Chapter III: Part 3

But after all, the way things had turned out now, it was a mercy that no man would batter down the door to get Sally Ann. With nobody else to bring in a penny, it was just as well that Sally Ann was free footed and not tied to some man who might not so much as give her mother a pail of skimmed milk on Saturday night. For you can never tell about a man; there was Mistress MacKenty’s Nellie that married Bransbog’s laddie, you would think that she’d get all the butter she needed, and him with a byre full of Jersey cows, but no, she was down at the grocer’s every Saturday night as usual buying her pound, just as if she had never had a daughter in this world.

It was a blessing too, although it had looked like a wilful waste of siller at the time, that Sally Ann had spent her grandmother’s legacy of three pounds ten shillings to go to Fraserburg and learn candy-making. And it seemed like a special consideration from the Lord, that at the very time Sally Ann started in business, Sweetie-Annie’s asthma took a turn for the worse, and she was obliged to give up her shop and go to live with her daughter, so that Sally Ann was able to buy her bottles and pans for next to nothing, and get all her trade forby.

Not that Sally Ann would ever make a success of the business if it were left to her. Indeed no; it was a case of constant watching to see that she didn’t give the candy away to any red-cheeked bairn that pushed his nose against the window. Things had come to such a pass one day that she had even caught her putting her thumb on the weight side of the scales right under her very eyes, and she had barely prevented her from giving the Fraser bairn three half-penny’s worth of butterscotch for his half-penny.

It was the like of _this_ which proved that Sally Ann was not fit to serve the public, and that finally persuaded her to don her black satin gown and serve the candy herself. It was a sorry down-come that the widow of an insurance man, with a brass plate on his door, should be serving candy to any wet-nosed bairn that had a half-penny to spend; but the black satin gown made it bearable. And even the like of Skilly’s Gype, that carried a high head and an impudent tongue in it, had been impressed by the gold locket, and remarked that it “dootless had cost a bonnie penny”; and when he ordered a pair of knitted gloves, he asked if she would _mind_ knitting them in a heather mixture color; so it wasn’t as if they didn’t _know_ that she was above such doings.

It had been a bitter privation to give up the front parlor and turn it into a shop where all and sundry could come to geek and glower; and harder still to take the lace curtains off the window and fill it with pans of candy. She didn’t want to do it, but Sally Ann had been determined about this; she had even gone the length of saying: “It’s no secret that we’re sellin’ candy, mither.” That wasn’t like Sally Ann, she was unreasonable and feckless like the father of her, but it was seldom that she was impudent.

Sally Ann turned out to be very notional about the window. She thought it was a tasty-like arrangement to have the woolen gloves knitted the same color as the candy, and hang the pink gloves above the pink candy, and the red above the red. But everybody kept crying for navy blue and heather mixture gloves, and try as she would, Sally Ann couldn’t make heather mixture candy, and when she did manage to make _something_ like it, it was so queasy-looking that the bairns wouldn’t buy it.

So there hung the pink gloves and the red, and the green and white ones that matched the peppermint rock, and nobody would buy them. But Sally Ann didn’t care. They charmed her eye, and she excused them to herself and to her mother by saying: “We have t’ look on ’t as necessary oot-lay t’ decorate the winda. It lets them ken we sell gloves as weel as candy.”

She banked the back of the window up with pink and red geraniums, and sometimes in the quiet of the morning, she would steal out to the middle of the street and take a sly look at it, coming back to say guilelessly: “It’s unco bonnie, mither, I hae the real knack o’ trimmin’ a winda.”

But Mistress MacIntosh would only sigh, and her sigh would mean: “T’ think that I hae come t’ _this_!” It made Sally Ann feel guilty, as if somehow in selling candy, she were also selling her mother’s pride, bit by bit in paper bags; and she would take tentie[21] steps on the edges of her feet the rest of the morning, and speak to her mother only in compassionate whispers.

There was something gleyed[22] about Sally Ann. She had started to be a perfect copy of her mother, and then lost heart. Her prominent brows were made to be heavily marked with dark eyebrows, but instead, each hovered naked as an unstroked T above a timid, vague blue eye. Her shoulders had the challenging set of her mother’s, and her dominant cheek-bones were molded by the same firm hand, but her hair was the yellow of a mavis’ breast, and her ways were shy and tender, as if some essence of her gentle father had crept by mistake into the wrong casket.

In the shelter of her room as she braided her hair by the candle-light, Sally Ann would dream rash and glowing dreams of flashing lovers who would not be denied. Or walking alone in the bracken-scented gloaming, she would thrill in sweet enchantment at the thought of some bold gallant, riding down the lane to clasp her wildly to his breast.

But it was only in her dreams that she was brave enough to lift eyes to them; for the very approach of a man made her wits fly two ways at once in a frenzy of embarrassment. Before her sister died, leaving her to provide for the family, she had been steeped to the lips in mortification at her mother’s constant angling after a man for her. She liked it better the way it was now, with her mother on the watch to prevent her seeing any man who might want to marry her. There was more room for self-respect in that; although in truth, as she told herself ruefully, her mother had no need to watch; the gallants of Drumorty took little heed of _her_, they hankered after quick-eyed saucy lasses that were loud in their laughing, and free at tossing gibe for gibe.

Sally Ann also hated the “church socials” at which she would perch nervously on the edge of a chair, with a strained smile to show that she was enjoying herself. As she sat hour after hour watching the lads petitioning smiles from other lasses, but with never an eye for _her_, she would seem to herself to get smaller and smaller and quieter and more gray with every passing hour, until she would think that she had become invisible, and would relax her effort to smile; but then her mother would nudge her, whispering impatiently: “Dinna sit there wi’ a face that would sour milk; there’s nae lad likes a dour-faced lass.” And she would pick up her smile again and wear it dutifully the rest of the evening.

Each time she would plead to stay at home, saying that sitting so long gave her a stiff neck, as indeed it did; but her mother insisted, and somehow managed to prove that it was some unnatural ingratitude in Sally Ann that made her not want to go.

But all that was changed now. Far from urging her to go, Mistress MacIntosh even contrived to have “a sinkin’ aboot her heart” every time there were any social doings, so that Sally Ann had to stay at home and tend her. She even kept her from going to serve the customers in the front parlor, except on those rare occasions when the water on her knee made her a cripple. And she believed that Sally Ann was content, and would never give marrying a thought unless some man came troubling her with his haverings.

It was a Monday morning when Sally Ann made all the treacle candy for the week. She always pulled it on a big hook in the front parlor, and because customers might come in, she wore her sky-blue print gown fresh from the ironing.

“Here’s Skilly’s Gype ridin’ doon the brae, the dirt flyin’ o’er his head as if auld Nick were at his heels,” commented Mistress MacIntosh. “He’ll be after his gloves, an’ them barely cast on yet. Tak’ the candy ben the hoose, Sally Ann; ye’ll no’ be wantin’ t’ hae speech wi’ the like o’ him.”

“I canna, mither,” Sally Ann protested. “I hae t’ pull it when it’s at _this_ heat, or I’ll hae t’ heat it o’er again.”

“Weel then, turn yer back on him, and dinna let on ye ken he’s here.”

“He’ll think I’m deaf,” said Sally Ann with a flustered giggle. Her heart was capering queerly at the nearing clatter of hoofs.

“Better think ye deaf than think ye wanton,” warned her mother, bracing herself against the Gype’s arrival by feeling if her lace cap was straight.

He came in like a hurricane and was filling the parlor to the ceiling before Sally Ann had time to catch up with her heart. Everything about him, from his checked yellow waistcoat to his crinkling red hair bespoke achievement and the poise and pride that comes of it.

Ten years ago they had called him daft-like, and nicknamed him “Skilly’s Gype,” and had cried down scorn upon him at market and meeting-place because he had come back from Aberdeen University with new-fangled notions about farming. And the worthies had held their sides when he put a roller over his newly sprouted oats; and loud had been their clamor over the “tiled bathrooms for his Jersey cows.” This was when he put a tiled gutter and running water in byre. But the derision had died out when his oats and Jerseys robbed them of the best county prizes; and though they called him “the Gype” still, and cracked their jokes about his waistcoats, there was not one of them above stepping up to Skilly Farm on a dark evening to ask him for a little advice. And now that “Auld Skilly” was dead, and the Gype owned the farm, the lassies were fairly on tiptoe at his approach and angling to catch him with every wile, as much for the fine figure of a man he was, as for the grand farmhouse and byre full of Jerseys.

But he had a high-handed way with them, and never went so far forward that he couldn’t step back, for he was not minded to be married for his Jersey cows, and indeed, he was not minded to be married at all while there were willing red lips to be kissed and new waists to be circled in Drumorty.

He included Sally Ann in his hearty “Guid day t’ ye,” but minding her mother’s warning, she didn’t turn round. Indeed, she _couldn’t_ have turned round, in such a flurry was she. The sound of his horse’s hoofs had made her heart float out of her, and for the moment he was strangely mixed up with the lover of her dreams, whose horse’s hoofs also sprayed the sod behind him in his haste to reach her side.

“Yer gloves are no’ but just cast on yet,” Mistress MacIntosh was saying discouragingly.

But the Gype was leaning far over the counter to attract Sally Ann.

“How long will I hae t’ wait t’ get some o’ the candy ye’re pullin’, Miss MacIntosh?”

Her mother made answer, cutting off his view of Sally Ann. “We hae lots o’ treacle candy all ready in the winda. How much wad ye be wantin’?”

“But I’m minded t’ hae some o’ the fresh,” he answered, stepping round the short counter to Sally Ann’s side. Seeing him, she missed the hook, and the candy would have fallen had he not deftly grabbed it and tossed it upon the hook again.

“It’s sticky stuff, that,” he laughed, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his fingers. Sally Ann smiled shyly up at him.

“It’s the verra color o’ yer hair,” he said, contemplating her. “Only it’s no’ so bonnie as yer hair.”

“Yer horse is scarin’ at something,” said Mistress MacIntosh with a clinking chill in her voice. “Better tend t’ yer ain business and let the lassie tend t’ hers. She wants none o’ yer haverin’, keep that for Bransbog’s lassies that hae nothing better t’ do than listen t’ the like o’ ye.”

“Mither!” cried Sally Ann reproachfully.

“Dinna ‘Mither’ me,” snapped Mistress MacIntosh. “Gae ben the hoose as I tel’t ye in the first place.”

“Mither—” began Sally again.

“Na, noo,” remonstrated the Gype. “I’ll no’ tak’ a bite oot o’ the lass.” He put out a hand to detain Sally Ann, but, obeying a commanding signal from her mother, she had the candy from the hook and was through the door like a frightened squirrel.

“Be steppin’ yer way, ma mannie,” said Mistress MacIntosh with withering patronage.

The Gype loitered. “I’ll tak’ a pound o’ candy first.” He was not minded to go at Mistress MacIntosh’s bidding; it pleased him to make her drop her triumphant air and reach down groaningly to the shelf under the counter for a bag of candy.

“Noo,” he said, with the devil dancing in his face, “present it t’ Miss MacIntosh wi’ my compliments an’ tell her frae me that I’d tak’ her walkin’ if she didna hae such an ill-natured mither.”

“Awa’, ye impudent bletherskate, an’ tak’ yer candy wi’ ye. I’ll break her twa legs afore I let her tak’ a step wi’ the like o’ ye.”

“We’ll see aboot that,” he mocked. “Tell her I’ll be in by on my way home t’ kiss her guid night.”

“Awa’!” Mistress MacIntosh was too angry for further speech. “Na, ye’ll no leave it here,” she cried as he pushed the candy back at her, and hurried laughing from the shop, banging the door so hard that the glass bell that covered the wax flowers on the mantel, jarred loose and crashed to the floor. She hurried round the counter as fast as her stiff knee would let her, intending to throw his candy after him, but as she heard the thud of departing hoofs, she stopped to consider it. After all, it was a shilling’s worth of candy and it had been paid for; and she could sell it again and never let on to Sally Ann; and forby that, she would charge him for the broken bell the next time he came in.

The Gype went thudding down the street, scattering the sod along the gutter-side as he went, and laughing in appreciation of his own wit. Then he bethought him of Sally Ann and his threat to kiss her good night. He hadn’t meant it at the time. But why should he not? He was surprised that he hadn’t noticed before how bonnie her hair was. And she had a soft-like look in her eyes that was unco becoming in a young lass. He recalled the rustling cleanness of her starched blue gown. He liked that in a lass. His mother had always said it was an ill sign when a woman could bear to be aught but spotless. She was wont to say: “Dirt on the sark[23] is a sign o’ dirt on the soul.” And he believed her words to be true, although he had often found her too clean for comfort when she would follow him through the house with a besom[24] and a duster, crying out upon him for a worthless clout that kept her cleaning from morning to night. Nevertheless he felt it was a failing that brought her all the nearer to the kingdom of Heaven; and somehow his heart could never center for long on a lass who was not “persnickety” about dirt. There had been a chorus-girl in Aberdeen who could keep him waiting by the hour, and who had even made him miss a class or two to humor her; but a glimpse of her grimy chemise showing at the neck of her dress had cured him of that.

You could tell that Sally Ann was clean right to her skin; and how white her skin was, almost blue-white, like milk that had been skimmed. It would not be a very sore trial to have to kiss Sally Ann! He grinned at that. How would she take it? She would like it, of course. She would pretend that she didn’t, but she _would_. He knew his worth too well to doubt that. Doubtless she would be proud and brag about it. He must watch, though. No use letting a lass think fun was more than fun. Lasses had a way of seeing wedding rings and the like—queer how the least thing could set them thinking that way. It would be wise to make it clear to begin with—that was the best way.

Then he wondered who came courting Sally Ann. There was sure to be somebody, for all her quietness. His mother had often said that the quiet ones were the worst. She had been a wise woman, his mother. Maybe Sally Ann knew a lot more than she was minded to let people see. She had given him a look, shy-like up out of the corner of her eyes. There had been encouragement in it, for all it was shy and soft-like. Oh, she was no guileless lamb, blush though she may. It might well be that she was as free with her kisses as Bransbog’s lasses, for all her mousey ways. Doubtless she was expecting him this very minute, and thinking him blate[25] that he hadn’t ridden round to the back of the house as soon as he left the shop. And why hadn’t he? Dullard that he was, to keep a lass waiting! He wheeled his horse about, his mouth widening roguishly. “All right, Sally Ann. I’m no’ one t’ keep a lass waitin’ for a kiss. My mither always tel’t me I must be obligin’ wi’ the women-folk.”

Sally Ann dumped the candy back in the pan, and took her flushed cheeks out to the back yard. Her heart needed more room to beat. She was dismayed by the pother it was making, and looked round for some sane thing to do with her hands. Something to steady her.

A bag of oats for the chickens stood near. She noticed for the first time that rust had made little holes in the tin basin, and she found herself trying to push a kernel of oats through one of the holes. “Fine nonsense,” she scolded, stopping herself. “Fine nonsense, this,” and with reproving haste she filled the basin and took it down to the henhouse, although it was unheard of and witless to give chickens their evening meal at ten in the morning. She stood scattering the oats before the lackadaisical hens and wondering at herself that she could be so mazed by the Gype.

“It’s no’ as if I thought he meant a word o’ ’t,” she reasoned. “And what did he say, but that my hair is the color o’ the candy, which is nothing but the bare truth. Fine nonsense, this, to fash mysel’ o’er a bare civility.”

She barely heard the Gype ride up to the hedge when he vaulted over it, high-headed, thinking she was waiting there for him. He swaggered approaching her, his cap far back upon his head, his lip lifted in amusement over his glistening teeth.

Expecting some coquettish resistance, he lunged toward her and circled her tightly with his arms. The pan slipped from her hands and rolled away.

Sally Ann, crushed against his breast, lay quiet. This was her dream as she had dreamed it. This was love. This was her lover come to claim her. A tide of sweetness welled up to her eyes.

Her quietness surprised the Gype, who would have understood better if she had given him a clout on the ear.

He looked down at her quince-colored head lying bright against the rough gray of his coat.

“She’s a bonnie lass,” he jested to himself. “It would be ill-done to disappoint her.” He felt for her chin and raised her scarcely resisting face. She looked up at him timidly; tears darkened her yellow lashes. In alarm the Gype relaxed his hold. “This is a bonnie business,” he reflected irritably. “Devil take me for a witless lout to meddle wi’ her. She’ll hae me walkin’ down the aisle to the altar afore I’ve time t’ draw my breath.”

He would have taken his arms away, but Sally Ann leaned helplessly against him. He was thinking of escape when a smile flickered across her tear-wet face. This reassured him. So she wasn’t blaming him. Maybe she wasn’t taking him as seriously as he had feared. Some women cried for nothing, and meant nothing by it.

His arms closed about her again and his arrogant lips covered her warm mouth. Its willingness bewildered and conquered him. His emotions took a new color, his arms about her were more gentle and his lips sought her kisses with greater tenderness. He thought how soft and small she was against his breast, and how foolish she was to trust him so. He must warn her of that. A man might well think her wanton to be so free.

Sally Ann turned her face against his shoulder, a gentle sobbing fluttered in her throat, her small round body drooping in his arms. Seeing her so helpless, he thought he understood, and a bitter shame smote his heart. He had frightened her! Frightened her so that she was powerless to resist him. He had thought her free; had thought her willing for his kisses, and all the time the poor lass had been too mazed to cry out against him. Oh, prideful popinjay that he was, he had frightened the lass out of her wits, and now she was crying as if the heart of her would break in two.

“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, “I didna mean t’ fright ye so. Dinna greet,[26] dinna greet, my wee lamb. I’m a lout that’s no’ worth the hangin’, but I’d bake on a griddle afore I’d do aught t’ harm ye, Sally Ann.”

She stopped sobbing, wondering at the trouble in his broad flushed face.

“Yer no’ a lout,” she said, ignoring all his protestations save that one. Eager to drive away the signs of weeping, he was daubing awkwardly at her face with his red-spotted handkerchief. But more tears kept falling, for Sally Ann was so full of happiness it _had_ to overflow.

“Sally Ann,” came shrilly from the house.

“My mither,” cried Sally Ann, and her eyes became alert. “She’ll flay me alive.”

“Wait,” begged the Gype, staying her as she started toward the house. “Will ye meet me at gloamin’? Come along the Bracken Lane. I’ll be waitin’, Sally Ann.”

“I canna.”

“Ye can. I’ll be waitin’,” he urged, releasing her struggling hand as the cry from the house rang again more insistent.

“I canna,” and she darted away.

He watched her as she ran unsteadily along the cobble path between the rows of boxwood, and when the last pale blue glimmer of her was lost in the shadow of the doorway he went soberly out by the gate and found his horse.

It was a day of mazement past all telling. What pans of candy were left to burn. What pails of water left to overflow. What questions left without answer. Well might Mistress MacIntosh cry out upon her for a heedless limmer. No warlock upon the moors at evening ever went its way with less direction than did Sally Ann. At gloaming she sought her room beneath the thatch, brushing her hair with hands that flew aimlessly and got tangled. And when at last she was ready, dressed in her Sunday best taken by stealth from the kist on the stair landing, she found that no feet of hers could take her one step from the shelter of her room.

Could _she_ go boldly down the lane to meet a lad at evening time? Could _she_ walk up to him with lightsome words upon her lips as he stood waiting there? Oh, no, she could not. Lasses there were that could go with high heads and light laughing, and go, and go again. But _she_ could not. Trysts in the gloaming were not for her.

She sat down upon her chair again, contemplating herself in the blistered glass between the candle-sticks. Oh, to be broad-hipped and glib-tongued like Bransbog’s lasses; to toss a lightsome head when lads were havering; to swing by in rustling petticoats, confident that they were admiring. Oh, to be _anybody_ but Sally Ann MacIntosh, so that the Gype might love her. Oh, to _know_ that he loved her, so that she might be bold enough to go to him!

And what had made her believe that the like of the Gype, proud footed as he was, could love Sally Ann MacIntosh? What folly was it that made her think that he was waiting for her now? Why would the Gype, sought as he was by every lass in Drumorty, why would the Gype love her?

Oh, it was well she had come to her senses! Fine food for laughter it would be if she walked down the lane to meet the Gype; fine food for laughter if she found him there with Bransbog’s lassie, waiting to see her come; or with the MacKenty lass that had so sharp a tongue. Well was it, that her feet were wiser than her head and kept her home where none could see her folly. She began to undo the black ribbon at her neck, which was clasped by the brooch of twisted gold.

By sunset the Gype had reasoned with himself that no lass could cry over a kiss of his. The little limmer had tricked him, had made him go further than he meant. Oh, well, he was not unwilling to make her happy for a time. She was a bonnie wee lass. He turned his horse into the Bracken Lane with a sense that he was being very kind to Sally Ann. He had come early, for he knew that in her eagerness to see him again she would think gloaming had come when the sun had barely set and it would not be the gallant thing to keep her waiting. He was pleased with himself. He liked to make a lass happy.

Dismounting, he found a place to tie his horse, not so near that every passer-by could see it from the road, for he was not minded to be explaining to Bransbog’s lass, nor to Janet MacKenty whose tongue was keen, nor even to Mary MacIntyre, though _she_ would never reproach him; but it was hard to bear with her when she sat with tight lips and looked past him as if seeing warlocks. A lass had many ways of making a man itch to slap her. He sat where he could see Sally Ann approaching, and measured with his eye just where her head would come as she turned the corner by the sweetbrier rose-bush. It got darker and he had to change his seat in order to see the road. He had been wrong to think that she would come early. Of course she would come late. They always did for the first tryst. Lasses were so retiring to begin with, and so demanding at the finish. He wished that they worked the other way, it would save him many a weary hour. It was getting murky and thick and well past gloaming. Sally Ann could come now without any blame of being hasty at a tryst.

Doubtless she was on her way. Little limmer to keep him waiting so. But clever little limmer!

The moon was coming up. This was past a joke, past clever wiles. The lass must be blate to think he’d wait for her till moonrise. She must set high store by herself to think he’d cool his heels for two hours waiting for a kiss of hers. Did she think that James Minty of Skillymarnoe was sore put-to to get a lass to meet him at gloaming? Thought she that? What had she to command her that she set such value on herself? Little that _he_ could see. Nothing for looks, and never a penny to her name. Was he going to sit till he took root waiting for such a lass?

No, he was but waiting to let her see how little store he set on any kiss of hers. He’d make her rue this high-handed work. He had set down higher-headed wenches than Sally Ann MacIntosh. When she came, he would kiss her light-like, and he’d talk a while cheerily, then he’d say canty[27] and smiling at her, “Weel, my lass, it’s gettin’ late. I maun be gaun’ back to Skilly.” And he would be forgetful to kiss her good night, but very friendly with it all for fear she thought that he was vexed. And when next he saw her he would call her “Miss MacIntosh” as if naught had been between them.

But she wasn’t coming, that was clear. How could he lower her pride for her if she didn’t come near him? He’d go after her. Just at first it would give her more reason for her pridefulness, but the higher he made her think of herself, the greater would be her down-come when he passed her by.

Sally Ann was braiding her hair with troubled fingers when she heard a light tap upon the small window that opened upon the roof of the peat-shed. Her heart told her who it was, and she hurriedly snuffed out the candles, fearing that he could see her as she sat there in her nainsook night-gown with the frilled cuffs.

But how could he come without a sound? How climb the roof without her brother hearing?

The tapping again! How dare he knock so loudly? How could he be so bold? Her fingers danced about the dressing table in a frenzy. She was afraid, but wildly happy. “Fairly batterin’ down the hoose t’ get me,” her heart sang. Oh, that this should happen to _her_. And then she saw his face against the window-pane, a white wedge in the moonlight. He was raising the sash. Her heart broke into panic. What should she do? Should she call her mother?

The Gype was propping the sash with his shoulder. There was just room for his arm and face in the narrow opening of the window.

“Sally Ann,” he whispered, searching for her in the dark room. “Come here.”

“I canna,” she whispered back at him, but left the chair and came a little way toward him.

“Come here,” he said again as she paused timidly.

“I canna,” she answered, coming nearer as she spoke.

“Come and kneel by me,” he commanded.

“I canna,” she said softly, but came and knelt by the window so that her face was level with his.

“Noo ye’ll gie me a kiss, Sally Ann MacIntosh,” he said, catching hold of her.

“I canna,” she gasped. How sweet was the tumult in her heart!

“Ye _will_.”

“No, I canna,” she faltered, praying that he would insist.

“It would be a sore pity t’ wake yer puir sick brother,” he whispered mockingly. “A sore pity, but there’s a loose slate by my foot, and down it goes unless ye kiss me this minute.”

“Oh!”

“It would be ill done t’ wake him, puir lad,” sighed the Gype.

“No, dinna,” she begged.

“Weel, I’m waitin’.” He thrust his gleaming face through the opening.

“Then I maun do it,” said Sally Ann, more to assure herself than him.

“First put yer arms about my neck,” he ordered.

“I canna.” But her arms trembled to obey.

“Down goes the slate then,” he threatened.

Her arms flew up in obedience. Oh, how bold she was. How bold, but how happy.

“Kiss me!”

“I canna,” she said, and kissed him eagerly.

“Again an’ longer,” he ordered.

“I canna,” kissing him as she spoke.

“Na, dinna stop,” he said, as she drew back. “Ye’ll hae t’ keep on wi’ the kissin’, for I’m sorely tempted t’ kick down the slate.”

“Oh!” Surely this was Paradise.

“I’m sorry for ye, Sally Ann,” he commiserated. “It’s a sore trial t’ hae t’ kiss me.”

“It’s no’ a trial,” she whispered shyly.

“Is it no’?” His voice was eager, and then he was vexed at his eagerness. He was there to lay low her pride. This was the time that he should go away and leave her. Leave her lightsomely, and then, when next they met, greet her as if naught had ever been between them.

But it would be well, and nothing more than just, to let her tell why she had broken the tryst. So he’d sound her out on that.

“I’m thinkin’ ye hate me for my impudence,” he ventured.

“I dinna hate ye,” she said softly, a timid hand reaching up to his crinkling hair.

“Then why did ye no’ meet me?”

“I couldna.”

“Fine story, _that_,” he cried scornfully. “Nae lass ever missed a tryst t’ please her mither.”

Sally Ann could not answer. How could she say all that was in her breast? How tell him that her feet were not brave enough to go to him? Go to him? Oh, no, her heart was too faint with her unworthiness. Sally Ann had no words to tell him this.

The Gype brooded upon her silence. “She didna wish t’ cheapen hersel’ by meeting me at the first askin’,” he told himself. Here was a lass who was not minded to melt in his mouth like a ripe berry at the first tasting. Here was a lass that would take some reaching for. And she was right. His mother had always said: “A worthy bride’s no’ easy won.” She had been a wise woman, his mother.

But he was thinking of Sally Ann as a bride? Oh, no, but there was no harm admiring a lass that held herself high. He wondered what she thought of him, and longed for some reassurance, some word to show that she did not quite despise him.

“Ye dinna hate me, Sally Ann?”

She shook her head.

“Yer no’ angry that I made ye kiss me?”

She shook her head again.

“Will ye let me kiss ye, Sally Ann?”

She nodded shyly and turned her face to his. And then he knew that there was nothing sweeter than to lie there on the slated roof in the moonlight with Sally Ann’s timorous arms about his neck, and her breath, fragrant as the air from new milk, upon his face. He knew that there was nothing dearer than the warmth of her lips upon his, and the gentle flutter of her breast.

And so throughout the months of sweetbrier roses, and well into berry-picking time, he sought Sally Ann by stealth upon the roof or in the gloaming along the Bracken Lane. And on market days, when Mistress MacIntosh was well occupied, he would venture into the kitchen for a hasty kiss. But he had never said a word of marriage to Sally Ann, and though at times she saw herself riding to the kirk in Skillymarnoe’s phæton behind the dappled grays, she would push the picture away from her, not daring to look upon its brightness. Nor did she grieve at the thought that it might never be, but rather she held her happiness breathlessly, as one might hold a gleaming bubble with spread fingers.

It was the evening of “Stookie Sunday” and the Gype had been to the kirk to pray for drought to dry the grain, for this was the only occasion when he put any faith in the Lord. He had hoped to overtake Sally Ann in the Bracken Lane, but she was not at the kirk, and neither was Mistress MacIntosh. This was more than unusual, it came nigh to being alarming, and the Gype made sure that some mishap had come to young Sandy. So it was with little caution that he sought Sally Ann in the kitchen.

“Yer brother?” he asked as he entered the door.

“Na,” said Sally Ann, understanding him. “It was the hens.”

“The hens?”

“Aye. They’re crop-bound. We fed them wi’ the oats left frae decoratin’ the kirk. My mither thinks it’s a visitation frae the Lord for stintin’ Him. We hae operated on sax o’ them wi’ Sandy’s razor. Five are doin’ fine, but this ane’s like t’ pass awa’!”

She put the basket with the drooping Black Minorca hen upon the table. The Gype inspected it, fingering its faded comb soberly.

“Tell yer mither t’ put a drop o’ oil t’ keep the feathers frae stickin’.”

“Aye, she’s done that. Ye’d better awa’,” Sally Ann advised. “My mither’s only at the hen hoose.”

“Come down the lane, then.”

“Na, I couldna an’ leave the hens.”

“Hens or no hens, I’ll no’ leave without a kiss.” He pressed her close, and held her all the closer as she struggled, begging him to mind her mother.

And then it was too late. Mistress MacIntosh stood in the doorway, a wilting hen under either arm, her face as red as the combs upon their heads.

“Fine work this on a Sabbath day! Fine wanton’s work! Standin’ there haverin’ wi’ the scum o’ the earth while a hen worth eighteen pence is like t’ pass awa’. Lord pity me that I brought the like o’ ye into the world, ye wanton limmer.”

“Nae more o’ that!” cried the Gype. “Ye’ll no’ call wife o’ mine a wanton limmer.”

“Wife o’ _yours_,” screamed Mistress MacIntosh derisively.

“Aye, just that,” said the Gype with furious calm. “Sally Ann, come wi’ me.”

“No’ a foot,” cried her mother. “Oot o’ my hoose, ye worthless prodigal, afore I hae my sick laddie rise frae his bed t’ throw ye oot.”

“Sally Ann,” said the Gype, “I maun go for Sandy’s sake. Meet me in the lane.”

“Niver!” cried Mistress MacIntosh.

“The lass has a tongue o’ her ain,” the Gype reminded her scathingly as he went.

Sally Ann faced her mother, trembling, but there was something of new strength in her blue eyes.

“Dinna glower at me,” cried her mother. “Tak’ yer sinful face oot o’ my sight. Up t’ yer room, ye worthless besom!”

“I canna, mither, I maun meet him,” said Sally Ann in a voice so quiet with certainty that Mistress MacIntosh floundered, incredulous.

“Ye defy yer ain mither? Oh, that I should live t’ see this day!” She set the hens down hurriedly, not caring how they flopped helplessly on the floor, and clutched the front of her bodice, gasping as she did when her sinking spells were upon her.

Sally Ann regarded her with troubled eyes, but made no move toward her.

“Dinna hae a sinkin’ spell, mither,” she advised, “for I maun leave ye.”

“Devil tak’ my glib tongue,” thought the Gype as he went striding down the lane. “What call had I t’ go proposin’ marriage? I’m no’ hankerin’ t’ be tied faster than a ram at shearin’ time. Forby that the lass never looked for it. Never so much as said, ‘It maun be lonesome for ye at Skillymarnoe.’ Never so much as mentioned that a hoose is na a hame without a woman in it. Never even tried t’ sew a button or mend a sock for me.”

No, he couldn’t blame the lass. She was not one to snare a lad with wiles and glances. But it was not too late. He could pull in his horns again, blame his hasty speech upon her mother, and keep away from Sally Ann. Never see her again, that would be best.

Never see Sally Ann again? What havering was this? How could he live without seeing Sally Ann? What would he do without her kisses at gloaming? What could he do without her gentle glances? It was for Sally Ann he hurried through the day with lightsome singing. It was for Sally Ann he had painted the barn. How could he live without Sally Ann?

He looked yearningly along the lane. Why didn’t she come? He could not bear this waiting. His heart was harried with the need to hold her. How could she loiter so?

And then he saw her coming, her feet falling daintily upon the moss-dappled path. How could she take such care in coming? How dally so? He could not bear the space between them any longer, and so he ran to meet her, stumbling in his eagerness, his face strained with the pain of his need.

“Oh, Sally Ann,” he cried, sweeping her within his grasp. “I canna wait. Say ye’ll have me. I ken I should hae asked ye afore. I ken I should hae asked ye different—Sally Ann!”

Sally Ann could not speak. She was full of shame that she had ever doubted him. He had meant this from the first! He had been courting her for marriage, and she had thought he held her lightly. She had given him her kisses while she had doubted him. Oh, he must never know. He must never know what a wanton heart was in her breast. She was so poor a thing, how could he love her so? And from the full tide of her humility, she cried, “How can ye want me for a wife, that none has ever sought before?”

And the Gype replied—for this answer had come to him many times as he wondered at his love for her: “It takes a man o’ taste t’ appreciate ye, Sally Ann.”

And she was happy, not seeing that half the compliment was for himself.

THE END

FOOTNOTES

[1] A close-frilled cap.

[2] Without strength, worthless.

[3] Ask, particularly ask in marriage; proposal.

[4] One who rents a small portion of a farm from the farmer and gives his services in exchange. The cotter’s wife also assists in the farm kitchen and in the fields at harvest time, so a cotter’s wife must be strong.

[5] Field daisy.

[6] Very.

[7] Worthless, impudent girl.

[8] Every.

[9] A built in box for holding peats.

[10] Infant.

[11] Man.

[12] Scarecrow.

[13] A corruption of Geck, a term of derision, applied especially to one who puts on airs.

[14] High hat.

[15] Something requiring careful attention, like a newly hatched chicken under which a board is placed to keep its feet off the damp ground.

[16] Pinched, thin.

[17] Trunk.

[18] Worry.

[19] Witch-body, applied to anything that doesn’t use human reasoning.

[20] Nonsense, flattery.

[21] Careful, cautious, quiet.

[22] Off the straight, wrong, oblique.

[23] Shirt, vest.

[24] Broom made of heather.

[25] Dull-witted.

[26] Cry.

[27] Cheery.