LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1617, 26 April 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAIRD’S SWEETHEART. BY IKBAL. [From the “ Danebury New ] Nancy Pretty —that was the name she went by—she was so very pretty—but her real patromyic was McWiiliam Nancy Mo William. She was will—wild beyond the limit of a quiet, proper imagination—wild as the grand old hills, the long lonely glens and tbe rushing, c ashing, ‘ falls,’ amongst which her seventeen short ycais of life had been pai ed And at times too she wa« some w ; at disobedient and disrespectful to her father, and very often disobedient md disrespectful to her sour old aunt kef father’s sister, who 1 kept the house,’ and had brought her niece up; for Nancy’s poor,

J young mother had gone early ‘ over to the majority,’ leaving her iittle ch Id when ouly a few months old. And Nancy hated all household work, and was very undomesticated, indeed. rather would she go fishing or rab' it shooting with her father than sit quietly at home sewing hid shirts or knitting his hose ; and the trim little f >.rmhou 8 would not have been the pictu e of neatness it always w<.s had she been its only mistress. But then she was so pretty ! And beauty covers a multitude of sins And not the usual rustic style of beauty was 1 ers. No ; this girl with all these faults, and perhaps others, h d an expr ssh n of face generally that would better have suited some lovely raediffival saint than the daughter of a sm?U Highland farmer Totally uneducated she was not as the old minister had always bad a liking for her, and had spent many an hour in impioviug her general knowledge and in gifting her with a refinement far above her stat on in life. On this lovely September morning, as she drives the kie up the hillside to pasture, she is looking her best. The cattle stray hither and thither at their own sweet will. Cue milky mother has taken her calf to drink in the little burn that creeps silently down among the bracken and the grass, and is forming quite a little family picture, the two standing blinking in the shallow water; the rest of the herd, wisely plucking life’s flowers by the way, have already commenced their lunch—all ex cept one, which, lazier perhaps than the rest, has laid herself oalmly d >wn to repose, knowing full well her young mistress’ very uncertain habits, and that, although time enough to slumber may be given them just now, as likely as not they will all presently be huddled up the brae together, breathless and panting. Nancy herself stands gazing over the loch which lies beneath, between its high, silent bills ; one hand rest* upon the stout oaken stick which holds daily tournament with the cattle, the other is raised to shade the morning sun from her eyes, Her height is rather bel w the medium; but, looking at her, one scarcely discovers the fact, so pe fedt is the form of hor slim, pliant figure. Per features are beautiful ; her complexion, which sun, Wind and rain have failed to injure, is d-licate and lovely as a wild nse; her billowy, light brown hair seems ever to have a glint of sunshine entangled among its meshes; but her wonderful eyes have the greatest charm—darkly fringed violet hued eyes, with a luminous light in them eyes that can do more mischief in half an hour than many women manage in their whole lives. Such are the form and face of this girl who is not ‘the daughter of a hundred earls.’ Her dr ss consists of a dark blue wo dlon skirt reaching to tbe ankle, and a ‘ short gown’ of pink-and-white-striped calico, strapped firmly round at the dainty waist by a band of leather ; a crimson rose with dark leaves is placed coquettishly in her breast. And whither have the girl’s thoughts wandered as she stands on the hillside, ankle deep in the autumn-tinted bracken ? Why have her eyes strayed so wistfully over the sunny loch ? Just now the expression on her’ lovely face is just such as might have been on that lily-maid of Astolat, as she stood, so woudrously fair, in the early, dewy morn, to watch Sir Lancelot ride forth from her father’s gates on his way to tilt for the great diamond. But Nancy’s moods are never long the same ! soon her thoughts turn cow-wards and the long-suffering animals are goaded on and huddled together on the hill. ‘ ‘ Hurry no man’s cattle,” she quotes to hersalf laughingly ; ‘ but I will —and I shall always do just whatever I like !’ ‘Nancy, come here, lass ; I’ve something to say to you,’ cries her father some hours later, opening his daughter’s bedroom door just in time to see her in the act o f slipping out by the low window. ‘ Ah. just in time to catch you, I see! Come, nae pranks ; here’s Sandy McCluck asking for Nancy Pretty.’ ‘ 111 Nancy Pretty him !’ mutters the girl, reluctantly turning back int) the room. The approach of the obnoxious lover had been observed, and, keeping well out of sight till he had entered the cottage, Nancy had been about to escape by the window, when her father, too quick for her, captured her. Alexander McCluck, butterman, is the great parti of the village of Kmb ny, and in fa -t of the whole neighborhood, In person he is plain looking, and has been plain-look-ing for forty years. But then what success he has had in business ! Why, he has made quite a fortune by the judicious sale of butter, eggs, and hams! So, of all the suitors for bonnie Nancy’s hand, this is the one most favored by father and aunt, as he is a'so the one most repulsive to the girl herself. Nancy comes very slowly from her bedroom into the kitchen to receive this unacc'ptable wooer. ‘ How do you do, Mr McCluck ?’ she says, entering, her voice very >-oft and clear. ‘ Dear me, how warm you are ! You oughtn’t to get «o warm’—looking piteously into his pink pnffy face—‘you’re always fat, you know, but when yon overheat y ourself you look enormous 1’ The love-stricken butterman has’ walked three miles to visit the lady of his heart, and this is his reception ! After her greeting, Nancy turns her back upon him, and, taking up her work, seats herself at the little window through which the afternoon sun is slanting into the pretty bright kitchen. Us rays fall unon the white floor and upon the light tirwood table, just now nicely set out for tea, gilding the goodly pile of oat-cakes, the round of creamy fresh butter, and the huge piece of pale gouda cheere ; Into the pot of dark delicious bramble jam it cannot however penetrate. His daughter’s words and manner enrage plain John McWilliams, whose temper is none of the best. ‘ Fat or thin, my lass,’ ho says in a loud voice, ‘ your going to be married to him the morrow at three o’clock ?’ ‘ What ?’ the girl starts, and, paling a little, wheels round, with bewildered eyes, so as to face her father. ‘ Ay, mv lass —I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it! There’s your man ?’ ‘ Never, father, never—neither to-mor-row, nor any other day ; I would die sooner !’ ‘ Ye’ll marry Sandy McCluck to-morrow, or leave my hoose, Nance, as sure as my name’s John Me William !’ ‘Hoots, John!’ interrupts Aunt Jean. ‘We can shut her up in her room, ye ken.’ ‘ Hold your tongue, Jean, ray woman ! Nancy shall hear me once and for all. I won’t have my girl the talk of the countryside, Ay, you may look, lass —that’s what you have made yoursel’. I forbade you to speak agin wi’ the young Laird, and you’ve disobeyed ; you were seen wi’ him yesterday, doon by Sput Train. Never any good comes when a gentiemau takes up wi’ a laes like you. Ye think he’ll marry ye, nao doot. A Brnce Macgregor o’ Glenforn the proodest, auldest family in the coonty—wed wi’ John McWilliatn’s dochter ! Na I na ! The lion didua walk into the ark wi’ the rabbit ; he went wi’ his kine, and the rabbit vi’ his kine. Na lass; he’ll no marry ye ! Lairds wed wi’ leddies. And you’ve putten awa 1 a’ the ithers ; sae I’ve bidden Maistt-r Campbell for three o’clock the morn, and he’H. buckle you and Sandy thegither, or ye’ll walk oot o’ the hoose as sure as I stan’ here !’ In this manner John Me William lets oil a little of his Highland steam. At the first mention of the Laird Nancy turns her face away to hide the flush which rises to In r cheek, and which gradually subs ding Laves her pale Meanwhile the bridegroom presnptive stands, awkward and unhappy, in the background, longing to come forward and p’ead his own cause, but too much depressed in s; i; it to do so, owing to tho severity of the criticism so lately passed upon his body. For a few ! minutes after John ends nr one speaks; I and ; he ticking of the largo old clock in the i corner is the only sound that breaks the silence ; then Nancy, rising with pale cheeks I and gleaming eyes, answers her father.

‘ Very weel then, father Ititbe as you wish ; I rertainly wouldna’ like to be turned oot’o the hoose.’ •That’s right, Nance 1’ cries John, at once restored to good humor, and showing it by slapping th i girl heartily on the back. *1 knew yon wete too se- Bible a lass no’ to ken on which side your bread was buttered! Here, Sandy, man come and gie her a kiss and mak’ a things p'easant ! Immediately the enamored McCluck advances with a view to this agreea' le proceeding, looking redly, ba' hfu'ly de ighted. Nancy allowed him to approach within a few yards of her, a d then, catching np a wet towel which hangs On a chair close at hand, she sends it spinning thr-.ngh the air against his face f Oh, yes, let us all be pleasant together !’ she ones, her eyes flashing, her cheeks burning, and, burstin■< into a ringing laugh, runs out of the room, leaving her father and aunt to pac’fy and soothe as best they may the wounded feeling of her lu ok less swain. * * * * That night th re is a slendid moon in the heavens, and the stars are countless. _ The world is flooded with the wondrous light; it lies in dream-like beauty upon the deep, silent loch, and only the dark fir forests look black. The little white cottage is shut up fot the night, and its inmates are wrapped in slumber. But are all the occupants of the cottage asleep ? If so, who then is this that comes stealing down the road keeping close to the dark hedge, as if desirous to escape notice—a small s'ight figure wrapped in a plaid 1 Down the white road it moves, noiselessly, swiftly, at times hidden altogeter under the shad- w of au occasional tree ; a’ a certain point, flitting through the white light across to the other side, it pioks out with the ease of custom a little path through the bracken an' l tall tangled grass, and runs lightly down to the loch-side—runs down to one who is waiting. (To hfi continued )