“I’m afraid it would not be very difficult for her to do that, Willy,” said Miss Bell. “She could always speak in any way she wanted, and indeed the first time that we heard her she was just yoursel’ on a New Year’s morning, even to the hiccough. I hope you’ll keep a watch on what you say to her; the bairn picks up the things she hears so fast, and she’s so innocent, that it’s hardly canny to let her listen much to the talk of a man that’s been a soldier—not that I blame the soldiers, Willy, bless them all for Scotland, young or old!”
“Not a word out of place from me, Miss Dyce,” would he cry, emphatic. “Only once I lost the place and slippit out a hell, and could have bit my tongue out for it. We heard, ye ken, a lot o’ hells out yonder roond aboot Sevastapol: it wasna Mr Meikle’s Sunday-school. But ye needna fear that Wully Oliver would learn ill language to a lady like the wee one. Whatever I am that’s silly when the dram is in, I hope I’m aye the perfect gentleman.”
“Indeed I never doubted it,” said Miss Bell. “But you know yourself we’re anxious that she should be all that’s gentle, nice, and clean. When you’re done raking this bed—dear me! I’m keeping you from getting at it—it’ll be time for you to go home for dinner. Take a bundle of rhubarb for the mistress.”
“Thanky, thanky, me’m,” said Wanton Wully, “but to tell the truth we’re kind o’ tired o’ rhubarb; I’m getting it by the stone from every bit o’ grun’ I’m labourin’ in. I wish folk were so rife wi’ plooms or strawberries.”
Bell smiled. “It’s the herb of kindness,” said she. “There’s aye a reason for everything in nature, and rhubarb’s meant to keep our generosity in practice.”
And there she would be—the foolish woman! keeping him at the crack, the very thing he wanted, till Mr Dyce himself, maybe, seeing his silver hours mishandled, would come to send his sister in, and see that his gardener earned at least a little of his wages.
“A terrible man for the ladies, William! You must have had a taking way with you when you were in the Army,” was all that the lawyer had to say. “There was some talk about doing a little to the garden, but, hoots man! don’t let it spoil your smoke!”
It was then you would see Wanton Wully busy.
Where would Bud be then? At her lessons? no, no, you may be sure of it, but in with Kate of Colonsay giving the maid the bloody tale of Inkermann. It was a far finer and more moving story as it came from Bud than ever it was on the lips of Wanton Wully. From him she only got the fling of the arms that drove the bayonet home, the lips pursed up, as if they were gathered by a string, the fire of the moment, and the broad Scots tongue he spoke in. To what he gave she added fancy and the drama.
“—as black as a ton o’ coal wi’ the creesh o’ the cartridges . . . either him or me . . . I gie’d him . . . I gie’d him . . . I shut my eyes, and said, ‘O God, Thy pardon!’ and gie’d him the BAGGONET!”