“Ye dinna think I wad ley ye, laird!—’cep’ ye was to think fit to sen’ me frae ye. I’m maist as guid ’s a man to gang wi’ ye—wi’ the advantage o’ bein’ a wuman, as my mither tells me:”—She called her grandmother, mother.—“ye see we can daur mair nor ony man—but, Guid forgie me!—no mair nor the yoong laird whan he flang his Cæsar straucht i’ the maister’s face this verra mornin’.”
The laird stopped, turned sharply round, and looked at her.
“What did he that for?” he said.
“’Cause he ca’d yersel’ a fule,” answered the girl, with the utmost simplicity, and no less reverence.
The laird drew himself up once more, and looked twenty years younger. But it was not pride that inspired him, nor indignation, but the father’s joy at finding in his son his champion.
“Mony ane’s ca’d me that, I weel believe, lassie, though no to my ain face or that o’ my bairn. But whether I deserve ’t or no, nane but ane kens. It’s no by the word o’ man I stan’ or fa’; but it’s hoo my maister luiks upo’ my puir endeevour to gang by the thing he says. Min’ this, lassie—lat fowk say as they like, but du ye as he likes, an’, or a’ be dune, they’ll be upo’ their k-nees to ye. An’ sae they’ll be yet to my bairn—though I’m some tribbled he sud hae saired the maister—e’en as he deserved.”
“What cud he du, sir? It was na for himsel’ he strack! An’ syne he never muved an inch, but stud there like a rock, an’ liftit no a han’ to defen’ himsel’, but jist loot the maister tak his wull o’ ’im.”
The pair tramped swiftly along the road, heeding nothing on either hand as they went, Aggie lithe and active, the laird stooping greatly in his forward anxiety to see his injured boy, but walking much faster “than his age afforded.” Before they reached the village, the mid-day recess had come, and everybody knew what had happened. Loud were most in praise of the boy’s behaviour, and many were the eyes that from window and door watched the laird, as he hurried down the street to “Grannie’s,” where all had learned the young laird was lying. But no one spoke, or showed that he was looking, and the laird walked straight on with his eyes to the ground, glancing neither to the right hand nor the left; and as did the laird, so did Aggie.
The door of the cottage stood open. There was a step down, but the laird knew it well. Turning to the left through a short passage, in the window of which stood a large hydrangea, over two wooden pails of water, he lifted the latch of the inner door, bowed his tall head, and entered the room where lay his darling. With a bow to Grannie, he went straight up to the bed, speedily discovered that Cosmo slept, and stood regarding him with a full heart. Who can tell but him who knows it, how much more it is to be understood by one’s own, than by all the world beside! By one’s own one learns to love all God’s creatures, and from one’s own one gets strength to meet the misprision of the world.
The room was dark though it was summer, and although it had two windows, one to the street, and one to the garden behind: both ceiling and floor were of a dark brown, for the beams and boards of the one were old and interpenetrated with smoke, and the other was of hard-beaten clay, into which also was wrought much smoke and an undefinable blackness, while the windows were occupied with different plants favoured of Grannie, so that little light could get in, and that little was half-swallowed by the general brownness. A tall eight-day clock stood in one corner, up to which, whoever would learn from it the time, had to advance confidentially, and consult its face on tip-toe, with peering eyes. Beside it was a beautifully polished chest of drawers; a nice tea-table stood in the centre, and some dark-shiny wooden chairs against the walls. A closet opened at the head of the bed, and at the foot of it was the door of the room and the passage, so that it stood in a recess, to which were wooden doors, seldom closed. A fire partly of peat, partly of tan, burned on the little hearth.