LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1618, 28 April 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAIRD’S SWEETHEART. BY IKBAR. [From the “ Danebury News.”] ( Concluded.) Under the shade of the tree 1 !, where the deep waters look mysterious and black, a small boat is drawn up close to the bank, whereon its owner stands, kicking his heels impatiently among the dewy wet grass, the boat-chain dangled loosely from one hand, the other thrust into the pocket of his jacket An opening in the foilage overhead allows the fine silvery light to stream down on the bekißed form of a remarkably good looking young man. His figure, above the medium in height, is slight, and apparently he is little more than twenty, but strength shows in the breadth of chest, and in the muscle, much used and well developed, In the comely limbs left exposed by his dress. As the sound of a light footstep and the switch of petticoats against the bracken is borne to his ears on the stilly night, he takes his cigar from his mouth and tosses it into the loch, where, with a fiery kiss to the cold surface, it disappears, then with eager eyes watches through the gloom for the first glimpse. Thus does Hay Bruce Macgregor, the proud young Laird of Glenfern, await his sweetheart. In a moment the small slight form be* comes visible, and immediately Nancy Pretty stands within the radius of white light, a yar 1 or two from her lover. Hut, thongh his bold blue eyes flash with tender welcome, and though his arms are outstretched to clasp his dear Highland lassie to his breast, Nancy remains apart, pro vokingly, tantalizingly apart, looking into his face, a smile curling on her lovely mouth, mischief sparkling in her eyes, ‘ Drop]your arms, Hay !' she cries. I No use to wave them like a wind-mill any more ! I can’t ever come again to meet you ! We must never kiss each other again, for I’m going to be married to morrow!’ So speaks the girl to her lover, with demure face and tones. ‘All right, my darling; you know I’m quite ready. ’Twas you that wouldn’t hear of it yet,’ answers young Macgregor, a bright confident smile playing on his handsome mouth, the short upper lip of which is only shaded as yet by the soft dark-brown luir. * Come to me, Nance!’ As he speaks he puts forth an authoritative hand, and draws the girl within his longing arms. And so they stand, her slight form girded straitly about by his strong young arms, her upturned face, like a fair pearl in the moonlight, kissed repeatedly by his warm passionate lips. The friendly trees snrround them, and the moon looks calmly down, lending them her light. ‘ Hay, this won’t do—this won’t do at all you know!’ cries Nance beginning to push her way from out his enchanting arms, ‘Won’t do, Nance? I think it is just doing splendidly ?’ He allows her, however, to free herself from his embrace, and stands beside her, content to have one little suntanned hand clasped tenderly in his own. ‘ And so we are going to be married to-mor-row, my darling?’ he says’ looking inquiringly down into her fair face. * We are going to be married ?’ she replies —and it is noticeable that whea with him the girl’s language and accent insensibly and quite naturally fall into those of her lover. ‘ I don’t know anything about you. lam going to be married to-morrow to Mr. McOluok 1‘ An amused smile shines in her lover’s bonnle blue eyes ; her tidings awaken apparently no fears in his breast ; he trusts implicitly this girl whom he has chosen to be his wife—for with all her faults he knows her to bo pure and true, ‘ McCluck ? It’s a good name, at all events ! Who is the fellow may I ask ?’ * He is Alexander McCluck, hutterman, in the High street, Kinleny; and you must know ho is rather above me in rank, Hay He has a large shop, and sells hams and boxes of sardines, and lots of other things ’ ‘ Oh, ye gods and litt'e fishes I I know the man, Nance 1’ cries Hay, bursting into loud, hearty laughter. For a moment the girl stood looking at him demurely, and then, unable to repress her mirth any longer, she also breaks out into a rippling laugh. ‘Come, my darling, tell me all about it,’ says Macgregor, after a few moments, when both were quiet again. Nancy’s face becomes grave and her color fades a little. ‘Yes, Hay, I must tell you .all about it,’ she answers—‘but not here. Row me up the loch to the little island, I wish parti*

1 u ariy to go tl ero t i-right; I will tell }ou th< re. ’

M icgregor now perceived th t something unusual had occurred, For a moment he gathers the girl again into his a r mfl, and kisses her brow and li|>s, then, without a word, assists her into the boat, and s epp ng in him-elf, push s olf from the bank. Through the dark waters the b at cut swiftly, sent by his long vigorous pull, and kept well in the shade out of the s’r aming white light. Both a'e perfectly silent i the oars dip regularly, evenly : the water gurgles away from the prow sud the sides—there is nos and <n either ride the grand wild hills tower upwa ds, guarding their loch; and, far above thdr peaks, away in the dis'ant sky, myriads of stars are shining, while the moon is sailing splendidly among them. The ‘little Eland’ is a very small island, indeed, but, for its siz finely wooded, that is to say time or four fine trees thrive upon its soil, with some fl uriahing brushwood. Maogrc-gor pulls around to the western side, when-'e a glorious view can be obtained of of the loch, away up to its head in the far distance, and, beyond, of a mighty frowning Ben, and the sharp cleaving ,of a wild, narrow pass. The lovers have often been here before, but they never land, and they do not now, the grass being gnuerall/ wet with heavy dews, or the wHole islet in a tearful, weeping condition, the result of Highland weather. Ylacgregof fastens the boat to the slim stem of a tree growing by the water’s edge, and then, making for the stern/ seats himself beside his sweetheart. The light boat drifts round and lies broadside to the isle. And so they eit together; talking softly in the beautiful still night. . An hour later the boat glides once more down the loch. ‘ Let us go straight through the moonlight, Hay,’ whispers Nancy, leaning towards him with a smile ; ‘ this is the last time, you know !’ The girl’s checks are no longer pale ; they glow like some bfildant Eastern llowcr, and her beautiful eyes are radiant. So on that night—the last night—they pass straight through the lovely white light adown the loch, until, reaching the shade of trees at its foot, the boat, passing into the gloom, disappears *c # # * The next morn—hef marriage morn— Nancy Pretty inaugurates the day in a way most unusual —nay, almost unexampled — in the simple and hardy household. She does not rise blithe and bonny, as is her wont, to dress herself for breakfast. She is pale and languid—it may be in anticipation of the forthcoming events of the day, or perhaps it is the reaction after unusual exri’tement of feeling during the night before. From whatever cause, the girl lies in her homely old-fashioned bed, with its spotless we'l-bleachcd Hoen, gazing out at the hills which her bedroom window faces. The calm beauty of the night has passed away with itself, and the wind has arisen, before the power of which the heavy clouds, hanging low, are hurried across the sky At intervals rain descends, which is ever and anon beaten back by the blast. The long rough grass lies wet and lank along the ground, and even the sturdy bracken droops moistly. The wind sweeps down the hillside and circles angrily round the small white house. Breakfast hour arriving without Nancy, Aunt Jean, surprised of course, proceeds to the girl’s bedroom to ascertain the reason of her non-appearance. But to her aunt’s wondering questions Nancy only replies quietly that she does not feel very well and desires no breakfast; but adds decidedly that she will certainly rise later in the day, and then begs to ho left alone for the present. So the hours passed by, and no morsel of food crosses her lips The morning hours tick themselves slowly into the past, and as they go the girl’s cheeks fade, At three o’clock her lot is to be linked with that of Mr McOlu-'k ; her life is to be merged into his life till death do them part. Two o’clock comes, and then, when the hand on the old kitchen clock points to the half hour, John McWilliam, telling Aunt Jean that Nancy must rise new, forthwith proceeds to his daughter’s room to enforce his own orders. 'I he first glance at the l ed startles him. Surely scarcely less white lay the dead lilymaid as she floated in her barge down the stream to the king’s palace, and not more beautiful, than lies this maid—so pale—so pure all color’ess, save for the bright bil lowy hair gleaming loose on her pillow. When her father enters Nancy’s eyes are closed, but she raises the darkly-fringed lids and languidly looks at him quietly as ho stands beside her bed. ‘ Nancy, lass, ye maun get up ; it’s halfpast two by the clock,’ John’s words are very firm, but his voice is the voice of a doubting heart. ‘ Father, answers Nancy, * ye know I was never ill for two days together since I was bairn. Send away Sandy McCluok the day, and bid him come the morn and —I’ll swear it if you like, father—ill or well, I’ll bo wed then !’ She speaks earnestly, and her eyes meet those of her father quite fearlessly. Annoyed and dissatisfied, McWilliam stands for a moment und-cided. But already his first glance at his daughter has shown him that not to-day, at any rate, can she rise up to become the bride < f McDluck ; so, only saying pointedly, ‘ Weel, lass, s-.e that you keep your word the morn,’ he quits the room, leaving the girl once more alone In the little farm household one meal in the day at least is partaken of at a fashionable hour; four o’clock and tea are twin incidents here as elsewhere. The dangerous nuptial hour is safely past nuptlalless ; and Nancy, declaring herself a little better, requests to have a cup of tea and some bread-and-butter brought to her —which is done. Half past eight again brings supper ; and Nancy is now so very much better and so hungry that she must have a slice or two of cold meat and a glass of her father’s toddy ! She is an invalid to-night, and tomorrow is to be a bride. So her father and aunt alike unite in a little unwonted petting, which Nancy accepts, along with the good things they bring her, calmly and coolly demolishing the latter with relish and leaving not a scrap behind; and when shortly after nine o’clock the old folk came to hid her good night she looks almost herself again. At ten the old clock strikes out the hour amid perfect stillness. Outside the dogs slumber in their kennels, though watchfully, ready at a moment’s notice for any strange comer. In the outhouse, Ronald, the lad who asiista John on the farm, snores deeply ; and in the byre the large ox-eyes are all peacefully closed. Inside the house John McWilliam and his sister are sleeping the de l p sleep of the hard working. Tie wind has fallen ; yet, for a wonder, the rain holds off. No moon glorifies the world to-night —the sky is black as ink and starless. It is an ugly, threatening night not a soul is abroad darkness and solitude brood over the country. At one time only is the stillness of the night broken by a hesitating, doubtful hark from one of the coolies, which awakens none of the sleepers, and by the sharp, ringing clang of a horse’s hoofs as it gallops southwards bearing a double burden. Next morning—again Nancy’s wedding more—breaks fair and pleasant; but, alas, the nest is found to be empty - the bird has flown ! Nancy has not waited for her appointed bridegroom; a ‘ brawer wooer has cam’ doon the lang glen for her.’ John McWilliam may storm as ho lists row ; aunt Jean may scold on for ever; but wild, selfwilled Nancy, is ‘ Ower the hills and far awa’ Wi’ Jock o’ Uazeldean.’ * * * * All the world knows now how young Macgrogor of Glcnfern carried off hia bride ; it is quite an old story, f r it happened many years ago. Every one knows of the long, dark ride to Perth—of the marriage performed there, at the earliest available hour in the morning, by a Scotch minister, and of the second marriage according to the rites of the Church of England, which took place in Carlisle Cathedral. For eighteen months the young couple lived abroad ; and wherever Nancy went she took the world by storm. No matter

wha‘ t‘ o place or \v: f-t the pcoj 1 > Nice, Flue-ice or Roane < qua'ly am l lit; t Engli h, F-ench, or Italians —whenever site w.is see -1 - V>e beautiful Mrs Maegretor became tbe race. At Pari j they named her tbe “ Rose of Scotland,'’ mid the souh ique 1 fo 1 wed and cbr g to her wherever she and her husband sojourned. And NVncy looked as she had been aocust.or e ! to it all her Hie so coolly did sho o uduct he self, earning her young husband, in spite of all the admiration and attention sho received, never a moment s uneasiness—hut few that met them failed to perceive how fmtir ly the girl’s heart was given up to it’s lawful keeper. At Naples a son and heir was born, and shortly afterwards they returned to England, As it was abroad so it was at home ; the T ondon world was completely fascinated. Nancy was the beauty and favorite of the season ; and her husband’s widowed mother —the sta'e'y Lady Eleanor M-cgregor—-though at first not unnaturally displeased ar her son’s marriage, was now only t o proud to present and introduce so love ! y and successful a daughter-in law.

But it is in her Highland home that Nancy is most popular. The great folk of the country, for a time rather undecided as to now John MoWilliam’s daughter ought to be received when she should return as Mrs Macgregor of Glenfern, were soon instructed as to that by her success in Paris and London Gould there be two questions as to the manner of reception by the country of tbe bosom friend of the young Countess of Camhallock ?

But ve r y soon Nancy was loved and respected f< r her ow" sake; and in other cnunt’es than that of Perthshire only there is not ju t now a more popular woman than ‘ the beautiful Mrs Macgregor.’ Nancy was never ashamed of, nor neglected, her old father and her aunt Wisely making no attempt to take them from what station in whi"h they were happiest, she yet took care that they wanted for nothing that oould make their life easy and comfortable No ; Nancy was never ashamed of her father, and neither were her friends.

Why, it was only the other day that she and her great friend, the handsome young Countess, cantered their thorough-hreds blithely down the lochside to pay John McWilliam a visit! Hut then everyone knows that these two beautiful, spirited young women can do just whatever they like ; and the world is quite content to look on and admire.

Nevertheless in this Nancy does well