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.