And if the gentleman was so far from your favour, why, very well!
But we may at least congratulate you on your accession to your estates.”
“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with the same heat. “It is a good estate; what matters that to a lone man that has enough already?
I had a good revenue before in my frugality; and but for the man’s death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must confess it!—I see not how anyone is to be bettered by this change.”
“Come, come,” said he, “you are more affected than you let on, or you would never make yourself out so lonely.
Here are three letters; that means three that wish you well; and I could name two more, here in this very chamber.
I have known you not so very long, but Catriona, when we are alone, is never done with the singing of your praises.”
She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he slid off at once into another matter, the extent of my estate, which (during the most of the dinner time) he continued to dwell upon with interest.
But it was to no purpose he dissembled; he had touched the matter with too gross a hand: and I knew what to expect.
Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly discovered his designs.
He reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid her attend to it.
“I do not see you should be one beyond the hour,” he added, “and friend David will be good enough to bear me company till you return.”
She made haste to obey him without words.
I do not know if she understood, I believe not; but I was completely satisfied, and sat strengthening my mind for what should follow.
The door had scarce closed behind her departure, when the man leaned back in his chair and addressed me with a good affectation of easiness.
Only the one thing betrayed him, and that was his face; which suddenly shone all over with fine points of sweat.
“I am rather glad to have a word alone with you,” says he, “because in our first interview there were some expressions you misapprehended and I have long meant to set you right upon.
My daughter stands beyond doubt.
So do you, and I would make that good with my sword against all gainsayers.
But, my dear David, this world is a censorious place—as who should know it better than myself, who have lived ever since the days of my late departed father, God sain him! in a perfect spate of calumnies?
We have to face to that; you and me have to consider of that; we have to consider of that.”
And he wagged his head like a minister in a pulpit.
“To what effect, Mr. Drummond?” said I. “I would be obliged to you if you would approach your point.”
“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “like your character, indeed! and what I most admire in it.
But the point, my worthy fellow, is sometimes in a kittle bit.” He filled a glass of wine. “Though between you and me, that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long.
The point, I need scarcely tell you, is my daughter.
And the first thing is that I have no thought in my mind of blaming you.
In the unfortunate circumstances, what could you do else? ’Deed, and I cannot tell.”
“I thank you for that,” said I, pretty close upon my guard.
“I have besides studied your character,” he went on; “your talents are fair; you seem to have a moderate competence, which does no harm; and one thing with another, I am very happy to have to announce to you that I have decided on the latter of the two ways open.”
“I am afraid I am dull,” said I. “What ways are these?”
He bent his brows upon me formidably and uncrossed his legs.
“Why, sir,” says he, “I think I need scarce describe them to a gentleman of your condition; either that I should cut your throat or that you should marry my daughter.”
“You are pleased to be quite plain at last,” said I.
“And I believe I have been plain from the beginning!” cries he robustiously. “I am a careful parent, Mr. Balfour; but I thank God, a patient and deleeborate man.
There is many a father, sir, that would have hirsled you at once either to the altar or the field.
My esteem for your character—”
“Mr. Drummond,” I interrupted, “if you have any esteem for me at all, I will beg of you to moderate your voice.
It is quite needless to rowt at a gentleman in the same chamber with yourself and lending you his best attention.”
“Why, very true,” says he, with an immediate change. “And you must excuse the agitations of a parent.”
“I understand you then,” I continued—“for I will take no note of your other alternative, which perhaps it was a pity you let fall—I understand you rather to offer me encouragement in case I should desire to apply for your daughter’s hand?”
“It is not possible to express my meaning better,” said he, “and I see we shall do well together.”
“That remains to be yet seen,” said I. “But so much I need make no secret of, that I bear the lady you refer to the most tender affection, and I could not fancy, even in a dream, a better fortune than to get her.”
“I was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David,” he cried, and reached out his hand to me.
I put it by.
“You go too fast, Mr. Drummond,” said I. “There are conditions to be made; and there is a difficulty in the path, which I see not entirely how we shall come over.
I have told you that, upon my side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have good reason to believe there will be much on the young lady’s.”
“This is all beside the mark,” says he. “I will engage for her acceptance.”
“I think you forget, Mr. Drummond,” said I, “that, even in dealing with myself, you have been betrayed into two-three unpalatable expressions.
I will have none such employed to the young lady.