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Chapter 28

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 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 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 exaggerate, 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 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 fair 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 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," she
said, "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 would 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? 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_?' says
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 been 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 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 your 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 while 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 like to fare when Davie Balfour was
no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which, to my own very 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 very well 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-humor 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 all 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 ever she 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.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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