Here Meg was interrupted by Lindsey, who waved his hand for silence,--a circ.u.mstance that has sorely grieved the relater of this tale,--for of all things he would have liked to have had Meg's ideas, at full length, of children being produced by sympathy.

"I beg your pardon," said Lindsey. "I must have appeared extravagant in my rapturous enthusiasm, having forgot but that you knew all the circ.u.mstances as well as myself. The whole matter is, however, very soon, and very easily explained."

He then left the room, and all the company gazing upon one another. Jane scarcely blushed on receiving the vehement proffer from Lindsey, for his rhapsody had thrown her into a pleasing and tender delirium of amazement, which kept every other feeling in suspense.

In a few seconds he returned, bringing an open letter in his hand.--"Here is the last letter," said he, "ever I received from my brave and only brother; a short extract from which will serve fully to clear up the whole of this very curious business."

He then read as follows:--"Thus, you see, that for the last fortnight the hardships and perils we have encountered have been many and grievous; but TO-MORROW will be decisive one way or another. I have a strong prepossession that I will not survive the battle; yea, so deeply is the idea impressed on my mind, that with me it amounts to an absolute certainty; therefore, I must confide a secret with you which none in the world know, or in the least think of, save another and myself. I was privately married before I left Scotland, to a young lady, lovely in her person, and amiable in her manners, but without any fortune. We resolved, for reasons that must be obvious to you, to keep our marriage a secret, until I entered to the full possession of my estate, and if possible till my return; but now, (don't laugh at me, my dear brother,) being convinced that I shall never return, I entreat you, as a last request, to find her out and afford her protection. It is probable, that by this time she may stand in need of it. Her name is Amelia M'----y, daughter to the late merchant of that name of the firm M'----y and Reynolds. She left her home with me in private, at my earnest request, though weeping with anguish at leaving a younger sister, a little angel of mercy, whom, like the other, you will find every way worthy of your friendship and protection. The last letter that I had from her was dated from London, the 7th of April, on which day she embarked in the packet for Leith, on her way to join her sister, in whose house, near Bristo-Port, you will probably find her. Farewell, dear brother. Comfort our mother; and O, for my sake, cherish and support my dear wife! We have an awful prospect before us, but we are a handful of brave determined friends, resolved to conquer or die together."

The old lady now s.n.a.t.c.hed little George up in her arms, pressed him to her bosom, and shed abundance of tears over him.--"He is indeed my grandson! he is! he is!" cried she. "My own dear George's son, and he shall henceforth be cherished as my own."

"And he shall be mine too, mother," added Lindsey; "and heir of all the land which so rightly belongs to him. And she, who has so disinterestedly adopted and brought up the heir of Earlhall, shall still be his mother, if she will accept of a heart that renders her virtues every homage, and beats in unison with her own to every tone of pity and benevolence."

Jane now blushed deeply, for the generous proposal was just made while the tears of joy were yet trickling over her cheeks on account of the pleasing intelligence she had received of the honour of her regretted sister, and the rank of her child.--She could not answer a word--she looked stedfastly at the carpet, through tears, as if examining how it was wrought--then at a little pearl ring she wore on her finger, and finally fell to adjusting some of little George's clothes. They were all silent--It was a quaker meeting, and might have continued so much longer, had not the spirit fortunately moved Meg.

"By my certy, laird! but ye hae made her a good offer! an' yet she'll pretend to tarrow at takin't! But ye're sure o' her, tak my word for it.--Ye dinna ken women. Bless ye! the young hizzies mak aye the greatest fike about the things that they wish maist to hae. I ken by mysel;--when Andrew Pistolfoot used to come stamplin in to court me i'

the dark, I wad hae cried whispering, 'Get away wi' ye! ye bowled-like shurf!--whar are ye comin pechin an' fuffin to me?' Bless your heart!

gin Andrew had run away when I bade him, I wad hae run after him, an'

grippit him by the coat-tails, an' brought him back. Little wist I this morning, an' little wist mae than I, that things war to turn out this way, an' that Jeany was to be our young lady! She was little like it that night she gaed away greetin wi' the callant on her back! Dear Rob, man, quo' I to my billy, what had you and my lady to do wi' them?

Because her day an' yours are ower, do ye think they'll no be courting as lang as the warld stands; an' the less that's said about it the better--I said sae!"

"And you said truly, Meg," rejoined Lindsey. "Now, pray, Miss Jane, tell me what you think of my proposal?"

"Indeed, sir," answered she, "you overpower me. I am every way unworthy of the honour you propose for my acceptance; but as I cannot part with my dear little George, with your leave I will stay with my lady and take care of him."

"Well, I consent that you shall stay with my mother as her companion. A longer acquaintance will confirm that affection, which a concurrence of events has tended so strongly to excite."

It was not many months until this amiable pair were united in the bonds of matrimony, and they are still living, esteemed of all their acquaintances. Barnaby is the laird's own shepherd, and overseer of all his rural affairs, and he does not fail at times to remind his gentle mistress of his dream about the _eagle_ and the _corbie_.

END OF THE WOOL-GATHERER.

THE HUNT OF EILDON.

ANCIENT.

CHAPTER I.

"I hope the king will not hunt to-day," said Gale, as he sat down on the top of the South Eildon, and stretched out his lazy limbs in the sun.

"If he keep within doors to-day with his yelping beagles, I shall have one day's peace and ease; and my lambs shall have one day's peace and ease; and poor Trimmy shall have one day's peace and ease too. Come hither to me, Trimmy, and tell me what is the reason that you will not hunt with the king's two beagles?"

Trimmy came near, laid her paw on her master's knee, and looked him in the face, but she could not tell him what was the reason that she would not hunt with the king's two beagles, Mooly and Scratch.

"I say, tell me my good Trimmy, what you ail at these beautiful hounds?

You wont to be the best follower of a track in all the Merse and Leader; but now, whenever you hear the sound of the horn, and the opening swell of the harriers, you take your tail between your legs and set off for home, as there were something on the hill that were neither good nor cannie. You are a very sensible beast, Trimmy, but you have some strange fancies and prejudices that I cannot comprehend."

Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g c.o.c.ked her ears, and looked towards the Abbey, then at her master, and then at the Abbey again.

"Ah! I fear you hear them coming that you are c.o.c.king your ears at that rate. Then if that be the case, good morning to you, Trimmy."

It was neither the king nor his snow-white beagles that Trimmy winded, but poor Croudy, Gale's neighbour shepherd, who was coming sauntering up the brae, with his black lumpish dog at his foot, that was fully as stupid as himself, and withal as good-natured. Croudy was never lifting his eyes from the ground, but moving on as if he had been enumerating all the little yellow flowers that grew on the hill. Yet it was not for want of thought that Croudy was walking in that singular position, with his body bent forward, and the one ear turned down towards the ground, and the other up. No, no! for Croudy was trying to think all that he could; and all that he could do he could make nothing of it. Croudy had seen and heard wonderful things! "Bless me and my horn!" said he, as he sat down on a stone to rest himself, and try if he could bring his thoughts to any rallying point. It was impossible--they were like a hive of bees when the queen is taken from their head.

He took out the little crooked ewe-horn that he kept as a charm; he had got it from his mother, and it had descended to him from many generations; he turned it round in the one hand, and then round in the other hand--he put it upon his finger and twirled it. "Bless me an' my horn!" said he again. Then leaning forward upon his staff, he looked aslant at the ground, and began to moralize. "It is a growing world--ay--the gerse grows; the lambs eat it--they grow--ay--we eat them--we grow--there it goes!--men, women, dogs, bairns, a' eat--a'

grow; the yird eats up a'--it grows--men eat women--they grow--what comes o' them?--Hoh! I'm fixed now!--I'm at the end o' my tether.--I might gang up the hill to Gale, an' tell him what I hae seen an' what I hae heard; but I hae four great fauts to that chiel. In the first place, he's a fool--good that! In the second place, he's a scholar, an' speaks English--bad! In the third place, he likes the women--warst ava!--and, fourthly and lastly, he misca's a' the words, and ca's the streamers the Roara Boriawlis--ha! ha! ha!--Wha wad converse wi' a man, or wha _can_ converse wi' a man, that ca's the streamers the Roara Boriawlis?

Fools hae aye something about them no like ither fock! Now, gin I war to gang to sic a man as that, an' tell him that I heard a dog speakin', and another dog answering it, what wad he say? He wad speak English; sae ane wad get nae sense out o' him. If I war to gang to the Master o' Seaton an' tak my aith, what wad he say? Clap me up i' the prison for a daft man an' a fool. I couldna bide that. Then again, if we lose our king--an' him the last o' the race--Let me see if I can calculate what wad be the consequence? The English--Tut! the English! wha cares for them? But let me see now--should the truth be tauld or no tauld?--That's the question. What's truth? Ay, there comes the crank! Nae man can tell that--for what's truth to ane is a lee to another--Mumps, ye're very hard on thae fleas the day--Truth?--For instance; gin my master war to come up the brae to me an' say, 'Croudy, that dog's useless,' that wadna be truth to me--But gin I war to say to him, 'Master, I heard a dog speak, an' it said sae an' sae; an' there was another dog answered it, an' it said sae an' sae,' that wad be truth to me; but then it wadna be truth to him--Truth's just as it is ta'en--Now, if a thing may be outher truth or no truth, then a' things are just the same--No--that disna haud neither--Mumps, ye're no gaun to leave a sample o' thae fleas the day, man--Look up, like a farrant beast--have ye nae pity on your master, nor nae thought about him ava, an' him in sic a plisky?--I wadna be just sae like a stump an' I war you, man----Bless me an' my horn! here's the Boreawlis comin' on me--here's the northern light."

"Good-morrow to you, Croudy."

"Humph!"

"You seem to be very thoughtful and heavy-hearted to-day, honest Croudy.

I fear pretty Pery has given you a bad reception last night."

"Humph!--women!--women!"

"I hope she did not mention the kiln-logie, Croudy? That was a sad business! Croudy; some men are ill to know!"

"See, whaten white scares are yon, Gale, aboon the Cowdyknowes an'

Gladswood linn? Look ye, they spread an' tail away a' the gate to the Lammer-Law--What ca' ye yon, Gale?"

"Some exhalation of the morning."

"What?--Bless me an' my horn! that's warst ava!--I thought it wad be some Boriawlis, Gale--some day Boriawlis; but I didna think o' aught sae high as this--ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Croudy went his way laughing along the side of the hill, speaking to Mumps one while, moralizing about truth and the language of dogs and fairies another, and always between taking a hearty laugh at Gale. "Come away, Mumps," said he; "I can crack some wi' you, though ye're rather slow i' the uptake; but I can crack nane wi' a man that ca's the streamers a Roara Boriawlis, an' a white clud, an' Exaltation--Na, na, that will never do."

Croudy sauntered away down into the Bourgeon to be out of sight, and Gale went lightsomely away to the top of the North-east Eildon; and there, on one of the angles of the old Roman Camp, laid him down to enjoy the glorious prospect; and, sure, of all the lovely prospects in our isle, this is the most lovely. What must it have been in those days when all the ruins of monastery, tower, and citadel, which still make the traveller to stand in wonder and admiration, were then in their full splendour. Traveller! would you see Scotland in all its wild and majestic grandeur? sail along its western firths from south to north--Would you see that grandeur mellowed by degrees into softness?

look from the top of Ben-Lomond--But would you see an amphitheatre of _perfect beauty_, where nothing is wanting to enrich the scene? seat yourself on the spot where Gale now lay, at the angle of the Roman Camp, on the top of the North-east Eildon.

Short time did he enjoy the prospect and the quiet in which he delighted. First the heads of two n.o.blemen appeared on the hill beneath him, then came a roe by him at full speed. Trimmy would fain have hunted her, but as the shepherd deemed that the business was some way connected with the royal sport, he restrained her. The two n.o.blemen some time thereafter sounded a bugle, and then in a moment the king and his attendants left the Abbey at full speed; and how beautiful was their winding ascent up the hill! The king had betted with the Earl of Hume and Lord Belhaven, seven steers, seven palfreys, seven deer-greyhounds, and seven gold rings, that his two snow-white hounds, Mooly and Scratch, would kill a roe-deer started on any part of the Eildon hills, and leave the Abbey walk with him after she was started. After the bet was fairly taken, the king said to the two n.o.blemen, "You are welcome to your loss, my lords. Do you know that I could bet the half of my realm on the heads of these two hounds?"

The two lords held their peace, but they were determined to win if they could, and they did not blow the horn, as agreed on, immediately when the roe started, but sauntered about, to put off time, and suffer the trail to cool. The two hounds were brought up, and loosed at the spot; they scarcely shewed any symptoms of having discovered the scent. The king shook his head; and Hume, who loved the joke dearly, jeered the king about his wager, which his majesty only answered by speaking to one of the hounds that stood next to him. "Ah! Mooly, Mooly, if you deceive me, it is the first time; but I have another matter to think on than you this morning, Mooly." Mooly fawned on her royal master; jumped up at the stirrup, and took his foot playfully in her mouth, while Keryl, the king's steed, laid back his ears, and snapped at her, in a half-angry, half-playful mood. This done, Mooly turned her long nose to the wind; scented this way and that way, and then scampering carelessly over the brow of the hill, she opened in a tone so loud and so sprightly that it made all the Eildons sound in chorus to the music. Scratch joined with her elegant treble, and away they went like two wild swans, sounding over the hill.

"Trimmy! Trimmy! my poor Trimmy!" cried Gale, vexed and astonished; "Trimmy, halloo! hie, hunt the deer, Trimmy! Here, here, here!"

No; Trimmy would never look over her shoulder, but away she ran with all her might home to Eildon-Hall. "The plague be in the beast," said Gale to himself, "if ever I saw any thing like that! There is surely something about these two hounds that is scarcely right."

Round and round the hills they went side by side, and still the riders kept close up with them. The trail seemed to be warm, and the hounds keen, but yet no deer was to be discovered. They stretched their course to the westward, round Cauldshields Hill, back over Bothendean Moor, and again betook them to the Eildons; still no deer was to be seen! The two hounds made a rapid stretch down towards Melrose; the riders spurred in the same direction. The dogs in a moment turning short, went out between the two eastern hills, distancing all the riders, whom they left straggling up the steep after them as they could, and when these came over the height there was a fine roe-deer lying newly slain, and the two snow-white hounds panting and rolling themselves on the gra.s.s beside her. The king claimed his wager, but Hume objected, unless his majesty could prove that it was the same deer that they had started at the same place in the morning. The king had the greatest number of voices in his favour, but the earl stood to his point. "Is it true, my liege lord,"

said an ancient knight to the king, "that these two beautiful hounds have never yet been unlieshed without killing their prey?"

"Never," returned the king.