“I wadna rede ye to middle wi’ me, Dame Seton,” said the fortune-teller. “And now, having said my say, and wishing ye a blithe bridal, I’ll just be stepping awa;” and ere another word was spoken, the gipsy had crossed the threshold.
“I’ll no marry Jamie Binks,” cried Mary, wringing her hands; “send to him, mother, and tell him sae.”
“The sorrow take the lassie,” said Dame Seton; “would you make yoursel and your friends a warld wonder, and a’ for the clavers o’ a leein’ Egyptian,—black be her fa’, that I should ban.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” cried Mary, “how can I gie ae man my hand, when another has my heart?”
“Troth, lassie,” replied her mother, “a living joe is better than a dead ane ony day. But whether Willie be dead or living, ye shall be Jamie Binks’ wife the morn. Sae tak nae thought o’ that ill-deedy body’s words, but gang ben the house and dry your een, and Annot will put the last steek in your bonny white gown.”
With a heavy heart Mary saw the day arrive which was to seal her fate; and while Dame Seton is bustling about, getting everything in order for the ceremony, which was to be performed in the house, we shall take the liberty of directing the attention of our readers to the outside passengers of a stagecoach, advancing from the south, and rapidly approaching Dunbar. Close behind the coachman was seated a middle-aged, substantial-looking farmer, with a round, fat, good-humoured face, and at his side was placed a handsome young sailor, whose frank and jovial manner, and stirring tale of shipwreck and captivity, had pleasantly beguiled the way.
“And what’s taking you to Dunbar the day, Mr Johnstone?” asked the coachman.
“Just a wedding, John,” answered the farmer. “My cousin, Jamie Binks, is to be married the night.”
“He has been a wee ower lang about it,” said the coachman.
“I’m thinking,” replied the farmer, “it’s no the puir lassie’s fault that the wedding hasna been put off langer; they say that bonny Mary has little gude will to her new joe.”