“Since I am so soon to lose my bonny professor,” I began.
“This is gallant, indeed,” says she curtseying.
“I would put the one question,” I went on. “May I ask a lass to marry to me?”
“You think you could not marry her without!” she asked. “Or else get her to offer?”
“You see you cannot be serious,” said I.
“I shall be very serious in one thing, David,” said she: “I shall always be your friend.”
As I got to my horse the next morning, the four ladies were all at that same window whence we had once looked down on Catriona, and all cried farewell and waved their pocket napkins as I rode away. One out of the four I knew was truly sorry; and at the thought of that, and how I had come to the door three months ago for the first time, sorrow and gratitude made a confusion in my mind.
PART II – FATHER AND DAUGHTER
Chapter XXI – THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND
THE ship lay at a single anchor, well outside the pier of Leith, so that all we passengers must come to it by the means of skiffs. This was very little trouble-some, for the reason that the day was a flat calm, very frosty and cloudy, and with a low shifting fog upon the water. The body of the vessel was thus quite hid as I drew near, but the tall spars of her stood high and bright in a sunshine like the flickering of a fire. She proved to be a very roomy, commodious merchant, but somewhat blunt in the bows, and loaden extraordinary deep with salt, salted salmon, and fine white linen stockings for the Dutch. Upon my coming on board, the captain welcomed me – one Sang (out of Lesmahago, I believe), a very hearty, friendly tarpaulin of a man, but at the moment in rather of a bustle. There had no other of the passengers yet appeared, so that I was left to walk about upon the deck, viewing the prospect and wondering a good deal what these farewells should be which I was promised.
All Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills glinted above me in a kind of smuisty brightness, now and again overcome with blots of cloud; of Leith there was no more than the tops of chimneys visible, and on the face of the water, where the haar lay, nothing at all. Out of this I was presently aware of a sound of oars pulling, and a little after (as if out of the smoke of a fire) a boat issued. There sat a grave man in the stern sheets, well muffled from the cold, and by his side a tall, pretty, tender figure of a maid that brought my heart to a stand. I had scarce the time to catch my breath in, and be ready to meet her, as she stepped upon the deck, smiling, and making my best bow, which was now vastly finer than some months before, when first I made it to her ladyship. No doubt we were both a good deal changed: she seemed to have shot up like a young, comely tree. She had now a kind of pretty backwardness that became her well as of one that regarded herself more highly and was fairly woman; and for another thing, the hand of the same magician had been at work upon the pair of us, and Miss Grant had made us both BRAW, if she could make but the one BONNY.
The same cry, in words not very different, came from both of us, that the other was come in compliment to say farewell, and then we perceived in a flash we were to ship together.
“O, why will not Baby have been telling me!” she cried; and then remembered a letter she had been given, on the condition of not opening it till she was well on board. Within was an enclosure for myself, and ran thus:
“DEAR DAVIE, – What do you think of my farewell? and what do you say to your fellow passenger? Did you kiss, or did you ask? I was about to have signed here, but that would leave the purport of my question doubtful, and in my own case I KEN THE ANSWER. So fill up here with good advice. Do not be too blate, and for God’s sake do not try to be too forward; nothing acts you worse. I am
“Your affectionate friend and governess, “BARBARA GRANT.”
I wrote a word of answer and compliment on a leaf out of my pocketbook, put it in with another scratch from Catriona, sealed the whole with my new signet of the Balfour arms, and despatched it by the hand of Prestongrange’s servant that still waited in my boat.
Then we had time to look upon each other more at leisure, which we had not done for a piece of a minute before (upon a common impulse) we shook hands again.
“Catriona?” said I. It seemed that was the first and last word of my eloquence.
“You will be glad to see me again?” says she.
“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are too deep friends to make speech upon such trifles.”
“Is she not the girl of all the world?” she cried again. “I was never knowing such a girl so honest and so beautiful.”
“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she did for a kale- stock,” said I.
“Ah, she will say so indeed!” cries Catriona. “Yet it was for the name and the gentle kind blood that she took me up and was so good to me.”
“Well, I will tell you why it was,” said I. “There are all sorts of people’s faces in this world. There is Barbara’s face, that everyone must look at and admire, and think her a fine, brave, merry girl. And then there is your face, which is quite different – I never knew how different till to-day. You cannot see yourself, and that is why you do not understand; but it was for the love of your face that she took you up and was so good to you. And everybody in the world would do the same.”
“Everybody?” says she.
“Every living soul?” said I.
“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle took me up!” she cried,
“Barbara has been teaching you to catch me,” said I.
“She will have taught me more than that at all events. She will have taught me a great deal about Mr. David – all the ill of him, and a little that was not so ill either, now and then,” she said, smiling. “She will have told me all there was of Mr. David, only just that he would sail upon this very same ship. And why it is you go?”
I told her.
“Ah, well,” said she, “we will be some days in company and then (I suppose) good-bye for altogether! I go to meet my father at a place of the name of Helvoetsluys, and from there to France, to be exiles by the side of our chieftain.”
I could say no more than just “O!” the name of James More always drying up my very voice.
She was quick to perceive it, and to guess some portion of my thought.
“There is one thing I must be saying first of all, Mr. David,” said she. “I think two of my kinsfolk have not behaved to you altogether very well. And the one of them two is James More, my father, and the other is the Laird of Prestongrange. Prestongrange will have spoken by himself, or his daughter in the place of him. But for James More, my father, I have this much to say: he lay shackled in a prison; he is a plain honest soldier and a plain Highland gentleman; what they would be after he would never be guessing; but if he had understood it was to be some prejudice to a young gentleman like yourself, he would have died first. And for the sake of all your friendships, I will be asking you to pardon my father and family for that same mistake.”
“Catriona,” said I, “what that mistake was I do not care to know. I know but the one thing – that you went to Prestongrange and begged my life upon your knees. O, I ken well enough it was for your father that you went, but when you were there you pleaded for me also. It is a thing I cannot speak of. There are two things I cannot think of into myself: and the one is your good words when you called yourself my little friend, and the other that you pleaded for my life. Let us never speak more, we two, of pardon or offence.”
We stood after that silent, Catriona looking on the deck and I on her; and before there was more speech, a little wind having sprung up in the nor’-west, they began to shake out the sails and heave in upon the anchor.