Martha Spreull/Concluded

by Henry Johnston

CONCLUDED.

OU will nae doot wonder what has come ower me; but for the last three weeks I havena put pen to paper. And even noo, my mind is in sic a happy whirl o' confusion that I hardly ken whaur to begin or what to say first. Maister Fleming, the writer, has proposed to me, and I have consented to become his wife. The thing is like a dream, and when I wauken in the mornings I have to lie still and go ower scene efter scene in the wonderfu' drama o' the last few weeks, before I can believe it is true.

Maister Fleming is just sixty-three—I thocht he wis aulder—but he showed me the Family Bible where his birth is recorded—he gies ye proof for everything—and there it wis, sure enough, just sixty-three! Weel, at his age ye couldna expect muckle romance in makin' a proposal o' marriage; besides he had just buried his hoosekeeper, wha had been his faithfu' servant for thirty years; the proposal wis therefore made in a plain, business-like wye, and at the same time wi' sic grace and tenderness I could have gi'en him twenty hearts and hands if I had had them, or he had dune. I never kent what it wis to be sae won by a man before. And, when at last he put his airms roon my neck it is nae wonder I buried my face on his shouther and telt him I wud be his wife, and do a' in my power to mak' him happy.

Since then we have spent mony a couthy hour thegither, crackin'. I think, for a writer, he's the honestest man ever I met. He has already telt me a' his failings; he thinks it's best to begin that wye, but I think nane the less o' him for that.

“ Martha,” quoth he, “ I wouldna deceive ye for the world; this is no’ my ain hair.”

“ Weel, weel,” quoth I, laughing; for I had jaloused as much. “It suits ye braw and weel; dinna fash yer head aboot the hair.”

“ Then I have a gran’ set o’ teeth,” says he, “ but ye ’ll be shocked to hear they are no’ my ain.”

“ And yer legs and arms,” quoth I, pinching him; “ are there ony o’ them timmer ? ”

Wi’ that he drew me to him, and gied me sic a kindly rive, I kent baith heart and limbs were hale and sound; and I felt I had great reason to be thankfu’ that at his time o’ life there wis sae muckle o’ him left, and that what wis left noo belonged entirely to mysel’.

Weel, we have had a heap o’ things to arrange. Willie Warstle, the bursar, has been a great concern to me from first to last, yet the laddie has gotten sic a hold on my affections, that I canna think to pairt wi’ him. It is quite clear to me, we can never mak’ him a minister. Efter a’ the trouble I’ve had, and the siller I've spent on him, it turns oot he canna believe in Everlasting Punishment. He’s as nice a laddie as ever walket in shoe-leather, is dux in the maist o’ his classes, and is perfect cleverness itsel’ at a logic argyment, but it wud be complete folly in me to aim at making a minister o’ a man that canna believe in Everlasting Punishment.

Weel, it’s a great pity, but I suppose it canna be helped. Thae professor bodies have a heap to answer for, in breeding sic notions i’ the minds o’ growing callants. My auld Sundayschule teacher, David Whammond—God rest him—wud grue in his coffin if he heard the belief noo openly proclaimed, that there is hope for the wicked beyond the grave! Still an’ on I canna gie the laddie up; Maister Fleming and I have had the

matter through hands in our cracks.

"Make him a newspaper editor," says Maister Fleming; "there's not much belief of any kind needed for that."

Whereupon I fires up—being literary mysel', and kennin', as I did, some real dacent men connected wi' newspapers.

"Na, na," says I, "sae far as that goes, he wud be mair suited for the law, but I canna thole jesting on a subject that has cost me sae muckle."

So at lang and last, as the callant had shown great aptitude in mathymatics, and wis unco ready at figures, we determined to mak' him a chartered accountant; and Maister Fleming used his influence, and got him apprenticed in a first-rate office, that had a great name for floating joint-stock companies.

Weel, the suddenness an' the happiness o' this affair mak' me feel unco strange, and I think I havena muckle mair to say, as a single wumman. Peter Spale, wha is still to the fore, but gey donsie, sent me a beautifu' luggie, made by his ain hand, as a marriage present; and I maunna forget to tell ye that Dr. Threshie is gaun to act as oor best man. I think, however, that name is a mistake, for I am sure the best man to me will be Maister Fleming himsel'.

Noo, I maun bid ye guid-bye, for by the time this gets into print and reaches the reader, my name will nae langer be Martha Spreull.