“Never, Mary!—never!” he exclaimed; “call me Philip—your Philip!—anything but brother!” He took her hand within his—he pressed it to his bosom. “Mary,” he added, “I have neither father, mother, brother, nor kindred—I am alone in the world—let there be something that I can call mine—something that will love me in return! Do you understand me, Mary?”
“You are cruel, Philip,” said she, sobbing as she spoke; “you know I love you—I have always loved you!”
“Yes! as you love Daniel—as you love your father; but not as”——
“You love Mr. Duncan,” he would have said; but his heart upbraided him for the suspicion, and he was silent. It is here necessary to inform the reader that Mr. Duncan was a preacher of the Covenant, and John Brydone revered him much. He was much older than Mary, but his heart cleaved to her, and he had asked her father’s consent to become his son-in-law. John, though a stern man, was not one who would force the inclination of his daughter; but Mr. Duncan was, as he expressed it, “one of the faithful in Israel,” and his proposal was pleasing to him. Mary, however, regarded the preacher with awe, but not with affection.
Mary felt that she understood Philip—that she loved him, and not as a brother. She hid her face upon his shoulder, and her hand returned the pressure of his. They entered the house together, and her father perceived that his daughter’s face was troubled. The manner of both was changed. He was a shrewd man as well as a stern man, and he also suspected the cause.
“Philip,” said he calmly, “for twenty years hae I protected ye, an’ watched ower ye wi’ a faither’s care, an’ I fear that, in return for my care, ye hae brought sorrow into the bosom o’ my family, an’ instilled disobedience into the flesh o’ my ain flesh. But though ye hae cleaved—as it maun hae been inherent in your bluid—into the principles o’ the sons o’ this warld, yet, as I ne’er found ye guilty o’ a falsehood, an’ as I believe ye incapable o’ are, tell me truly, why is your countenance an’ that o’ Mary changed—and why are ye baith troubled to look me straight in the face? Answer me—hae ye taught her to forget that she is your sister?”
“Yes!” answered Philip; “and can it offend the man who saved me, who has watched over me, and sheltered me from infancy till now, that I should wish to be his son in more than in name?”
“It does offend me, Philip,” said the Covenanter; “even unto death it offends me! I hae consented that my dochter shall gie her hand to a guid an’ a godly man, who will look after her weelfare baith here and hereafter. And ye kenned this—she kenned it, and she didna refuse; but ye hae come like the son o’ darkness, an’ sawn tares amang the wheat.”
“Father,” said Philip, “if you will still allow me to call you by that name—foundling though I am—unknown as I am—in what am I worse than him to whom you would sacrifice your daughter’s happiness?”
“Sacrifice her happiness!” interrupted the old man; “hoo daur ye speak o’ happiness, wha kens nae meanin’ for the word but the vain pleasures o’ this sinfu’ warld! Think ye that, as a faither, an’ as ane that has my offspring to answer for, that I daur sacrifice the eternal happiness o’ my bairn, for the gratification o’ a temporary feelin’ which ye encourage the day and may extinguish the morn? Na, sir; they wha wad ken what true happiness is, maun first learn to crucify human passions. Mary,” added he, sternly, turning to his daughter, “repeat the fifth commandment.”