The conversation which the Leddy, to do her justice, had, considering her peculiar humour and character, so adroitly managed with the bride’s father, did not tend to produce the happiest feelings among the conscious wedding-guests. Both the Laird of Dirdumwhamle and his wife were uneasy, and out of countenance, and the happy pair were as miserable as ever a couple of clandestine lovers, in the full possession of all their wishes, could possibly be. But their reverend grandmother, neither daunted nor dismayed, was in the full enjoyment of a triumph, and, eager in the anticipation of accomplishing, by her dexterous address, the felicitous work which, in her own opinion, she had so well begun. Accordingly, dinner was served, with an air of glee and pride, so marked, that Kittlestonheugh was struck with it, but said nothing; and, during the whole of the dijection of the dinner, as his mother persisted in calling the carving, he felt himself frequently on the point of inquiring what had put her into such uncommon good humour. But she did not deem the time yet come for a disclosure, and went on in the most jocund spirits possible, praising the dishes, and cajoling her guests to partake.

‘It’s extraordinar to me, Beenie,’ said she to the bride, ‘to lo and behold you sitting as mim as a May puddock, when you see us a’ here met for a blithesome occasion—and, Walky, what’s come o’er thee, that thou’s no a bit mair brisk than the statute o’ marble-stane, that I ance saw in that sink o’ deceitfulness, the Parliament House o’ Embrough? As for our Meg, thy mother, she was ay one of your Moll-on-the-coals, a sigher o’ sadness, and I’m none surprised to see her in the hypocondoricals; but for Dirdumwhamle, your respectit father, a man o’ property, family, and connexions—the three cardinal points o’ gentileety—to be as one in doleful dumps, is sic a doolie doomster, that uncle Geordie, there whar he sits, like a sow playing on a trump, is a perfect beautiful Absalom in a sense o’ comparison. Howsever, no to let us just fa’ knickitty-knock, frae side to side, till our harns are splattered at the bottom o’ the well o’ despair—I’ll gie you a toast, a thing which, but at an occasion, I ne’er think o’ minting, and this toast ye maun a’ mak a lippy—Geordie, my son and bairn, ye ken as weel as I ken, what a happy matrimonial your sister has had wi’ Dirdumwhamle—and, Dirdumwhamle, I need na say to you, ye hae found her a winsome helpmate; and surely, Meg, Mr. Milrookit has been to you a most cordial husband. Noo, what I would propose for a propine, Geordie, is, Health and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Milrookit, and may they long enjoy many happy returns o’ this day.’

The toast was drank with great glee; but, without entering into any particular exposition of the respective feelings of the party, we shall just simply notice, as we proceed, that the Leddy gave a significant nod and a wink both to the bride and bridegroom, while the bride’s father was seized with a most immoderate fit of laughing at, what he supposed, the ludicrous eccentricity of his mother.

‘Noo, Geordie, my man,’ continued the Leddy, ‘seeing ye’re in sic a state o’ mirth and jocundity, and knowing, as we a’ know, that life is but a weaver’s shuttle, and Time a wabster, that works for Death, Eternity, and Co., great wholesale merchants; but for a’ that, I am creditably informed they’ll be obligated, some day, to mak a sequester—Howsever, that’s nane o’ our concern just now,—but, Geordie, as I was saying, I would fain tell you o’ an exploit.’

‘I am sure,’ said he laughing, ‘you never appeared to me so capable to tell it well,—what is it?’

The Leddy did not immediately reply, but looking significantly round the table, she made a short pause, and then said,—

‘Do you know that ever since Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, the life o’ man has been growing shorter and shorter? To me—noo sax-and-seventy year auld—the monthly moon’s but as a glaik on the wall—the spring but as a butterflee that taks the wings o’ the morning—and a’ the summer only as the tinkling o’ a cymbal—as for hairst and winter, they’re the shadows o’ death; the whilk is an admonishment, that I should not be overly gair anent the world, but mak mysel and others happy, by taking the san’tified use o’ what I hae—so, Geordie and sirs, ye’ll fill another glass.’

Another glass was filled, and the Leddy resumed, all her guests, save her son, sitting with the solemn aspects of expectation. The countenance of Kittlestonheugh alone was bright with admiration at the extraordinary spirits and garrulity of his mother.

‘Noo, Geordie,’ she resumed, ‘as life is but a vapour, a puff out o’ the stroop o’ the tea-kettle o’ Time—let us a’ consent to mak one another happy—and there being nae likelihood that ever Jamie Walkinshaw will colleague wi’ Beenie, your dochter, I would fain hope ye’ll gie her and Walky there baith your benison and an aliment to mak them happy.’

George pushed back his chair, and looked as fiercely and as proudly as any angry and indignant gentleman could well do; but he said nothing.

‘Na,’ said the Leddy, ‘if that’s the gait o’t, ye shall hae’t as ye will hae’t.—It’s no in your power to mak them unhappy.’

‘Mother, what do you mean?’ was his exclamation.

‘Just that I hae a because for what I mean; but, unless ye compose yoursel, I’ll no tell you the night—and, in trouth, for that matter, if ye dinna behave wi’ mair reverence to your aged parent, and no bring my grey hairs wi’ sorrow to the grave, I’ll no tell you at a’.’

‘This is inexplicable,’ cried her son. ‘In the name of goodness, to what do you allude?—of what do you complain?’

‘Muckle, muckle hae I to complain o’,’ was the pathetic reply. ‘If your worthy father had been to the fore, ye would na daur’t to hae spoken wi’ sic unreverence to me. But what hae I to expek in this world noo?—when the Laird lights the Leddy, so does a’ the kitchen boys; and your behaviour, Geordie, is an unco warrandice to every one to lift the hoof against me in my auld days.’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried he, ‘what have I done?’

‘What hae ye no done?’ exclaimed his mother.—‘Was na my heart set on a match atween Beenie and Walky there—my ain grandchilder, and weel worthy o’ ane anither; and hae na ye sworn, for aught I ken, a triple vow that ye would ne’er gie your consent?’

‘And if I have done so—she is my daughter, and I have my own reasons for doing what I have done,’ was his very dignified reply.

‘Reasons here, or reasons there,’ said his mother, ‘I hae gude reason to know that it’s no in your power to prevent it.—Noo, Beenie, and noo, Walky, down on your knees baith o’ you, and mak a novelle confession that ye were married the day; and beg your father’s pardon, who has been so jocose at your wedding feast that for shame he canna refuse to conciliate, and mak a handsome aliment down on the nail.’

The youthful pair did as they were desired—George looked at them for about a minute, and was unable to speak. He then threw a wild and resentful glance round the table, and started from his seat.

‘Never mind him,’ said the Leddy, with the most perfect equanimity; ‘rise, my bairns, and tak your chairs—he’ll soon come to himsel.’

‘He’ll never come to himself—he is distracted—he is ruined—his life is blasted, and his fortune destroyed,’ were the first words that burst from the astonished father; and he subjoined impatiently, ‘This cannot be true—it is impossible!—Do you trifle with me, mother?—Robina, can you have done this?’

‘’Deed, Geordie, I doubt it’s o’er true,’ replied his mother; ‘and it cannot be helped noo.’

‘But it may be punished!’ was his furious exclamation.—‘I will never speak to one of you again! To defraud me of my dearest purpose—to deceive my hopes—Oh you have made me miserable!’

‘Ye’ll be muckle the better o’ your glass o’ wine, Geordie—tak it, and compose yoursel like a decent and sedate forethinking man, as ye hae been ay reputed.’

He seized the glass, and dashed it into a thousand shivers on the table. All by this time had risen but the Leddy—she alone kept her seat and her coolness.

‘The man’s gaen by himsel,’ said she with the most matronly tranquillity.—‘He has scartit and dintit my gude mahogany table past a’ the power o’ bees-wax and elbow grease to smooth. But, sirs, sit down—I expekit far waur than a’ this—I did na hope for ony thing like sic composity and discretion. Really, Geordie, it’s heart salve to my sorrows to see that ye’re a man o’ a Christian meekness and resignation.’

The look with which he answered this was, however, so dark, so troubled, and so lowering, that it struck terror and alarm even into his mother’s bosom, and instantly silenced her vain and vexatious attempt to ridicule the tempest of his feelings.—She threw herself back in her chair, at once overawed and alarmed; and he suddenly turned round and left the house.