I liked the business little; and, the more I considered of it, liked it less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. The next, she raised her face and recognised me; seemed to hesitate, and then came on again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, suspicions, the care of my friend’s life—was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.
I gave her “good-morning” as she came up, which she returned with a good deal of composure.
“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I.
“I know you are always meaning kindly,” she replied; and then, with a little outburst, “but why will you be sending money to that man? It must not be.”
“I never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as you know well.”
“And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us,” said she. “David, it is not right.”
“It is not, it is all wrong,” said I; “and I pray God He will help this dull fellow (if it be at all possible) to make it better. Catriona, this is no kind of life for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.”
“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry.
“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him that I am thinking—O, be sure of that!” says I. “I think of the one thing. I have been alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among soldier-men to their big dinners; and still I had the same thought. And it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat? You cut a corner from it once and then cast it from you. They’re your colours now; I wear them in my heart. My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up with me!”