Page:The Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich - Clough (1848).pdf/51

 Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip. For as they talked, anon she said— It is well, Mr. Philip. Yes, it is well: I have spoken, and learnt a deal with the teacher. At the last I told him all, I could not help it; And it came easier with him than could have been with my father; And he calmly approved, as one that had fully considered. Yes it is well, I have hoped, though quite too great and sudden, I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for years yet. I am afraid; but believe in you; and I trust to the teacher: You have done all things gravely and temperate, not as in passion; And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell what is likely. What my father will say, I know not: we will obey him: But for myself, I could dare to believe all well, and venture. O Mr. Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be different! And she hid her face— Oh, where, but in Philip's bosom! After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed and said to her, So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I'm bad enough for you. Ah, but your father won't make one half the question about it You have—he'll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald, Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and book-work, Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow, Though he allows, but he'll think it was all for your sake, Elspie, Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing. But I had thought in Scotland you didn't care for this folly, How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands, This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England. You do not all of you feel these fancies. No, she answered, And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving, No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting, No, nor do I, dear Philip, I don't myself feel always, As I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately, Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter, Out in America there, in somebody's life of Pizarro; Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards; only weaker; And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches, All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish. No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were,