"My name's Thomas Crann. I'm a stonemason. Speir at Robert Bruce's chop, and they'll direc ye to whaur I bide. Ye may come the morn's nicht, and welcome. Can ye sup parritch?"
"Ay, weel that."
"My Jean's an extrornar han' at parritch. I only houp puir Esau had half as guid for's birthricht. Ye'll hae a drappy wi' me?"
"Wi' a' my hert," answered Cupples.
And here their ways diverged.
When he reached home, he asked Annie about Thomas. Annie spoke of him in the highest terms, adding,
"I'm glaid ye like him, Mr Cupples."
"I dinna think, wi' sic an opingon o' 'm, it can maitter muckle to you whether I like him or no," returned Mr Cupples, looking at her quizzically.
"Na, nae muckle as regairds him. But it says weel for you, ye ken, Mr
Cupples," replied Annie archly.
Mr Cupples laughed good-humouredly, and said,
"Weel, I s' gang and see him the morn's nicht, ony gait."
And so he did. And the porridge and the milk were both good.
"This is heumble fare, Mr Cupples," said Thomas.
"It maitters little compairateevely what a man lives upo'," said Cupples sententiously, "sae it be first-rate o' 'ts ain kin'. And this is first-rate."
"Tak' a drappy mair, sir."
"Na, nae mair, I thank ye."
"They'll be left, gin ye dinna."
"Weel, sen' them ower to Mr Bruce," said Cupples, with a sly wink. "I s' warran' he'll coup them ower afore they sud be wastit. He canna bide waste."
"Weel, that's a vertue. The Saviour himsel' garred them gaither up the fragments."
"Nae doobt. But I'm feared Bruce wad hae coontit the waste by hoo mony o' the baskets gaed by his door. I'm surprised at ye, Mr Crann, tryin' to defen' sic a meeserable crater, jist 'cause he gangs to your kirk."
"Weel, he is a meeserable crater, and I canna bide him. He's jist a Jonah in oor ship, an Achan in oor camp. But I sudna speyk sae to ane that's no a member."
"Never ye min'. I'm auld eneuch to hae learned to haud my tongue. But we'll turn till a better subjec'. Jist tell me hoo ye made Alec peril's life for conscience sake. Ye dinna burn fowk here for nae freely haudin' by the shorter Carritchis, do ye?"
And hereupon followed the story of the flood.
Both these men, notwithstanding the defiance they bore on their shields, were of the most friendly and communicative disposition. So soon as they saw that a neighbour was trustworthy, they trusted him. Hence it is not marvellous that communication should have been mutual. Cupples told Thomas in return how he had come to know Alec, and what compact had arisen between them. Thomas, as soon as he understood Mr Cupples's sacrifice, caught the delicate hand in his granite grasp -like that with which the steel anvil and the stone block held Arthur's sword -and said solemnly,
"Ye hae done a great deed, which winna gang wantin' its reward. It canna hae merit, but it maun be pleesant in His sicht. Ye hae baith conquered sin i' yersel, and ye hae turned the sinner frae the error o' his ways."
"Hoots!" interrupted Cupples, "do ye think I was gaun to lat the laddie gang reid-wud to the deevil, ohn stud in afore 'm and cried Hooly!"
After this the two were friends, and met often. Cupples went to the missionars again and again, and they generally walked away together.
"What gart ye turn frae the kirk o' yer fathers, and tak to a conventicle like that, Thomas?" asked Mr Cupples one evening.
"Ye hae been to them baith, and I wad hae thocht ye wad hae kent better nor to speir sic a question," answered Thomas.
"Ay, ay. But what gart ye think o' 't first?"
"Weel, I'll tell ye the haill story. Whan I was a callan, I took the play to mysel' for a week, or maybe twa, and gaed wi' a frien' i' the same trade's mysel', to see what was to be seen alang a screed o' the sea-coast, frae toon to toon. My compaingon wasna that gude at the traivellin'; and upo' the Setterday nicht, there we war in a public-hoose, and him no able to gang ae fit further, for sair heels and taes. Sae we bude to bide still ower the Sawbath, though we wad fain hae been oot' o' the toon afore the kirk began. But seein' that we cudna, I thocht it wad be but dacent to gang to the kirk like ither fowk, and sae I made mysel' as snod as I could, and gaed oot. And afore I had gane mony yairds, I cam upo' fowk gaein to the kirk. And sae I loot the stream carry me alang wi' 't, and gaed in and sat doon, though the place wasna exackly like a kirk a'thegither. But the minister had a gift o' prayer and o' preaching as weel; and the fowk a' sang as gin't was pairt o' their business to praise God, for fear he wad tak it frae them and gie't to the stanes. Whan I cam oot, and was gaein quaietly back to the public, there cam first ae sober-luikin man up to me, and he wad hae me hame to my denner; and syne their cam an auld man, and efter that a man that luikit like a sutor, and ane and a' o' them wad hae me hame to my denner wi' them -for no airthly rizzon but that I was a stranger. But ye see I cudna gang 'cause my frien' was waitin' for his till I gaed back. Efter denner, I speirt at the landlady gin she cud tell me what they ca'd themsels, the fowk 'at gathered i' that pairt o' the toon; and says she, 'I dinna ken what they ca' them- they're nae customers o' mine -but I jist ken this, they're hard-workin' fowk, kind to ane anither. A'body trusts their word. Gif ony o' them be sick, the rest luiks efter them till they're better; and gin ony o' them happens to gang the wrang gait, there's aye three or four o' them aboot him, till they get him set richt again. 'Weel,' says I, 'I dinna care what they ca' them; but gin ever I jine ony kirk, that s' be the kirk.' Sae, efter that, whan ance I had gotten a sure houp, a rael grun' for believin' that I was ane o' the called and chosen, I jist jined mysel' to them that sud be like them -for they ca'd them a' Missionars."
"Is that lang sin syne?"
"Ay, it's twenty year noo."
"I thocht as muckle. I doobt they hae fared like maist o' the new fashions."
"Hoo that?"
"Grown some auld themsel's. There's a feow signs o' decrepitude, no to say degeneracy, amo' ye, isna there?"
"I maun alloo that. At the first, things has a kin' o' a swing that carries them on. But the sons an' the dochters dinna care sae muckle aboot them as the fathers and mithers. Maybe they haena come throw the hards like them."
"And syne there'll be ane or twa cruppen in like that chosen vessel o' grace they ca' Robert Bruce. I'm sure he's eneuch to ruin ye i' the sicht o' the warl', hooever you and he may fare at heid-quarters, bein' a' called and chosen thegither."
"For God's sake, dinna think that sic as him gies ony token o' being ane o' the elec."
"Hoo wan he in than? They say ye're unco' particular. The Elec sud ken an elec."
"It's the siller, man, that blin's the een o' them that hae to sit in jeedgment upo' the applicants. The crater professed, and they war jist ower willin' to believe him."
"Weel, gin that be the case, I dinna see that ye're sae far aheid o' fowk that disna mak' sae mony pretensions."
"Indeed, Mr Cupples, I fully doobt that the displeesur o' the Almichty is restin' upo' oor kirk; and Mr Turnbull, honest man, appears to feel the wacht o' 't. We hae mair than ae instance i' the Scriptur o' a haill community sufferin' for the sin o' ane."
"Do ye ken ony instance o' a gude man no bein' able to win in to your set?"
"Ay, ane, I think. There was a fule body that wantit sair to sit doon wi' 's. But what cud we do? We cudna ken whether he had savin' grace or no, for the body cudna speyk that a body cud unnerstan' him?"
"And ye didna lat him sit doon wi' ye?"
"Na. Hoo cud we?"
"The Lord didna dee for him, did he?"
"We cudna tell."
"And what did the puir cratur do?"
"He grat" (wept).
"And hoo cam' ye to see that ye wad hae been a' the better o' a wee mair pooer to read the heart?"
"Whan the cratur was deein', the string o' his tongue, whether that string lay in his mou', or in his brain, was lousened, and he spak' plain, and he praised God."
"Weel, I can_not_ see that your plan, haudin' oot innocents that lo'e Him, and lattin in thieves that wad steal oot o' the Lord's ain bag- gie them a chance- can be an impruvment upo' the auld fashion o' settin' a man to judge himsel', and tak the wyte o' the jeedgment upo' 's ain shouthers."
CHAPTER LXXXI
Annie began to perceive that it was time for her to go, partly from the fact that she was no longer wanted so much, and partly from finding in herself certain conditions of feeling which she did not know what to do with.
"Annie's coming back to you in a day or two, Mr Bruce," said Mrs Forbes, having called to pay some of her interest, and wishing to prepare the way for her return. "She has been with me a long time, but you know she was ill, and I could not part with her besides."
"Weel, mem," answered Bruce, "we'll be verra happy to tak' her hame again, as sune's ye hae had a' the use ye want o' her."
He had never assumed this tone before, either to Mrs Forbes or with regard to Annie. But she took no notice of it.
Both Mr and Mrs Bruce received the girl so kindly that she did not know what to make of it. Mr Bruce especially was all sugar and butter -rancid butter of course. When she went up to her old rat-haunted room, her astonishment was doubled. For the holes in floor and roof had been mended; the sky-light was as clean as glass a hundred years old could be; a square of carpet lay in the middle of the floor; and cheque-curtains adorned the bed. She concluded that these luxuries had been procured for Mr Cupples, but could not understand how they came to be left for her.
Nor did the consideration shown her decrease after the first novelty of her return had worn off; and altogether the main sources of her former discomfort had ceased to flow. The baby had become a sweet-tempered little girl; Johnnie was at school all day; and Robert was a comparatively well-behaved, though still sulky youth. He gave himself great airs to his former companions, but to Annie he was condescending. He was a good student, and had the use of the room for a study.
Robert Bruce the elder had disclosed his projects to his heir, and he had naturally declined all effort for their realization. But he began at length to observe that Annie had grown very pretty; and then he thought it would be a nice thing to fall in love with her, since, from his parents' wishes to that end, she must have some money. Annie, however, did not suspect anything, till, one day, she overheard the elder say to the younger,
"Ye dinna push, man. Gang benn to the chop and get a cnottie o' reid candy-sugar, and gie her that the neist time ye see her her lane. The likes o' her kens what that means. And gin she tak's 't frae ye, ye may hae the run o' the drawer. It's worth while, ye ken. Them 'at winna saw winna reap."
From that moment she was on her guard. Nor did she give the youth a chance of putting his father's advice into operation.
Meantime Alec got better and better, went out with Mr Cupples in the gig, ate like an ogre, drank like a hippopotamus, and was rapidly recovering his former strength. As he grew better, his former grief did draw nearer, but such was the freshness of his new life, that he seemed to have died and risen again like Lazarus, leaving his sorrow behind him in the grave, to be communed with only in those dim seasons when ghosts walk.
One evening over their supper, he was opposing Mr Cupples's departure for the twentieth time. At length the latter said:
"Alec, I'll bide wi' ye till the neist session upon ae condition."
"What is that, Mr Cupples?" said Mrs Forbes. "I shall be delighted to know it."
"Ye see, mem, this young rascal here made a fule o' 'msel' last session and didna pass; and -"
"Let bygones be bygones, if you please, Mr Cupples, said Mrs Forbes pleasantly.
"'Deed no, mem. What's the use o' byganes but to learn frae them hoo to meet the bycomes? Ye'll please to hear me oot; and gin Alec doesna like to hear me, he maun jist sit and hear me."
"Fire away, Mr Cupples," said Alec.
"I will. -For them that didna pass i' the en' o' the last session, there's an examination i' the beginnin' o' the neist -gin they like to stan' 't. Gin they dinna, they maun gang throu the same classes ower again, and stan' the examination at the end -that is, gin they want a degree; and that's a terrible loss o' time for the start. Noo, gin Alec'll set to wark like a man, I'll help him a' that I can; and by the gatherin' again, he'll be up wi' the lave o' the fleet. Faith! I'll sit like Deith i' the spectre-bark, and blaw intil his sails a' that I can blaw. Maybe ye dinna ken that verse i' The Rhyme o' the Ancient Mariner? It was left oot o' the later editions:
'A gust of wind sterte up behind,
And whistled through his bones;
Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth,
Half-whistles and half-groans.'
There! that's spicy -for them 'at likes ghaistry."
That very day Alec resumed. Mr Cupples would not let him work a moment after he began to show symptoms of fatigue. But the limit was moved further and further every day, till at length he could work four hours. His tutor would not hear of any further extension, and declared he would pass triumphantly.
The rest of the summer-day they spent in wandering about, or lying in the grass, for it was a hot and dry summer, so that the grass was a very bed of health. Then came all the pleasures of the harvest. And when the evenings grew cool, there were the books that Mr Cupples foraged for in Glamerton, seeming to find them by the scent.
And Mr Cupples tried to lead Alec into philosophical ways of regarding things; for he had just enough of religion to get some good of philosophy -which itself is the religion of skeletons.
"Ye see," he would say, "it's pairt o' the machine. What a body has to do is to learn what pinion or steam-box, or piston, or muckle water-wheel he represents, and stick to that, defyin' the deevil, whase wark is to put the machine out o' gear. And sae he maun grin' awa', and whan Deith comes, he'll say, as Andrew Wylie did -'Weel run, little wheelie!' and tak' him awa' wi' him some gait or ither, whaur, maybe, he may mak' choice o' his ain machine for the neist trial."
"That's some cauld doctrine, Mr Cupples," Alec would say.
"Weel," he would return with a smile, "gang to yer frien' Thamas Crann, and he'll gie ye something a hantle better. That's ane o' the maist extrornar men I ever made acquantance wi'. He'll gie ye divine philosophy -a dooms sicht better nor mine. But, eh! he's saft for a' that."
Annie would have got more good from these readings than either of them. Mr Cupples was puzzled to account for her absence, but came to see into the mother's defensive strategy, who had not yet learned to leave such things to themselves; though she might have known by this time that the bubbles of scheming mothers, positive or negative, however well-blown, are in danger of collapsing into a drop of burning poison. He missed Annie very much, and went often to see her, taking her what books he could. With one or other of these she would wander along the banks of the clear brown Glamour, now watching it as it subdued its rocks or lay asleep in its shadowy pools, now reading a page or two, or now seating herself on the grass, and letting the dove of peace fold its wings upon her bosom. Even her new love did not more than occasionally ruffle the flow of her inward river. She had long cherished a deeper love, which kept it very calm. Her stillness was always wandering into prayer; but never did she offer a petition that associated Alec's fate with her own; though sometimes she would find herself holding up her heart like an empty cup which knew that it was empty. She missed Tibbie Dyster dreadfully.
One day, thinking she heard Mr Cupples come upstairs, she ran down with a smile on her face, which fell off it like a withered leaf when she saw no one there but Robert the student. He, taking the smile for himself, rose and approached her with an ugly response on his heavy countenance. She turned and flew up again to her room; whither to her horror he followed her, demanding a kiss. An ordinary Scotch maiden of Annie's rank would have answered such a request from a man she did not like with a box on the ear, tolerably delivered; but Annie was too proud even to struggle, and submitted like a marble statue, except that she could not help wiping her lips after the salute. The youth walked away more discomfited than if she had made angry protestations, and a successful resistance.
Annie sat down and cried. Her former condition in the house was enviable to this. -That same evening, without saying a word to any one, for there was a curious admixture of outward lawlessness with the perfect inward obedience of the girl, she set out for Clippenstrae, on the opposite bank of the Wan Water. It was a gorgeous evening. The sun was going down in purple and crimson, divided by such bars of gold as never grew in the mines of Ophir. A faint rosy mist hung its veil over the hills about the sunset; and a torrent of red light streamed down the westward road by which she went. The air was soft, and the light sobered with a sense of the coming twilight. It was such an evening as we have, done into English, in the ninth Evening Voluntary of Wordsworth. And Annie felt it such. Thank God, is does not need a poetic education to feel such things. It needs a poetic education to say such things so, that another, not seeing, yet shall see; but that such a child as Annie should not be able to feel them, would be the one argument to destroy our belief in the genuineness of the poet's vision. For if so, can the vision have come from Nature's self? Has it not rather been evoked by the magic rod of the poet's will from his own chambers of imagery?
CHAPTER LXXXII
When she reached Clippenstrae, she found that she had been sent there. Her aunt came from the inner room as she opened the door, and she knew at once by her face that Death was in the house. For its expression recalled the sad vision of her father's departure. Her great-uncle, the little grey-headed old cottar in the Highland bonnet, lay dying -in the Highland bonnet still. He was going to "the land o' the Leal" (loyal), the true-hearted, to wait for his wife, whose rheumatism was no chariot of fire for swiftness, whatever it might be for pain, to bear her to the "high countries." He has had nothing to do with our story, save that once he made our Annie feel that she had a home. And to give that feeling to another is worth living for, and justifies a place in any story like mine.
Auntie Meg's grief appeared chiefly in her nose; but it was none the less genuine for that, for her nature was chiefly nose. She led the way into the death-room -it could hardly be called the sick-room -and Annie followed. By the bedside sat, in a high-backed chair, an old woman with more wrinkles in her face than moons in her life. She was perfectly calm, and looked like one, already half-across the river, watching her friend as he passed her towards the opposing bank. The old man lay with his eyes closed. As soon as he knew that he was dying he had closed his eyes, that the dead orbs might not stare into the faces of the living. It had been a whim of his for years. He would leave the house decent when his lease was up. And the will kept pressing down the lids which it would soon have no power to lift.
"Ye're come in time," said Auntie Meg, and whispered to the old woman -"My brither Jeames's bairn."
"Ay, ye're come in time, lassie," said the great-aunt kindly, and said no more.
The dying man heard the words, opened his eyes, glanced once at Annie, and closed them again.
"Is that ane o' the angels come?" he asked, for his wits were gone a little way before.
"Na, weel I wat!" said the hard-mouthed ungracious Meg. "It's Annie
Anderson, Jeames Anderson's lass."
The old man put his hand feebly from under the bed-clothes.
"I'm glad to see ye, dawtie," he said, still without opening his eyes.
"I aye wantit to see mair o' ye, for ye're jist sic a bairn as I wad
hae likit to hae mysel' gin it had pleased the Lord. Ye're a douce,
God-fearin' lassie, and He'll tak care o' his ain."
Here his mind began to wander again.
"Marget," he said, "is my een steekit, for I think I see angels?"
"Ay are they -close eueuch."
"Weel, that's verra weel. I'll hae a sleep noo."
He was silent for some time. Then he reverted to the fancy that Annie was the first of the angels come to carry away his soul, and murmured brokenly:
"Whan ye tak' it up, be carefu' hoo ye han'le 't, baith for it's some weyk, and for it's no ower clean, and micht blaud the bonnie white han's o' sic God-servers as yersels. I ken mysel there's ae spot ower the hert o' 't, whilk cam o' an ill word I gied a bairn for stealin' a neep. But they did steal a hantle that year. And there's anither spot upo' the richt han', whilk cam o' ower gude a bargain I made wi' auld John Thamson at Glass fair. And it wad never come oot wi' a' the soap and water- Hoots, I'm haverin'! It's upo' the han' o' my soul, whaur soap and water can never come. Lord, dight it clean, and I'll gie him 't a' back whan I see him in thy kingdom. And I'll beg his pardon forbye. But I didna chait him a'thegither. I only tuik mair nor I wad hae gi'en for the colt mysel'. And min' ye dinna lat me fa', gaein' throu the lift."
He went on thus, with wandering thoughts that in their wildest vagaries were yet tending homeward; and which when least sound, were yet busy with the wisest of mortal business—repentance. By degrees he fell into a slumber, and from that, about midnight, into a deeper sleep.
The next morning, Annie went out. She could not feel oppressed or sorrowful at such a death, and she would walk up the river to the churchyard where her father lay. The Wan Water was shallow, and therefore full of talk about all the things that were deep secrets when its bosom was full. Along great portions of its channel, the dry stones lay like a sea-beach. They had been swept from the hills in the torrents of its autumnal fury. The fish did not rise, for the heat made them languid. No trees sheltered them from the rays of the sun. Both above and below, the banks were rugged, and the torrent strong; but at this part the stream flowed through level fields. Here and there a large piece had cracked off and fallen from the bank, to be swept away in the next flood; but meantime the grass was growing on it, greener than anywhere else. The corn would come close to the water's edge and again sweep away to make room for cattle and sheep; and here and there a field of red clover lay wavering between shadow and shine. She went up a long way, and then crossing some fields, came to the churchyard. She did not know her father's grave, for no stone marked the spot where he sank in this broken earthy sea. There was no church: its memory even had vanished. It seemed as if the churchyard had swallowed the church as the heavenly light shall one day swallow the sun and the moon; and the lake of divine fire shall swallow death and hell. She lingered a little, and then set out on her slow return, often sitting down on the pebbles, sea-worn ages before the young river had begun to play with them.
Resting thus about half way home, she sang a song which she had found in her father's old song-book. She had said it once to Alec and Curly, but they did not care much for it, and she had not thought of it again till now.
"Ane by ane they gang awa'.
The gatherer gathers great an' sma'.
Ane by ane maks ane an' a'.
Aye whan ane is ta'en frae ane,
Ane on earth is left alane,
Twa in heaven are knit again.
Whan God's hairst is in or lang,
Golden-heidit, ripe, and thrang,
Syne begins a better sang."
She looked up, and Curly was walking through the broad river to where she sat.
"I kent ye a mile aff, Annie," he said.
"I'm glaid to see ye, Curly."
"I wonner gin ye'll be as glaid to see me the neist time, Annie."
Then Annie perceived that Curly looked earnest and anxious.
"What do ye say, Curly?" she returned.
"I hardly ken what I say, Annie, though I ken what I mean. And I dinna ken what I'm gaun to say neist, but they say the trowth will oot. I wiss it wad, ohn a body said it."
"What can be the maitter, Curly?" -Annie was getting frightened. -"It maun be ill news, or ye wadna luik like that."
"I doobt it'll be warst news to them that it's nae news till."
"Ye speyk in riddles, Curly."
He tried to laugh but succeeded badly, and stood before her, with downcast eyes, poking his thorn-stick into the mass of pebbles. Annie waited in silence, and that brought it out at last.
"Annie, when we war at the schule thegither, I wad hae gien ye onything. Noo I hae gien ye a' thing, and my hert to the beet (boot) o' the bargain."
"Curly!" said Annie, and said no more, for she felt as if her heart would break.
"I likit ye at the schule, Annie; but noo there's naething i' the warl but you."
Annie rose gently, came close to him, and laying a hand on his arm, said,
"I'm richt sorry for ye, Curly."
He half turned his back, was silent for a moment, and then said coldly, but in a trembling voice,
"Dinna distress yersel'. We canna help it."
"But what'll ye do, Curly?" asked Annie in a tone full of compassionate loving-kindness, and with her hand still on his arm. "It's sair to bide."
"Gude kens that. -I maun jist warstle throu' 't like mony anither. I'll awa' back to the pig-skin saiddle I was workin' at," said Curly, with a smile at the bitterness of his fate.
"It's no that I dinna like ye, Curly. Ye ken that. I wad do anything for ye that I cud do. Ye hae been a gude frien' to me."
And here Annie burst out crying.
"Dinna greit. The Lord preserve's! dinna greit. I winna say anither word aboot it. What's Curly that sic a ane as you sud greit for him? Faith! it's nearhan' as guid as gin ye lo'ed me. I'm as prood's a turkey-cock," averred Curly in a voice ready to break with emotion of a very different sort from pride.
"It's a sair thing that things winna gang richt!" said Annie at last, after many vain attempts to stop the fountain by drying the stream of her tears. -I believe they were the first words of complaint upon things in general that she ever uttered.
"Is't my wyte, Curly?" she added.
"Deil a bit o' 't!" cried Curly. "And I beg yer pardon for sweirin'.
Your wyte! I was aye a fule. But maybe," he added, brightening a
little, "I micht hae a chance -some day- some day far awa', ye ken,
Annie?"
"Na, na, Curly. Dinna think o' 't. There's no chance for ye, dear
Curly."
His face flushed red as a peony.
"That lick-the-dirt 's no gaun to gar ye marry the colliginer?"
"Dinna ye be feared that I'll marry onybody I dinna like, Curly."
"Ye dinna like him. I houp to God!"
"I canna bide him."
"Weel, maybe -Wha kens? I daurna despair."
"Curly, Curly, I maun be honest wi' you, as ye hae been wi' me. Whan ance a body's seen ane, they canna see anither, ye ken. Wha cud hae been at the schule as I was sae lang, and syne taen oot o' the water, ye ken, and syne -?"
Annie stopped.
"Gin ye mean Alec Forbes -" said Curly, and stopped too. But presently he went on again -"Gin I war to come atween Alec Forbes and you, hangin' wad be ower gude for me. But has Alec -"
"Na, nae a word. But haud yer tongue. Curly. Ance is a' wi' me.– It's nae mony lasses wad hae tell't ye sic a thing. But I ken it's richt. Ye're the only ane that has my secret. Keep it, Curly."
"Like Deith himsel'," said Curly. "Ye are a braw lass."
"Ye maunna think ill o' me, Curly. I hae tell't ye the trowth."
"Jist lat me kiss yer bonnie han' and I'll gang content."
Wisely done or not, it was truth and tenderness that made her offer her lips instead. He turned in silence, comforted for the time, though the comfort would evaporate long before the trouble would sink.
"Curly!" cried Annie, and he came back.
"I think that's young Robert Bruce been to Clippenstrae to speir efter me. Dinna lat him come farther. He's an unceevil fallow."
"Gin he wins by me, he maun hae mair feathers nor I hae," said Curly, and walked on.
Annie followed slowly. When she saw the men meet she sat down.
Curly spoke first, as he came up.
"A fine day, Robbie," he said.
Bruce made no reply, for relations had altered since school-days. It
was an evil moment however in which to carry a high chin to Willie
Macwha, who was out of temper with the whole world except Annie
Anderson. He strode up to the colliginer.
"I said it was a fine day," he repeated.
"Well, I said nothing to the contrary," answered Bruce, putting on his
English.
"It's the custom i' this country to mak what answer a man has the sense to mak whan he's spoken till ceevily."
"I considered you uncivil."
"That's jist what a bonnie lassie sittin' yonner said aboot you whan she prayed me no to lat you gang a step nearer till her."
Curly found it at the moment particularly agreeable to quarrel. Moreover he had always disliked Bruce, and now hated him because Annie had complained of him.
"I have as much right to walk here as you or any one else," said Bruce.
"Maybe; but even colliginers doesna aye get their richts. Ae richt whiles rides upo' the tap o' anither. And Annie Anderson has a richt no to be disturbit, whan her uncle, honest man, 's jist lyin' waitin' for's coffin i' the hoose yonner."
"I'm her cousin."
"It's sma' comfort ony o' yer breed ever brocht her. Cousin or no, ye sanna gang near her."
"I'll go where I please," said Bruce, moving to pass.
Curly moved right in front of him.
"By me ye shanna gang. I hae lickit ye afore for bein' ill till her; and I will again gin ye gang a step nearer till her. She doesna want ye. Faith I will! But I wad raither no fecht afore her. Sae jist come back to the toon wi' me, and we'll say nae mair aboot it."
"I'll see you damned!" said Bruce.
"Maybe ye may, bein' likly to arrive at the spot first. But i' the mean time, gin ye dinna want her to see ye lickit, come doon into yon how, and we'll jist sattle aff han' wha's the best man o' the twa."
"I won't move a step to please you or any one else," returned Bruce. He saw that his safety consisted in keeping within sight of Annie.