“Langer! It’s no possible!” exclaimed the poor Laird. “It canna be; ye were born on the land. O Jeanie woman, ye haena lookit—ye haena seen the half o’ the gear.” He drew out another drawer—“A’ gowd, Jeanie, and there’s bands for siller lent—And the rental book, Jeanie—clear three hunder sterling—deil a wadset, heritable band, or burden—Ye haena lookit at them, woman—And then my mother’s wardrobe, and my grandmother’s forby—silk gowns wad stand on their ends, their pearline-lace as fine as spiders’ webs, and rings and ear-rings to the boot of a’ that—they are a’ in the chamber of deas—Oh, Jeanie, gang up the stair and look at them!”
But Jeanie held fast her integrity, though beset with temptations, which perhaps the Laird of Dumbiedikes did not greatly err in supposing were those most affecting to her sex.
“It canna be, Laird—I have said it—and I canna break my word till him, if ye wad gie me the haill barony of Dalkeith, and Lugton into the bargain.”
“Your word to him,” said the Laird, somewhat pettishly; “but wha is he, Jeanie?—wha is he?—I haena heard his name yet—Come now, Jeanie, ye are but queering us—I am no trowing that there is sic a ane in the warld—ye are but making fashion—What is he?—wha is he?”
“Just Reuben Butler, that’s schulemaster at Liberton,” said Jeanie.
“Reuben Butler! Reuben Butler!” echoed the Laird of Dumbiedikes, pacing the apartment in high disdain,—“Reuben Butler, the dominie at Liberton—and a dominie depute too!—Reuben, the son of my cottar!—Very weel, Jeanie lass, wilfu’ woman will hae her way—Reuben Butler! he hasna in his pouch the value o’ the auld black coat he wears—But it disna signify.” And as he spoke, he shut successively and with vehemence the drawers of his treasury. “A fair offer, Jeanie, is nae cause of feud—Ae man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty winna gar him drink—And as for wasting my substance on other folk’s joes—”
There was something in the last hint that nettled Jeanie’s honest pride.— “I was begging nane frae your honour,” she said; “least of a’ on sic a score as ye pit it on.—Gude morning to ye, sir; ye hae been kind to my father, and it isna in my heart to think otherwise than kindly of you.”
So saying, she left the room without listening to a faint “But, Jeanie—Jeanie—stay, woman!” and traversing the courtyard with a quick step, she set out on her forward journey, her bosom glowing with that natural indignation and shame, which an honest mind feels at having subjected itself to ask a favour, which had been unexpectedly refused. When out of the Laird’s ground, and once more upon the public road, her pace slackened, her anger cooled, and anxious anticipations of the consequence of this unexpected disappointment began to influence her with other feelings. Must she then actually beg her way to London? for such seemed the alternative; or must she turn back, and solicit her father for money? and by doing so lose time, which was precious, besides the risk of encountering his positive prohibition respecting the journey! Yet she saw no medium between these alternatives; and, while she walked slowly on, was still meditating whether it were not better to return.