Part 21 (1/2)

Hugh and Margaret were stopping at Scaurdale, but when the moon was well up Bryde was for the road. At that there was an outcry, for he was the soul of the place. The Laird of Scaurdale would have hindered his going, and Helen made much ado, but his horse was brought, and we came to the door to be seeing him off.

There was a brave moon, and the hillside very plain, and the noise of the burn rumbling--a fine night to be out.

”I could be riding home too,” said Margaret.

Bryde slipped his boot from the stirrup.

”Jump,” said he, ”and in two hours you'll be home, if Hamish and Hugh will be allowing it.”

I think she would have liked to go, for I saw the flash in her eyes, and her quick smile, but then--

”No,” said she; ”it is a little cold here,” and turned to go in.

Helen was at the Laird's side.

”But I have never ridden so,” said she. ”Would Monsieur take me to the bridge--a little way and back,” but before the Laird had given his a.s.sent she was in the saddle and off with a wave of her arm; and I thought of the night when she had ridden that way once before, with the father of Bryde on the big roadster, and the Laird was thinking the same thing.

They were back in a little; indeed, the hoof-beats were very plain all the time, but Helen was white as she dismounted, and her good-bye was very low, and she listened to the klop-to-klop of the hoofs for a long time before she came in.

That night she came into Margaret's room (for the la.s.s told me everything), and sat down wearily by the bedside.

”Your spell works, Mistress Margaret,” said she.

I think Margaret would raise herself on her pillows.

”Ah,” said she, ”have you brought Bryde to heel, Helen?”

”The spell works,” said Helen, ”but I think backwards. Margaret, ma belle, he brings me to heel, it seem.”

”They all have that knack, my men-folk,” said Margaret--”mostly.”

CHAPTER XXI.

DOL BEAG LAUGHS.

To town-bred folk the country in the winter time is an arid waste.

There is no throng of folk, no lighted ways, nor much amus.e.m.e.nt by their way of it; but to the countryman the winter is the time--the long dark nights for ceilidhing, the days after the rabbits and hares, and the cosiness about a steading, with the beasts at their straw and turnips, and the la.s.sies to be coming home with, and the old stories that will make the hair rise on a man's head. Och, these are the nights to be enjoying.

I would whiles take a stick and the dogs and over the hill for it to McKinnon's for a crack with Ronald and Mirren, and then we would go to the Quay Inn and listen to the singing, or talk to McGilp--for McGilp had left the sea and settled at McKelvie's, where he was very much respected as a moneyed man, having sold the _Seagull_ to McNeilage, his mate. He was much exercised by the morals of the place, and very religious, except when in drink, which would be mostly every night.

On such a night, with Ronald and myself at the table and McGilp opposite, the door opened, and in came Bryde and Hugh with a cold swirl of sleet, and sat down beside us, and Robin McKelvie brought their drink, and old McKelvie came ben to be doing the honours. We were close by the fire, for McGilp liked to be hearing the sough of the wind in the lum, and him snug and warm. On the other side of the fire was Dol Beag, a man well over fifty, very silent, and I could not thole the look of his crooked back. But there was with him one of his own kidney, and he began to let his tongue wag.

”We had many's the ploy in the old days,” says he, ”and wild nights too. It will chust be twenty years off an' on since I was swundged behin' that fire like a sheep's heid--yes.

”I will haf forgotten what ploy that was--I was aalways fighting.”

”Dol Beag, can ye no' be quate before dacent folk?” said Ronald.