POPPING THE QUESTION.
If they had a good deal to say, they were very long of beginning. Bell’s wires went faster than ever—they actually made a clicking sound; and her heart went even faster than her wires. But David’s honest heart went faster than either; he looked sideways, then downwards, and fidgeted, for his
“Heart it went dunt upon dunt,Till he thocht every dunt it wad crack it.”
“Heart it went dunt upon dunt,Till he thocht every dunt it wad crack it.”
“Heart it went dunt upon dunt,Till he thocht every dunt it wad crack it.”
“Heart it went dunt upon dunt,
Till he thocht every dunt it wad crack it.”
At length he said, “I’m a’ sweatin’,” which was a mild way of putting it, for he was glowing and tingling from head to foot.
Bell looked fixedly, stolidly, at the stocking she was knitting, but she uttered not a word.
At length David summoned courage to say:
“Will Mrs. Barrie really gang after anither servant the morn, d’ye think, Bell?”
“She’s a woman o’ her word; she aye does what she says.”
“Weel, Bell,” said David with a sigh.
“Weel, David,” said Bell sympathetically.
“What d’ye think, Bell?”
“What dae you think, David?”
“I dinna ken what to think.”
“Neither div I,” said Bell; and there was a short pause, during which the ticking of the clock seemed unusually loud, and both heads began to move to each tick.
At length David took heart:
“We’re fairly in for’t noo, Bell,” said he with a sigh; “an’ after a’, Bell, do you no’ think we micht risk it?”
“It’s a very serious business, David, very; it is.”
“It’s a’ that, very indeed; but,” he added in his most persuasive tone, “ye’ll no’ say no, Bell. The fac’ is, we daurna stop now, so we’ll just say it’s settl’t.”
“I wad need some time to think it o’er,” was the reply.
“Certainly,” said David, brightening up; “quite richt, certainly; think weel o’er’t, Bell; tak’ time, plenty o’ time to think on’t. I’ll come doun some other nicht afore lang. There’s luck in leisure, as the auld sayin’ is.”
David’s idea of plenty of time was wider than Bell’s. Every night for ten nights she had kept the kitchen, if possible, brighter, and herself “redd up;” she had also looked oftener in the looking-glass (itwas an irregular fragment of a larger one stuck on the facing of the window) during that time than she had done for twelve months before, and her cap or “mutch” was something extra even for her. As each evening fell she looked often and wistfully up the Blackbrae Road. After ten days had passed she felt a little nervous, and put herself in Dan’s way, to ask him, after some leading questions, if he had been at Blackbrae lately. She had still to wait other three days as best she could, but at the fortnight’s end
“The braw wooer cam’ doun the lang glen.”
“The braw wooer cam’ doun the lang glen.”
“The braw wooer cam’ doun the lang glen.”
“The braw wooer cam’ doun the lang glen.”
Both were “blate.” Other subjects were tried and skimmed over, butthesubject was not broached. Had it not been for a noise in the lobby caused by Mrs. Barrie’s going up-stairs, it might have lain another fortnight or more before any progress had been made; but fearing that she would come into the kitchen after she came down-stairs, David blurted out hurriedly:
“Bell, Bell, have ye been thinkin’ on yon?”
“Yes, yes,” said Bell, with considerable modulation of voice.
“An’ I do most sincerely hope ye’ll say yes,” said David warmly; “I canna see for the life o’ me how ever we can face Mrs. Barrie till it’s a’ settled.”
“SHE GIED HIM HER HAND,” ETC.
Bell had carefully composed what she thought a proper answer, and during the fortnight she hadrepeated it “a hunder” times to herself; but when it was wanted it would neither come into her head nor to her tongue. She was greatly annoyed, indeed ashamed, at herself for this, but her honest heart and her good sense came to her help, and guided by them she made a far better reply than the one she had hoarded so long and lost so suddenly; for she rose, gave David her hand, and said:
“David, there’s my hand, an’ my heart gang’s wi’t; they’re baith yours,” solemnly looking him straight in the face. He smiled, and then of course she smiled, and turning away her face, for she was blushing crimson, she added: “Eh, sirs, I never wad a thocht—wha ever wad a thocht o’ me being marrit? David, isna the ways o’ Providence strange an’ mysterious?”
“’Deed ay, Bell; but arena they whiles real pleasant tae?”
“Ye may say that, David, for I’ve liked ye lang, an’ wonder’t if ever it wad come to this; an’ oh, David, ICANlippen till ye perfectly wi’ a’ my heart.”
“That’s the way to speak, Bell; that’s wiselike. I’ll dae my vera best to make you comfortable.”
“So will I you, David—we’ll baith dae our best; an’ if we hae God’s blessin’ I think we’ll dae fine.”
A happier couple could not be found that night than these two, for love makes folks younger if not young.
“HA, HA, THE WOOIN’ O’T.”
Shortly after all was settled, David hummed rather than sung, lest he should be heard in the parlour, a favourite song of his, which, whatever we may think of its applicability to what we have hitherto known as a staid, solid woman like Bell, seemed to David “really a very bonnie sang—he was aye catchin’ himsel’ sing-singin’ at it, an’ it really was no’ far off what he thocht himsel’;” and, strange to say, douce Bell (although she said “stuff an’ nonsense” when he had finished it) turned a willing ear to the song, and nodded to herself in the looking-glass during the singing of it. If she did not apply the whole of it to herself, she evidently did not absolutely discard it all.
THE BLACK-E’ED LASSIE (by Charles Gray).
Air—My only jo and dearie O.
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,But dinna ye be saucy O!Or a’ my love I winna tellTo thee, my black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ thy cheeks o’ rosy hue,It’s no’ thy little cherry mou’,It’s a’ because thy heart’s sae true,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!“It’s no’ the witch glance o’ thy e’e,Though few for that surpass ye OThat mak’s ye aye sae dear to me,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ the whiteness o’ thy skin,It’s no’ love’s dimple on thy chin,It’s a’ thy modest worth within,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!“Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,That a’ wish to caress ye O!But O! how I admire thy mind,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!I’ve seen thine e’en, like crystal clear,Shine dimly through soft pity’s tear;These are the charms that mak’ thee dearTo me, my black-e’ed lassie O!”
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,But dinna ye be saucy O!Or a’ my love I winna tellTo thee, my black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ thy cheeks o’ rosy hue,It’s no’ thy little cherry mou’,It’s a’ because thy heart’s sae true,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!“It’s no’ the witch glance o’ thy e’e,Though few for that surpass ye OThat mak’s ye aye sae dear to me,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ the whiteness o’ thy skin,It’s no’ love’s dimple on thy chin,It’s a’ thy modest worth within,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!“Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,That a’ wish to caress ye O!But O! how I admire thy mind,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!I’ve seen thine e’en, like crystal clear,Shine dimly through soft pity’s tear;These are the charms that mak’ thee dearTo me, my black-e’ed lassie O!”
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,But dinna ye be saucy O!Or a’ my love I winna tellTo thee, my black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ thy cheeks o’ rosy hue,It’s no’ thy little cherry mou’,It’s a’ because thy heart’s sae true,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“Wi’ heart sincere I love thee, Bell,
But dinna ye be saucy O!
Or a’ my love I winna tell
To thee, my black-e’ed lassie O!
It’s no’ thy cheeks o’ rosy hue,
It’s no’ thy little cherry mou’,
It’s a’ because thy heart’s sae true,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“It’s no’ the witch glance o’ thy e’e,Though few for that surpass ye OThat mak’s ye aye sae dear to me,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!It’s no’ the whiteness o’ thy skin,It’s no’ love’s dimple on thy chin,It’s a’ thy modest worth within,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“It’s no’ the witch glance o’ thy e’e,
Though few for that surpass ye O
That mak’s ye aye sae dear to me,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
It’s no’ the whiteness o’ thy skin,
It’s no’ love’s dimple on thy chin,
It’s a’ thy modest worth within,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
“Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,That a’ wish to caress ye O!But O! how I admire thy mind,My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!I’ve seen thine e’en, like crystal clear,Shine dimly through soft pity’s tear;These are the charms that mak’ thee dearTo me, my black-e’ed lassie O!”
“Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,
That a’ wish to caress ye O!
But O! how I admire thy mind,
My bonnie black-e’ed lassie O!
I’ve seen thine e’en, like crystal clear,
Shine dimly through soft pity’s tear;
These are the charms that mak’ thee dear
To me, my black-e’ed lassie O!”
When David had finished the song, Bell said with a broad grin: “I never could sing but the ae sang o’ theBonnie, bonnie banks o’ Ben Lomond, an’ it’s raither waefu’ for the noo; but there’s a verse I pickit up frae Gordie—he’s gaun to be a grand singer, Gordie; I’ll miss him, may be—but at ony rate the sang’s been at my tongue-end for a while, an’ d’ye ken, David, I think it’s you an’ me tae a nothing?
‘I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane!’
‘I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane!’
‘I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane!’
‘I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane!’
that’s me, ony way:
‘He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me,He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,And his ain I am willing to be;’
‘He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me,He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,And his ain I am willing to be;’
‘He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me,He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,And his ain I am willing to be;’
‘He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me,
He’s willing to mak’ me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be;’
that’s me tae.”
“That’s grand, Bell, that’s just exactly the very thing, the very thing,the very thing—that’s the ‘head-sheaf.’”
After this trip on “Parnassus,” which generally follows immediately after all newly-plighted troths, they settled down to a sober crack. David gave adescription of his farm and stock, in which he was often interrupted by Bell’s questions; very practical all of them were, and specially gratifying to David. It was surprising how much she got out of him in a quiet way. But I will not tarry over the details, nor say how long they sat, or how they parted; I will only mention that after David had risen to leave, they stood a long time busily talking. He had said something about getting the house “gi’en a bit sort up,” but Bell said:
“Dinna fash mickle wi’t, David; tradesfolk often tak’ a lang time when they won in. When we get settled, we’ll dae a’ that far better after we see what’s what.”
After this night Bell seldom spoke of “I’ll do this, orIthink that,” but it was, “We’ll put a’ richt—we’ll consider’t—we’llMANAGE’t.”
She did not tell Mrs. Barrie directly of her engagement, but it could not be hidden. Bell’s face was itself a tell-tale, and before the next forenoon was over she was asking Mrs. Barrie’s advice on various subjects far removed at once from her household concerns, and from anything likely to require her consideration as a servant.
“THERE’S A’ THE PLEASURES O’ THE HEART.”
Early in the afternoon Bell asked Mrs. Barrie, with an unusual timidity, almost a sheepishness of manner,if she would be so kind as to sell her “some o’ the black currants, noo that a’ the jam was made for the house?”
Mrs. Barrie took both Bell’s hands in hers, looked into her face with a smile of intense delight, to the dumfounderment [confusion] of poor Bell, who tried in vain to restrain her grins and blushes.
“Bell, Bell, as you yourself often say, ‘the cat’s out o’ the pock’—fairly out now. Allow me first to give both hands a good shake and wish you very much joy. I’m very, very glad for your sake, my good, kind Bell. May all that’s good attend you and Mr. Tait. I will have a great deal more to say to you afterwards, but I must run and tell Mr. Barrie.”
“There’s somebody wi’ him in the study the noo, mem,” said Bell; “an’ oh! if you please, dinna say much to me about this marrying business the day. I’m baith like to laugh and to greet about it yet, an’ I canna find words to thank ye wi’, so excuse me.” Then, after a short pause: “Will ye sell me the berries, mem?”
“Sell, Bell? Sell to you!sellyou what’s more yours than mine! If I did not know you well, I would be both vexed and angry at you, but it’s like yourself, Bell. Please never ask me about any such things; take them. I’ll help you all I can to geteverything ready and purpose-like. As to the black currants, you must allow me to give you the sugar, and be sure and fill every empty jelly-pot in the house.”
“Ye’re ower kind, mem, far ower kind.”
“Bell,” said Mrs. Barrie, “don’t say that again, for that is what I can never be. But there’s Mr. Barrie disengaged now, and I must bring him in,”—which she did, and Bell and they got it over, not without some signs of emotion that each tried to hide, but none were ashamed to feel, for the bond of twenty years’ faithful service was to them a cord not easily broken, and to Bell a retrospect of intense satisfaction; for a vision of her life-history passed before her, which may be summed up in the following lines:—
“An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e’e.”
“An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e’e.”
“An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e’e.”
“An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her;
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e’e.”