tables, found the girl once more left to herself.  She greeted me

on my admission civilly, but withdrew at once to her own room, of

which she shut the door.  I made my disposition, and paid and

dismissed the men so that she might hear them go, when I supposed

she would at once come forth again to speak to me.  I waited yet

awhile, then knocked upon her door.



"Catriona!" said I.



The door was opened so quickly, even before I had the word out,

that I thought she must have stood behind it listening.  She

remained there in the interval quite still; but she had a look that

I cannot put a name on, as of one in a bitter trouble.



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



"I am thanking you," said she.  "I will not be caring much to walk,

now that my father is come home."



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

I.



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



"It was not unkindly meant," I replied.  "What ails you, Catriona?

What have I done to you that you should turn from me like this?"



"I do not turn from you at all," she said, speaking very carefully.

"I will ever be grateful to my friend that was good to me; I will

ever be his friend in all that I am able.  But now that my father

James More is come again, there is a difference to be made, and I

think there are some things said and done that would be better to

be forgotten.  But I will ever be your friend in all that I am

able, and if that is not all that . . . . if it is not so much . .

. . Not that you will be caring!  But I would not have you think of

me too hard.  It was true what you said to me, that I was too young

to be advised, and I am hoping you will remember I was just a

child.  I would not like to lose your friendship, at all events."



She began this very pale; but before she was done, the blood was in

her face like scarlet, so that not her words only, but her face and

the trembling of her very hands, besought me to be gentle.  I saw,

for the first time, how very wrong I had done to place the child in

that position, where she had been entrapped into a moment's

weakness, and now stood before me like a person shamed.



"Miss Drummond," I said, and stuck, and made the same beginning

once again, "I wish you could see into my heart," I cried.  "You

would read there that my respect is undiminished.  If that were

possible, I should say it was increased.  This is but the result of

the mistake we made; and had to come; and the less said of it now

the better.  Of all of our life here, I promise you it shall never

pass my lips; I would like to promise you too that I would never

think of it, but it's a memory that will be always dear to me.  And

as for a friend, you have one here that would die for you."



"I am thanking you," said she.



We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself began to get the

upper hand; for here were all my dreams come to a sad tumble, and

my love lost, and myself alone again in the world as at the

beginning.



"Well," said I, "we shall be friends always, that's a certain

thing.  But this is a kind of farewell, too:  it's a kind of a

farewell after all; I shall always ken Miss Drummond, but this is a

farewell to my Catriona."



I looked at her; I could hardly say I saw her, but she seemed to

grow great and brighten in my eyes; and with that I suppose I must

have lost my head, for I called out her name again and made a step

at her with my hands reached forth.



She shrank back like a person struck, her face flamed; but the

blood sprang no faster up into her cheeks, than what it flowed back

upon my own heart, at sight of it, with penitence and concern.  I

found no words to excuse myself, but bowed before her very deep,

and went my ways out of the house with death in my bosom.



I think it was about five days that followed without any change.  I

saw her scarce ever but at meals, and then of course in the company

of James More.  If we were alone even for a moment, I made it my

devoir to behave the more distantly and to multiply respectful

attentions, having always in my mind's eye that picture of the girl

shrinking and flaming in a blush, and in my heart more pity for her

than I could depict in words.  I was sorry enough for myself, I

need not dwell on that, having fallen all my length and more than

all my height in a few seconds; but, indeed, I was near as sorry

for the girl, and sorry enough to be scarce angry with her save by

fits and starts.  Her plea was good; she had been placed in an

unfair position; if she had deceived herself and me, it was no more

than was to have been looked for.



And for another thing she was now very much alone.  Her father,

when he was by, was rather a caressing parent; but he was very easy

led away by his affairs and pleasures, neglected her without

compunction or remark, spent his nights in taverns when he had the

money, which was more often than I could at all account for; and

even in the course of these few days, failed once to come to a

meal, which Catriona and I were at last compelled to partake of

without him.  It was the evening meal, and I left immediately that

I had eaten, observing I supposed she would prefer to be alone; to

which she agreed and (strange as it may seem) I quite believed her.

Indeed, I thought myself but an eyesore to the girl, and a reminder

of a moment's weakness that she now abhorred to think of.  So she

must sit alone in that room where she and I had been so merry, and

in the blink of that chimney whose light had shone upon our many

difficult and tender moments.  There she must sit alone, and think

of herself as of a maid who had most unmaidenly proffered her

affections and had the same rejected.  And in the meanwhile I would

be alone some other place, and reading myself (whenever I was

tempted to be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female

delicacy.  And altogether I suppose there were never two poor fools

made themselves more unhappy in a greater misconception.



As for James, he paid not so much heed to us, or to anything in

nature but his pocket, and his belly, and his own prating talk.

Before twelve hours were gone he had raised a small loan of me;

before thirty, he had asked for a second and been refused.  Money

and refusal he took with the same kind of high good nature.

Indeed, he had an outside air of magnanimity that was very well

fitted to impose upon a daughter; and the light in which he was

constantly presented in his talk, and the man's fine presence and

great ways went together pretty harmoniously.  So that a man that

had no business with him, and either very little penetration or a

furious deal of prejudice, might almost have been taken in.  To me,

after my first two interviews, he was as plain as print; I saw him

to be perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in the same; and

I would hearken to his swaggering talk (of arms, and "an old

soldier," and "a poor Highland gentleman," and "the strength of my

country and my friends") as I might to the babbling of a parrot.



The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some part of it himself,

or did at times; I think he was so false all through that he scarce

knew when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection

must have been wholly genuine.  There were times when he would be

the most silent, affectionate, clinging creature possible, holding

Catriona's hand like a big baby, and begging of me not to leave if

I had any love to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the

more to his daughter.  He would press and indeed beseech us to

entertain him with our talk, a thing very difficult in the state of

our relations; and again break forth in pitiable regrets for his

own land and friends, or into Gaelic singing.



"This is one of the melancholy airs of my native land," he would

say.  "You may think it strange to see a soldier weep, and indeed

it is to make a near friend of you," says he.  "But the notes of

this singing are in my blood, and the words come out of my heart.

And when I mind upon my red mountains and the wild birds calling

there, and the brave streams of water running down, I would scarce

think shame to weep before my enemies."  Then he would sing again,

and translate to me pieces of the song, with a great deal of

boggling and much expressed contempt against the English language.

"It says here," he would say, "that the sun is gone down, and the

battle is at an end, and the brave chiefs are defeated.  And it

tells here how the stars see them fleeing into strange countries or

lying dead on the red mountain; and they will never more shout the

call of battle or wash their feet in the streams of the valley.

But if you had only some of this language, you would weep also

because the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is mere

mockery to tell you it in English."



Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery in the business,

one way and another; and yet, there was some feeling too, for which

I hated him, I think, the worst of all.  And it used to cut me to

the quick to see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, and

weeping herself to see him weep, when I was sure one half of his

distress flowed from his last night's drinking in some tavern.

There were times when I was tempted to lend him a round sum, and

see the last of him for good; but this would have been to see the

last of Catriona as well, for which I was scarcely so prepared; and

besides, it went against my conscience to squander my good money on

one who was so little of a husband.







CHAPTER XXVII--A TWOSOME







I believe it was about the fifth day, and I know at least that

James was in one of his fits of gloom, when I received three

letters.  The first was from Alan, offering to visit me in Leyden;

the other two were out of Scotland and prompted by the same affair,

which was the death of my uncle and my own complete accession to my

rights.  Rankeillor's was, of course, wholly in the business view;

Miss Grant's was like herself, a little more witty than wise, full

of blame to me for not having written (though how was I to write

with such intelligence?) and of rallying talk about Catriona, which

it cut me to the quick to read in her very presence.



For it was of course in my own rooms that I found them, when I came

to dinner, so that I was surprised out of my news in the very first

moment of reading it.  This made a welcome diversion for all three

of us, nor could any have foreseen the ill consequences that

ensued.  It was accident that brought the three letters the same

day, and that gave them into my hand in the same room with James

More; and of all the events that flowed from that accident, and

which I might have prevented if I had held my tongue, the truth is

that they were preordained before Agricola came into Scotland or

Abraham set out upon his travels.



The first that I opened was naturally Alan's; and what more natural

than that I should comment on his design to visit me? but I

observed James to sit up with an air of immediate attention.



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

he inquired.



I told him, "Ay," it was the same; and he withheld me some time

from my other letters, asking of our acquaintance, of Alan's manner

of life in France, of which I knew very little, and further of his

visit as now proposed.



"All we forfeited folk hang a little together," he explained, "and

besides I know the gentleman:  and though his descent is not the

thing, and indeed he has no true right to use the name of Stewart,

he was very much admired in the day of Drummossie.  He did there

like a soldier; if some that need not be named had done as well,

the upshot need not have been so melancholy to remember.  There

were two that did their best that day, and it makes a bond between

the pair of us," says he.



I could scarce refrain from shooting out my tongue at him, and

could almost have wished that Alan had been there to have inquired

a little further into that mention of his birth.  Though, they tell

me, the same was indeed not wholly regular.



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

exclamation.



"Catriona," I cried, forgetting, the first time since her father

was arrived, to address her by a handle, "I am come into my kingdom

fairly, I am the laird of Shaws indeed--my uncle is dead at last."



She clapped her hands together leaping from her seat.  The next

moment it must have come over both of us at once what little cause

of joy was left to either, and we stood opposite, staring on each

other sadly.



But James showed himself a ready hypocrite.  "My daughter," says

he, "is this how my cousin learned you to behave?  Mr. David has

lost a new friend, and we should first condole with him on his

bereavement."



"Troth, sir," said I, turning to him in a kind of anger, "I can

make no such great faces.  His death is as blithe news as ever I

got."



"It's a good soldier's philosophy," says James.  "'Tis the way of

flesh, we must all go, all go.  And if the gentleman was so far

from your favour, why, very well!  But we may at least congratulate

you on your accession to your estates."



"Nor can I say that either," I replied, with the same heat.  "It is

a good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough

already?  I had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for

the man's death--which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess

it!--I see not how anyone is to be bettered by this change."



"Come, come," said he, "you are more affected than you let on, or

you would never make yourself out so lonely.  Here are three

letters; that means three that wish you well; and I could name two

more, here in this very chamber.  I have known you not so very

long, but Catriona, when we are alone, is never done with the

singing of your praises."



She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at

once into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during

the most of the dinner time) he continued to dwell upon with

interest.  But it was to no purpose he dissembled; he had touched

the matter with too gross a hand:  and I knew what to expect.

Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly discovered his designs.  He

reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her attend to it.  "I do

not see you should be one beyond the hour," he added, "and friend

David will be good enough to bear me company till you return."  She

made haste to obey him without words.  I do not know if she

understood, I believe not; but I was completely satisfied, and sat

strengthening my mind for what should follow.



The door had scarce closed behind her departure, when the man

leaned back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectation

of easiness.  Only the one thing betrayed him, and that was his

face; which suddenly shone all over with fine points of sweat.



"I am rather glad to have a word alone with you," says he, "because

in our first interview there were some expressions you

misapprehended and I have long meant to set you right upon.  My

daughter stands beyond doubt.  So do you, and I would make that

good with my sword against all gainsayers.  But, my dear David,

this world is a censorious place--as who should know it better than

myself, who have lived ever since the days of my late departed

father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of calumnies?  We have to

face to that; you and me have to consider of that; we have to

consider of that."  And he wagged his head like a minister in a

pulpit.



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

if you would approach your point."



"Ay, ay," said he, laughing, "like your character, indeed! and what

I most admire in it.  But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes

in a kittle bit."  He filled a glass of wine.  "Though between you

and me, that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long.

The point, I need scarcely tell you, is my daughter.  And the first

thing is that I have no thought in my mind of blaming you.  In the

unfortunate circumstances, what could you do else?  'Deed, and I

cannot tell."



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



"I have besides studied your character," he went on; "your talents

are fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which does no

harm; and one thing with another, I am very happy to have to

announce to you that I have decided on the latter of the two ways

open."



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



He bent his brows upon me formidably and uncrossed his legs.  "Why,

sir," says he, "I think I need scarce describe them to a gentleman

of your condition; either that I should cut your throat or that you

should marry my daughter."



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



"And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!" cries he

robustiously.  "I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank

God, a patient and deleeborate man.  There is many a father, sir,

that would have hirsled you at once either to the altar or the

field.  My esteem for your character--"



"Mr. Drummond," I interrupted, "if you have any esteem for me at

all, I will beg of you to moderate your voice.  It is quite

needless to rowt at a gentleman in the same chamber with yourself

and lending you his best attention."



"Why, very true," says he, with an immediate change.  "And you must

excuse the agitations of a parent."



"I understand you then," I continued--"for I will take no note of

your other alternative, which perhaps it was a pity you let fall--I

understand you rather to offer me encouragement in case I should

desire to apply for your daughter's hand?"



"It is not possible to express my meaning better," said he, "and I

see we shall do well together."



"That remains to be yet seen," said I.  "But so much I need make no

secret of, that I bear the lady you refer to the most tender

affection, and I could not fancy, even in a dream, a better fortune

than to get her."



"I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David," he cried, and

reached out his hand to me.



I put it by.  "You go too fast, Mr. Drummond," said I.  "There are

conditions to be made; and there is a difficulty in the path, which

I see not entirely how we shall come over.  I have told you that,

upon my side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have

good reason to believe there will be much on the young lady's."



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

acceptance."



"I think you forget, Mr. Drummond," said I, "that, even in dealing

with myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalatable

expressions.  I will have none such employed to the young lady.  I

am here to speak and think for the two of us; and I give you to

understand that I would no more let a wife be forced upon myself,

than what I would let a husband be forced on the young lady."



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

temper.



"So that is to be the way of it," I concluded.  "I will marry Miss

Drummond, and that blithely, if she is entirely willing.  But if

there be the least unwillingness, as I have reason to fear--marry

her will I never."



"Well well," said he, "this is a small affair.  As soon as she

returns I will sound her a bit, and hope to reassure you--"



But I cut in again.  "Not a finger of you, Mr. Drummond, or I cry

off, and you can seek a husband to your daughter somewhere else,"

said I.  "It is I that am to be the only dealer and the only judge.

I shall satisfy myself exactly; and none else shall anyways meddle-

-you the least of all."



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

judge?"



"The bridegroom, I believe," said I.



"This is to quibble," he cried.  "You turn your back upon the fact.

The girl, my daughter, has no choice left to exercise.  Her

character is gone."



"And I ask your pardon," said I, "but while this matter lies

between her and you and me, that is not so."



"What security have I!" he cried.  "Am I to let my daughter's

reputation depend upon a chance?"



"You should have thought of all this long ago," said I, "before you

were so misguided as to lose her; and not afterwards when it is

quite too late.  I refuse to regard myself as any way accountable

for your neglect, and I will be browbeat by no man living.  My mind

is quite made up, and come what may, I will not depart from it a

hair's breadth.  You and me are to sit here in company till her

return:  upon which, without either word or look from you, she and

I are to go forth again to hold our talk.  If she can satisfy me

that she is willing to this step, I will then make it; and if she

cannot, I will not."



He leaped out of his chair like a man stung.  "I can spy your

manoeuvre," he cried; "you would work upon her to refuse!"



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

whatever."



"And if I refuse?" cries he.



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

said I.



What with the size of the man, his great length of arm in which he

came near rivalling his father, and his reputed skill at weapons, I

did not use this word without trepidation, to say nothing at all of

the circumstance that he was Catriona's father.  But I might have

spared myself alarms.  From the poorness of my lodging--he does not

seem to have remarked his daughter's dresses, which were indeed all

equally new to him--and from the fact that I had shown myself

averse to lend, he had embraced a strong idea of my poverty.  The

sudden news of my estate convinced him of his error, and he had

made but the one bound of it on this fresh venture, to which he was

now so wedded, that I believe he would have suffered anything

rather than fall to the alternative of fighting.



A little while longer he continued to dispute with me, until I hit

upon a word that silenced him.



"If I find you so averse to let me see the lady by herself," said

I, "I must suppose you have very good grounds to think me in the

right about her unwillingness."



He gabbled some kind of an excuse.



"But all this is very exhausting to both of our tempers," I added,

"and I think we would do better to preserve a judicious silence."



The which we did until the girl returned, and I must suppose would

have cut a very ridiculous figure had there been any there to view

us.







CHAPTER XXVIII--IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE







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



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



She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, like a trained

soldier, she turned to go with me.



We took one of our old ways, where we had gone often together, and

been more happy than I can tell of in the past.  I came a half a

step behind, so that I could watch her unobserved.  The knocking of

her little shoes upon the way sounded extraordinary pretty and sad;

and I thought it a strange moment that I should be so near both

ends of it at once, and walk in the midst between two destinies,

and could not tell whether I was hearing these steps for the last

time, or whether the sound of them was to go in and out with me

till death should part us.



She avoided even to look at me, only walked before her, like one

who had a guess of what was coming.  I saw I must speak soon before

my courage was run out, but where to begin I knew not.  In this

painful situation, when the girl was as good as forced into my arms

and had already besought my forbearance, any excess of pressure

must have seemed indecent; yet to avoid it wholly would have a very

cold-like appearance.  Between these extremes I stood helpless, and

could have bit my fingers; so that, when at last I managed to speak

at all, it may be said I spoke at random.



"Catriona," said I, "I am in a very painful situation; or rather,

so we are both; and I would be a good deal obliged to you if you

would promise to let me speak through first of all, and not to

interrupt me till I have done."



She promised me that simply.



"Well," said I, "this that I have got to say is very difficult, and

I know very well I have no right to be saying it.  After what

passed between the two of us last Friday, I have no manner of

right.  We have got so ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I

know very well the least I could do is just to hold my tongue,

which was what I intended fully, and there was nothing further from

my thoughts than to have troubled you again.  But, my dear, it has

become merely necessary, and no way by it.  You see, this estate of

mine has fallen in, which makes of me rather a better match; and

the--the business would not have quite the same ridiculous-like

appearance that it would before.  Besides which, it's supposed that

our affairs have got so much ravelled up (as I was saying) that it

would be better to let them be the way they are.  In my view, this

part of the thing is vastly exagerate, and if I were you I would

not wear two thoughts on it.  Only it's right I should mention the

same, because there's no doubt it has some influence on James More.

Then I think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together in this

town before.  I think we did pretty well together.  If you would

look back, my dear--"



"I will look neither back nor forward," she interrupted.  "Tell me

the one thing:  this is my father's doing?"



"He approves of it," said I.  "He approved I that I should ask your

hand in marriage," and was going on again with somewhat more of an

appeal upon her feelings; but she marked me not, and struck into

the midst.



"He told you to!" she cried.  "It is no sense denying it, you said

yourself that there was nothing farther from your thoughts.  He

told you to."



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



She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her;

but at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she

would have run.



"Without which," I went on, "after what you said last Friday, I

would never have been so troublesome as make the offer.  But when

he as good as asked me, what was I to do?"



She stopped and turned round upon me.



"Well, it is refused at all events," she cried, "and there will be

an end of that."



And she began again to walk forward.



"I suppose I could expect no better," said I, "but I think you

might try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it.  I see

not why you should be harsh.  I have loved you very well, Catriona-

-no harm that I should call you so for the last time.  I have done

the best that I could manage, I am trying the same still, and only

vexed that I can do no better.  It is a strange thing to me that

you can take any pleasure to be hard to me."



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

my father."



"Well, and that way, too!" said I.  "I can be of use to you that

way, too; I will have to be.  It is very needful, my dear, that we

should consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone,

an angry man will be James More."



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



"That is what he is thinking," I replied, "but I have told you

already to make nought of it."



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



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



There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last

cry; presently she broke out, "And what is the meaning of all this?

Why is all this shame loundered on my head?  How could you dare it,

David Balfour?"



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



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

these words."



"I am not thinking of my words," said I.  "My heart bleeds for you,

Miss Drummond.  Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in

your difficult position.  But there is just the one thing that I

wish you would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss

it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two

get home.  Take my word for it, it will need the two of us to make

this matter end in peace."



"Ay," said she.  There sprang a patch of red in either of her

cheeks.  "Was he for fighting you?" said she.



"Well, he was that," said I.



She gave a dreadful kind of laugh.  "At all events, it is

complete!" she cried.  And then turning on me.  "My father and I

are a fine pair," said she, "but I am thanking the good God there

will be somebody worse than what we are.  I am thanking the good

God that he has let me see you so.  There will never be the girl

made that will not scorn you."



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

mark.



"You have no right to speak to me like that," said I.  "What have I

done but to be good to you, or try to be?  And here is my

repayment!  O, it is too much."



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



"The word in your throat and in your father's!" I cried.  "I have

dared him this day already in your interest.  I will dare him

again, the nasty pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall!

Come," said I, "back to the house with us; let us be done with it,

let me be done with the whole Hieland crew of you!  You will see

what you think when I am dead."



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

her for.



"O, smile away!" I cried.  "I have seen your bonny father smile on

the wrong side this day.  Not that I mean he was afraid, of

course," I added hastily, "but he preferred the other way of it."



"What is this?" she asked.



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



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



"And I did so," said I, "and found him backward enough, or how

would we be here?"



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

meaning?"



"He was to make you take me," I replied, "and I would not have it.

I said you should be free, and I must speak with you alone; little

I supposed it would be such a speaking!  'AND WHAT IF I REFUSE?'

said he.--'THEN IT MUST COME TO THE THROAT-CUTTING,' says I, 'FOR I

WILL NO MORE HAVE A HUSBAND FORCED ON THAT YOUNG LADY, THAN WHAT I

WOULD HAVE A WIFE FORCED UPON MYSELF.'  These were my words, they

were a friend's words; bonnily have I paid for them!  Now you have

refused me of your own clear free will, and there lives no father

in the Highlands, or out of them, that can force on this marriage.

I will see that your wishes are respected; I will make the same my

business, as I have all through.  But I think you might have that

decency as to affect some gratitude.  'Deed, and I thought you knew

me better!  I have not behaved quite well to you, but that was

weakness.  And to think me a coward, and such a coward as that--O,

my lass, there was a stab for the last of it!"



"Davie, how would I guess?" she cried.  "O, this is a dreadful

business!  Me and mine,"--she gave a kind of a wretched cry at the

word--"me and mine are not fit to speak to you.  O, I could be

kneeling down to you in the street, I could be kissing your hands

for forgiveness!"



"I will keep the kisses I have got from you already," cried I.  "I

will keep the ones I wanted and that were something worth; I will

not be kissed in penitence."



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



"What I am trying to tell you all this while!" said I, "that you

had best leave me alone, whom you can make no more unhappy if you

tried, and turn your attention to James More, your father, with

whom you are like to have a queer pirn to wind."



"O, that I must be going out into the world alone with such a man!"

she cried, and seemed to catch herself in with a great effort.

"But trouble yourself no more for that," said she.  "He does not

know what kind of nature is in my heart.  He will pay me dear for

this day of it; dear, dear, will he pay."



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

she stopped.



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

him."



Some little time I raged about the streets, and told myself I was

the worst used lad in Christendom.  Anger choked me; it was all

very well for me to breathe deep; it seemed there was not air

enough about Leyden to supply me, and I thought I would have burst

like a man at the bottom of the sea.  I stopped and laughed at

myself at a street corner a minute together, laughing out loud, so

that a passenger looked at me, which brought me to myself.



"Well," I thought, "I have been a gull and a ninny and a soft Tommy

long enough.  Time it was done.  Here is a good lesson to have

nothing to do with that accursed sex, that was the ruin of the man

in the beginning and will be so to the end.  God knows I was happy

enough before ever I saw her; God knows I can be happy enough again

when I have seen the last of her."



That seemed to me the chief affair:  to see them go.  I dwelled

upon the idea fiercely; and presently slipped on, in a kind of

malevolence, to consider how very poorly they were likely to fare

when Davie Balfour was no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which,

to my very own great surprise, the disposition of my mind turned

bottom up.  I was still angry; I still hated her; and yet I thought

I owed it to myself that she should suffer nothing.



This carried me home again at once, where I found the mails drawn

out and ready fastened by the door, and the father and daughter

with every mark upon them of a recent disagreement.  Catriona was

like a wooden doll; James More breathed hard, his face was dotted

with white spots, and his nose upon one side.  As soon as I came

in, the girl looked at him with a steady, clear, dark look that

might have been followed by a blow.  It was a hint that was more

contemptuous than a command, and I was surprised to see James More

accept it.  It was plain he had had a master talking-to; and I

could see there must be more of the devil in the girl than I had

guessed, and more good humour about the man than I had given him

the credit of.



He began, at least, calling me Mr. Balfour, and plainly speaking

from a lesson; but he got not very far, for at the first pompous

swell of his voice, Catriona cut in.



"I will tell you what James More is meaning," said she.  "He means

we have come to you, beggar-folk, and have not behaved to you very

well, and we are ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour.  Now

we are wanting to go away and be forgotten; and my father will have

guided his gear so ill, that we cannot even do that unless you will

give us some more alms.  For that is what we are, at an events,

beggar-folk and sorners."



"By your leave, Miss Drummond," said I, "I must speak to your

father by myself."



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

look.



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

delicacy."



"I am not here to discuss that with you," said I, "but to be quit

of you.  And to that end I must talk of your position.  Now, Mr.

Drummond, I have kept the run of your affairs more closely than you

bargained for.  I know you had money of your own when you were

borrowing mine.  I know you have had more since you were here in

Leyden, though you concealed it even from your daughter."



"I bid you beware.  I will stand no more baiting," he broke out.

"I am sick of her and you.  What kind of a damned trade is this to

be a parent!  I have had expressions used to me--"  There he broke

off.  "Sir, this is the heart of a soldier and a parent," he went

on again, laying his hand on his bosom, "outraged in both

characters--and I bid you beware."



"If you would have let me finish," says I, "you would have found I

spoke for your advantage."



"My dear friend," he cried, "I know I might have relied upon the

generosity of your character."



"Man! will you let me speak?" said I.  "The fact is that I cannot

win to find out if you are rich or poor.  But it is my idea that

your means, as they are mysterious in their source, so they are

something insufficient in amount; and I do not choose your daughter

to be lacking.  If I durst speak to herself, you may be certain I

would never dream of trusting it to you; because I know you like

the back of my hand, and all your blustering talk is that much wind

to me.  However, I believe in your way you do still care something

for your daughter after all; and I must just be doing with that

ground of confidence, such as it is."



Whereupon, I arranged with him that he was to communicate with me,

as to his whereabouts and Catriona's welfare, in consideration of

which I was to serve him a small stipend.



He heard the business out with a great deal of eagerness; and when

it was done, "My dear fellow, my dear son," he cried out, "this is

more like yourself than any of it yet!  I will serve you with a

soldier's faithfulness--"



"Let me hear no more of it!" says I.  "You have got me to that

pitch that the bare name of soldier rises on my stomach.  Our

traffic is settled; I am now going forth and will return in one

half-hour, when I expect to find my chambers purged of you."



I gave them good measure of time; it was my one fear that I might

see Catriona again, because tears and weakness were ready in my

heart, and I cherished my anger like a piece of dignity.  Perhaps

an hour went by; the sun had gone down, a little wisp of a new moon

was following it across a scarlet sunset; already there were stars

in the east, and in my chambers, when at last I entered them, the

night lay blue.  I lit a taper and reviewed the rooms; in the first

there remained nothing so much as to awake a memory of those who

were gone; but in the second, in a corner of the floor, I spied a

little heap that brought my heart into my mouth.  She had left

behind at her departure all that she had ever had of me.  It was

the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was the last; and I

fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved myself more foolish

than I care to tell of.



Late in the night, in a strict frost, and my teeth chattering, I

came again by some portion of my manhood and considered with

myself.  The sight of these poor frocks and ribbons, and her

shifts, and the clocked stockings, was not to be endured; and if I

were to recover any constancy of mind, I saw I must be rid of them

ere the morning.  It was my first thought to have made a fire and

burned them; but my disposition has always been opposed to wastery,

for one thing; and for another, to have burned these things that

she had worn so close upon her body seemed in the nature of a

cruelty.  There was a corner cupboard in that chamber; there I

determined to bestow them.  The which I did and made it a long

business, folding them with very little skill indeed but the more

care; and sometimes dropping them with my tears.  All the heart was

gone out of me, I was weary as though I had run miles, and sore

like one beaten; when, as I was folding a kerchief that she wore

often at her neck, I observed there was a corner neatly cut from

it.  It was a kerchief of a very pretty hue, on which I had

frequently remarked; and once that she had it on, I remembered

telling her (by way of a banter) that she wore my colours.  There

came a glow of hope and like a tide of sweetness in my bosom; and

the next moment I was plunged back in a fresh despair.  For there

was the corner crumpled in a knot and cast down by itself in

another part of the floor.



But when I argued with myself, I grew more hopeful.  She had cut

that corner off in some childish freak that was manifestly tender;

that she had cast it away again was little to be wondered at; and I

was inclined to dwell more upon the first than upon the second, and

to be more pleased that she had ever conceived the idea of that

keepsake, than concerned because she had flung it from her in an

hour of natural resentment.







CHAPTER XXIX--WE MEET IN DUNKIRK.







Altogether, then, I was scare so miserable the next days but what I

had many hopeful and happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal

of constancy upon my studies; and made out to endure the time till

Alan should arrive, or I might hear word of Catriona by the means

of James More.  I had altogether three letters in the time of our

separation.  One was to announce their arrival in the town of

Dunkirk in France, from which place James shortly after started

alone upon a private mission.  This was to England and to see Lord

Holderness; and it has always been a bitter thought that my good

money helped to pay the charges of the same.  But he has need of a

long spoon who soups with the de'il, or James More either.  During

this absence, the time was to fall due for another letter; and as

the letter was the condition of his stipend, he had been so careful

as to prepare it beforehand and leave it with Catriona to be

despatched.  The fact of our correspondence aroused her suspicions,

and he was no sooner gone than she had burst the seal.  What I

received began accordingly in the writing of James More:





"My dear Sir,--Your esteemed favour came to hand duly, and I have

to acknowledge the inclosure according to agreement.  It shall be

all faithfully expended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to

be remembered to her dear friend.  I find her in rather a

melancholy disposition, but trust in the mercy of God to see her

re-established.  Our manner of life is very much alone, but we

solace ourselves with the melancholy tunes of our native mountains,

and by walking up the margin of the sea that lies next to Scotland.

It was better days with me when I lay with five wounds upon my body

on the field of Gladsmuir.  I have found employment here in the

haras of a French nobleman, where my experience is valued.  But, my

dear Sir, the wages are so exceedingly unsuitable that I would be

ashamed to mention them, which makes your remittances the more

necessary to my daughter's comfort, though I daresay the sight of

old friends would be still better.



"My dear Sir,

"Your affectionate, obedient servant,

"JAMES MACGREGOR DRUMMOND."





Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:-





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





Not only did she add this postscript, but I think she must have

come near suppressing the letter; for it came long after date, and

was closely followed by the third.  In the time betwixt them, Alan

had arrived, and made another life to me with his merry

conversation; I had been presented to his cousin of the Scots-

Dutch, a man that drank more than I could have thought possible and

was not otherwise of interest; I had been entertained to many

jovial dinners and given some myself, all with no great change upon

my sorrow; and we two (by which I mean Alan and myself, and not at

all the cousin) had discussed a good deal the nature of my

relations with James More and his daughter.  I was naturally

diffident to give particulars; and this disposition was not anyway

lessened by the nature of Alan's commentary upon those I gave.



"I cannae make heed nor tail of it," he would say, "but it sticks

in my mind ye've made a gowk of yourself.  There's few people that

has had more experience than Alan Breck:  and I can never call to

mind to have heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours.  The

way that you tell it, the thing's fair impossible.  Ye must have

made a terrible hash of the business, David."



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



"The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind of fancy for her

too!" said Alan.



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

grave with me."



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



I showed him the letter with Catriona's postscript.  "And here

again!" he cried.  "Impossible to deny a kind of decency to this

Catriona, and sense forby!  As for James More, the man's as boss as

a drum; he's just a wame and a wheen words; though I'll can never

deny that he fought reasonably well at Gladsmuir, and it's true

what he says here about the five wounds.  But the loss of him is

that the man's boss."



"Ye see, Alan," said I, "it goes against the grain with me to leave

the maid in such poor hands."



"Ye couldnae weel find poorer," he admitted.  "But what are ye to

do with it?  It's this way about a man and a woman, ye see, Davie:

The weemenfolk have got no kind of reason to them.  Either they

like the man, and then a' goes fine; or else they just detest him,

and ye may spare your breath--ye can do naething.  There's just the

two sets of them--them that would sell their coats for ye, and them

that never look the road ye're on.  That's a' that there is to

women; and you seem to be such a gomeral that ye cannae tell the

tane frae the tither."



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



"And yet there's naething easier!" cried Alan.  "I could easy learn

ye the science of the thing; but ye seem to me to be born blind,

and there's where the deefficulty comes in."



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

trade?"



"Ye see, David, I wasnae here," said he.  "I'm like a field officer

that has naebody but blind men for scouts and eclaireurs; and what

would he ken?  But it sticks in my mind that ye'll have made some

kind of bauchle; and if I was you I would have a try at her again."



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



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



The third letter came to my hand while we were deep in some such

talk:  and it will be seen how pat it fell to the occasion.  James

professed to be in some concern upon his daughter's health, which I

believe was never better; abounded in kind expressions to myself;

and finally proposed that I should visit them at Dunkirk.



"You will now be enjoying the society of my old comrade Mr.

Stewart," he wrote.  "Why not accompany him so far in his return to

France?  I have something very particular for Mr. Stewart's ear;

and, at any rate, I would be pleased to meet in with an old fellow-

soldier and one so mettle as himself.  As for you, my dear sir, my

daughter and I would be proud to receive our benefactor, whom we

regard as a brother and a son.  The French nobleman has proved a

person of the most filthy avarice of character, and I have been

necessitate to leave the haras.  You will find us in consequence a

little poorly lodged in the auberge of a man Bazin on the dunes;

but the situation is caller, and I make no doubt but we might spend

some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I could recall our

services, and you and my daughter divert yourselves in a manner

more befitting your age.  I beg at least that Mr. Stewart would

come here; my business with him opens a very wide door."



"What does the man want with me?" cried Alan, when he had read.

"What he wants with you in clear enough--it's siller.  But what can

he want with Alan Breck?"



"O, it'll be just an excuse," said I.  "He is still after this

marriage, which I wish from my heart that we could bring about.

And he asks you because he thinks I would be less likely to come

wanting you."



"Well, I wish that I kent," says Alan.  "Him and me were never

onyways pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers.

'Something for my ear,' quo' he!  I'll maybe have something for his

hinder-end, before we're through with it.  Dod, I'm thinking it

would be a kind of divertisement to gang and see what he'll be

after!  Forby that I could see your lassie then.  What say ye,

Davie?  Will ye ride with Alan?"



You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan's furlough running

towards an end, we set forth presently upon this joint adventure.



It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into the

town of Dunkirk.  We left our horses at the post, and found a guide

to Bazin's Inn, which lay beyond the walls.  Night was quite

fallen, so that we were the last to leave that fortress, and heard

the doors of it close behind us as we passed the bridge.  On the

other side there lay a lighted suburb, which we thridded for a

while, then turned into a dark lane, and presently found ourselves

wading in the night among deep sand where we could hear a bullering

of the sea.  We travelled in this fashion for some while, following

our conductor mostly by the sound of his voice; and I had begun to

think he was perhaps misleading us, when we came to the top of a

small brae, and there appeared out of the darkness a dim light in a

window.



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



Alan smacked his lips.  "An unco lonely bit," said he, and I

thought by his tone he was not wholly pleased.



A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that house,

which was all in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the

chambers at the side, benches and tables by the wall, the cooking

fire at the one end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-

trap at the other.  Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man,

told us the Scottish gentleman was gone abroad he knew not where,

but the young lady was above, and he would call her down to us.



I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner, and knotted

it about my throat.  I could hear my heart go; and Alan patting me

on the shoulder with some of his laughable expressions, I could

scarce refrain from a sharp word.  But the time was not long to

wait.  I heard her step pass overhead, and saw her on the stair.