Catriona
Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was plainly hard upon
the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset on every side with
scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in the nature
of a prospect, where there stood out over a brae the two sails of a
windmill, like an ass’s ears, but with the ass quite hidden. It was
strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the
turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the
hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways
travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door. The
truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of them honest, and
the position of his inn was the best of his livelihood. Smugglers
frequented it; political agents and forfeited persons bound across the
water came there to await their passages; and I daresay there was worse
behind, for a whole family might have been butchered in that house and
nobody the wiser.
I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside
my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro
before the door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, sprang
up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun,
and set the mill to the turning. There was something of spring in the
sunshine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great
sails one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At
times I could hear a creak of the machinery; and by half-past eight of
the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place was like a paradise.
For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to be
aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed there was
trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and went down
over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside of all fancy, it
was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a young lady to be
brought to dwell in.
At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was
in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same,
and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one
side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live coals. The meal was
no sooner over than James seemed to come began to make apologies. He
had an appointment of a private nature in the town (it was with the
French nobleman, he told me), and we would please excuse him till about
noon. Meanwhile he carried his daughter aside to the far end of the
room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen with
much inclination.
“I am caring less and less about this man James,” said Alan. “There’s
something no right with the man James, and I shouldnae wonder but what
Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine to see
yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to
yoursel, and that would be to speir at the lassie for some news o’ your
affair. Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle ass at the
off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would
just mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes
that.”
“I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, mocking him.
“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can tell her that I
recommended it; that’ll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae wonder
but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I
didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and
chief with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about
you.”
“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked.
“She thinks a heap of me,” says he. “And I’m no like you: I’m one that
can tell. That she does—she thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I’m
thinking a good deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws,
I’ll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so that I can see what way
James goes.”
One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast
table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs to
her own chamber. I could very well understand how she should avoid to
be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it for that, and
bent my mind to entrap her to an interview before the men returned.
Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out
of view among the sandhills, the fine morning would decoy her forth;
and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.
No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock
before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing
nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I
followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the further
she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground
being all sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and
came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the
first time of what a desolate wilderness that inn stood hidden in;
where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin’s
and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and two or
three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of these was extremely
close in to be so great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new
suspicion, when I recognised the trim of the _Seahorse_. What should an
English ship be doing so near in to France? Why was Alan brought into
her neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue?
and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More
should walk that day to the seaside?
Presently I came forth behind her in the front of the sandhills and
above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o’-war’s
boat drawn up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in
charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat down where the
rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow.
Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with
civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands;
and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this were all
her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for
the _Seahorse_. But I observed the officer to remain behind and
disappear among the bents.
I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it
less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near
with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender
a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she
raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on
again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at
that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, suspicions, the
care of my friend’s life—was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet
and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.
I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which she returned with a
good deal of composure.
“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I.
“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she replied; and then, with a
little outburst, “but why will you be sending money to that man! It
must not be.”
“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know well.”
“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” she said.
“David, it is not right.”
“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I, “and I pray God he will help this
dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona,
this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the
word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.”
“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry.
“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking,
O, be sure of that!” says I. “I think of the one thing. I have been
alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my
studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among
soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And
it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do
you see this napkin at my throat! You cut a corner from it once and
then cast it from you. They’re _your_ colours now; I wear them in my
heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!”
I stepped before her so as to intercept her walking on.
“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and bear me with a little.”
Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a
fear of death.
“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mistake again? Am I
quite lost?”
She raised her face to me, breathless.
“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I scarce could hear her
say it.
“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do that.”
“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said she. “I was all
yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!” she
said.
This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous,
we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down
before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that
storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was
wholly beaten from my mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew
not where I was. I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped,
and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words
out of a whirl.
“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what you think of me! Is it
so that you were caring for poor me! O, Davie, Davie!”
With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled in a perfect
gladness.
It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of
what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her
hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure
like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen
the place that looked so pretty as those bents by Dunkirk; and the
windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of
music.
I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else
besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father,
which brought us to reality.
“My little friend,” I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to
summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and
to be a little distant—“My little friend, now you are mine altogether;
mine for good, my little friend and that man’s no longer at all.”
There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from
mine.
“Davie, take me away from him!” she cried. “There’s something wrong;
he’s not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror
here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that
King’s ship? What will this word be saying?” And she held the letter
forth. “My mind misgives me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it,
Davie—open it and see.”
I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.
“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a man’s letter.”
“Not to save your friend?” she cried.
“I cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only sure!”
“And you have but to break the seal!” said she.
“I know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.”
“Give it here,” said she, “and I will open it myself.”
“Nor you neither,” said I. “You least of all. It concerns your father,
and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No question but
the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and your
father having word from it, and yon officer that stayed ashore. He