Part 57 (1/2)
”I'm but a wee la.s.sie, ower young to think o' wedding this mony a day,”
she replied.
”And so ye might be, gin I were a f.e.c.kless laddie, like Rob Ainslee, or Tam o' the Glen; but I hae riches, ye ken. Ye'll never need to fash yoursel' wi' wark, but just sing like the lane-rock, fra morn till e'en.”
”Little care I for your riches,” said Nannie, who, for reasons of her own, was vexed at this allusion to Rob Ainslee. ”Does na the Scripture say a gude name is better to be chosen than gold?”
”And wha says aught against my gude name?” exclaimed he, with lowering brow.
”Andy Ferguson,” said Nannie, pausing and looking him in the face, ”it grieves me to gi' you or ony creature pain; but ye maun speak to me nae mair o' love or marriage--no, never. Ye maun gang your ain gait an'
leave me to gae mine. As to your gude name, does na everybody ken--an'
sorry I am to say it--where your evenings are spent, and what sort o'
company ye keep?”
At this Andy laughed a loud, scornful laugh. ”Nae doubt everybody kens that for the maist part my evenings are spent at the 'Twa Dogs'; and as to the company there, there is nae sae frequent guest as your honored father.”
”And wha led him into sic ways but your ain sel'? Weel does the Bible say a man canna touch pitch and not be defiled therewith.”
”Just to hear her quote Scripture! Ane wad tak her for the minister, or a holy elder, at least. But leuk you here, la.s.sie, say it was I that put the cup to my neebor's lips, for you see I can quote Scripture, too. Wha was it taught him to be a thief?”
”Gang awa, Andy Ferguson, awa, for I will na listen to sic words anent my ain dear father. Awa, I say,” she repeated, waving her little hand, as he seemed inclined to follow her.
”Sin' ye will na believe me, gae ask him what he has done wi' the laird's siller and gowd. Just speir him that,” called Andy after her, and then he strode away down the glen.
She hastened on, and leaving her few sheep to wander at their will, she sought her father. She found him sitting on a knoll behind the byre, leaning his head on his hands. Throwing herself on the gra.s.s beside him, she told him of her interview with Andy, his offer of marriage and her refusal.
”I hope ye did na anger him,” said he, hastily.
”Why, father, what ill can his anger do us? Ye wad na ha'e me marry a ne'er-do-weel, like Andy. And, father, I ha'e na told ye all. He called ye a thief, father, a thief. I knew it was a lee, a wicked lee. Dinna think your little Nannie believed it. And then he bade me speir what ye had done wi' the laird's siller and gowd.”
To her great grief and surprise, her father sunk his face in his hands again with a low groan, but answered not a word.
”Winna ye speak to me and tell me what it a' means?” said she, twining her arms over his shoulder.
”Sin' ye maun know, then, it is true; a' true that he tauld ye. O, my bonnie bairn!” said he, in a tone of ineffable sadness. And then he told her how he had found the treasure, and of the sinful compact he had made with Andy.
”But ye ha'e kept it a' safe, dear father?” cried Nannie, joyfully.
”A' safe. I ha'e not sae much as ta'en it frae the box.”
”Then there is naught to do but take it back to the laird and tell him here is his treasure, safe and sound.”
”And then he'll speir me how I came by it, and wherefore I kept it sae lang, and a' about it. And then, belike, he'll shut me up in prison. O, la.s.sie, ye dinna think what ye're saying. Could ye bear to see your puir father shut up in a prison? Could ye ever hold up your head again for the shame o't?”
”Better, far better be innocent and in prison, than guilty and go free.
O, for my sake, for your wee lammie's sake, take back the laird's siller and gowd.”