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.