Part 33 (2/2)

There will be none to expect a ploy that night, for it will be the night that Hugh McBride will be married on the English lady, and that will be a diversion.”

For, indeed, on such an occasion the half of a parish would be merry with the eating of hens and drinking of spirit, and the piping and dancing.

”I will be there,” said Dan, ”and my son Bryde. It's long since I will have been at the smuggling,” and then there came singing of Gaelic songs that you can be hearing yet, and at that McCook took off his dram and went out at the door, for he would be early on the road the next day.

There is a fate that stalks in the hills and plays with the lives of the folk in the valley.

Kate Dol Beag, as ye ken, was a la.s.s at her service at Scaurdale, a bonny dark ruddy la.s.s and keen for the marrying, and the lad she had her eye on was the serving-man, McCook. And when these two were in the stackyard at Scaurdale and well hidden behind the ricks on the next night, she yoked on him.

”It is not me you are liking,” said she, and put his hand from her neck, ”for last night you did not come home and me waiting.”

”I could not be coming home, my la.s.s,” said he, ”for the young mistress made me stop at my mother's, and Bryde McBride, the sailor, rode with her.”

”Ay,” said Kate, ”she came home like a la.s.s that goes to her grave-claes instead o' her braws, and never a word from her, but a white hue round her lips and her eyes staring. . . . Did you go to my father's,” said Kate, for she was of a jealous nature.

”No, I was at McKelvie's for a wee after I would be with my mother, and I was thinking Dol Beag your father would be there too.”

”There was no la.s.s you were with, then?”--this a little more softly and her body came closer to his.

”There was no la.s.s that I saw,” said McCook, ”but there were many people at the inn,” said he.

”Give me the news, then,” she cried, and put an arm round his neck now that she kent he would not have been with another woman. And then he told her how the South End folk would be at the smuggling on the night of the wedding, and all that he had heard, meaning no ill, and the la.s.s was laughing, and her kindness came back to her.

”I will not have been good to you,” said she, and lay back against the stack, ”and I am wearying this long while for your arms round me, and the jagging of your hair on my face.”

And as she sat there was more of her ankle showing than she would maybe be liking in strange company.

”Ye have the fine legs,” said John, looking at them, for he would be a great gallant by his way of it; but the la.s.s just smiled and pulled them under her.

”It will be as well ye should ken, my man,” said she, ”and I will be needing them the morn, for I am to be walking hame and seeing my folk.”

And there they were in each other's arms, and he promised to meet her well on, on the road home, for she was feart of the giant that lived in the glen and was killed by the folk long ago--but that is an old wife's tale.

They were good to her at hame the next day when she was seated with her folk at a meal, and after that she was with her mother for a while, a little red in the face, but brave enough.

”He will be marrying me, mother,” said she; ”I ken he will be coming to you soon, and--and there will be no cutty-stool either,” said she, ”for he is a nice lad and dacent, if he will be a little game,” maybe thinking of the stackyard.

”Time will be curing that,” said her mother.

”I daresay that,” and then with a hearty laugh and her head flung back, ”Kate will be helping too,” said she, and ran into the kitchen.

Dol Beag, her father, was baiting a long line, his crook back throwing a great black shadow on the wall.

”There will be great doings at your place soon, Kate,” said he.

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