‘Mother, what do you mean?’ was his exclamation.
‘Just that I hae a because for what I mean; but, unless ye compose yoursel, I’ll no tell you the night—and, in trouth, for that matter, if ye dinna behave wi’ mair reverence to your aged parent, and no bring my grey hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave, I’ll no tell you at a’.’
‘This is inexplicable,’ cried her son. ‘In the name of goodness, to what do you allude?—of what do you complain?’
‘Muckle, muckle hae I to complain o’,’ was the pathetic reply. ‘If your worthy father had been to the fore, ye would na daur’t to hae spoken wi’ sic unreverence to me. But what hae I to expek in this world noo?—when the Laird lights the Leddy, so does a’ the kitchen boys; and your behaviour, Geordie, is an unco warrandice to every one to lift the hoof against me in my auld days.’
‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what have I done?’
‘What hae ye no done?’ exclaimed his mother.—‘Was na my heart set on a match atween Beenie and Walky there—my ain grandchilder, and weel worthy o’ ane anither; and hae na ye sworn, for aught I ken, a triple vow that ye would ne’er gie your consent?’
‘And if I have done so—she is my daughter, and I have my own reasons for doing what I have done,’ was his very dignified reply.
‘Reasons here, or reasons there,’ said his mother, ‘I hae gude reason to know that it’s no in your power to prevent it.—Noo, Beenie, and noo, Walky, down on your knees baith o’ you, and mak a novelle confession that ye were married the day; and beg your father’s pardon, who has been so jocose at your wedding feast that for shame he canna refuse to conciliate, and mak a handsome aliment down on the nail.’
The youthful pair did as they were desired—George looked at them for about a minute, and was unable to speak. He then threw a wild and resentful glance round the table, and started from his seat.
‘Never mind him,’ said the Leddy, with the most perfect equanimity; ‘rise, my bairns, and tak your chairs—he’ll soon come to himsel.’