White Heather: A Novel (Volume 3 of 3)Black, William
General
White Heather: A Novel (Volume 3 of 3)
Black, William
Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
’Besides, they’re not my friends,’ he exclaimed. ’I never saw them in
my life.’
’They know who your brother is,’ she said. ’Do you think I would give
any one occasion to say you were marrying a slattern? Just look.’
She held out her hands; the gloves were certainly worn.
’Take them off, and show them the prettiest-shaped hands in Glasgow
town,’ said he.
’And my hair—I know it is all rough and untidy—isn’t it now?’ she said,
feeling about the rim of her hat.
’Well, it is a little,’ he confessed, ’only it’s far prettier that way
than any other.’
’Ronald,’she pleaded, ’some other time—on Friday morning—will Friday
morning do?’
’Oh, I know what you want,’ said he. ’You want to go and get on your
sealskin coat and your velvet hat and a new pair of gloves and all the
rest; and do you know what the old ladies are like to say when they see
you?—they’ll say, "Here’s a swell young madam to be thinking of marrying
a man that may have but a couple o’ pounds a week or so at first to keep
house on."’
’Oh, will they think that?’ she said quickly. ’Well, I’ll—I’ll go now,
Ronald—but please make my hair smooth behind—and is my collar all
right?’
And yet it was not such a very dreadful interview, after all; for the
two old dames made a mighty fuss over this pretty young creature; and
vied with each other in petting her, and cheering her, and counselling
her; and when the great event was spoken of in which they also were to
play a part they affected to talk in a lower tone of voice, as if it
were something mysterious and tragic and demanding the greatest caution
and circumspection. As for the young minister, he sate rather apart,
and allowed his large soft eyes to dwell upon Meenie, with something of
wistfulness in his look. He could do so with impunity, in truth, for
the old ladies entirely monopolised her. They patted her on the
shoulder, to give her courage; they spoke as if they themselves had gone
through the wedding ceremony a hundred times. Was she sure she would
rather have no other witnesses? Would she stand up at the head of the
room now, and they would show her all she would have to do? And they
stroked her hand; and purred about her; and were mysteriously elated
over their share in this romantic business; insomuch that they
altogether forgot Ronald—who was left to talk politics with the
absent-eyed young parson.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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