“It would be unfriendly in me to keep aught a secret from you, sister, considering the interest you have taken in my family. I have given him my consent to visit my daughter, but at the same time have restricted him from mentioning matrimony until he has consulted his father.”
“And what has the visiting to gang for, then? Awa wi’ him! Our Nell’s food for his betters. What wad you think an she could get the young laird, his brother, wi’ a blink o’ her ee?”
“Never speak to me of that, Mrs Jane. I wad rather see the poorest of his shepherd lads coming to court my child than see him;” and with these words Henry left the room.
Mrs Jane stood long, making faces, shaking her apron with both hands, nodding her head, and sometimes giving a stamp with her foot. “I have set my face against that connexion,” said she. “Our Nell’s no made for a lady to a London lawyer. It wad set her rather better to be Lady of Cassway. The young laird for me! I’ll hae the branks of love thrown ower the heads o’ the twasome, tie the tangs thegither, and then let them gallop like twa kippled grews. My brother Harry’s a simple man; he disna ken the credit that he has by his daughters—thanks to some other body than him! Niece Nell has a shape, an ee, and a lady-manner that wad kilhab the best lord o’ the kingdom, were he to come under their influence and my manoovres. She’s a Jerdan a’ through; and that I’ll let them ken! Folk are a’ wise ahint the hand; credit only comes by catch and keep. Good night to a’ younger brothers, puffings o’ love vows, and sabs o’ wind! Gie me the good green hills, the gruff wedders, and bobtailed yowes; and let the law and the gospel-men sell the wind o’ their lungs as dear as they can!”
In a few days, Henry of Drumfielding was called out to attend his chief on some expedition; on which Mrs Jane, not caring to trust her message to any other person, went over to Cassway, and invited the young laird to Drumfielding to see her niece, quite convinced that her charms and endowments would at once enslave the elder brother, as they had done the younger. Tam Beattie was delighted at finding such a good back friend as Mrs Jane, for he had not failed to observe, for a twelvemonth back, that Ellen Scott was very pretty, and either through chance or design, he asked Mrs Jane if the young lady was privy to this invitation.
“She privy to it!” exclaimed Mrs Jane, shaking her apron. “Ha, weel I wat, no! She wad soon hae flown in my face wi’ her gibery and her jaukery, had I tauld her my errand; but the gowk kens what the tittling wants, although it is no aye crying, ‘Give, give,’ like the horse loch-leech.”
“Does the horse-leech really cry that, Mrs Jane? I should think, from a view of its mouth, that it could scarcely cry anything,” said Tom.
“Are ye sic a reprobate as to deny the words o’ the Scripture, sir? Hech, wae’s me! what some folk hae to answer for! We’re a’ wise ahint the hand. But hark ye,—come ye ower in time, else I am feared she may be settled for ever out o’ your reach. Now, I canna bide to think on that, for I have always thought you twa made for ane anither. Let me take a look o’ you frae tap to tae—O yes—made for ane anither. Come ower in time, before billy Harry come hame again; and let your visit be in timeous hours, else I’ll gie you the back of the door to keep.—Wild reprobate!” she exclaimed to herself, on taking her leave; “to deny that the horse loch-leech can speak! Ha—ha—the young laird is the man for me!”
Thomas Beattie was true to his appointment, as may be supposed, and Mrs Jane having her niece dressed in style, he was perfectly charmed with her; and really it cannot be denied that Ellen was as much delighted with him. She was young, gay, and frolicsome, and she never spent a more joyous and happy afternoon, or knew before what it was to be in a presence that delighted her so much. While they sat conversing, and apparently better satisfied with the company of each other than was likely to be regarded with indifference by any other individual aspiring to the favour of the young lady, the door was opened, and there entered no other than Francis Beattie! When Ellen saw her devoted lover appear thus suddenly, she blushed deeply, and her glee was damped in a moment. She looked rather like a condemned criminal, or at least a guilty creature, than what she really was,—a being over whose mind the cloud of guilt had never cast its shadow.
Francis loved her above all things on earth or in heaven, and the moment he saw her so much abashed at being surprised in the company of his brother, his spirit was moved to jealousy—to maddening and uncontrollable jealousy. His ears rang, his hair stood on end, and the contour of his face became like a bent bow. He walked up to his brother with his hand on his sword-hilt, and, in a state of excitement which rendered his words inarticulate, addressed him thus, while his teeth ground together like a horse-rattle:—