When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about half-way back to town I saw a figure coming to meet me, and the trouble of my heart was heightened. It seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, but nothing to say first; and remembering how tongue-tied I had been that morning at the Advocates I made sure that I would find myself struck dumb. But when she came up my fears fled away; not even the consciousness of what I had been privately thinking disconcerted me the least; and I found I could talk with her as easily and rationally as I might with Alan.
O! she cried, you have been seeking your sixpence; did you get it?
I told her no; but now I had met with her my walk was not in vain. Though I have seen you to-day already, said I, and told her where and when.
I did not see you, she said. My eyes are big, but there are better than mine at seeing far. Only I heard singing in the house.
That was Miss Grant, said I, the eldest and the bonniest.
They say they are all beautiful, said she.
They think the same of you, Miss Drummond, I replied, and were all crowding to the window to observe you.
It is a pity about my being so blind, said she, or I might have seen them too. And you were in the house? You must have been having the fine time with the fine music and the pretty ladies.
There is just where you are wrong, said I; for I was as uncouth as a sea-fish upon the brae of a mountain. The truth is that I am better fitted to go about with rudas men than pretty ladies.
Well, I would think so too, at all events! said she, at which we both of us laughed.
It is a strange thing, now, said I. I am not the least afraid with you, yet I could have run from the Miss Grants. And I was afraid of your cousin too.
O, I think any man will be afraid of her, she cried. My father is afraid of her himself.
The name of her father brought me to a stop. I looked at her as she walked by my side; I recalled the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt like a traitor to be silent.
Speaking of which, said I, I met your father no later than this morning.
Did you? she cried, with a voice of joy that seemed to mock at me. You saw James More? You will have spoken with him then?
I did even that, said I.
Then I think things went the worst way for me that was humanly possible. She gave me a look of mere gratitude. Ah, thank you for that! says she.
You thank me for very little, said I, and then stopped. But it seemed when I was holding back so much, something at least had to come out. I spoke rather ill to him, said I; I did no like him very much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.
I think you had little to do then, and less to tell it to his daughter! she cried out. But those that do not love and cherish him I will not know.
I will take the freedom of a word yet, said I, beginning to tremble. Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of spirits at Prestongranges. I daresay we both have anxious business there, for its a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.
It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking, said she; and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.
Miss Drummond, cried I, I am alone in this world.
And I am not wondering at that, said she.
O, let me speak! said I. I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then. It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?
I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour, said she. I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle folk.
O, let me have one to believe in me! I pleaded, I cannae bear it else. The whole world is clanned against me. How am I to go through with my dreadful fate? If theres to be none to believe in me I cannot do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.
She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my words or the tone of my voice she came to a stop. What is this you say? she asked. What are you talking of?
It is my testimony which may save an innocent life, said I, and they will not suffer me to bear it. What would you do yourself? You know what this is, whose father lies in danger. Would you desert the poor soul? They have tried all ways with me. They have sought to bribe me; they offered me hills and valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how I stood, and to what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace me. I am to be brought in a party to the murder; I am to have held Glenure in talk for money and old clothes; I am to be killed and shamed. If this is the way I am to fall, and me scarce a man if this is the story to be told of me in all Scotland if you are to believe it too, and my name is to be nothing but a by-word Catriona, how can I go through with it? The things not possible; its more than a man has in his heart.
I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the other; and when I stopped I found her gazing on me with a startled face.
Glenure! It is the Appin murder, she said softly, but with a very deep surprise.
I had turned back to bear her company, and we were now come near the head of the brae above Dean village. At this word I stepped in front of her like one suddenly distracted.
For Gods sake! I cried, for Gods sake, what is this that I have done? and carried my fists to my temples. What made me do it? Sure, I am bewitched to say these things!
In the name of heaven, what ails you now! she cried.
I gave my honour, I groaned, I gave my honour and now I have broke it. O, Catriona!
I am asking you what it is, she said; was it these things you should not have spoken? And do you think I have no honour, then? or that I am one that would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to you and swear.
O, I knew you would be true! said I. Its me its here. I that stood but this morning and out-faced them, that risked rather to die disgraced upon the gallows than do wrong and a few hours after I throw my honour away by the roadside in common talk! There is one thing clear upon our interview, says he, that I can rely on your pledged word. Where is my word now? Who could believe me now? You could not believe me. I am clean fallen down; I had best die! All this I said with a weeping voice, but I had no tears in my body.
My heart is sore for you, said she, but be sure you are too nice. I would not believe you, do you say? I would trust you with anything. And these men? I would not be thinking of them! Men who go about to entrap and to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to crouch. Look up! Do you not think I will be admiring you like a great hero of the good and you a boy not much older than myself? And because you said a word too much in a friends ear, that would die ere she betrayed you to make such a matter! It is one thing that we must both forget.
Catriona, said I, looking at her, hang-dog, is this true of it? Would ye trust me yet?
Will you not believe the tears upon my face? she cried. It is the world I am thinking of you, Mr. David Balfour. Let them hang you; I will never forget, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it is great to die so: I will envy you that gallows.