Mag. My ain true darling! (They embrace.)
Ch. Now, I’ll not have it! Understand me, I’ll not have it. It’s simple agony to me. Angus, I respect your indignation, but you are too hasty. I do not offer to buy your treasure for money. You love her; it will naturally cause you pain to part with her, and I prescribe thirty shillings, not as a cure, but as a temporary solace. If thirty shillings is not enough, why, I don’t mind making it two pounds.
Ang. Nae, sir, it’s useless, and we ken it weel, do we not, my brave lassie? Our hearts are one as our bodies will be some day; and the man is na born, and the gold is na coined, that can set us twain asunder!
Mag. Angus, dear, I’m varra proud o’ sae staunch and true a love; it’s like your ain true self, an’ I can say nae more for it than that. But dinna act wi’out prudence and forethought, dear. In these hard times twa pound is twa pound, and I’m nae sure that ye’re acting richtly in refusing sae large a sum. I love you varra dearly—ye ken that right weel—an’ if ye’ll be troubled wi’ sic a poor little mousie I’ll mak’ ye a true an’ loving wife, but I doubt whether, wi’ a’ my love, I’ll ever be worth as much to ye as twa pound. Dinna act in haste, dear; tak’ time to think before ye refuse this kind gentleman’s offer.
Ang. Oh, sir, is not this rare modesty? Could ye match it amang your toun-bred fine ladies? I think not! Meg, it shall be as you say. I’ll tak’ the siller, but it’ll be wi’ a sair and broken hairt! (Cheviot gives Angus money.) Fare thee weel, my love—my childhood’s—boyhood’s—manhood’s love! Ye’re ganging fra my hairt to anither, who’ll gie thee mair o’ the gude things o’ this world than I could ever gie ’ee, except love, an’ o’ that my hairt is full indeed! But it’s a’ for the best; ye’ll be happier wi’ him—and twa pound is twa pound. Meg, mak’ him a gude wife, be true to him, and love him as ye loved me. Oh, Meg, my poor bruised hairt is well nigh like to break!
[Exit into cottage, in great agony.
Mag. (looking wistfully after him). Puir laddie, puir laddie! Oh, I did na ken till noo how weel he loved me!
Ch. Maggie, I’m almost sorry I—poor lad, poor fellow! He has a generous heart. I am glad I did not curse him. (Aside.) This is weakness! (Aloud.) Maggie my own—ever and for always my own, we will be very happy, will we not?
Mag. Oh, sir, I dinna ken, but in truth I hope so. Oh, sir, my happiness is in your hands noo; be kind to the puir cottage lassie who loves ye sae weel; my hairt is a’ your ain, and if ye forsake me my lot will be a sair one indeed!