David Balfour

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  CHAPTER VII

  I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOR

  I came forth, I vow I know not how, on the _Lang Dykes_.[12] This is arural road which runs on the north side over against the city. Thence Icould see the whole black length of it tail down, from where the castlestands upon its crags above the loch in a long line of spires and gableends, and smoking chimneys, and at the sight my heart swelled in mybosom. My youth, as I have told, was already inured to dangers; but suchdanger as I had seen the face of but that morning, in the midst of whatthey call the safety of a town, shook me beyond experience. Peril ofslavery, peril of shipwreck, peril of sword and shot, I had stood all ofthese without discredit; but the peril there was in the sharp voice andthe fat face of Symon, properly Lord Lovat, daunted me wholly.

  I sat by the lake side in a place where the rushes went down into thewater, and there steeped my wrists and laved my temples. If I could havedone so with any remains of self-esteem I would now have fled from myfoolhardy enterprise. But (call it courage or cowardice, and I believeit was both the one and the other) I decided I was ventured out beyondthe possibility of a retreat. I had outfaced these men, I would continueto outface them; come what might, I would stand by the word spoken.

  The sense of my own constancy somewhat uplifted my spirits, but notmuch. At the best of it there was an icy place about my heart, and lifeseemed a black business to be at all engaged in. For two souls inparticular my pity flowed. The one was myself, to be so friendless andlost 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 judgmentmade. I thought her a lass of a clean honour, like a man's; I thoughther one to die of a disgrace; and now I believed her father to be atthat moment bargaining his vile life for mine. It made a bond in mythoughts betwixt the girl and me. I had seen her before only as awayside appearance, though one that pleased me strangely; I saw her nowin a sudden nearness of relation, as the daughter of my blood foe, and Imight say, my murderer. I reflected it was hard I should be so plaguedand persecuted all my days for other folk's affairs, and have no mannerof pleasure myself. I got meals and a bed to sleep in when my concernswould suffer it; beyond that my wealth was of no help to me. If I was tohang, my days were like to be short; if I was not to hang but to escapeout of this trouble, they might yet seem long to me ere I was done withthem. Of a sudden her face appeared in my memory, the way I had firstseen it, with the parted lips; at that, weakness came in my bosom andstrength 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 likelysleep that night in a dungeon, I determined I should hear and speak oncemore with Catriona.

  The exercise of walking and the thought of my destination braced me yetmore, so that I began to pluck up a kind of spirit. In the village ofDean, where it sits in the bottom of a glen beside the river, I inquiredmy way of a miller's man, who sent me up the hill upon the farther sideby a plain path, and so to a decent-like small house in a garden oflawns and apple-trees. My heart beat high as I stepped inside the gardenhedge, but it fell low indeed when I came face to face with a grim andfierce old lady, walking there in a white mutch with a man's hatstrapped 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 torender her a trifling service, and was come now on the young lady'sinvitation.

  "Oh, so you're Saxpence!" she cried, with a very sneering manner. "Abraw 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 theLaird 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 thebetter 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 myuncle's nephew, I would be found a careful lad."

  "So ye have a spark of sleeness in ye," observed the old lady, with someapproval. "I thought ye had just been a cuif--you and your saxpence, andyour _lucky day_ and your _sake of Balwhidder_"--from which I wasgratified to learn that Catriona had not forgotten some of our talk."But all this is by the purpose," she resumed. "Am I to understand thatye 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," Iadded, making up my mind to try her with some frankness, "I'll not denybut she has run in my head a good deal since I met in with her. That isone thing; but it would be quite another, and I think I would look verylike a fool, to commit myself."

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

  "Lady Allardyce," said I, "for that I suppose to be your name, you seemto do the two sides of the talking, which is a very poor manner to cometo an agreement. You give me rather a home thrust when you ask if Iwould marry, at the gallows' foot, a young lady whom I have seen but theonce. I have told you already I would never be so untenty as to commitmyself. And yet I'll go some way with you. If I continue to like thelass as well as I have reason to expect, it will be something more thanher father, or the gallows either, that keeps the two of us apart. Asfor my family, I found it by the wayside like a lost bawbee! I owe lessthan nothing to my uncle; and if ever I marry, it will be to please oneperson: 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 muchto be considered. This James More is a kinsman of mine, to my shame beit spoken. But the better the family, the mair men hanged or heided,that's always been poor Scotland's story. And if it was just thehanging! For my part, I think I would be best pleased with James uponthe gallows, which would be at least an end to him. Catrine's a goodlass enough, and a good-hearted, and lets herself be deaved all day witha runt of an auld wife like me. But, ye see, there's the weak bit. She'sdaft about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father of hers, andred-mad about the Gregara, and proscribed names, and King James, and awheen blethers. And you might think ye could guide her, ye would findyourself 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 sawher again this morning from a window at Prestongrange's."

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

  "What's this of it?" cries the old lady, with a sudden pucker of herface. "I think it was at the Advocate's door-cheek that ye met herfirst."

  I told her that was so.

  "H'm," she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding tone, "I haveyour bare word for it," she cries, "as to who and what you are. By yourway of it, you're Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken you may beBalfour of the Deevil's oxter. It's possible ye may come here for whatye 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'sheads upon their shoulders. But I'm not just a good enough whig to bemade a fool of neither. And I tell you fairly, there's too muchAdvocate's door and Advocate's window
here for a man that comes taiglingafter a Macgregor's daughter. Ye can tell that to the Advocate that sentye, 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 whereye cam frae."

  "If you think me a spy," I broke out, and speech stuck in my throat. Istood and looked murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed andturned 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 thatI was wrong; and as I cannot fight, I'll have to apologise. A bonnyfigure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!" she went on, "you're nonesuch a bad lad in your way; I think ye'll have some redeeming vices.But, oh, Davit Balfour, ye're damned countryfeed. Ye'll have to win overthat, lad; ye'll have to soople your back-bone, and think a wee pickleless of your dainty self; and ye'll have to try to find out thatwomen-folk are nae grenadiers. But that can never be. To your last dayyou'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, theonly two ladies I had known, Mrs. Campbell and my mother, being mostdevout and most particular women; and I suppose my amazement must havebeen depicted in my countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy burst forth suddenly ina fit of laughter.

  "Keep me!" she cried, struggling with her mirth, "you have the finesttimber 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 seethe weans. And now," she went on, "there's no manner of service in yourdaidling here, for the young woman is from home, and it's my fear thatthe old woman is no suitable companion for your father's son. Forbyethat I have nobody but myself to look after my reputation, and have beenlong enough alone with a sedooctive youth. And come back another day foryour saxpence!" she cried after me as I left.

  My skirmish with this disconcerting lady gave my thoughts a boldnessthey had otherwise wanted. For two days the image of Catriona had mixedin all my meditations; she made their background, so that I scarceenjoyed 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 hadnever touched but the once; I let myself flow out to her in a happyweakness, and looking all about, and before and behind, saw the worldlike an undesirable desert, where men go as soldiers on a march,following their duty with what constancy they have, and Catriona alonethere to offer me some pleasure of my days; I wondered at myself that Icould dwell on such considerations in that time of my peril anddisgrace; and when I remembered my youth I was ashamed. I had my studiesto complete; I had to be called into some useful business; I had yet totake my part of service in a place where all must serve; I had yet tolearn, and know, and prove myself a man; and I had so much sense asblush that I should be already tempted with these further-on and holierdelights and duties. My education spoke home to me sharply; I was neverbrought up on sugar biscuits, but on the hard food of the truth. I knewthat he was quite unfit to be a husband who was not prepared to be afather also; and for a boy like me to play the father was a merederision.

  When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about half-way back totown I saw a figure coming to meet me, and the trouble of my heart washeightened. It seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, butnothing to say first; and remembering how tongue-tied I had been thatmorning at the Advocate's, I made sure that I would find myself struckdumb. But when she came up my fears fled away; not even theconsciousness of what I had been privately thinking disconcerted me theleast; and I found I could talk with her as easily and rationally as Imight 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 andwhen.

  "I did not see you," she said. "My eyes are big, but there are betterthan 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 allcrowding to the window to observe you."

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

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

  "Well, I would think so too, at all events!" said she, at which we bothof us laughed.

  "It is a strange thing, now," said I. "I am not the least afraid withyou, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of yourcousin too."

  "O, I think any man will be afraid of her," she cried. "My father isafraid of her himself."

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

  "Speaking of which," said I, "I met your father no later than thismorning."

  "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!" saysshe.

  "You thank me for very little," said I, and then stopped. But it seemedwhen I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. "Ispoke rather ill to him," said I; "I did not like him very much; I spokehim rather ill, and he was angry."

  "I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to hisdaughter!" she cried out. "But those that do not love and cherish him Iwill 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 good spirits atPrestongrange's. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it'sa 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; "andhe 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 leaveyou, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind wordthat I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and Iknew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lieto you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you seethe truth of my heart shine out?"

  "I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour," said she. "I thinkwe 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 itelse. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through withmy 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 mywords or the tone of my voice she came to a stop. "What is this yousay?" she asked. "What are you talking of?"

  "It is my testimony which may save an innocent life," said I, "and theywill not suffer me to bear it. What would you do yourself? You know whatthis 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; theyoffered me hills and valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how Istood, and to what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace me. I amto be brought in a party to the murder; I am to have held Glenure intalk for money and old clothes; I am to be killed and shamed. If this
isthe way I am to fall, and me scarce a man--if this is the story to betold of me in all Scotland--if you are to believe it too, and my name isto be nothing but a by-word--Catriona, how can I go through with it? Thething'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 stoppedI found her gazing on me with a startled face.

  "Glenure! It is the Appin murder," she said softly, but with a very deepsurprise.

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

  "For God's sake!" I cried, "for God's sake, what is this that I havedone?" and carried my fists to my temples. "What made me do it? Sure, Iam 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 brokeit. O, Catriona!"

  "I am asking you what it is," she said; "was it these things you shouldnot have spoken? And do you think _I_ have no honour, then? or that I amone that would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to you andswear."

  "O, I knew you would be true!" said I. "It's me--it's here. I that stoodbut this morning and out-faced them, that risked rather to die disgracedupon the gallows than do wrong--and a few hours after I throw my honouraway by the roadside in common talk! 'There is one thing clear upon ourinterview,' says he, 'that I can rely on your pledged word.' Where is myword now? Who could believe me now? _You_ could not believe me. I amclean fallen down; I had best die!" All this I said with a weepingvoice, but I had no tears in my body.

  "My heart is sore for you," said she, "but be sure you are too nice. Iwould not believe you, do you say? I would trust you with anything. Andthese men? I would not be thinking of them! Men who go about to entrapand to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to crouch. Look up! Do you notthink I will be admiring you like a great hero of the good--and you aboy not much older than myself? And because you said a word too much ina friend's ear, that would die ere she betrayed you--to make such amatter! It is one thing that we must both forget."

  "Catriona," said I, looking at her, hang-dog, "is this true of it? Wouldye trust me yet?"

  "Will you not believe the tears upon my face?" she cried. "It is theworld I am thinking of you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them hang you; I willnever forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it isgreat to die so; I will envy you that gallows."

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

  "It is what I must know," she said. "I must hear the whole. The harm isdone at all events, and I must hear the whole."

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

  "Well," she said, when I had finished, "you are a hero, surely, and Inever would have thought that same! And I think you are in peril, too.O, Symon Fraser! to think upon that man! For his life and the dirtymoney, to be dealing in such traffic!" And just then she called outaloud with a queer word that was common with her, and belongs, Ibelieve, 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 turmoilof glad spirits. I delayed to go home to my lodging, for I had a terrorof immediate arrest; but got some supper at a change house, and thebetter part of that night walked by myself in the barley-fields, and hadsuch a sense of Catriona's presence that I seemed to bear her in myarms.

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