“Oh! it was not that I was afraid. But I was, for so long a time, troubled and anxious,—that—whiles I think I am not just like other women—and that you might—”
John uttered a little note of triumph.
“Like other women? You are very little like the most of them, I should say.”
“It is not of you—it is of myself I am afraid. You think too well of me, John. I am not so good and wise as you believe, but I love you, John.”
That ought to have been enough, and there were only a few words more, and this was one of them:
“Allie,” said John gravely, “I doubt that I am neither so wise nor so good as you think me to be. You will need to have patience with me. There are some who say I am hard, and ower-full of myself, and whiles I have thought it of myself. But, Allie, if I am ever hard with you, or forgetful, or if I ever hurt you by word or deed, it will not be because I do not love you dearly. And you will ay have patience with me, dear, and trust me?”
“I am not afraid, John.”
The happy day came, and the marriage in the manse parlour was a very quiet affair, as those who were most concerned desired it to be. But in the opinion of Nethermuir generally, a great mistake had been made. The marriage should have been in the kirk, it was said, so that all the town might have seen it.
Robert was best-man, and Marjorie was best-maid. Mrs Esselmont and her daughter and son-in-law were there, and one other guest.
“Think of it!” folk said. “Only one asked to the marriage out of the whole town, and that one auld Saunners Crombie!”