“A nobleman! the maiden's mad!” said Dame Ursula.
“There dined with us, I say,” continued Margaret, without regarding the interruption, “a nobleman—a Scottish nobleman.”
“Now Our Lady keep her!” said the confidant, “she is quite frantic!—heard ever any one of a watchmaker's daughter falling in love with a nobleman—and a Scots nobleman, to make the matter complete, who are all as proud as Lucifer, and as poor as Job?—A Scots nobleman, quotha? I had lief you told me of a Jew pedlar. I would have you think how all this is to end, pretty one, before you jump in the dark.”
“That is nothing to you, Ursula—it is your assistance,” said Mistress Margaret, “and not your advice, that I am desirous to have, and you know I can make it worth your while.”
“O, it is not for the sake of lucre, Mistress Margaret,” answered the obliging dame; “but truly I would have you listen to some advice—bethink you of your own condition.”
“My father's calling is mechanical,” said Margaret, “but our blood is not so. I have heard my father say that we are descended, at a distance indeed, from the great Earls of Dalwolsey.” [Footnote: The head of the ancient and distinguished house of Ramsay, and to whom, as their chief, the individuals of that name look as their origin and source of gentry. Allan Ramsay, the pastoral poet, in the same manner, makes
“Dalhousie of an auld descent,
My chief, my stoup, my ornament.”]
“Ay, ay,” said Dame Ursula; “even so—I never knew a Scot of you but was descended, as ye call it, from some great house or other; and a piteous descent it often is—and as for the distance you speak of, it is so great as to put you out of sight of each other. Yet do not toss your pretty head so scornfully, but tell me the name of this lordly northern gallant, and we will try what can be done in the matter.”
“It is Lord Glenvarloch, whom they call Lord Nigel Olifaunt,” said Margaret in a low voice, and turning away to hide her blushes.
“Marry, Heaven forefend!” exclaimed Dame Suddlechop; “this is the very devil, and something worse!”