“Wheesht, lassie!” said he; “I winna be forced to onything. A Scott may be led, but he winna drive. I have nae wish to see the face o’ your young mistress, for I winna hae her. But you speak as one that has a feeling heart, and before I trust ye wi’ my last letter to my poor mother, I should like to have a glance at your face, and by your countenance I shall judge whether or not it will be safe to trust ye.”
“I doubt, sir,” replied she, throwing back the hood that covered her head, “ye will see as little in my features as ye expect to find in my young mistress’s to recommend me; but, sir, you ought to remember that jewels are often encrusted in coarser metals, and ye will often find a delicious kernel within an unsightly shell.”
“Ye speak sweetly, and as sensibly as sweet,” said he, raising the flickering lamp, which burned before them upon a small table, and gazing upon her countenance; “and I will now tell ye, lassie, that if your features be not beautiful, there is honesty and kindliness written upon every line o’ them; and though ye are a dependent in the house o’ my enemy, I will trust ye. Try if I can obtain writing materials to address a few lines to my mother, and I will confide in you to deliver them.”
“Ye may confide in me,” rejoined she, “and the writing materials which ye desire I hae brought wi’ me. Write, and not only shall your letter be faithfully delivered, but, as ye hae confided in me, I will venture to say that your life shall be spared until ye receive her answer; for I may say that what I request, Lady Murray will try to see performed. And if I can find any means in my power by which ye can escape, it shall not be lang that ye will remain a prisoner.”
“Thank ye!—doubly thank ye!” cried Simon; “ye are a good and a kind creature; and though my maister refuses to marry your mistress, yet, had I been single, I would hae married you. But, oh, when ye go wi’ the letter to his mother, my honoured lady, will ye just go away down to a bit white house which lies by the river side, about a mile and a half aboon Selkirk, and there ye will find my poor wife and bairns—or rather, I should say, my unhappy widow and my orphans—and tell them—oh, tell my wife—that I never kenned how dear she was to me till now; but that, if she marries again, my ghost will haunt her night and day; and tell also the bairns that, above everything, I charge them to be good to their mother.”
The young laird sat down, and, writing a letter to his mother, intrusted it to the hands of the stranger girl. He raised her hand to his lips as she withdrew, and a tear trickled down his cheeks as he thanked her.
It was early on the following morning that Meikle-mouthed Meg, as she was called, requested an interview with her father, which being granted, after respectfully rendering obeisance before him, she said—“So, faither, I understand that it is your pleasure that I shall this day become the wife o’ young Scott o’ Harden. I think, sir, that it is due to the daughter o’ a Murray o’ Elibank, that she should be courted before she gies her hand. The young man has never seen me; he kens naething concerning me; an’ never will yer dochter disgrace ye by gieing her hand to a man who only accepted it to save his neck from a hempen cord. Faither, if it be your command that I am to marry him, I will an’ must marry him; but, before I just make a venture upon him for better for worse, an’ for life, I wad like to hae some sma’ acquaintance wi’ him, to see what sort o’ a lad he is, and what kind o’ temper he has; and therefore, faither, I humbly crave that ye will put off the death or the marriage for a week at least, that I may hae an opportunity o’ judging for mysel’ how far it would be prudent or becoming in me to consent to be his wife.”
“Gie me your hand, Meg,” cried the old knight; “I didna think ye had as muckle spirit and gumption in ye as to say what ye hae said. But your request is useless; for he has already, point blank, refused to hae ye; an’ there is naething left for him, but, before sunset, to strike his heels against the bark o’ the auld elm tree.”
“Say not that, faither,” said she—“let me at least hae four days to become acquainted wi’ him; and if in that time he doesna mak a request to you to marry me without ony dowry, then will I say that I look even waur than I get the name o’ doing.”
“He shall have four days, Meg,” cried the old knight; “for your sake he will have them; but if, at the end o’ four days, he shall refuse to take ye, he shall hang before this window, and his poor half-crazed companion shall bear him company.”