Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
Catriona
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 manœuvre,” 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.
