When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about half-way back to town I saw a figure coming to meet me, and the trouble of my heart was heightened. It seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, but nothing to say first; and remembering how tongue-tied I had been that morning at the Advocate’s I made sure that I would find myself struck dumb. But when she came up my fears fled away; not even the consciousness of what I had been privately thinking disconcerted me the least; and I found I could talk with her as easily and rationally as I might with Alan.
“O!” she cried, “you have been seeking your sixpence; did you get it?”
I told her no; but now I had met with her my walk was not in vain. “Though I have seen you to-day already,” said I, and told her where and when.
“I did not see you,” she said. “My eyes are big, but there are better than mine at seeing far. Only I heard singing in the house.”
“That was Miss Grant,” said I, “the eldest and the bonniest.”
“They say they are all beautiful,” said she.
“They think the same of you, Miss Drummond,” I replied, “and were all crowding to the window to observe you.”
“It is a pity about my being so blind,” said she, “or I might have seen them too. And you were in the house? You must have been having the fine time with the fine music and the pretty ladies.”
“There is just where you are wrong,” said I; “for I was as uncouth as a sea-fish upon the brae of a mountain. The truth is that I am better fitted to go about with rudas men than pretty ladies.”
“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, at which we both of us laughed.
“It is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the least afraid with you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of your cousin too.”
“O, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. “My father is afraid of her himself.”
The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a traitor to be silent.
“Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no later than this morning.”
“Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me. “You saw James More? You will have spoken with him then?”
“I did even that,” said I.
Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible. She gave me a look of mere gratitude. “Ah, thank you for that!” says she.
“You thank me for very little,” said I, and then stopped. But it seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. “I spoke rather ill to him,” said I; “I did no like him very much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.”
“I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do not love and cherish him I will not know.”
“I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to tremble. “Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at Prestongrange’s. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it’s a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.”
“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.”
“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world.”
“And I am not wondering at that,” said she.
“O, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?”
“I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” said she. “I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk.”
“O, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, “I cannae bear it else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through with my dreadful fate? If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.”
She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my words or the tone of my voice she came to a stop. “What is this you say?” she asked. “What are you talking of?”
“It is my testimony which may save an innocent life,” said I, “and they will not suffer me to bear it. What would you do yourself? You know what this is, whose father lies in danger. Would you desert the poor soul? They have tried all ways with me. They have sought to bribe me; they offered me hills and valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how I stood, and to what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace me. I am to be brought in a party to the murder; I am to have held Glenure in talk for money and old clothes; I am to be killed and shamed. If this is the way I am to fall, and me scarce a man - if this is the story to be told of me in all Scotland - if you are to believe it too, and my name is to be nothing but a by-word - Catriona, how can I go through with it? The thing’s not possible; it’s more than a man has in his heart.”
I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the other; and when I stopped I found her gazing on me with a startled face.
“Glenure! It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, but with a very deep surprise.
I had turned back to bear her company, and we were now come near the head of the brae above Dean village. At this word I stepped in front of her like one suddenly distracted.
“For God’s sake!” I cried, “for God’s sake, what is this that I have done?” and carried my fists to my temples. “What made me do it? Sure, I am bewitched to say these things!”
“In the name of heaven, what ails you now!” she cried.
“I gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my honour and now I have broke it. O, Catriona!”
“I am asking you what it is,” she said; “was it these things you should not have spoken? And do you think I have no honour, then? or that I am one that would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to you and swear.”
“O, I knew you would be true!” said I. “It’s me - it’s here. I that stood but this morning and out-faced them, that risked rather to die disgraced upon the gallows than do wrong - and a few hours after I throw my honour away by the roadside in common talk! ‘There is one thing clear upon our interview,’ says he, ‘that I can rely on your pledged word.’ Where is my word now? Who could believe me now? You could not believe me. I am clean fallen down; I had best die!” All this I said with a weeping voice, but I had no tears in my body.
“My heart is sore for you,” said she, “but be sure you are too nice. I would not believe you, do you say? I would trust you with anything. And these men? I would not be thinking of them! Men who go about to entrap and to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to crouch. Look up! Do you not think I will be admiring you like a great hero of the good - and you a boy not much older than myself? And because you said a word too much in a friend’s ear, that would die ere she betrayed you - to make such a matter! It is one thing that we must both forget.”
“Catriona,” said I, looking at her, hang-dog, “is this true of it? Would ye trust me yet?”
“Will you not believe the tears upon my face?” she cried. “It is the world I am thinking of you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them hang you; I will never forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it is great to die so: I will envy you that gallows.”
“And maybe all this while I am but a child frighted with bogles,” said I. “Maybe they but make a mock of me.”
“It is what I must know,” she said. “I must hear the whole. The harm is done at all events, and I must hear the whole.”
I had
sat down on the wayside, where she took a place beside me, and I told her all that matter much as I have written it, my thoughts about her father’s dealings being alone omitted.
“Well,” she said, when I had finished, “you are a hero, surely, and I never would have thought that same! And I think you are in peril, too. O, Simon Fraser! to think upon that man! For his life and the dirty money, to be dealing in such traffic!” And just then she called out aloud with a queer word that was common with her, and belongs, I believe, to her own language. “My torture!” says she, “look at the sun!”
Indeed, it was already dipping towards the mountains.
She bid me come again soon, gave me her hand, and left me in a turmoil of glad spirits. I delayed to go home to my lodging, for I had a terror of immediate arrest; but got some supper at a change house, and the better part of that night walked by myself in the barley-fields, and had such a sense of Catriona’s presence that I seemed to bear her in my arms.
CHAPTER VIII - THE BRAVO
The next day, August 29th, I kept my appointment at the Advocate’s in a coat that I had made to my own measure, and was but newly ready,
“Aha,” says Prestongrange, “you are very fine to-day; my misses are to have a fine cavalier. Come, I take that kind of you. I take that kind of you, Mr. David. O, we shall do very well yet, and I believe your troubles are nearly at an end.”
“You have news for me?” cried I.
“Beyond anticipation,” he replied. “Your testimony is after all to be received; and you may go, if you will, in my company to the trial, which in to be held at Inverary, Thursday, 21st proximo.”
I was too much amazed to find words.
“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “though I will not ask you to renew your pledge, I must caution you strictly to be reticent. To-morrow your precognition must be taken; and outside of that, do you know, I think least said will be soonest mended.”
“I shall try to go discreetly,’ said I. “I believe it is yourself that I must thank for this crowning mercy, and I do thank you gratefully. After yesterday, my lord, this is like the doors of Heaven. I cannot find it in my heart to get the thing believed.”
“Ah, but you must try and manage, you must try and manage to believe it,” says he, soothing-like, “and I am very glad to hear your acknowledgment of obligation, for I think you may be able to repay me very shortly” - he coughed - “or even now. The matter is much changed. Your testimony, which I shall not trouble you for to-day, will doubtless alter the complexion of the case for all concerned, and this makes it less delicate for me to enter with you on a side issue.”
“My Lord,” I interrupted, “excuse me for interrupting you, but how has this been brought about? The obstacles you told me of on Saturday appeared even to me to be quite insurmountable; how has it been contrived?”
“My dear Mr. David,” said he, “it would never do for me to divulge (even to you, as you say) the councils of the Government; and you must content yourself, if you please, with the gross fact.”
He smiled upon me like a father as he spoke, playing the while with a new pen; methought it was impossible there could be any shadow of deception in the man: yet when he drew to him a sheet of paper, dipped his pen among the ink, and began again to address me, I was somehow not so certain, and fell instinctively into an attitude of guard.
“There is a point I wish to touch upon,” he began. “I purposely left it before upon one side, which need be now no longer necessary. This is not, of course, a part of your examination, which is to follow by another hand; this is a private interest of my own. You say you encountered Alan Breck upon the hill?”
“I did, my lord,” said I
“This was immediately after the murder?”
“It was.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“I did.”
“You had known him before, I think?” says my lord, carelessly.
“I cannot guess your reason for so thinking, my lord,” I replied, “but such in the fact.”
“And when did you part with him again?” said he.
“I reserve my answer,” said I. “The question will be put to me at the assize.”
“Mr. Balfour,” said he, “will you not understand that all this is without prejudice to yourself? I have promised you life and honour; and, believe me, I can keep my word. You are therefore clear of all anxiety. Alan, it appears, you suppose you can protect; and you talk to me of your gratitude, which I think (if you push me) is not ill-deserved. There are a great many different considerations all pointing the same way; and I will never be persuaded that you could not help us (if you chose) to put salt on Alan’s tail.”
“My lord,” said I, “I give you my word I do not so much as guess where Alan is.”
He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” he asked.
I sat before him like a log of wood.
“And so much for your gratitude, Mr. David!” he observed. Again there was a piece of silence. “Well,” said he, rising, “I am not fortunate, and we are a couple at cross purposes. Let us speak of it no more; you will receive notice when, where, and by whom, we are to take your precognition. And in the meantime, my misses must be waiting you. They will never forgive me if I detain their cavalier.”
Into the hands of these Graces I was accordingly offered up, and found them dressed beyond what I had thought possible, and looking fair as a posy.
As we went forth from the doors a small circumstance occurred which came afterwards to look extremely big. I heard a whistle sound loud and brief like a signal, and looking all about, spied for one moment the red head of Neil of the Tom, the son of Duncan. The next moment he was gone again, nor could I see so much as the skirt-tail of Catriona, upon whom I naturally supposed him to be then attending.
My three keepers led me out by Bristo and the Bruntsfield Links; whence a path carried us to Hope Park, a beautiful pleasance, laid with gravel-walks, furnished with seats and summer-sheds, and warded by a keeper. The way there was a little longsome; the two younger misses affected an air of genteel weariness that damped me cruelly, the eldest considered me with something that at times appeared like mirth; and though I thought I did myself more justice than the day before, it was not without some effort. Upon our reaching the park I was launched on a bevy of eight or ten young gentlemen (some of them cockaded officers, the rest chiefly advocates) who crowded to attend upon these beauties; and though I was presented to all of them in very good words, it seemed I was by all immediately forgotten. Young folk in a company are like to savage animals: they fall upon or scorn a stranger without civility, or I may say, humanity; and I am sure, if I had been among baboons, they would have shown me quite as much of both. Some of the advocates set up to be wits, and some of the soldiers to be rattles; and I could not tell which of these extremes annoyed me most. All had a manner of handling their swords and coat-skirts, for the which (in mere black envy) I could have kicked them from the park. I daresay, upon their side, they grudged me extremely the fine company in which I had arrived; and altogether I had soon fallen behind, and stepped stiffly in the rear of all that merriment with my own thoughts.
From these I was recalled by one of the officers, Lieutenant Hector Duncansby, a gawky, leering Highland boy, asking if my name was not “Palfour.”
I told him it was, not very kindly, for his manner was scant civil.
“Ha, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it, “Palfour, Palfour!”
“I am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” says I, annoyed with myself to be annoyed with such a rustical fellow.
“No,” says he, “but I wass thinking.”
“I would not advise you to make a practice of that, sir,” says I. “I feel sure you would not find it to agree with you.”
“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the tangs?” said he.
I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he answered, with a heckling laugh, that he thought I must have found the poker in
the same place and swallowed it.
There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek burned.
“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” said I, “I think I would learn the English language first.”
He took me by the sleeve with a nod and a wink and led me quietly outside Hope Park. But no sooner were we beyond the view of the promenaders, than the fashion of his countenance changed. “You tam lowland scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the jaw with his closed fist.
I paid him as good or better on the return; whereupon he stepped a little back and took off his hat to me decorously.
“Enough plows I think,” says he. “I will be the offended shentleman, for who effer heard of such suffeeciency as tell a shentlemans that is the king’s officer he cannae speak Cot’s English? We have swords at our hurdles, and here is the King’s Park at hand. Will ye walk first, or let me show ye the way?”
I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed him. As he went I heard him grumble to himself about Cot’s English and the King’s coat, so that I might have supposed him to be seriously offended. But his manner at the beginning of our interview was there to belie him. It was manifest he had come prepared to fasten a quarrel on me, right or wrong; manifest that I was taken in a fresh contrivance of my enemies; and to me (conscious as I was of my deficiencies) manifest enough that I should be the one to fall in our encounter.
As we came into that rough rocky desert of the King’s Park I was tempted half-a-dozen times to take to my heels and run for it, so loath was I to show my ignorance in fencing, and so much averse to die or even to be wounded. But I considered if their malice went as far as this, it would likely stick at nothing; and that to fall by the sword, however ungracefully, was still an improvement on the gallows. I considered besides that by the unguarded pertness of my words and the quickness of my blow I had put myself quite out of court; and that even if I ran, my adversary would probably pursue and catch me, which would add disgrace to my misfortune. So that, taking all in all, I continued marching behind him, much as a man follows the hangman, and certainly with no more hope.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 183