On the morning of a certain Saturday, therefore, which day of the week
he always made a holiday, he resolved to let her know without further
delay that he loved her; and the rather that on the next day he was
engaged to preach for a brother clergyman at Deemouth, and felt that,
his fate with Maggie unknown, his mind would not be cool enough for him
to do well in the pulpit. But neither disappointment nor a fresh love
had yet served to set him free from his old vanity or arrogance: he
regarded his approaching declaration as about to confer great honour
as well as favour upon the damsel of low estate, about to be invited
to share in his growing distinction. In his late disappointment he had
asked a lady to descend a little from her social pedestal, in the belief
that he offered her a greater than proportionate counter-elevation; and
now in his suit to Maggie he was almost unable to conceive a possibility
of failure. When she would have shown him into the kitchen, he took
her by the arm, and leading her to the _ben-end_, at once began his
concocted speech. Scarcely had she gathered his meaning, however, when
he was checked by her startled look.
“And what wad ye hae me dee wi’ my bairn?” she asked instantly, without
sign of perplexity, smiling on the little one as at some absurdity in
her arms rather than suggested to her mind.
But the minister was sufficiently in love to disregard the unexpected
indication. His pride was indeed a little hurt, but he resisted any show
of offence, reflecting that her anxiety was not altogether an unnatural
one.
“Oh, we shall easily find some experienced mother,” he answered, “who
will understand better than you even how to take care of him!”
“Na, na!” she rejoined. “I hae baith a father and a wean to luik efter;
and that’s aboot as muckle as I’ll ever be up til!”
So saying, she rose and carried the little one up to the room her father
now occupied, nor cast a single glance in the direction of her would-be
lover.
Now at last he was astonished. Could it mean that she had not understood
him? It could not be that she did not appreciate his offer! Her devotion
to the child was indeed absurdly engrossing, but that would soon come
right! He could have no fear of such a rivalry, however unpleasant at
the moment! That little vagrant to come between him and the girl he
would make his wife!
He glanced round him: the room looked very empty! He heard her
oft-interrupted step through the thin floor: she was lavishing caresses
on the senseless little animal! He caught up his hat, and with a flushed
face went straight to the soutar where he sat at work.
“I have come to ask you, Mr. MacLear, if you will give me your daughter
to be my wife!” he said.
“Ow, sae that’s it!” returned the soutar, without raising his eyes.
“You have no objection, I hope?” continued the minister, finding him
silent.
“What says she hersel? Ye comena to me first, I reckon!”
“She said, or implied at least, that she could not leave the child. But
she cannot mean that!”
“And what for no?—There’s nae need for me to objeck!”
“But I shall soon persuade her to withdraw that objection!”
“Then I should _hae_ objections—mair nor ane—to put to the fore!”
“You surprise me! Is not a woman to leave father and mother and cleave
to her husband?”
“Ow ay—sae be the woman is his wife! Than lat nane sun’er them!—But
there’s anither sayin, sir, that I doobt may hae something to dee wi’
Maggie’s answer!”
“And what, pray, may that be?”
“That man or woman must leave father and mother, wife and child, for the
sake o’ the Son o’ Man.”
“You surely are not papist enough to think that means a minister is not
to marry?”
“Not at all, sir; but I doobt that’s what it’ll come til atween you and
Maggie!”
“You mean that she will not marry?”
“I mean that she winna merry _you_, sir.”
“But just think how much more she could do for Christ as the minister’s
wife!”
“I’m ’maist convinced she wad coont merryin you as tantamount to refusin
to lea’ a’ for the Son o’ Man.”
“Why should she think that?”
“Because, sae far as I see, she canna think that _ye_ hae left a’ for
_him_.”
“Ah, that is what you have been teaching her! She does not say that of
herself! You have not left her free to choose!”
“The queston never came up atween’s. She’s perfecly free to tak her ain
gait—and she kens she is!—Ye dinna seem to think it possible she
sud tak _his_ wull raither nor yours!—that the love o’ Christ should
constrain her ayont the love offert her by Jeames Bletherwick!—We _hae_
conversed aboot ye, sir, but niver differt!”
“But allowing us—you and me—to be of different opinions on some
points, must that be a reason why she and I should not love one
another?”
“No reason whatever, sir—if ye can and do: _that_ point would be
already settlet. But ye winna get Maggie to merry ye sae long as she
disna believe ye loe her Lord as well as she loes him hersel. It’s no
a common love that Maggie beirs to her Lord; and gien ye loed her wi’ a
luve worthy o’ her, ye would see that!”
“Then you will promise me not to interfere?”
“I’ll promise ye naething, sir, excep to do my duty by her—sae far as
I understan’ what that duty is. Gien I thoucht—which the God o’ my life
forbid!—that Maggie didna lo’e him as weel at least as I lo’e him, I
would gang upo’ my auld knees til her, to entreat her to loe him wi’ a’
her heart and sowl and stren’th and min’;—and whan I had done that, she
micht merry wha she wad—hangman or minister: no a word would I say!
For trouble she maun hae, and trouble she wull get—I thank my God, who
giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not!”
“Then I am free to do my best to win her?”
“Ye are, sir; and mair—afore the morn’s mornin, I winna pass a word wi’
her upo the subjeck.”
“Thank you, sir,” returned the minister, and took his leave.
“A fine lad! a fine lad!” said the soutar aloud to himself, as
he resumed the work for a moment interrupted,—“but no clear—no
crystal-clear—no clear like the Son o’ Man!”
He looked up, and saw his daughter in the doorway.
“No a word, lassie!” he cried. “I’m no for ye this meenute.—No a word
to me aboot onything or onybody the day, but what’s absolute necessar!”
“As ye wull! father,” rejoined Maggie.—“I’m gaein oot to seek auld
Eppy; she was intil the baker’s shop a meenute ago!—The bairnie’s
asleep.”
“Vera weel! Gien I hear him, I s’ atten’ til ’im,” answered the soutar.
“Thank ye, father,” returned Maggie, and left the house.
But the minister, having to start that same afternoon for Deemouth, and
feeling it impossible, things remaining as they were, to preach at his
ease, had been watching the soutar’s door: he saw it open and Maggie
appear. For a moment he flattered himself she was coming to look for
him, in order to tell him how sorry she was for her late behaviour to
him. But her start when first she became aware of his presence, did not
fail, notwithstanding his conceit, to satisfy him that such was not her
intent. He made haste to explain his presence.
“I’ve been waiting all this time on the chance of seeing you, Margaret!”
he said. “I am starting within an hour or so for Deemouth, but could not
bear to go without telling you that your father has no objection to my
saying to you what I please. He means to have a talk with you to-morrow
morning, and as I cannot possibly get back from Deemouth before Monday,
I must now express the hope that he will not succeed in persuading you
to doubt the reality of my love. I admire your father more than I can
tell you, but he seems to hold the affections God has given us of small
account compared with his judgment of the strength and reality of them.”
“Did he no tell ye I was free to do or say what I liked?” rejoined
Maggie rather sharply.
“Yes; he did say something to that effect.”
“Then, for mysel, and i’ the name o’ my father, I tell ye, Maister
Bletherwick, I dinna care to see ye again.”
“Do you mean what you say, Margaret?” rejoined the minister, in a voice
that betrayed not a little genuine emotion.
“I do mean it,” she answered.
“Not if I tell you that I am both ready and willing to take the child
and bring him up as my own?”
“He wouldna _be_ yer ain!”
“Quite as much as yours!”
“Hardly,” she returned, with a curious little laugh. “But, as I daur say
my father tellt ye, I canna believe ye lo’e God wi’ a’ yer hert.”
“Dare you say that for yourself, Margaret?”
“No; but I do want to love God wi’ my whole hert. Mr. Bletherwick, are
ye a rael Christian? Or are ye sure ye’re no a hypocreet? I wad like to
ken. But I dinna believe ye ken yersel!”
“Well, perhaps I do not. But I see there is no occasion to say more!”
“Na, nane,” answered Maggie.
He lifted his hat, and turned away to the coach-office.