Catriona
So that a man that had no business with him, and either very little
penetration or a furious deal of prejudice, might almost have been
taken in. To me, after my first two interviews, he was as plain as
print; I saw him to be perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in
the same; and I would hearken to his swaggering talk (of arms, and “an
old soldier,” and “a poor Highland gentleman,” and “the strength of my
country and my friends”) as I might to the babbling of a parrot.
The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some part of it himself, or
did at times; I think he was so false all through that he scarce knew
when he was lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection must
have been wholly genuine. There were times when he would be the most
silent, affectionate, clinging creature possible, holding Catriona’s
hand like a big baby, and begging of me not to leave if I had any love
to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the more to his daughter.
He would press and indeed beseech us to entertain him with our talk, a
thing very difficult in the state of our relations; and again break
forth in pitiable regrets for his own land and friends, or into Gaelic
singing.
“This is one of the melancholy airs of my native land,” he would say.
“You may think it strange to see a soldier weep, and indeed it is to
make a near friend of you,” says he. “But the notes of this singing are
in my blood, and the words come out of my heart. And when I mind upon
my red mountains and the wild birds calling there, and the brave
streams of water running down, I would scarce think shame to weep
before my enemies.” Then he would sing again, and translate to me
pieces of the song, with a great deal of boggling and much expressed
contempt against the English language. “It says here,” he would say,
“that the sun is gone down, and the battle is at an end, and the brave
chiefs are defeated. And it tells here how the stars see them fleeing
into strange countries or lying dead on the red mountain; and they will
never more shout the call of battle or wash their feet in the streams
of the valley. But if you had only some of this language, you would
weep also because the words of it are beyond all expression, and it is
mere mockery to tell you it in English.”
Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery in the business, one
way and another; and yet, there was some feeling too, for which I hated
him, I think, the worst of all. And it used to cut me to the quick to
see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, and weeping herself
to see him weep, when I was sure one half of his distress flowed from
his last night’s drinking in some tavern. There were times when I was
tempted to lend him a round sum, and see the last of him for good; but
this would have been to see the last of Catriona as well, for which I
was scarcely so prepared; and besides, it went against my conscience to
squander my good money on one who was so little of a husband.
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.”