Her pointed little chin rose quickly, and she spoke rapidly: "You're
gaun away. Whatever for?"
"It is not my will," I said, "but need that urges me. Your mother, your
father, and, more than all, you have been kind to me--you found me in
sore straits and succoured me. My presence at Daldowie means danger to
you all, and for your sakes I must go."
Pallor swept over her face: the red berries at her breast moved
tremulously.
"Danger," she said--"the hill-folk think little o' danger: that needna'
drive ye away. Is there nae ither reason?"
Before I could speak she continued: "I doot there's some English lassie
waiting for ye ayont the Border," and turning her face away from me she
whispered, "It maun e'en be as ye will."
"Mary," I said, "you wrong me. If you could read my heart you would
know what I suffer. I hate to go. I am leaving friendship and love
behind me----"
I paused, but she did not speak. "Before God," I said, "I shall never
forget Daldowie, and--you."
Her hands were folded in her lap--and I took them gently in mine.
"Our lives have touched each other so delicately, that I shall never
forget you. Dearest, I love you."
She uttered a little startled cry and drew her hands away. "Love you
with all the fire of my heart," I said, "and if I succeed in escaping
across the border I shall dream always of the day when I may come back
and ask you to be my wife. Mary--tell me--have you a little corner in
your heart for me?--You have had the whole of mine since first you spoke
to me."
Her face was a damask rose: her lips curved in a smile, and a dimple
danced alluringly on her left cheek: her eyes were lit as though a lamp
were hidden in their depths, but all she said was,--"I daur say I can
promise ye that."
I drew her towards me and took her, gently resisting, into my arms. "O
Mary mine," I whispered. Her hand stole up and gently stroked my hair,
and as she nestled to me I could feel a wild bird fluttering in her
breast. "I love you, Mary," and bending over her dear face I kissed her
where the dimple still lingered.
"Sweetheart," she murmured, as her arms closed about my neck, and her
lips touched mine.
The old earth ceased to be: heaven was about us, and above us a high
lark sang:--my love was in my arms.
A little tremor, as when a leaf is stirred, stole over her. I held her
close, and bent to look at her. Twin tears glistened on her eyelids.
"Flower o' the Heather," I whispered, "little sweetheart--what ails
you?"
She took a long breath--broken like a sigh.
"I am feared," she said.
"Afraid? dearest, of what?"
Her lips were raised to my ear.
"Afraid o' love," she whispered: "for when you kissed me a wee bird flew
into my heart and whispered that nae woman ever loved without sorrow."
"Dearest," I said. But she stopped me, and continued:--"But I wouldna
lose the love for a' the sorrow that may lie in its heart--for it's the
sorrow that makes the love worth while."
"My own Mary," I whispered, "in my arms no sorrow shall ever touch you.
I will protect you!"
"My love, my love," she murmured brokenly, "ye canna thwart God."
So still she lay that I could hear the beating of my heart. I looked at
her sweet face half hidden against my coat. There was upon it a beauty
that I had never seen before. Reverence that was half awe swept over
me, and I bowed my head, for I had seen into the holy place of a woman's
soul.
Suddenly she let her arms fall from my neck, and freeing herself gently
from my embrace she seated herself by my side.
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I ha'e spoilt your happy moments wi' my
tears. But they're no tears o' sorrow: they're juist the joy bubbling
up frae a heart ower fu'. I can let ye go noo--since I ken ye love me.
Love can aye surrender, selfishness aye clings."
"Are you sending me away, Mary?"
"Oh no! No! No! It's because I love you I wad ha'e you go. You're in
danger here, and I ken--oh, I ken ye'll come back."
"And now," I answered proudly, "I do not wish to go. I cannot go."
"But you're in danger here. If they find you they'll kill you."
"Beloved," I whispered, "to leave you now would be worse than death."
She buried her head on my shoulder, and sat silent. The door had swung
back and shown us the kingdom of love with its laughing meadows and
enchanted streams. But amid all that beauty each of us had caught a
glimpse of the shadow that lay across our lives.
Suddenly she lifted her face and gazed at me with troubled, wistful
eyes. "I ken ye ought to go: but an ye winna it's no for me to send
you. My heart cries for you, and," she added slowly, "I've got a notion.
About this time o' year my faither aye hires a man. Ye could ha'e the
place for the askin'. Ye're strong enough noo to help him, and naebody
would ever jalouse that the hired man at Daldowie was Trooper Bryden o'
Lag's Horse."
Her ready wit had found the way out.
"Dear little witch," I cried, and kissed her fragrant hair--"You have
brought light into the darkness. I shall offer myself to your father,
and by faithful service show my gratitude: but more than that I shall
ask him for you."
Her eyes shone. "Speir at him for the place," she said, "and let the
second question bide till ye've spoken to mither. Faither loves me--I
ken weel: but he's dour and sometimes contrairy, and winna understand.
But mither's heart is young yet. She'll help us."
"O winsome little wiseacre," I whispered, and held my open arms out to
her.
She sprang up. "I maun leave you," she said. "I want to be alane--to
tell the flowers and the birds my secret, but maist o' a' to tell it
ower and ower again to masel'. I'll see ye by and by--and maybe ere
then ye'll ha'e talked to mither."
She turned and walked lightly away, crooning a song. I watched her
longingly as she went, palpitating with life and love, an angel of
beauty, the sun on her hair.
For long I sat in a delightful reverie, then I rose and made my way
slowly to the house.
Mary loved me!--the moor winds sang for me. They knew our secret.
I found Jean at her spinning-wheel, alone in the kitchen. The moment
seemed opportune, so, without any preface, I opened my heart to her.
"You must have seen," I said, "that Mary and I are very warm friends.
Indeed we are more than friends, for we love each other, and I would
make her my wife; but she will not promise without your consent and her
father's. Dare we hope for it?"
She stopped her spinning and took a long breath. "So that's the way
o't," she said. "I thocht as muckle, and I'm no' ill-pleased, for I
like ye weel. But I dinna ken aboot her faither. He's a queer man,
Andra. If ye speir at him he'll want to ken if ye are ane o' the elect,
and by your answer ye'll stand or fa'.
"Weel dae I mind his ongoin's when he speired me. A Scotsman's aye
practical even in his love-making: but Andra was waur than practical, he
was theological. But he couldna help it--that's aye been his weakness.
As a maitter o' fact maist Scotsmen are as fu' o' sentiment as an egg is
fu' o' meat. But ye've to crack their shell afore ye fin' that oot.
An' they'll watch ye dinna. For they're feared that if ye fin' they're
saft i' the hert ye micht think they were saft i' the heid as weel.
Weel, as I was sayin', he had been courtin' me for maybe a twalmonth.
No that he ever talked love--but he would drap into my step-faither's
hoose o' a nicht maybe twice a week, and crack aboot horses and craps,
and sheep, and kye, tae the auld man, and gi'e me a 'Guid E'en' in the
bye-goin'. But aince I catched him keekin' at me through his fingers
when we were on our knees at the worship--and though I was keekin' at
him mysel' I never let on. But I thocht tae mysel' he was beginnin' to
tak' notice o' ane o' the blessings o' the Lord--and so it turned oot,
for maybe a month later he brocht me a bonnie blue ribbon frae Dairy;
and he cam' to me in the stack-yaird and offered it tae me, kind o'
sheepish-like. It was a bonnie ribbon, and I was awfu' pleased; and
first I tied it roon my neck, and then I fastened it among my hair. And
he looked on, gey pleased-like himsel': and then a kind o' cloud cam'
ower his face and he said, 'Eh, Jean, ye maunna set your affections on
the gauds o' this earth.' I was that angry that I nearly gi'ed him back
the ribbon; but it was ower bonnie.
"Weel, a week or twa went by, and ae nicht in the gloamin' I met him on
the road--accidental like. He was gey quate for a time, then he laid a
haun' on my airm and said, very solemn: 'Jean, I love ye: are ye ane o'
the elect?' My heart gi'ed a big loup, for I guessed what was comin',
and juist to gain time I answered, 'I'm no' sure, Andra,' says I, 'but I
hope sae.' 'Oh, but ye maun be sure; ye maun be sure. Hope is no'
enough,'--and he turned on his heel and went down the road again. Weel,
I went back tae the hoose a wee bit sorry, for I liked him weel; and it
seemed tae me I had frichtened him awa. But that nicht in my bed I
thocht things ower, and said tae mysel'--'Jean, my lass, it's a serious
step gettin' married, but it's a lot mair serious remainin' single, and
guid young men are scarce, and you are a tocherless lass. What are ye
gaun tae dae?' So I worked oot a plan in my heid. After maybe a week,
Andra cam' back for a crack wi' my step-faither, and seein' him comin'
up the road I went oot tae meet him. He was a wee blate at the first,
but I helped him oot wi't. 'Andra,' says I, 'dae ye mind what ye said
the last nicht ye were here?' 'I do, Jean,' says he. 'Weel,' says I,
'I've been thinkin' very hard since then. Ye believe, I hope, in
fore-ordination?' 'Certainly,' says he, 'Predestination is a cardinal
doctrine.' 'I ken,' I said, 'and it was fore-ordained that you should
tell me that you lo'e me. You were fore-ordained tae lo'e me: I was
fore-ordained tae lo'e you--and I like ye weel: and if ye let my puir
human uncertainty as tae my election stand in the way, ye are fleein' in
the face o' Providence wha fore-ordained that we should love each
other.' He was a bit ta'en aback, I could see; for he stood quate for a
while. Then he turned and said, "I daurna dae that: I daurna. Jean,
will ye tak' me?' 'It was fore-ordained that ye should ask me that
question,' I answered, 'and it was fore-ordained that I should say "Ay."
I'll be a guid wife tae ye, Andra.' And I ha'e been, though even yet
he's no' sure if I'm ane o' the elect or no.
"Whiles he thinks I am. I mind the morning after Dauvit was born--I was
ane o' the elect then. He sat by the bedside, takin' keeks every noo
and then at the wee lamb sleepin' in the fold o' my airm, and repeatin'
lang screeds oot o' the Song o' Solomon, wi' the love-licht in his e'e,
till the howdie turned him oot, sayin' it was no' seemly for an elder o'
the kirk tae be using sic holy words tae a mere woman. A mere woman
forsooth! and me a mither! She was a barren stock hersel', ye see.
"But I'm haverin' awa--and no' answerin' your question. Let things bide
a wee as they are. Andra thinks a lot o' ye; but he has got tae ken ye
better afore he'll judge ye tae be a fit husband for Mary. I'll tell ye
when the time is ripe tae speir at him. Meantime the lassie winna rin
awa frae ye; and if ye'll tak' the advice o' an auld woman, there's
twice as muckle joy in the courtin' days as there is in the level years
o' wedded life; sae mak' the maist o' them, and the Lord bless ye
baith."
My little sweetheart had been right. Her mother understood.
Later I sought her, and found her alone in the gloaming--the lover's
hour.
"And what does mither say?" she asked.