"I've been thinkin ye're no just a here-a-wa man, by your tongue," said she; "an', if I'm no mista'en, ye've seen better days; for, when I was bringin butt your wet claes to get them dried, though your bit jacket an' your breeks were just corduroy, I couldna help noticin that there is no a bit bonnier linen inowre our door than the sark ye had on."
To these observations it seemed as if the stranger scarce knew how to reply—he passed his hand across his brow, and was silent for some seconds. But, on recovering himself, he told them that his name was Duncan Cowpet—that he had been born in Scotland, but his parents had removed to England when he was very young—that he had lately been a traveller for a house in London, but his master being now dead, and himself out of employment, he had thought of visiting his native country; he added that, though his dress was rather plain, he was not destitute of money, and concluded by offering to pay them for the trouble they had already been at on his account, and also for his night's lodging.
"Na, na," said the old farmer, his eyes brightening as he spoke, "we never took payment for sheltering the head of a houseless stranger, nor will we noo. But ye were sayin that ye're out o' employment; as this is a backward season, an' we have a hantle to do, an' mair than a', as I'm turned frail and feckless mysel, an' unco sair fashed wi' rheumatisms, I've been thinkin if ye could consent to stay an' help us for a owk or twa, maybe ye would be nae waur, an' we could gie you as guid wages as ony ither body."
To this proposal Duncan offered no objection, only he wished to stipulate for a bed in the house, as, he said, he had never been accustomed to lie in barns; and, as a guarantee that he would neither injure their property, nor run off without giving them notice, he offered to place five guineas in the hands of the guidman—remarking, that it was all the ready money he had about him. "And as to wages," he continued, "I wull ask no more than what you wull think I work for." The five guineas were accepted, not as a guarantee for his good behaviour, but that they might be in safe keeping. He was given to understand that he might have them at any time; and, when the family retired to rest, he was accommodated with a bed in the house.
On the following morning, which happened to be fair, he was employed in the labours of the season; and, though he manifested an uncommon degree of awkwardness, George Chrighton, who was his fellow bandster, did everything in his power to instruct and assist him in his new profession; so that he succeeded in performing his part of the labour till breakfast time. After this meal had been despatched, as each youngster drew closer to his favourite lass, Duncan, following the example thus set before him, began to attach himself to Catherine Roger, who, though the youngest, and perhaps the fairest, seemed to have no sweetheart present. But Catherine, though thus left alone, was far from encouraging his attentions; and, with great dexterity, she contrived, during what remained of the breakfast hour, always to keep her mother's person between her and him—thus defeating his strong inclination to imitate the conduct of some of his fellow-labourers, by placing his arm around her neck.
On rising to recommence the labours of the day, Duncan found that his hands were blistered, and that it would be extremely difficult for him to resume his work; but George again assisted him, by inquiring if any of the lasses would be so kind as come and dress the injured parts. Catherine, notwithstanding her former coyness, was the first to obey. Bounding, with a light step, to her small repository of bandages and thread, she was back in a moment; and, spreading a small quantity of a very healing ointment, which her mother had previously prepared, upon a piece of linen cloth, she applied it to the part where the skin was beginning to peel off, with the dexterity of an experienced surgeon, and, having fastened it with a bandage drawn sufficiently tight, she was at her work again before Duncan could move his lips to thank her. He was now offered a pair of gloves, and with them, and the soothing nature of the ointment, his labour was less painful than he had anticipated, till their operations were interrupted by the rain.
Frosty mornings and rainy days, with short intervals of fair weather, succeeded each other. When in the field, Duncan had always an opportunity of seeing Catherine; but, though he really did endeavour to ingratiate himself in her favour, she still dexterously contrived to eschew all his attentions. He was not in love with her; but he felt attached to her by the same sort of feeling with which one regards a beautiful picture, or any other object which delights the senses. The symmetry of her form, the brilliancy of her complexion, and the lustre of her eyes, excited his admiration; and, in the absence of other objects, drew his attention. In this state of mind, he frequently puzzled his brains to account for the strangeness of her manners; and, one evening, shortly after his arrival, he resolved to introduce himself to her mother; if, peradventure, his so doing might throw some light upon the subject. With this intention, he had passed the little window, and was approaching the door, when he heard a chair overturned and a noise within, as if some one had fled to the farther end of the house in great confusion. This induced him to listen for a moment; and, while thus listening, he heard Elspeth exclaim—
"What i' the warld's come owre the lassie noo!—whaur hae ye run till, Kate? Na, I never saw the like o' that! The sark ye was mendin at, lyin i' the aise-hole, an' a red cinder aboon't!—if I hadna grippit it, it might hae been a' in a lowe lang afore ye cam to look for't; an' Andrew would only gotten a pouchfu o' aise to tak hame wi' him on Saturday nicht, instead of a sark." Duncan was no eavesdropper; but his curiosity was strongly excited by what he had heard, and he could neither go in nor drag himself with sufficient speed from the door.
As Elspeth was concluding her ejaculations, the frightened damsel returned, and was heard to say, in a suppressed tone—"O mither, dinna be angry—I thought I saw Duncan Cowpet come past the window, an' I ran to be out o' his gait. I canna bide him; his een's never off me the hail day, an' mony a time I dinna ken whar to look."
"Hoot, lassie," rejoined her mother; "ye aye mak bogles o' windlestraes. Duncan is an honest lad, I'll warrant him, an' willin to work, too, though he's no very guid o't. But, for a' that, dinna think that I want ye to draw up wi' him; for I wouldna hae ye to gie ony encouragement to anither man on earth, as lang as Andrew Sharp pays mair respect to you than the lave. But only tak my advice—neither rin awa when ye see Duncan coming, nor seem to notice his attentions when he comes, and he'll soon bestow them on some ither body."