I will never have seen such a feckless creature of a woman; surely all there was of her would tell her ay or no.
Well, she was a widow; and I can never be thinking a widow a good woman.”
“Catriona!” says I, “how do you make out that?”
“I do not know,” said she; “I am only telling you the seeming in my heart.
And then to marry a new man! Fy!
But that was her; and she was married again upon my Uncle Robin, and went with him awhile to kirk and market; and then wearied, or else her friends got claught of her and talked her round, or maybe she turned ashamed; at the least of it, she ran away, and went back to her own folk, and said we had held her in the lake, and I will never tell you all what.
I have never thought much of any females since that day.
And so in the end my father, James More, came to be cast in prison, and you know the rest of it an well as me.”
“And through all you had no friends?” said I.
“No,” said she; “I have been pretty chief with two-three lasses on the braes, but not to call it friends.”
“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said I. “I never had a friend to my name till I met in with you.”
“And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked.
“O, yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is a man, and that in very different.”
“I would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite different.”
“And then there was one other,” said I. “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.