A Daughter of Fife Part 6
About twelve o'clock the wind rose, there was a rattling breeze and a tossing sea all night; and David did not return until the early morning tide. Allan was roused from sleep by young Johnson singing,
"We cast our line in Largo Bay."
and soon after he heard David greet Maggie in an unusually cheerful manner. He was impatient to tell him the good news, and he dressed hurriedly, and went into the house place. Maggie was scattering the meal into the boiling water for breakfast; and David, weary with his night work, sat drowsing in his father's big chair. Maggie had already been out in the fresh, wet breeze, and she had a pink kerchief tied over her hair; but she blushed a deeper pink, as she shyly said, "Gude morning, sir."
Then David roused himself--"Hech, sir!" he cried, "I wish you had been wi'
us last night. It was just a joy to feel the clouds laying their cheeks to the floods, and the sea laying its shouther to the sh.o.r.e; I sat a' night wi' the helm-heft in my hand, singing o'er and o'er again King David's grand sea sang--
"The floods, O Lord, hae lifted up They lifted up their voice; The floods have lifted up their waves And made a mighty noise.
But yet the Lord, that is on high, Is more of might by far Than noise of many waters is, Or great sea-billows are."
[Footnote: Psalm 93. Version allowed by General a.s.sembly of the Kirk of Scotland.]
"And I couldna help thinking," he continued, "that the Angels o' Power, doing His will, wad be likely aye to tak' the sea road. It's freer o'
men-folk, and its mair fu' o' the glory o' G.o.d."
"I am glad you had such a grand night, David. It is well to take a fine farewell of anything, and it was your last fishing. Dr. Balmuto sends you this word about Glasgow University--'go, and the Lord go with thee.' He has given me a letter to a professor there, who will choose the books you want, and set you the lessons you are to learn between now and the opening of the cla.s.ses in September. The books are to be the doctor's gift to you.
He would hear tell of nothing else."
David was as one that dreams for a moment; but his excitement soon conquered his happy amazement. He had to put his breakfast aside.
"I dinna want to eat," he said, "my soul is satisfied. I feel as if I ne'er could be hungry any mair." He was particularly delighted at the minister's kindness, and said fervently, "I thank him for the books, far mair for the blessing." He took all the favors to be done him without dispute or apology, just as a candid, unselfish child, takes what love gives it. He was so anxious to get to work, that he would liked to have left at once for Glasgow; but Allan was not ready to leave. Indeed he was "swithering" whether, or not, he should take this opportunity of bidding farewell to Pittenloch.
After breakfast they went to the boat together. The decks were covered With a ma.s.s of glinting, shimmering fish, that looked like molten silver in the sunshine. "David," said Allan, "make the boys clean her thoroughly, and in smooth water you can now use her as a study. Maggie dislikes men about the house all day; you can bring your books and papers to the boat and drift about in smooth water. On the sea there will be no crying children and scolding mothers to disturb you."
The idea delighted David; he began at once to carry it out; but Allan took no further interest in the matter, and went strolling up the beach until he came to the spot where the quarrel of the preceding evening had taken place. Here he stood leaning against the rock unconscious of outside influences for neatly two hours. He asked himself "did he love Maggie Promoter?" "Did she love him?" "Was there any hope in the future for their marriage?"
Then he acknowledged to his soul that the woman was inexpressibly dear to him. As for Maggie's love of himself, he hoped, and yet he feared it; feared it, because he loved her so well that he did not like to think of the suffering she must bear with him. He felt that no prospect of their marriage could be entertained. He loved his father, and not only respected, but also in some measure shared his family pride. He felt that it would be a sin to desert him, and for his own private pleasure crumble the unselfish life-work of so many years to pieces. Then also, beautiful as Maggie was in her cot at Pittenloch, she would be sadly out of place in the splendid rooms at Meriton. Sweet, intoxicatingly sweet, the cup which he had been drinking, but he felt that he must put it away from his own, and also from Maggie's lips. It would be fatal to the welfare of both.
Thinking such thoughts, he finally went back to the cottage. It was about ten o'clock; Maggie's house work was all "redd up;" and she was standing at her wheel spinning, when Allan's shadow fell across the sanded floor, and she turned to see him standing watching her.
"You are hame soon, sir. Is a' well wi' you?"
"No, Maggie, all is not well. If all had been well, I had never been in Pittenloch." She stopped her wheel and stood looking at him. Then he plunged at once into the story, which he had determined to tell her. "I had a quarrel with my father and I left home. He does not know where I am."
"You hae done very wrang I'm fearing, sir. He'll hae been a gude fayther to you?"
"Yes, very good. He has given me love, education, travel, leisure, wealth, my own way, in all things but one."
"Then, you be to call yoursel' a bad son. I didna think it o' you, sir."
"But, Maggie, that one thing includes all my future life. If I obey him, I must always be miserable."
"It will be aboot some leddy?" asked Maggie, and she spoke in a low restrained voice.
"Yes, about my cousin. She is very rich, and if I marry her, Maggie, I shall unite the two branches of our family, and take it back to its ancient home."
"Your fayther has the right to ask that much o' you. He's been lang gude to you."
"I did not ask him to be good. I did not ask for my life, but life having been given me, I think I have the right to do as I desire with it."
"There is nane o' us, sir, hae the right to live for, or to, oursel's. A tree doesna ask to be planted, but when it is planted, it bears fruit, and gies shadow, cheerfully. It tholes storms, and is glad in the sunshine, and if it didna bear fruit, when it was weel cared for, it wad deserve to be cut doon and burnt. My bonnie rose bush didna ask me to plant it, yet it is bending wi' flowers for my pleasure. Your fayther will hae the right to say what you shall do to pay back his love and care."
"But when I do not love the lady I am desired to marry?"
"Tuts!" She flung her head back a little scornfully with the word.
"There's few folks ken what love is."
"Do you, Maggie?"
"What for wad I ken? Is the leddy bonnie?"
"Very sweet and gentle and kind."
"Does she like you?"
"We have been long together. She likes me, as you like David."
"Will she want to be your wife? That's what I mean, sir."
"I think not. A man cannot know such a thing as that, until he asks."
She looked sharply at him, and blushed crimson. "Then you hae never asked her?"
"I have never asked her. My father wants me to do so, and I refused."
"You are feared she'll tak' you?"
"Just so, Maggie. Now what would you advise me to do?"
"You wouldna do the thing I told you. Whatna for then, should I say a word?"
"I think I should do what you told me. I have a great respect for your good sense, Maggie. I have never told my trouble to anyone but you."
"To naebody?"
"Not to any one."
"Wait a wee then, while I think it o'er. I must be sure to gie you true counsel, when you come to me sae trustful."
She set the wheel going and turned her face to it for about five minutes.
Then she stilled it, and Allan saw that the hand she laid upon it trembled violently.
"You should gae hame, sir; and you should be as plain and trustful wi'
your cousin, as you hae been wi' me. Tell the leddy just hoo you love her, and ask her to tak' you, even though you arena deserving o' her. Your fayther canna blame you if she willna be your wife. And sae, whether she says 'na,' or 'yes,' there will be peace between you twa."
"That is cutting a knot with a vengeance, Maggie."