“You and your brither wear the life oot o’ me, wi’ your pride and ill-temper. Tak’ the boat, Angus.”
“You let it alone, Angus. It is my boat, and I’ll send the water-bailiff after you for theft, if you lift her anchor.”
“You will, will you? You mean meeserable hizzy! Then you’ll hae to tak me up wi’ Angus; for I’m wi’ him, and will stand by him, afore a’ the lords o’ Edinburgh. Tak’ the boat, Angus. I’ll tak’ the blame o’ it! David Promoter willna publish a thief in his ain house; he’s o’er much set up wi’ himsel’ and his gude name.”
“Thank you, Mistress Caird; I’ll tak’ it. If a man tak’s your sweetheart, you may weel tak’ his boat. I’ll bring you part o’ my luck, when the boat comes hame at night.”
“Dinna count your feesh, until you’ve caught them, Angus Raith,” said Maggie, passionately; “and as for luck, it is bad luck you deserve, and bad luck you’ll get, wi’ your stolen boat.”
“Hear to the lass! bespeaking sorrow for gude men, on a gude day’s wark!”
Maggie answered not a word; she turned dourly round, went into her room and locked it. “I’ll run awa’ from it a’!” and in the first moment of her solitary passion of grief, the words struck her like an order. In great emergencies, the soul does gives orders; clear, prompt, decisive words, that leave no shadow of doubt behind them. “Go” said her soul to her, and she began immediately to consider her plans. She did not want for money. She had upwards of #23 left, beside an order for the #50 lying in Largo Bank, which David had insisted on her keeping in case any sudden need came for it.
“I’ll put on my kirk clothes, and I’ll go to Kinkell; Watty Young will carry me in his wagon to Stirling, and there, I’ll tak’ a train for Glasgow. David will find some way to get me a shelter, and I can sew, and earn my ain bite and sup.”
This was her simple, straightforward plan, and as soon as she had determined to go away, it seemed wonderful to her that she had not done it sooner. “But one canna cross the stile till they get to it,” she reflected; now however the idea took complete possession of her. She heard Mrs. Raith and various other women talking with her aunt: she heard herself repeatedly called to come and look after the broth, or other domestic concerns, but she took no notice of any demand upon her. She occupied the morning in locking away her simple treasures, and in making into a small bundle a linsey dress and a change of linen. She did not notice, until her room grew suddenly dark, that the wind had risen, and the sky become black and stormy. Some uneasy presentiment drove her then to the cottage door, where she stood with the rain blowing into her face, watching the boats tossing back to harbor.
“You see what your ill wishes hae brought. I hope there mayna be lives lost by your temper.”