Catriona
“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