He
told you to."
"He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean," I began.
She was walking ever the faster, and looking fain in front of her;
but at this she made a little noise in her head, and I thought she
would have run.
"Without which," I went on, "after what you said last Friday, I
would never have been so troublesome as make the offer. But when
he as good as asked me, what was I to do?"
She stopped and turned round upon me.
"Well, it is refused at all events," she cried, "and there will be
an end of that."
And she began again to walk forward.
"I suppose I could expect no better," said I, "but I think you
might try to be a little kind to me for the last end of it. I see
not why you should be harsh. I have loved you very well, Catriona-
-no harm that I should call you so for the last time. I have done
the best that I could manage, I am trying the same still, and only
vexed that I can do no better. It is a strange thing to me that
you can take any pleasure to be hard to me."
"I am not thinking of you," she said, "I am thinking of that man,
my father."
"Well, and that way, too!" said I. "I can be of use to you that
way, too; I will have to be. It is very needful, my dear, that we
should consult about your father; for the way this talk has gone,
an angry man will be James More."
She stopped again. "It is because I am disgraced?" she asked.
"That is what he is thinking," I replied, "but I have told you
already to make nought of it."
"It will be all one to me," she cried. "I prefer to be disgraced!"
I did not know very well what to answer, and stood silent.
There seemed to be something working in her bosom after that last
cry; presently she broke out, "And what is the meaning of all this?
Why is all this shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it,
David Balfour?"
"My dear," said I, "what else was I to do?"
"I am not your dear," she said, "and I defy you to be calling me
these words."
"I am not thinking of my words," said I. "My heart bleeds for you,
Miss Drummond. Whatever I may say, be sure you have my pity in
your difficult position. But there is just the one thing that I
wish you would bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss
it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when we two
get home. Take my word for it, it will need the two of us to make
this matter end in peace."
"Ay," said she. There sprang a patch of red in either of her
cheeks. "Was he for fighting you?" said she.
"Well, he was that," said I.
She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. "At all events, it is
complete!" she cried. And then turning on me. "My father and I
are a fine pair," said she, "but I am thanking the good God there
will be somebody worse than what we are. I am thanking the good
God that he has let me see you so. There will never be the girl
made that will not scorn you."
I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this was over the
mark.
"You have no right to speak to me like that," said I. "What have I
done but to be good to you, or try to be? And here is my
repayment! O, it is too much."
She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. "Coward!" said she.
"The word in your throat and in your father's!" I cried. "I have
dared him this day already in your interest. I will dare him
again, the nasty pole-cat; little I care which of us should fall!
Come," said I, "back to the house with us; let us be done with it,
let me be done with the whole Hieland crew of you! You will see
what you think when I am dead."
She shook her head at me with that same smile I could have struck
her for.
"O, smile away!" I cried. "I have seen your bonny father smile on
the wrong side this day. Not that I mean he was afraid, of
course," I added hastily, "but he preferred the other way of it."
"What is this?" she asked.