Adventure stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
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 fine to see
yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find 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 fine morning would decoy her forth;
and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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