“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’ God.”
“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 classes 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 mass 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.”