Part 23 (1/2)
”I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there's jist ae thing I'm determined upo--and that is that the rascal sail merry ye!”
Isy's face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her pleasure at such a word from _his_ mouth. But the flush faded, and presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted across her face as she answered--
”Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han'!”
”That's what he'll hae to dee though--jist merry ye aff han'! I s' _gar_ him.”
”I winna hae him garred! It's me that has the richt ower him, and no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o'
me--thinkin I would tak a man 'at was garred! Na, na; there s' be nae garrin!--And ye canna gar _him_ merry me gien _I_ winna hae him! The day's by for that!--A garred man! My certy!--Na, I thank ye!”
”Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, ”gien I had a prence to my son,--providit he was worth yer takin--I wad say to ye, 'Hae, my leddy!'”
”And I would say to you, sir, 'No--gien he bena willin,'” answered Isy, and ran from the room.
”Weel, what think ye o' the la.s.s by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said the soutar, with a flash in his eye.
”I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: ”she's ane amo' a million!”
”I'm no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. ”I doobt ye micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!--A million's a heap o' women!”
”All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea' father and mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he's no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s' never speyk word til 'im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o' auld Methuselah!”
”Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:--Isy 'ill be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. ”--But hearken to me, Mr.
Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.”
”Na, na; it'll be best to lat him fin' that oot for himsel.--And noo I maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu'!”
He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, saying aloud as he went, ”Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and noucht mair will I desire--excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold it likewise. The prayers o' the soutar are endit!”
Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and no villain!--only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected had proved herself indeed right n.o.ble! And he praised the father of men, that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their repentance and uplifting.
”Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. ”I hae seen the la.s.sie ance mair, and she's better and bonnier nor ever!”
”Ow ay; ye're jist like a' the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion smiling; ”--easy taen wi' the skin-side!”
”Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o' pains wi the skin!--Ony gait, yon la.s.sie's ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her this vera moment--no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa bullets--fired aff, but never won oot o' their barrels!”
”Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!”
”Aye wad I--til ony ane that's nearer His likness nor himsel--and that ane's oor Isy!--I wadna won'er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the morn! In that case, I s' caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain say til her.”
James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better the next day--indeed almost well.
Before noon they were at the soutar's door. The soutar opened it himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him.
”Isy,” he faltered, ”can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene's ever we can be cried?--I'm as ashamed o' mysel as even ye would hae me!”
”Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o' as _I_ hae, sir: it was a' my wyte!”
”And syne no to haud my face til't!--Isy, I hae been a sc.o.o.nrel til ye!