“So far as I have caused this, Macalpines, you forgive your chief?” He held out his hand—it was grasped with a silent fervor which spoke more eloquently than words. Tall Angus Macalpine, who touched his chief’s hand last of all, could have thrown himself down at his feet, and craved his pardon. He did not do that; but would have rejoiced with mighty joy, as he flew down Oranside that night, to tap at the nursery window of Woodsmuir and carry Flora the news, to have had an opportunity of douking, knocking down, or in any way discomfiting “ony man that daured to mint an ill word of the Laird!”
Upon the appointed day little Alice Aytoun was married—Ada Mina Coulter, as having experience of the office, serving her in the capacity of bridesmaid, while Anne and Marjory were merely lookers on; the latter not without consideration of the proprieties of this same momentous ceremony, so soon to be repeated in a case where she could not be merely a spectator.
For Marjory’s bold experiment was succeeding beautifully. Her visitor, Sophy Featherstonehaugh, the mighty huntress over whom she exulted, was half a Northumbrian, and half a maiden of the Merse—the daughter of a foxhunting Squire, a careless, good-humored, frank, daring girl, who could guide a vicious horse, or sing you “a westerly wind, and a cloudy sky,” with any sportsman in the land. Poor Sophy was an only child—motherless from her infancy; the lands of her weak, boisterous, indulgent father were strictly entailed, and he seemed to have deadened any fatherly anxieties he might have had for leaving his daughter penniless, by fooling her to the top of her bent, so long as he remained lord of his own impoverished acres. But he died at last—and with an immense mastery over horses, and sufficiently cunning in all sports of the field to have filled the place of huntsman to some magnifico, and withal with a dowry of two hundred pounds, Sophy Featherstonehaugh, the daughter of an old and honorable family, was thrown upon the charities of the world.
A precise aunt in Edinburgh, with a great nursery-full of children, gave her a reluctant invitation. The innocent lady fancied Sophy’s services might be turned to good account as a sort of unpaid nursery-governess. She was not long in discovering her mistake. Sophy had not been a week in charge, when the walls of the nursery rang with a shrill “Tally-ho!” of many juvenile voices. The next morning, Master Harry demanded from his astonished papa a horse, and coolly proposed turning over his pony to his sister, little Sophy, who earnestly seconded the embryo sportsman. Their mother was dismayed. She resolved to have a solemn forenoon conference with her unpaid nursery-governess, to ascertain what all this meant. When she reached the schoolroom door, she paused to listen. Alas! it was not any lesson that kept that little group so steadily round their teacher. It was one of those barbarous ballads with which a “northern harper rude” horrified the ears of the cultured Marmion, in Norham’s castled keep, celebrating the exploits of a Featherstonehaugh. The aunt stood horror-stricken at the door—not long, however, for Sophy, with her loud, frank, good-humored voice, was already transgressing still more unpardonably, and in a moment after the boisterous chorus of “A hunting we will go—eho—eho—eho!” pierced the ears of the hapless mother, ringing from the shrill, united voices of all her children.
There was no more to be said after that: in unutterable wrath, poor Sophy was sent off immediately, in spite of her indignant remonstrances, and her twenty years, to a boarding-school in the neighborhood of Strathoran, the principal of which was informed of her past riotous behavior, and begged, with much bitterness by the aunt, to do what she could to make the girl human.
The girl’s bold spirit rose at this—she, a Featherstonehaugh? But she had no kindred in the wide world to turn to, and even her poor two hundred pounds was mulcted for the payment of the year’s stipend to the boarding-school. In these circumstances, Marjory Falconer became acquainted with her, and in a week thereafter, free from all governesses, or attempts to humanize, the bold Featherstonehaugh was triumphantly reining the wildest horse in the Falcon’s Craig stables, while Ralph rode in delight and admiration by her side, and Marjory, standing at the door, said joyously, within herself:
“She has a firm hand—she can hold the reins—she will do!”
Marjory was by far too wise, however, to trust Ralph with her intention; but she made much of the frank, good-humored Sophy, and looked forward in good hopes.
The day arrived for the re-purchase of Strathoran, and Mr. Foreman and Mr. Ferguson, in the abscence of all competitors, joyfully redeemed the inheritance of Archibald Sutherland, at a price considerably below its real value.
“Come light—gang light,” said the lawyer, emphatically. “We give them more for it than they gave us.”