“Agoy!” exclaims the girl, “who’s lookin’ after me?”
“A big black fella, as high as the kipples, came out o’ the wood near Deadman’s Grike, just after the sun gaed down yester e’en; I knew weel what he was, for his feet ne’er touched the road while he made as if he walked beside me. And he wanted to gie me snuff first, and I wouldna hev that; and then he offered me a gowden guinea, but I was no sic awpy, and to bring you here tonight, and cross the candle wi’ pins, to call your lover in. And he said he’s a great lord, and in luve wi’ thee.”
“And you refused him?”
“Well for thee I did, lass,” says Mother Carke.
“Why, it’s every word true!” cries the girl vehemently, starting to her feet, for she had seated herself on the great oak chest.
“True, lass? Come, say what ye mean,” demanded Mall Carke, with a dark and searching gaze.
“Last night I was coming heyam from the wake, wi’ auld farmer Dykes and his wife and his daughter Nell, and when we came to the stile, I bid them good night, and we parted.”
“And ye came by the path alone in the nighttime, did ye?” exclaimed old Mall Carke sternly.
“I wasna afeared, I don’t know why; the path heyam leads down by the wa’as o’ auld Hawarth Castle.”
“I knaa it weel, and a dowly path it is; ye’ll keep indoors o’ nights for a while, or ye’ll rue it. What saw ye?”
“No freetin, mother; nowt I was feared on.”
“Ye heard a voice callin’ yer neyame?”
“I heard nowt that was dow, but the hullyhoo in the auld castle wa’s,” answered the pretty girl. “I heard nor sid nowt that’s dow, but mickle that’s conny and gladsome. I heard singin’ and laughin’ a long way off, I consaited; and I stopped a bit to listen. Then I walked on a step or two, and there, sure enough, in the Pie-Mag field, under the castle wa’s, not twenty steps away, I sid a grand company; silks and satins, and men wi’ velvet coats, wi’ gowd-lace striped over them, and ladies wi’ necklaces that would dazzle ye, and fans as big as griddles; and powdered footmen, like what the shirra hed behind his coach, only these was ten times as grand.”
“It was full moon last night,” said the old woman.
“Sa bright ’twould blind ye to look at it,” said the girl.
“Never an ill sight but the deaul finds a light,” quoth the old woman. “There’s a rinnin brook thar—you were at this side, and they at that; did they try to mak ye cross over?”
“Agoy! didn’t they? Nowt but civility and kindness, though. But ye mun let me tell it my own way. They was talkin’ and laughin’, and eatin’, and drinkin’ out o’ long glasses and goud cups, seated on the grass, and music was playin’; and I keekin’ behind a bush at all the grand doin’s; and up they gits to dance; and says a tall fella I didna see afoore, ‘Ye mun step across, and dance wi’ a young lord that’s faan in luv wi’ thee, and that’s mysel’,’ and sure enow I keeked at him under my lashes and a conny lad he is, to my teyaste, though he be dressed in black, wi’ sword and sash, velvet twice as fine as they sells in the shop at Gouden Friars; and keekin’ at me again fra the corners o’ his een. And the same fella telt me he was mad in luv wi’ me, and his fadder was there, and his sister, and they came all the way from Catstean Castle to see me that night; and that’s t’ other side o’ Gouden Friars.”
“Come, lass, yer no mafflin; tell me true. What was he like? Was his feyace grimed wi’ sut? a tall fella wi’ wide shouthers, and lukt like an ill-thing, wi’ black clothes amaist in rags?”
“His feyace was long, but weel-faured, and darker nor a gipsy; and his clothes were black and grand, and made o’ velvet, and he said he was the young lord himsel’; and he lukt like it.”
“That will be the same fella I sid at Deadman’s Grike,” said Mall Carke, with an anxious frown.
“Hoot, mudder! how cud that be?” cried the lass, with a toss of her pretty head and a smile of scorn. But the fortune teller made no answer, and the girl went on with her story.
“When they began to dance,” continued Laura Silver Bell, “he urged me again, but I wudna step o’er; ’twas partly pride, coz I wasna dressed fine enough, and partly contrairiness, or something, but gaa I wudna, not a fut. No but I more nor half wished it a’ the time.”
“Weel for thee thou dudstna cross the brook.”
“Hoity-toity, why not?”
“Keep at heyame after nightfall, and don’t ye be walking by yersel’ by daylight or any light lang lonesome ways, till after ye’re baptised,” said Mall Carke.
“I’m like to be married first.”
“Tak care that marriage won’t hang i’ the bell-ropes,” said Mother Carke.
“Leave me alane for that. The young lord said he was maist daft wi’ luv o’ me. He wanted to gie me a conny ring wi’ a beautiful stone in it. But, drat it, I was sic an awpy I wudna tak it, and he a young lord!”
“Lord, indeed! are ye daft or dreamin’? Those fine folk, what were they? I’ll tell ye. Dobies and fairies; and if ye don’t du as yer bid, they’ll tak ye, and ye’ll never git out o’ their hands again while grass grows,” said the old woman grimly.
“Od wite it!” replies the girl impatiently, “who’s daft or dreamin’ noo? I’d a bin dead wi’ fear, if ’twas any such thing. It cudna be; all was sa luvesome, and bonny, and shaply.”
“Weel, and what do ye want o’ me, lass?” asked the old woman sharply.
“I want to know—here’s t’ sixpence—what I sud du,” said the young lass. “ ’Twud be a
