DAVID AND HIS DAUGHTER
The instant he was gone, Kirsty went a step or two nearer to her
father, and, looking up in his face, said:
‘I saw Francie Gordon the day, father.’
‘Weel, lassie, I reckon that wasna ony ferly (_strange occurrence_)!
Whaur saw ye him?’
‘He cam to me o’ the Hornside, whaur I sat weyvin my stockin, ower the
bog on ’s powny--a richt bonny thing, and clever--a new ane he’s gotten
frae ’s mither. And it’s no the first time he’s been owre there to see
me sin’ he cam hame!’
‘Whatfor gaed he there? My door’s aye been open till ’s father’s son!’
‘He kenned whaur he was likest to see me: it was _me_ he wantit.’
‘He wantit you, did he? An’ he’s been mair nor ance efter ye?--Whatfor
didna ye tell me afore, Kirsty?’
‘We war bairns thegither, ye ken, father, and I never ance thoucht the
thing worth fashin ye aboot till the day. We’ve aye been used to
Francie comin and gaein! I never tellt my mither onything he said, and
I tell her a’thing worth tellin, and mony a thing forby. I aye leuch at
him as I wud at a bairn till the day. He spak straucht oot the day, and
I did the same, and angert him; and syne he angert me.’
‘And whatfor are ye tellin me the noo?’
‘’Cause it cam intil my heid ’at maybe it would be better--no ’at it
maks ony differ I can see.’
During this conversation Marion was washing the supper-things, putting
them away, and making general preparation for bed. She heard every
word, and went about her work softly that she might hear, never opening
her mouth to speak.
‘There’s something ye want to tell me and dinna like, lassie!’ said
David. ‘Gien ye be feart at yer father, gang til yer mither.’
‘Feart at my father! I wad be, gien I hed onything to be ashamet o’.
Syne I micht gang to my mither, I daur say--I dinna ken.’
‘Ye wud that, lassie. Fathers maun sometimes be fearsome to
lass-bairns!’
‘Whan I’m feart at you, father, I’ll be a gey bit on i’ the ill gait!’
returned Kirsty, with a solemn face, looking straight into her father’s
eyes.
‘Than it’ll never be, or I maun hae a heap to blame mysel for. I think
whiles, gien bairns kenned the terrible wyte their fathers micht hae
to dree for no duin better wi’ them, they wud be mair particlar to
haud straucht. I hae been ower muckle taen up wi’ my beasts and my
craps--mair, God forgie me! nor wi’ my twa bairns; though, he kens,
ye’re mair to me, the twa, than oucht else save the mither o’ ye!’
‘The beasts and the craps cudna weel du wi’ less; and there was aye oor
mither to see efter hiz!’
‘That’s true, lassie! I only houp it wasna greed at the hert o’ me! At
the same time, wha wud I be greedy for but yersels?--Weel, and what’s
it a’ aboot? What garred ye come to me aboot Francie? I’m some feart
for him whiles, noo ’at he’s sae muckle oot o’ oor sicht. The laddie’s
no by natur an ill laddie--far frae ’t! but it’s a sore pity he cudna
hae been a’ his father’s, and nane o’ him his mither’s!’
‘That wudna hae been sae weel contrived, I doobt!’ remarked Kirsty.
‘There wudna hae been the variety, I’m thinkin!’
‘Ye’re richt there, lass!--But what’s this aboot Francie?’
‘Ow naething, father, worth mentionin! The daft loon wud hae hed me
promise to merry him--that’s a’!’
‘The Lord preserve’s!--Aff han’?’
‘There’s no tellin what micht hae been i’ the heid o’ ’im: he didna win
sae far as to say that onygait!’
‘God forbid!’ exclaimed her father with solemnity, after a short pause.
‘I’m thinkin God’s forbidden langsyne!’ rejoined Kirsty.
‘What said ye til ’im, lassie?’
‘First I leuch at him--as weel as I can min’ the nonsense o’ ’t--and
ca’d him the gowk he was; and syne I sent him awa wi’ a flee in ’s lug:
hadna he the impidence to fa’ oot upo’ me for carin mair aboot Steenie
nor the likes o’ him! As gien ever _he_ cud come ’ithin sicht o’
Steenie!’
Her father looked very grave.
‘Are ye no pleased, father? I did what I thoucht richt.’
‘Ye cudna hae dune better, Kirsty. But I’m sorry for the callan, for eh
but I loed his father! Lassie, for his father’s sake I cud tak Francie
intil the hoose, and work for him as for you and Steenie--though it’s
little guid Steenie ever gets o’ me, puir sowl!’
‘Dinna say that, father. It wud be an ill thing for Steenie to hae
onybody but yersel to the father o’ ’im! A muckle pairt o’ the nicht he
wins ower in loein at you and his mother.’
‘And yersel, Kirsty.’
‘I’m thinkin I hae my share i’ the daytime.’
‘And hoo, think ye, gangs the lave o’ the nicht wi’ ’im?’
‘The bonny man has the maist o’ ’t, I dinna doobt, and what better cud
we desire for ’im!--But, father, gien Francie come back wi’ the same
tale--I dinna think he wull efter what I telled him, but he may--what
wud ye hae me say til ’im?’
‘Say what ye wull, lassie, sae lang as ye dinna lat him for a moment
believe there’s a grain o’ possibility i’ the thing. Ye see, Kirsty,--’
‘Ye dinna imagine, father, I cud for ae minute think itherwise aboot it
nor ye du yersel! Div I no ken ’at his father gied him in chairge to
you? and haena I therefore to luik efter him? Didna ye tell me a’ aboot
yer gran’ freen’, and hoo, and hoo lang ye had loed him? and didna that
mak Francie my business as weel’s yer ain? I’m verra sure his father
wud never appruv o’ ony gaeins on atween him and a lassie sic like’s
mysel; and fearna ye, father, but I s’ haud him weel ootby. No that
it’s ony tyauve (_struggle_) to me, though I aye likit Francie! Haena I
my ain Steenie?’
‘Glaidly wud I shaw Francie the ro’d to sic a wife as ye wud mak him,
my bonny Kirsty! But ye see clearly the thing itsel’s no to be thoucht
upon.--Eh, Kirsty, but it’s gran’ to an auld father’s hert to hear ye
tak yer pairt in his devours efter sic a wumanly fashion!’
‘Am I no yer ain lass-bairn, father? Whaur wud I be wi’ a father ’at
didna keep his word? and what less cud I du nor help ony man to keep
his word? Gien breach o’ the faimily-word cam throuw me, my life wud
gang frae me.--Wad ye hae me tell the laddie’s mither? I wudna like to
expose the folly o’ him, but gien ye think it necessar, I’ll gang the
morn’s mornin.’
‘I dinna think that wud be weel. It wad but raise a strife atween the
twa, ohn dune an atom o’ guid. She wud only rage at the laddie, and pit
him in sic a reid heat as wad but wald thegither him and his wull sae
’at they wud maist never come in twa again. And though ye gaed and
tauld her yer ain sel, my leddy wad lay a’ the wyte upo’ you nane the
less. There’s no rizzon, tap nor tae, i’ the puir body, and ye’re
naewise b’und to her farther nor to du richt by her.’
‘I’m glaid ye dinna want me to gang,’ answered Kirsty. ‘She carries
hersel that gran’ ’at ye’re maist driven to the consideration hoo
little she’s worth; and that’s no the richt speerit anent onybody God
thoucht worth makin.’