CHAPTER EIGHT.

A SCOTTISH PEASANT'S WEDDING AND A BALL.

Old Laird McLeod had a right good heart of his own, and willingly permitted the marriage to take place in his drawing-room. There were very few guests, however.

The grey-haired old minister was there in time to taste the wine of Scotland before the ceremony began, which, after all, though short, was very solemn. No reading of prayers. The prayer that was said was from the heart, not from a book; that sort of prayer which opens Heaven.

A long exhortation followed, hands were joined, the minister laid his above, and Sandie and Fanny were man and wife. Then the blessing.

I don't know why it was, but Fanny was in tears most of the time.

The marriage took place in the afternoon; and dinner was to follow.

Annie good-naturedly took Fanny to her own room and washed away her tears.

In due time both sailed down to dinner. And a right jolly dinner it was, too. Fanny had never seen anything like it before. Of course that lovely haunch of tender venison was the _piece de resistance_, while an immense plum-pudding brought up the rear. Dessert was spread, with some rare wines--including whisky--but Sandie could scarce be prevailed upon to touch anything. He was almost awed by the presence of the reverend and aged minister, who tried, whenever he could, to slip in a word or two about the brevity of life, the eternity that was before them all, the Judgment Day, and so on, and so forth. But the minister, for all that, patronised the Highland whisky.

"No, no," he said, waving the port wine away. "`Look not thou upon the wine when it is red; when it giveth his colour to the cup... at the last it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder.'"

It was observed, however, that as he spoke he filled his glass with Glenlivet.

Well, I suppose no man need care to look upon the wine when it is red, if his tumbler be flanked by a bottle of Scotch.

The dinner ended, there was the march homeward to Sandie's wee house on the knoll, pipers first, playing right merrily; Sandie and his bride arm-in-arm next; then, four deep, lads and lasses gay, to the number of fifty at least.

And what cheering and laughing as they reached the door. But finally all departed to prepare for the ball that was to take place later on in the great barn of Bilberry Hall.

And it was a barn, too!--or, rather, a loft, for it was built partly on a brae, so that after climbing some steps you found yourself on level ground, and entered a great door.

Early in the evening, long ere lad and lass came linking to the door, the band had taken their places on an elevated platform at one side of, but in the middle of, the hall.

The floor was swept and chalked, the walls all around densely decorated with evergreens, Scotch pine and spruce and heather galore, with here and there hanging lamps.

Boys and girls, however, hovered around the doorway and peeped in now and then, amazed and curious. To them, too, the tuning of the musicians' fiddles sent a thrill of joy expectant to their little souls. How they did long, to be sure, for the opening time.

As the vultures scent a battle from afar, so do the Aberdeen "sweetie" wives scent a peasant's ball. And these had already assembled to the number of ten in all, with baskets filled to overflowing with packets of sweets. These would be all sold before morning. These sweetie wives were not young by any means--save one or two--

"But withered beldames, auld and droll, Rig-woodie hags would spean a foal."

They really looked like witches in their tall-crowned white cotton caps with flapping borders.

A half-hour goes slowly past. The band is getting impatient. A sweet wee band it is--three small fiddles, a 'cello, a double bass, and clarionet. The master of ceremonies treats them all to a thistle of the wine of the country. Then the leader gives a signal, and they strike into some mournfully plaintive old melodies, such as "Auld Robin Grey," "The Flowers o' the Forest," "Donald," etc, enough to draw tears from anyone's eyes.

But now, hurrah! in sails Fanny with Shufflin' Sandie on her arm, looking as bright as a new brass button. There is a special seat for them, and for the Laird, Annie, and the quality generally, at the far end of the hall--a kind of arbour, sweetly bedecked with heather, and draped with McLeod tartan. Here they take their seats. There is a row of seats all round the hall and close to the walls.

And now crowd in the Highland lads and lasses gay, the latter mostly in white, with ribbons in their hair, and tartan sashes across their breasts and shoulders. Very beautiful many look, with complexions such as duchesses might envy, and their white teeth flashing like pearls as they whisper to each other and smile.

As each couple file in at the door, the gentleman takes his partner to a seat, bows and retires to his own side, for the ladies and gentlemen are seated separately, modestly looking at each other now and then, the lads really infinitely more shy than the lasses.

Now Laird McLeod slowly rises. There is a hush now, and all eyes are turned towards the snowy-haired grand old man.

"Ladies and gentlemen all," he says, "I trust you will enjoy a really happy evening, and I am sure it will be an innocent one. `Youth's the season made for joy.' I have only to add that the bridegroom himself will open the ball with a hornpipe."

A deafening cheer rang out, the musicians struck up that inimitable College Hornpipe, and next moment, arrayed in his best clothes, Shufflin' Sandie was in the middle of the floor. He waited, bowing to the McLeod and the ballroom generally, till the first measure was played. Then surely never did man-o'-war sailor dance as Sandie danced! His legs seemed in two or three places at one time, and so quickly did he move that scarce could they be seen. He seemed, indeed, to have as many limbs as a daddy-long-legs. He shuffled, he tripled and double-tripled, while the cracking of his thumbs sounded for all the world like a nigger's performance with the bones. Then every wild, merry "Hooch!" brought down the house. Such laughing and clapping of hands few have ever heard before. Sandie's uncouth little figure and droll face added to the merriment, and when he had finished there was a general cry of "Encore!" Sandie danced another step or two, then bowed, took a huge pinch of snuff, and retired.

But the ball was not quite opened yet. A foursome reel was next danced by the bride and Annie herself, with as partners Shufflin' Sandie and McLeod's nephew, a handsome young fellow from Aberdeen. It was the Reel of Tulloch, and, danced in character, there is not much to beat it.

Then came a cry of "Fill the floor!" and every lad rushed across the hall for his partner. The ball was now indeed begun. And so, with dance after dance, it went on for hours:

"Lads and lassies in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France; But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels."

Sandie hardly missed a dance. He was indeed the life and soul of the ballroom.

The sweetie wives were almost sold out already, for every Jock must treat his own Jeannie, or the other fellow's Jeannie, to bags and handfuls of sweets. And the prettier the girl was the more she received, till she was fain to hand them over to her less good-looking sisters.

But at midnight there came a lull--a lull for refreshments. White-aproned servants staggered in with bread, butter, and cheese, and bucketfuls of strong whisky punch.

There was less reserve now. The lads had their lasses at either side of the hall, and for the most part on their knees. Even the girls must taste the punch, and the lads drank heartily--not one mugful each, but three! Nevertheless, they felt like giants refreshed.

"And now the fun grew fast and furious"--and still more so when, arrayed in all the tartan glory of the Highland dress, two stalwart pipers stalked in to relieve the band, grand men and athletes!

"They screwed their pipes and made them skirl, Till roofs and rafters all did dirl. The pipers loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew."

But at two o'clock again came a lull; more biscuits, more bread-and-cheese, and many more buckets of toddy or punch. And during this lull, accompanied by the violins, Sandie sang the grand old love-song called "The Rose of Allandale." It was duly appreciated, and Sandie was applauded to the "ring of the bonnet," as he himself phrased it.

Then Annie herself was led to the front by her uncle. Everyone was silent and seemingly dazzled by her rare but childlike beauty.

Her song was "Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming." Perhaps few were near enough to see, but the tears were in the girl's eyes, and almost streaming over more than once before she had finished.

And now McLeod and his party took their leave, Sandie and his bride following close behind.

The ball continued after this, however, till nearly daylight in the morning. Then "Bob at the Booster"--a kind of kiss-in-the-ring dance-- brought matters to a close, and, wrapped in plaids and shawls, the couples filed away to their homes, over the fields and through the heather.

Next day Shufflin' Sandie was working away among his horses as quietly and contentedly as if he had not been married at all yesterday, or spent the evening in a ballroom.

Before, however, leaving his little cottage by the wood, he had dutifully made his wife a cup of tea, and commanded her to rest for hours before turning out to cook their humble dinner. And dutifully she obeyed.

The Laird and Sandie came to an arrangement that same forenoon as to how much work he was to do for him and how much for himself.

"Indeed, sir," he told McLeod, "I'll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard's but small as yet, and it'll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening."

"Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there."

Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of "poor auld Scotland."

Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could.