“You tell Pery? No; that will never do; for you will speak English—That tale winna tell in English; for the twa witches, or fairies, or changed fock, or whatever they may be, didna speak that language themsels—sin’ the thing is to be tauld, I’ll rather tell Pery mysel, if it is the same thing to you.”
This Pery was a young volatile maiden at Eildon Hall, who was over head and ears in love with Gale. She would have given the whole world for him; and in order to tease him somewhat, she had taken a whim of pretending to be in love with Croudy. Croudy hated all the women, and more particularly Pery, who had been the plague of his life; but of late he had heard some exaggerated accounts of the kind sentiments of her heart respecting him, which had wonderfully altered Croudy, although he still kept up as well as he could the pretence of disliking the sex. He went to Pery that evening as she was gathering in some clothes from the bushes, and desired her, with a most important face, to meet him at the Moss Thorn in half an hour, for he had something to tell her that would surprise her.
“Indeed and that I will with all my heart, Croudy,” said she; “how glad I am that I have got you this length! I can guess what your secret will be.”
“Ye can do nae sic thing,” said Croudy, “nor nae woman that ever was born.”
“I’ll wager three kisses with you, Croudy, at the Old Moss Thorn, that I do,” returned she.
Croudy hung his head to one side, and chuckled, and crowed, and laid on the ground with his staff; and always now and then cast a sly look-out at the wick of his eye to Pery.
“It’s a queer creature a woman,” said Croudy—“very bonny creature though!”
“Well, Croudy, I’ll meet you at the Moss Thorn,” said Pery, “and pay you your wager too, provided you have either spirit to ask, or accept of it when offered.”
Croudy went away laughing till his eyes blinded with tears, and laying on the ground with his stick.—“I watna what I’ll do now,” said he to himself, “little impudent thing that she is!—She’s eneugh to pit a body mad!—Mumps—O, man, ye’re an unfarrant beast!—Three kisses at the Moss Thorn!—I wish I had this meeting by!—Mumps, I never saw sic an unfeasible creature as you, man, when ane thinks about a bonny woman—A woman!—What is a woman?—Let me see!—’Tis no easy to ken!—But I ken this—that a ewe lamb is a far nicer, bonnier, sweeter, innocenter, little creature than a toop lamb. Oh! I wish it war night, for I’m no weel ava!—Mumps, ye’re a perfect blockhead, man!”
Precisely while this was going on at Eildon-Hall, there were two ladies met hurriedly on the Abbey Walk. No one knew who they were, or whence they came, but they were lovely beyond expression, although their eyes manifested a kind of wild instability. Their robes were white as snow, and they had that light, elegant, sylph-like appearance, that when they leaned forward to the evening air, one could hardly help suspecting that they would skim away in it like twin doves.