"I kent it wad be a' richt."
As she stood before me--her face upturned, her eyes eager, I slipped an
arm about her, and would have drawn her to me, but she drew back.
"Dinna spoil it," she said--"maybe the morn"--and she smiled. "I want
to keep the wonder o' your first kiss till then: it's a kind o'
sacrament."
She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and her words tumbled over each
other.
"Love is magical. Since you kissed me I have wakened frae sleep: every
meenute has had rose-tipped wings: the silence sings for me, and the
moor wind plays a melody on the harp o' my hert. Can ye no' hear it?"
I would have answered as a lover should, but she continued: "No, no! Ye
canna hear it. I'm sure there maun hae been a woman wi' the shepherds
on the plains o' Palestine the nicht they heard the angels sing. Nae
man ever heard the angels sing till a woman telled him they were
singing. Men are deaf craturs."
"Mary," I cried, "I am not deaf. I hear the angels singing whenever you
speak"--and I seized her hands.
"Dinna talk havers," she answered, and raced off; but at the corner of
the house she turned and, poised on tip-toe, shadowy among the shadows,
she blew me a kiss with either hand.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*THE HIRED MAN*
There was nothing for me to do but lay to heart the advice of my friend
Jean. Mary's suggestion that I should offer my services to her father
took root in my mind, and next day I broached the matter to him. I
began by assuring him of my sense of indebtedness to him and his good
wife for all that they had done for me. Money I told him could not
repay him; whereat he shrugged his shoulders and made a noise in his
throat as though the very mention of such a thing hurt him.
Then I told him that one of two alternatives lay before me--either to
leave Daldowie and endeavour to make my way across the border, or to
stay on at the farm and try to repay by service the heavy debt under
which I lay. He heard all I had to say in silence, but when I had
finished he spoke:
"There's a lot o' places no' as guid as Daldowie. I couldna hear o' ye
leavin' us yet. Ye see, Jean--that's the wife--has ta'en an awfu' fancy
tae ye; and as for masel', I like a man aboot the hoose. A man like me
gets tired wi' naething but womenfolk cackling roon' him. I think wi' a
bit o' experience ye'd mak' no' a bad fairmer. When winter comes wi'
the snaw there's a lot o' heavy work to be done feedin' the nowt, forby
lookin' after the sheep. Last winter I lost half a score in a
snaw-drift, and that is mair than a man like me can afford in sic tryin'
times. I was ettlin' to hire a man in the back end o' the year; but if
you like to stop you can tak' his place. I think I could learn ye a
lot: and in the lang winter nichts me and you'll be able to ha'e some
guid sets to on the dambrod. But a word in your lug. If ye're stoppin'
on here ye'd better drap that English tongue o' yours, and learn to talk
like a civilised body. It'll be safer. I've noticed that when a
Scotsman loses his ain tongue, an' talks like an Englishman, he loses a
bit o' his Scots backbane. Maybe in your case the thing will work the
ither wey"--and he struck me heartily on the shoulder.
So the bargain was made, and I entered into the service of Andrew
Paterson of Daldowie and of Jean his wife. I was already the devoted
bond-slave of Mary.
Andrew announced our pact that evening as we sat round the fire.
"Jean," he said, "I've hired a man."
Her knitting needles clicked a little faster: "And where did ye get
him?" she asked. "I ha'e seen naebody aboot the steadin' the day, and
the hirin' fair is no' till October."
Out of the corner of my eyes I saw a smile on Mary's face.
"Wha dae ye think?" said Andra. "Bryden here has speired for the job,
and as he seems to ha'e the makin' o' a fairmer in him, I agreed to gi'e
him a try."
Jean laid her knitting in her lap. "Andra, are ye sure ye're daein'
richt?"
Involuntarily I started. Was Jean about to turn against me? But there
was wisdom in her question, for she knew her husband better than I did.
There was irritation in his voice:
"Of course I'm daein' richt, woman. It's like ye to question the wisdom
o' your man. He never does onything richt." He swung himself round on
the settle and crossed his knees angrily.
"But," returned Jean, "do ye no' see the risk ye're runnin'? Lag's
ridin' through the countryside, and what dae ye think he'll say if he
finds that a deserter is serving-man at Daldowie?"
"I ha'e thocht o' a' that, Jean," he replied. "He'll juist hae to keep
oot o' sicht when your godless frien' Lag is aboot."
His wife seemed about to raise further objections, but he silenced her:
"Haud yer tongue, Jean, and gang on wi' yer knittin'. My min's made up,
and I am no' gaun to be turned frae my ain course by a naggin' woman.
Let's hear nae mair o't." And then raising his voice he ended: "I'll be
maister in ma ain hoose, I tell ye."
This little passage of arms, planned by the shrewd wit of Jean, served
but to establish her husband in his purpose. The good wife picked up
her knitting again, and for a time there was no sound but the click of
her needles. Then, of a sudden, Andrew turned to Mary who, in the
semi-darkness, had stretched out her hand and touched mine gently and
said: "Mary, licht the cruise and bring the Book."
In this fashion I became a willing servant at Daldowie. The days passed
pleasantly. Andrew took a pride in his farm. "A Paterson," he would
say, "has farmed here since Flodden. Man, that was an awfu' thrashin'
you English gi'ed us yonder; but we've paid ye back tenfold. We sent
the Stuarts tae ye,"--and he would laugh heartily. The original little
parcel of land had, I learned, been a gift made to an Andrew Paterson
after that fateful combat, and each succeeding generation of his
descendants had with incessant toil sought to bring under cultivation a
few more acres of the unfruitful moor, until now Daldowie was a heritage
of which any man might be proud. The love of his land was a passion in
Andrew's blood.
My desire to make myself of use impressed him, and he taught me much
agricultural lore. I found, as I had long suspected, that under his
dour exterior there was much native shrewdness, and not a little pawky
humour. But of that gift he had not such a rich endowment as his wife.
In his silent way, he cherished a great affection for her, and though he
had never, in my hearing, expressed himself in any terms of endearment,
I knew that in his heart of hearts he regarded her as a queen among
women. Sometimes he would talk to me of the trials of the hill-men. Of
the justice of their cause he was absolutely convinced, and now and then
his devotion to it seemed to me to border on fanaticism. He could find
no good word to say for the powers that were arraigned against the men
of the Covenant, and once, in a burst of anger, he said:
"I ken I can trust the wife, but this colloguin' wi' Lag is a disgrace
to my hoose, and nae guid can come o't. She thinks that wi' him for a
frien' she's protectin' them she likes best, but I'm thinkin' the
Almichty canna be pleased, for what says the Book: 'Him that honoureth
Me will I honour,' and ye canna honour the Lord by feedin' ane o' His
worst enemies on guid farles o' oatcake--wi' butter forby. Hooever, ye
ken her weel enough to understaun' how thrawn she is, and ony word frae
me would only mak' her thrawner. Ye're no' mairrit yoursel', and I doot
ye ken nocht o' the ways o' women, but that's ane o' them."