Stories by English Authors: Scotland (Selected by Scribners) — John Shaqi
Stories by English Authors: Scotland (Selected by Scribners)
General
Stories by English Authors: Scotland (Selected by Scribners)
English literature -- Scottish authors; Scottish literature; Short stories
“A’ said she cudna be cured, and it was true, for there’s juist ae man
in the land fit for ‘t, and they micht as weel try tae get the mune oot
o’ heaven. Sae a’ said naethin’ tae vex Tammas’s hert, for it’s heavy
eneuch withoot regrets.
“But it’s hard, Jess, that money will buy life after a’, an’ if Annie
wes a duchess her man wudna lose her; but bein’ only a puir cotter’s
wife, she maun dee afore the week ‘s oot.
“Gin we hed him the morn there’s little doot she wud be saved, for he
hesna lost mair than five per cent. o’ his cases, and they ‘ill be puir
toons-craturs, no strappin’ women like Annie.
“It’s oot o’ the question, Jess, sae hurry up, lass, for we’ve hed a
heavy day. But it wud be the grandest thing that wes ever done in the
Glen in oor time if it could be managed by hook or crook.
“We’ll gang and see Drumsheugh, Jess; he’s anither man sin’ Geordie
Hoo’s deith, and he was aye kinder than fouk kent.” And the doctor
passed at a gallop through the village, whose lights shone across the
white frost-bound road.
“Come in by, doctor; a’ heard ye on the road; ye ‘ill hae been at Tammas
Mitchell’s; hoo’s the gudewife? A’ doot she’s sober.”
“Annie’s deein’, Drumsheugh, an’ Tammas is like tae brak his hert.”
“That’s no lichtsome, doctor, no lichtsome, ava, for a’ dinna ken ony
man in Drumtochty sae bund up in his wife as Tammas, and there’s no
a bonnier wumman o’ her age crosses oor kirk door than Annie, nor a
cleverer at her work. Man ye ‘ill need tae pit yir brains in steep. Is
she clean beyond ye?”
“Beyond me and every ither in the land but ane, and it wud cost a
hundred guineas tae bring him tae Drumtochty.”
“Certes, he’s no blate; it’s a fell chairge for a short day’s work; but
hundred or no hundred we ‘ill hae him, and no let Annie gang, and her no
half her years.”
“Are ye meanin’ it, Drumsheugh?” and MacLure turned white below the tan.
“William MacLure,” said Drumsheugh, in one of the few confidences that
ever broke the Drumtochty reserve, “a’ ‘m a lonely man, wi’ naebody o’
ma ain blude tae care for me livin’, or tae lift me intae ma coffin when
a’ ‘m deid.
“A’ fecht awa’ at Muirtown market for an extra pund on a beast, or a
shillin’ on the quarter o’ barley, an’ what’s the gude o’ ‘t? Burnbrae
gaes aff tae get a goon for his wife or a buke for his college laddie,
an’ Lachlan Campbell ‘ill no leave the place noo without a ribbon for
Flora.
“Ilka man in the Kildrummie train has some bit fairin’ in his pooch for
the fouk at hame that he’s bocht wi’ the siller he won.
“But there’s naebody tae be lookin’ oot for me, an’ comin’ doon the road
tae meet me, and daffin’ (joking) wi’ me aboot their fairin’, or feelin’
ma pockets. Ou, ay! A’ ‘ve seen it a’ at ither hooses, though they tried
tae hide it frae me for fear a’ wud lauch at them. Me lauch, wi’ ma
cauld, empty hame!
“Yir the only man kens, Weelum, that I aince luved the noblest wumman in
the Glen or onywhere, an’ a’ luve her still, but wi’ anither luve noo.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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