He had said, “Go to your mother.” This came vaguely back to her mind as she came to herself. Her mother--no, her mother would say just the same, they would all say the same. She had no one to go to. Then Kirsteen’s gradually quickening senses heard something which sounded like an approaching footstep. She roused herself in a moment, and still sick and faint, with a singing in her ears, turned and fled--not to her mother, to Marg’ret in the kitchen, who was her only hope.
The kitchen was, as Marg’ret had said “like a new pin” at that hour, all clean and bright, the fire made up, the hearth swept, the traces of dinner all cleared away. It was the moment when Marg’ret could sit down to needlework or spell out some old, old newspaper which even the minister had done with; her assistant Merran was out in the byre looking after the kye, and Marg’ret was alone. When Kirsteen rushed in unsteadily and threw herself down in the big wooden chair by the fireside, Marg’ret was threading a needle which was a work of patience. But this sudden invasion distracted her completely and made her lay down both thread and needle with a sigh.
“My bonny woman! What is the matter now?”
“Marg’ret, I nearly fainted standing against the door.”
“Fainted! bless the bairn! na, na, no so bad as that. Your head’s cool and so is your hand. What was it, Kirsteen?”
“Or nearly died would be more like it, and that would maybe have been the best.” And then with moist eyes fixed upon her anxious companion and a tremulous smile about her mouth Kirsteen repeated her verse--
“The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To bring repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom--is to die.”
“Kirsteen! what is that you are saying?” cried Marg’ret, a sudden flush showing even upon her ruddy colour. “Guilt and shame! What have those dreadfu’ things to do with you?”
“I am disobeying both father and mother,” said the girl solemnly, “isna that guilt? And oh, it’s shaming all belonging to me to stand against them; but I canna help it, I canna help it. Oh, Marg’ret, hide me from him, find me a place to go to! What will I do! what will I do!”
“My dear, my dear!” said Marg’ret, “you make my heart sair. What can I say to you? I have ever taken your pairt as you ken weel--but oh, my bonny woman, I canna but think you’re a little unreasonable. What ails you at Glendochart? He’s a good man and an honourable man, and it would please everybody. To think so much of his age when there’s no other objection is not like you that had always such sense. And ye would be far happier, Kirsteen, in a house of your own. Because there’s white on his head is that a cause to turn your heart from a good man?”