Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XIII Part 16

"Six years have come and gane, Willie, Since first I met with you; And through each chequer'd scene I've been Affectionate and true.

But now my yearning heart must a'

Its cherish'd hopes resign; For never on this side the grave Can my true love be mine."

"Oh, do not speak o' death, Jeanie, Unless that ye would break The heart that cheerfully would shed Its life's-blood for your sake;-- For what a dreary blank this world Would prove to me, I trow, If ye were sleeping your long sleep Upon yon cauld green knowe!"

"When I have pa.s.s'd from earth, Willie, E'en sorrow as you will, Your stricken heart will pleasure seek In other objects still.

For though, when my worn frame is cauld, Your grief may be profound.

My very name will soon become Like a forgotten sound!"

"I'm wae to see the cheek, Jeanie, That shamed the elder wine, Now stripp'd o' a' the bloom that told Your heart's fond love langsyne.

But do not, Jeanie Sanderson, Come owre your death to me: It's pain enow to see you look So sad on a' you see."

"I'm dying on my feet, Willie, Whate'er you'd have me say; And my last hour on earth, I feel, Draws nearer every day.

Nor can ye with false hopes deceive; For ne'er can summer's heat Restore the early blighted flower That's crush'd aneath your feet."

"Oh, bring once more to mind, Jeanie, The happiness we've seen, When at the gloaming's tranquil fa'

We sought the loaning green.

Ye ken how oft I came when ye Sat eerie, love, at hame, And tapp'd at that bit lattice, whiles-- Your ain true Willie Grahame!"

"It's like a vanish'd dream, Willie, The memory o' the past, And oft I've thought our happiness Owre great at times to last.

Alas! your coming now I watch In sickness and in pain; But will ye seek my mother's door When once that I am gane?"

"You're harbouring thoughts o' me, Jeanie.

It's wrong for you to breathe; For oh, is wretchedness the gift To _me_ ye would bequeath?

I've ne'er through life loved ane but you; And must the hopes o' years Be rooted from my heart at once, And quench'd in bitter tears?"

"Ye stand 'tween me and heaven, Willie, Yet, oh, I do not blame, Nor seek to wound the feeling heart, Whose love was aye the same.

But love is selfish to the last, And I should like to wear The locket round my neck, when gane, That holds my Willie's hair!"

"It cuts me to the heart, Jeanie, To see you thus give way To trouble ye are forcing on, For a' your freends can say.

And do ye think that I could e'er To others pa.s.sion vow, Were death to break the link that binds Our hearts so closely now?"

"It may be that long time, Willie, Will teach you to forget, Nor leave within your breast--for me-- One feeling o' regret.

But, should you fold another's heart To yours with fond regard, Oh, think on her who then shall lie Happ'd up in yon kirkyard!"

Weel, a' the time I was repeating the ballad, I saw, in the changing expression o' Margery's countenance, that there was a tender struggle going on in her heart; but when I came to the last verse, she could restrain her feelings no longer, but grat outright, as if Jeanie had been her ain sister. I was rather on, Richard, for the greeting mysel; but, affecting an indifference I did not feel, I says to her, as she was in the act o' wiping her eyes wi' her pocket-napkin--

"Would ye greet for me, Margery, were I dying?"

"You're very like a dying person, or you're naething," says she.

"There are few lovers to be met wi'," says I, "like Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson--their devotedness is rare."

"Ye'll be judging frae yersel, Ise warrant," says Margery.

"Oh," says I, "I do not doubt but I could mak as guid a sweetheart as Willie Grahame, would onybody try me. But I've a secret to tell ye, woman," continued I, summoning up courage to mak a confession.

"Women canna keep secrets," says she; "so ye had better no trust me wi'

it."

A long silence was the upshot o' this, and we sauntered on, as if we had been two walking statues, till we came within sight o' the manse.

Margery could not but notice my perplexity; for I looked round and round about me a thousand times, for fear o' listeners, and hemmed again and again, as the words mounted to my lips, and swooned away in a burning blush on my face.

"What was it ye were gaun to tell me?" at last says she. "It maun be some great secret, surely, that ye're in such terror to disclose it."

"Weel, Margery," says I, in the greatest fervour, locking her hand pa.s.sionately in baith o' mine--"if ye will have it--I LOVE YOU!"

"Is that a'?" says she, coolly slipping awa her hand. "I really thought, from seeing sae muckle dumb-show, that ye had something o' importance to tell me."

"Might I ask, if ye like _me_?" says I to her, earnestly.

"Were it even possible that I did," says she, "do ye think that I wad be sic a born fool as to tell ye?--_Atweel do I no!_"

I had often heard, Richard, o' folk being dumbfoundered; but, till that moment, I never knew what it was to be so mysel; and such was the keen sense o' my silliness, that I even wished I might sink down through the earth, clean out o' sight and hearing. As matters stood, however, I saw there was naething for it but urging Margery to discretion; so I says till her, seriously--

"I hope in heaven, Margery, that neither your partner nor anybody else will be the better o' what has pa.s.sed between you and me this night!"

"What do you mean?" says she.

"Why," says I, "I mean, that ye'll no acquaint them wi' my liking for you."

"Guid truly," says she, wi' a toss o' her head, "I wad hae muckle to speak aboot! To tell ye the truth, lad, I never was thinking ony mair aboot it, nor wad it hae entered into my head again, had ye no mentioned it."

"I do not care," says I, rather wittily, "how seldom it enter your _head_, Margery, so long as it engage your _heart_."

"Ye're a queer man," says she, "to be a schulemaister;" and skipped aff to the manse, without expressing the least desire to see me again.

When I went home and lay down in bed that night, I could do nothing but toss and tumble; and aye as my silliness recurred to me, I would have uttered a loud _hem_, as a person will do when he is clearing his throat, to keep the racking thought down; but, in spite o' a' I could do, it continued uppermost, and kept torturing me till better than half-past four in the morning. Weel, thinks I, this is really a fine pa.s.s I've brought mysel to! I'll not only become the laughingstock o'

the minister and his wife, but the whole town will join in with ready chorus. Time slipped on, however, and things remained much the same, save that Margery took upon hersel a great many airs, and behaved on a'

occasions as if I were her humble servant. At last, Richard, I took heart o' grace, plucked up a spirit, and seemed careless about _her_.

That Margery was secretly piqued at this, I had ample proof; for, meeting William Aitchison one night at her father's--for she had then left the minister's service--to mortify me, the puir creature paid the most marked attention to the young man, scarcely goaming me; but, for a'

that, I could see plainly aneugh that she preferred me in her heart, though her pride would not let her show it. Nor did she stop here; for, when Aitchison rose to go away, she hurried to the press, and taking out a bottle o' spirits, she poured him out a dram, which he no sooner had swallowed, than she put away the bottle and the gla.s.s, without so muckle as saying, "Colly, will ye taste?" But I saw through a' this, Richard; and, though she went to the door and laughed and chatted with him, I knew brawlies, from her very manner, that she was acting, and would have gien the best thing in a' the house, to have been freends with me again.

At last, into the room she comes, and sets hersel doun by the fire, with her hands owre ilk other. Now, thinks I, I'll pay ye back in your ain coin, la.s.s; so I rattled away with her brother, for as guid as half-an-hour, about the qualities o' bone-dust and marl, never letting on that I saw her a' the time, until happening to pat the auld colly that lay sound asleep on the hearthstane, the puir creature, vexed at the thought o' the dumb beast getting that attention paid him which was denied to hersel, kicked him ill-naturedly with her foot, and ordered him out o' the room.

"I thought la.s.sies were aye best-natured when they had seen their jo and dearie," says I, giving her brother a sly dunch with my arm, and looking slily up in Margery's face.

"She's in the sulks, the jade," says her mother; "and if she doesna keep a better temper, the worst will be her ain--that's a' that I'll say."

Margery made no reply to this; but taking the candlestick into her hand that stood on the table, left the parlour without uttering a word.

"What's the matter wi' ye and her now, James?" says the auld wife--for she did not mind styling me _Maister_, as we were so very familiar, though I must say that Margery's faither continued to the last to _Maister_ me--he had such a regard for mysel, and veneration for the profession.

"There is naething the matter with us," says I--"that I ken o', at least."

"Come, come, lad; ye maunna tell me that," says she; "it's no little that will ding my la.s.s; and if ye hae slighted her for ony o' the Aitchisons, it says unco little for you, wi' a' your learning. Oh, shame fa' that weary, weary siller!" added she, shaking her head, and leaving the room; "it's been the bane o' true love sin the world had a beginning, and will, I think, till it have an end."

On my road home that night I resolved in my mind to trifle no longer with Margery; for I became convinced it was but heartless conduct, to say the very least o't. To get her to confess, however, that she loved me, I was resolutely determined on; and, after devising a thousand schemes, I at last thought o' trying what effect my way-going would have upon her. Accordingly, as ye may weel remember, Richard, I got a report circulated that I had an intention o' going out to America, to try my luck in the other world; so, meeting with Margery one night between the Rankleburn and her ain house, I asked her if she had any objections to take a walk with me as far as the Linthaughs.