seven of them, ragged-like knaves, each with a dagger
in his hand. The fair truth is, I shut my eyes and prayed. When I
opened them again, the rogues were crept the least thing nearer without
speech or hurry. Every eye was upon mine, which struck me with a
strange sensation of their brightness, and of the fear with which they
continued to approach me. I held out my hands empty; whereupon one
asked, with a strong Highland brogue, if I surrendered.

“Under protest,” said I, “if ye ken what that means, which I misdoubt.”

At that word, they came all in upon me like a flight of birds upon a
carrion, seized me, took my sword, and all the money from my pockets,
bound me hand and foot with some strong line, and cast me on a tussock
of bent. There they sat about their captive in a part of a circle and
gazed upon him silently like something dangerous, perhaps a lion or a
tiger on the spring. Presently this attention was relaxed. They drew
nearer together, fell to speech in the Gaelic, and very cynically
divided my property before my eyes. It was my diversion in this time
that I could watch from my place the progress of my friend’s escape. I
saw the boat come to the brig and be hoisted in, the sails fill, and
the ship pass out seaward behind the isles and by North Berwick.

In the course of two hours or so, more and more ragged Highlandmen kept
collecting. Neil among the first, until the party must have numbered
near a score. With each new arrival there was a fresh bout of talk,
that sounded like complaints and explanations; but I observed one
thing, none of those who came late had any share in the division of my
spoils. The last discussion was very violent and eager, so that once I
thought they would have quarrelled; on the heels of which their company
parted, the bulk of them returning westward in a troop, and only three,
Neil and two others, remaining sentries on the prisoner.

“I could name one who would be very ill pleased with your day’s work,
Neil Duncanson,” said I, when the rest had moved away.

He assured me in answer I should be tenderly used, for he knew he was
“acquent wi’ the leddy.”

This was all our talk, nor did any other son of man appear upon that
portion of the coast until the sun had gone down among the Highland
mountains, and the gloaming was beginning to grow dark. At which hour I
was aware of a long, lean, bony-like Lothian man of a very swarthy
countenance, that came towards us among the bents on a farm horse.

“Lads,” cried he, “has ye a paper like this?” and held up one in his
hand. Neil produced a second, which the newcomer studied through a pair
of horn spectacles, and saying all was right and we were the folk he
was seeking, immediately dismounted. I was then set in his place, my
feet tied under the horse’s belly, and we set forth under the guidance
of the Lowlander. His path must have been very well chosen, for we met
but one pair—a pair of lovers—the whole way, and these, perhaps taking
us to be free-traders, fled on our approach. We were at one time close
at the foot of Berwick Law on the south side; at another, as we passed
over some open hills, I spied the lights of a clachan and the old tower
of a church among some trees not far off, but too far to cry for help,
if I had dreamed of it. At last we came again within sound of the sea.
There was moonlight, though not much; and by this I could see the three
huge towers and broken battlements of Tantallon, that old chief place
of the Red Douglases. The horse was picketed in the bottom of the ditch
to graze, and I was led within, and forth into the court, and thence
into the tumble-down stone hall. Here my conductors built a brisk fire
in the midst of the pavement, for there was a chill in the night. My
hands were loosed, I was set by the wall in the inner end, and (the
Lowlander having produced provisions) I was given oatmeal bread and a
pitcher of French brandy. This done, I was left once more alone with my
three Highlandmen. They sat close by the fire drinking and talking; the
wind blew in by the breaches, cast about the smoke and flames, and sang
in the tops of the towers; I could hear the sea under the cliffs, and,
my mind being reassured as to my life, and my body and spirits wearied
with the day’s employment, I turned upon one side and slumbered.

I had no means of guessing at what hour I was wakened, only the moon
was down and the fire was low. My feet were now loosed, and I was
carried through the ruins and down the cliff-side by a precipitous path
to where I found a fisher’s boat in a haven of the rocks. This I was
had on board of, and we began to put forth from the shore in a fine
starlight.




CHAPTER XIV.
THE BASS


I had no thought where they were taking me; only looked here and there
for the appearance of a ship; and there ran the while in my head a word
of Ransome’s—the_ twenty-pounders_. If I were to be exposed a second
time to that same former danger of the plantations, I judged it must
turn ill with me; there was no second Alan; and no second shipwreck and
spare yard to be expected now; and I saw myself hoe tobacco under the
whip’s lash. The thought chilled me; the air was sharp upon the water,
the stretchers of the boat drenched with a cold dew: and I shivered in
my place beside the steersman. This was the dark man whom I have called
hitherto the Lowlander; his name was Dale, ordinarily called Black
Andie. Feeling the thrill of my shiver, he very kindly handed me a
rough jacket full of fish-scales, with which I was glad to cover
myself.

“I thank you for this kindness,” said I, “and will make so free as to
repay it with a warning. You take a high responsibility in this affair.
You are not like these ignorant, barbarous Highlanders, but know what
the law is and the risks of those that break it.”

“I am no just exactly what ye would ca’ an extremist for the law,” says
he, “at the best of times; but in this business I act with a good
warranty.”

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.

“Nae harm,” said he, “nae harm ava’. Ye’ll have strong freens, I’m
thinking. Ye’ll be richt eneuch yet.”

There began to fall a greyness on the face of the sea; little dabs of
pink and red, like coals of slow fire, came in the east; and at the
same time the geese awakened, and began crying about the top of the
Bass. It is just the one crag of rock, as everybody knows, but great
enough to carve a city from. The sea was extremely little, but there
went a hollow plowter round the base of it. With the growing of the
dawn I could see it clearer and clearer; the straight crags painted
with sea-birds’ droppings like a morning frost, the sloping top of it
green with grass, the clan of white geese that cried about the sides,
and the black, broken buildings of the prison sitting close on the
sea’s edge.

At the sight the truth came in upon me in a clap.

“It’s there you’re taking me!” I cried.

“Just to the Bass, mannie,” said he: “Whaur the auld saints were afore
ye, and I misdoubt if ye have come so fairly by your preeson.”

“But none dwells there now,” I cried; “the place is long a ruin.”

“It’ll be the mair pleisand a change for the solan geese, then,” quoth
Andie dryly.

The day coming slowly brighter I observed on the bilge, among the big
stones with which fisherfolk ballast their boats, several kegs and
baskets, and a provision of fuel. All these were discharged upon the
crag. Andie, myself, and my three Highlanders (I call them mine,
although it was the other way about), landed along with them. The sun
was not yet up when the boat moved away again, the noise of the oars on
the thole-pins echoing from the cliffs, and left us in our singular
reclusion:

Andie Dale was the Prefect (as I would jocularly call him) of the Bass,
being at once the shepherd and the gamekeeper of that small and rich
estate. He had to mind the dozen or so of sheep that fed and fattened
on the grass of the sloping part of it, like beasts grazing the roof of
a cathedral. He had charge besides of the solan geese that roosted in
the crags; and from these an extraordinary income is derived. The young
are dainty eating, as much as two shillings a-piece being a common
price, and paid willingly by epicures; even the grown birds are
valuable for their oil and feathers; and a part of the minister’s
stipend of North Berwick is paid to this day in solan geese, which
makes it (in some folks’ eyes) a parish to be coveted. To perform these
several businesses, as well as to protect the geese from poachers,
Andie had frequent occasion to sleep and pass days together on the
crag; and we found the man at home there like a farmer in his steading.
Bidding us all shoulder some of the packages, a matter in which I made
haste to bear a hand, he led us in by a locked gate, which was the only
admission to the island, and through the ruins of the fortress, to the
governor’s house. There we saw by the ashes in the chimney and a
standing bed-place in one corner, that he made his usual occupation.

This bed he now offered me to use, saying he supposed I would set up to
be gentry.

“My gentrice has nothing to do with where I lie,” said I. “I bless God
I have lain hard ere now, and can do the same again with thankfulness.
While I am here, Mr. Andie, if that be your name, I will do my part and
take my place beside the rest of you; and I ask you on the other hand
to spare me your mockery, which I own I like ill.”

He grumbled a little at this speech, but seemed upon reflection to
approve it. Indeed, he was a long-headed, sensible man, and a good Whig
and Presbyterian; read daily in a pocket Bible, and was both able and
eager to converse seriously on religion, leaning more than a little
towards the Cameronian extremes. His morals were of a more doubtful
colour. I found he was deep in the free trade, and used the ruins of
Tantallon for a magazine of smuggled merchandise. As for a gauger, I do
not believe he valued the life of one at half-a-farthing. But that part
of the coast of Lothian is to this day as wild a place, and the commons
there as rough a crew, as any in Scotland.

One incident of my imprisonment is made memorable by a consequence it
had long after. There was a warship at this time stationed in the
Firth, the _Seahorse_, Captain Palliser. It chanced she was cruising in
the month of September, plying between Fife and Lothian, and sounding
for sunk dangers. Early one fine morning she was seen about two miles
to east of us, where she lowered a boat, and seemed to examine the
Wildfire Rocks and Satan’s Bush, famous dangers of that coast. And
presently after having got her boat again, she came before the wind and
was headed directly for the Bass. This was very troublesome to Andie
and the Highlanders; the whole business of my sequestration was
designed for privacy, and here, with a navy captain perhaps blundering
ashore, it looked to become public enough, if it were nothing worse. I
was in a minority of one, I am no Alan to fall upon so many, and I was
far from sure that a warship was the least likely to improve my
condition. All which considered, I gave Andie my parole of good
behaviour and obedience, and was had briskly to the summit of the rock,
where we all lay down, at the cliff’s edge, in different places of
observation and concealment. The _Seahorse_ came straight on till I
thought she would have struck, and we (looking giddily down) could see
the ship’s company at their quarters and hear the leadsman singing at
the lead. Then she suddenly wore and let fly a volley of I know not how
many great guns. The rock was shaken with the thunder of the sound, the
smoke flowed over our heads, and the geese rose in number beyond
computation or belief. To hear their screaming and to see the twinkling
of their wings, made a most inimitable curiosity; and I suppose it was
after this somewhat childish pleasure that Captain Palliser had come so
near the Bass. He was to pay dear for it in time. During his approach I
had the opportunity to make a remark upon the rigging of that ship by
which I ever after knew it miles away; and this was a means (under
Providence) of my averting from a friend a great calamity, and
inflicting on Captain Palliser himself a sensible disappointment.

All the time of my stay on the rock we lived well. We had small ale and
brandy, and oatmeal, of which we made our porridge night and morning.
At times a boat came from the Castleton and brought us a quarter of
mutton, for the sheep upon the rock we must not touch, these being
specially fed to market. The geese were unfortunately out of season,
and we let them be. We fished ourselves, and yet more often made the
geese to fish for us: observing one when he had made a capture and
scaring him from his prey ere he had swallowed it.

The strange nature of this place, and the curiosities with which it
abounded, held me busy and amused. Escape being impossible, I was
allowed my entire liberty, and continually explored the surface of the
isle wherever it might support the foot of man. The old garden of the
prison was still to be observed, with flowers and pot-herbs running
wild, and some ripe cherries on a bush. A little lower stood a chapel
or a hermit’s cell; who built or dwelt in it, none may know, and the
thought of its age made a ground of many meditations. The prison, too,
where I now bivouacked with Highland cattle-thieves, was a place full
of history, both human and divine. I thought it strange so many saints
and martyrs should have gone by there so recently, and left not so much
as a leaf out of their Bibles, or a name carved upon the wall, while
the rough soldier lads that mounted guard upon the battlements had
filled the neighbourhood with their mementoes—broken tobacco-pipes for
the most part, and that in a surprising plenty, but also metal buttons
from their coats. There were times when I thought I could have heard
the pious sound of psalms out of the martyr’s dungeons, and seen the
soldiers tramp the ramparts with their glinting pipes, and the dawn
rising behind them out of the North Sea.

No doubt it was a good deal Andie and his tales that put these fancies
in my head. He was extraordinarily well acquainted with the story of
the rock in all particulars, down to the names of private soldiers, his
father having served there in that same capacity. He was gifted besides
with a natural genius for narration, so that the people seemed to speak
and the things to be done before your face. This gift of his and my
assiduity to listen brought us the more close together. I could not
honestly deny but what I liked him; I soon saw that he liked me; and
indeed, from the first I had set myself out to capture his good-will.
An odd circumstance (to be told presently) effected this beyond my
expectation; but even in early days we made a friendly pair to be a
prisoner and his gaoler.

I should trifle with my conscience if I pretended my stay upon the Bass
was wholly disagreeable. It seemed to me a safe place, as though I was
escaped there out of my troubles. No harm was to be offered me; a
material impossibility, rock and the deep sea, prevented me from fresh
attempts; I felt I had my life safe and my honour safe, and there were
times when I allowed myself to gloat on them like stolen waters. At
other times my thoughts were very different, I recalled how strong I
had expressed myself both to Rankeillor and to Stewart; I reflected
that my captivity upon the Bass, in view of a great part of the coasts
of Fife and Lothian, was a thing I should be thought more likely to
have invented than endured; and in the eyes of these two gentlemen, at
least, I must pass for a boaster and a coward. Now I would take this
lightly enough; tell myself that so long as I stood well with Catriona
Drummond, the opinion of the rest of man was but moonshine and spilled
water; and thence pass off into those meditations of a lover which are
so delightful to himself and must always appear so surprisingly idle to
a reader. But anon the fear would take me otherwise; I would be shaken
with a perfect panic of self-esteem, and these supposed hard judgments
appear an injustice impossible to be supported. With that another train
of thought would he presented, and I had scarce begun to be concerned
about men’s judgments of myself, than I was haunted with the
remembrance of James Stewart in his dungeon and the lamentations of his
wife. Then, indeed, passion began to work in me; I could not forgive
myself to sit there idle: it seemed (if I were a man at all) that I
could fly or swim out of my place of safety; and it was in such humours
and to amuse my self-reproaches that I would set the more particularly
to win the good side of Andie Dale.

At last, when we two were alone on the summit of the rock on a bright
morning, I put in some hint about a bribe. He looked at me, cast back
his head, and laughed out loud.

“Ay, you’re funny, Mr. Dale,” said I, “but perhaps if you’ll glance an
eye upon that paper you may change your note.”

The stupid Highlanders had taken from me at the time of my seizure
nothing but hard money, and the paper I now showed Andie was an
acknowledgment from the British Linen Company for a considerable sum.

He read it. “Troth, and ye’re nane sae ill aff,” said he.

“I thought that would maybe vary your opinions,” said I.

“Hout!” said he. “It shows me ye can bribe; but I’m no to be bribit.”

“We’ll see about that yet a while,” says I. “And first, I’ll show you
that I know what I am talking. You have orders to detain me here till
after Thursday, 21st September.”

“Ye’re no a’thegether wrong either,” says Andie. “I’m to let you gang,
bar orders contrair, on Saturday, the 23rd.”

I could not but feel there was something extremely insidious in this
arrangement. That I was to re-appear precisely in time to be too late
would cast the more discredit on my tale, if I were minded to tell one;
and this screwed me to fighting point.

“Now then, Andie, you that kens the world, listen to me, and think
while ye listen,” said I. “I know there are great folks in the
business, and I make no doubt you have their names to go upon. I have
seen some of them myself since this affair began, and said my say into
their faces too. But what kind of a crime would this be that I had
committed? or what kind of a process is this that I am fallen under? To
be apprehended by some ragged John-Hielandman on August 30th, carried
to a rickle of old stones that is now neither fort nor gaol (whatever
it once was) but just the gamekeeper’s lodge of the Bass Rock, and set
free again, September 23rd, as secretly as I was first arrested—does
that sound like law to you? or does it sound like justice? or does it
not sound honestly like a piece of some low dirty intrigue, of which
the very folk that meddle with it are ashamed?”

“I canna gainsay ye, Shaws. It looks unco underhand,” says Andie. “And
werenae the folk guid sound Whigs and true-blue Presbyterians I would
has seen them ayont Jordan and Jeroozlem or I would have set hand to
it.”

“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, “and a grand
Presbyterian.”

“I ken naething by him,” said he. “I hae nae trokings wi’ Lovats.”

“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing with,” said I.

“Ah, but I’ll no tell ye that,” said Andie.

“Little need when I ken,” was my retort.

“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, Shaws,” says
Andie. “And that is that (try as ye please) I’m no dealing wi’
yoursel’; nor yet I amnae goin’ to,” he added.

“Well, Andie, I see I’ll have to be speak out plain with you,” I
replied. And told him so much as I thought needful of the facts.

He heard me out with some serious interest, and when I had done, seemed
to consider a little with himself.

“Shaws,” said he at last, “I’ll deal with the naked hand. It’s a queer
tale, and no very creditable, the way you tell it; and I’m far frae
minting that is other than the way that ye believe it. As for yoursel’,
ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, that’s aulder and
mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit in the job than
what ye can dae. And here the maitter clear and plain to ye. There’ll
be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far free that, I think
ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll be nae skaith to the
kintry—just ae mair Hielantman hangit—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On
the ither hand, it would be considerable skaith to me if I would let
you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ to you, and an
anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that I think ye’ll just
have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the solans.”

“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s
innocent.”

“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see, in this warld, the
way God made it, we cannae just get a’thing that we want.”




CHAPTER XV.
BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK


I have yet said little of the Highlanders. They were all three of the
followers of James More, which bound the accusation very tight about
their master’s neck. All understood a word or two of English, but Neil
was the only one who judged he had enough of it for general converse,
in which (when once he got embarked) his company was often tempted to
the contrary opinion. They were tractable, simple creatures; showed
much more courtesy than might have been expected from their raggedness
and their uncouth appearance, and fell spontaneously to be like three
servants for Andie and myself.

Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling ruins of a prison,
and among endless strange sounds of the sea and the sea-birds, I
thought I perceived in them early the effects of superstitious fear.
When there was nothing doing they would either lie and sleep, for which
their appetite appeared insatiable, or Neil would entertain the others
with stories which seemed always of a terrifying strain. If neither of
these delights were within reach—if perhaps two were sleeping and the
third could find no means to follow their example—I would see him sit
and listen and look about him in a progression of uneasiness, starting,
his face blenching, his hands clutched, a man strung like a bow. The
nature of these fears I had never an occasion to find out, but the
sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that we were in
favourable to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, but
Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from which he never varied.

“Ay,” he would say, “_it’s an unco place_, _the Bass_.”

It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place by night, unco by
day; and these were unco sounds, of the calling of the solans, and the
plash of the sea and the rock echoes, that hung continually in our
ears. It was chiefly so in moderate weather. When the waves were anyway
great they roared about the rock like thunder and the drums of armies,
dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man
could daunt himself with listening—not a Highlandman only, as I several
times experimented on myself, so many still, hollow noises haunted and
reverberated in the porches of the rock.

This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I took part in, which
quite changed our terms of living, and had a great effect on my
departure. It chanced one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and
(that little air of Alan’s coming back to my memory) began to whistle.
A hand was laid upon my arm, and the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for
it was not “canny musics.”

“Not canny?” I asked. “How can that be?”

“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta heid upon
his body.” [13]

“Well,” said I, “there can be no bogles here, Neil; for it’s not likely
they would fash themselves to frighten geese.”

“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it! But I’ll can tell ye
there’s been waur nor bogles here.”

“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I.

“Warlocks,” said he. “Or a warlock at the least of it. And that’s a
queer tale, too,” he added. “And if ye would like, I’ll tell it ye.”

To be sure we were all of the one mind, and even the Highlander that
had the least English of the three set himself to listen with all his
might.

The Tale of Tod Lapraik

My faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild, sploring lad in
his young days, wi’ little wisdom and little grace. He was fond of a
lass and fond of a glass, and fond of a ran-dan; but I could never hear
tell that he was muckle use for honest employment. Frae ae thing to
anither, he listed at last for a sodger and was in the garrison of this
fort, which was the first way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot
upon the Bass. Sorrow upon that service! The governor brewed his ain
ale; it seems it was the warst conceivable. The rock was proveesioned
free the shore with vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there were
whiles when they but to fish and shoot solans for their diet. To crown
a’, thir was the Days of the Persecution. The perishin’ cauld chalmers
were all occupeed wi’ sants and martyrs, the saut of the yearth, of
which it wasnae worthy. And though Tam Dale carried a firelock there, a
single sodger, and liked a lass and a glass, as I was sayin,’ the mind
of the man was mair just than set with his position. He had glints of
the glory of the kirk; there were whiles when his dander rase to see
the Lord’s sants misguided, and shame covered him that he should be
haulding a can’le (or carrying a firelock) in so black a business.
There were nights of it when he was here on sentry, the place a’
wheesht, the frosts o’ winter maybe riving in the wa’s, and he would
hear ane o’ the prisoners strike up a psalm, and the rest join in, and
the blessed sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, I
would raither say—so that this auld craig in the sea was like a pairt
of Heev’n. Black shame was on his saul; his sins hove up before him
muckle as the Bass, and above a’, that chief sin, that he should have a
hand in hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk. But the truth is that he
resisted the spirit. Day cam, there were the rousing compainions, and
his guid resolves depairtit.

In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, Peden the Prophet was
his name. Ye’ll have heard tell of Prophet Peden. There was never the
wale of him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever was his
like afore. He was wild’s a peat-hag, fearsome to look at, fearsome to
hear, his face like the day of judgment. The voice of him was like a
solan’s and dinnle’d in folks’ lugs, and the words of him like coals of
fire.

Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she had little to do, for
it was nae place far decent weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and her
and Tam Dale were very well agreed. It befell that Peden was in the
gairden his lane at the praying when Tam and the lass cam by; and what
should the lassie do but mock with laughter at the sant’s devotions? He
rose and lookit at the twa o’ them, and Tam’s knees knoitered thegether
at the look of him. But whan he spak, it was mair in sorrow than in
anger. “Poor thing, poor thing!” says he, and it was the lass he lookit
at, “I hear you skirl and laugh,” he says, “but the Lord has a deid
shot prepared for you, and at that surprising judgment ye shall skirl
but the ae time!” Shortly thereafter she was daundering on the craigs
wi’ twa-three sodgers, and it was a blawy day. There cam a gowst of
wind, claught her by the coats, and awa’ wi’ her bag and baggage. And
it was remarked by the sodgers that she gied but the ae skirl.

Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon Tam Dale; but it passed
again and him none the better. Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither
sodger-lad. “Deil hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane swearer. And
there was Peden glowering at him, gash an’ waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang
chafts an’ luntin’ een, the maud happed about his kist, and the hand of
him held out wi’ the black nails upon the finger-nebs—for he had nae
care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor man!” cries he, “the poor fool man!
_Deil hae me_, quo’ he; an’ I see the deil at his oxter.” The
conviction of guilt and grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he flang
doun the pike that was in his hands—“I will nae mair lift arms against
the cause o’ Christ!” says he, and was as gude’s word. There was a sair
fyke in the beginning, but the governor, seeing him resolved, gied him
his discharge, and he went and dwallt and merried in North Berwick, and
had aye a gude name with honest folk free that day on.

It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass cam in the
hands o’ the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of
it. Baith were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers in the
garrison, and kent the gate to handle solans, and the seasons and
values of them. Forby that they were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest
professors and men of comely conversation. The first of them was just
Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d
Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or his nature I could
never hear tell. Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this business, and
took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, by the hand. Tod had his dwallin’
in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. It’s a dark uncanny loan, forby
that the kirk has aye had an ill name since the days o’ James the Saxt
and the deevil’s cantrips played therein when the Queen was on the
seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in the mirkest end, and was little
liked by some that kenned the best. The door was on the sneck that day,
and me and my faither gaed straucht in. Tod was a wabster to his trade;
his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a
man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The
hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeked. We cried to
him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the
shou’ther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on his dowp, an’ cawed
the shuttle and smiled like creish.

“God be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no canny?”

He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel’.

“Is this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m blythe to see ye. I
whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,” he says; “its frae the stamach.”

Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to
get the warding o’t, and little by little cam to very ill words, and
twined in anger. I mind weel that as my faither and me gaed hame again,
he cam ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod
Lapraik and his dwams.

“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt for dwams like yon.”

Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’. It was
remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says he, “ye
hae gotten the better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll
find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.” Which have since been
thought remarkable expressions. At last the time came for Tam Dale to
take young solans. This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had
been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’. So there
was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur its
hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the
line and mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething
but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the solans skirlin and flying. It
was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young
geese. Mony’s the time I’ve heard him tell of this experience, and aye
the swat ran upon the man.

It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle
solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and
outside the creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft
things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa
hunner feet were raither mair than he would care to fa’.

“Shoo!” says Tam. “Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ ye!” says he.

The solan keekit doon into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in
the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But
now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the
solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to
understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of
it and a crunkled jag o’ stane.

There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. “This thing is nae
bird,” thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed
black aboot him. “If I get a dwam here,” he toucht, “it’s by wi’ Tam
Dale.” And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.

And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was
the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out
loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam
had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter. And it seemed the solan
understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun
than he gied the ae squawk, but laighter, like a body disappointit, and
flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.
And as sune as that thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther,
and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) broucht him to his mind,
or what was left of it. Up he sat.

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man—rin!” he
cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” says he.

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be
quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o’ them had
startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he
was for down again.

“Na,” says he, “and niether you nor me,” says he, “and as sune as I can
win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.”

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before
they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the
simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik!
Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever
had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the
end of it.

It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither was out at the
white fishing; and like a bairn, I but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand
take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the
Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi’ anither boat that belanged to a man
Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could
speir at himsel’. Weel, Sandie hailed.

“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he.

“On the Bass?” says grandfaither.

“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.”

“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. “There cannae be naething
on the Bass but just the sheep.”

“It looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was nearer in.

“A body!” says we, and we none of us likit that. For there was nae boat
that could have brought a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower
my faither’s at hame in the press bed.

We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand.
Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of
a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the
glass to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green
brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ by his lee lane, and lowped and flang
and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.

“It’s Tod,” says grandfather, and passed the gless to Sandie.

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither.

“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun
at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried,
for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer
first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgment surely, and be damned
to it,” says he.

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man! “But have
you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have
foregaithered wi’ before,” says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. “Aweel, Edie,”
says he, “and what would be your way of it?”

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has the fastest boat
gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on
Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have
a crack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the
harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum
in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ.
My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid
draps, bein mair deidly again bogles. And then the as boat set aff for
North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the
wanchancy thing on the brae-side.

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like
a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen
lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht,
and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But
there would be fowk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg
them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler
diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music
but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o’ young
things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and
this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years.
Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the
creature’s heart, the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time
I have askit mysel’ why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls
(whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t
wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik
dancing a’ the hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae
doubt they burn for it muckle in hell, but they have a grand time here
of it, whatever!—and the Lord forgie us!

Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid
upon the harbour rocks. That was a’ Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the
gun, took a deleeberate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang
and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’ our
een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi’ the bang and the skirl
the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and
there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging
but ae second syne.

The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror o’ that
dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was
little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won
in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the folk waitin’
us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the
shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest
abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it
little; but it was a means of grace to severals that stood there
praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking
on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty,
and wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands
and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp.

When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the
warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund! but there was
grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.


Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty silly affair that had
its consequence. Neil, as I have said, was himself a great narrator. I
have heard since that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and
thought much of himself, and was thought much of by others on the
strength of it. Now Andie’s tale reminded him of one he had already
heard.

“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She was the story of
Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and the Gavar Vore.”

“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story of my faither
(now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And the same in your beard,” says he;
“and keep the tongue of ye inside your Hielant chafts!”

In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and has been shown in
history, how well it goes with Lowland gentlefolk; but the thing
appears scarce feasible for Lowland commons. I had already remarked
that Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling with our three
MacGregors, and now, sure enough, it was to come.

“Thir will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says Neil.

“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. “Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If God would
give ye the grace to see yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, ye would
throw your denner up.”

There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, and the black knife
was in his hand that moment.

There was no time to think; and I caught the Highlander by the leg, and
had him down, and his armed hand pinned out, before I knew what I was
doing. His comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were without
weapons, the Gregara three to two. It seemed we were beyond salvation,
when Neil screamed in his own tongue, ordering the others back, and
made his submission to myself in a manner the most abject, even giving
me up his knife which (upon a repetition of his promises) I returned to
him on the morrow.

Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must not build too high on
Andie, who had shrunk against the wall and stood there, as pale as
death, till the affair was over; the second, the strength of my own
position with the Highlanders, who must have received extraordinary
charges to be tender of my safety. But if I thought Andie came not very
well out in courage, I had no fault to find with him upon the account
of gratitude. It was not so much that he troubled me with thanks, as
that his whole mind and manner appeared changed; and as he preserved
ever after a great timidity of our companions, he and I were yet more
constantly together.




CHAPTER XVI.
THE MISSING WITNESS


On the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the Writer, I had much
rebellion against fate. The thought of him waiting in the _King’s
Arms_, and of what he would think, and what he would say when next we
met, tormented and oppressed me. The truth was unbelievable, so much I
had to grant, and it seemed cruel hard I should be posted as a liar and
a coward, and have never consciously omitted what it was possible that
I should do. I repeated this form of words with a kind of bitter
relish, and re-examined in that light the steps of my behaviour. It
seemed I had behaved to James Stewart as a brother might; all the past
was a picture that I could be proud of, and there was only the present
to consider. I could not swim the sea, nor yet fly in the air, but
there was always Andie. I had done him a service, he liked me; I had a
lever there to work on; if it were just for decency, I must try once
more with Andie.

It was late afternoon; there was no sound in all the Bass but the lap
and bubble of a very quiet sea; and my four companions were all crept
apart, the three Macgregors higher on the rock, and Andie with his
Bible to a sunny place among the ruins; there I found him in deep
sleep, and, as soon as he was awake, appealed to him with some fervour
of manner and a good show of argument.

“If I thoucht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said he, staring at me
over his spectacles.

“It’s to save another,” said I, “and to redeem my word. What would be
more good than that? Do ye no mind the scripture, Andie? And you with
the Book upon your lap! _What shall it profit a man if he gain the
whole world_?”

“Ay,” said he, “that’s grand for you. But where do I come in! I have my
word to redeem the same’s yoursel’. And what are ye asking me to do,
but just to sell it ye for siller?”

“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I.

“Ou, the name’s naething”, said he; “the thing is there, whatever. It
just comes to this; if I am to service ye the way that you propose,
I’ll lose my lifelihood. Then it’s clear ye’ll have to make it up to
me, and a pickle mair, for your ain credit like. And what’s that but
just a bribe? And if even I was certain of the bribe! But by a’ that I
can learn, it’s far frae that; and if _you_ were to hang, where would
_I_ be? Na: the thing’s no possible. And just awa’ wi’ ye like a bonny
lad! and let Andie read his chapter.”

I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratified with this result; and
the next humour I fell into was one (I had near said) of gratitude to
Prestongrange, who had saved me, in this violent, illegal manner, out
of the midst of my dangers, temptations, and perplexities. But this was
both too flimsy and too cowardly to last me long, and the remembrance
of James began to succeed to the possession of my spirits. The 21st,
the day set for the trial, I passed in such misery of mind as I can
scarce recall to have endured, save perhaps upon Isle Earraid only.
Much of the time I lay on a brae-side betwixt sleep and waking, my body
motionless, my mind full of violent thoughts. Sometimes I slept indeed;
but the court-house of Inverary and the prisoner glancing on all sides
to find his missing witness, followed me in slumber; and I would wake
again with a start to darkness of spirit and distress of body. I
thought Andie seemed to observe me, but I paid him little heed. Verily,
my bread was bitter to me, and my days a burthen.

Early the next morning (Friday, 22nd) a boat came with provisions, and
Andie placed a packet in my hand. The cover was without address but
sealed with a Government seal. It enclosed two notes. “Mr. Balfour can
now see for himself it is too late to meddle. His conduct will be
observed and his discretion rewarded.” So ran the first, which seemed
to be laboriously writ with the left hand. There was certainly nothing
in these expressions to compromise the writer, even if that person
could be found; the seal, which formidably served instead of signature,
was affixed to a separate sheet on which there was no scratch of
writing; and I had to confess that (so far) my adversaries knew what
they were doing, and to digest as well as I was able the threat that
peeped under the promise.

But the second enclosure was by far the more surprising. It was in a
lady’s hand of writ. “_Maister Dauvit Balfour is informed a friend was
speiring for him and her eyes were of the grey_,” it ran—and seemed so
extraordinary a piece to come to my hands at such a moment and under
cover of a Government seal, that I stood stupid. Catriona’s grey eyes
shone in my remembrance. I thought, with a bound of pleasure, she must
be the friend. But who should the writer be, to have her billet thus
enclosed with Prestongrange’s? And of all wonders, why was it thought
needful to give me this pleasing but most inconsequent intelligence
upon the Bass? For the writer, I could hit upon none possible except
Miss Grant. Her family, I remembered, had remarked on Catriona’s eyes
and even named her for their colour; and she herself had been much in
the habit to address me with a broad pronunciation, by way of a sniff,
I supposed, at my rusticity. No doubt, besides, but she lived in the
same house as this letter came from. So there remained but one step to
be accounted for; and that was how Prestongrange should have permitted
her at all in an affair so secret, or let her daft-like billet go in
the same cover with his own. But even here I had a glimmering. For,
first of all, there was something rather alarming about the young lady,
and papa might be more under her domination than I knew. And, second,
there was the man’s continual policy to be remembered, how his conduct
had been continually mingled with caresses, and he had scarce ever, in
the midst of so much contention, laid aside a mask of friendship. He
must conceive that my imprisonment had incensed me. Perhaps this little
jesting, friendly message was intended to disarm my rancour?

I will be honest—and I think it did. I felt a sudden warmth towards
that beautiful Miss Grant, that she should stoop to so much interest in
my affairs. The summoning up of Catriona moved me of itself to milder
and more cowardly counsels. If the Advocate knew of her and our
acquaintance—if I should please him by some of that “discretion” at
which his letter pointed—to what might not this lead! _In vain is the
net prepared in the sight of any fowl_, the Scripture says. Well, fowls
must be wiser than folk! For I thought I perceived the policy, and yet
fell in with it.

I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes plain before me
like two stars, when Andie broke in upon my musing.

“I see ye has gotten guid news,” said he.

I found him looking curiously in my face; with that there came before
me like a vision of James Stewart and the court of Inverary; and my
mind turned at once like a door upon its hinges. Trials, I reflected,
sometimes draw out longer than is looked for. Even if I came to
Inverary just too late, something might yet be attempted in the
interests of James—and in those of my own character, the best would be
accomplished. In a moment, it seemed without thought, I had a plan
devised.

“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?”

He told me nothing was changed.

“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked.

He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon.

“And about the place?” I pursued.

“Whatten place?” says Andie.

“The place I am to be landed at?” said I.

He owned there was nothing as to that.

“Very well, then,” I said, “this shall be mine to arrange. The wind is
in the east, my road lies westward: keep your boat, I hire it; let us
work up the Forth all day; and land me at two o’clock to-morrow at the
westmost we’ll can have reached.”

“Ye daft callant!” he cried; “ye would try for Inverary after a’!”

“Just that, Andie,” says I.

“Weel, ye’re ill to beat!” says he. “And I was a kind o’ sorry for ye
a’ day yesterday,” he added. “Ye see, I was never entirely sure till
then, which way of it ye really wantit.”

Here was a spur to a lame horse!

“A word in your ear, Andie,” said I. “This plan of mine has another
advantage yet. We can leave these Hielandman behind us on the rock, and
one of your boats from the Castleton can bring them off to-morrow. Yon
Neil has a queer eye when he regards you; maybe, if I was once out of
the gate there might be knives again; these red-shanks are unco
grudgeful. And if there should come to be any question, here is your
excuse. Our lives were in danger by these savages; being answerable for
my safety, you chose the part to bring me from their neighbourhood and
detain me the rest of the time on board your boat: and do you know,
Andie?” says I, with a smile, “I think it was very wisely chosen.”

“The truth is I have nae goo for Neil,” says Andie, “nor he for me, I’m
thinking; and I would like ill to come to my hands wi’ the man. Tam
Anster will make a better hand of it with the cattle onyway.” (For this
man, Anster, came from Fife, where the Gaelic is still spoken.) “Ay,
ay!” says Andie, “Tam’ll can deal with them the best. And troth! the
mair I think of it, the less I see we would be required. The place—ay,
feggs! they had forgot the place. Eh, Shaws, ye’re a lang-heided chield
when ye like! Forby that I’m awing ye my life,” he added, with more
solemnity, and offered me his hand upon the bargain.

Whereupon, with scarce more words, we stepped suddenly on board the
boat, cast off, and set the lug. The Gregara were then busy upon
breakfast, for the cookery was their usual part; but, one of them
stepping to the battlements, our flight was observed before we were
twenty fathoms from the rock; and the three of them ran about the ruins
and the landing-shelf, for all the world like ants about a broken nest,
hailing and crying on us to return. We were still in both the lee and
the shadow of the rock, which last lay broad upon the waters, but
presently came forth in almost the same moment into the wind and
sunshine; the sail filled, the boat heeled to the gunwale, and we swept
immediately beyond sound of the men’s voices. To what terrors they
endured upon the rock, where they were now deserted without the
countenance of any civilised person or so much as the protection of a
Bible, no limit can be set; nor had they any brandy left to be their
consolation, for even in the haste and secrecy of our departure Andie
had managed to remove it.

It was our first care to set Anster ashore in a cove by the Glenteithy
Rocks, so that the deliverance of our maroons might be duly seen to the
next day. Thence we kept away up Firth. The breeze, which was then so
spirited, swiftly declined, but never wholly failed us. All day we kept
moving, though often not much more; and it was after dark ere we were
up with the Queensferry. To keep the letter of Andie’s engagement (or
what was left of it) I must remain on board, but I thought no harm to
communicate with the shore in writing. On Prestongrange’s cover, where
the Government seal must have a good deal surprised my correspondent, I
writ, by the boat’s lantern, a few necessary words, aboard and Andie
carried them to Rankeillor. In about an hour he came again, with a
purse of money and the assurance that a good horse should be standing
saddled for me by two to-morrow at Clackmannan Pool. This done, and the
boat riding by her stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under the sail.

We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and there was nothing
left for me but to sit and wait. I felt little alacrity upon my errand.
I would have been glad of any passable excuse to lay it down; but none
being to be found, my uneasiness was no less great than if I had been
running to some desired pleasure. By shortly after one the horse was at
the waterside, and I could see a man walking it to and fro till I
should land, which vastly swelled my impatience. Andie ran the moment
of my liberation very fine, showing himself a man of his bare word, but
scarce serving his employers with a heaped measure; and by about fifty
seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full stretch for
Stirling. In a little more than an hour I had passed that town, and was
already mounting Alan Water side, when the weather broke in a small
tempest. The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from the
saddle, and the first darkness of the night surprised me in a
wilderness still some way east of Balwhidder, not very sure of my
direction and mounted on a horse that began already to be weary.

In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay and annoyance of a
guide, I had followed (so far as it was possible for any horseman) the
line of my journey with Alan. This I did with open eyes, foreseeing a
great risk in it, which the tempest had now brought to a reality. The
last that I knew of where I was, I think it must have been about Uam
Var; the hour perhaps six at night. I must still think it great good
fortune that I got about eleven to my destination, the house of Duncan
Dhu. Where I had wandered in the interval perhaps the horse could tell.
I know we were twice down, and once over the saddle and for a moment
carried away in a roaring burn. Steed and rider were bemired up to the
eyes.

From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was followed in all these
Highland regions with religious interest; news of it spread from
Inverary as swift as men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn
that, up to a late hour that Saturday it was not yet concluded; and all
men began to suppose it must spread over the Monday. Under the spur of
this intelligence I would not sit to eat; but, Duncan having agreed to
be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the piece in my hand and
munching as I went. Duncan brought with him a flask of usquebaugh and a
hand-lantern; which last enlightened us just so long as we could find
houses where to rekindle it, for the thing leaked outrageously and blew
out with every gust. The more part of the night we walked blindfold
among sheets of rain, and day found us aimless on the mountains. Hard
by we struck a hut on a burn-side, where we got bite and a direction;
and, a little before the end of the sermon, came to the kirk doors of
Inverary.

The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of me, but I was still
bogged as high as to the knees; I streamed water; I was so weary I
could hardly limp, and my face was like a ghost’s. I stood certainly
more in need of a change of raiment and a bed to lie on, than of all
the benefits in Christianity. For all which (being persuaded the chief
point for me was to make myself immediately public) I set the door of
the church with the dirty Duncan at my tails, and finding a vacant
place sat down.

“Thirteently, my brethren, and in parenthesis, the law itself must be
regarded as a means of grace,” the minister was saying, in the voice of
one delighting to pursue an argument.

The sermon was in English on account of the assize. The judges were
present with their armed attendants, the halberts glittered in a corner
by the door, and the seats were thronged beyond custom with the array
of lawyers. The text was in Romans 5th and 13th—the minister a skilled
hand; and the whole of that able churchful—from Argyle, and my Lords
Elchies and Kilkerran, down to the halbertmen that came in their
attendance—was sunk with gathered brows in a profound critical
attention. The minister himself and a sprinkling of those about the
door observed our entrance at the moment and immediately forgot the
same; the rest either did not hear or would not hear or would not be
heard; and I sat amongst my friends and enemies unremarked.

The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He sat well forward,
like an eager horseman in the saddle, his lips moving with relish, his
eyes glued on the minister; the doctrine was clearly to his mind.
Charles Stewart, on the other hand, was half asleep, and looked
harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, he appeared like a blot, and
almost a scandal, in the midst of that attentive congregation, digging
his hands in his pockets, shifting his legs, clearing his throat, and
rolling up his bald eyebrows and shooting out his eyes to right and
left, now with a yawn, now with a secret smile. At times, too, he would
take the Bible in front of him, run it through, seem to read a bit, run
it through again, and stop and yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for
exercise.

In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on myself. He sat a
second stupefied, then tore a half-leaf out of the Bible, scrawled upon
it with a pencil, and passed it with a whispered word to his next
neighbour. The note came to Prestongrange, who gave me but the one
look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. Erskine; thence again to
Argyle, where he sat between the other two lords of session, and his
Grace turned and fixed me with an arrogant eye. The last of those
interested in my presence was Charlie Stewart, and he too began to
pencil and hand about dispatches, none of which I was able to trace to
their destination in the crowd.

But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; all who were in the
secret (or supposed themselves to be so) were whispering
information—the rest questions; and the minister himself seemed quite
discountenanced by the flutter in the church and sudden stir and
whispering. His voice changed, he plainly faltered, nor did he again
recover the easy conviction and full tones of his delivery. It would be
a puzzle to him till his dying day, why a sermon that had gone with
triumph through four parts, should thus miscarry in the fifth.

As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and weary, and a good
deal anxious as to what should happen next, but greatly exulting in my
success.




CHAPTER XVII.
THE MEMORIAL


The last word of the blessing was scarce out of the minister’s mouth
before Stewart had me by the arm. We were the first to be forth of the
church, and he made such extraordinary expedition that we were safe
within the four walls of a house before the street had begun to be
thronged with the home-going congregation.

“Am I yet in time?” I asked.

“Ay and no,” said he. “The case is over; the jury is enclosed, and will
so kind as let us ken their view of it to-morrow in the morning, the
same as I could have told it my own self three days ago before the play
began. The thing has been public from the start. The panel kent it,
‘_Ye may do what ye will for me_,’ whispers he two days ago. ‘_Ye ken
my fate by what the Duke of Argyle has just said to Mr. Macintosh_.’ O,
it’s been a scandal!

“The great Agyle he gaed before,
He gart the cannons and guns to roar,”


and the very macer cried ‘Cruachan!’ But now that I have got you again
I’ll never despair. The oak shall go over the myrtle yet; we’ll ding
the Campbells yet in their own town. Praise God that I should see the
day!”

He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his mails upon the floor
that I might have a change of clothes, and incommoded me with his
assistance as I changed. What remained to be done, or how I was to do
it, was what he never told me nor, I believe, so much as thought of.
“We’ll ding the Campbells yet!” that was still his overcome. And it was
forced home upon my mind how this, that had the externals of a sober
process of law, was in its essence a clan battle between savage clans.
I thought my friend the Writer none of the least savage. Who that had
only seen him at a counsel’s back before the Lord Ordinary or following
a golf ball and laying down his clubs on Bruntsfield links, could have
recognised for the same person this voluble and violent clansman?

James Stewart’s counsel were four in number—Sheriffs Brown of Colstoun
and Miller, Mr. Robert Macintosh, and Mr. Stewart younger of Stewart
Hall. These were covenanted to dine with the Writer after sermon, and I
was very obligingly included of the party. No sooner the cloth lifted,
and the first bowl very artfully compounded by Sheriff Miller, than we
fell to the subject in hand. I made a short narration of my seizure and
captivity, and was then examined and re-examined upon the circumstances
of the murder. It will be remembered this was the first time I had had
my say out, or the matter at all handled, among lawyers; and the
consequence was very dispiriting to the others and (I must own)
disappointing to myself.

“To sum up,” said Colstoun, “you prove that Alan was on the spot; you
have heard him proffer menaces against Glenure; and though you assure
us he was not the man who fired, you leave a strong impression that he
was in league with him, and consenting, perhaps immediately assisting,
in the act. You show him besides, at the risk of his own liberty,
actively furthering the criminal’s escape. And the rest of your
testimony (so far as the least material) depends on the bare word of
Alan or of James, the two accused. In short, you do not at all break,
but only lengthen by one personage, the chain that binds our client to
the murderer; and I need scarcely say that the introduction of a third
accomplice rather aggravates that appearance of a conspiracy which has
been our stumbling block from the beginning.”

“I am of the same opinion,” said Sheriff Miller. “I think we may all be
very much obliged to Prestongrange for taking a most uncomfortable
witness out of our way. And chiefly, I think, Mr. Balfour himself might
be obliged. For you talk of a third accomplice, but Mr. Balfour (in my
view) has very much the appearance of a fourth.”

“Allow me, sirs!” interposed Stewart the Writer. “There is another
view. Here we have a witness—never fash whether material or not—a
witness in this cause, kidnapped by that old, lawless, bandit crew of
the Glengyle Macgregors, and sequestered for near upon a month in a
bourock of old ruins on the Bass. Move that and see what dirt you fling
on the proceedings! Sirs, this is a tale to make the world ring with!
It would be strange, with such a grip as this, if we couldnae squeeze
out a pardon for my client.”

“And suppose we took up Mr. Balfour’s cause to-morrow?” said Stewart
Hall. “I am much deceived or we should find so many impediments thrown
in our path, as that James should have been hanged before we had found
a court to hear us. This is a great scandal, but I suppose we have none
of us forgot a greater still, I mean the matter of the Lady Grange. The
woman was still in durance; my friend Mr. Hope of Rankeillor did what
was humanly possible; and how did he speed? He never got a warrant!
Well, it’ll be the same now; the same weapons will be used. This is a
scene, gentleman, of clan animosity. The hatred of the name which I
have the honour to bear, rages in high quarters. There is nothing here
to be viewed but naked Campbell spite and scurvy Campbell intrigue.”

You may be sure this was to touch a welcome topic, and I sat for some
time in the midst of my learned counsel, almost deaved with their talk
but extremely little the wiser for its purport. The Writer was led into
some hot expressions; Colstoun must take him up and set him right; the
rest joined in on different sides, but all pretty noisy; the Duke of
Argyle was beaten like a blanket; King George came in for a few digs in
the by-going and a great deal of rather elaborate defence; and there
was only one person that seemed to be forgotten, and that was James of
the Glens.

Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip of an oldish
gentleman, ruddy and twinkling; he spoke in a smooth rich voice, with
an infinite effect of pawkiness, dealing out each word the way an actor
does, to give the most expression possible; and even now, when he was
silent, and sat there with his wig laid aside, his glass in both hands,
his mouth funnily pursed, and his chin out, he seemed the mere picture
of a merry slyness. It was plain he had a word to say, and waited for
the fit occasion.

It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of his speeches with some
expression of their duty to their client. His brother sheriff was
pleased, I suppose, with the transition. He took the table in his
confidence with a gesture and a look.

“That suggests to me a consideration which seems overlooked,” said he.
“The interest of our client goes certainly before all, but the world
does not come to an end with James Stewart.” Whereat he cocked his eye.
“I might condescend, _exempli gratia_, upon a Mr. George Brown, a Mr.
Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David Balfour. Mr. David Balfour has a very
good ground of complaint, and I think, gentlemen—if his story was
properly redd out—I think there would be a number of wigs on the
green.”

The whole table turned to him with a common movement.

“Properly handled and carefully redd out, his is a story that could
scarcely fail to have some consequence,” he continued. “The whole
administration of justice, from its highest officer downward, would be
totally discredited; and it looks to me as if they would need to be
replaced.” He seemed to shine with cunning as he said it. “And I need
not point out to ye that this of Mr. Balfour’s would be a remarkable
bonny cause to appear in,” he added.

Well, there they all were started on another hare; Mr. Balfour’s cause,
and what kind of speeches could be there delivered, and what officials
could be thus turned out, and who would succeed to their positions. I
shall give but the two specimens. It was proposed to approach Simon
Fraser, whose testimony, if it could be obtained, would prove certainly
fatal to Argyle and to Prestongrange. Miller highly approved of the
attempt. “We have here before us a dreeping roast,” said he, “here is
cut-and-come-again for all.” And methought all licked their lips. The
other was already near the end. Stewart the Writer was out of the body
with delight, smelling vengeance on his chief enemy, the Duke.

“Gentlemen,” cried he, charging his glass, “here is to Sheriff Miller.
His legal abilities are known to all. His culinary, this bowl in front
of us is here to speak for. But when it comes to the poleetical!”—cries
he, and drains the glass.

“Ay, but it will hardly prove politics in your meaning, my friend,”
said the gratified Miller. “A revolution, if you like, and I think I
can promise you that historical writers shall date from Mr. Balfour’s
cause. But properly guided, Mr. Stewart, tenderly guided, it shall
prove a peaceful revolution.”

“And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, what care I?” cries
Stewart, smiting down his fist.

It will be thought I was not very well pleased with all this, though I
could scarce forbear smiling at a kind of innocency in these old
intriguers. But it was not my view to have undergone so many sorrows
for the advancement of Sheriff Miller or to make a revolution in the
Parliament House: and I interposed accordingly with as much simplicity
of manner as I could assume.

“I have to thank you, gentlemen, for your advice,” said I. “And now I
would like, by your leave, to set you two or three questions. There is
one thing that has fallen rather on one aide, for instance: Will this
cause do any good to our friend James of the Glens?”

They seemed all a hair set back, and gave various answers, but
concurring practically in one point, that James had now no hope but in
the King’s mercy.

“To proceed, then,” said I, “will it do any good to Scotland? We have a
saying that it is an ill bird that fouls his own nest. I remember
hearing we had a riot in Edinburgh when I was an infant child, which
gave occasion to the late Queen to call this country barbarous; and I
always understood that we had rather lost than gained by that. Then
came the year ’Forty-five, which made Scotland to be talked of
everywhere; but I never heard it said we had anyway gained by the
’Forty-five. And now we come to this cause of Mr. Balfour’s, as you
call it. Sheriff Miller tells us historical writers are to date from
it, and I would not wonder. It is only my fear they would date from it
as a period of calamity and public reproach.”

The nimble-witted Miller had already smelt where I was travelling to,
and made haste to get on the same road. “Forcibly put, Mr. Balfour,”
says he. “A weighty observe, sir.”

“We have next to ask ourselves if it will be good for King George,” I
pursued. “Sheriff Miller appears pretty easy upon this; but I doubt you
will scarce be able to pull down the house from under him, without his
Majesty coming by a knock or two, one of which might easily prove
fatal.”

I gave them a chance to answer, but none volunteered.

“Of those for whom the case was to be profitable,” I went on, “Sheriff
Miller gave us the names of several, among the which he was good enough
to mention mine. I hope he will pardon me if I think otherwise. I
believe I hung not the least back in this affair while there was life
to be saved; but I own I thought myself extremely hazarded, and I own I
think it would be a pity for a young man, with some idea of coming to
the Bar, to ingrain upon himself the character of a turbulent, factious
fellow before he was yet twenty. As for James, it seems—at this date of
the proceedings, with the sentence as good as pronounced—he has no hope
but in the King’s mercy. May not his Majesty, then, be more pointedly
addressed, the characters of these high officers sheltered from the
public, and myself kept out of a position which I think spells ruin for
me?”

They all sat and gazed into their glasses, and I could see they found
my attitude on the affair unpalatable. But Miller was ready at all
events.

“If I may be allowed to put my young friend’s notion in more formal
shape,” says he, “I understand him to propose that we should embody the
fact of his sequestration, and perhaps some heads of the testimony he
was prepared to offer, in a memorial to the Crown. This plan has
elements of success. It is as likely as any other (and perhaps
likelier) to help our client. Perhaps his Majesty would have the
goodness to feel a certain gratitude to all concerned in such a
memorial, which might be construed into an expression of a very
delicate loyalty; and I think, in the drafting of the same, this view
might be brought forward.”

They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, for the former
alternative was doubtless more after their inclination.

“Paper, then, Mr. Stewart, if you please,” pursued Miller; “and I think
it might very fittingly be signed by the five of us here present, as
procurators for the condemned man.”’

“It can do none of us any harm, at least,” says Colstoun, heaving
another sigh, for he had seen himself Lord Advocate the last ten
minutes.

Thereupon they set themselves, not very enthusiastically, to draft the
memorial—a process in the course of which they soon caught fire; and I
had no more ado but to sit looking on and answer an occasional
question. The paper was very well expressed; beginning with a
recitation of the facts about myself, the reward offered for my
apprehension, my surrender, the pressure brought to bear upon me; my
sequestration; and my arrival at Inverary in time to be too late; going
on to explain the reasons of loyalty and public interest for which it
was agreed to waive any right of action; and winding up with a forcible
appeal to the King’s mercy on behalf of James.

Methought I was a good deal sacrificed, and rather represented in the
light of a firebrand of a fellow whom my cloud of lawyers had
restrained with difficulty from extremes. But I let it pass, and made
but the one suggestion, that I should be described as ready to deliver
my own evidence and adduce that of others before any commission of
inquiry—and the one demand, that I should be immediately furnished with
a copy.

Colstoun hummed and hawed. “This is a very confidential document,” said
he.

“And my position towards Prestongrange is highly peculiar,” I replied.
“No question but I must have touched his heart at our first interview,
so that he has since stood my friend consistently. But for him,
gentlemen, I must now be lying dead or awaiting my sentence alongside
poor James. For which reason I choose to communicate to him the fact of
this memorial as soon as it is copied. You are to consider also that
this step will make for my protection. I have enemies here accustomed
to drive hard; his Grace is in his own country, Lovat by his side; and
if there should hang any ambiguity over our proceedings I think I might
very well awake in gaol.”

Not finding any very ready answer to these considerations, my company
of advisers were at the last persuaded to consent, and made only this
condition that I was to lay the paper before Prestongrange with the
express compliments of all concerned.

The Advocate was at the castle dining with his Grace. By the hand of
one of Colstoun’s servants I sent him a billet asking for an interview,
and received a summons to meet him at once in a private house of the
town. Here I found him alone in a chamber; from his face there was
nothing to be gleaned; yet I was not so unobservant but what I spied
some halberts in the hall, and not so stupid but what I could gather he
was prepared to arrest me there and then, should it appear advisable.

“So, Mr. David, this is you?” said he.

“Where I fear I am not overly welcome, my lord,” said I. “And I would
like before I go further to express my sense of your lordship’s good
offices, even should they now cease.”

“I have heard of your gratitude before,” he replied drily, “and I think
this can scarce be the matter you called me from my wine to listen to.
I would remember also, if I were you, that you still stand on a very
boggy foundation.”

“Not now, my lord, I think,” said I; “and if your lordship will but
glance an eye along this, you will perhaps think as I do.”

He read it sedulously through, frowning heavily; then turned back to
one part and another which he seemed to weigh and compare the effect
of. His face a little lightened.

“This is not so bad but what it might be worse,” said he; “though I am
still likely to pay dear for my acquaintance with Mr. David Balfour.”

“Rather for your indulgence to that unlucky young man, my lord,” said
I.

He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his spirits seemed to
mend.

“And to whom am I indebted for this?” he asked presently. “Other
counsels must have been discussed, I think. Who was it proposed this
private method? Was it Miller?”

“My lord, it was myself,” said I. “These gentlemen have shown me no
such consideration, as that I should deny myself any credit I can
fairly claim, or spare them any responsibility they should properly
bear. And the mere truth is, that they were all in favour of a process
which should have remarkable consequences in the Parliament House, and
prove for them (in one of their own expressions) a dripping roast.
Before I intervened, I think they were on the point of sharing out the
different law appointments. Our friend Mr. Simon was to be taken in
upon some composition.”

Prestongrange smiled. “These are our friends,” said he. “And what were
your reasons for dissenting, Mr. David?”

I told them without concealment, expressing, however, with more force
and volume those which regarded Prestongrange himself.

“You do me no more than justice,” said he. “I have fought as hard in
your interest as you have fought against mine. And how came you here
to-day?” he asked. “As the case drew out, I began to grow uneasy that I
had clipped the period so fine, and I was even expecting you to-morrow.
But to-day—I never dreamed of it.”

I was not of course, going to betray Andie.

“I suspect there is some very weary cattle by the road,” said I.

“If I had known you were such a mosstrooper you should have tasted
longer of the Bass,” says he.

“Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter.” And I gave him the
enclosure in the counterfeit hand.

“There was the cover also with the seal,” said he.

“I have it not,” said I. “It bore not even an address, and could not
compromise a cat. The second enclosure I have, and with your
permission, I desire to keep it.”

I thought he winced a little, but he said nothing to the point.
“To-morrow,” he resumed, “our business here is to be finished, and I
proceed by Glasgow. I would be very glad to have you of my party, Mr
David.”

“My lord . . .” I began.

“I do not deny it will be of service to me,” he interrupted. “I desire
even that, when we shall come to Edinburgh, you should alight at my
house. You have very warm friends in the Miss Grants, who will be
overjoyed to have you to themselves. If you think I have been of use to
you, you can thus easily repay me, and so far from losing, may reap
some advantage by the way. It is not every strange young man who is
presented in society by the King’s Advocate.”

Often enough already (in our brief relations) this gentleman had caused
my head to spin; no doubt but what for a moment he did so again now.
Here was the old fiction still maintained of my particular favour with
his daughters, one of whom had been so good as to laugh at me, while
the other two had scarce deigned to remark the fact of my existence.
And now I was to ride with my lord to Glasgow; I was to dwell with him
in Edinburgh; I was to be brought into society under his protection!
That he should have so much good-nature as to forgive me was surprising
enough; that he could wish to take me up and serve me seemed
impossible; and I began to seek some ulterior meaning. One was plain.
If I became his guest, repentance was excluded; I could never think
better of my present design and bring any action. And besides, would
not my presence in his house draw out the whole pungency of the
memorial? For that complaint could not be very seriously regarded, if
the person chiefly injured was the guest of the official most
incriminated. As I thought upon this I could not quite refrain from
smiling.

“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?” said I.

“You are cunning, Mr. David,” said he, “and you do not wholly guess
wrong the fact will be of use to me in my defence. Perhaps, however,
you underrate friendly sentiments, which are perfectly genuine. I have
a respect for you, David, mingled with awe,” says he, smiling.

“I am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to meet your wishes,”
said I. “It is my design to be called to the Bar, where your lordship’s
countenance would be invaluable; and I am besides sincerely grateful to
yourself and family for different marks of interest and of indulgence.
The difficulty is here. There is one point in which we pull two ways.
You are trying to hang James Stewart, I am trying to save him. In so
far as my riding with you would better your lordship’s defence, I am at
your lordships orders; but in so far as it would help to hang James
Stewart, you see me at a stick.”

I thought he swore to himself. “You should certainly be called; the Bar
is the true scene for your talents,” says he, bitterly, and then fell a
while silent. “I will tell you,” he presently resumed, “there is no
question of James Stewart, for or against, James is a dead man; his
life is given and taken—bought (if you like it better) and sold; no
memorial can help—no defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow
high, blow low, there will be no pardon for James Stewart: and take
that for said! The question is now of myself: am I to stand or fall?
and I do not deny to you that I am in some danger. But will Mr. David
Balfour consider why? It is not because I pushed the case unduly
against James; for that, I am sure of condonation. And it is not
because I have sequestered Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass
under that colour; but because I did not take the ready and plain path,
to which I was pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. David to his grave or
to the gallows. Hence the scandal—hence this damned memorial,” striking
the paper on his leg. “My tenderness for you has brought me in this
difficulty. I wish to know if your tenderness to your own conscience is
too great to let you help me out of it.”

No doubt but there was much of the truth in what he said; if James was
past helping, whom was it more natural that I should turn to help than
just the man before me, who had helped myself so often, and was even
now setting me a pattern of patience? I was besides not only weary, but
beginning to be ashamed, of my perpetual attitude of suspicion and
refusal.

“If you will name the time and place, I will be punctually ready to
attend your lordship,” said I.

He shook hands with me. “And I think my misses have some news for you,”
says he, dismissing me.

I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace made, yet a little
concerned in conscience; nor could I help wondering, as I went back,
whether, perhaps, I had not been a scruple too good-natured. But there
was the fact, that this was a man that might have been my father, an
able man, a great dignitary, and one that, in the hour of my need, had
reached a hand to my assistance. I was in the better humour to enjoy
the remainder of that evening, which I passed with the advocates, in
excellent company no doubt, but perhaps with rather more than a
sufficiency of punch: for though I went early to bed I have no clear
mind of how I got there.




CHAPTER XVIII.
THE TEE’D BALL


On the morrow, from the justices’ private room, where none could see
me, I heard the verdict given in and judgment rendered upon James. The
Duke’s words I am quite sure I have correctly; and since that famous
passage has been made a subject of dispute, I may as well commemorate
my version. Having referred to the year ’45, the chief of the
Campbells, sitting as Justice-General upon the bench, thus addressed
the unfortunate Stewart before him: “If you had been successful in that
rebellion, you might have been giving the law where you have now
received the judgment of it; we, who are this day your judges, might
have been tried before one of your mock courts of judicature; and then
you might have been satiated with the blood of any name or clan to
which you had an aversion.”

“This is to let the cat out of the bag, indeed,” thought I. And that
was the general impression. It was extraordinary how the young advocate
lads took hold and made a mock of this speech, and how scarce a meal
passed but what someone would get in the words: “And then you might
have been satiated.” Many songs were made in time for the hour’s
diversion, and are near all forgot. I remember one began:

“What do ye want the bluid of, bluid of?
Is it a name, or is it a clan,
Or is it an aefauld Hielandman,
That ye want the bluid of, bluid of?”


Another went to my old favourite air, _The House of Airlie_, and began
thus:

“It fell on a day when Argyle was on the bench,
That they served him a Stewart for his denner.”


And one of the verses ran:

“Then up and spak’ the Duke, and flyted on his cook,
I regard it as a sensible aspersion,
That I would sup ava’, an’ satiate my maw,
With the bluid of ony clan of my aversion.”


James was as fairly murdered as though the Duke had got a fowling-piece
and stalked him. So much of course I knew: but others knew not so much,
and were more affected by the items of scandal that came to light in
the progress of the cause. One of the chief was certainly this sally of
the justice’s. It was run hard by another of a juryman, who had struck
into the midst of Coulston’s speech for the defence with a “Pray, sir,
cut it short, we are quite weary,” which seemed the very excess of
impudence and simplicity. But some of my new lawyer friends were still
more staggered with an innovation that had disgraced and even vitiated
the proceedings. One witness was never called. His name, indeed, was
printed, where it may still be seen on the fourth page of the list:
“James Drummond, _alias_ Macgregor, _alias_ James More, late tenant in
Inveronachile”; and his precognition had been taken, as the manner is,
in writing. He had remembered or invented (God help him) matter which
was lead in James Stewart’s shoes, and I saw was like to prove wings to
his own. This testimony it was highly desirable to bring to the notice
of the jury, without exposing the man himself to the perils of
cross-examination; and the way it was brought about was a matter of
surprise to all. For the paper was handed round (like a curiosity) in
court; passed through the jury-box, where it did its work; and
disappeared again (as though by accident) before it reached the counsel
for the prisoner. This was counted a most insidious device; and that
the name of James More should be mingled up with it filled me with
shame for Catriona and concern for myself.

The following day, Prestongrange and I, with a considerable company,
set out for Glasgow, where (to my impatience) we continued to linger
some time in a mixture of pleasure and affairs. I lodged with my lord,
with whom I was encouraged to familiarity; had my place at
entertainments; was presented to the chief guests; and altogether made
more of than I thought accorded either with my parts or station; so
that, on strangers being present, I would often blush for
Prestongrange. It must be owned the view I had taken of the world in
these last months was fit to cast a gloom upon my character. I had met
many men, some of them leaders in Israel whether by their birth or
talents; and who among them all had shown clean hands? As for the
Browns and Millers, I had seen their self-seeking, I could never again
respect them. Prestongrange was the best yet; he had saved me, spared
me rather, when others had it in their minds to murder me outright; but
the blood of James lay at his door; and I thought his present
dissimulation with myself a thing below pardon. That he should affect
to find pleasure in my discourse almost surprised me out of my
patience. I would sit and watch him with a kind of a slow fire of anger
in my bowels. “Ah, friend, friend,” I would think to myself, “if you
were but through with this affair of the memorial, would you not kick
me in the streets?” Here I did him, as events have proved, the most
grave injustice; and I think he was at once far more sincere, and a far
more artful performer, than I supposed.

But I had some warrant for my incredulity in the behaviour of that
court of young advocates that hung about in the hope of patronage. The
sudden favour of a lad not previously heard of troubled them at first
out of measure; but two days were not gone by before I found myself
surrounded with flattery and attention. I was the same young man, and
neither better nor bonnier, that they had rejected a month before; and
now there was no civility too fine for me! The same, do I say? It was
not so; and the by-name by which I went behind my back confirmed it.
Seeing me so firm with the Advocate, and persuaded that I was to fly
high and far, they had taken a word from the golfing green, and called
me _the Tee’d Ball_. [14] I was told I was now “one of themselves”; I
was to taste of their soft lining, who had already made my own
experience of the roughness of the outer husk; and one, to whom I had
been presented in Hope Park, was so aspired as even to remind me of
that meeting. I told him I had not the pleasure of remembering it.

“Why” says he, “it was Miss Grant herself presented me! My name is
so-and-so.”

“It may very well be, sir,” said I; “but I have kept no mind of it.”

At which he desisted; and in the midst of the disgust that commonly
overflowed my spirits I had a glisk of pleasure.

But I have not patience to dwell upon that time at length. When I was
in company with these young politics I was borne down with shame for
myself and my own plain ways, and scorn for them and their duplicity.
Of the two evils, I thought Prestongrange to be the least; and while I
was always as stiff as buckram to the young bloods, I made rather a
dissimulation of my hard feelings towards the Advocate, and was (in old
Mr. Campbell’s word) “soople to the laird.” Himself commented on the
difference, and bid me be more of my age, and make friends with my
young comrades.

I told him I was slow of making friends.

“I will take the word back,” said he. “But there is such a thing as
_Fair gude s’en and fair gude day_, Mr. David. These are the same young
men with whom you are to pass your days and get through life: your
backwardness has a look of arrogance; and unless you can assume a
little more lightness of manner, I fear you will meet difficulties in
the path.”

“It will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow’s ear,” said I.

On the morning of October 1st I was awakened by the clattering in of an
express; and getting to my window almost before he had dismounted, I
saw the messenger had ridden hard. Somewhile after I was called to
Prestongrange, where he was sitting in his bedgown and nightcap, with
his letters round him.

“Mr. David,” add he, “I have a piece of news for you. It concerns some
friends of yours, of whom I sometimes think you are a little ashamed,
for you have never referred to their existence.”

I suppose I blushed.

“See you understand, since you make the answering signal,” said he.
“And I must compliment you on your excellent taste in beauty. But do
you know, Mr. David? this seems to me a very enterprising lass. She
crops up from every side. The Government of Scotland appears unable to
proceed for Mistress Katrine Drummond, which was somewhat the case (no
great while back) with a certain Mr. David Balfour. Should not these
make a good match? Her first intromission in politics—but I must not
tell you that story, the authorities have decided you are to hear it
otherwise and from a livelier narrator. This new example is more
serious, however; and I am afraid I must alarm you with the
intelligence that she is now in prison.”

I cried out.

“Yes,” said he, “the little lady is in prison. But I would not have you
to despair. Unless you (with your friends and memorials) shall procure
my downfall, she is to suffer nothing.”

“But what has she done? What is her offence?” I cried.

“It might be almost construed a high treason,” he returned, “for she
has broke the king’s Castle of Edinburgh.”

“The lady is much my friend,” I said. “I know you would not mock me if
the thing were serious.”

“And yet it is serious in a sense,” said he; “for this rogue of a
Katrine—or Cateran, as we may call her—has set adrift again upon the
world that very doubtful character, her papa.”

Here was one of my previsions justified: James More was once again at
liberty. He had lent his men to keep me a prisoner; he had volunteered
his testimony in the Appin case, and the same (no matter by what
subterfuge) had been employed to influence the jury. Now came his
reward, and he was free. It might please the authorities to give to it
the colour of an escape; but I knew better—I knew it must be the
fulfilment of a bargain. The same course of thought relieved me of the
least alarm for Catriona. She might be thought to have broke prison for
her father; she might have believed so herself. But the chief hand in
the whole business was that of Prestongrange; and I was sure, so far
from letting her come to punishment, he would not suffer her to be even
tried. Whereupon thus came out of me the not very politic ejaculation:

“Ah! I was expecting that!”

“You have at times a great deal of discretion, too!” says
Prestongrange.

“And what is my lord pleased to mean by that?” I asked.

“I was just marvelling”, he replied, “that being so clever as to draw
these inferences, you should not be clever enough to keep them to
yourself. But I think you would like to hear the details of the affair.
I have received two versions: and the least official is the more full
and far the more entertaining, being from the lively pen of my eldest
daughter. ‘Here is all the town bizzing with a fine piece of work,’ she
writes, ‘and what would make the thing more noted (if it were only
known) the malefactor is a _protégée_ of his lordship my papa. I am
sure your heart is too much in your duty (if it were nothing else) to
have forgotten Grey Eyes. What does she do, but get a broad hat with
the flaps open, a long hairy-like man’s greatcoat, and a big gravatt;
kilt her coats up to _Gude kens whaur_, clap two pair of boot-hose upon
her legs, take a pair of _clouted brogues_ [15] in her hand, and off to
the Castle! Here she gives herself out to be a soutar [16] in the
employ of James More, and gets admitted to his cell, the lieutenant
(who seems to have been full of pleasantry) making sport among his
soldiers of the soutar’s greatcoat. Presently they hear disputation and
the sound of blows inside. Out flies the cobbler, his coat flying, the
flaps of his hat beat about his face, and the lieutenant and his
soldiers mock at him as he runs off. They laughed no so hearty the next
time they had occasion to visit the cell and found nobody but a tall,
pretty, grey-eyed lass in the female habit! As for the cobbler, he was
‘over the hills ayout Dumblane,’ and it’s thought that poor Scotland
will have to console herself without him. I drank Catriona’s health
this night in public. Indeed, the whole town admires her; and I think
the beaux would wear bits of her garters in their button-holes if they
could only get them. I would have gone to visit her in prison too, only
I remembered in time I was papa’s daughter; so I wrote her a billet
instead, which I entrusted to the faithful Doig, and I hope you will
admit I can be political when I please. The same faithful gomeral is to
despatch this letter by the express along with those of the wiseacres,
so that you may hear Tom Fool in company with Solomon. Talking of
_gomerals_, do tell _Dauvit Balfour_. I would I could see the face of
him at the thought of a long-legged lass in such a predicament; to say
nothing of the levities of your affectionate daughter, and his
respectful friend.’ So my rascal signs herself!” continued
Prestongrange. “And you see, Mr. David, it is quite true what I tell
you, that my daughters regard you with the most affectionate
playfulness.”

“The gomeral is much obliged,” said I.

“And was not this prettily done!” he went on. “Is not this Highland
maid a piece of a heroine?”

“I was always sure she had a great heart,” said I. “And I wager she
guessed nothing . . . But I beg your pardon, this is to tread upon
forbidden subjects.”

“I will go bail she did not,” he returned, quite openly. “I will go
bail she thought she was flying straight into King George’s face.”

Remembrance of Catriona and the thought of her lying in captivity,
moved me strangely. I could see that even Prestongrange admired, and
could not withhold his lips from smiling when he considered her
behaviour. As for Miss Grant, for all her ill habit of mockery, her
admiration shone out plain. A kind of a heat came on me.

“I am not your lordship’s daughter. . . ” I began.

“That I know of!” he put in, smiling.

“I speak like a fool,” said I; “or rather I began wrong. It would
doubtless be unwise in Mistress Grant to go to her in prison; but for
me, I think I would look like a half-hearted friend if I did not fly
there instantly.”

“So-ho, Mr. David,” says he; “I thought that you and I were in a
bargain?”

“My lord,” I said, “when I made that bargain I was a good deal affected
by your goodness, but I’ll never can deny that I was moved besides by
my own interest. There was self-seeking in my heart, and I think shame
of it now. It may be for your lordship’s safety to say this fashious
Davie Balfour is your friend and housemate. Say it then; I’ll never
contradict you. But as for your patronage, I give it all back. I ask
but the one thing—let me go, and give me a pass to see her in her
prison.”

He looked at me with a hard eye. “You put the cart before the horse, I
think,” says he. “That which I had given was a portion of my liking,
which your thankless nature does not seem to have remarked. But for my
patronage, it is not given, nor (to be exact) is it yet offered.” He
paused a bit. “And I warn you, you do not know yourself,” he added.
“Youth is a hasty season; you will think better of all this before a
year.”

“Well, and I would like to be that kind of youth!” I cried. “I have
seen too much of the other party in these young advocates that fawn
upon your lordship and are even at the pains to fawn on me. And I have
seen it in the old ones also. They are all for by-ends, the whole clan
of them! It’s this that makes me seem to misdoubt your lordship’s
liking. Why would I think that you would like me? But ye told me
yourself ye had an interest!”

I stopped at this, confounded that I had run so far; he was observing
me with an unfathomable face.

“My lord, I ask your pardon,” I resumed. “I have nothing in my chafts
but a rough country tongue. I think it would be only decent-like if I
would go to see my friend in her captivity; but I’m owing you my
life—I’ll never forget that; and if it’s for your lordship’s good, here
I’ll stay. That’s barely gratitude.”

“This might have been reached in fewer words,” says Prestongrange
grimly. “It is easy, and it is at times gracious, to say a plain Scots
‘ay’.”

“Ah, but, my lord, I think ye take me not yet entirely!” cried I. “For
_your_ sake, for my life-safe, and the kindness that ye say ye bear to
me—for these, I’ll consent; but not for any good that might be coming
to myself. If I stand aside when this young maid is in her trial, it’s
a thing I will be noways advantaged by; I will lose by it, I will never
gain. I would rather make a shipwreck wholly than to build on that
foundation.”

He was a minute serious, then smiled. “You mind me of the man with the
long nose,” said he; “was you to see the moon by a telescope you would
see David Balfour there! But you shall have your way of it. I will ask
at you one service, and then set you free: My clerks are overdriven; be
so good as copy me these few pages, and when that is done, I shall bid
you God speed! I would never charge myself with Mr. David’s conscience;
and if you could cast some part of it (as you went by) in a moss hag,
you would find yourself to ride much easier without it.”

“Perhaps not just entirely in the same direction though, my lord!” says
I.

“And you shall have the last word, too!” cries he gaily.

Indeed, he had some cause for gaiety, having now found the means to
gain his purpose. To lessen the weight of the memorial, or to have a
readier answer at his hand, he desired I should appear publicly in the
character of his intimate. But if I were to appear with the same
publicity as a visitor to Catriona in her prison the world would scarce
stint to draw conclusions, and the true nature of James More’s escape
must become evident to all. This was the little problem I had to set
him of a sudden, and to which he had so briskly found an answer. I was
to be tethered in Glasgow by that job of copying, which in mere outward
decency I could not well refuse; and during these hours of employment
Catriona was privately got rid of. I think shame to write of this man
that loaded me with so many goodnesses. He was kind to me as any
father, yet I ever thought him as false as a cracked bell.




CHAPTER XIX.
I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES


The copying was a weary business, the more so as I perceived very early
there was no sort of urgency in the matters treated, and began very
early to consider my employment a pretext. I had no sooner finished
than I got to horse, used what remained of daylight to the best
purpose, and being at last fairly benighted, slept in a house by
Almond-Water side. I was in the saddle again before the day, and the
Edinburgh booths were just opening when I clattered in by the West Bow
and drew up a smoking horse at my lord Advocate’s door. I had a written
word for Doig, my lord’s private hand that was thought to be in all his
secrets—a worthy little plain man, all fat and snuff and
self-sufficiency. Him I found already at his desk and already bedabbled
with maccabaw, in the same anteroom where I rencountered with James
More. He read the note scrupulously through like a chapter in his
Bible.

“H’m,” says he; “ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, Mr. Balfour. The
bird’s flaen—we hae letten her out.”

“Miss Drummond is set free?” I cried.

“Achy!” said he. “What would we keep her for, ye ken? To hae made a
steer about the bairn would has pleased naebody.”

“And where’ll she be now?” says I.

“Gude kens!” says Doig, with a shrug.

“She’ll have gone home to Lady Allardyce, I’m thinking,” said I.

“That’ll be it,” said he.

“Then I’ll gang there straight,” says I.

“But ye’ll be for a bite or ye go?” said he.

“Neither bite nor sup,” said I. “I had a good wauch of milk in by
Ratho.”

“Aweel, aweel,” says Doig. “But ye’ll can leave your horse here and
your bags, for it seems we’re to have your up-put.”

“Na, na”, said I. “Tamson’s mear [17] would never be the thing for me
this day of all days.”

Doig speaking somewhat broad, I had been led by imitation into an
accent much more countrified than I was usually careful to affect a
good deal broader, indeed, than I have written it down; and I was the
more ashamed when another voice joined in behind me with a scrap of a
ballad:

“Gae saddle me the bonny black,
Gae saddle sune and mak’ him ready
For I will down the Gatehope-slack,
And a’ to see my bonny leddy.”


The young lady, when I turned to her, stood in a morning gown, and her
hands muffled in the same, as if to hold me at a distance. Yet I could
not but think there was kindness in the eye with which she saw me.

“My best respects to you, Mistress Grant,” said I, bowing.

“The like to yourself, Mr. David,” she replied with a deep courtesy.
“And I beg to remind you of an old musty saw, that meat and mass never
hindered man. The mass I cannot afford you, for we are all good
Protestants. But the meat I press on your attention. And I would not
wonder but I could find something for your private ear that would be
worth the stopping for.”

“Mistress Grant,” said I, “I believe I am already your debtor for some
merry words—and I think they were kind too—on a piece of unsigned
paper.”

“Unsigned paper?” says she, and made a droll face, which was likewise
wondrous beautiful, as of one trying to remember.

“Or else I am the more deceived,” I went on. “But to be sure, we shall
have the time to speak of these, since your father is so good as to
make me for a while your inmate; and the _gomeral_ begs you at this
time only for the favour of his liberty.”

“You give yourself hard names,” said she.

“Mr. Doig and I would be blythe to take harder at your clever pen,”
says I.

“Once more I have to admire the discretion of all men-folk,” she
replied. “But if you will not eat, off with you at once; you will be
back the sooner, for you go on a fool’s errand. Off with you, Mr.
David,” she continued, opening the door.

“He has lowpen on his bonny grey,
He rade the richt gate and the ready
I trow he would neither stint nor stay,
For he was seeking his bonny leddy.”


I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did justice to Miss Grant’s
citation on the way to Dean.

Old Lady Allardyce walked there alone in the garden, in her hat and
mutch, and having a silver-mounted staff of some black wood to lean
upon. As I alighted from my horse, and drew near to her with _congees_,
I could see the blood come in her face, and her head fling into the air
like what I had conceived of empresses.

“What brings you to my poor door?” she cried, speaking high through her
nose. “I cannot bar it. The males of my house are dead and buried; I
have neither son nor husband to stand in the gate for me; any beggar
can pluck me by the baird [18]—and a baird there is, and that’s the
worst of it yet!” she added partly to herself.

I was extremely put out at this reception, and the last remark, which
seemed like a daft wife’s, left me near hand speechless.

“I see I have fallen under your displeasure, ma’am,” said I. “Yet I
will still be so bold as ask after Mistress Drummond.”

She considered me with a burning eye, her lips pressed close together
into twenty creases, her hand shaking on her staff. “This cows all!”
she cried. “Ye come to me to speir for her? Would God I knew!”

“She is not here?” I cried.

She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry at me, so that I fell
back incontinent.

“Out upon your leeing throat!” she cried. “What! ye come and speir at
me! She’s in jyle, whaur ye took her to—that’s all there is to it. And
of a’ the beings ever I beheld in breeks, to think it should be to you!
Ye timmer scoun’rel, if I had a male left to my name I would have your
jaicket dustit till ye raired.”

I thought it not good to delay longer in that place, because I remarked
her passion to be rising. As I turned to the horse-post she even
followed me; and I make no shame to confess that I rode away with the
one stirrup on and scrambling for the other.

As I knew no other quarter where I could push my inquiries, there was
nothing left me but to return to the Advocate’s. I was well received by
the four ladies, who were now in company together, and must give the
news of Prestongrange and what word went in the west country, at the
most inordinate length and with great weariness to myself; while all
the time that young lady, with whom I so much desired to be alone
again, observed me quizzically and seemed to find pleasure in the sight
of my impatience. At last, after I had endured a meal with them, and
was come very near the point of appealing for an interview before her
aunt, she went and stood by the music-case, and picking out a tune,
sang to it on a high key—“He that will not when he may, When he will he
shall have nay.” But this was the end of her rigours, and presently,
after making some excuse of which I have no mind, she carried me away
in private to her father’s library. I should not fail to say she was
dressed to the nines, and appeared extraordinary handsome.

“Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us have a two-handed crack,”
said she. “For I have much to tell you, and it appears besides that I
have been grossly unjust to your good taste.”

“In what manner, Mistress Grant?” I asked. “I trust I have never seemed
to fail in due respect.”

“I will be your surety, Mr. David,” said she. “Your respect, whether to
yourself or your poor neighbours, has been always and most fortunately
beyond imitation. But that is by the question. You got a note from me?”
she asked.

“I was so bold as to suppose so upon inference,” said I, “and it was
kindly thought upon.”

“It must have prodigiously surprised you,” said she. “But let us begin
with the beginning. You have not perhaps forgot a day when you were so
kind as to escort three very tedious misses to Hope Park? I have the
less cause to forget it myself, because you was so particular obliging
as to introduce me to some of the principles of the Latin grammar, a
thing which wrote itself profoundly on my gratitude.”

“I fear I was sadly pedantical,” said I, overcome with confusion at the
memory. “You are only to consider I am quite unused with the society of
ladies.”

“I will say the less about the grammar then,” she replied. “But how
came you to desert your charge? ‘He has thrown her out, overboard, his
ain dear Annie!’” she hummed; “and his ain dear Annie and her two
sisters had to taigle home by theirselves like a string of green geese!
It seems you returned to my papa’s, where you showed yourself
excessively martial, and then on to realms unknown, with an eye (it
appears) to the Bass Rock; solan geese being perhaps more to your mind
than bonny lasses.”

Through all this raillery there was something indulgent in the lady’s
eye which made me suppose there might be better coming.

“You take a pleasure to torment me,” said I, “and I make a very
feckless plaything; but let me ask you to be more merciful. At this
time there is but the one thing that I care to hear of, and that will
be news of Catriona.”

“Do you call her by that name to her face, Mr. Balfour?” she asked.

“In troth, and I am not very sure,” I stammered.

“I would not do so in any case to strangers,” said Miss Grant. “And why
are you so much immersed in the affairs of this young lady?”

“I heard she was in prison,” said I.

“Well, and now you hear that she is out of it,” she replied, “and what
more would you have? She has no need of any further champion.”

“I may have the greater need of her, ma’am,” said I.

“Come, this is better!” says Miss Grant. “But look me fairly in the
face; am I not bonnier than she?”

“I would be the last to be denying it,” said I. “There is not your
marrow in all Scotland.”

“Well, here you have the pick of the two at your hand, and must needs
speak of the other,” said she. “This is never the way to please the
ladies, Mr. Balfour.”

“But, mistress,” said I, “there are surely other things besides mere
beauty.”

“By which I am to understand that I am no better than I should be,
perhaps?” she asked.

“By which you will please understand that I am like the cock in the
midden in the fable book,” said I. “I see the braw jewel—and I like
fine to see it too—but I have more need of the pickle corn.”

“Bravissimo!” she cried. “There is a word well said at last, and I will
reward you for it with my story. That same night of your desertion I
came late from a friend’s house—where I was excessively admired,
whatever you may think of it—and what should I hear but that a lass in
a tartan screen desired to speak with me? She had been there an hour or
better, said the servant-lass, and she grat in to herself as she sat
waiting. I went to her direct; she rose as I came in, and I knew her at
a look. ‘_Grey Eyes_!’ says I to myself, but was more wise than to let
on. _You will be Miss Grant at last_? she says, rising and looking at
me hard and pitiful. _Ay_, _it was true he said_, _you are bonny at all
events_.—_The way God made me_, _my dear_, I said, _but I would be gey
and obliged if you could tell me what brought you here at such a time
of the night_.—_Lady_, she said, _we are kinsfolk_, _we are both come
of the blood of the sons of Alpin_.—_My dear_, I replied, _I think no
more of Alpin or his sons than what I do of a kalestock_. _You have a
better argument in these tears upon your bonny face_. And at that I was
so weak-minded as to kiss her, which is what you would like to do
dearly, and I wager will never find the courage of. I say it was
weak-minded of me, for I knew no more of her than the outside; but it
was the wisest stroke I could have hit upon. She is a very staunch,
brave nature, but I think she has been little used with tenderness; and
at that caress (though to say the truth, it was but lightly given) her
heart went out to me. I will never betray the secrets of my sex, Mr.
Davie; I will never tell you the way she turned me round her thumb,
because it is the same she will use to twist yourself. Ay, it is a fine
lass! She is as clean as hill well water.”

“She is e’en’t!” I cried.

“Well, then, she told me her concerns,” pursued Miss Grant, “and in
what a swither she was in about her papa, and what a taking about
yourself, with very little cause, and in what a perplexity she had
found herself after you was gone away. _And then I minded at long
last_, says she, _that we were kinswomen_, _and that Mr. David should
have given you the name of the bonniest of the bonny_, _and I was
thinking to myself_ ‘_If she is so bonny she will be good at all
events_’; _and I took up my foot soles out of that_. That was when I
forgave yourself, Mr. Davie. When you was in my society, you seemed
upon hot iron: by all marks, if ever I saw a young man that wanted to
be gone, it was yourself, and I and my two sisters were the ladies you
were so desirous to be gone from; and now it appeared you had given me
some notice in the by-going, and was so kind as to comment on my
attractions! From that hour you may date our friendship, and I began to
think with tenderness upon the Latin grammar.”

“You will have many hours to rally me in,” said I; “and I think besides
you do yourself injustice. I think it was Catriona turned your heart in
my direction. She is too simple to perceive as you do the stiffness of
her friend.”

“I would not like to wager upon that, Mr. David,” said she. “The lasses
have clear eyes. But at least she is your friend entirely, as I was to
see. I carried her in to his lordship my papa; and his Advocacy being
in a favourable stage of claret, was so good as to receive the pair of
us. _Here is Grey Eyes that you have been deaved with these days past_,
said I, _she is come to prove that we spoke true_, _and I lay the
prettiest lass in the three Lothians at your feet_—making a papistical
reservation of myself. She suited her action to my words: down she went
upon her knees to him—I would not like to swear but he saw two of her,
which doubtless made her appeal the more irresistible, for you are all
a pack of Mahomedans—told him what had passed that night, and how she
had withheld her father’s man from following of you, and what a case
she was in about her father, and what a flutter for yourself; and
begged with weeping for the lives of both of you (neither of which was
in the slightest danger), till I vow I was proud of my sex because it
was done so pretty, and ashamed for it because of the smallness of the
occasion. She had not gone far, I assure you, before the Advocate was
wholly sober, to see his inmost politics ravelled out by a young lass
and discovered to the most unruly of his daughters. But we took him in
hand, the pair of us, and brought that matter straight. Properly
managed—and that means managed by me—there is no one to compare with my
papa.”

“He has been a good man to me,” said I.

“Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was there to see to it,”
said she.

“And she pled for me?” say I.

“She did that, and very movingly,” said Miss Grant. “I would not like
to tell you what she said—I find you vain enough already.”

“God reward her for it!” cried I.

“With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?” says she.

“You do me too much injustice at the last!” I cried. “I would tremble
to think of her in such hard hands. Do you think I would presume,
because she begged my life? She would do that for a new whelped puppy!
I have had more than that to set me up, if you but ken’d. She kissed
that hand of mine. Ay, but she did. And why? because she thought I was
playing a brave part and might be going to my death. It was not for my
sake—but I need not be telling that to you, that cannot look at me
without laughter. It was for the love of what she thought was bravery.
I believe there is none but me and poor Prince Charlie had that honour
done them. Was this not to make a god of me? and do you not think my
heart would quake when I remember it?”

“I do laugh at you a good deal, and a good deal more than is quite
civil,” said she; “but I will tell you one thing: if you speak to her
like that, you have some glimmerings of a chance.”

“Me?” I cried, “I would never dare. I can speak to you, Miss Grant,
because it’s a matter of indifference what ye think of me. But her? no
fear!” said I.

“I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland,” says she.

“Troth they are no very small,” said I, looking down.

“Ah, poor Catriona!” cries Miss Grant.

And I could but stare upon her; for though I now see very well what she
was driving at (and perhaps some justification for the same), I was
never swift at the uptake in such flimsy talk.

“Ah well, Mr. David,” she said, “it goes sore against my conscience,
but I see I shall have to be your speaking board. She shall know you
came to her straight upon the news of her imprisonment; she shall know
you would not pause to eat; and of our conversation she shall hear just
so much as I think convenient for a maid of her age and inexperience.
Believe me, you will be in that way much better served than you could
serve yourself, for I will keep the big feet out of the platter.”

“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed.

“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she.

“Why that?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “I am a good friend, as you will soon discover; and
the chief of those that I am friend to is my papa. I assure you, you
will never heat nor melt me out of that, so you may spare me your
sheep’s eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the now.”

“But there is yet one thing more,” I cried. “There is one thing that
must be stopped, being mere ruin to herself, and to me too.”

“Well,” she said, “be brief; I have spent half the day on you already.”

“My Lady Allardyce believes,” I began—“she supposes—she thinks that I
abducted her.”

The colour came into Miss Grant’s face, so that at first I was quite
abashed to find her ear so delicate, till I bethought me she was
struggling rather with mirth, a notion in which I was altogether
confirmed by the shaking of her voice as she replied—

“I will take up the defence of your reputation,” she said. “You may
leave it in my hands.”

And with that she withdrew out of the library.




CHAPTER XX.
I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY


For about exactly two months I remained a guest in Prestongrange’s
family, where I bettered my acquaintance with the bench, the bar, and
the flower of Edinburgh company. You are not to suppose my education
was neglected; on the contrary, I was kept extremely busy. I studied
the French, so as to be more prepared to go to Leyden; I set myself to
the fencing, and wrought hard, sometimes three hours in the day, with
notable advancement; at the suggestion of my cousin, Pilrig, who was an
apt musician, I was put to a singing class; and by the orders of my
Miss Grant, to one for the dancing, at which I must say I proved far
from ornamental. However, all were good enough to say it gave me an
address a little more genteel; and there is no question but I learned
to manage my coat skirts and sword with more dexterity, and to stand in
a room as though the same belonged to me. My clothes themselves were
all earnestly re-ordered; and the most trifling circumstance, such as
where I should tie my hair, or the colour of my ribbon, debated among
the three misses like a thing of weight. One way with another, no doubt
I was a good deal improved to look at, and acquired a bit of modest air
that would have surprised the good folks at Essendean.

The two younger misses were very willing to discuss a point of my
habiliment, because that was in the line of their chief thoughts. I
cannot say that they appeared any other way conscious of my presence;
and though always more than civil, with a kind of heartless cordiality,
could not hide how much I wearied them. As for the aunt, she was a
wonderful still woman; and I think she gave me much the same attention
as she gave the rest of the family, which was little enough. The eldest
daughter and the Advocate himself were thus my principal friends, and
our familiarity was much increased by a pleasure that we took in
common. Before the court met we spent a day or two at the house of
Grange, living very nobly with an open table, and here it was that we
three began to ride out together in the fields, a practice afterwards
maintained in Edinburgh, so far as the Advocate’s continual affairs
permitted. When we were put in a good frame by the briskness of the
exercise, the difficulties of the way, or the accidents of bad weather,
my shyness wore entirely off; we forgot that we were strangers, and
speech not being required, it flowed the more naturally on. Then it was
that they had my story from me, bit by bit, from the time that I left
Essendean, with my voyage and battle in the _Covenant_, wanderings in
the heather, etc.; and from the interest they found in my adventures
sprung the circumstance of a jaunt we made a little later on, on a day
when the courts were not sitting, and of which I will tell a trifle
more at length.

We took horse early, and passed first by the house of Shaws, where it
stood smokeless in a great field of white frost, for it was yet early
in the day. Here Prestongrange alighted down, gave me his horse, an
proceeded alone to visit my uncle. My heart, I remember, swelled up
bitter within me at the sight of that bare house and the thought of the
old miser sitting chittering within in the cold kitchen!

“There is my home,” said I; “and my family.”

“Poor David Balfour!” said Miss Grant.

What passed during the visit I have never heard; but it would doubtless
not be very agreeable to Ebenezer, for when the Advocate came forth
again his face was dark.

“I think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. Davie,” says he,
turning half about with the one foot in the stirrup.

“I will never pretend sorrow,” said I; and, to say the truth, during
his absence Miss Grant and I had been embellishing the place in fancy
with plantations, parterres, and a terrace—much as I have since carried
out in fact.

Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Rankeillor gave us a good
welcome, being indeed out of the body to receive so great a visitor.
Here the Advocate was so unaffectedly good as to go quite fully over my
affairs, sitting perhaps two hours with the Writer in his study, and
expressing (I was told) a great esteem for myself and concern for my
fortunes. To while this time, Miss Grant and I and young Rankeillor
took boat and passed the Hope to Limekilns. Rankeillor made himself
very ridiculous (and, I thought, offensive) with his admiration for the
young lady, and to my wonder (only it is so common a weakness of her
sex) she seemed, if anything, to be a little gratified. One use it had:
for when we were come to the other side, she laid her commands on him
to mind the boat, while she and I passed a little further to the
alehouse. This was her own thought, for she had been taken with my
account of Alison Hastie, and desired to see the lass herself. We found
her once more alone—indeed, I believe her father wrought all day in the
fields—and she curtsied dutifully to the gentry-folk and the beautiful
young lady in the riding-coat.

“Is this all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding out my hand.
“And have you no more memory of old friends?”

“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, “God’s truth, it’s
the tautit [19] laddie!”

“The very same,” says I.

“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am I
to see in your braws,” [20] she cried. “Though I kent ye were come to
your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that I thank ye
for with a’ my heart.”

“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by with ye, like a guid bairn.
I didnae come here to stand and haud a candle; it’s her and me that are
to crack.”

I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came forth
I observed two things—that her eyes were reddened, and a silver brooch
was gone out of her bosom. This very much affected me.

“I never saw you so well adorned,” said I.

“O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said she, and was more than
usually sharp to me the remainder of the day.

About candlelight we came home from this excursion.

For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona—my Miss Grant
remaining quite impenetrable, and stopping my mouth with pleasantries.
At last, one day that she returned from walking and found me alone in
the parlour over my French, I thought there was something unusual in
her looks; the colour heightened, the eyes sparkling high, and a bit of
a smile continually bitten in as she regarded me. She seemed indeed
like the very spirit of mischief, and, walking briskly in the room, had
soon involved me in a kind of quarrel over nothing and (at the least)
with nothing intended on my side. I was like Christian in the
slough—the more I tried to clamber out upon the side, the deeper I
became involved; until at last I heard her declare, with a great deal
of passion, that she would take that answer from the hands of none, and
I must down upon my knees for pardon.

The causelessness of all this fuff stirred my own bile. “I have said
nothing you can properly object to,” said I, “and as for my knees, that
is an attitude I keep for God.”

“And as a goddess I am to be served!” she cried, shaking her brown
locks at me and with a bright colour. “Every man that comes within waft
of my petticoats shall use me so!”

“I will go so far as ask your pardon for the fashion’s sake, although I
vow I know not why,” I replied. “But for these play-acting postures,
you can go to others.”

“O Davie!” she said. “Not if I was to beg you?”

I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, which is the same as to say
a child, and that upon a point entirely formal.

“I think it a bairnly thing,” I said, “not worthy in you to ask, or me
to render. Yet I will not refuse you, neither,” said I; “and the stain,
if there be any, rests with yourself.” And at that I kneeled fairly
down.

“There!” she cried. “There is the proper station, there is where I have
been manoeuvring to bring you.” And then, suddenly, “Kep,” [21] said
she, flung me a folded billet, and ran from the apartment laughing.

The billet had neither place nor date. “Dear Mr. David,” it began, “I
get your news continually by my cousin, Miss Grant, and it is a
pleisand hearing. I am very well, in a good place, among good folk, but
necessitated to be quite private, though I am hoping that at long last
we may meet again. All your friendships have been told me by my loving
cousin, who loves us both. She bids me to send you this writing, and
oversees the same. I will be asking you to do all her commands, and
rest your affectionate friend, Catriona Macgregor-Drummond. P.S.—Will
you not see my cousin, Allardyce?”

I think it not the least brave of my campaigns (as the soldiers say)
that I should have done as I was here bidden and gone forthright to the
house by Dean. But the old lady was now entirely changed and supple as
a glove. By what means Miss Grant had brought this round I could never
guess; I am sure, at least, she dared not to appear openly in the
affair, for her papa was compromised in it pretty deep. It was he,
indeed, who had persuaded Catriona to leave, or rather, not to return,
to her cousin’s, placing her instead with a family of Gregorys—decent
people, quite at the Advocate’s disposition, and in whom she might have
the more confidence because they were of his own clan and family. These
kept her private till all was ripe, heated and helped her to attempt
her father’s rescue, and after she was discharged from prison received
her again into the same secrecy. Thus Prestongrange obtained and used
his instrument; nor did there leak out the smallest word of his
acquaintance with the daughter of James More. There was some
whispering, of course, upon the escape of that discredited person; but
the Government replied by a show of rigour, one of the cell porters was
flogged, the lieutenant of the guard (my poor friend, Duncansby) was
broken of his rank, and as for Catriona, all men were well enough
pleased that her fault should be passed by in silence.

I could never induce Miss Grant to carry back an answer. “No,” she
would say, when I persisted, “I am going to keep the big feet out of
the platter.” This was the more hard to bear, as I was aware she saw my
little friend many times in the week, and carried her my news whenever
(as she said) I “had behaved myself.” At last she treated me to what
she called an indulgence, and I thought rather more of a banter. She
was certainly a strong, almost a violent, friend to all she liked,
chief among whom was a certain frail old gentlewoman, very blind and
very witty, who dwelt on the top of a tall land on a strait close, with
a nest of linnets in a cage, and thronged all day with visitors. Miss
Grant was very fond to carry me there and put me to entertain her
friend with the narrative of my misfortunes: and Miss Tibbie Ramsay
(that was her name) was particular kind, and told me a great deal that
was worth knowledge of old folks and past affairs in Scotland. I should
say that from her chamber window, and not three feet away, such is the
straitness of that close, it was possible to look into a barred
loophole lighting the stairway of the opposite house.

Here, upon some pretext, Miss Grant left me one day alone with Miss
Ramsay. I mind I thought that lady inattentive and like one
preoccupied. I was besides very uncomfortable, for the window, contrary
to custom, was left open and the day was cold. All at once the voice of
Miss Grant sounded in my ears as from a distance.

“Here, Shaws!” she cried, “keek out of the window and see what I have
broughten you.”

I think it was the prettiest sight that ever I beheld. The well of the
close was all in clear shadow where a man could see distinctly, the
walls very black and dingy; and there from the barred loophole I saw
two faces smiling across at me—Miss Grant’s and Catriona’s.

“There!” says Miss Grant, “I wanted her to see you in your braws like
the lass of Limekilns. I wanted her to see what I could make of you,
when I buckled to the job in earnest!”

It came in my mind that she had been more than common particular that
day upon my dress; and I think that some of the same care had been
bestowed upon Catriona. For so merry and sensible a lady, Miss Grant
was certainly wonderful taken up with duds.

“Catriona!” was all I could get out.

As for her, she said nothing in the world, but only waved her hand and
smiled to me, and was suddenly carried away again from before the
loophole.

That vision was no sooner lost than I ran to the house door, where I
found I was locked in; thence back to Miss Ramsay, crying for the key,
but might as well have cried upon the castle rock. She had passed her
word, she said, and I must be a good lad. It was impossible to burst
the door, even if it had been mannerly; it was impossible I should leap
from the window, being seven storeys above ground. All I could do was
to crane over the close and watch for their reappearance from the
stair. It was little to see, being no more than the tops of their two
heads each on a ridiculous bobbin of skirts, like to a pair of
pincushions. Nor did Catriona so much as look up for a farewell; being
prevented (as I heard afterwards) by Miss Grant, who told her folk were
never seen to less advantage than from above downward.

On the way home, as soon as I was set free, I upbraided Miss Grant with
her cruelty.

“I am sorry you was disappointed,” says she demurely. “For my part I
was very pleased. You looked better than I dreaded; you looked—if it
will not make you vain—a mighty pretty young man when you appeared in
the window. You are to remember that she could not see your feet,” says
she, with the manner of one reassuring me.

“O!” cried I, “leave my feet be—they are no bigger than my
neighbours’.”

“They are even smaller than some,” said she, “but I speak in parables
like a Hebrew prophet.”

“I marvel little they were sometimes stoned!” says I. “But, you
miserable girl, how could you do it? Why should you care to tantalise
me with a moment?”

“Love is like folk,” says she; “it needs some kind of vivers.” [22]

“Oh, Barbara, let me see her properly!” I pleaded. “_You_ can—you see
her when you please; let me have half an hour.”

“Who is it that is managing this love affair! You! Or me?” she asked,
and as I continued to press her with my instances, fell back upon a
deadly expedient: that of imitating the tones of my voice when I called
on Catriona by name; with which, indeed, she held me in subjection for
some days to follow.

There was never the least word heard of the memorial, or none by me.
Prestongrange and his grace the Lord President may have heard of it
(for what I know) on the deafest sides of their heads; they kept it to
themselves, at least—the public was none the wiser; and in course of
time, on November 8th, and in the midst of a prodigious storm of wind
and rain, poor James of the Glens was duly hanged at Lettermore by
Ballachulish.

So there was the final upshot of my politics! Innocent men have
perished before James, and are like to keep on perishing (in spite of
all our wisdom) till the end of time. And till the end of time young
folk (who are not yet used with the duplicity of life and men) will
struggle as I did, and make heroical resolves, and take long risks; and
the course of events will push them upon the one side and go on like a
marching army. James was hanged; and here was I dwelling in the house
of Prestongrange, and grateful to him for his fatherly attention. He
was hanged; and behold! when I met Mr. Simon in the causeway, I was
fain to pull off my beaver to him like a good little boy before his
dominie. He had been hanged by fraud and violence, and the world wagged
along, and there was not a pennyweight of difference; and the villains
of that horrid plot were decent, kind, respectable fathers of families,
who went to kirk and took the sacrament!

But I had had my view of that detestable business they call politics—I
had seen it from behind, when it is all bones and blackness; and I was
cured for life of any temptations to take part in it again. A plain,
quiet, private path was that which I was ambitious to walk in, when I
might keep my head out of the way of dangers and my conscience out of
the road of temptation. For, upon a retrospect, it appeared I had not
done so grandly, after all; but with the greatest possible amount of
big speech and preparation, had accomplished nothing.

The 25th of the same month a ship was advertised to sail from Leith;
and I was suddenly recommended to make up my mails for Leyden. To
Prestongrange I could, of course, say nothing; for I had already been a
long while sorning on his house and table. But with his daughter I was
more open, bewailing my fate that I should be sent out of the country,
and assuring her, unless she should bring me to farewell with Catriona,
I would refuse at the last hour.

“Have I not given you my advice?” she asked.

“I know you have,” said I, “and I know how much I am beholden to you
already, and that I am bidden to obey your orders. But you must confess
you are something too merry a lass at times to lippen [23] to
entirely.”

“I will tell you, then,” said she. “Be you on board by nine o’clock
forenoon; the ship does not sail before one; keep your boat alongside;
and if you are not pleased with my farewells when I shall send them,
you can come ashore again and seek Katrine for yourself.”

Since I could make no more of her, I was fain to be content with this.

The day came round at last when she and I were to separate. We had been
extremely intimate and familiar; I was much in her debt; and what way
we were to part was a thing that put me from my sleep, like the vails I
was to give to the domestic servants. I knew she considered me too
backward, and rather desired to rise in her opinion on that head.
Besides which, after so much affection shown and (I believe) felt upon
both sides, it would have looked cold-like to be anyways stiff.
Accordingly, I got my courage up and my words ready, and the last
chance we were like to be alone, asked pretty boldly to be allowed to
salute her in farewell.

“You forget yourself strangely, Mr. Balfour,” said she. “I cannot call
to mind that I have given you any right to presume on our
acquaintancy.”

I stood before her like a stopped clock, and knew not what to think,
far less to say, when of a sudden she cast her arms about my neck and
kissed me with the best will in the world.

“You inimitable bairn!” she cried. “Did you think that I would let us
part like strangers? Because I can never keep my gravity at you five
minutes on end, you must not dream I do not love you very well: I am
all love and laughter, every time I cast an eye on you! And now I will
give you an advice to conclude your education, which you will have need
of before it’s very long. Never _ask_ womenfolk. They’re bound to
answer ‘No’; God never made the lass that could resist the temptation.
It’s supposed by divines to be the curse of Eve: because she did not
say it when the devil offered her the apple, her daughters can say
nothing else.”

“Since I am so soon to lose my bonny professor,” I began.

“This is gallant, indeed,” says she curtseying.

“I would put the one question,” I went on. “May I ask a lass to marry
to me?”

“You think you could not marry her without!” she asked. “Or else get
her to offer?”

“You see you cannot be serious,” said I.

“I shall be very serious in one thing, David,” said she: “I shall
always be your friend.”

As I got to my horse the next morning, the four ladies were all at that
same window whence we had once looked down on Catriona, and all cried
farewell and waved their pocket napkins as I rode away. One out of the
four I knew was truly sorry; and at the thought of that, and how I had
come to the door three months ago for the first time, sorrow and
gratitude made a confusion in my mind.




PART II.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER




CHAPTER XXI.
THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND


The ship lay at a single anchor, well outside the pier of Leith, so
that all we passengers must come to it by the means of skiffs. This was
very little troublesome, for the reason that the day was a flat calm,
very frosty and cloudy, and with a low shifting fog upon the water. The
body of the vessel was thus quite hid as I drew near, but the tall
spars of her stood high and bright in a sunshine like the flickering of
a fire. She proved to be a very roomy, commodious merchant, but
somewhat blunt in the bows, and loaden extraordinary deep with salt,
salted salmon, and fine white linen stockings for the Dutch. Upon my
coming on board, the captain welcomed me—one Sang (out of Lesmahago, I
believe), a very hearty, friendly tarpaulin of a man, but at the moment
in rather of a bustle. There had no other of the passengers yet
appeared, so that I was left to walk about upon the deck, viewing the
prospect and wondering a good deal what these farewells should be which
I was promised.

All Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills glinted above me in a kind of
smuisty brightness, now and again overcome with blots of cloud; of
Leith there was no more than the tops of chimneys visible, and on the
face of the water, where the haar [24] lay, nothing at all. Out of this
I was presently aware of a sound of oars pulling, and a little after
(as if out of the smoke of a fire) a boat issued. There sat a grave man
in the stern sheets, well muffled from the cold, and by his side a
tall, pretty, tender figure of a maid that brought my heart to a stand.
I had scarce the time to catch my breath in, and be ready to meet her,
as she stepped upon the deck, smiling, and making my best bow, which
was now vastly finer than some months before, when first I made it to
her ladyship. No doubt we were both a good deal changed: she seemed to
have shot up like a young, comely tree. She had now a kind of pretty
backwardness that became her well as of one that regarded herself more
highly and was fairly woman; and for another thing, the hand of the
same magician had been at work upon the pair of us, and Miss Grant had
made us both _braw_, if she could make but the one _bonny_.

The same cry, in words not very different, came from both of us, that
the other was come in compliment to say farewell, and then we perceived
in a flash we were to ship together.

“O, why will not Baby have been telling me!” she cried; and then
remembered a letter she had been given, on the condition of not opening
it till she was well on board. Within was an enclosure for myself, and
ran thus:

“Dear Davie,—What do you think of my farewell? and what do you say to
your fellow passenger? Did you kiss, or did you ask? I was about to
have signed here, but that would leave the purport of my question
doubtful, and in my own case _I ken the answer_. So fill up here with
good advice. Do not be too blate, [25] and for God’s sake do not try to
be too forward; nothing acts you worse. I am


“Your affectionate friend and governess,
“Barbara Grant.”


I wrote a word of answer and compliment on a leaf out of my pocketbook,
put it in with another scratch from Catriona, sealed the whole with my
new signet of the Balfour arms, and despatched it by the hand of
Prestongrange’s servant that still waited in my boat.

Then we had time to look upon each other more at leisure, which we had
not done for a piece of a minute before (upon a common impulse) we
shook hands again.

“Catriona?” said I. It seemed that was the first and last word of my
eloquence.

“You will be glad to see me again?” says she.

“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are too deep friends to
make speech upon such trifles.”

“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cried again. “I was never
knowing such a girl so honest and so beautiful.”

“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she did for a
kale-stock,” said I.

“Ah, she will say so indeed!” cries Catriona. “Yet it was for the name
and the gentle kind blood that she took me up and was so good to me.”

“Well, I will tell you why it was,” said I. “There are all sorts of
people’s faces in this world. There is Barbara’s face, that everyone
must look at and admire, and think her a fine, brave, merry girl. And
then there is your face, which is quite different—I never knew how
different till to-day. You cannot see yourself, and that is why you do
not understand; but it was for the love of your face that she took you
up and was so good to you. And everybody in the world would do the
same.”

“Everybody?” says she.

“Every living soul!” said I.

“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle took me up!” she
cried.

“Barbara has been teaching you to catch me,” said I.

“She will have taught me more than that at all events. She will have
taught me a great deal about Mr. David—all the ill of him, and a little
that was not so ill either, now and then,” she said, smiling. “She will
have told me all there was of Mr. David, only just that he would sail
upon this very same ship. And why it is you go?”

I told her.

“Ah, well,” said she, “we will be some days in company and then (I
suppose) good-bye for altogether! I go to meet my father at a place of
the name of Helvoetsluys, and from there to France, to be exiles by the
side of our chieftain.”

I could say no more than just “O!” the name of James More always drying
up my very voice.

She was quick to perceive it, and to guess some portion of my thought.

“There is one thing I must be saying first of all, Mr. David,” said
she. “I think two of my kinsfolk have not behaved to you altogether
very well. And the one of them two is James More, my father, and the
other is the Laird of Prestongrange. Prestongrange will have spoken by
himself, or his daughter in the place of him. But for James More, my
father, I have this much to say: he lay shackled in a prison; he is a
plain honest soldier and a plain Highland gentleman; what they would be
after he would never be guessing; but if he had understood it was to be
some prejudice to a young gentleman like yourself, he would have died
first. And for the sake of all your friendships, I will be asking you
to pardon my father and family for that same mistake.”

“Catriona,” said I, “what that mistake was I do not care to know. I
know but the one thing—that you went to Prestongrange and begged my
life upon your knees. O, I ken well enough it was for your father that
you went, but when you were there you pleaded for me also. It is a
thing I cannot speak of. There are two things I cannot think of into
myself: and the one is your good words when you called yourself my
little friend, and the other that you pleaded for my life. Let us never
speak more, we two, of pardon or offence.”

We stood after that silent, Catriona looking on the deck and I on her;
and before there was more speech, a little wind having sprung up in the
nor’-west, they began to shake out the sails and heave in upon the
anchor.

There were six passengers besides our two selves, which made of it a
full cabin. Three were solid merchants out of Leith, Kirkcaldy, and
Dundee, all engaged in the same adventure into High Germany. One was a
Hollander returning; the rest worthy merchants’ wives, to the charge of
one of whom Catriona was recommended. Mrs. Gebbie (for that was her
name) was by great good fortune heavily incommoded by the sea, and lay
day and night on the broad of her back. We were besides the only
creatures at all young on board the _Rose_, except a white-faced boy
that did my old duty to attend upon the table; and it came about that
Catriona and I were left almost entirely to ourselves. We had the next
seats together at the table, where I waited on her with extraordinary
pleasure. On deck, I made her a soft place with my cloak; and the
weather being singularly fine for that season, with bright frosty days
and nights, a steady, gentle wind, and scarce a sheet started all the
way through the North Sea, we sat there (only now and again walking to
and fro for warmth) from the first blink of the sun till eight or nine
at night under the clear stars. The merchants or Captain Sang would
sometimes glance and smile upon us, or pass a merry word or two and
give us the go-by again; but the most part of the time they were deep
in herring and chintzes and linen, or in computations of the slowness
of the passage, and left us to our own concerns, which were very little
important to any but ourselves.

At the first, we had a great deal to say, and thought ourselves pretty
witty; and I was at a little pains to be the _beau_, and she (I
believe) to play the young lady of experience. But soon we grew plainer
with each other. I laid aside my high, clipped English (what little
there was left of it) and forgot to make my Edinburgh bows and scrapes;
she, upon her side, fell into a sort of kind familiarity; and we dwelt
together like those of the same household, only (upon my side) with a
more deep emotion. About the same time the bottom seemed to fall out of
our conversation, and neither one of us the less pleased. Whiles she
would tell me old wives’ tales, of which she had a wonderful variety,
many of them from my friend red-headed Niel. She told them very pretty,
and they were pretty enough childish tales; but the pleasure to myself
was in the sound of her voice, and the thought that she was telling and
I listening. Whiles, again, we would sit entirely silent, not
communicating even with a look, and tasting pleasure enough in the
sweetness of that neighbourhood. I speak here only for myself. Of what
was in the maid’s mind, I am not very sure that ever I asked myself;
and what was in my own, I was afraid to consider. I need make no secret
of it now, either to myself or to the reader; I was fallen totally in
love. She came between me and the sun. She had grown suddenly taller,
as I say, but with a wholesome growth; she seemed all health, and
lightness, and brave spirits; and I thought she walked like a young
deer, and stood like a birch upon the mountains. It was enough for me
to sit near by her on the deck; and I declare I scarce spent two
thoughts upon the future, and was so well content with what I then
enjoyed that I was never at the pains to imagine any further step;
unless perhaps that I would be sometimes tempted to take her hand in
mine and hold it there. But I was too like a miser of what joys I had,
and would venture nothing on a hazard.

What we spoke was usually of ourselves or of each other, so that if
anyone had been at so much pains as overhear us, he must have supposed
us the most egotistical persons in the world. It befell one day when we
were at this practice, that we came on a discourse of friends and
friendship, and I think now that we were sailing near the wind. We said
what a fine thing friendship was, and how little we had guessed of it,
and how it made life a new thing, and a thousand covered things of the
same kind that will have been said, since the foundation of the world,
by young folk in the same predicament. Then we remarked upon the
strangeness of that circumstance, that friends came together in the
beginning as if they were there for the first time, and yet each had
been alive a good while, losing time with other people.

“It is not much that I have done,” said she, “and I could be telling
you the five-fifths of it in two-three words. It is only a girl I am,
and what can befall a girl, at all events? But I went with the clan in
the year ’45. The men marched with swords and fire-locks, and some of
them in brigades in the same set of tartan; they were not backward at
the marching, I can tell you. And there were gentlemen from the Low
Country, with their tenants mounted and trumpets to sound, and there
was a grand skirling of war-pipes. I rode on a little Highland horse on
the right hand of my father, James More, and of Glengyle himself. And
here is one fine thing that I remember, that Glengyle kissed me in the
face, because (says he) ‘my kinswoman, you are the only lady of the
clan that has come out,’ and me a little maid of maybe twelve years
old! I saw Prince Charlie too, and the blue eyes of him; he was pretty
indeed! I had his hand to kiss in front of the army. O, well, these
were the good days, but it is all like a dream that I have seen and
then awakened. It went what way you very well know; and these were the
worst days of all, when the red-coat soldiers were out, and my father
and uncles lay in the hill, and I was to be carrying them their meat in
the middle night, or at the short sight of day when the cocks crow.
Yes, I have walked in the night, many’s the time, and my heart great in
me for terror of the darkness. It is a strange thing I will never have
been meddled with by a bogle; but they say a maid goes safe. Next there
was my uncle’s marriage, and that was a dreadful affair beyond all.
Jean Kay was that woman’s name; and she had me in the room with her
that night at Inversnaid, the night we took her from her friends in the
old, ancient manner. She would and she wouldn’t; she was for marrying
Rob the one minute, and the next she would be for none of him. I will
never have seen such a feckless creature of a woman; surely all there
was of her would tell her ay or no. Well, she was a widow; and I can
never be thinking a widow a good woman.”

“Catriona!” says I, “how do you make out that?”

“I do not know,” said she; “I am only telling you the seeming in my
heart. And then to marry a new man! Fy! But that was her; and she was
married again upon my Uncle Robin, and went with him awhile to kirk and
market; and then wearied, or else her friends got claught of her and
talked her round, or maybe she turned ashamed; at the least of it, she
ran away, and went back to her own folk, and said we had held her in
the lake, and I will never tell you all what. I have never thought much
of any females since that day. And so in the end my father, James More,
came to be cast in prison, and you know the rest of it an well as me.”

“And through all you had no friends?” said I.

“No,” said she; “I have been pretty chief with two-three lasses on the
braes, but not to call it friends.”

“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said I. “I never had a friend to my name
till I met in with you.”

“And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked.

“O, yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is a man, and that is
very different.”

“I would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite different.”

“And then there was one other,” said I. “I once thought I had a friend,
but it proved a disappointment.”

She asked me who she was?

“It was a he, then,” said I. “We were the two best lads at my father’s
school, and we thought we loved each other dearly. Well, the time came
when he went to Glasgow to a merchant’s house, that was his second
cousin once removed; and wrote me two-three times by the carrier; and
then he found new friends, and I might write till I was tired, he took
no notice. Eh, Catriona, it took me a long while to forgive the world.
There is not anything more bitter than to lose a fancied friend.”

Then she began to question me close upon his looks and character, for
we were each a great deal concerned in all that touched the other; till
at last, in a very evil hour, I minded of his letters and went and
fetched the bundle from the cabin.

“Here are his letters,” said I, “and all the letters that ever I got.
That will be the last I’ll can tell of myself; ye know the lave [26] as
well as I do.”

“Will you let me read them, then?” says she.

I told her, _if she would be at the pains_; and she bade me go away and
she would read them from the one end to the other. Now, in this bundle
that I gave her, there were packed together not only all the letters of
my false friend, but one or two of Mr. Campbell’s when he was in town
at the Assembly, and to make a complete roll of all that ever was
written to me, Catriona’s little word, and the two I had received from
Miss Grant, one when I was on the Bass and one on board that ship. But
of these last I had no particular mind at the moment.

I was in that state of subjection to the thought of my friend that it
mattered not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in her presence or
out of it; I had caught her like some kind of a noble fever that lived
continually in my bosom, by night and by day, and whether I was waking
or asleep. So it befell that after I was come into the fore-part of the
ship where the broad bows splashed into the billows, I was in no such
hurry to return as you might fancy; rather prolonged my absence like a
variety in pleasure. I do not think I am by nature much of an
Epicurean: and there had come till then so small a share of pleasure in
my way that I might be excused perhaps to dwell on it unduly.

When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as of a
buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet.

“You have read them?” said I; and I thought my voice sounded not wholly
natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail her.

“Did you mean me to read all?” she asked.

I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice.

“The last of them as well?” said she.

I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. “I gave
them all without afterthought,” I said, “as I supposed that you would
read them. I see no harm in any.”

“I will be differently made,” said she. “I thank God I am differently
made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was not fit to be
written.”

“I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?” said I.

“There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend,”
said she, quoting my own expression.

“I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!” I cried.
“What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words that
a tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upon a piece of paper? You
know yourself with what respect I have behaved—and would do always.”

“Yet you would show me that same letter!” says she. “I want no such
friends. I can be doing very well, Mr. Balfour, without her—or you.”

“This is your fine gratitude!” says I.

“I am very much obliged to you,” said she. “I will be asking you to
take away your—letters.” She seemed to choke upon the word, so that it
sounded like an oath.

“You shall never ask twice,” said I; picked up that bundle, walked a
little way forward and cast them as far as possible into the sea. For a
very little more I could have cast myself after them.

The rest of the day I walked up and down raging. There were few names
so ill but what I gave her them in my own mind before the sun went
down. All that I had ever heard of Highland pride seemed quite outdone;
that a girl (scarce grown) should resent so trifling an allusion, and
that from her next friend, that she had near wearied me with praising
of! I had bitter, sharp, hard thoughts of her, like an angry boy’s. If
I had kissed her indeed (I thought), perhaps she would have taken it
pretty well; and only because it had been written down, and with a
spice of jocularity, up she must fuff in this ridiculous passion. It
seemed to me there was a want of penetration in the female sex, to make
angels weep over the case of the poor men.

We were side by side again at supper, and what a change was there! She
was like curdled milk to me; her face was like a wooden doll’s; I could
have indifferently smitten her or grovelled at her feet, but she gave
me not the least occasion to do either. No sooner the meal done than
she betook herself to attend on Mrs. Gebbie, which I think she had a
little neglected heretofore. But she was to make up for lost time, and
in what remained of the passage was extraordinary assiduous with the
old lady, and on deck began to make a great deal more than I thought
wise of Captain Sang. Not but what the Captain seemed a worthy,
fatherly man; but I hated to behold her in the least familiarity with
anyone except myself.

Altogether, she was so quick to avoid me, and so constant to keep
herself surrounded with others, that I must watch a long while before I
could find my opportunity; and after it was found, I made not much of
it, as you are now to hear.

“I have no guess how I have offended,” said I; “it should scarce be
beyond pardon, then. O, try if you can pardon me.”

“I have no pardon to give,” said she; and the words seemed to come out
of her throat like marbles. “I will be very much obliged for all your
friendships.” And she made me an eighth part of a curtsey.

But I had schooled myself beforehand to say more, and I was going to
say it too.

“There is one thing,” said I. “If I have shocked your particularity by
the showing of that letter, it cannot touch Miss Grant. She wrote not
to you, but to a poor, common, ordinary lad, who might have had more
sense than show it. If you are to blame me—”

“I will advise you to say no more about that girl, at all events!” said
Catriona. “It is her I will never look the road of, not if she lay
dying.” She turned away from me, and suddenly back. “Will you swear you
will have no more to deal with her?” she cried.

“Indeed, and I will never be so unjust then,” said I; “nor yet so
ungrateful.”

And now it was I that turned away.




CHAPTER XXII.
HELVOETSLUYS


The weather in the end considerably worsened; the wind sang in the
shrouds, the sea swelled higher, and the ship began to labour and cry
out among the billows. The song of the leadsman in the chains was now
scarce ceasing, for we thrid all the way among shoals. About nine in
the morning, in a burst of wintry sun between two squalls of hail, I
had my first look of Holland—a line of windmills birling in the breeze.
It was besides my first knowledge of these daft-like contrivances,
which gave me a near sense of foreign travel and a new world and life.
We came to an anchor about half-past eleven, outside the harbour of
Helvoetsluys, in a place where the sea sometimes broke and the ship
pitched outrageously. You may be sure we were all on deck save Mrs.
Gebbie, some of us in cloaks, others mantled in the ship’s tarpaulins,
all clinging on by ropes, and jesting the most like old sailor-folk
that we could imitate.

Presently a boat, that was backed like a partancrab, came gingerly
alongside, and the skipper of it hailed our master in the Dutch. Thence
Captain Sang turned, very troubled-like, to Catriona; and the rest of
us crowding about, the nature of the difficulty was made plain to all.
The _Rose_ was bound to the port of Rotterdam, whither the other
passengers were in a great impatience to arrive, in view of a
conveyance due to leave that very evening in the direction of the Upper
Germany. This, with the present half-gale of wind, the captain (if no
time were lost) declared himself still capable to save. Now James More
had trysted in Helvoet with his daughter, and the captain had engaged
to call before the port and place her (according to the custom) in a
shore boat. There was the boat, to be sure, and here was Catriona
ready: but both our master and the patroon of the boat scrupled at the
risk, and the first was in no humour to delay.

“Your father,” said he, “would be gey an little pleased if we was to
break a leg to ye, Miss Drummond, let-a-be drowning of you. Take my way
of it,” says he, “and come on-by with the rest of us here to Rotterdam.
Ye can get a passage down the Maes in a sailing scoot as far as to the
Brill, and thence on again, by a place in a rattel-waggon, back to
Helvoet.”

But Catriona would hear of no change. She looked white-like as she
beheld the bursting of the sprays, the green seas that sometimes poured
upon the fore-castle, and the perpetual bounding and swooping of the
boat among the billows; but she stood firmly by her father’s orders.
“My father, James More, will have arranged it so,” was her first word
and her last. I thought it very idle and indeed wanton in the girl to
be so literal and stand opposite to so much kind advice; but the fact
is she had a very good reason, if she would have told us. Sailing
scoots and rattel-waggons are excellent things; only the use of them
must first be paid for, and all she was possessed of in the world was
just two shillings and a penny halfpenny sterling. So it fell out that
captain and passengers, not knowing of her destitution—and she being
too proud to tell them—spoke in vain.

“But you ken nae French and nae Dutch neither,” said one.

“It is very true,” says she, “but since the year ’46 there are so many
of the honest Scotch abroad that I will be doing very well. I thank
you.”

There was a pretty country simplicity in this that made some laugh,
others looked the more sorry, and Mr. Gebbie fall outright in a
passion. I believe he knew it was his duty (his wife having accepted
charge of the girl) to have gone ashore with her and seen her safe:
nothing would have induced him to have done so, since it must have
involved the lose of his conveyance; and I think he made it up to his
conscience by the loudness of his voice. At least he broke out upon
Captain Sang, raging and saying the thing was a disgrace; that it was
mere death to try to leave the ship, and at any event we could not cast
down an innocent maid in a boatful of nasty Holland fishers, and leave
her to her fate. I was thinking something of the same; took the mate
upon one side, arranged with him to send on my chests by track-scoot to
an address I had in Leyden, and stood up and signalled to the fishers.

“I will go ashore with the young lady, Captain Sang,” said I. “It is
all one what way I go to Leyden;” and leaped at the same time into the
boat, which I managed not so elegantly but what I fell with two of the
fishers in the bilge.

From the boat the business appeared yet more precarious than from the
ship, she stood so high over us, swung down so swift, and menaced us so
perpetually with her plunging and passaging upon the anchor cable. I
began to think I had made a fool’s bargain, that it was merely
impossible Catriona should be got on board to me, and that I stood to
be set ashore at Helvoet all by myself and with no hope of any reward
but the pleasure of embracing James More, if I should want to. But this
was to reckon without the lass’s courage. She had seen me leap with
very little appearance (however much reality) of hesitation; to be
sure, she was not to be beat by her discarded friend. Up she stood on
the bulwarks and held by a stay, the wind blowing in her petticoats,
which made the enterprise more dangerous, and gave us rather more of a
view of her stockings than would be thought genteel in cities. There
was no minute lost, and scarce time given for any to interfere if they
had wished the same. I stood up on the other side and spread my arms;
the ship swung down on us, the patroon humoured his boat nearer in than
was perhaps wholly safe, and Catriona leaped into the air. I was so
happy as to catch her, and the fishers readily supporting us, escaped a
fall. She held to me a moment very tight, breathing quick and deep;
thence (she still clinging to me with both hands) we were passed aft to
our places by the steersman; and Captain Sang and all the crew and
passengers cheering and crying farewell, the boat was put about for
shore.

As soon as Catriona came a little to herself she unhanded me suddenly,
but said no word. No more did I; and indeed the whistling of the wind
and the breaching of the sprays made it no time for speech; and our
crew not only toiled excessively but made extremely little way, so that
the _Rose_ had got her anchor and was off again before we had
approached the harbour mouth.

We were no sooner in smooth water than the patroon, according to their
beastly Hollands custom, stopped his boat and required of us our fares.
Two guilders was the man’s demand—between three and four shillings
English money—for each passenger. But at this Catriona began to cry out
with a vast deal of agitation. She had asked of Captain Sang, she said,
and the fare was but an English shilling. “Do you think I will have
come on board and not ask first?” cries she. The patroon scolded back
upon her in a lingo where the oaths were English and the rest right
Hollands; till at last (seeing her near tears) I privately slipped in
the rogue’s hand six shillings, whereupon he was obliging enough to
receive from her the other shilling without more complaint. No doubt I
was a good deal nettled and ashamed. I like to see folk thrifty, but
not with so much passion; and I daresay it would be rather coldly that
I asked her, as the boat moved on again for shore, where it was that
she was trysted with her father.

“He is to be inquired of at the house of one Sprott, an honest Scotch
merchant,” says she; and then with the same breath, “I am wishing to
thank you very much—you are a brave friend to me.”

“It will be time enough when I get you to your father,” said I, little
thinking that I spoke so true. “I can tell him a fine tale of a loyal
daughter.”

“O, I do not think I will be a loyal girl, at all events,” she cried,
with a great deal of painfulness in the expression. “I do not think my
heart is true.”

“Yet there are very few that would have made that leap, and all to obey
a father’s orders,” I observed.

“I cannot have you to be thinking of me so,” she cried again. “When you
had done that same, how would I stop behind? And at all events that was
not all the reasons.” Whereupon, with a burning face, she told me the
plain truth upon her poverty.

“Good guide us!” cried I, “what kind of daft-like proceeding is this,
to let yourself be launched on the continent of Europe with an empty
purse—I count it hardly decent—scant decent!” I cried.

“You forget James More, my father, is a poor gentleman,” said she. “He
is a hunted exile.”

“But I think not all your friends are hunted exiles,” I exclaimed. “And
was this fair to them that care for you? Was it fair to me? was it fair
to Miss Grant that counselled you to go, and would be driven fair
horn-mad if she could hear of it? Was it even fair to these Gregory
folk that you were living with, and used you lovingly? It’s a blessing
you have fallen in my hands! Suppose your father hindered by an
accident, what would become of you here, and you your lee-lone in a
strange place? The thought of the thing frightens me,” I said.

“I will have lied to all of them,” she replied. “I will have told them
all that I had plenty. I told _her_ too. I could not be lowering James
More to them.”

I found out later on that she must have lowered him in the very dust,
for the lie was originally the father’s, not the daughter’s, and she
thus obliged to persevere in it for the man’s reputation. But at the
time I was ignorant of this, and the mere thought of her destitution
and the perils in which see must have fallen, had ruffled me almost
beyond reason.

“Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn more sense.”

I left her mails for the moment in an inn upon the shore, where I got a
direction for Sprott’s house in my new French, and we walked there—it
was some little way—beholding the place with wonder as we went. Indeed,
there was much for Scots folk to admire: canals and trees being
intermingled with the houses; the houses, each within itself, of a
brave red brick, the colour of a rose, with steps and benches of blue
marble at the cheek of every door, and the whole town so clean you
might have dined upon the causeway. Sprott was within, upon his
ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat and clean, and set out with china
and pictures, and a globe of the earth in a brass frame. He was a
big-chafted, ruddy, lusty man, with a crooked hard look to him; and he
made us not that much civility as offer us a seat.

“Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” says I.

“I ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient-like.

“Since you are so particular,” says I, “I will amend my question, and
ask you where we are to find in Helvoet one James Drummond, _alias_
Macgregor, _alias_ James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?”

“Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, and for my part I
wish he was.”

“The young lady is that gentleman’s daughter, sir,” said I, “before
whom, I think you will agree with me, it is not very becoming to
discuss his character.”

“I have nothing to make either with him, or her, or you!” cries he in
his gross voice.

“Under your favour, Mr. Sprott,” said I, “this young lady is come from
Scotland seeking him, and by whatever mistake, was given the name of
your house for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I think
this places both you and me—who am but her fellow-traveller by
accident—under a strong obligation to help our countrywoman.”

“Will you ding me daft?” he cries. “I tell ye I ken naething and care
less either for him or his breed. I tell ye the man owes me money.”

“That may very well be, sir,” said I, who was now rather more angry
than himself. “At least, I owe you nothing; the young lady is under my
protection; and I am neither at all used with these manners, nor in the
least content with them.”

As I said this, and without particularly thinking what I did, I drew a
step or two nearer to his table; thus striking, by mere good fortune,
on the only argument that could at all affect the man. The blood left
his lusty countenance.

“For the Lord’s sake dinna be hasty, sir!” he cried. “I am truly
wishfu’ no to be offensive. But ye ken, sir, I’m like a wheen
guid-natured, honest, canty auld fellows—my bark is waur nor my bite.
To hear me, ye micht whiles fancy I was a wee thing dour; but na, na!
it’s a kind auld fallow at heart, Sandie Sprott! And ye could never
imagine the fyke and fash this man has been to me.”

“Very good, sir,” said I. “Then I will make that much freedom with your
kindness as trouble you for your last news of Mr. Drummond.”

“You’re welcome, sir!” said he. “As for the young leddy (my respects to
her!), he’ll just have clean forgotten her. I ken the man, ye see; I
have lost siller by him ere now. He thinks of naebody but just himsel’;
clan, king, or dauchter, if he can get his wameful, he would give them
a’ the go-by! ay, or his correspondent either. For there is a sense in
whilk I may be nearly almost said to be his correspondent. The fact is,
we are employed thegether in a business affair, and I think it’s like
to turn out a dear affair for Sandie Sprott. The man’s as guid’s my
pairtner, and I give ye my mere word I ken naething by where he is. He
micht be coming here to Helvoet; he micht come here the morn, he
michtnae come for a twalmouth; I would wonder at naething—or just at
the ae thing, and that’s if he was to pay me my siller. Ye see what way
I stand with it; and it’s clear I’m no very likely to meddle up with
the young leddy, as ye ca’ her. She cannae stop here, that’s ae thing
certain sure. Dod, sir, I’m a lone man! If I was to tak her in, its
highly possible the hellicat would try and gar me marry her when he
turned up.”

“Enough of this talk,” said I. “I will take the young leddy among
better friends. Give me, pen, ink, and paper, and I will leave here for
James More the address of my correspondent in Leyden. He can inquire
from me where he is to seek his daughter.”

This word I wrote and sealed; which while I was doing, Sprott of his
own motion made a welcome offer, to charge himself with Miss Drummond’s
mails, and even send a porter for them to the inn. I advanced him to
that effect a dollar or two to be a cover, and he gave me an
acknowledgment in writing of the sum.

Whereupon (I giving my arm to Catriona) we left the house of this
unpalatable rascal. She had said no word throughout, leaving me to
judge and speak in her place; I, upon my side, had been careful not to
embarrass her by a glance; and even now, although my heart still glowed
inside of me with shame and anger, I made it my affair to seem quite
easy.

“Now,” said I, “let us get back to yon same inn where they can speak
the French, have a piece of dinner, and inquire for conveyances to
Rotterdam. I will never be easy till I have you safe again in the hands
of Mrs. Gebbie.”

“I suppose it will have to be,” said Catriona, “though whoever will be
pleased, I do not think it will be her. And I will remind you this once
again that I have but one shilling, and three baubees.”

“And just this once again,” said I, “I will remind you it was a
blessing that I came alongst with you.”

“What else would I be thinking all this time?” says she, and I thought
weighed a little on my arm. “It is you that are the good friend to me.”




CHAPTER XXIII.
TRAVELS IN HOLLAND


The rattel-waggon, which is a kind of a long waggon set with benches,
carried us in four hours of travel to the great city of Rotterdam. It
was long past dark by then, but the streets were pretty brightly
lighted and thronged with wild-like, outlandish characters—bearded
Hebrews, black men, and the hordes of courtesans, most indecently
adorned with finery and stopping seamen by their very sleeves; the
clash of talk about us made our heads to whirl; and what was the most
unexpected of all, we appeared to be no more struck with all these
foreigners than they with us. I made the best face I could, for the
lass’s sake and my own credit; but the truth is I felt like a lost
sheep, and my heart beat in my bosom with anxiety. Once or twice I
inquired after the harbour or the berth of the ship _Rose_: but either
fell on some who spoke only Hollands, or my own French failed me.
Trying a street at a venture, I came upon a lane of lighted houses, the
doors and windows thronged with wauf-like painted women; these jostled
and mocked upon us as we passed, and I was thankful we had nothing of
their language. A little after we issued forth upon an open place along
the harbour.

“We shall be doing now,” cries I, as soon as I spied masts. “Let us
walk here by the harbour. We are sure to meet some that has the
English, and at the best of it we may light upon that very ship.”

We did the next best, as happened; for, about nine of the evening, whom
should we walk into the arms of but Captain Sang? He told us they had
made their run in the most incredible brief time, the wind holding
strong till they reached port; by which means his passengers were all
gone already on their further travels. It was impossible to chase after
the Gebbies into the High Germany, and we had no other acquaintance to
fall back upon but Captain Sang himself. It was the more gratifying to
find the man friendly and wishful to assist. He made it a small affair
to find some good plain family of merchants, where Catriona might
harbour till the _Rose_ was loaden; declared he would then blithely
carry her back to Leith for nothing and see her safe in the hands of
Mr. Gregory; and in the meanwhile carried us to a late ordinary for the
meal we stood in need of. He seemed extremely friendly, as I say, but
what surprised me a good deal, rather boisterous in the bargain; and
the cause of this was soon to appear. For at the ordinary, calling for
Rhenish wine and drinking of it deep, he soon became unutterably tipsy.
In this case, as too common with all men, but especially with those of
his rough trade, what little sense or manners he possessed deserted
him; and he behaved himself so scandalous to the young lady, jesting
most ill-favouredly at the figure she had made on the ship’s rail, that
I had no resource but carry her suddenly away.

She came out of the ordinary clinging to me close. “Take me away,
David,” she said. “_You_ keep me. I am not afraid with you.”

“And have no cause, my little friend!” cried I, and could have found it
in my heart to weep.

“Where will you be taking me?” she said again. “Don’t leave me at all
events—never leave me.”

“Where am I taking you to?” says I stopping, for I had been staving on
ahead in mere blindness. “I must stop and think. But I’ll not leave
you, Catriona; the Lord do so to me, and more also, if I should fail or
fash you.”

She crept close into me by way of a reply.

“Here,” I said, “is the stillest place we have hit on yet in this busy
byke of a city. Let us sit down here under yon tree and consider of our
course.”

That tree (which I am little like to forget) stood hard by the harbour
side. It was like a black night, but lights were in the houses, and
nearer hand in the quiet ships; there was a shining of the city on the
one hand, and a buzz hung over it of many thousands walking and
talking; on the other, it was dark and the water bubbled on the sides.
I spread my cloak upon a builder’s stone, and made her sit there; she
would have kept her hold upon me, for she still shook with the late
affronts; but I wanted to think clear, disengaged myself, and paced to
and fro before her, in the manner of what we call a smuggler’s walk,
belabouring my brains for any remedy. By the course of these scattering
thoughts I was brought suddenly face to face with a remembrance that,
in the heat and haste of our departure, I had left Captain Sang to pay
the ordinary. At this I began to laugh out loud, for I thought the man
well served; and at the same time, by an instinctive movement, carried
my hand to the pocket where my money was. I suppose it was in the lane
where the women jostled us; but there is only the one thing certain,
that my purse was gone.

“You will have thought of something good,” said she, observing me to
pause.

At the pinch we were in, my mind became suddenly clear as a perspective
glass, and I saw there was no choice of methods. I had not one doit of
coin, but in my pocket-book I had still my letter on the Leyden
merchant; and there was now but the one way to get to Leyden, and that
was to walk on our two feet.

“Catriona,” said I, “I know you’re brave and I believe you’re strong—do
you think you could walk thirty miles on a plain road?” We found it, I
believe, scarce the two-thirds of that, but such was my notion of the
distance.

“David,” she said, “if you will just keep near, I will go anywhere and
do anything. The courage of my heart, it is all broken. Do not be
leaving me in this horrible country by myself, and I will do all else.”

“Can you start now and march all night?” said I.

“I will do all that you can ask of me,” she said, “and never ask you
why. I have been a bad ungrateful girl to you; and do what you please
with me now! And I think Miss Barbara Grant is the best lady in the
world,” she added, “and I do not see what she would deny you for at all
events.”

This was Greek and Hebrew to me; but I had other matters to consider,
and the first of these was to get clear of that city on the Leyden
road. It proved a cruel problem; and it may have been one or two at
night ere we had solved it. Once beyond the houses, there was neither
moon nor stars to guide us; only the whiteness of the way in the midst
and a blackness of an alley on both hands. The walking was besides made
most extraordinary difficult by a plain black frost that fell suddenly
in the small hours and turned that highway into one long slide.

“Well, Catriona,” said I, “here we are like the king’s sons and the old
wives’ daughters in your daft-like Highland tales. Soon we’ll be going
over the ‘_seven Bens_, _the seven glens and the seven mountain
moors_’.” Which was a common byword or overcome in those tales of hers
that had stuck in my memory.

“Ah,” says she, “but here are no glens or mountains! Though I will
never be denying but what the trees and some of the plain places
hereabouts are very pretty. But our country is the best yet.”

“I wish we could say as much for our own folk,” says I, recalling
Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James More himself.

“I will never complain of the country of my friend,” said she, and
spoke it out with an accent so particular that I seemed to see the look
upon her face.

I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling (for my pains) on the
black ice.

“I do not know what _you_ think, Catriona,” said I, when I was a little
recovered, “but this has been the best day yet! I think shame to say
it, when you have met in with such misfortunes and disfavours; but for
me, it has been the best day yet.”

“It was a good day when you showed me so much love,” said she.

“And yet I think shame to be happy too,” I went on, “and you here on
the road in the black night.”

“Where in the great world would I be else?” she cried. “I am thinking I
am safest where I am with you.”

“I am quite forgiven, then?” I asked.

“Will you not forgive me that time so much as not to take it in your
mouth again?” she cried. “There is nothing in this heart to you but
thanks. But I will be honest too,” she added, with a kind of
suddenness, “and I’ll never can forgive that girl.”

“Is this Miss Grant again?” said I. “You said yourself she was the best
lady in the world.”

“So she will be, indeed!” says Catriona. “But I will never forgive her
for all that. I will never, never forgive her, and let me hear tell of
her no more.”

“Well,” said I, “this beats all that ever came to my knowledge; and I
wonder that you can indulge yourself in such bairnly whims. Here is a
young lady that was the best friend in the world to the both of us,
that learned us how to dress ourselves, and in a great manner how to
behave, as anyone can see that knew us both before and after.”

But Catriona stopped square in the midst of the highway.

“It is this way of it,” said she. “Either you will go on to speak of
her, and I will go back to yon town, and let come of it what God
pleases! Or else you will do me that politeness to talk of other
things.”

I was the most nonplussed person in this world; but I bethought me that
she depended altogether on my help, that she was of the frail sex and
not so much beyond a child, and it was for me to be wise for the pair
of us.

“My dear girl,” said I, “I can make neither head nor tails of this; but
God forbid that I should do anything to set you on the jee. As for
talking of Miss Grant, I have no such a mind to it, and I believe it
was yourself began it. My only design (if I took you up at all) was for
your own improvement, for I hate the very look of injustice. Not that I
do not wish you to have a good pride and a nice female delicacy; they
become you well; but here you show them to excess.”

“Well, then, have you done?” said she.

“I have done,” said I.

“A very good thing,” said she, and we went on again, but now in
silence.

It was an eerie employment to walk in the gross night, beholding only
shadows and hearing nought but our own steps. At first, I believe our
hearts burned against each other with a deal of enmity; but the
darkness and the cold, and the silence, which only the cocks sometimes
interrupted, or sometimes the farmyard dogs, had pretty soon brought
down our pride to the dust; and for my own particular, I would have
jumped at any decent opening for speech.

Before the day peeped, came on a warmish rain, and the frost was all
wiped away from among our feet. I took my cloak to her and sought to
hap her in the same; she bade me, rather impatiently, to keep it.

“Indeed and I will do no such thing,” said I. “Here am I, a great, ugly
lad that has seen all kinds of weather, and here are you a tender,
pretty maid! My dear, you would not put me to a shame?”

Without more words she let me cover her; which as I was doing in the
darkness, I let my hand rest a moment on her shoulder, almost like an
embrace.

“You must try to be more patient of your friend,” said I.

I thought she seemed to lean the least thing in the world against my
bosom, or perhaps it was but fancy.

“There will be no end to your goodness,” said she.

And we went on again in silence; but now all was changed; and the
happiness that was in my heart was like a fire in a great chimney.

The rain passed ere day; it was but a sloppy morning as we came into
the town of Delft. The red gabled houses made a handsome show on either
hand of a canal; the servant lassies were out slestering and scrubbing
at the very stones upon the public highway; smoke rose from a hundred
kitchens; and it came in upon me strongly it was time to break our
fasts.

“Catriona,” said I, “I believe you have yet a shilling and three
baubees?”

“Are you wanting it?” said she, and passed me her purse. “I am wishing
it was five pounds! What will you want it for?”

“And what have we been walking for all night, like a pair of waif
Egyptians!” says I. “Just because I was robbed of my purse and all I
possessed in that unchancy town of Rotterdam. I will tell you of it
now, because I think the worst is over, but we have still a good tramp
before us till we get to where my money is, and if you would not buy me
a piece of bread, I were like to go fasting.”

She looked at me with open eyes. By the light of the new day she was
all black and pale for weariness, so that my heart smote me for her.
But as for her, she broke out laughing.

“My torture! are we beggars then!” she cried. “You too? O, I could have
wished for this same thing! And I am glad to buy your breakfast to you.
But it would be pleisand if I would have had to dance to get a meal to
you! For I believe they are not very well acquainted with our manner of
dancing over here, and might be paying for the curiosity of that
sight.”

I could have kissed her for that word, not with a lover’s mind, but in
a heat of admiration. For it always warms a man to see a woman brave.

We got a drink of milk from a country wife but new come to the town,
and in a baker’s, a piece of excellent, hot, sweet-smelling bread,
which we ate upon the road as we went on. That road from Delft to the
Hague is just five miles of a fine avenue shaded with trees, a canal on
the one hand, on the other excellent pastures of cattle. It was
pleasant here indeed.

“And now, Davie,” said she, “what will you do with me at all events?”

“It is what we have to speak of,” said I, “and the sooner yet the
better. I can come by money in Leyden; that will be all well. But the
trouble is how to dispose of you until your father come. I thought last
night you seemed a little sweir to part from me?”

“It will be more than seeming then,” said she.

“You are a very young maid,” said I, “and I am but a very young
callant. This is a great piece of difficulty. What way are we to
manage? Unless indeed, you could pass to be my sister?”

“And what for no?” said she, “if you would let me!”

“I wish you were so, indeed,” I cried. “I would be a fine man if I had
such a sister. But the rub is that you are Catriona Drummond.”

“And now I will be Catriona Balfour,” she said. “And who is to ken?
They are all strange folk here.”

“If you think that it would do,” says I. “I own it troubles me. I would
like it very ill, if I advised you at all wrong.”

“David, I have no friend here but you,” she said.

“The mere truth is, I am too young to be your friend,” said I. “I am
too young to advise you, or you to be advised. I see not what else we
are to do, and yet I ought to warn you.”

“I will have no choice left,” said she. “My father James More has not
used me very well, and it is not the first time, I am cast upon your
hands like a sack of barley meal, and have nothing else to think of but
your pleasure. If you will have me, good and well. If you will not”—she
turned and touched her hand upon my arm—“David, I am afraid,” said she.

“No, but I ought to warn you,” I began; and then bethought me I was the
bearer of the purse, and it would never do to seem too churlish.
“Catriona,” said I, “don’t misunderstand me: I am just trying to do my
duty by you, girl! Here am I going alone to this strange city, to be a
solitary student there; and here is this chance arisen that you might
dwell with me a bit, and be like my sister; you can surely understand
this much, my dear, that I would just love to have you?”

“Well, and here I am,” said she. “So that’s soon settled.”

I know I was in duty bounden to have spoke more plain. I know this was
a great blot on my character, for which I was lucky that I did not pay
more dear. But I minded how easy her delicacy had been startled with a
word of kissing her in Barbara’s letter; now that she depended on me,
how was I to be more bold? Besides, the truth is, I could see no other
feasible method to dispose of her. And I daresay inclination pulled me
very strong.

A little beyond the Hague she fell very lame and made the rest of the
distance heavily enough. Twice she must rest by the wayside, which she
did with pretty apologies, calling herself a shame to the Highlands and
the race she came of, and nothing but a hindrance to myself. It was her
excuse, she said, that she was not much used with walking shod. I would
have had her strip off her shoes and stockings and go barefoot. But she
pointed out to me that the women of that country, even in the landward
roads, appeared to be all shod.

“I must not be disgracing my brother,” said she, and was very merry
with it all, although her face told tales of her.

There is a garden in that city we were bound to, sanded below with
clean sand, the trees meeting overhead, some of them trimmed, some
preached, and the whole place beautified with alleys and arbours. Here
I left Catriona, and went forward by myself to find my correspondent.
There I drew on my credit, and asked to be recommended to some decent,
retired lodging. My baggage being not yet arrived, I told him I
supposed I should require his caution with the people of the house; and
explained that, my sister being come for a while to keep house with me,
I should be wanting two chambers. This was all very well; but the
trouble was that Mr. Balfour in his letter of recommendation had
condescended on a great deal of particulars, and never a word of any
sister in the case. I could see my Dutchman was extremely suspicious;
and viewing me over the rims of a great pair of spectacles—he was a
poor, frail body, and reminded me of an infirm rabbit—he began to
question me close.

Here I fell in a panic. Suppose he accept my tale (thinks I), suppose
he invite my sister to his house, and that I bring her. I shall have a
fine ravelled pirn to unwind, and may end by disgracing both the lassie
and myself. Thereupon I began hastily to expound to him my sister’s
character. She was of a bashful disposition, it appeared, and be
extremely fearful of meeting strangers that I had left her at that
moment sitting in a public place alone. And then, being launched upon
the stream of falsehood, I must do like all the rest of the world in
the same circumstance, and plunge in deeper than was any service;
adding some altogether needless particulars of Miss Balfour’s
ill-health and retirement during childhood. In the midst of which I
awoke to a sense of my behaviour, and was turned to one blush.

The old gentleman was not so much deceived but what he discovered a
willingness to be quit of me. But he was first of all a man of
business; and knowing that my money was good enough, however it might
be with my conduct, he was so far obliging as to send his son to be my
guide and caution in the matter of a lodging. This implied my
presenting of the young man to Catriona. The poor, pretty child was
much recovered with resting, looked and behaved to perfection, and took
my arm and gave me the name of brother more easily than I could answer
her. But there was one misfortune: thinking to help, she was rather
towardly than otherwise to my Dutchman. And I could not but reflect
that Miss Balfour had rather suddenly outgrown her bashfulness. And
there was another thing, the difference of our speech. I had the Low
Country tongue and dwelled upon my words; she had a hill voice, spoke
with something of an English accent, only far more delightful, and was
scarce quite fit to be called a deacon in the craft of talking English
grammar; so that, for a brother and sister, we made a most uneven pair.
But the young Hollander was a heavy dog, without so much spirit in his
belly as to remark her prettiness, for which I scorned him. And as soon
as he had found a cover to our heads, he left us alone, which was the
greater service of the two.




CHAPTER XXIV.
FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS


The place found was in the upper part of a house backed on a canal. We
had two rooms, the second entering from the first; each had a chimney
built out into the floor in the Dutch manner; and being alongside, each
had the same prospect from the window of the top of a tree below us in
a little court, of a piece of the canal, and of houses in the Hollands
architecture and a church spire upon the further side. A full set of
bells hung in that spire and made delightful music; and when there was
any sun at all, it shone direct in our two chambers. From a tavern hard
by we had good meals sent in.

The first night we were both pretty weary, and she extremely so. There
was little talk between us, and I packed her off to her bed as soon as
she had eaten. The first thing in the morning I wrote word to Sprott to
have her mails sent on, together with a line to Alan at his chief’s;
and had the same despatched, and her breakfast ready, ere I waked her.
I was a little abashed when she came forth in her one habit, and the
mud of the way upon her stockings. By what inquiries I had made, it
seemed a good few days must pass before her mails could come to hand in
Leyden, and it was plainly needful she must have a shift of things. She
was unwilling at first that I should go to that expense; but I reminded
her she was now a rich man’s sister and must appear suitably in the
part, and we had not got to the second merchant’s before she was
entirely charmed into the spirit of the thing, and her eyes shining. It
pleased me to see her so innocent and thorough in this pleasure. What
was more extraordinary was the passion into which I fell on it myself;
being never satisfied that I had bought her enough or fine enough, and
never weary of beholding her in different attires. Indeed, I began to
understand some little of Miss Grant’s immersion in the interest of
clothes; for the truth is, when you have the ground of a beautiful
person to adorn, the whole business becomes beautiful. The Dutch
chintzes I should say were extraordinary cheap and fine; but I would be
ashamed to set down what I paid for stockings to her. Altogether I
spent so great a sum upon this pleasuring (as I may call it) that I was
ashamed for a great while to spend more; and by way of a set-off, I
left our chambers pretty bare. If we had beds, if Catriona was a little
braw, and I had light to see her by, we were richly enough lodged for
me.

By the end of this merchandising I was glad to leave her at the door
with all our purchases, and go for a long walk alone in which to read
myself a lecture. Here had I taken under my roof, and as good as to my
bosom, a young lass extremely beautiful, and whose innocence was her
peril. My talk with the old Dutchman, and the lies to which I was
constrained, had already given me a sense of how my conduct must appear
to others; and now, after the strong admiration I had just experienced
and the immoderacy with which I had continued my vain purchases, I
began to think of it myself as very hazarded. I bethought me, if I had
a sister indeed, whether I would so expose her; then, judging the case
too problematical, I varied my question into this, whether I would so
trust Catriona in the hands of any other Christian being; the answer to
which made my face to burn. The more cause, since I had been entrapped
and had entrapped the girl into an undue situation, that I should
behave in it with scrupulous nicety. She depended on me wholly for her
bread and shelter; in case I should alarm her delicacy, she had no
retreat. Besides I was her host and her protector; and the more
irregularly I had fallen in these positions, the less excuse for me if
I should profit by the same to forward even the most honest suit; for
with the opportunities that I enjoyed, and which no wise parent would
have suffered for a moment, even the most honest suit would be unfair.
I saw I must be extremely hold-off in my relations; and yet not too
much so neither; for if I had no right to appear at all in the
character of a suitor, I must yet appear continually, and if possible
agreeably, in that of host. It was plain I should require a great deal
of tact and conduct, perhaps more than my years afforded. But I had
rushed in where angels might have feared to tread, and there was no way
out of that position save by behaving right while I was in it. I made a
set of rules for my guidance; prayed for strength to be enabled to
observe them, and as a more human aid to the same end purchased a
study-book in law. This being all that I could think of, I relaxed from
these grave considerations; whereupon my mind bubbled at once into an
effervescency of pleasing spirits, and it was like one treading on air
that I turned homeward. As I thought that name of home, and recalled
the image of that figure awaiting me between four walls, my heart beat
upon my bosom.

My troubles began with my return. She ran to greet me with an obvious
and affecting pleasure. She was clad, besides, entirely in the new
clothes that I had bought for her; looked in them beyond expression
well; and must walk about and drop me curtseys to display them and to
be admired. I am sure I did it with an ill grace, for I thought to have
choked upon the words.

“Well,” she said, “if you will not be caring for my pretty clothes, see
what I have done with our two chambers.” And she showed me the place
all very finely swept, and the fires glowing in the two chimneys.

I was glad of a chance to seem a little more severe than I quite felt.
“Catriona,” said I, “I am very much displeased with you, and you must
never again lay a hand upon my room. One of us two must have the rule
while we are here together; it is most fit it should be I who am both
the man and the elder; and I give you that for my command.”

She dropped me one of her curtseys; which were extraordinary taking.
“If you will be cross,” said she, “I must be making pretty manners at
you, Davie. I will be very obedient, as I should be when every stitch
upon all there is of me belongs to you. But you will not be very cross
either, because now I have not anyone else.”

This struck me hard, and I made haste, in a kind of penitence, to blot
out all the good effect of my last speech. In this direction progress
was more easy, being down hill; she led me forward, smiling; at the
sight of her, in the brightness of the fire and with her pretty becks
and looks, my heart was altogether melted. We made our meal with
infinite mirth and tenderness; and the two seemed to be commingled into
one, so that our very laughter sounded like a kindness.

In the midst of which I awoke to better recollections, made a lame word
of excuse, and set myself boorishly to my studies. It was a
substantial, instructive book that I had bought, by the late Dr.
Heineccius, in which I was to do a great deal reading these next few
days, and often very glad that I had no one to question me of what I
read. Methought she bit her lip at me a little, and that cut me. Indeed
it left her wholly solitary, the more as she was very little of a
reader, and had never a book. But what was I to do?

So the rest of the evening flowed by almost without speech.

I could have beat myself. I could not lie in my bed that night for rage
and repentance, but walked to and fro on my bare feet till I was nearly
perished, for the chimney was gone out and the frost keen. The thought
of her in the next room, the thought that she might even hear me as I
walked, the remembrance of my churlishness and that I must continue to
practise the same ungrateful course or be dishonoured, put me beside my
reason. I stood like a man between Scylla and Charybdis: _What must she
think of me_? was my one thought that softened me continually into
weakness. _What is to become of us_? the other which steeled me again
to resolution. This was my first night of wakefulness and divided
counsels, of which I was now to pass many, pacing like a madman,
sometimes weeping like a childish boy, sometimes praying (I fain would
hope) like a Christian.

But prayer is not very difficult, and the hitch comes in practice. In
her presence, and above all if I allowed any beginning of familiarity,
I found I had very little command of what should follow. But to sit all
day in the same room with her, and feign to be engaged upon Heineccius,
surpassed my strength. So that I fell instead upon the expedient of
absenting myself so much as I was able; taking out classes and sitting
there regularly, often with small attention, the test of which I found
the other day in a note-book of that period, where I had left off to
follow an edifying lecture and actually scribbled in my book some very
ill verses, though the Latinity is rather better than I thought that I
could ever have compassed. The evil of this course was unhappily near
as great as its advantage. I had the less time of trial, but I believe,
while the time lasted, I was tried the more extremely. For she being so
much left to solitude, she came to greet my return with an increasing
fervour that came nigh to overmaster me. These friendly offers I must
barbarously cast back; and my rejection sometimes wounded her so
cruelly that I must unbend and seek to make it up to her in kindness.
So that our time passed in ups and downs, tiffs and disappointments,
upon the which I could almost say (if it may be said with reverence)
that I was crucified.

The base of my trouble was Catriona’s extraordinary innocence, at which
I was not so much surprised as filled with pity and admiration. She
seemed to have no thought of our position, no sense of my struggles;
welcomed any mark of my weakness with responsive joy; and when I was
drove again to my retrenchments, did not always dissemble her chagrin.
There were times when I have thought to myself, “If she were over head
in love, and set her cap to catch me, she would scarce behave much
otherwise;” and then I would fall again into wonder at the simplicity
of woman, from whom I felt (in these moments) that I was not worthy to
be descended.

There was one point in particular on which our warfare turned, and of
all things, this was the question of her clothes. My baggage had soon
followed me from Rotterdam, and hers from Helvoet. She had now, as it
were, two wardrobes; and it grew to be understood between us (I could
never tell how) that when she was friendly she would wear my clothes,
and when otherwise her own. It was meant for a buffet, and (as it were)
the renunciation of her gratitude; and I felt it so in my bosom, but
was generally more wise than to appear to have observed the
circumstance.

Once, indeed, I was betrayed into a childishness greater than her own;
it fell in this way. On my return from classes, thinking upon her
devoutly with a great deal of love and a good deal of annoyance in the
bargain, the annoyance began to fade away out of my mind; and spying in
a window one of those forced flowers, of which the Hollanders are so
skilled in the artifice, I gave way to an impulse and bought it for
Catriona. I do not know the name of that flower, but it was of the pink
colour, and I thought she would admire the same, and carried it home to
her with a wonderful soft heart. I had left her in my clothes, and when
I returned to find her all changed and a face to match, I cast but the
one look at her from head to foot, ground my teeth together, flung the
window open, and my flower into the court, and then (between rage and
prudence) myself out of that room again, of which I slammed she door as
I went out.

On the steep stair I came near falling, and this brought me to myself,
so that I began at once to see the folly of my conduct. I went, not
into the street as I had purposed, but to the house court, which was
always a solitary place, and where I saw my flower (that had cost me
vastly more than it was worth) hanging in the leafless tree. I stood by
the side of the canal, and looked upon the ice. Country people went by
on their skates, and I envied them. I could see no way out of the
pickle I was in no way so much as to return to the room I had just
left. No doubt was in my mind but I had now betrayed the secret of my
feelings; and to make things worse, I had shown at the same time (and
that with wretched boyishness) incivility to my helpless guest.

I suppose she must have seen me from the open window. It did not seem
to me that I had stood there very long before I heard the crunching of
footsteps on the frozen snow, and turning somewhat angrily (for I was
in no spirit to be interrupted) saw Catriona drawing near. She was all
changed again, to the clocked stockings.

“Are we not to have our walk to-day?” said she.

I was looking at her in a maze. “Where is your brooch?” says I.

She carried her hand to her bosom and coloured high. “I will have
forgotten it,” said she. “I will run upstairs for it quick, and then
surely we’ll can have our walk?”

There was a note of pleading in that last that staggered me; I had
neither words nor voice to utter them; I could do no more than nod by
way of answer; and the moment she had left me, climbed into the tree
and recovered my flower, which on her return I offered her.

“I bought it for you, Catriona,” said I.

She fixed it in the midst of her bosom with the brooch, I could have
thought tenderly.

“It is none the better of my handling,” said I again, and blushed.

“I will be liking it none the worse, you may be sure of that,” said
she.

We did not speak so much that day; she seemed a thought on the reserve,
though not unkindly. As for me, all the time of our walking, and after
we came home, and I had seen her put my flower into a pot of water, I
was thinking to myself what puzzles women were. I was thinking, the one
moment, it was the most stupid thing on earth she should not have
perceived my love; and the next, that she had certainly perceived it
long ago, and (being a wise girl with the fine female instinct of
propriety) concealed her knowledge.

We had our walk daily. Out in the streets I felt more safe; I relaxed a
little in my guardedness; and for one thing, there was no Heineccius.
This made these periods not only a relief to myself, but a particular
pleasure to my poor child. When I came back about the hour appointed, I
would generally find her ready dressed, and glowing with anticipation.
She would prolong their duration to the extreme, seeming to dread (as I
did myself) the hour of the return; and there is scarce a field or
waterside near Leyden, scarce a street or lane there, where we have not
lingered. Outside of these, I bade her confine herself entirely to our
lodgings; this in the fear of her encountering any acquaintance, which
would have rendered our position very difficult. From the same
apprehension I would never suffer her to attend church, nor even go
myself; but made some kind of shift to hold worship privately in our
own chamber—I hope with an honest, but I am quite sure with a very much
divided mind. Indeed, there was scarce anything that more affected me,
than thus to kneel down alone with her before God like man and wife.

One day it was snowing downright hard. I had thought it not possible
that we should venture forth, and was surprised to find her waiting for
me ready dressed.

“I will not be doing without my walk,” she cried. “You are never a good
boy, Davie, in the house; I will never be caring for you only in the
open air. I think we two will better turn Egyptian and dwell by the
roadside.”

That was the best walk yet of all of them; she clung near to me in the
falling snow; it beat about and melted on us, and the drops stood upon
her bright cheeks like tears and ran into her smiling mouth. Strength
seemed to come upon me with the sight like a giant’s; I thought I could
have caught her up and run with her into the uttermost places in the
earth; and we spoke together all that time beyond belief for freedom
and sweetness.

It was the dark night when we came to the house door. She pressed my
arm upon her bosom. “Thank you kindly for these same good hours,” said
she, on a deep note of her voice.

The concern in which I fell instantly on this address, put me with the
same swiftness on my guard; and we were no sooner in the chamber, and
the light made, than she beheld the old, dour, stubborn countenance of
the student of Heineccius. Doubtless she was more than usually hurt;
and I know for myself, I found it more than usually difficult to
maintain any strangeness. Even at the meal, I durst scarce unbuckle and
scarce lift my eyes to her; and it was no sooner over than I fell again
to my civilian, with more seeming abstraction and less understanding
than before. Methought, as I read, I could hear my heart strike like an
eight-day clock. Hard as I feigned to study, there was still some of my
eyesight that spilled beyond the book upon Catriona. She sat on the
floor by the side of my great mail, and the chimney lighted her up, and
shone and blinked upon her, and made her glow and darken through a
wonder of fine hues. Now she would be gazing in the fire, and then
again at me; and at that I would be plunged in a terror of myself, and
turn the pages of Heineccius like a man looking for the text in church.

Suddenly she called out aloud. “O, why does not my father come?” she
cried, and fell at once into a storm of tears.

I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran to her side, and
cast an arm around her sobbing body.

She put me from her sharply, “You do not love your friend,” says she.
“I could be so happy too, if you would let me!” And then, “O, what will
I have done that you should hate me so?”

“Hate you!” cries I, and held her firm. “You blind less, can you not
see a little in my wretched heart? Do you not think when I sit there,
reading in that fool-book that I have just burned and be damned to it,
I take ever the least thought of any stricken thing but just yourself?
Night after night I could have grat to see you sitting there your lone.
And what was I to do? You are here under my honour; would you punish me
for that? Is it for that that you would spurn a loving servant?”

At the word, with a small, sudden motion, she clung near to me. I
raised her face to mine, I kissed it, and she bowed her brow upon my
bosom, clasping me tight. I saw in a mere whirl like a man drunken.
Then I heard her voice sound very small and muffled in my clothes.

“Did you kiss her truly?” she asked.

There went through me so great a heave of surprise that I was all shook
with it.

“Miss Grant?” I cried, all in a disorder. “Yes, I asked her to kiss me
good-bye, the which she did.”

“Ah, well!” said she, “you have kissed me too, at all events.”

At the strangeness and sweetness of that word, I saw where we had
fallen; rose, and set her on her feet.

“This will never do,” said I. “This will never, never do. O Catrine,
Catrine!” Then there came a pause in which I was debarred from any
speaking. And then, “Go away to your bed,” said I. “Go away to your bed
and leave me.”

She turned to obey me like a child, and the next I knew of it, had
stopped in the very doorway.

“Good night, Davie!” said she.

“And O, good night, my love!” I cried, with a great outbreak of my
soul, and caught her to me again, so that it seemed I must have broken
her. The next moment I had thrust her from the room, shut to the door
even with violence, and stood alone.

The milk was spilt now, the word was out and the truth told. I had
crept like an untrusty man into the poor maid’s affections; she was in
my hand like any frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon
of defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that Heineccius, my old
protection, was now burned. I repented, yet could not find it in my
heart to blame myself for that great failure. It seemed not possible to
have resisted the boldness of her innocence or that last temptation of
her weeping. And all that I had to excuse me did but make my sin appear
the greater—it was upon a nature so defenceless, and with such
advantages of the position, that I seemed to have practised.

What was to become of us now? It seemed we could no longer dwell in the
one place. But where was I to go? or where she? Without either choice
or fault of ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that narrow
place. I had a wild thought of marrying out of hand; and the next
moment put it from me with revolt. She was a child, she could not tell
her own heart; I had surprised her weakness, I must never go on to
build on that surprisal; I must keep her not only clear of reproach,
but free as she had come to me.

Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and repented, and beat my
brains in vain for any means of escape. About two of the morning, there
were three red embers left and the house and all the city was asleep,
when I was aware of a small sound of weeping in the next room. She
thought that I slept, the poor soul; she regretted her weakness—and
what perhaps (God help her!) she called her forwardness—and in the dead
of the night solaced herself with tears. Tender and bitter feelings,
love and penitence and pity, struggled in my soul; it seemed I was
under bond to heal that weeping.

“O, try to forgive me!” I cried out, “try, try to forgive me. Let us
forget it all, let us try if we’ll no can forget it!”

There came no answer, but the sobbing ceased. I stood a long while with
my hands still clasped as I had spoken; then the cold of the night laid
hold upon me with a shudder, and I think my reason reawakened.

“You can make no hand of this, Davie,” thinks I. “To bed with you like
a wise lad, and try if you can sleep. To-morrow you may see your way.”




CHAPTER XXV.
THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE


I was called on the morrow out of a late and troubled slumber by a
knocking on my door, ran to open it, and had almost swooned with the
contrariety of my feelings, mostly painful; for on the threshold, in a
rough wraprascal and an extraordinary big laced hat, there stood James
More.

I ought to have been glad perhaps without admixture, for there was a
sense in which the man came like an answer to prayer. I had been saying
till my head was weary that Catriona and I must separate, and looking
till my head ached for any possible means of separation. Here were the
means come to me upon two legs, and joy was the hindmost of my
thoughts. It is to be considered, however, that even if the weight of
the future were lifted off me by the man’s arrival, the present heaved
up the more black and menacing; so that, as I first stood before him in
my shirt and breeches, I believe I took a leaping step backward like a
person shot.

“Ah,” said he, “I have found you, Mr. Balfour.” And offered me his
large, fine hand, the which (recovering at the same time my post in the
doorway, as if with some thought of resistance) I took him by
doubtfully. “It is a remarkable circumstance how our affairs appear to
intermingle,” he continued. “I am owing you an apology for an
unfortunate intrusion upon yours, which I suffered myself to be
entrapped into by my confidence in that false-face, Prestongrange; I
think shame to own to you that I was ever trusting to a lawyer.” He
shrugged his shoulders with a very French air. “But indeed the man is
very plausible,” says he. “And now it seems that you have busied
yourself handsomely in the matter of my daughter, for whose direction I
was remitted to yourself.”

“I think, sir,” said I, with a very painful air, “that it will be
necessary we two should have an explanation.”

“There is nothing amiss?” he asked. “My agent, Mr. Sprott—”

“For God’s sake moderate your voice!” I cried. “She must not hear till
we have had an explanation.”

“She is in this place?” cries he.

“That is her chamber door,” said I.

“You are here with her alone?” he asked.

“And who else would I have got to stay with us?” cries I.

I will do him the justice to admit that he turned pale.

“This is very unusual,” said he. “This is a very unusual circumstance.
You are right, we must hold an explanation.”

So saying he passed me by, and I must own the tall old rogue appeared
at that moment extraordinary dignified. He had now, for the first time,
the view of my chamber, which I scanned (I may say) with his eyes. A
bit of morning sun glinted in by the window pane, and showed it off; my
bed, my mails, and washing dish, with some disorder of my clothes, and
the unlighted chimney, made the only plenishing; no mistake but it
looked bare and cold, and the most unsuitable, beggarly place
conceivable to harbour a young lady. At the same time came in on my
mind the recollection of the clothes that I had bought for her; and I
thought this contrast of poverty and prodigality bore an ill
appearance.

He looked all about the chamber for a seat, and finding nothing else to
his purpose except my bed, took a place upon the side of it; where,
after I had closed the door, I could not very well avoid joining him.
For however this extraordinary interview might end, it must pass if
possible without waking Catriona; and the one thing needful was that we
should sit close and talk low. But I can scarce picture what a pair we
made; he in his great coat which the coldness of my chamber made
extremely suitable; I shivering in my shirt and breeks; he with very
much the air of a judge; and I (whatever I looked) with very much the
feelings of a man who has heard the last trumpet.

“Well?” says he.

And “Well,” I began, but found myself unable to go further.

“You tell me she is here?” said he again, but now with a spice of
impatience that seemed to brace me up.

“She is in this house,” said I, “and I knew the circumstance would be
called unusual. But you are to consider how very unusual the whole
business was from the beginning. Here is a young lady landed on the
coast of Europe with two shillings and a penny halfpenny. She is
directed to yon man Sprott in Helvoet. I hear you call him your agent.
All I can say is he could do nothing but damn and swear at the mere
mention of your name, and I must fee him out of my own pocket even to
receive the custody of her effects. You speak of unusual circumstances,
Mr. Drummond, if that be the name you prefer. Here was a circumstance,
if you like, to which it was barbarity to have exposed her.”

“But this is what I cannot understand the least,” said James. “My
daughter was placed into the charge of some responsible persons, whose
names I have forgot.”

“Gebbie was the name,” said I; “and there is no doubt that Mr. Gebbie
should have gone ashore with her at Helvoet. But he did not, Mr.
Drummond; and I think you might praise God that I was there to offer in
his place.”

“I shall have a word to say to Mr. Gebbie before long,” said he. “As
for yourself, I think it might have occurred that you were somewhat
young for such a post.”

“But the choice was not between me and somebody else, it was between me
and nobody,” cried I. “Nobody offered in my place, and I must say I
think you show a very small degree of gratitude to me that did.”

“I shall wait until I understand my obligation a little more in the
particular,” says he.

“Indeed, and I think it stares you in the face, then,” said I. “Your
child was deserted, she was clean flung away in the midst of Europe,
with scarce two shillings, and not two words of any language spoken
there: I must say, a bonny business! I brought her to this place. I
gave her the name and the tenderness due to a sister. All this has not
gone without expense, but that I scarce need to hint at. They were
services due to the young lady’s character which I respect; and I think
it would be a bonny business too, if I was to be singing her praises to
her father.”

“You are a young man,” he began.

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

“You are a very young man,” he repeated, “or you would have understood
the significancy of the step.”

“I think you speak very much at your ease,” cried I. “What else was I
to do? It is a fact I might have hired some decent, poor woman to be a
third to us, and I declare I never thought of it until this moment! But
where was I to find her, that am a foreigner myself? And let me point
out to your observation, Mr. Drummond, that it would have cost me money
out of my pocket. For here is just what it comes to, that I had to pay
through the nose for your neglect; and there is only the one story to
it, just that you were so unloving and so careless as to have lost your
daughter.”

“He that lives in a glass house should not be casting stones,” says he;
“and we will finish inquiring into the behaviour of Miss Drummond
before we go on to sit in judgment on her father.”

“But I will be entrapped into no such attitude,” said I. “The character
of Miss Drummond is far above inquiry, as her father ought to know. So
is mine, and I am telling you that. There are but the two ways of it
open. The one is to express your thanks to me as one gentleman to
another, and to say no more. The other (if you are so difficult as to
be still dissatisfied) is to pay me, that which I have expended and be
done.”

He seemed to soothe me with a hand in the air. “There, there,” said he.
“You go too fast, you go too fast, Mr. Balfour. It is a good thing that
I have learned to be more patient. And I believe you forget that I have
yet to see my daughter.”

I began to be a little relieved upon this speech and a change in the
man’s manner that I spied in him as soon as the name of money fell
between us.

“I was thinking it would be more fit—if you will excuse the plainness
of my dressing in your presence—that I should go forth and leave you to
encounter her alone?” said I.

“What I would have looked for at your hands!” says he; and there was no
mistake but what he said it civilly.

I thought this better and better still, and as I began to pull on my
hose, recalling the man’s impudent mendicancy at Prestongrange’s, I
determined to pursue what seemed to be my victory.

“If you have any mind to stay some while in Leyden,” said I, “this room
is very much at your disposal, and I can easy find another for myself:
in which way we shall have the least amount of flitting possible, there
being only one to change.”

“Why, sir,” said he, making his bosom big, “I think no shame of a
poverty I have come by in the service of my king; I make no secret that
my affairs are quite involved; and for the moment, it would be even
impossible for me to undertake a journey.”

“Until you have occasion to communicate with your friends,” said I,
“perhaps it might be convenient for you (as of course it would be
honourable to myself) if you were to regard yourself in the light of my
guest?”

“Sir,” said he, “when an offer is frankly made, I think I honour myself
most to imitate that frankness. Your hand, Mr. David; you have the
character that I respect the most; you are one of those from whom a
gentleman can take a favour and no more words about it. I am an old
soldier,” he went on, looking rather disgusted-like around my chamber,
“and you need not fear I shall prove burthensome. I have ate too often
at a dyke-side, drank of the ditch, and had no roof but the rain.”

“I should be telling you,” said I, “that our breakfasts are sent
customarily in about this time of morning. I propose I should go now to
the tavern, and bid them add a cover for yourself and delay the meal
the matter of an hour, which will give you an interval to meet your
daughter in.”

Methought his nostrils wagged at this. “O, an hour?” says he. “That is
perhaps superfluous. Half an hour, Mr. David, or say twenty minutes; I
shall do very well in that. And by the way,” he adds, detaining me by
the coat, “what is it you drink in the morning, whether ale or wine?”

“To be frank with you, sir,” says I, “I drink nothing else but spare,
cold water.”

“Tut-tut,” says he, “that is fair destruction to the stomach, take an
old campaigner’s word for it. Our country spirit at home is perhaps the
most entirely wholesome; but as that is not come-at-able, Rhenish or a
white wine of Burgundy will be next best.”

“I shall make it my business to see you are supplied,” said I.

“Why, very good,” said he, “and we shall make a man of you yet, Mr.
David.”

By this time, I can hardly say that I was minding him at all, beyond an
odd thought of the kind of father-in-law that he was like to prove; and
all my cares centred about the lass his daughter, to whom I determined
to convey some warning of her visitor. I stepped to the door
accordingly, and cried through the panels, knocking thereon at the same
time: “Miss Drummond, here is your father come at last.”

With that I went forth upon my errand, having (by two words)
extraordinarily damaged my affairs.




CHAPTER XXVI.
THE THREESOME


Whether or not I was to be so much blamed, or rather perhaps pitied, I
must leave others to judge. My shrewdness (of which I have a good deal,
too) seems not so great with the ladies. No doubt, at the moment when I
awaked her, I was thinking a good deal of the effect upon James More;
and similarly when I returned and we were all sat down to breakfast, I
continued to behave to the young lady with deference and distance; as I
still think to have been most wise. Her father had cast doubts upon the
innocence of my friendship; and these, it was my first business to
allay. But there is a kind of an excuse for Catriona also. We had
shared in a scene of some tenderness and passion, and given and
received caresses: I had thrust her from me with violence; I had called
aloud upon her in the night from the one room to the other; she had
passed hours of wakefulness and weeping; and it is not to be supposed I
had been absent from her pillow thoughts. Upon the back of this, to be
awaked, with unaccustomed formality, under the name of Miss Drummond,
and to be thenceforth used with a great deal of distance and respect,
led her entirely in error on my private sentiments; and she was indeed
so incredibly abused as to imagine me repentant and trying to draw off!

The trouble betwixt us seems to have been this: that whereas I (since I
had first set eyes on his great hat) thought singly of James More, his
return and suspicions, she made so little of these that I may say she
scarce remarked them, and all her troubles and doings regarded what had
passed between us in the night before. This is partly to be explained
by the innocence and boldness of her character; and partly because
James More, having sped so ill in his interview with me, or had his
mouth closed by my invitation, said no word to her upon the subject. At
the breakfast, accordingly, it soon appeared we were at cross purposes.
I had looked to find her in clothes of her own: I found her (as if her
father were forgotten) wearing some of the best that I had bought for
her, and which she knew (or thought) that I admired her in. I had
looked to find her imitate my affectation of distance, and be most
precise and formal; instead I found her flushed and wild-like, with
eyes extraordinary bright, and a painful and varying expression,
calling me by name with a sort of appeal of tenderness, and referring
and deferring to my thoughts and wishes like an anxious or a suspected
wife.

But this was not for long. As I behold her so regardless of her own
interests, which I had jeopardised and was now endeavouring to recover,
I redoubled my own coldness in the manner of a lesson to the girl. The
more she came forward, the farther I drew back; the more she betrayed
the closeness of our intimacy, the more pointedly civil I became, until
even her father (if he had not been so engrossed with eating) might
have observed the opposition. In the midst of which, of a sudden, she
became wholly changed, and I told myself, with a good deal of relief,
that she had took the hint at last.

All day I was at my classes or in quest of my new lodging; and though
the hour of our customary walk hung miserably on my hands, I cannot say
but I was happy on the whole to find my way cleared, the girl again in
proper keeping, the father satisfied or at least acquiescent, and
myself free to prosecute my love with honour. At supper, as at all our
meals, it was James More that did the talking. No doubt but he talked
well if anyone could have believed him. But I will speak of him
presently more at large. The meal at an end, he rose, got his great
coat, and looking (as I thought) at me, observed he had affairs abroad.
I took this for a hint that I was to be going also, and got up;
whereupon the girl, who had scarce given me greeting at my entrance,
turned her eyes upon me wide open with a look that bade me stay. I
stood between them like a fish out of water, turning from one to the
other; neither seemed to observe me, she gazing on the floor, he
buttoning his coat: which vastly swelled my embarrassment. This
appearance of indifference argued, upon her side, a good deal of anger
very near to burst out. Upon his, I thought it horribly alarming; I
made sure there was a tempest brewing there; and considering that to be
the chief peril, turned towards him and put myself (so to speak) in the
man’s hands.

“Can I do anything for _you_, Mr. Drummond?” says I.

He stifled a yawn, which again I thought to be duplicity. “Why, Mr.
David,” said he, “since you are so obliging as to propose it, you might
show me the way to a certain tavern” (of which he gave the name) “where
I hope to fall in with some old companions in arms.”

There was no more to say, and I got my hat and cloak to bear him
company.

“And as for you,” say he to his daughter, “you had best go to your bed.
I shall be late home, and _Early to bed and early to rise_, _gars bonny
lasses have bright eyes_.”

Whereupon he kissed her with a good deal of tenderness, and ushered me
before him from the door. This was so done (I thought on purpose) that
it was scarce possible there should be any parting salutation; but I
observed she did not look at me, and set it down to terror of James
More.

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

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

“Catriona!” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am thanking you,” said she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVII.
A TWOSOME


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bridegroom, I believe,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I refuse?” cries he.

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

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

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

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

He gabbled some kind of an excuse.

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

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




CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE


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

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

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

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

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

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

She promised me that simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped and turned round upon me.

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

And she began again to walk forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?”

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

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

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

“Well, he was that,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this?” she asked.

“When I offered to draw with him,” said I.

“You offered to draw upon James More!” she cried.

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

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

“He was to make you take me,” I replied, “and I would not have it. I
said you should be free, and I must speak with you alone; little I
supposed it would be such a speaking! ‘_And what if I refuse_?’ said
he.—‘_Then it must come to the throat-cutting_,’ says I, ‘_for I will
no more have a husband forced on that young lady_, _than what I would
have a wife forced upon myself_.’ These were my words, they were a
friend’s words; bonnily have I paid for them! Now you have refused me
of your own clear free will, and there lives no father in the
Highlands, or out of them, that can force on this marriage. I will see
that your wishes are respected; I will make the same my business, as I
have all through. But I think you might have that decency as to affect
some gratitude. ’Deed, and I thought you knew me better! I have not
behaved quite well to you, but that was weakness. And to think me a
coward, and such a coward as that—O, my lass, there was a stab for the
last of it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXIX.
WE MEET IN DUNKIRK


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

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


“My dear Sir,
“Your affectionate, obedient servant,
“James Macgregor Drummond.”


Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:—

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


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

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

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

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

“The biggest kind, Alan,” said I, “and I think I’ll take it to my grave
with me.”

“Well, ye beat me, whatever!” he would conclude.

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

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

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

“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I.

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

“And can _you_ no help me?” I asked, “you that are so clever at the
trade?”

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

“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I.

“I would e’en’t,” says he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“_Voilà l’auberge à Bazin_,” says the guide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye muckle ass!” said he.

“What do ye mean by that?” I cried.

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

Again I begged him to speak out.

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

I told him.

“I thocht it was something thereabout,” said he.

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




CHAPTER XXX.
THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She raised her face to me, breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a man’s letter.”

“Not to save your friend?” she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he.

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

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

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

“A letter to James More?” said he.

“The same,” said I.

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

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

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

I gave it him.

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

“It is my wish,” said Catriona.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See, Alan!”

“Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.”

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

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

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent.

“_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn
you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots
boot to your English hurdies!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you tell me that?” cries Alan.

“I do, sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is Cluny’s
Treasure.”

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

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

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

“That is the business, sir,” said James.

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

“With what?” says James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir!” cries James.

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

“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James.

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

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

At the same time a spell was lifted from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CONCLUSION


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

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

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

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

“And let us go see him, then,” said I.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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




Footnotes

[1] Conspicuous.

[2] Country.

[3] The Fairies.

[4] Flatteries.

[5] Trust to.

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

[7] Sweetheart.

[8] Child.

[9] Palm.

[10] Gallows.

[11] My Catechism.

[12] Now Prince’s Street.

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

[14] A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of striking.

[15] Patched shoes.

[16] Shoemaker.

[17] Tamson’s mere—to go afoot.

[18] Beard.

[19] Ragged.

[20] Fine things.

[21] Catch.

[22] Victuals.

[23] Trust.

[24] Sea fog.

[25] Bashful.

[26] Rest.