must be blate to think he’d wait for her till moonrise. She must set high
store by herself to think he’d cool his heels for two hours waiting for
a kiss of hers. Did she think that James Minty of Skillymarnoe was sore
put-to to get a lass to meet him at gloaming? Thought she that? What had
she to command her that she set such value on herself? Little that _he_
could see. Nothing for looks, and never a penny to her name. Was he going
to sit till he took root waiting for such a lass?
No, he was but waiting to let her see how little store he set on any
kiss of hers. He’d make her rue this high-handed work. He had set down
higher-headed wenches than Sally Ann MacIntosh. When she came, he would
kiss her light-like, and he’d talk a while cheerily, then he’d say
canty[27] and smiling at her, “Weel, my lass, it’s gettin’ late. I maun
be gaun’ back to Skilly.” And he would be forgetful to kiss her good
night, but very friendly with it all for fear she thought that he was
vexed. And when next he saw her he would call her “Miss MacIntosh” as if
naught had been between them.
But she wasn’t coming, that was clear. How could he lower her pride for
her if she didn’t come near him? He’d go after her. Just at first it
would give her more reason for her pridefulness, but the higher he made
her think of herself, the greater would be her down-come when he passed
her by.
Sally Ann was braiding her hair with troubled fingers when she heard
a light tap upon the small window that opened upon the roof of the
peat-shed. Her heart told her who it was, and she hurriedly snuffed
out the candles, fearing that he could see her as she sat there in her
nainsook night-gown with the frilled cuffs.
But how could he come without a sound? How climb the roof without her
brother hearing?
The tapping again! How dare he knock so loudly? How could he be so bold?
Her fingers danced about the dressing table in a frenzy. She was afraid,
but wildly happy. “Fairly batterin’ down the hoose t’ get me,” her heart
sang. Oh, that this should happen to _her_. And then she saw his face
against the window-pane, a white wedge in the moonlight. He was raising
the sash. Her heart broke into panic. What should she do? Should she call
her mother?
The Gype was propping the sash with his shoulder. There was just room for
his arm and face in the narrow opening of the window.
“Sally Ann,” he whispered, searching for her in the dark room. “Come
here.”
“I canna,” she whispered back at him, but left the chair and came a
little way toward him.
“Come here,” he said again as she paused timidly.
“I canna,” she answered, coming nearer as she spoke.
“Come and kneel by me,” he commanded.
“I canna,” she said softly, but came and knelt by the window so that her
face was level with his.
“Noo ye’ll gie me a kiss, Sally Ann MacIntosh,” he said, catching hold of
her.
“I canna,” she gasped. How sweet was the tumult in her heart!
“Ye _will_.”
“No, I canna,” she faltered, praying that he would insist.
“It would be a sore pity t’ wake yer puir sick brother,” he whispered
mockingly. “A sore pity, but there’s a loose slate by my foot, and down
it goes unless ye kiss me this minute.”
“Oh!”
“It would be ill done t’ wake him, puir lad,” sighed the Gype.
“No, dinna,” she begged.
“Weel, I’m waitin’.” He thrust his gleaming face through the opening.
“Then I maun do it,” said Sally Ann, more to assure herself than him.
“First put yer arms about my neck,” he ordered.
“I canna.” But her arms trembled to obey.
“Down goes the slate then,” he threatened.
Her arms flew up in obedience. Oh, how bold she was. How bold, but how
happy.
“Kiss me!”
“I canna,” she said, and kissed him eagerly.
“Again an’ longer,” he ordered.
“I canna,” kissing him as she spoke.
“Na, dinna stop,” he said, as she drew back. “Ye’ll hae t’ keep on wi’
the kissin’, for I’m sorely tempted t’ kick down the slate.”
“Oh!” Surely this was Paradise.
“I’m sorry for ye, Sally Ann,” he commiserated. “It’s a sore trial t’ hae
t’ kiss me.”
“It’s no’ a trial,” she whispered shyly.
“Is it no’?” His voice was eager, and then he was vexed at his eagerness.
He was there to lay low her pride. This was the time that he should go
away and leave her. Leave her lightsomely, and then, when next they met,
greet her as if naught had ever been between them.
But it would be well, and nothing more than just, to let her tell why she
had broken the tryst. So he’d sound her out on that.
“I’m thinkin’ ye hate me for my impudence,” he ventured.
“I dinna hate ye,” she said softly, a timid hand reaching up to his
crinkling hair.
“Then why did ye no’ meet me?”
“I couldna.”
“Fine story, _that_,” he cried scornfully. “Nae lass ever missed a tryst
t’ please her mither.”
Sally Ann could not answer. How could she say all that was in her breast?
How tell him that her feet were not brave enough to go to him? Go to him?
Oh, no, her heart was too faint with her unworthiness. Sally Ann had no
words to tell him this.
The Gype brooded upon her silence. “She didna wish t’ cheapen hersel’ by
meeting me at the first askin’,” he told himself. Here was a lass who was
not minded to melt in his mouth like a ripe berry at the first tasting.
Here was a lass that would take some reaching for. And she was right. His
mother had always said: “A worthy bride’s no’ easy won.” She had been a
wise woman, his mother.
But he was thinking of Sally Ann as a bride? Oh, no, but there was no
harm admiring a lass that held herself high. He wondered what she thought
of him, and longed for some reassurance, some word to show that she did
not quite despise him.
“Ye dinna hate me, Sally Ann?”
She shook her head.
“Yer no’ angry that I made ye kiss me?”
She shook her head again.
“Will ye let me kiss ye, Sally Ann?”
She nodded shyly and turned her face to his. And then he knew that there
was nothing sweeter than to lie there on the slated roof in the moonlight
with Sally Ann’s timorous arms about his neck, and her breath, fragrant
as the air from new milk, upon his face. He knew that there was nothing
dearer than the warmth of her lips upon his, and the gentle flutter of
her breast.
And so throughout the months of sweetbrier roses, and well into
berry-picking time, he sought Sally Ann by stealth upon the roof or in
the gloaming along the Bracken Lane. And on market days, when Mistress
MacIntosh was well occupied, he would venture into the kitchen for a
hasty kiss. But he had never said a word of marriage to Sally Ann, and
though at times she saw herself riding to the kirk in Skillymarnoe’s
phæton behind the dappled grays, she would push the picture away from
her, not daring to look upon its brightness. Nor did she grieve at
the thought that it might never be, but rather she held her happiness
breathlessly, as one might hold a gleaming bubble with spread fingers.
It was the evening of “Stookie Sunday” and the Gype had been to the kirk
to pray for drought to dry the grain, for this was the only occasion
when he put any faith in the Lord. He had hoped to overtake Sally Ann in
the Bracken Lane, but she was not at the kirk, and neither was Mistress
MacIntosh. This was more than unusual, it came nigh to being alarming,
and the Gype made sure that some mishap had come to young Sandy. So it
was with little caution that he sought Sally Ann in the kitchen.
“Yer brother?” he asked as he entered the door.
“Na,” said Sally Ann, understanding him. “It was the hens.”
“The hens?”
“Aye. They’re crop-bound. We fed them wi’ the oats left frae decoratin’
the kirk. My mither thinks it’s a visitation frae the Lord for stintin’
Him. We hae operated on sax o’ them wi’ Sandy’s razor. Five are doin’
fine, but this ane’s like t’ pass awa’!”
She put the basket with the drooping Black Minorca hen upon the table.
The Gype inspected it, fingering its faded comb soberly.
“Tell yer mither t’ put a drop o’ oil t’ keep the feathers frae stickin’.”
“Aye, she’s done that. Ye’d better awa’,” Sally Ann advised. “My mither’s
only at the hen hoose.”
“Come down the lane, then.”
“Na, I couldna an’ leave the hens.”
“Hens or no hens, I’ll no’ leave without a kiss.” He pressed her close,
and held her all the closer as she struggled, begging him to mind her
mother.
And then it was too late. Mistress MacIntosh stood in the doorway, a
wilting hen under either arm, her face as red as the combs upon their
heads.
“Fine work this on a Sabbath day! Fine wanton’s work! Standin’ there
haverin’ wi’ the scum o’ the earth while a hen worth eighteen pence is
like t’ pass awa’. Lord pity me that I brought the like o’ ye into the
world, ye wanton limmer.”
“Nae more o’ that!” cried the Gype. “Ye’ll no’ call wife o’ mine a wanton
limmer.”
“Wife o’ _yours_,” screamed Mistress MacIntosh derisively.
“Aye, just that,” said the Gype with furious calm. “Sally Ann, come wi’
me.”
“No’ a foot,” cried her mother. “Oot o’ my hoose, ye worthless prodigal,
afore I hae my sick laddie rise frae his bed t’ throw ye oot.”
“Sally Ann,” said the Gype, “I maun go for Sandy’s sake. Meet me in the
lane.”
“Niver!” cried Mistress MacIntosh.
“The lass has a tongue o’ her ain,” the Gype reminded her scathingly as
he went.
Sally Ann faced her mother, trembling, but there was something of new
strength in her blue eyes.
“Dinna glower at me,” cried her mother. “Tak’ yer sinful face oot o’ my
sight. Up t’ yer room, ye worthless besom!”
“I canna, mither, I maun meet him,” said Sally Ann in a voice so quiet
with certainty that Mistress MacIntosh floundered, incredulous.
“Ye defy yer ain mither? Oh, that I should live t’ see this day!” She set
the hens down hurriedly, not caring how they flopped helplessly on the
floor, and clutched the front of her bodice, gasping as she did when her
sinking spells were upon her.
Sally Ann regarded her with troubled eyes, but made no move toward her.
“Dinna hae a sinkin’ spell, mither,” she advised, “for I maun leave ye.”
“Devil tak’ my glib tongue,” thought the Gype as he went striding down
the lane. “What call had I t’ go proposin’ marriage? I’m no’ hankerin’
t’ be tied faster than a ram at shearin’ time. Forby that the lass never
looked for it. Never so much as said, ‘It maun be lonesome for ye at
Skillymarnoe.’ Never so much as mentioned that a hoose is na a hame
without a woman in it. Never even tried t’ sew a button or mend a sock
for me.”
No, he couldn’t blame the lass. She was not one to snare a lad with wiles
and glances. But it was not too late. He could pull in his horns again,
blame his hasty speech upon her mother, and keep away from Sally Ann.
Never see her again, that would be best.
Never see Sally Ann again? What havering was this? How could he live
without seeing Sally Ann? What would he do without her kisses at
gloaming? What could he do without her gentle glances? It was for Sally
Ann he hurried through the day with lightsome singing. It was for Sally
Ann he had painted the barn. How could he live without Sally Ann?
He looked yearningly along the lane. Why didn’t she come? He could not
bear this waiting. His heart was harried with the need to hold her. How
could she loiter so?
And then he saw her coming, her feet falling daintily upon the
moss-dappled path. How could she take such care in coming? How dally so?
He could not bear the space between them any longer, and so he ran to
meet her, stumbling in his eagerness, his face strained with the pain of
his need.
“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, sweeping her within his grasp. “I canna wait.
Say ye’ll have me. I ken I should hae asked ye afore. I ken I should hae
asked ye different—Sally Ann!”
Sally Ann could not speak. She was full of shame that she had ever
doubted him. He had meant this from the first! He had been courting her
for marriage, and she had thought he held her lightly. She had given
him her kisses while she had doubted him. Oh, he must never know. He
must never know what a wanton heart was in her breast. She was so poor a
thing, how could he love her so? And from the full tide of her humility,
she cried, “How can ye want me for a wife, that none has ever sought
before?”
And the Gype replied—for this answer had come to him many times as he
wondered at his love for her: “It takes a man o’ taste t’ appreciate ye,
Sally Ann.”
And she was happy, not seeing that half the compliment was for himself.
THE END
FOOTNOTES
[1] A close-frilled cap.
[2] Without strength, worthless.
[3] Ask, particularly ask in marriage; proposal.
[4] One who rents a small portion of a farm from the farmer and gives his
services in exchange. The cotter’s wife also assists in the farm kitchen
and in the fields at harvest time, so a cotter’s wife must be strong.
[5] Field daisy.
[6] Very.
[7] Worthless, impudent girl.
[8] Every.
[9] A built in box for holding peats.
[10] Infant.
[11] Man.
[12] Scarecrow.
[13] A corruption of Geck, a term of derision, applied especially to one
who puts on airs.
[14] High hat.
[15] Something requiring careful attention, like a newly hatched chicken
under which a board is placed to keep its feet off the damp ground.
[16] Pinched, thin.
[17] Trunk.
[18] Worry.
[19] Witch-body, applied to anything that doesn’t use human reasoning.
[20] Nonsense, flattery.
[21] Careful, cautious, quiet.
[22] Off the straight, wrong, oblique.
[23] Shirt, vest.
[24] Broom made of heather.
[25] Dull-witted.
[26] Cry.
[27] Cheery.