"I once thought I had a
friend, but it proved a disappointment."
She asked me who she was?
"It was a he, then," said I. "We were the two best lads at my
father's school, and we thought we loved each other dearly. Well,
the time came when he went to Glasgow to a merchant's house, that
was his second cousin once removed; and wrote me two-three times by
the carrier; and then he found new friends, and I might write till
I was tired, he took no notice. Eh, Catriona, it took me a long
while to forgive the world. There is not anything more bitter than
to lose a fancied friend."
Then she began to question me close upon his looks and character,
for we were each a great deal concerned in all that touched the
other; till at last, in a very evil hour, I minded of his letters
and went and fetched the bundle from the cabin.
"Here are his letters," said I, "and all the letters that ever I
got. That will be the last I'll can tell of myself; ye know the
lave {26} as well as I do."
"Will you let me read them, then?" says she.
I told her, IF SHE WOULD BE AT THE PAINS; and she bade me go away
and she would read them from the one end to the other. Now, in
this bundle that I gave her, there were packed together not only
all the letters of my false friend, but one or two of Mr.
Campbell's when he was in town at the Assembly, and to make a
complete roll of all that ever was written to me, Catriona's little
word, and the two I had received from Miss Grant, one when I was on
the Bass and one on board that ship. But of these last I had no
particular mind at the moment.
I was in that state of subjection to the thought of my friend that
it mattered not what I did, nor scarce whether I was in her
presence or out of it; I had caught her like some kind of a noble
fever that lived continually in my bosom, by night and by day, and
whether I was waking or asleep. So it befell that after I was come
into the fore-part of the ship where the broad bows splashed into
the billows, I was in no such hurry to return as you might fancy;
rather prolonged my absence like a variety in pleasure. I do not
think I am by nature much of an Epicurean: and there had come till
then so small a share of pleasure in my way that I might be excused
perhaps to dwell on it unduly.
When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful impression as
of a buckle slipped, so coldly she returned the packet.
"You have read them?" said I; and I thought my voice sounded not
wholly natural, for I was turning in my mind for what could ail
her.
"Did you mean me to read all?" she asked.
I told her "Yes," with a drooping voice.
"The last of them as well?" said she.
I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to her either. "I
gave them all without afterthought," I said, "as I supposed that
you would read them. I see no harm in any."
"I will be differently made," said she. "I thank God I am
differently made. It was not a fit letter to be shown me. It was
not fit to be written."
"I think you are speaking of your own friend, Barbara Grant?" said
I.
"There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a fancied friend,"
said she, quoting my own expression.
"I think it is sometimes the friendship that was fancied!" I cried.
"What kind of justice do you call this, to blame me for some words
that a tomfool of a madcap lass has written down upon a piece of
paper? You know yourself with what respect I have behaved--and
would do always."
"Yet you would show me that same letter!" says she. "I want no
such friends. I can be doing very well, Mr. Balfour, without her--
or you."
"This is your fine gratitude!" says I.
"I am very much obliged to you," said she. "I will be asking you
to take away your--letters." She seemed to choke upon the word, so
that it sounded like an oath.
"You shall never ask twice," said I; picked up that bundle, walked
a little way forward and cast them as far as possible into the sea.