To dry the tears of widows’ grief.”
But, whether so or not, he resolved upon trying what he himself could do in that remedial way; and, accordingly, he began with a small dose, the success of which urged him to a repetition; and on he went from small quantities to greater, till he was overjoyed to find that the patient could bear any amount he was able to administer. Nor could it be said that the aforesaid cough made any abatement from the success of these efforts, if we might not rather surmise that it entered as an element in their recommendation—at least it indicated no hollowness in Rubbledykes.
We all know that “the question” once meant torture. At the period of our story, and we hope not less in our day, it meant rapture; and it is not unlikely that Mrs Dempster on that market-day, when the laird sat by the side of the parlour fire in Lady Stair’s Close, enjoyed something of that kind when the words fell on her ear.
“Now, my dear Dorothy—to come to the point in the lang-run—will ye hae me for your second husband, wha should hae been your first?”
“I hae no objection,” replied Dorothy, as she held away her head and covered her eyes with her handkerchief; “but——”
And Mrs Dempster stopped short, with an effect almost as great on the astonished suitor as that of the memorable answer given by a certain Mrs Jean of Clavershalee to another laird, whose property lay not far distant from Rubbledykes.
“But!” ejaculated the laird, with an effort that brought an attack of his cough upon him. “You maun ‘but’ me nae ‘buts,’ Dorothy, unless ye want to kill me. I aye thought I had a better claim to you than David. Heaven rest his body in the deep waters o’ the Forth, and his soul in heaven!”
“Ay,” continued she, as she applied the handkerchief again, as if this time to receive some tears which ought to have come and didn’t; “but that just puts me in mind o’ what I was going to say. You have seen how David was ta’en awa. What if onything should happen to you? What would become o’ me? Rubbledykes would gae to your brother.”
“The de’il a stane o’t, Dorothy,” cried the laird. “It will be a’ yours. I will mak it ower to you; tofts and crofts, outhouses and inhouses, muirs and mosses, pairts and pertinents. Will that please you?”
“Ay, will’t,” answered Dorothy from behind the handkerchief.