he would be singing, for it will not be lucky to be married without the due observance of these old sayings.

I would be sitting with Hugh in his room, and Bryde away to be seeing if all things were ready, and to have a word with Margaret, for this wedding would be putting things into his head maybe. At last back he came, tall and swarthy and smiling.

"She is a beautiful wife you will be getting, Hughie," said he; "and Margaret and the old women will have her imprisoned, so you will be coming with me,"--and we took Hugh out under the trees where the place was made ready, and the guests were gathered, and in a little Helen came to his side and Margaret with her, and the marrying was begun.

And the Laird of Scaurdale was lifted out in his chair, very white, but with a good spirit in him yet.

It would be Helen I would be watching, for her hand was tight clenched, and she swayed a little as a flower sways, but she spoke bravely. It would be a long business, a marriage in these days.

But when the ring was on her finger and Margaret had lifted the veil, she turned to her man, and held him to be kissing her.

"You are kind to me, Hugh," said she in a little low voice.

And when it would be Bryde's turn to be at the kissing, she kissed his cheek.

"I am your cousin now, is it not?" said she, with a little smile, and I caught her as she swayed, and all her body would be a-quiver like a fiddle-string.

There would be a great spread there in the open--pasties of mutton from black-faced ewes, very sweet and good to be remembering, and fish too, and fowls roasted and browned, and the crop of them bursting with stuffing. There was sirloin and pork, and dishes of every kind. There was ale, good strong ale, that puts flesh on a man if he will be having the rib to be carrying it. For dainty folk foreign wine, and for grown men brandy and usquebach. It would be a goodly feast, with much laughing and neighbourliness among the guests, and there is a droll thing I am remembering, and that is the good clothes of the folk. If you will be taking time and rummaging about in some old kist, you will be finding these clothes to this day, with the infinite deal of sewing on them, and the beautiful b.u.t.tons, and you will likely be finding too an old lease maybe, with all the stipulations anent the burning of kelp.

I am wishing that you could be with us on the road on such a day, for every man would be stopping and getting his dram, and giving his good wishes to the pair before he would be going on with his business.

And Hugh would be speaking for his wife and himself, and giving his thanks to the folk for their well-wishing. And the old Laird of Scaurdale made the la.s.sies keep their faces lowered, for he would be a bluff hearty man, with little false modesty in him, if indeed he would be having any of any kind.

"There is nothing," says he, "will be taming a la.s.s like skelping a wean, or curing him o' the hives, and it's weans I will be wanting about the place," says he.

I will not be telling too much about the talk, for these would be wilder days than now, as you can be seeing if you will be looking at the Session Records.

Then in the evening the dancing would be going on, with the pipers in their own place, three of them abreast, and piping until their faces would be shining with the joy of it. Och, the great joyousness of the dancing, with the la.s.sies taking a good hold of their skirts and lifting them to be getting the bonny steps in, and the boys from the glens hooching with upthrown arm, now this and now that, and their shoes beating out the time as though the music and the dancing was in the very blood of them, and indeed so it was.

And there would be fiddlers too, and step-dancing, and singing and everything to be making merry the heart of a man.

Hugh and Helen would be leaving the dance at last, and there was a buzz of laughing, although n.o.body would be knowing where the pair of them were to be that night; and it was then that Margaret would be at her good-nights to Bryde, for they could not be having enough of each other all that day.

"It will be you and me next," said Bryde, "Margaret, my little darling," and she crept closer to him.

"Take me somewhere," said she, "where the folk will not be seeing."

And then, "I will have been mad to be doing this all this night," said she, and pulled his head down to her and kissed him. "Tell me, Bryde, oh, tell me."

"I am loving you," said he, and his eyes burning, "loving the grace and the beauty and the bravery in you," and he lifted her into his arm like a wean, and his face was bent to hers and her white arms round him.

Her eyes were softly closed, and a little white smile on her face.

"For ever and ever, my great dark man," she whispered.

"Darling," said Bryde, "little darling, for ever and ever," and with a face all laughing and her eyes like stars she ran from him to her room.

And coming from her door--for he had followed her, laughing at her dainty finger raised in smiling command--coming from her closed door with her love about him like a cloud, there met him his cousin's wife, and he could hear the crying of the dancers below, and Hugh's voice forbidding pursuit.

"Good-night," said Helen, and gave him her hand--it was very cold.

"Good-night," and then with a half sob, "Jus' _won_ kiss," she whispered . . . I am often wondering. . . .

I would be with Belle when Bryde came among the dancers again. Her eyes were yearning over him.

"I am wishing I had you home--you will be too happy, my wild boy."

"There are none to be wishing evil this night," said Bryde, and laughed down at his mother; and then, "There is no la.s.s so bonny as my mother, Hamish," and he put his arm round her. "I will be behaving, little mother," said he, and then Dan came to us and took Belle away.

It made high-water at five in the morning, and there was the last of a moon showing the darkness on the sh.o.r.e and throwing a gleam on the sea.

There were folk moving on the beach, all silently except maybe you would be hearing a sech of a breath, as when a man will be stretching himself after resting from a load. There would come now and then the howling of a dog, an eerie sound, and then he would be at the barking a long way through the night. Sometimes a little horse would come out of the darkness with a pack-load on his back, and men would be lifting the load and laying it on the beach, and there would be quiet whispering, and the little horse be led away and swallowed up in the dark among the scrog and bushes. And in a while there came the soft noise of m.u.f.fled oars, a sound very faint that will be stirring the blood of a man, and a little knot of folk gathered round the barrels on the beach.

"That will be the boats now," said Dan McBride.

"It will be all quiet," said Ronald McKinnon, "and Gilchrist will not be having his new hoose yet for a wee."

And Gilchrist--if Ronny had only kent--Gilchrist and his men shifted a little among the bushes, and old Dol Beag was there among them trembling a little and his mouth praying.

John McCook came close to Bryde McBride, and pointed to the very place where the gangers were lying waiting.

"Would there be something moving there among the bushes?" said he.

"A sheep maybe," said Bryde.

"I am wishing I had the dogs with me," said John.

There were silent figures of women, with shawls tight about their shoulders, and they looked a little fearfully to the dark places.

Margaret was in her first sleep and dreaming, and it was a daft dream, and her lips curled softly and parted a little, for in her dreams Bryde would be knocking and knocking at her door.

"I am just thinking this," she was saying to her dreaming self, "because he would be tormenting me to be kissing him again," and she opened her arms and her lips pouted, and then again came the knocking, low at the first of it, and then growing louder, until at last she became broad awake, and there would be only a little moonlight in her room.

"Who is it?" she said, standing a little fearfully behind her door, and her heart beating.

"Let me in; oh, let me in," she could hear a woman's voice, and opened the door, and a la.s.s flung herself inside.

"He will be away to the smuggling, mistress," cried the la.s.s, "and I will be feart, I will be feart, for I told my father--I told my father."

"Go back to your bed, Kate," said Margaret; "it is the nightmare. Who will be gone to the smuggling?--there will not be any smuggling."

"At the Clates, mistress--my man is there, the man I am to be marrying, and your man, mistress, and his father," and then she got her words.

"It is my father I am dreading," said she. "Dol Beag is my father. I am thinking he is a little wrong in the head, and to-day my mother came to be telling me to keep my man beside me. Oh, if my own mistress would be free I would be telling her, and what would be frightening her, my poor mistress--with the wrong man in her bed."

"Out of my way," said Margaret, and she started to her dressing. "Away from me, with your wicked thoughts, ye traitor."

"Go, you fool," for she was in a royal rage--"go to the stable and waken the men. Hurry," she cried--"hurry," and shoved the wench before her and came to my door, and it was not long until I had the horses saddled.