Mr Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty well received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and a brace of moor game.
“Gin your roebuck’s nae better than your last, atweel it’s no worth the sending,—puir fushionless dirt, no worth the chewing; weel a wat, I begrudged my teeth on’t. Your muirfowl was no that ill, but they’re no worth the carrying; they’re dang cheap i’ the market e’noo, so it’s nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o’ good mutton, or a caller sawmont, there would hae been some sense in’t; but ye’re ane o’ the fowk that’ll ne’er harry yoursel wi’ your presents; it’s but the pickle poother they cost you, an’ I’se warrant ye’re thinking mair o’ your ain diversion than o’ my stamack when ye’re at the shooting o’ them, puir beasts.”
Mr Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips, as he strode indignantly towards the door.
His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back,—
“So, I see ye’re just the auld man, Archie,—aye ready to tak the strumps, an ye dinna get a’thing yer ain way. Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o’ the dorts when ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon pie an’ a tanker o’ tippenny, ae night to yer four-hours, afore some leddies? he, he, he! Weel a wat, your wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye’re a cumstarie chield, Archie.”
Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry.
“Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn,” said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bed-chamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a large bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond ear-rings.
“Hae, bairn,” said she, as she stuffed them into Mary’s hand; “they belanged to your faither’s grandmother. She was a good woman, an’ had four and twenty sons and dochters, an’ I wuss ye nae waur fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye,” shaking her bony finger, “they maun a’ be Scots. Gin I thocht ye wad marry ony pock-puddin’, fient hait wad ye gotten frae me. Noo, haud yer tongue, and dinna deave me wi’ thanks,” almost pushing her into the parlour again; “and sin’ ye’re gaun awa the morn, I’ll see nae mair o’ ye e’noo—so fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an’ tak your breakfast wi’ me. I hae muckle to say to you;—but ye maunna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,” with a facetious grin to her mollified favourite, as they shook hands and parted.—“Marriage: a Novel.”
THE FAITHLESS NURSE:
A LEGENDARY TALE OF THE GREAT REBELLION.
Most of our readers who are citizens of “our own romantic town,” are familiarly acquainted with the valley which, winding among the Pentland Hills, forms the path by which the waters of Glencorse seek their way to those of the more celebrated Esk. It has long been the haunt of those “pilgrims of his genius” who loved to see with their own eyes the sacred scene chosen by the Pastoral Poet of Scotland for the display of lowly loves and rustic beauty; and it has now—alas the day!—acquired attractions for spirits of a far different sort; and who can see without a sigh the triumphs of art domineering over and insulting the sweetest charms of nature? It is not, however, to visit the stupendous and unseemly barrier which now chains up the gentle waters of the burn, nor even to seek the summer-breathing spot where Patie sung and Roger sighed, that we now request the attendance of our readers; but simply to point out to their attention a party of three individuals, who, on a still September evening, in the memorable year 1644, might have been seen slowly riding up the glen.