Walter spent a restless and a troubled morning till day-light, and Davie said, that wearied as he was, he believed he never closed his een, for he heard him frequently turning in the bed, and moaning to himself; and he heard him once saying, with deep sighs as if weeping,—“O my poor Keatie Laidlaw! what is to become o’ her! My poor lost, misled lassie! Wae’s my heart for her! I fear she is ruined for this world—an’ for the aftercome, I dare hardly venture to think about it!—O wae’s me for my poor luckless bairn!”
CHAPTER III.
Next morning Walter and his two sons, and old Nanny, went all over to Chapelhope together, just as the cows came to the loan; and the farmer was sundry times remarking by the way that “day-light had mony een!” The truth was, that the phantoms of superstition had in a measure fled with the shadows of the night, which they seldom fail to do. They, indeed, remain in the bosom, hid, as it were, in embryo, ready to be embodied again at the fall of the long shadow in the moon-light, or the evening tale round the fading embers; but Walter at this time, perhaps, regarded the visions of last night as dreams scarcely remembered, and less believed, and things which in the open day he would have been ashamed to have acknowledged.
Katharine had begun a-milking, but when she beheld her father coming across the meadow, she left her leglen and ran home. Perhaps it was to put his little parlour in order, for no one of the family had set foot within that house but herself for three weeks—or perhaps she did not choose that their meeting should be witnessed by other eyes. In short, she had something of importance to put to rights—for home she ran with great haste; and Walter, putting his sons to some work to detain them, followed her all alone. He stepped into the parlour, but no one being there, he sat down on his elbow chair, and began to look about him. In a few seconds his daughter entered—flung herself on her father’s knee and bosom—clasped her arms about his neck—kissed him, and shed a flood of tears on his breast. At first he felt somewhat startled at her embrace, and his arms made a feeble and involuntary effort to press her away from him; but she grew to him the closer, and welcomed him home with such a burst of filial affection and tenderness, that nature in a short time regained her empire over the father’s heart; and there was to be seen old Walter with his large hands pressing her slender waist, keeping her at a little distance from him on his knee, and looking stedfastly in her face, with the large tear rolling in his eye. It was such a look as one sometimes takes of the corpse of one that was dearly beloved in life. Well did she read this look, for she had the eye of the eagle for discernment; but she hid her face again on his shoulder, and endeavoured, by familiar enquiries, to wean him insensibly from his reserve, and draw him into his wonted freedom of conversation with her.
“Ye ken o’er well,” said he at length, “how deep a haud ye hae o’ this heart, Keatie. Ye’re my ain bairn still, and ye hae done muckle for my life—but”——
“Muckle for your life!” said she, interrupting him—“I have been but too remiss. I have regretted every hour that I was not with you attending you in prison, administering to all my father’s wants, and helping to make the time of bondage and suspense pass over more lightsomely; but grievous circumstances have prevented me. I have had sad doings here since you went away, my dear father—there is not a feeling that can rack the human heart that has not been my share. But I will confess all my errors to my father, fall at his knees, and beg his forgiveness—ay, and I hope to receive it too.”
“The sooner ye do sae the better then, Keatie,” said he—“I was here last night, an’ saw a sight that was enough to turn a father’s heart to stane.”
“You were here last night!” said she emphatically, while her eyes were fixed on the ground—“You were here last night! Oh! what shall become of me!”