The Greatest Adventure Books - Robert Louis Stevenson Edition (Illustrated). Robert Louis Stevenson

“which is perhaps the reason that I think of it so little. There’s much to be considered. This James More is a kinsman of mine, to my shame be it spoken. But the better the family, the mair men hanged or headed, that’s always been poor Scotland’s story. And if it was just the hanging! For my part I think I would be best pleased with James upon the gallows, which would be at least an end to him. Catrine’s a good lass enough, and a good-hearted, and lets herself be deaved all day with a runt of an auld wife like me. But, ye see, there’s the weak bit. She’s daft about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father of hers, and red-mad about the Gregara, and proscribed names, and King James, and a wheen blethers. And you might think ye could guide her, ye would find yourself sore mista’en. Ye say ye’ve seen her but the once…”

      “Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” I interrupted. “I saw her again this morning from a window at Prestongrange’s.”

      This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but I was properly paid for my ostentation on the return.

      “What’s this of it?” cries the old lady, with a sudden pucker of her face. “I think it was at the Advocate’s door-cheek that ye met her first.”

      I told her that was so.

      “H’m,” she said; and then suddenly, upon rather a scolding tone, “I have your bare word for it,” she cries, “as to who and what you are. By your way of it, you’re Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken you may be Balfour of the Deevil’s oxter. It’s possible ye may come here for what ye say, and it’s equally possible ye may come here for deil care what! I’m good enough Whig to sit quiet, and to have keepit all my menfolk’s heads upon their shoulders. But I’m not just a good enough Whig to be made a fool of neither. And I tell you fairly, there’s too much Advocate’s door and Advocate’s window here for a man that comes taigling after a Macgregor’s daughter. Ye can tell that to the Advocate that sent ye, with my fond love. And I kiss my loof to ye, Mr. Balfour,” says she, suiting the action to the word; “and a braw journey to ye back to where ye cam frae.”

      “If you think me a spy,” I broke out, and speech stuck in my throat. I stood and looked murder at the old lady for a space, then bowed and turned away.

      “Here! Hoots! The callant’s in a creel!” she cried. “Think ye a spy? what else would I think ye - me that kens naething by ye? But I see that I was wrong; and as I cannot fight, I’ll have to apologise. A bonny figure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!” she went on, “you’re none such a bad lad in your way; I think ye’ll have some redeeming vices. But, O! Davit Balfour, ye’re damned countryfeed. Ye’ll have to win over that, lad; ye’ll have to soople your backbone, and think a wee pickle less of your dainty self; and ye’ll have to try to find out that womenfolk are nae grenadiers. But that can never be. To your last day you’ll ken no more of womenfolk than what I do of sow-gelding.”

      I had never been used with such expressions from a lady’s tongue, the only two ladies I had known, Mrs. Campbell and my mother, being most devout and most particular women; and I suppose my amazement must have been depicted in my countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy burst forth suddenly in a fit of laughter.

      “Keep me!” she cried, struggling with her mirth, “you have the finest timber face - and you to marry the daughter of a Hieland cateran! Davie, my dear, I think we’ll have to make a match of it - if it was just to see the weans. And now,” she went on, “there’s no manner of service in your daidling here, for the young woman is from home, and it’s my fear that the old woman is no suitable companion for your father’s son. Forbye that I have nobody but myself to look after my reputation, and have been long enough alone with a sedooctive youth. And come back another day for your saxpence!” she cried after me as I left.

      My skirmish with this disconcerting lady gave my thoughts a boldness they had otherwise wanted. For two days the image of Catriona had mixed in all my meditations; she made their background, so that I scarce enjoyed my own company without a glint of her in a corner of my mind. But now she came immediately near; I seemed to touch her, whom I had never touched but the once; I let myself flow out to her in a happy weakness, and looking all about, and before and behind, saw the world like an undesirable desert, where men go as soldiers on a march, following their duty with what constancy they have, and Catriona alone there to offer me some pleasure of my days. I wondered at myself that I could dwell on such considerations in that time of my peril and disgrace; and when I remembered my youth I was ashamed. I had my studies to complete: I had to be called into some useful business; I had yet to take my part of service in a place where all must serve; I had yet to learn, and know, and prove myself a man; and I had so much sense as blush that I should be already tempted with these further-on and holier delights and duties. My education spoke home to me sharply; I was never brought up on sugar biscuits but on the hard food of the truth. I knew that he was quite unfit to be a husband who was not prepared to be a father also; and for a boy like me to play the father was a mere derision.

      When I was in the midst of these thoughts and about halfway 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 Advocate’s 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