Diana, however, was a woman of some education; and to a relative she left a sort of history of her life, from which the following is an extract:—
“My father died before I was eighteen (so began Diana’s narrative), and he left five of us—that is, my mother, two sisters, a brother, and myself—five hundred pounds a-piece. My sisters were both younger than me; but, within six years after our father’s death, they both got married; and my brother, who was only a year older than myself, left the house also, and took a wife, so that there was nobody but me and my mother left. Everybody thought there was something very singular in this; for it was not natural that the youngest should be taken and the auldest left; and, besides, it was acknowledged that I was the best faured,[C] and the best tempered in the family; and there could be no dispute but that my siller was as good as theirs.
I must confess, however, that, when I was but a lassie o’ sixteen, I had drawn up wi’ one James Laidlaw—but I should score out the word one, and just say that I had drawn up wi’ James Laidlaw. He was a year, or maybe three, aulder than me, and I kenned him when he was just a laddie, at Mr. Wh——’s school in Dunse; but I took no notice o’ him then in particular, and, indeed, I never did, until one day that I was an errand down by Kimmerghame, and I met James just coming out frae the gardens. It was the summer season, and he had a posie in his hand, and a very bonny posie it was. ‘Here’s a fine day, Diana,’ says he. ‘Yes, it is,’ says I.
So we said nae mair for some time; but he keepit walking by my side, and at last he said—‘What do ye think o’ this posie?’ ‘It is very bonny, James,’ said I. ‘I think sae,’ quoth he; ‘and if ye will accept it, there should naebody be mair welcome to it.’ ‘Ou, I thank ye,’ said I, and I blushed in a way—‘why should ye gie me it?’ ‘Never mind,’ says he, ‘tak it for auld acquaintance sake—we were at the school together.’
So I took the flowers, and James keepit by my side, and cracked to me a’ the way to my mother’s door, and I cracked to him—and I really wondered that the road between Kimmerghame and Dunse had turned sae short. It wasna half the length that it used to be, or what I thought it ought to be.
But I often saw James Laidlaw after this; and somehow or other I aye met him just as I was coming out o’ the kirk, and weel do I recollect that, one Sabbath in particular, he said to me—‘Diana, will ye no come out and tak a walk after ye get your dinner?’ ‘I dinna ken, James,’ says I; ‘I doubt I daurna, for our folk are very particular, and baith my faither and my mother are terribly against onything like gaun about stravaigin on the Sundays.’ ‘Oh, they need never ken where ye’re gaun,’ says he. ‘Weel, I’ll try,’ says I, for by this time I had a sort o’ liking for James. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘I’ll be at the Penny Stane at four o’clock.’ ‘Very weel,’ quoth I.
And, although baith my faither and mother said to me, as I was gaun out—‘Where are ye gaun, lassie?’—‘Oh, no very far,’ said I; and, at four o’clock, I met James at the Penny Stane. I shall never forget the grip that he gied my hand when he took it in his, and said—
‘Ye hae been as good as your word, Diana.’
We wandered awa doun by Wedderburn dyke, till we came to the Blackadder, and then we sauntered down by the river side, till we were opposite Kelloe—and, oh, it was a pleasant afternoon. Everything round about us, aboon us, and among our feet, seemed to ken it was Sunday—everything but James and me. The laverock was singing in the blue lift—the blackbirds were whistling in the hedges—the mavis chaunted its loud sang frae the bushes on the braes—the lennerts[D] were singing and chirming among the whins—and the shelfa[E] absolutely seemed to follow ye wi’ its three notes over again, in order that ye might learn them.
It was the happiest afternoon I ever spent. James grat, and I grat. I got a scolding frae my faither and my mother when I gaed hame, and they demanded to ken where I had been; but the words that James had spoken to me bore me up against their reproaches.