Arranged marriage -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Love stories; Psychological fiction; Scotland -- Fiction; Women murderers -- Fiction
am, it’s doing him an honour him or his never deserved at our hand, the
ungracious sumph; and if he loses by us a’thegither, he is e’en cheap
o’t: he can spare it brawly.”
Shaking off irresolution, therefore, and turning at once upon his heel,
Caleb walked hastily back to the cooper’s house, lifted the latch
without ceremony, and, in a moment, found himself behind the _hallan_,
or partition, from which position he could, himself unseen, reconnoitre
the interior of the _but_, or kitchen apartment, of the mansion.
Reverse of the sad menage at the Castle of Wolf’s Crag, a bickering
fire roared up the cooper’s chimney. His wife, on the one side, in her
pearlings and pudding-sleeves, put the last finishing touch to her
holiday’s apparel, while she contemplated a very handsome and
good-humoured face in a broken mirror, raised upon the _bink_ (the
shelves on which the plates are disposed) for her special
accommodation. Her mother, old Luckie Loup-the-Dyke, “a canty carline”
as was within twenty miles of her, according to the unanimous report of
the _cummers_, or gossips, sat by the fire in the full glory of a
grogram gown, lammer beads, and a clean cockernony, whiffing a snug
pipe of tobacco, and superintending the affairs of the kitchen;
for—sight more interesting to the anxious heart and craving entrails of
the desponding seneschal than either buxom dame or canty cummer—there
bubbled on the aforesaid bickering fire a huge pot, or rather cauldron,
steaming with beef and brewis; while before it revolved two spits,
turned each by one of the cooper’s apprentices, seated in the opposite
corners of the chimney, the one loaded with a quarter of mutton, while
the other was graced with a fat goose and a brace of wild ducks. The
sight and scent of such a land of plenty almost wholly overcame the
drooping spirits of Caleb. He turned, for a moment’s space to
reconnoitre the _ben_, or parlour end of the house, and there saw a
sight scarce less affecting to his feelings—a large round table,
covered for ten or twelve persons, _decored_ (according to his own
favourite terms) with _napery_ as white as snow, grand flagons of
pewter, intermixed with one or two silver cups, containing, as was
probable, something worthy the brilliancy of their outward appearance,
clean trenchers, cutty spoons, knives and forks, sharp, burnished, and
prompt for action, which lay all displayed as for an especial festival.
“The devil’s in the peddling tub-coopering carl!” muttered Caleb, in
all the envy of astonishment; “it’s a shame to see the like o’ them
gusting their gabs at sic a rate. But if some o’ that gude cheer does
not find its way to Wolf’s Crag this night, my name is not Caleb
Balderstone.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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