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.