needful I should see the trysting wood, and reconnoitre it, by daylight. Catriona came with me as far as to the garden gate.
“It is long till I see you now?” she asked.
“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be long, it may be never.”
“It may be so,” said she. “And you are sorry?”
I bowed my head, looking upon her.
“So am I, at all events,” said she. “I have seen you but a small time, but I put you very high. You are true, you are brave; in time I think you will be more of a man yet. I will be proud to hear of that. If you should speed worse, if it will come to fall as we are afraid - O well! think you have the one friend. Long after you are dead and me an old wife, I will be telling the bairns about David Balfour, and my tears running. I will be telling how we parted, and what I said to you, and did to you. God go with you and guide you, prays your little friend: so I said - I will be telling them - and here is what I did.”
She took up my hand and kissed it. This so surprised my spirits that I cried out like one hurt. The colour came strong in her face, and she looked at me and nodded.
“O yes, Mr. David,” said she, “that is what I think of you. The head goes with the lips.”
I could read in her face high spirit, and a chivalry like a brave child’s; not anything besides. She kissed my hand, as she had kissed Prince Charlie’s, with a higher passion than the common kind of clay has any sense of. Nothing before had taught me how deep I was her lover, nor how far I had yet to climb to make her think of me in such a character. Yet I could tell myself I had advanced some way, and that her heart had beat and her blood flowed at thoughts of me.
After that honour she had done me I could offer no more trivial civility. It was even hard for me to speak; a certain lifting in her voice had knocked directly at the door of my own tears.
“I praise God for your kindness, dear,” said I. “Farewell, my little friend!” giving her that name which she had given to herself; with which I bowed and left her.
My way was down the glen of the Leith River, towards Stockbridge and Silvermills. A path led in the foot of it, the water bickered and sang in the midst; the sunbeams overhead struck out of the west among long shadows and (as the valley turned) made like a new scene and a new world of it at every corner. With Catriona behind and Alan before me, I was like one lifted up. The place besides, and the hour, and the talking of the water, infinitely pleased me; and I lingered in my steps and looked before and behind me as I went. This was the cause, under Providence, that I spied a little in my rear a red head among some bushes.
Anger sprang in my heart, and I turned straight about and walked at a stiff pace to where I came from. The path lay close by the bushes where I had remarked the head. The cover came to the wayside, and as I passed I was all strung up to meet and to resist an onfall. No such thing befell, I went by unmeddled with; and at that fear increased upon me. It was still day indeed, but the place exceeding solitary. If my haunters had let slip that fair occasion I could but judge they aimed at something more than David Balfour. The lives of Alan and James weighed upon my spirit with the weight of two grown bullocks.
Catriona was yet in the garden walking by herself.
“Catriona,” said I, “you see me back again.”
“With a changed face,” said she.
“I carry two men’s lives besides my own,” said I. “It would be a sin and shame not to walk carefully. I was doubtful whether I did right to come here. I would like it ill, if it was by that means we were brought to harm.”
“I could tell you one that would be liking it less, and will like little enough to hear you talking at this very same time,” she cried. “What have I done, at all events?”
“O, you I you are not alone,” I replied. “But since I went off I have been dogged again, and I can give you the name of him that follows me. It is Neil, son of Duncan, your man or your father’s.”
“To be sure you are mistaken there,” she said, with a white face. “Neil is in Edinburgh on errands from my father.”
“It is what I fear,” said I, “the last of it. But for his being in Edinburgh I think I can show you another of that. For sure you have some signal, a signal of need, such as would bring him to your help, if he was anywhere within the reach of ears and legs?”
“Why, how will you know that?” says she.
“By means of a magical talisman God gave to me when I was born, and the name they call it by is Common-sense,” said I. “Oblige me so far as make your signal, and I will show you the red head of Neil.”
No doubt but I spoke bitter and sharp. My heart was bitter. I blamed myself and the girl and hated both of us: her for the vile crew that she was come of, myself for my wanton folly to have stuck my head in such a byke of wasps.
Catriona set her fingers to her lips and whistled once, with an exceeding clear, strong, mounting note, as full as a ploughman’s. A while we stood silent; and I was about to ask her to repeat the same, when I heard the sound of some one bursting through the bushes below on the braeside. I pointed in that direction with a smile, and presently Neil leaped into the garden. His eyes burned, and he had a black knife (as they call it on the Highland side) naked in his hand; but, seeing me beside his mistress, stood like a man struck.
“He has come to your call,” said I; “judge how near he was to Edinburgh, or what was the nature of your father’s errands. Ask himself. If I am to lose my life, or the lives of those that hang by me, through the means of your clan, let me go where I have to go with my eyes open.”
She addressed him tremulously in the Gaelic. Remembering Alan’s anxious civility in that particular, I could have laughed out loud for bitterness; here, sure, in the midst of these suspicions, was the hour she should have stuck by English.
Twice or thrice they spoke together, and I could make out that Neil (for all his obsequiousness) was an angry man.
Then she turned to me. “He swears it is not,” she said.
“Catriona,” said I, “do you believe the man yourself?”
She made a gesture like wringing the hands.
“How will I can know?” she cried.
But I must find some means to know,” said I. “I cannot continue to go dovering round in the black night with two men’s lives at my girdle! Catriona, try to put yourself in my place, as I vow to God I try hard to put myself in yours. This is no kind of talk that should ever have fallen between me and you; no kind of talk; my heart is sick with it. See, keep him here till two of the morning, and I care not. Try him with that.”
They spoke together once more in the Gaelic.
“He says he has James More my father’s errand,” said she. She was whiter than ever, and her voice faltered as she said it.
“It is pretty plain now,” said I, “and may God forgive the wicked!”
She said never anything to that, but continued gazing at me with the same white face.
“This is a fine business,” said I again. “Am I to fall, then, and those two along with me?”
“O, what am I to do?” she cried. “Could I go against my father’s orders, him in prison, in the danger of his life!”
“But perhaps we go too fast,” said I. “This may be a lie too. He may have no right orders; all may be contrived by Simon, and your father knowing nothing.”
She burst out weeping between the pair of us; and my heart smote me hard, for I thought this girl was in a dreadful situation.
“Here,” said I, “keep him but the one hour; and I’ll chance it, and may God bless you.”
She put out her hand to me, “I will he needing one good word,” she sobbed.
“The full hour, then?” said I, keeping her hand in mine. “Three lives of it, my lass!”
“The full hour!” she said, and cried aloud on her Redeemer to forgive her.
I thought it no fit place for me, and fled.
Chapter XI:
The Wood by Silvermills
