Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians’ fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.
As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen “sweetie” wives scent a peasant’s ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means—save one or two—
“But withered beldames, auld and droll,
Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal.”
They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders.
A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is—three small fiddles, a ’cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as “Auld Robin Grey,” “The Flowers o’ the Forest,” “Donald,” etc, enough to draw tears from anyone’s eyes.
But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin’ Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall—a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.
And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile.
As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses.
Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.