THE SNOWING-UP OF STRATH LUGAS;
OR, THE MATCH-MAKING LAIRD.
Jolly old Simon Kirkton! thou art the very high-priest of Hymen. There is something softly persuasive to matrimony in thy contented, comfortable appearance; and thy house,—why, though it is situated in the farthest part of Inverness-shire, it is as fertile in connubial joys as if it were placed upon Gretna Green. Single blessedness is a term unknown in thy vocabulary; heaven itself would be a miserable place for thee, for there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage!
Half the county was invited to a grand dinner and ball at Simon’s house in January 1812. All the young ladies had looked forward to it in joyous anticipation and hope, and all the young gentlemen, with considerable expectation—and fear. Everything was to be on the greatest scale: the dinner in the ancient hall, with the two family pipers discoursing sweet music between the courses, and the ball in the splendid new drawing-room, with a capital band from the county town. The Duke was to be there with all the nobility, rank, and fashion of the district; and, in short, such a splendid entertainment had never been given at Strath Lugas in the memory of man. The editor of the county paper had a description of it in type a month before, and the milliners far and near never said their prayers without a supplication for the health of Mr Kirkton. All this time that worthy gentleman was not idle. The drawing-room was dismantled of its furniture, and the floors industriously chalked over with innumerable groups of flowers. The larder was stocked as if for a siege; the domestics drilled into a knowledge of their duties; and every preparation completed in the most irreproachable style. I question whether Gunter ever dreamt of such a supper as was laid out in the dining-room: venison in all its forms, and fish of every kind. It would have victualled a seventy-four to China.
The day came at last,—a fine, sharp, clear day, as ever gave a bluish tinge to the countenance, or brought tears to “beauty’s eye.” There had been a great fall of snow a few days before, but the weather seemed now settled into a firm, enduring frost. The laird had not received a single apology, and waited in the hall along with his lady to receive the guests as they arrived.
“My dear, isna that a carriage coming up the Brose-fit-knowe? Auld Leddy Clavers, I declare. She’ll be going to dress here, and the three girls. Anne’s turned religious; so I’m thinking she’s ower auld to be married. It’s a pity the minister’s no coming: his wife’s just dead; but Jeanie’ll be looking out for somebody. We maun put her next to young Gerfluin. Elizabeth’s a thocht ower young; she can stay at the side-table with Tammy Maxwell—he’s just a hobbletehoy—it wad be a very good match in time.”
In this way, as each party made its appearance, the laird arranged in a moment the order in which every individual was to be placed at table; and even before dinner, he had the satisfaction of seeing his guests breaking off into the quiet tête-à-têtes, which the noise and occupation of a general company render sweet and secluded as a meeting “by moonlight alone.” While his eye wandered round the various parties thus pleasantly engaged, it rested on the figure of a very beautiful girl whom he had not previously remarked. She sat apart from all the rest, and was amusing herself with looking at the pictures suspended round the room, apparently unconscious of the presence of so many strangers. She seemed in deep thought; but as she gazed on the representation of a battlepiece, her face changed its expression from the calmness of apathy to the most vivid enthusiasm.
“Mercy on us a’!” whispered the laird to his wife, “wha’s she that? that beautiful young lassie in the white goon? An’ no’ a young bachelor within a mile o’ her. Deil ane o’ them deserves such an angel!”
“It’s a Miss Mowbray,” was the reply; “she came with Mrs Carmichael,—a great heiress they say: it’s the first time she was ever in Scotland.”
“Aha! say ye sae? Then we’ll see if we canna keep her among us noo that she is come. Angus M‘Leod—na, he’ll no do—he’s a gude enough lad, but he’s no bonnie. Chairlie Fletcher—he wad do weel enough; but I’m thinking he’ll do better for Bell Johnson. ’Od, donnered auld man, no to think o’ him before! Chairlie Melville’s the very man—the handsomest, bravest, cleverest chield she could hae; and if she’s gotten the siller, so much the better for Chairlie—they’ll mak a bonnie couple.”
And in an instant the laird laid his hand on the shoulder of a young man, who was engaged with a knot of gentlemen discussing some recent news from the Peninsula, and dragging him away, said,—