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CATRIONA
they just detest him, and ye may spare your breath – ye can do
naething. There’s just the two sets of them – them that would
sell their coats for ye, and them that never look the road ye’re
on. That’s a’ that there is to women; and you seem to be such
a gomeral that ye cannae tell the tane frae the tither.”
“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I.
“And yet there’s naething easier!” cried Alan. “I could easy
learn ye the science of the thing; but ye seem to me to be born
blind, and there’s where the deeffi culty comes in.”
“And can YOU no help me?” I asked, “you that are so clev-
er at the trade?”
“Ye see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like a fi eld of-
fi cer that has naebody but blind men for scouts and eclaireurs;
and what would he ken? But it sticks in my mind that ye’ll
have made some kind of bauchle; and if I was you I would
have a try at her again.”
“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I.
“I would e’en’t,” says he.
The third letter came to my hand while we were deep in
some such talk: and it will be seen how pat it fell to the occasion. James professed to be in some concern upon his daughter’s health, which I believe was never better; abounded in
kind expressions to myself; and fi nally proposed that I should
visit them at Dunkirk.
“You will now be enjoying the society of my old comrade
Mr. Stewart,” he wrote. “Why not accompany him so far in
his return to France? I have something very particular for
Mr. Stewart’s ear; and, at any rate, I would be pleased to meet
in with an old fellow- soldier and one so mettle as himself.
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
As for you, my dear sir, my daughter and I would be proud to
receive our benefactor, whom we regard as a brother and
a son. The French nobleman has proved a person of the most
fi lthy avarice of character, and I have been necessitate to
leave the haras. You will fi nd us in consequence a little poorly lodged in the auberge of a man Bazin on the dunes; but
the situation is caller, and I make no doubt but we might
spend some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I could
recall our services, and you and my daughter divert yourselves in a manner more befi tting your age. I beg at least that
Mr. Stewart would come here; my business with him opens
a very wide door.”
“What does the man want with me?” cried Alan, when he
had read. “What he wants with you in clear enough – it’s
siller. But what can he want with Alan Breck?”
“O, it’ll be just an excuse,” said I. “He is still after this mar-
riage, which I wish from my heart that we could bring about.
And he asks you because he thinks I would be less likely to
come wanting you.”
“Well, I wish that I kent,” says Alan. “Him and me were
never onyways pack; we used to girn at ither like a pair of pipers. ‘Something for my ear,’ quo’ he! I’ll maybe have something
for his hinder-end, before we’re through with it. Dod, I’m
thinking it would be a kind of divertisement to gang and see
what he’ll be after! Forby that I could see your lassie then.
What say ye, Davie? Will ye ride with Alan?”
You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan’s furlough
running towards an end, we set forth presently upon this joint
adventure.
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CATRIONA
It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into
the town of Dunkirk. We left our horses at the post, and found
a guide to Bazin’s Inn, which lay beyond the walls. Night was
quite fallen, so that we were the last to leave that fortress, and
heard the doors of it close behind us as we passed the bridge.
On the other side there lay a lighted suburb, which we thridded for a while, then turned into a dark lane, and presently
found ourselves wading in the night among deep sand where
we could hear a bullering of the sea. We travelled in this fashion for some while, following our conductor mostly by the
sound of his voice; and I had begun to think he was perhaps
misleading us, when we came to the top of a small brae, and
there appeared out of the darkness a dim light in a window.
“Voila l’auberge a Bazin,” says the guide.
Alan smacked his lips. “An unco lonely bit,” said he, and
I thought by his tone he was not wholly pleased.
A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of that
house, which was all in the one apartment, with a stairs leading to the chambers at the side, benches and tables by the
wall, the cooking fi re at the one end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar- trap at the other. Here Bazin, who was an
ill-looking, big man, told us the Scottish gentleman was gone
abroad he knew not where, but the young lady was above, and
he would call her down to us.
I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner,
and knotted it about my throat. I could hear my heart go;
and Alan patting me on the shoulder with some of his
laughable expressions, I could scarce refrain from a sharp
word. But the time was not long to wait. I heard her step pass
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
overhead, and saw her on the stair. This she descended very
quietly, and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming of earnestness, or uneasiness, in her manner that extremely dashed me.
“My father, James More, will be here soon. He will be very
pleased to see you,” she said. And then of a sudden her face
fl amed, her eyes lightened, the speech stopped upon her lips;
and I made sure she had observed the kerchief. It was only for
a breath that she was discomposed; but methought it was with
a new animation that she turned to welcome Alan. “And you
will be his friend, Alan Breck?” she cried. “Many is the dozen
times I will have heard him tell of you; and I love you already
for all your bravery and goodness.”
“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his and view-
ing her, “and so this is the young lady at the last of it! David,
ye’re an awful poor hand of a description.”
I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to
people’s hearts; the sound of his voice was like song.
“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried.
“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he,
“forby a bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of
wood by Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than
what he said. And now there’s one thing sure; you and me are
to be a pair of friends. I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here;
I’m like a tyke at his heels; and whatever he cares for, I’ve got
to care for too – and by the holy airn! they’ve got to care for
me! So now you can see what way you stand with Alan Breck,
and ye’ll fi nd ye’ll hardly lose on the transaction. He’s no very
bonnie, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.”
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CATRIONA
“I thank you from my heart for your good words,” said she.
“I have that honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot fi nd
any to be answering with.”
Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for James
More, and sat down to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona
sit by him and wait upon his wants: he made her drink fi rst
out of his glass, he surrounded her with continual kind gallantries, and yet never gave me the most small occasion to be
jealous; and he kept the talk so much in his own hand, and
that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I remembered to
be embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it must have been
supposed that Alan was the old friend and I the stranger. Indeed, I had often cause to love and to admire the man, but
I never loved or admired him better than that night; and
I could not help remarking to myself (what I was sometimes
rather in danger of forgetting) that he had not only much experience of life, but in his own way a great deal of natural
ability besides. As for Catriona, she seemed quite carried away;
her laugh was like a peal of bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own, although I was well pleased, yet I was a little
sad also, and thought myself a dull, stockish character in comparison of my friend, and very unfi t to come into a young
maid’s life, and perhaps ding down her gaiety.
But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least
I was not alone in it; for, James More returning suddenly, the
girl was changed into a piece of stone. Through the rest of
that evening, until she made an excuse and slipped to bed,
I kept an eye upon her without cease; and I can bear testimony that she never smiled, scarce spoke, and looked mostly
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
on the board in front of her. So that I really marvelled to see
so much devotion (as it used to be) changed into the very
sickness of hate.
Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you know
the man already, what there was to know of him; and I am
weary of writing out his lies. Enough that he drank a great
deal, and told us very little that was to any possible purpose.
As for the business with Alan, that was to be reserved for the
morrow and his private hearing.
It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were
pretty weary with four day’s ride, and sat not very late after
Catriona.
We were soon alone in a chamber where we were to make-
shift with a single bed. Alan looked on me with a queer smile.
“Ye muckle ass!” said he.
“What do ye mean by that?” I cried.
“Mean? What do I mean! It’s extraordinar, David man,” say
he, “that you should be so mortal stupit.”
Again I begged him to speak out.
“Well, it’s this of it,” said he. “I told ye there were the two
kinds of women – them that would sell their shifts for ye, and
the others. Just you try for yoursel, my bonny man! But what’s
that neepkin at your craig?”
I told him.
“I thocht it was something thereabout” said he.
Nor would he say another word though I besieged him
long with importunities.
CHAPTER XXX
THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP
Daylight showed us how solitary the inn stood. It was
plainly hard upon the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset
on every side with scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed,
only one thing in the nature of a prospect, where there stood
out over a brae the two sails of a windmill, like an ass’s ears,
but with the ass quite hidden. It was strange (after the wind
rose, for at fi rst it was dead calm) to see the turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the hillock.
Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door.
The truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of
them honest, and the position of his inn was the best of his
livelihood. Smugglers frequented it; political agents and forfeited persons bound across the water came there to await
their passages; and I daresay there was worse behind, for
a whole family might have been butchered in that house and
nobody the wiser.
I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from
beside my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fi re or
walking to and fro before the door. Dawn broke mighty sul-
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ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
len; but a little after, sprang up a wind out of the west, which
burst the clouds, let through the sun, and set the mill to the
turning. There was something of spring in the sunshine, or
else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great sails
one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At times I could hear a creak of the machinery; and by halfpast eight of the day, and I thought this dreary, desert place
was like a paradise.
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 fi ne to see yon French nobleman,
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CATRIONA
Davie; and I daresay you could fi nd 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 fi ne morning would decoy her forth;
and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.
339
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
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
fi rst 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 sand-
hills 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 offi cer 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 offi cer 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
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