*CHAPTER XIX*
*THE MAKING OF A DAISY CHAIN*
A day came when at last I was considered strong enough to ventureout-of-doors, and on that day, to my joy, I had Mary for a companion.Lending me the support of her arm, she guided me to a grassy hillockbeside a little stream that ran down the face of the brae. Many a timeI had dreamed of this moment when I should be alone with her--but nowthat it was come I found myself bereft of words. Apparently, she did notnotice my silence but talked merrily as she sat down beside me. Yet,though my tongue was holden so that I could not speak, the scales hadfallen from my vision and Mary looked more beautiful than ever. Ilooked into her eyes and for the first time saw the secret of theirloveliness. They were brown as a moorland stream--but a moorland streammay be a thing of gloom, and in her eyes there was nothing but glory. Isaw the secret. The rich, deep brown was flecked with little points oflighter hue, as though some golden shaft of sunlight had been caught andheld prisoner there, and when she smiled the sleeping sunshine woke anddanced like a lambent flame.
Daisies were springing all round us, and as she talked she began toweave a chain. The play of her nimble fingers as she threaded thestar-like flowers captivated me. I offered my clumsy aid, and shelaughed merrily at my efforts; but every now and then our hands touched,and I was well content.
When the Chain was completed I doubled it, and said: "Now, Mary, thecrown is ready for the Queen."
She bent her head towards me playfully and I placed the daisies on herglistening hair, nor could I resist the temptation of taking that dearhead of hers between my hands, making as my excuse the need to set thegarland fair.
"Ay," she said, "I am thinkin' it is no' the first time that you ha'edone this. Tell me aboot the English lassies. Are they bonnie?"
"I know very little about them," I replied, and she, with twinklingeyes, returned:
"Ye dinna expect me to believe that, dae ye?"
With mock solemnity I laid my hand upon my heart and swore I spoke thetruth, but she only laughed.
"Tell me," she said, "are they bonnie? I've heard tell they are."
"Well, Mary," I answered, "there may be bonnie lassies in England, butI've seen far bonnier ones in Scotland."
She plucked a daisy and held its yellow heart against her chin. "Ohay," she said, "I've heard that the Wigtown lassies are gey weel-faured.Nae doot, when ye were a sodger there, ye had a sweetheart."
"No," I said, "I had no sweetheart in Wigtown, although I saw a verybonnie lass there."
"I knew it, I knew it," she cried. "And maybe ye helped her to make adaisy chain?"
"No, Mary," I said, "I never had a chance. I saw her only for an hour."
"But ye loved her?" and she looked at me quickly.
"No," I answered, "I had no right to love her. If I had loved her Ishould have tried to save her. She's dead now, but I do not think I canever forget her."
"Oh," she said, "then you canna forget her. You're never likely to loveanither lassie? But ye speak in riddles. Wha was she? Tell me."
It was a hard thing to do, but there was nothing for it. So I told herthe story of Margaret Wilson. She listened breathlessly with mountingcolour. Her eyes dilated and her lips parted as she sat with awe andpity gathering in her face.
When I had finished she turned from me in silence and looked into thedistance. Then she sprang to her feet and faced me, with glowing eyes.
"And you were there! You!" she cried. "You helped the murderers! OGod! I wish I had left you on the moor to die!"
This was my condemnation: this my punishment; that this sweet girlshould turn from me in horror, hating me. I bent my head in shame.
She stood above me, and when I dared to lift my eyes I saw that herhands, which she had clasped, were trembling.
"Mary," I murmured, and at my voice she started as though my lipspolluted her name, "Mary--you cannot know the agony I have suffered forwhat I did, nor how remorse has bitten into my heart torturing me nightand day. It was for that I became a deserter."
"You deserted, and put yoursel' in danger o' death because you weresorry," she said slowly, as though weighing each word.
"Yes," I answered, "that is why I deserted," and I looked into her eyes,from which the anger had faded.
"I'm sorry I was so hasty. I didna mean to be cruel. Forget what Isaid. I meant it at the meenute, but I dinna mean it noo," and she heldout both her hands impulsively. I clasped them, and drew her downbeside me again, and she did not resist. For a moment or two she sat insilence pulling at the blades of grass around her. Then she laid a handupon my arm, and said quietly:
"Tell me aboot her again. Was she really very bonnie?"
"Yes," I replied, "very bonnie."
"The bonniest lassie you ever saw?"
"Yes, the bonniest lassie I had ever seen till then."
"Oh," she exclaimed, "then you've seen a bonnier? And where did ye seeher?"
A woman versed in the wiles of her sex would not have thrown the glovedown so artlessly. Unwittingly she had challenged me to declare mylove--and I was sorely tempted to do so: but I hesitated. A riper momentwould come, so I answered simply:
"Yes, I have seen a bonnier lassie among the hills."
"Oh," she exclaimed, and looked at me questioningly, "and what was shedaein' there?"
I laid a hand upon hers as I replied: "Now, little Mistress Curiosity,do not ask too much."
She drew her hand away quickly, and brushed it with the other as thoughto rid it of some defilement. I fear the taunting name had given herumbrage.
"I think you are a licht-o'-love," she said.
"Mary!" I exclaimed, offended in my turn. "What right have you to saysuch a thing?"
"Weel," she answered, "what else would you ha'e me think. Ye lo'edMargaret Wilson: ye tell me ye've seen a bonnier lass amang the hills,and when I found you on the moors you were repeatin' a lassie's nameower an' ower again--and her name wasna Margaret."
"I was repeating the name of a lassie?" I exclaimed dubiously.
"Ay, ye were that," she made answer, "or ye wadna be here the day. Itwas that made me tak' peety on you. I was sorry for the lassie, whaevershe micht be, and I thocht if I had a lad o' my ain I should like him tobe croonin' ower my name, as you were daein' hers. So I ran hame an'fetched faither, an' we cairried ye to Daldowie."
"And what was the name of the lassie?" I asked, looking at her eagerly.
"Oh I ye kept sayin'--Mary--Mary--Mary--in a kind o' lament."
My heart bounded: there was riot in my veins. "It was your name,Mary--yours--and none other. There is no other Mary in my life."
She looked at me in amazement--her eyes alight. "Surely ye dinna expectme to believe that? You'd only seen me aince--and hardly spoken to me.It couldna be me ye meant."
I made both her hands captive. "Mary, it was. I swear it."
She drew her hands sharply away: "Then you had nae richt tae tak' sic' aliberty. Ye hardly kent me,"--and she sprang up. "I maun fetch thekye," she cried as she hastened off.
I watched her drive them in; then she came for me and led me carefullyback to the house. It seemed to me that there was some message tinglingfrom her heart to mine through the arm with which she supported me--butshe spoke no word.
As we drew near the door, her mother came out to meet us and catchingsight of the forgotten chaplet, exclaimed: "Mary, whatever are ye daein'wi' a string o' daisies in your hair? Ye look like a play-actress."
Laughingly Mary removed the wreath. "It was only a bairn's ploy," shesaid; then to my great cheer, she slipped the flowers into her bosom.
"Come awa' in," said Jean: and she assisted me to my place by the fire.
An adventurous hen with a brood of chickens--little fluffy balls of goldand snow--had followed us, and with noisy duckings from the mother, thelittle creatures pecked and picked from the floor. Jean clapped herhands at them: "Shoo! ye wee Covenanters!" she cried.
/> I laughed, as I said, "Why do you call them Covenanters?"
"Weel," she replied, "I often think that chickens and the hill-men ha'emuckle in common. Ye see maist Covenanters tak' life awfu' seriously.They ha'e few pleasures frae the minute they come into the world. Akitten will lie in the sun playin' wi' a bit o' 'oo', and a wee bitpuppy will chase its tail for half an hour on end: but wha ever saw achicken playin'? They dinna ken the way. It's scrape, scrape, pick,pick, frae the day they crack the shell till the day their necks arewrung. And your Covenanter's muckle the same. He's so borne doon wi'the wecht o' life that he has nae time for its joys. They're guid men,I'm no' denyin', but I sometimes think they've got queer notions of God.They fear God, and some o' them are feart o' Him. There's adifference--a big difference. I aye like to think o' the Almichty as akind-hearted Father: but to hear some even o' the best o' the hill-mentalk o' Him, ye micht weel think He was a roarin' fury chasin' weans ootfrae amang the young corn wi' a big stick. But there are others. Nowgodly Samuel Rutherford and your frien' Alexander Main were brimfu' o'the joy o' life. They kent the secret; and it warmed their hearts andmade them what they were. I like to think o' the love of God spreadower the whole earth like a May mist on the moors--something that iswarm, that has the dew in it and that comes wi' refreshment to puir andlowly things.
"I was brocht up on the Catechism--strong meat and halesome--but itseems to me that noo and then we lose our sense o' the richts o' things.Now there's Andra; he believes that the Catechism hauds a' the wisdom o'man aboot God; and it is a wise book; but to my way o' thinkin', God isfar bigger than the Catechism, and some o' us haena learned that yet. Yecanna shut God in a man-made book that ye can buy for tippence."
I laughed as I said: "Mistress Paterson, you interest me greatly, but Ifear that some of the things you say to me would shock the good men ofthe flock."
She laughed heartily as she replied: "Fine I ken that. Ye maunna' say aword o' this to Andra, for if he heard tell o' what I ha'e been sayin',he would be prayin' for me like a lost sheep every nicht when he tak'sthe Book, and it would be a sair affront for the guid-wife o' the hooseto be prayed for alood by her ain man, afore strangers."
I laughed. "You may trust me," I said, and she continued:
"I ha'e my ain ways o' thinkin'. I've aye had them and in my youngerdays I ha'e nae doot I was a sair trial to Andra. He had juist to getused to it, however, and noo he lets me alane and maybe I am a betterwoman for that. At ony rate, I am quite prepared to dee for the Causeif the Lord wills, but I'm no' gaun to look for my death as Andra issometimes ready to dae in ane o' his uplifted moods, by daein' onythingsilly. Ye've seen him sit by the fireside sometimes, wi' his heid inhis haun's, groanin'. He is a guid man, as naebody kens better than Idae: but every noo and then he gets terrible upset aboot himself. Maistdays he is quite sure that he is ane o' the elect. But every noo andthen, if he tak's haggis to his supper, he's in a black mood next dayand is quite sure that he is ane o' the castaways. Mony a time I ha'eheard him wrestlin' wi' the spirit, wi' mony groans, and when I ha'egane to him he has been moanin'--'I'm no' sure. Am I ane o' the elector am I no'?' I ken weel it's no his conscience but only the haggisthat's tormentin' him. So I juist gi'e him a dish o' herb tea, and nextday he is that uplifted that he thinks he's fit to be ta'en like Elijahin a chariot straicht to heaven."
Her face melted in a smile, and for the first time I saw that thewinsomeness of Mary's smile was a gift from her mother: then shecontinued:
"You're very ceevil. You aye ca' me Mistress Paterson, and I supposethat's only richt, but it's a wee bit stiff. It makes me think o' themeenister at a catechisin'. My name's Janet, but naebody ever ca's methat but Andra--and only when he's no' weel pleased wi' me. I'm Jean tothem I like, and to them that like me, an' ye can ca' me Jean if itpleases ye."