Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (250 page)

“He has been a good man to me,” said I.

“Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was there to see to it,” said she.

“And she pled for me?” say I.

“She did that, and very movingly,” said Miss Grant.  “I would not like to tell you what she said - I find you vain enough already.”

“God reward her for it!” cried I.

“With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?” says she.

“You do me too much injustice at the last!” I cried.  “I would tremble to think of her in such hard hands.  Do you think I would presume, because she begged my life?  She would do that for a new whelped puppy!  I have had more than that to set me up, if you but ken’d.  She kissed that hand of mine.  Ay, but she did.  And why? because she thought I was playing a brave part and might be going to my death.  It was not for my sake - but I need not be telling that to you, that cannot look at me without laughter.  It was for the love of what she thought was bravery.  I believe there is none but me and poor Prince Charlie had that honour done them.  Was this not to make a god of me? and do you not think my heart would quake when I remember it?”

“I do laugh at you a good deal, and a good deal more than is quite civil,” said she; “but I will tell you one thing: if you speak to her like that, you have some glimmerings of a chance.”

“Me?” I cried, “I would never dare.  I can speak to you, Miss Grant, because it’s a matter of indifference what ye think of me.  But her? no fear!” said I.

“I think you have the largest feet in all broad Scotland,” says she.

“Troth they are no very small,” said I, looking down.

“Ah, poor Catriona!” cries Miss Grant.

And I could but stare upon her; for though I now see very well what she was driving at (and perhaps some justification for the same), I was never swift at the uptake in such flimsy talk.

“Ah well, Mr. David,” she said, “it goes sore against my conscience, but I see I shall have to be your speaking board.  She shall know you came to her straight upon the news of her imprisonment; she shall know you would not pause to eat; and of our conversation she shall hear just so much as I think convenient for a maid of her age and inexperience.  Believe me, you will be in that way much better served than you could serve yourself, for I will keep the big feet out of the platter.”

“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed.

“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she.

“Why that?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “I am a good friend, as you will soon discover; and the chief of those that I am friend to is my papa.  I assure you, you will never heat nor melt me out of that, so you may spare me your sheep’s eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the now.”

“But there is yet one thing more,” I cried.  “There is one thing that must be stopped, being mere ruin to herself, and to me too.”

“Well,” she said, “be brief; I have spent half the day on you already.”

“My Lady Allardyce believes,” I began - “she supposes - she thinks that I abducted her.”

The colour came into Miss Grant’s face, so that at first I was quite abashed to find her ear so delicate, till I bethought me she was struggling rather with mirth, a notion in which I was altogether confirmed by the shaking of her voice as she replied -

“I will take up the defence of your reputation,” she said.  “You may leave it in my hands.”

And with that she withdrew out of the library.

CHAPTER XX - I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY

For about exactly two months I remained a guest in Prestongrange’s family, where I bettered my acquaintance with the bench, the bar, and the flower of Edinburgh company.  You are not to suppose my education was neglected; on the contrary, I was kept extremely busy.  I studied the French, so as to be more prepared to go to Leyden; I set myself to the fencing, and wrought hard, sometimes three hours in the day, with notable advancement; at the suggestion of my cousin, Pilrig, who was an apt musician, I was put to a singing class; and by the orders of my Miss Grant, to one for the dancing, at which I must say I proved far from ornamental.  However, all were good enough to say it gave me an address a little more genteel; and there is no question but I learned to manage my coat skirts and sword with more dexterity, and to stand in a room as though the same belonged to me.  My clothes themselves were all earnestly re-ordered; and the most trifling circumstance, such as where I should tie my hair, or the colour of my ribbon, debated among the three misses like a thing of weight.  One way with another, no doubt I was a good deal improved to look at, and acquired a bit of modest air that would have surprised the good folks at Essendean.

The two younger misses were very willing to discuss a point of my habiliment, because that was in the line of their chief thoughts.  I cannot say that they appeared any other way conscious of my presence; and though always more than civil, with a kind of heartless cordiality, could not hide how much I wearied them.  As for the aunt, she was a wonderful still woman; and I think she gave me much the same attention as she gave the rest of the family, which was little enough.  The eldest daughter and the Advocate himself were thus my principal friends, and our familiarity was much increased by a pleasure that we took in common.  Before the court met we spent a day or two at the house of Grange, living very nobly with an open table, and here it was that we three began to ride out together in the fields, a practice afterwards maintained in Edinburgh, so far as the Advocate’s continual affairs permitted.  When we were put in a good frame by the briskness of the exercise, the difficulties of the way, or the accidents of bad weather, my shyness wore entirely off; we forgot that we were strangers, and speech not being required, it flowed the more naturally on.  Then it was that they had my story from me, bit by bit, from the time that I left Essendean, with my voyage and battle in the Covenant, wanderings in the heather, etc.; and from the interest they found in my adventures sprung the circumstance of a jaunt we made a little later on, on a day when the courts were not sitting, and of which I will tell a trifle more at length.

We took horse early, and passed first by the house of Shaws, where it stood smokeless in a great field of white frost, for it was yet early in the day.  Here Prestongrange alighted down, gave me his horse, an proceeded alone to visit my uncle.  My heart, I remember, swelled up bitter within me at the sight of that bare house and the thought of the old miser sitting chittering within in the cold kitchen!

“There is my home,” said I; “and my family.”

“Poor David Balfour!” said Miss Grant.

What passed during the visit I have never heard; but it would doubtless not be very agreeable to Ebenezer, for when the Advocate came forth again his face was dark.

“I think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. Davie,” says he, turning half about with the one foot in the stirrup.

“I will never pretend sorrow,” said I; and, to say the truth, during his absence Miss Grant and I had been embellishing the place in fancy with plantations, parterres, and a terrace - much as I have since carried out in fact.

Thence we pushed to the Queensferry, where Rankeillor gave us a good welcome, being indeed out of the body to receive so great a visitor.  Here the Advocate was so unaffectedly good as to go quite fully over my affairs, sitting perhaps two hours with the Writer in his study, and expressing (I was told) a great esteem for myself and concern for my fortunes.  To while this time, Miss Grant and I and young Rankeillor took boat and passed the Hope to Limekilns.  Rankeillor made himself very ridiculous (and, I thought, offensive) with his admiration for the young lady, and to my wonder (only it is so common a weakness of her sex) she seemed, if anything, to be a little gratified.  One use it had: for when we were come to the other side, she laid her commands on him to mind the boat, while she and I passed a little further to the alehouse.  This was her own thought, for she had been taken with my account of Alison Hastie, and desired to see the lass herself.  We found her once more alone - indeed, I believe her father wrought all day in the fields - and she curtsied dutifully to the gentry-folk and the beautiful young lady in the riding-coat.

“Is this all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding out my hand.  “And have you no more memory of old friends?”

“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, “God’s truth, it’s the tautit  laddie!”

“The very same,” says

“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your freen, and blythe am I to see in your braws,”  she cried.  “Though I kent ye were come to your ain folk by the grand present that ye sent me and that I thank ye for with a’ my heart.”

“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by with ye, like a guid bairn.  I didnae come here to stand and haud a candle; it’s her and me that are to crack.”

I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but when she came forth I observed two things - that her eyes were reddened, and a silver brooch was gone out of her bosom.  This very much affected me.

“I never saw you so well adorned,” said I.

“O Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said she, and was more than usually sharp to me the remainder of the day.

About candlelight we came home from this excursion.

For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona - my Miss Grant remaining quite impenetrable, and stopping my mouth with pleasantries.  At last, one day that she returned from walking and found me alone in the parlour over my French, I thought there was something unusual in her looks; the colour heightened, the eyes sparkling high, and a bit of a smile continually bitten in as she regarded me.  She seemed indeed like the very spirit of mischief, and, walking briskly in the room, had soon involved me in a kind of quarrel over nothing and (at the least) with nothing intended on my side.  I was like Christian in the slough - the more I tried to clamber out upon the side, the deeper I became involved; until at last I heard her declare, with a great deal of passion, that she would take that answer from the hands of none, and I must down upon my knees for pardon.

The causelessness of all this fuff stirred my own bile.  “I have said nothing you can properly object to,” said I, “and as for my knees, that is an attitude I keep for God.”

“And as a goddess I am to be served!” she cried, shaking her brown locks at me and with a bright colour.  “Every man that comes within waft of my petticoats shall use me so!”

“I will go so far as ask your pardon for the fashion’s sake, although I vow I know not why,” I replied.  “But for these play-acting postures, you can go to others.”

“O Davie!” she said.  “Not if I was to beg you?”

I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, which is the same as to say a child, and that upon a point entirely formal.

“I think it a bairnly thing,” I said, “not worthy in you to ask, or me to render.  Yet I will not refuse you, neither,” said I; “and the stain, if there be any, rests with yourself.”  And at that I kneeled fairly down.

“There!” she cried.  “There is the proper station, there is where I have been manoeuvring to bring you.”  And then, suddenly, “Kep,”  said she, flung me a folded billet, and ran from the apartment laughing.

The billet had neither place nor date.  “Dear Mr. David,” it began, “I get your news continually by my cousin, Miss Grant, and it is a pleisand hearing.  I am very well, in a good place, among good folk, but necessitated to be quite private, though I am hoping that at long last we may meet again.  All your friendships have been told me by my loving cousin, who loves us both.  She bids me to send you this writing, and oversees the same.  I will be asking you to do all her commands, and rest your affectionate friend, Catriona Macgregor-Drummond.  P.S. - Will you not see my cousin, Allardyce?”

I think it not the least brave of my campaigns (as the soldiers say) that I should have done as I was here bidden and gone forthright to the house by Dean.  But the old lady was now entirely changed and supple as a glove.  By what means Miss Grant had brought this round I could never guess; I am sure, at least, she dared not to appear openly in the affair, for her papa was compromised in it pretty deep.  It was he, indeed, who had persuaded Catriona to leave, or rather, not to return, to her cousin’s, placing her instead with a family of Gregorys - decent people, quite at the Advocate’s disposition, and in whom she might have the more confidence because they were of his own clan and family.  These kept her private till all was ripe, heated and helped her to attempt her father’s rescue, and after she was discharged from prison received her again into the same secrecy.  Thus Prestongrange obtained and used his instrument; nor did there leak out the smallest word of his acquaintance with the daughter of James More.  There was some whispering, of course, upon the escape of that discredited person; but the Government replied by a show of rigour, one of the cell porters was flogged, the lieutenant of the guard (my poor friend, Duncansby) was broken of his rank, and as for Catriona, all men were well enough pleased that her fault should be passed by in silence.

I could never induce Miss Grant to carry back an answer.  “No,” she would say, when I persisted, “I am going to keep the big feet out of the platter.”  This was the more hard to bear, as I was aware she saw my little friend many times in the week, and carried her my news whenever (as she said) I “had behaved myself.”  At last she treated me to what she called an indulgence, and I thought rather more of a banter.  She was certainly a strong, almost a violent, friend to all she liked, chief among whom was a certain frail old gentlewoman, very blind and very witty, who dwelt on the top of a tall land on a strait close, with a nest of linnets in a cage, and thronged all day with visitors.  Miss Grant was very fond to carry me there and put me to entertain her friend with the narrative of my misfortunes: and Miss Tibbie Ramsay (that was her name) was particular kind, and told me a great deal that was worth knowledge of old folks and past affairs in Scotland.  I should say that from her chamber window, and not three feet away, such is the straitness of that close, it was possible to look into a barred loophole lighting the stairway of the opposite house.