ALL this time, strange to say, Kirsteen took no fright about old Glendochart whom she had calmly set down, as is not unusual at her age, upon the footing of a man of eighty or so, an old, old gentleman to whom she could be as kind as her friendly young soul dictated, giving him her hand to lead him down the rough road to the linn, and feeling with her foot if the stones were steady before she let him trust his weight to them. It had been quite natural to come out to the door to see him mount and ride away, to stroke and pat the shining well-groomed horse, who looked as great an aristocrat as his master beside the sober and respectable matron Mally, who drew the gig and sometimes the cart, and had carried barebacked all the children at once as carefully as if she had been their mother. Kirsteen was even pleased with the sense that she herself was Glendochart’s favourite, that he had talked more to her than to any one, perhaps even had come to see her rather than the rest, with the pleasant partiality of an old friend. To be preferred is delightful to everybody, and especially to a girl who has had little petting in her life. It was an exhilarating consciousness, and she took the little jibes that flew about in the family and the laugh of Mary and the shout of the boys with perfect good humour. Yes, very likely Glendochart liked her best. He was a true gentleman, and he had seen her standing neglected and had come to her help. But for him the ball, if indeed always an experience and a fine sight, would have left only a sting in Kirsteen’s mind instead of the impression bitter-sweet which it had produced. If she were glad now that she had gone, and pleased with the sight and the fact of having been there, it was to Glendochart chiefly that the credit was due. She had taken him into her heart warmly in the position of an old friend, an old, kind, and true gentleman whom she would always run to meet and brighten to see. In this easy state of mind, pleased with him and even better pleased with herself because of his liking for her, she received calmly all the family jests, quite satisfied that they were true.
Glendochart became a frequent visitor. He would ride over, or sometimes drive over, in a high gig much better appointed than the old gig at Drumcarro, saying that he had come “to his dinner” or to eat one of Marg’ret’s scones, or to see how they all were this cold weather. And he would permit Jock to drive the gig for a mile or two to the boy’s delight, though it took all the strength of his young wrists to hold in the horse. Once even upon a great occasion Glendochart managed to persuade Drumcarro, who was ready to attend to all his suggestions, to bring the girls to a great hurling-match, at which—for he was a master of the game—he himself appeared to great advantage and not at all like the old, old gentleman of Kirsteen’s thoughts. And when the New Year came he brought them all “fairings,” beautiful boxes of sweets such as had never been seen in the Highlands, and gloves wonderful to behold, which he begged Mrs. Douglas’s permission to offer to her daughters. These visits and his pleasant ways, and the little excitement of his arrival from time to time, and the hurling-match which afforded a subject of conversation for a long time, and the little presents, all quickened existence at Drumcarro, and made life more pleasant for all concerned. Kirsteen had taken him by this time for many a walk to the edge of the linn, springing down before him, by the side of the waterfall, to point out which of the stepping-stones were safe to trust to.
“Put your foot here, and it is quite steady, but take care of that moss, Glendochart, for it’s very soft, and I’ve nearly sunk into it,” she would call to him stopping in mid-descent, her young voice raised clear above the roar of the water, and her hand held out to help. If there was one thing that fretted the elderly suitor it was this, and sometimes he would make a spring to show his agility, not always with successful results. “You see you should do as I bid you,” said Kirsteen gravely, helping him to get up on one such occasion, “and let me try first whether it will bear you or not.”
“I will always do as you bid me,” said the old gentleman, trying to look younger and younger and as if he did not mind the fall at all; “but it is my part to take care of you, and not you of me.”
“Oh, no, not when the moss is so wet and the stones so shoogly,” Kirsteen said.
All this was very pretty fooling; but Drumcarro was not the man to be kept hanging upon the chances of a propitious moment when it might please the wooer to make the leap. The additional cheerfulness of the household did not extend to him. He became very tired of Glendochart’s “daidling,” and of the over-delicacy of his attentions. His eyes grew fiery and his grizzled eyebrows menacing. He would come into the parlour where the visitor was making himself very agreeable, keeping up the pleasantest conversation, paying compliments to Mrs. Douglas (whose health had greatly improved at this period), and with a devotion which was half fatherly, though he had no such intention, distinguishing Kirsteen who was always pleased to think that he liked her best. Drumcarro would come in with his hands thrust into the depths of his pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears. “Are ye not tired of the weemen, Glendochart? Weel, I would not sit there phrasin’ and smilin’, not for a king’s ransom.” “Perhaps, my friend, I’m getting more than any king’s ransom, for what could buy such kind looks?” the old beau would reply. And then Drumcarro, with an oath muttered under his breath, would fling out again, not concealing his impatience, “I cannot put up with such daidling!” Whether Glendochart understood, or whether his host took the matter into his own hands, never was known by the female portion of the household. But one morning shortly after the New Year, Glendochart having paid a long visit on the day before, Kirsteen received a most unexpected summons to attend her father in his own room.
“My father wants to speak to me! You are just sending me a gowk’s errand,” she said to Jock who brought the message.
“It’s no a gowk’s errand. It’s just as true as death,” said Jock. “He’s sent me hissel’.”
“And what can he want to say to me in his own room?” cried Kirsteen.
“He did not tell me what he wanted to say; but I can guess what it is,” said Jock.
“And so can I,” said Jeanie.
“What is it, ye little mischief?” cried Kirsteen. “I have done nothing. I have a conscience void of offence, which is more than you can say.”
Upon this they both gave vent to a burst of laughter loud and long.
“It’s about your auld joe, Kirsteen. It’s about Glendochart,” they cried in concert.
“About Glendochart?—he is just my great friend, but there is no harm in that,” she cried.
“Oh, Kirsteen, just take him, and I’ll come and live with ye,” said Jeanie.
“And I’ll come,” added Jock encouragingly, “whenever we have the play.”
“Take him!” said Kirsteen. She bade them with great dignity to hold their tongues and went to her father’s room with consternation in her breast.
Mr. Douglas was sitting over his newspaper with the air of being very much absorbed in it. It was no less than a London paper, a copy of the Times which Glendochart had brought, which had been sent to him from London with the news of the escape of Boney, news that made Drumcarro wild to think that Jock was but fourteen and could not be sent off at once with such chances of promotion as a new war would bring. He had given the lad a kick with a “Useless monkey! Can ye not grow a little faster;” as Jock had clattered up to bed in his country shoes the previous night. But he was not reading, though he pretended still to be buried in the paper when Kirsteen came in. He took no notice of her till she had been standing for a minute before him repeating, “Did you want me, father?” when he looked up, as if surprised.
“Oh, you’re there. I calculated ye would take an hour to come.”
“Jock said you wanted to speak to me, father.”
“And so I did—but you might have had to put your gown on, or to brush your hair or something—for anything I knew.”
“I never do that at this time of the day.”
“Am I to mind your times of day? Kirsteen, I have something to say to you.”
“So Jock told me, father.”
“Never mind what Jock told ye. It is perhaps the most serious moment of all your life; or I might say it’s the beginning of your life, for with the care that has been taken of ye, keepit from the cold and shadit from the heat, and your meat provided and everything you could require—the like of you doesn’t know what life is as long as ye bide in your father’s house.”
Kirsteen’s heart gave a throb of opposition, but she did not say or scarcely think that this position of blessedness had never been hers. She was not prepared to blaspheme her father’s house.
“Well! now that’s all changed, and ye’ll have to think of acting for yourself. And ye are a very lucky lass, chosen before your sister, who is the eldest, and according to the law of Laban—— But I think he was too particular. What the devil maittered which of them was to go first so long as he got them both safe off his hands?”
“I have no light,” said Kirsteen with suppressed impatience, “as to what you’re meaning, father!”
“Oh, ye have no light! Then I’ll give ye one, and a fine one, and one that should make ye thankful to me all your days. I’ve settled it all with Glendochart. I thought he was but a daidlin’ body, but that was in appearance, not in reality. He’s just very willing to come to the point.”
Kirsteen said nothing, but she clasped her hands before her with a gesture which was Marg’ret’s, and which had long been known to the young people as a sign of immovable determination. She did not adopt it consciously, but with the true instinct of hereditary action, an impulse so much misrepresented in later days.
“Very willing,” said Drumcarro, “to come to the point; and all the settlements just very satisfactory. Ye will be a lucky woman. Ye’re to have Glendochart estates for your life, with remainder, as is natural, to any family there may be; and it’s a very fine downsitting, a great deal better house than this, and a heap of arable land. And ye’re to have——”
“For what am I to have all this, father?” said Kirsteen in a low voice with a tremble in it, but not of weakness.
“For what are ye to have it?” He gave a rude laugh. “For yourself I suppose I must say, though I would think any woman dear at the price he’s willing to pay for ye.”
“And what does Glendochart want with me?” said Kirsteen with an effort to steady her voice.
“Ye fool! But you’re not the fool ye pretend to be. I cannot wonder that you’re surprised. He wants to mairry ye,” her father said.
Kirsteen stood with her hands clasped, her fine figure swayed in spite of her with a wave of agitation, her features moving. “Glendochart!” she said. “Father, if he has friends ye should warn them to keep him better and take care of him, and not let him be a trouble to young women about the country that never did any harm to him.”
“Young women,” said Drumcarro, “there is not one I ever heard of except yourself, ye thankless jaud!”
“One is plenty to try to make a fool of,” said Kirsteen.
“I would like to see him make a fool of one belonging to me. Na, it’s the other way. But that’s enough of this nonsense,” he added abruptly; “it’s all settled. Ye can go and tell your mother. He’s away for a week on business, and when he comes back ye’ll settle the day. And let it be as soon as possible, that we may be done wi’t. It’s been as much as I could do to put up with it all this time. Now let any man say I’ve done much for my sons and little for my daughters!” said Drumcarro, stretching his arms above his head with a gesture of fatigue. “I’ve got them their commissions and outfit and all for less trouble than it has cost me to get one of you a man!” He yawned ostentatiously and rubbed his eyes, then opening them again to see Kirsteen still standing in the same attitude before him he gave vent to a roar of dismissal. “G’away with ye. Go and tell your mother. I’ve said all I have to say.”
“But I have something more to say,” said Kirsteen. “I’ll not marry Glendochart. It’s just been a mistake, and I’m sorry, but——”
“You’ll not mairry Glendochart! Ye shall marry whatever man I choose for ye.”
“No, father!” said Kirsteen clasping her hands more closely.
“No!” he said, pushing back his chair. He was honestly astonished, taken completely by surprise. “No! Lord, but ye shall though when I say it. And what ails ye at Glendochart? And him running after ye like a fool the whole winter, and nothing but pleasant looks for him till now.”
“I’m very sorry,” repeated Kirsteen. “I’m very sorry—I never, never thought of that. He’s an old man, and it seemed all kindness to one as much as another. Oh, I’m sorry, father. Tell him, I would not have vexed him for the world.”
“I’ll tell him no such thing. I’ll tell him ye’re very proud and pleased, as sets ye better; and I’ll take you to Glasgow to buy your wedding-gown.” He said this with an attempt at seduction, perhaps a little startled by the first idea that to subdue Kirsteen by violence would not be so easy as he thought.
“Father, you’re meaning it for great kindness; but oh, if ye would just understand! I cannot marry Glendochart. I could not if there was no other man.”
“It is just Glendochart ye shall marry and no other. It’s all settled. You have nothing more to do with it but what I’ve promised and fixed for ye.”
“No, father——”
“But I say yes,” he said, bringing down his clenched fist on the table with a noise that made the windows ring.
“It cannot be settled without me,” said Kirsteen, growing first red and then pale, but standing firm.
“You’re not of the least importance,” he said, foam flying from his lips. “What are ye? A creature of no account. A lass that has to obey her father till she gets a man, and then to obey him. Say what ye like, or do what ye like, it will never alter a thing I’ve fixed upon; and of that ye may be as sure as that you stand there. G’away to your mother, and tell her it’s to be soon, in a month or so, to get done with it—for I’ve made up my mind.”
Kirsteen stood silent for a moment, not daunted but bewildered, feeling with a force which no girl in her situation would now recognize the helplessness of her position, not a creature to take her part, seeing no outlet. She burst forth suddenly when a new idea occurred to her. “I will speak to him myself! He is a good man, he will never hold me to it. I will tell him——”
“If ye say a word to him,” cried Drumcarro rising from his chair and shaking his clenched hand in her face, “one word! I’ll just kill ye where ye stand! I’ll drive ye from my doors. Neither bit nor sup more shall ye have in this house. Ye may go and tramp from door to door with a meal-pack on your shoulder.”
“I would rather do that,” cried Kirsteen, “far rather than make a false promise and deceive a good man. Oh, father, I’ll do anything ye bid me. I’ll be your servant, I’ll ask for nothing; but dinna, dinna do this! for I will not marry Glendochart, not if you were to kill me, not if you were to turn me from the door.”
“Hold your peace, ye lang-tongued—ye shall do what I bid you, that and nothing else.”
“No, father, no, father!” cried Kirsteen trembling; “I will not—for nothing in the world.”
“Go out of my sight,” he cried, “and hold your tongue. Away this moment! Ye shall do just what I say.”
“Father——”
“None of your fathers to me. Get out of my sight, and make yourself ready to do what I tell ye. It shall be in a fortnight. That’s all you shall make by your rebellion. Not another word, or I’ll turn you out of my house.”
Kirsteen retired as he made a step towards her with his hands raised to her shoulders, to put her out. His fiery eyes, the foam that flew from his lips, the fury of his aspect frightened her. She turned and fled from the room without any further attempt to speak.