“Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?”
“I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there was a bairn!”
“Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It’s no poassible ye never loot him ken!”
“’Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a’ my wyte!—and it was naebody’s business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put the door atween ’s; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel she couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae his name mixed up wi’ a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!—But that ye sanna, ony gait!”
“I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there’s jist ae thing I’m determined upo—and that is that the rascal sall merry ye!”
Isy’s face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her pleasure at such a word from his mouth. But the flush faded, and presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted across her face as she answered—
“Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han’!”
“That’s what he’ll hae to dee though—jist merry ye aff han’! I s’ gar him.”
“I winna hae him garred! It’s me that has the richt ower him, and no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o’ me—thinkin I would tak a man ’at was garred! Na, na; there s’ be nae garrin!—And ye canna gar him merry me gien I winna hae him! The day’s by for that!—A garred man! My certy!—Na, I thank ye!”
“Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my son,—providit he was worth yer takin—I wad say to ye, ‘Hae, my leddy!’”