The gauger and schoolmaster united their rhetoric, to prove to the constable and his assistant that he had no right to arrest the king’s bedesman as a vagrant; and the mute eloquence of the miller and smith, which was vested in their clenched fists, was prepared to give Highland bail for their arbiter; his blue gown, they said, was his warrant for travelling the country.
“But his blue gown,” answered the officer, “is nae protection for assault, robbery, and murder; and my warrant is against him for these crimes.”
“Murder!” said Edie, “murder! wha did I e’er murder?”
“Mr. German Doustercivil, the agent at Glen-Withershins mining-works.”
“Murder Doustersnivel?–hout, he’s living, and life-like, man.”
“Nae thanks to you if he be; he had a sair struggle for his life, if a’ be true he tells, and ye maun answer for’t at the bidding of the law.”
The defenders of the mendicant shrunk back at hearing the atrocity of the charges against him, but more than one kind hand thrust meat and bread and pence upon Edie, to maintain him in the prison, to which the officers were about to conduct him.
“Thanks to ye! God bless ye a’, bairns!–I’ve gotten out o’ mony a snare when I was waur deserving o’ deliverance–I shall escape like a bird from the fowler. Play out your play, and never mind me–I am mair grieved for the puir lad that’s gane, than for aught they can do to me.”
Accordingly, the unresisting prisoner was led off, while he mechanically accepted and stored in his wallets the alms which poured in on every hand, and ere he left the hamlet, was as deep-laden as a government victualler. The labour of bearing this accumulating burden was, however, abridged, by the officer procuring a cart and horse to convey the old man to a magistrate, in order to his examination and committal.
The disaster of Steenie, and the arrest of Edie, put a stop to the sports of the village, the pensive inhabitants of which began to speculate upon the vicissitudes of human affairs, which had so suddenly consigned one of their comrades to the grave, and placed their master of the revels in some danger of being hanged. The character of Dousterswivel being pretty generally known, which was in his case equivalent to being pretty generally detested, there were many speculations upon the probability of the accusation being malicious. But all agreed, that if Edie Ochiltree behaved in all events to suffer upon this occasion, it was a great pity he had not better merited his fate by killing Dousterswivel outright.
CHAPTER NINTH
Who is he?–One that for the lack of land Shall fight upon the water–he hath challenged Formerly the grand whale; and by his titles Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth. He tilted with a sword-fish–Marry, sir, Th’ aquatic had the best–the argument Still galls our champion’s breech. Old Play.
“And the poor young fellow, Steenie Mucklebackit, is to be buried this morning,” said our old friend the Antiquary, as he exchanged his quilted night-gown for an old-fashioned black coat in lieu of the snuff-coloured vestment which he ordinarily wore, “and, I presume, it is expected that I should attend the funeral?”
“Ou, ay,” answered the faithful Caxon, officiously brushing the white threads and specks from his patron’s habit. “The body, God help us! was sae broken against the rocks that they’re fain to hurry the burial. The sea’s a kittle cast, as I tell my daughter, puir thing, when I want her to get up her spirits; the sea, says I, Jenny, is as uncertain a calling”–
“As the calling of an old periwig-maker, that’s robbed of his business by crops and the powder-tax. Caxon, thy topics of consolation are as ill chosen as they are foreign to the present purpose._Quid mihi cum faemina_? What have I to do with thy womankind, who have enough and to spare of mine own?–I pray of you again, am I expected by these poor people to attend the funeral of their son?”
“Ou, doubtless, your honour is expected,” answered Caxon; “weel I wot ye are expected. Ye ken, in this country ilka gentleman is wussed to be sae civil as to see the corpse aff his grounds; ye needna gang higher than the loan-head–it’s no expected your honour suld leave the land; it’s just a Kelso convoy, a step and a half ower the doorstane.”
“A Kelso convoy!” echoed the inquisitive Antiquary; “and why a Kelso convoy more than any other?”
“Dear sir,” answered Caxon, “how should I ken? it’s just a by-word.”
“Caxon,” answered Oldbuck, “thou art a mere periwig-maker–Had I asked Ochiltree the question, he would have had a legend ready made to my hand.”
“My business,” replied Caxon, with more animation than he commonly displayed, “is with the outside of your honour’s head, as ye are accustomed to say.”
“True, Caxon, true; and it is no reproach to a thatcher that he is not an upholsterer.”
He then took out his memorandum-book and wrote down “Kelso convoy–said to be a step and a half over the threshold. Authority–Caxon.–_Quaere_– Whence derived? _Mem._ To write to Dr. Graysteel upon the subject.”
Having made this entry, he resumed–“And truly, as to this custom of the landlord attending the body of the peasant, I approve it, Caxon. It comes from ancient times, and was founded deep in the notions of mutual aid and dependence between the lord and cultivator of the soil. And herein I must say, the feudal system–(as also in its courtesy towards womankind, in which it exceeded)–herein, I say, the feudal usages mitigated and softened the sternness of classical times. No man, Caxon, ever heard of a Spartan attending the funeral of a Helot–yet I dare be sworn that John of the Girnel–ye have heard of him, Caxon?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Caxon; “naebody can hae been lang in your honour’s company without hearing of that gentleman.”
“Well,” continued the Antiquary, “I would bet a trifle there was not a _kolb kerl,_ or bondsman, or peasant, _ascriptus glebae,_ died upon the monks’ territories down here, but John of the Girnel saw them fairly and decently interred.”
“Ay, but if it like your honour, they say he had mair to do wi’ the births than the burials. Ha! ha! ha!” with a gleeful chuckle.
“Good, Caxon, very good!–why, you shine this morning.”
“And besides,” added Caxon, slyly, encouraged by his patron’s approbation, “they say, too, that the Catholic priests in thae times gat something for ganging about to burials.”
“Right, Caxon! right as my glove! By the by, I fancy that phrase comes from the custom of pledging a glove as the signal of irrefragable faith– right, I say, as my glove, Caxon–but we of the Protestant ascendency have the more merit in doing that duty for nothing, which cost money in the reign of that empress of superstition, whom Spenser, Caxon, terms in his allegorical phrase,
–The daughter of that woman blind, Abessa, daughter of Corecca slow–
But why talk I of these things to thee?–my poor Lovel has spoiled me, and taught me to speak aloud when it is much the same as speaking to myself. Where’s my nephew, Hector M’Intyre?”
“He’s in the parlour, sir, wi’ the leddies.”
“Very well,” said the Antiquary, “I will betake me thither.”
“Now, Monkbarns,” said his sister, on his entering the parlour, “ye maunna be angry.”
“My dear uncle!” began Miss M’Intyre.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” said Oldbuck, in alarm of some impending bad news, and arguing upon the supplicating tone of the ladies, as a fortress apprehends an attack from the very first flourish of the trumpet which announces the summons–“what’s all this?–what do you bespeak my patience for?”
“No particular matter, I should hope, sir,” said Hector, who, with his arm in a sling, was seated at the breakfast table;–“however, whatever it may amount to I am answerable for it, as I am for much more trouble that I have occasioned, and for which I have little more than thanks to offer.”
“No, no! heartily welcome, heartily welcome–only let it be a warning to you,” said the Antiquary, “against your fits of anger, which is a short madness–_Ira furor brevis_–but what is this new disaster?”
“My dog, sir, has unfortunately thrown down”–
“If it please Heaven, not the lachrymatory from Clochnaben!” interjected Oldbuck.
“Indeed, uncle,” said the young lady, “I am afraid–it was that which stood upon the sideboard–the poor thing only meant to eat the pat of fresh butter.”
“In which she has fully succeeded, I presume, for I see that on the table is salted. But that is nothing–my lachrymatory, the main pillar of my theory on which I rested to show, in despite of the ignorant obstinacy of Mac-Cribb, that the Romans had passed the defiles of these mountains, and left behind them traces of their arts and arms, is gone–annihilated– reduced to such fragments as might be the shreds of a broken-flowerpot!
–Hector, I love thee,
But never more be officer of mine.”
“Why, really, sir, I am afraid I should make a bad figure in a regiment of your raising.”
“At least, Hector, I would have you despatch your camp train, and travel _expeditus,_ or _relictis impedimentis._ You cannot conceive how I am annoyed by this beast–she commits burglary, I believe, for I heard her charged with breaking into the kitchen after all the doors were locked, and eating up a shoulder of mutton. “–(Our readers, if they chance to remember Jenny Rintherout’s precaution of leaving the door open when she went down to the fisher’s cottage, will probably acquit poor Juno of that aggravation of guilt which the lawyers call a _claustrum fregit,_ and which makes the distinction between burglary and privately stealing. )
“I am truly sorry, sir,” said Hector, “that Juno has committed so much disorder; but Jack Muirhead, the breaker, was never able to bring her under command. She has more travel than any bitch I ever knew, but”–
“Then, Hector, I wish the bitch would travel herself out of my grounds.”
“We will both of us retreat to-morrow, or to-day, but I would not willingly part from my mother’s brother in unkindness about a paltry pipkin.”
“O brother! brother!” ejaculated Miss M’Intyre, in utter despair at this vituperative epithet.
“Why, what would you have me call it?” continued Hector; “it was just such a thing as they use in Egypt to cool wine, or sherbet, or water;–I brought home a pair of them–I might have brought home twenty.”
“What!” said Oldbuck, “shaped such as that your dog threw down?”
“Yes, sir, much such a sort of earthen jar as that which was on the sideboard. They are in my lodgings at Fairport; we brought a parcel of them to cool our wine on the passage–they answer wonderfully well. If I could think they would in any degree repay your loss, or rather that they could afford you pleasure, I am sure I should be much honoured by your accepting them.”
“Indeed, my dear boy, I should be highly gratified by possessing them. To trace the connection of nations by their usages, and the similarity of the implements which they employ, has been long my favourite study. Everything that can illustrate such connections is most valuable to me.”
“Well, sir, I shall be much gratified by your acceptance of them, and a few trifles of the same kind. And now, am I to hope you have forgiven me?”
“O, my dear boy, you are only thoughtless and foolish.”
“But Juno–she is only thoughtless too, I assure you–the breaker tells me she has no vice or stubbornness.”
“Well, I grant Juno also a free pardon–conditioned, that you will imitate her in avoiding vice and stubbornness, and that henceforward she banish herself forth of Monkbarns parlour.”
“Then, uncle,” said the soldier, “I should have been very sorry and ashamed to propose to you anything in the way of expiation of my own sins, or those of my follower, that I thought _worth_ your acceptance; but now, as all is forgiven, will you permit the orphan-nephew, to whom you have been a father, to offer you a trifle, which I have been assured is really curious, and which only the cross accident of my wound has prevented my delivering to you before? I got it from a French savant, to whom I rendered some service after the Alexandria affair.”
The captain put a small ring-case into the Antiquary’s hands, which, when opened, was found to contain an antique ring of massive gold, with a cameo, most beautifully executed, bearing a head of Cleopatra. The Antiquary broke forth into unrepressed ecstasy, shook his nephew cordially by the hand, thanked him an hundred times, and showed the ring to his sister and niece, the latter of whom had the tact to give it sufficient admiration; but Miss Griselda (though she had the same affection for her nephew) had not address enough to follow the lead.
“It’s a bonny thing,” she said, “Monkbarns, and, I dare say, a valuable; but it’s out o’my way–ye ken I am nae judge o’ sic matters.”
“There spoke all Fairport in one voice!” exclaimed Oldbuck “it is the very spirit of the borough has infected us all; I think I have smelled the smoke these two days, that the wind has stuck, like a _remora,_ in the north-east–and its prejudices fly farther than its vapours. Believe me, my dear Hector, were I to walk up the High Street of Fairport, displaying this inestimable gem in the eyes of each one I met, no human creature, from the provost to the town-crier, would stop to ask me its history. But if I carried a bale of linen cloth under my arm, I could not penetrate to the Horsemarket ere I should be overwhelmed with queries about its precise texture and price. Oh, one might parody their brutal ignorance in the words of Gray:
Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of wit and sense, Dull garment of defensive proof, ‘Gainst all that doth not gather pence.”
The most remarkable proof of this peace-offering being quite acceptable was, that while the Antiquary was in full declamation, Juno, who held him in awe, according to the remarkable instinct by which dogs instantly discover those who like or dislike them, had peeped several times into the room, and encountering nothing very forbidding in his aspect, had at length presumed to introduce her full person; and finally, becoming bold by impunity, she actually ate up Mr. Oldbuck’s toast, as, looking first at one then at another of his audience, he repeated, with self-complacency,
“Weave the warp and weave the woof,–
“You remember the passage in the Fatal Sisters, which, by the way, is not so fine as in the original–But, hey-day! my toast has vanished!–I see which way–Ah, thou type of womankind! no wonder they take offence at thy generic appellation!”–(So saying, he shook his fist at Juno, who scoured out of the parlour.)–“However, as Jupiter, according to Homer, could not rule Juno in heaven, and as Jack Muirhead, according to Hector M’Intyre, has been equally unsuccessful on earth, I suppose she must have her own way.” And this mild censure the brother and sister justly accounted a full pardon for Juno’s offences, and sate down well pleased to the morning meal.
When breakfast was over, the Antiquary proposed to his nephew to go down with him to attend the funeral. The soldier pleaded the want of a mourning habit.
“O, that does not signify–your presence is all that is requisite. I assure you, you will see something that will entertain–no, that’s an improper phrase–but that will interest you, from the resemblances which I will point out betwixt popular customs on such occasions and those of the ancients.”
“Heaven forgive me!” thought M’Intyre;–“I shall certainly misbehave, and lose all the credit I have so lately and accidentally gained.”
When they set out, schooled as he was by the warning and entreating looks of his sister, the soldier made his resolution strong to give no offence by evincing inattention or impatience. But our best resolutions are frail, when opposed to our predominant inclinations. Our Antiquary,–to leave nothing unexplained, had commenced with the funeral rites of the ancient Scandinavians, when his nephew interrupted him, in a discussion upon the “age of hills,” to remark that a large sea-gull, which flitted around them, had come twice within shot. This error being acknowledged and pardoned, Oldbuck resumed his disquisition.
“These are circumstances you ought to attend to and be familiar with, my dear Hector; for, in the strange contingencies of the present war which agitates every corner of Europe, there is no knowing where you may be called upon to serve. If in Norway, for example, or Denmark, or any part of the ancient Scania, or Scandinavia, as we term it, what could be more convenient than to have at your fingers’ ends the history and antiquities of that ancient country, the _officina gentium,_ the mother of modern Europe, the nursery of those heroes,
Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure, Who smiled in death?–
How animating, for example, at the conclusion of a weary march, to find yourself in the vicinity of a Runic monument, and discover that you have pitched your tent beside the tomb of a hero!”
“I am afraid, sir, our mess would be better supplied if it chanced to be in the neighbourhood of a good poultry-yard.”
“Alas, that you should say so! No wonder the days of Cressy and Agincourt are no more, when respect for ancient valour has died away in the breasts of the British soldiery.”
“By no means, sir–by no manner of means. I dare say that Edward and Henry, and the rest of these heroes, thought of their dinner, however, before they thought of examining an old tombstone. But I assure you, we are by no means insensible to the memoir of our fathers’ fame; I used often of an evening to get old Rory MAlpin to sing us songs out of Ossian about the battles of Fingal and Lamon Mor, and Magnus and the Spirit of Muirartach.”
“And did you believe,” asked the aroused Antiquary, “did you absolutely believe that stuff of Macpherson’s to be really ancient, you simple boy?”
“Believe it, sir?–how could I but believe it, when I have heard the songs sung from my infancy?”
“But not the same as Macpherson’s English Ossian–you’re not absurd enough to say that, I hope?” said the Antiquary, his brow darkening with wrath.
But Hector stoutly abode the storm; like many a sturdy Celt, he imagined the honour of his country and native language connected with the authenticity of these popular poems, and would have fought knee-deep, or forfeited life and land, rather than have given up a line of them. He therefore undauntedly maintained, that Rory MAlpin could repeat the whole book from one end to another;–and it was only upon cross-examination that he explained an assertion so general, by adding “At least, if he was allowed whisky enough, he could repeat as long as anybody would hearken to him.”
“Ay, ay,” said the Antiquary; “and that, I suppose, was not very long.”
“Why, we had our duty, sir, to attend to, and could not sit listening all night to a piper.”
“But do you recollect, now,” said Oldbuck, setting his teeth firmly together, and speaking without opening them, which was his custom when contradicted–“Do you recollect, now, any of these verses you thought so beautiful and interesting–being a capital judge, no doubt, of such things?”
“I don’t pretend to much skill, uncle; but it’s not very reasonable to be angry with me for admiring the antiquities of my own country more than those of the Harolds, Harfagers, and Hacos you are so fond of.”
“Why, these, sir–these mighty and unconquered Goths–_were_ your ancestors! The bare-breeched Celts whom theysubdued, and suffered only to exist, like a fearful people, in the crevices of the rocks, were but their Mancipia and Serfs!”
Hector’s brow now grew red in his turn. “Sir,” he said, “I don’t understand the meaning of Mancipia and Serfs, but I conceive that such names are very improperly applied to Scotch Highlanders: no man but my mother’s brother dared to have used such language in my presence; and I pray you will observe, that I consider it as neither hospitable, handsome, kind, nor generous usage towards your guest and your kinsman. My ancestors, Mr. Oldbuck”–
“Were great and gallant chiefs, I dare say, Hector; and really I did not mean to give you such immense offence in treating a point of remote antiquity, a subject on which I always am myself cool, deliberate, and unimpassioned. But you are as hot and hasty, as if you were Hector and Achilles, and Agamemnon to boot.”
“I am sorry I expressed myself so hastily, uncle, especially to you, who have been so generous and good. But my ancestors”–
“No more about it, lad; I meant them no affront–none.”
“I’m glad of it, sir; for the house of M’Intyre”–
“Peace be with them all, every man of them,” said the Antiquary. “But to return to our subject–Do you recollect, I say, any of those poems which afforded you such amusement?”
“Very hard this,” thought M’Intyre, “that he will speak with such glee of everything which is ancient, excepting my family. “–Then, after some efforts at recollection, he added aloud, “Yes, sir,–I think I do remember some lines; but you do not understand the Gaelic language.”
“And will readily excuse hearing it. But you can give me some idea of the sense in our own vernacular idiom?”
“I shall prove a wretched interpreter,” said M’Intyre, running over the original, well garnished with _aghes, aughs,_ and _oughs,_ and similar gutterals, and then coughing and hawking as if the translation stuck in his throat. At length, having premised that the poem was a dialogue between the poet Oisin, or Ossian, and Patrick, the tutelar Saint of Ireland, and that it was difficult, if not impossible, to render the exquisite felicity of the first two or three lines, he said the sense was to this purpose:
“Patrick the psalm-singer, Since you will not listen to one of my stories, Though you never heard it before, I am sorry to tell you
You are little better than an ass”–
“Good! good!” exclaimed the Antiquary; “but go on. Why, this is, after all, the most admirable fooling–I dare say the poet was very right. What says the Saint?”
“He replies in character,” said M’Intyre; “but you should hear MAlpin sing the original. The speeches of Ossian come in upon a strong deep bass–those of Patrick are upon a tenor key.”
“Like MAlpin’s drone and small pipes, I suppose,” said Oldbuck. “Well? Pray go on.”
“Well then, Patrick replies to Ossian:
Upon my word, son of Fingal, While I am warbling the psalms, The clamour of your old women’s tales Disturbs my devotional exercises.”
“Excellent!–why, this is better and better. I hope Saint Patrick sung better than Blattergowl’s precentor, or it would be hang–choice between the poet and psalmist. But what I admire is the courtesy of these two eminent persons towards each other. It is a pity there should not be a word of this in Macpherson’s translation.”
“If you are sure of that,” said M’Intyre, gravely, “he must have taken very unwarrantable liberties with his original.”
“It will go near to be thought so shortly–but pray proceed.”
“Then,” said M’Intyre, “this is the answer of Ossian:
Dare you compare your psalms, You son of a–“
“Son of a what?” exclaimed Oldbuck.
“It means, I think,” said the young soldier, with some reluctance, “son of a female dog:
Do you compare your psalms, To the tales of the bare-arm’d Fenians”
“Are you sure you are translating that last epithet correctly, Hector?”
“Quite sure, sir,” answered Hector, doggedly.
“Because I should have thought the nudity might have been quoted as existing in a different part of the body.”
Disdaining to reply to this insinuation, Hector proceeded in his recitation:
“I shall think it no great harm To wring your bald head from your shoulders–
But what is that yonder?” exclaimed Hector, interrupting himself.
“One of the herd of Proteus,” said the Antiquary–“a _phoca,_ or seal, lying asleep on the beach.”
Upon which M’Intyre, with the eagerness of a young sportsman, totally forgot both Ossian, Patrick, his uncle, and his wound, and exclaiming–“I shall have her! I shall have her!” snatched the walking-stick out of the hand of the astonished Antiquary, at some risk of throwing him down, and set off at full speed to get between the animal and the sea, to which element, having caught the alarm, she was rapidly retreating.
Not Sancho, when his master interrupted his account of the combatants of Pentapolin with the naked arm, to advance in person to the charge of the flock of sheep, stood more confounded than Oldbuck at this sudden escapade of his nephew.
“Is the devil in him,” was his first exclamation, “to go to disturb the brute that was never thinking of him!”–Then elevating his voice, “Hector–nephew–fool–let alone the _Phoca_–let alone the _Phoca_!– they bite, I tell you, like furies. He minds me no more than a post. There–there they are at it–Gad, the _Phoca_ has the best of it! I am glad to see it,” said he, in the bitterness of his heart, though really alarmed for his nephew’s safety–“I am glad to see it, with all my heart and spirit.”
In truth, the seal, finding her retreat intercepted by the light-footed soldier, confronted him manfully, and having sustained a heavy blow without injury, she knitted her brows, as is the fashion of the animal when incensed, and making use at once of her fore-paws and her unwieldy strength, wrenched the weapon out of the assailant’s hand, overturned him on the sands, and scuttled away into the sea, without doing him any farther injury. Captain M’Intyre, a good deal out of countenance at the issue of his exploit, just rose in time to receive the ironical congratulations of his uncle, upon a single combat worthy to be commemorated by Ossian himself, “since,” said the Antiquary, “your magnanimous opponent has fled, though not upon eagle’s wings, from the foe that was low–Egad, she walloped away with all the grace of triumph, and has carried my stick off also, by way of _spolia opima._”
M’Intyre had little to answer for himself, except that a Highlander could never pass a deer, a seal, or a salmon, where there was a possibility of having a trial of skill with them, and that he had forgot one of his arms was in a sling. He also made his fall an apology for returning back to Monkbarns, and thus escape the farther raillery of his uncle, as well as his lamentations for his walking-stick.
“I cut it,” he said, “in the classic woods of Hawthornden, when I did not expect always to have been a bachelor–I would not have given it for an ocean of seals–O Hector! Hector!–thy namesake was born to be the prop of Troy, and thou to be the plague of Monkbarns!”
CHAPTER TENTH.
Tell me not of it, friend–when the young weep, Their tears are luke-warm brine;–from your old eyes Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the North, Chilling the furrows of our withered cheeks, Cold as our hopes, and hardened as our feeling– Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless–ours recoil, Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before us. Old Play.
The Antiquary, being now alone, hastened his pace, which had been retarded by these various discussions, and the rencontre which had closed them, and soon arrived before the half-dozen cottages at Mussel-crag. They had now, in addition to their usual squalid and uncomfortable appearance, the melancholy attributes of the house of mourning. The boats were all drawn up on the beach; and, though the day was fine, and the season favourable, the chant, which is used by the fishers when at sea, was silent, as well as the prattle of the children, and the shrill song of the mother, as she sits mending her nets by the door. A few of the neighbours, some in their antique and well-saved suits of black, others in their ordinary clothes, but all bearing an expression of mournful sympathy with distress so sudden and unexpected, stood gathered around the door of Mucklebackit’s cottage, waiting till “the body was lifted.” As the Laird of Monkbarns approached, they made way for him to enter, doffing their hats and bonnets as he passed, with an air of melancholy courtesy, and he returned their salutes in the same manner.
In the inside of the cottage was a scene which our Wilkie alone could have painted, with that exquisite feeling of nature that characterises his enchanting productions,
The body was laid in its coffin within the wooden bedstead which the young fisher had occupied while alive. At a little distance stood the father, whose ragged weather-beaten countenance, shaded by his grizzled hair, had faced many a stormy night and night-like day. He was apparently revolving his loss in his mind, with that strong feeling of painful grief peculiar to harsh and rough characters, which almost breaks forth into hatred against the world, and all that remain in it, after the beloved object is withdrawn. The old man had made the most desperate efforts to save his son, and had only been withheld by main force from renewing them at a moment when, without the possibility of assisting the sufferer, he must himself have perished. All this apparently was boiling in his recollection. His glance was directed sidelong towards the coffin, as to an object on which he could not stedfastly look, and yet from which he could not withdraw his eyes. His answers to the necessary questions which were occasionally put to him, were brief, harsh, and almost fierce. His family had not yet dared to address to him a word, either of sympathy or consolation. His masculine wife, virago as she was, and absolute mistress of the family, as she justly boasted herself, on all ordinary occasions, was, by this great loss, terrified into silence and submission, and compelled to hide from her husband’s observation the bursts of her female sorrow. As he had rejected food ever since the disaster had happened, not daring herself to approach him, she had that morning, with affectionate artifice, employed the youngest and favourite child to present her husband with some nourishment. His first action was to put it from him with an angry violence that frightened the child; his next, to snatch up the boy and devour him with kisses. “Yell be a bra’ fallow, an ye be spared, Patie,–but ye’ll never–never can be–what he was to me!–He has sailed the coble wi’ me since he was ten years auld, and there wasna the like o’ him drew a net betwixt this and Buchan-ness.–They say folks maun submit–I will try.”
And he had been silent from that moment until compelled to answer the necessary questions we have already noticed. Such was the disconsolate state of the father.
In another corner of the cottage, her face covered by her apron, which was flung over it, sat the mother–the nature of her grief sufficiently indicated by the wringing of her hands, and the convulsive agitation of the bosom, which the covering could not conceal. Two of her gossips, officiously whispering into her ear the commonplace topic of resignation under irremediable misfortune, seemed as if they were endeavouring to stun the grief which they could not console.
The sorrow of the children was mingled with wonder at the preparations they beheld around them, and at the unusual display of wheaten bread and wine, which the poorest peasant, or fisher, offers to the guests on these mournful occasions; and thus their grief for their brother’s death was almost already lost in admiration of the splendour of his funeral.
But the figure of the old grandmother was the most remarkable of the sorrowing group. Seated on her accustomed chair, with her usual air of apathy, and want of interest in what surrounded her, she seemed every now and then mechanically to resume the motion of twirling her spindle; then to look towards her bosom for the distaff, although both had been laid aside. She would then cast her eyes about, as if surprised at missing the usual implements of her industry, and appear struck by the black colour of the gown in which they had dressed her, and embarrassed by the number of persons by whom she was surrounded. Then, finally, she would raise her head with a ghastly look, and fix her eyes upon the bed which contained the coffin of her grandson, as if she had at once, and for the first time, acquired sense to comprehend her inexpressible calamity. These alternate feelings of embarrassment, wonder, and grief, seemed to succeed each other more than once upon her torpid features. But she spoke not a word–neither had she shed a tear–nor did one of the family understand, either from look or expression, to what extent she comprehended the uncommon bustle around her. Thus she sat among the funeral assembly like a connecting link between the surviving mourners and the dead corpse which they bewailed–a being in whom the light of existence was already obscured by the encroaching shadows of death.
When Oldbuck entered this house of mourning, he was received by a general and silent inclination of the head, and, according to the fashion of Scotland on such occasions, wine and spirits and bread were offered round to the guests. Elspeth, as these refreshments were presented, surprised and startled the whole company by motioning to the person who bore them to stop; then, taking a glass in her hand, she rose up, and, as the smile of dotage played upon her shrivelled features, she pronounced, with a hollow and tremulous voice, “Wishing a’ your healths, sirs, and often may we hae such merry meetings!”
All shrunk from the ominous pledge, and set down the untasted liquor with a degree of shuddering horror, which will not surprise those who know how many superstitions are still common on such occasions among the Scottish vulgar. But as the old woman tasted the liquor, she suddenly exclaimed with a sort of shriek, “What’s this?–this is wine–how should there be wine in my son’s house?–Ay,” she continued with a suppressed groan, “I mind the sorrowful cause now,” and, dropping the glass from her hand, she stood a moment gazing fixedly on the bed in which the coffin of her grandson was deposited, and then sinking gradually into her seat, she covered her eyes and forehead with her withered and pallid hand.
At this moment the clergyman entered the cottage. Mr. Blattergowl, though a dreadful proser, particularly on the subject of augmentations, localities, teinds, and overtures in that session of the General Assembly, to which, unfortunately for his auditors, he chanced one year to act as moderator, was nevertheless a good man, in the old Scottish presbyterian phrase, God-ward and man-ward. No divine was more attentive in visiting the sick and afflicted, in catechising the youth, in instructing the ignorant, and in reproving the erring. And hence, notwithstanding impatience of his prolixity and prejudices, personal or professional, and notwithstanding, moreover, a certain habitual contempt for his understanding, especially on affairs of genius and taste, on which Blattergowl was apt to be diffuse, from his hope of one day fighting his way to a chair of rhetoric or belles lettres,– notwithstanding, I say, all the prejudices excited against him by these circumstances, our friend the Antiquary looked with great regard and respect on the said Blattergowl, though I own he could seldom, even by his sense of decency and the remonstrances of his womankind, be _hounded out,_ as he called it, to hear him preach. But he regularly took shame to himself for his absence when Blattergowl came to Monkbarns to dinner, to which he was always invited of a Sunday, a mode of testifying his respect which the proprietor probably thought fully as agreeable to the clergyman, and rather more congenial to his own habits.
To return from a digression which can only serve to introduce the honest clergyman more particularly to our readers, Mr. Blattergowl had no sooner entered the hut, and received the mute and melancholy salutations of the company whom it contained, than he edged himself towards the unfortunate father, and seemed to endeavour to slide in a few words of condolence or of consolation. But the old man was incapable as yet of receiving either; he nodded, however, gruffly, and shook the clergyman’s hand in acknowledgment of his good intentions, but was either unable or unwilling to make any verbal reply.
The minister next passed to the mother, moving along the floor as slowly, silently, and gradually, as if he had been afraid that the ground would, like unsafe ice, break beneath his feet, or that the first echo of a footstep was to dissolve some magic spell, and plunge the hut, with all its inmates, into a subterranean abyss. The tenor of what he had said to the poor woman could only be judged by her answers, as, half-stifled by sobs ill-repressed, and by the covering which she still kept over her countenance, she faintly answered at each pause in his speech–“Yes, sir, yes!–Ye’re very gude–ye’re very gude!–Nae doubt, nae doubt!–It’s our duty to submit!–But, oh dear! my poor Steenie! the pride o’ my very heart, that was sae handsome and comely, and a help to his family, and a comfort to us a’, and a pleasure to a’ that lookit on him!–Oh, my bairn! my bairn! my bairn! what for is thou lying there!–and eh! what for am I left to greet for ye!”
There was no contending with this burst of sorrow and natural affection. Oldbuck had repeated recourse to his snuff-box to conceal the tears which, despite his shrewd and caustic temper, were apt to start on such occasions. The female assistants whimpered, the men held their bonnets to their faces, and spoke apart with each other. The clergyman, meantime, addressed his ghostly consolation to the aged grandmother. At first she listened, or seemed to listen, to what he said, with the apathy of her usual unconsciousness. But as, in pressing this theme, he approached so near to her ear that the sense of his words became distinctly intelligible to her, though unheard by those who stood more distant, her countenance at once assumed that stern and expressive cast which characterized her intervals of intelligence. She drew up her head and body, shook her head in a manner that showed at least impatience, if not scorn of his counsel, and waved her hand slightly, but with a gesture so expressive, as to indicate to all who witnessed it a marked and disdainful rejection of the ghostly consolation proffered to her. The minister stepped back as if repulsed, and, by lifting gently and dropping his hand, seemed to show at once wonder, sorrow, and compassion for her dreadful state of mind. The rest of the company sympathized, and a stifled whisper went through them, indicating how much her desperate and determined manner impressed them with awe, and even horror.
In the meantime, the funeral company was completed, by the arrival of one or two persons who had been expected from Fairport. The wine and spirits again circulated, and the dumb show of greeting was anew interchanged. The grandame a second time took a glass in her hand, drank its contents, and exclaimed, with a sort of laugh,–“Ha! ha! I hae tasted wine twice in ae day–Whan did I that before, think ye, cummers?–Never since”–and the transient glow vanishing from her countenance, she set the glass down, and sunk upon the settle from whence she had risen to snatch at it.
As the general amazement subsided, Mr. Oldbuck, whose heart bled to witness what he considered as the errings of the enfeebled intellect struggling with the torpid chill of age and of sorrow, observed to the clergyman that it was time to proceed with the ceremony. The father was incapable of giving directions, but the nearest relation of the family made a sign to the carpenter, who in such cases goes through the duty of the undertaker, to proceed in his office. The creak of the screw-nails presently announced that the lid of the last mansion of mortality was in the act of being secured above its tenant. The last act which separates us for ever, even from the mortal relies of the person we assemble to mourn, has usually its effect upon the most indifferent, selfish, and hard-hearted. With a spirit of contradiction, which we may be pardoned for esteeming narrow-minded, the fathers of the Scottish kirk rejected, even on this most solemn occasion, the form of an address to the Divinity, lest they should be thought to give countenance to the rituals of Rome or of England. With much better and more liberal judgment, it is the present practice of most of the Scottish clergymen to seize this opportunity of offering a prayer, and exhortation, suitable to make an impression upon the living, while they are yet in the very presence of the relics of him whom they have but lately seen such as they themselves, and who now is such as they must in their time become. But this decent and praiseworthy practice was not adopted at the time of which I am treating, or at least, Mr. Blattergowl did not act upon it, and the ceremony proceeded without any devotional exercise.
The coffin, covered with a pall, and supported upon hand-spikes by the nearest relatives, now only waited the father to support the head, as is customary. Two or three of these privileged persons spoke to him, but he only answered by shaking his hand and his head in token of refusal. With better intention than judgment, the friends, who considered this as an act of duty on the part of the living, and of decency towards the deceased, would have proceeded to enforce their request, had not Oldbuck interfered between the distressed father and his well-meaning tormentors, and informed them, that he himself, as landlord and master to the deceased, “would carry his head to the grave.” In spite of the sorrowful occasion, the hearts of the relatives swelled within them at so marked a distinction on the part of the laird; and old Alison Breck, who was present among other fish-women, swore almost aloud, “His honour Monkbarns should never want sax warp of oysters in the season” (of which fish he was understood to be fond), “if she should gang to sea and dredge for them hersell, in the foulest wind that ever blew.” And such is the temper of the Scottish common people, that, by this instance of compliance with their customs, and respect for their persons, Mr. Oldbuck gained more popularity than by all the sums which he had yearly distributed in the parish for purposes of private or general charity.
The sad procession now moved slowly forward, preceded by the beadles, or saulies, with their batons,–miserable-looking old men, tottering as if on the edge of that grave to which they were marshalling another, and clad, according to Scottish guise, with threadbare black coats, and hunting-caps decorated with rusty crape. Monkbarns would probably have remonstrated against this superfluous expense, had he been consulted; but, in doing so, he would have given more offence than he gained popularity by condescending to perform the office of chief-mourner. Of this he was quite aware, and wisely withheld rebuke, where rebuke and advice would have been equally unavailing. In truth, the Scottish peasantry are still infected with that rage for funeral ceremonial, which once distinguished the grandees of the kingdom so much, that a sumptuary law was made by the Parliament of Scotland for the purpose of restraining it; and I have known many in the lowest stations, who have denied themselves not merely the comforts, but almost the necessaries of life, in order to save such a sum of money as might enable their surviving friends to bury them like Christians, as they termed it; nor could their faithful executors be prevailed upon, though equally necessitous, to turn to the use and maintenance of the living the money vainly wasted upon the interment of the dead.
The procession to the churchyard, at about half-a-mile’s distance, was made with the mournful solemnity usual on these occasions,–the body was consigned to its parent earth,–and when the labour of the gravediggers had filled up the trench, and covered it with fresh sod, Mr. Oldbuck, taking his hat off, saluted the assistants, who had stood by in melancholy silence, and with that adieu dispersed the mourners.
The clergyman offered our Antiquary his company to walk homeward; but Mr. Oldbuck had been so much struck with the deportment of the fisherman and his mother, that, moved by compassion, and perhaps also, in some degree, by that curiosity which induces us to seek out even what gives us pain to witness, he preferred a solitary walk by the coast, for the purpose of again visiting the cottage as he passed.
CHAPTER ELEVENTH
What is this secret sin, this untold tale, That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse? –Her muscles hold their place; Nor discomposed, nor formed to steadiness, No sudden flushing, and no faltering lip.– Mysterious Mother.
The coffin had been borne from the place where it rested. The mourners, in regular gradation, according to their rank or their relationship to the deceased, had filed from the cottage, while the younger male children were led along to totter after the bier of their brother, and to view with wonder a ceremonial which they could hardly comprehend. The female gossips next rose to depart, and, with consideration for the situation of the parents, carried along with them the girls of the family, to give the unhappy pair time and opportunity to open their hearts to each other and soften their grief by communicating it. But their kind intention was without effect. The last of them had darkened the entrance of the cottage, as she went out, and drawn the door softly behind her, when the father, first ascertaining by a hasty glance that no stranger remained, started up, clasped his hands wildly above his head, uttered a cry of the despair which he had hitherto repressed, and, in all the impotent impatience of grief, half rushed half staggered forward to the bed on which the coffin had been deposited, threw himself down upon it, and smothering, as it were, his head among the bed-clothes, gave vent to the full passion of his sorrow. It was in vain that the wretched mother, terrified by the vehemence of her husband’s affliction–affliction still more fearful as agitating a man of hardened manners and a robust frame– suppressed her own sobs and tears, and, pulling him by the skirts of his coat, implored him to rise and remember, that, though one was removed, he had still a wife and children to comfort and support. The appeal came at too early a period of his anguish, and was totally unattended to; he continued to remain prostrate, indicating, by sobs so bitter and violent, that they shook the bed and partition against which it rested, by clenched hands which grasped the bed-clothes, and by the vehement and convulsive motion of his legs, how deep and how terrible was the agony of a father’s sorrow.
“O, what a day is this! what a day is this!” said the poor mother, her womanish affliction already exhausted by sobs and tears, and now almost lost in terror for the state in which she beheld her husband–“O, what an hour is this! and naebody to help a poor lone woman–O, gudemither, could ye but speak a word to him!–wad ye but bid him be comforted!”
To her astonishment, and even to the increase of her fear, her husband’s mother heard and answered the appeal. She rose and walked across the floor without support, and without much apparent feebleness, and standing by the bed on which her son had extended himself, she said, “Rise up, my son, and sorrow not for him that is beyond sin and sorrow and temptation. Sorrow is for those that remain in this vale of sorrow and darkness–I, wha dinna sorrow, and wha canna sorrow for ony ane, hae maist need that ye should a’ sorrow for me.”
The voice of his mother, not heard for years as taking part in the active duties of life, or offering advice or consolation, produced its effect upon her son. He assumed a sitting posture on the side of the bed, and his appearance, attitude, and gestures, changed from those of angry despair to deep grief and dejection. The grandmother retired to her nook, the mother mechanically took in her hand her tattered Bible, and seemed to read, though her eyes were drowned with tears.
They were thus occupied, when a loud knock was heard at the door.
“Hegh, sirs!” said the poor mother, “wha is that can be coming in that gate e’enow?–They canna hae heard o’ our misfortune, I’m sure.”
The knock being repeated, she rose and opened the door, saying querulously, “Whatna gait’s that to disturb a sorrowfu’ house?”
A tall man in black stood before her, whom she instantly recognised to be Lord Glenallan. “Is there not,” he said, “an old woman lodging in this or one of the neighbouring cottages, called Elspeth, who was long resident at Craigburnfoot of Glenallan?”
“It’s my gudemither, my lord,” said Margaret; “but she canna see onybody e’enow–Ohon! we’re dreeing a sair weird–we hae had a heavy dispensation!”
“God forbid,” said Lord Glenallan, “that I should on light occasion disturb your sorrow;–but my days are numbered–your mother-in-law is in the extremity of age, and, if I see her not to-day, we may never meet on this side of time.”
“And what,” answered the desolate mother, “wad ye see at an auld woman, broken down wi’ age and sorrow and heartbreak? Gentle or semple shall not darken my door the day my bairn’s been carried out a corpse.”
While she spoke thus, indulging the natural irritability of disposition and profession, which began to mingle itself with her grief when its first uncontrolled bursts were gone by, she held the door about one-third part open, and placed herself in the gap, as if to render the visitor’s entrance impossible. But the voice of her husband was heard from within– “Wha’s that, Maggie? what for are ye steaking them out?–let them come in; it doesna signify an auld rope’s end wha comes in or wha gaes out o’ this house frae this time forward.”
The woman stood aside at her husband’s command, and permitted Lord Glenallan to enter the hut. The dejection exhibited in his broken frame and emaciated countenance, formed a strong contrast with the effects of grief, as they were displayed in the rude and weatherbeaten visage of the fisherman, and the masculine features of his wife. He approached the old woman as she was seated on her usual settle, and asked her, in a tone as audible as his voice could make it, “Are you Elspeth of the Craigburnfoot of Glenallan?”
“Wha is it that asks about the unhallowed residence of that evil woman?” was the answer returned to his query.
“The unhappy Earl of Glenallan.”
“Earl!–Earl of Glenallan!”
“He who was called William Lord Geraldin,” said the Earl; “and whom his mother’s death has made Earl of Glenallan.”
“Open the bole,” said the old woman firmly and hastily to her daughter-in-law, “open the bole wi’ speed, that I may see if this be the right Lord Geraldin–the son of my mistress–him that I received in my arms within the hour after he was born–him that has reason to curse me that I didna smother him before the hour was past!”
The window, which had been shut in order that a gloomy twilight might add to the solemnity of the funeral meeting, was opened as she commanded, and threw a sudden and strong light through the smoky and misty atmosphere of the stifling cabin. Falling in a stream upon the chimney, the rays illuminated, in the way that Rembrandt would have chosen, the features of the unfortunate nobleman, and those of the old sibyl, who now, standing upon her feet, and holding him by one hand, peered anxiously in his features with her light-blue eyes, and holding her long and withered fore-finger within a small distance of his face, moved it slowly as if to trace the outlines and reconcile what she recollected with that she now beheld. As she finished her scrutiny, she said, with a deep sigh, “It’s a sair–sair change; and wha’s fault is it?–but that’s written down where it will be remembered–it’s written on tablets of brass with a pen of steel, where all is recorded that is done in the flesh.–And what,” she said after a pause, “what is Lord Geraldin seeking from a poor auld creature like me, that’s dead already, and only belongs sae far to the living that she isna yet laid in the moulds?”
“Nay,” answered Lord Glenallan, “in the name of Heaven, why was it that you requested so urgently to see me?–and why did you back your request by sending a token which you knew well I dared not refuse?”
As he spoke thus, he took from his purse the ring which Edie Ochiltree had delivered to him at Glenallan House. The sight of this token produced a strange and instantaneous effect upon the old woman. The palsy of fear was immediately added to that of age, and she began instantly to search her pockets with the tremulous and hasty agitation of one who becomes first apprehensive of having lost something of great importance;–then, as if convinced of the reality of her fears, she turned to the Earl, and demanded, “And how came ye by it then?–how came ye by it? I thought I had kept it sae securely–what will the Countess say?”
“You know,” said the Earl, “at least you must have heard, that my mother is dead.”
“Dead! are ye no imposing upon me? has she left a’ at last, lands and lordship and lineages?”
“All, all,” said the Earl, “as mortals must leave all human vanities.”
“I mind now,” answered Elspeth–“I heard of it before but there has been sic distress in our house since, and my memory is sae muckle impaired– But ye are sure your mother, the Lady Countess, is gane hame?”
The Earl again assured her that her former mistress was no more.
“Then,” said Elspeth, “it shall burden my mind nae langer!–When she lived, wha dared to speak what it would hae displeased her to hae had noised abroad? But she’s gane–and I will confess all.”
Then turning to her son and daughter-in-law, she commanded them imperatively to quit the house, and leave Lord Geraldin (for so she still called him) alone with her. But Maggie Mucklebackit, her first burst of grief being over, was by no means disposed in her own house to pay passive obedience to the commands of her mother-in-law, an authority which is peculiarly obnoxious to persons in her rank of life, and which she was the more astonished at hearing revived, when it seemed to have been so long relinquished and forgotten.
“It was an unco thing,” she said, in a grumbling tone of voice,–for the rank of Lord Glenallan was somewhat imposing–“it was an unco thing to bid a mother leave her ain house wi’ the tear in her ee, the moment her eldest son had been carried a corpse out at the door o’t.”
The fisherman, in a stubborn and sullen tone, added to the same purpose. “This is nae day for your auld-warld stories, mother. My lord, if he be a lord, may ca’ some other day–or he may speak out what he has gotten to say if he likes it; there’s nane here will think it worth their while to listen to him or you either. But neither for laird or loon, gentle or semple, will I leave my ain house to pleasure onybody on the very day my poor”–
Here his voice choked, and he could proceed no farther; but as he had risen when Lord Glenallan came in, and had since remained standing, he now threw himself doggedly upon a seat, and remained in the sullen posture of one who was determined to keep his word.
But the old woman, whom this crisis seemed to repossess in all those powers of mental superiority with which she had once been eminently gifted, arose, and advancing towards him, said, with a solemn voice, “My son, as ye wad shun hearing of your mother’s shame–as ye wad not willingly be a witness of her guilt–as ye wad deserve her blessing and avoid her curse, I charge ye, by the body that bore and that nursed ye, to leave me at freedom to speak with Lord Geraldin, what nae mortal ears but his ain maun listen to. Obey my words, that when ye lay the moulds on my head–and, oh that the day were come!–ye may remember this hour without the reproach of having disobeyed the last earthly command that ever your mother wared on you.”
The terms of this solemn charge revived in the fisherman’s heart the habit of instinctive obedience in which his mother had trained him up, and to which he had submitted implicitly while her powers of exacting it remained entire. The recollection mingled also with the prevailing passion of the moment; for, glancing his eye at the bed on which the dead body had been laid, he muttered to himself, “_He_ never disobeyed _me,_ in reason or out o’ reason, and what for should I vex _her_?” Then, taking his reluctant spouse by the arm, he led her gently out of the cottage, and latched the door behind them as he left it.
As the unhappy parents withdrew, Lord Glenallan, to prevent the old woman from relapsing into her lethargy, again pressed her on the subject of the communication which she proposed to make to him.
“Ye will have it sune eneugh,” she replied;–“my mind’s clear eneugh now, and there is not–I think there is not–a chance of my forgetting what I have to say. My dwelling at Craigburnfoot is before my een, as it were present in reality:–the green bank, with its selvidge, just where the burn met wi’ the sea–the twa little barks, wi’ their sails furled, lying in the natural cove which it formed–the high cliff that joined it with the pleasure-grounds of the house of Glenallan, and hung right ower the stream–Ah! yes–I may forget that I had a husband and have lost him– that I hae but ane alive of our four fair sons–that misfortune upon misfortune has devoured our ill-gotten wealth–that they carried the corpse of my son’s eldest-born frae the house this morning–But I never can forget the days I spent at bonny Craigburnfoot!”
“You were a favourite of my mother,” said Lord Glenallan, desirous to bring her back to the point, from which she was wandering.
“I was, I was,–ye needna mind me o’ that. She brought me up abune my station, and wi’ knowledge mair than my fellows–but, like the tempter of auld, wi’ the knowledge of gude she taught me the knowledge of evil.”
“For God’s sake, Elspeth,” said the astonished Earl, “proceed, if you can, to explain the dreadful hints you have thrown out! I well know you are confidant to one dreadful secret, which should split this roof even to hear it named–but speak on farther.”
“I will,” she said–“I will!–just bear wi’ me for a little;”–and again she seemed lost in recollection, but it was no longer tinged with imbecility or apathy. She was now entering upon the topic which had long loaded her mind, and which doubtless often occupied her whole soul at times when she seemed dead to all around her. And I may add, as a remarkable fact, that such was the intense operation of mental energy upon her physical powers and nervous system, that, notwithstanding her infirmity of deafness, each word that Lord Glenallan spoke during this remarkable conference, although in the lowest tone of horror or agony, fell as full and distinct upon Elspeth’s ear as it could have done at any period of her life. She spoke also herself clearly, distinctly, and slowly, as if anxious that the intelligence she communicated should be fully understood; concisely at the same time, and with none of the verbiage or circumlocutory additions natural to those of her sex and condition. In short, her language bespoke a better education, as well as an uncommonly firm and resolved mind, and a character of that sort from which great virtues or great crimes may be naturally expected. The tenor of her communication is disclosed in the following chapter.
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
Remorse–she neer forsakes us– A bloodhound staunch–she tracks our rapid step Through the wild labyrinth of youthful frenzy, Unheard, perchance, until old age hath tamed us Then in our lair, when Time hath chilled our joints, And maimed our hope of combat, or of flight, We hear her deep-mouthed bay, announcing all Of wrath, and wo, and punishment that bides us. Old Play.
“I need not tell you,” said the old woman, addressing the Earl of Glenallan, “that I was the favourite and confidential attendant of Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, whom God assoilzie!”–(here she crossed herself)–“and I think farther, ye may not have forgotten that I shared her regard for mony years. I returned it by the maist sincere attachment, but I fell into disgrace frae a trifling act of disobedience, reported to your mother by ane that thought, and she wasna wrang, that I was a spy upon her actions and yours.”
“I charge thee, woman,” said the Earl, in a voice trembling with passion, “name not her name in my hearing!”
“I must,” returned the penitent firmly and calmly, “or how can you understand me?”
The Earl leaned upon one of the wooden chairs of the hut, drew his hat over his face, clenched his hands together, set his teeth like one who summons up courage to undergo a painful operation, and made a signal to her to proceed.
“I say, then,” she resumed, “that my disgrace with my mistress was chiefly owing to Miss Eveline Neville, then bred up in Glenallan House as the daughter of a cousin-german and intimate friend of your father that was gane. There was muckle mystery in her history,–but wha dared to inquire farther than the Countess liked to tell?–All in Glenallan House loved Miss Neville–all but twa, your mother and mysell–we baith hated her.”
“God! for what reason, since a creature so mild, so gentle, so formed to inspire affection, never walked on this wretched world?”
“It may hae been sae,” rejoined Elspeth, “but your mother hated a’ that cam of your father’s family–a’ but himsell. Her reasons related to strife which fell between them soon after her marriage; the particulars are naething to this purpose. But oh! doubly did she hate Eveline Neville when she perceived that there was a growing kindness atween you and that unfortunate young leddy! Ye may mind that the Countess’s dislike didna gang farther at first than just showing o’ the cauld shouther–at least it wasna seen farther; but at the lang run it brak out into such downright violence that Miss Neville was even fain to seek refuge at Knockwinnock Castle with Sir Arthur’s leddy, wha (God sain her!) was then wi’ the living.”
“You rend my heart by recalling these particulars–But go on,–and may my present agony be accepted as additional penance for the involuntary crime!”
“She had been absent some months,” continued Elspeth, “when I was ae night watching in my hut the return of my husband from fishing, and shedding in private those bitter tears that my proud spirit wrung frae me whenever I thought on my disgrace. The sneck was drawn, and the Countess your mother entered my dwelling. I thought I had seen a spectre, for even in the height of my favour, this was an honour she had never done me, and she looked as pale and ghastly as if she had risen from the grave. She sat down, and wrung the draps from her hair and cloak,–for the night was drizzling, and her walk had been through the plantations, that were a’ loaded with dew. I only mention these things that you may understand how weel that night lives in my memory,–and weel it may. I was surprised to see her, but I durstna speak first, mair than if I had seen a phantom– Na, I durst not, my lord, I that hae seen mony sights of terror, and never shook at them. Sae, after a silence, she said, Elspeth Cheyne (for she always gave me my maiden name), are not ye the daughter of that Reginald Cheyne who died to save his master, Lord Glenallan, on the field of Sheriffmuir?’ And I answered her as proudly as hersell nearly–As sure as you are the daughter of that Earl of Glenallan whom my father saved that day by his own death.'”
Here she made a deep pause.
“And what followed?–what followed?–For Heaven’s sake, good woman–But why should I use that word?–Yet, good or bad, I command you to tell me.”
“And little I should value earthly command,” answered Elspeth, “were there not a voice that has spoken to me sleeping and waking, that drives me forward to tell this sad tale. Aweel, my Lord–the Countess said to me, My son loves Eveline Neville–they are agreed–they are plighted: should they have a son, my right over Glenallan merges–I sink from that moment from a Countess into a miserable stipendiary dowager, I who brought lands and vassals, and high blood and ancient fame, to my husband, I must cease to be mistress when my son has an heir-male. But I care not for that–had he married any but one of the hated Nevilles, I had been patient. But for them–that they and their descendants should enjoy the right and honours of my ancestors, goes through my heart like a two-edged dirk. And this girl–I detest her!’–And I answered, for my heart kindled at her words, that her hate was equalled by mine.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the Earl, in spite of his determination to preserve silence–“wretched woman! what cause of hate could have arisen from a being so innocent and gentle?”
“I hated what my mistress hated, as was the use with the liege vassals of the house of Glenallan; for though, my Lord, I married under my degree, yet an ancestor of yours never went to the field of battle, but an ancestor of the frail, demented, auld, useless wretch wha now speaks with you, carried his shield before him. But that was not a’,” continued the beldam, her earthly and evil passions rekindling as she became heated in her narration–“that was not a’; I hated Miss Eveline Neville for her ain sake, I brought her frae England, and, during our whole journey, she gecked and scorned at my northern speech and habit, as her southland leddies and kimmers had done at the boarding-school, as they cald it”– (and, strange as it may seem, she spoke of an affront offered by a heedless school-girl without intention, with a degree of inveteracy which, at such a distance of time, a mortal offence would neither have authorized or excited in any well-constituted mind)–“Yes, she scorned and jested at me–but let them that scorn the tartan fear the dirk!”
She paused, and then went on–“But I deny not that I hated her mair than she deserved. My mistress, the Countess, persevered and said, Elspeth Cheyne, this unruly boy will marry with the false English blood. Were days as they have been, I could throw her into the Massymore* of Glenallan, and fetter him in the Keep of Strathbonnel.
* _Massa-mora,_ an ancient name for a dungeon, derived from the Moorish language, perhaps as far back as the time of the Crusades.
But these times are past, and the authority which the nobles of the land should exercise is delegated to quibbling lawyers and their baser dependants. Hear me, Elspeth Cheyne! if you are your father’s daughter as I am mine, I will find means that they shall not marry. She walks often to that cliff that overhangs your dwelling to look for her lover’s boat– (ye may remember the pleasure ye then took on the sea, my Lord)–let him find her forty fathom lower than he expects!’–Yes! ye may stare and frown and clench your hand; but, as sure as I am to face the only Being I ever feared–and, oh that I had feared him mair!–these were your mother’s words. What avails it to me to lie to you?–But I wadna consent to stain my hand with blood.–Then she said, By the religion of our holy Church they are ower _sibb_ thegither. But I expect nothing but that both will become heretics as well as disobedient reprobates;’–that was her addition to that argument. And then, as the fiend is ever ower busy wi’ brains like mine, that are subtle beyond their use and station, I was unhappily permitted to add–But they might be brought to think themselves sae _sibb_ as no Christian law will permit their wedlock.'”
Here the Earl of Glenallan echoed her words, with a shriek so piercing as almost to rend the roof of the cottage.–“Ah! then Eveline Neville was not the–the”–
“The daughter, ye would say, of your father?” continued Elspeth. “No–be it a torment or be it a comfort to you–ken the truth, she was nae mair a daughter of your father’s house than I am.”
“Woman, deceive me not!–make me not curse the memory of the parent I have so lately laid in the grave, for sharing in a plot the most cruel, the most infernal”–
“Bethink ye, my Lord Geraldin, ere ye curse the memory of a parent that’s gane, is there none of the blood of Glenallan living, whose faults have led to this dreadfu’ catastrophe?”
“Mean you my brother?–he, too, is gone,” said the Earl.
“No,” replied the sibyl, “I mean yoursell, Lord Geraldin. Had you not transgressed the obedience of a son by wedding Eveline Neville in secret while a guest at Knockwinnock, our plot might have separated you for a time, but would have left at least your sorrows without remorse to canker them. But your ain conduct had put poison in the weapon that we threw, and it pierced you with the mair force because ye cam rushing to meet it. Had your marriage been a proclaimed and acknowledged action, our stratagem to throw an obstacle into your way that couldna be got ower, neither wad nor could hae been practised against ye.”
“Great Heaven!” said the unfortunate nobleman–“it is as if a film fell from my obscured eyes! Yes, I now well understand the doubtful hints of consolation thrown out by my wretched mother, tending indirectly to impeach the evidence of the horrors of which her arts had led me to believe myself guilty.”
“She could not speak mair plainly,” answered Elspeth, “without confessing her ain fraud,–and she would have submitted to be torn by wild horses, rather than unfold what she had done; and if she had still lived, so would I for her sake. They were stout hearts the race of Glenallan, male and female, and sae were a’ that in auld times cried their gathering-word of _Clochnaben_–they stood shouther to shouther–nae man parted frae his chief for love of gold or of gain, or of right or of wrang. The times are changed, I hear, now.”
The unfortunate nobleman was too much wrapped up in his own confused and distracted reflections, to notice the rude expressions of savage fidelity, in which, even in the latest ebb of life, the unhappy author of his misfortunes seemed to find a stern and stubborn source of consolation.
“Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, “I am then free from a guilt the most horrible with which man can be stained, and the sense of which, however involuntary, has wrecked my peace, destroyed my health, and bowed me down to an untimely grave. Accept,” he fervently uttered, lifting his eyes upwards, “accept my humble thanks! If I live miserable, at least I shall not die stained with that unnatural guilt!–And thou–proceed if thou hast more to tell–proceed, while thou hast voice to speak it, and I have powers to listen.”
“Yes,” answered the beldam, “the hour when you shall hear, and I shall speak, is indeed passing rapidly away. Death has crossed your brow with his finger, and I find his grasp turning every day coulder at my heart. Interrupt me nae mair with exclamations and groans and accusations, but hear my tale to an end! And then–if ye be indeed sic a Lord of Glenallan as I hae heard of in _my_ day–make your merrymen gather the thorn, and the brier, and the green hollin, till they heap them as high as the house-riggin’, and burn! burn! burn! the auld witch Elspeth, and a’ that can put ye in mind that sic a creature ever crawled upon the land!”
“Go on,” said the Earl, “go on–I will not again interrupt you.”
He spoke in a half-suffocated yet determined voice, resolved that no irritability on his part should deprive him of this opportunity of acquiring proofs of the wonderful tale he then heard. But Elspeth had become exhausted by a continuous narration of such unusual length; the subsequent part of her story was more broken, and though still distinctly intelligible in most parts, had no longer the lucid conciseness which the first part of her narrative had displayed to such an astonishing degree. Lord Glenallan found it necessary, when she had made some attempts to continue her narrative without success, to prompt her memory by demanding–“What proofs she could propose to bring of the truth of a narrative so different from that which she had originally told?”
“The evidence,” she replied, “of Eveline Neville’s real birth was in the Countess’s possession, with reasons for its being for some time kept private;–they may yet be found, if she has not destroyed them, in the left hand drawer of the ebony cabinet that stood in the dressing-room. These she meant to suppress for the time, until you went abroad again, when she trusted, before your return, to send Miss Neville back to her ain country, or to get her settled in marriage.”
“But did you not show me letters of my father’s, which seemed to me, unless my senses altogether failed me in that horrible moment, to avow his relationship to–to the unhappy”–
“We did; and, with my testimony, how could you doubt the fact, or her either? But we suppressed the true explanation of these letters, and that was, that your father thought it right the young leddy should pass for his daughter for a while, on account o’some family reasons that were amang them.”
“But wherefore, when you learned our union, was this dreadful artifice persisted in?”
“It wasna,” she replied, “till Lady Glenallan had communicated this fause tale, that she suspected ye had actually made a marriage–nor even then did you avow it sae as to satisfy her whether the ceremony had in verity passed atween ye or no–But ye remember, O ye canna but remember weel, what passed in that awfu’ meeting!”
“Woman! you swore upon the gospels to the fact which you now disavow.”
“I did,–and I wad hae taen a yet mair holy pledge on it, if there had been ane–I wad not hae spared the blood of my body, or the guilt of my soul, to serve the house of Glenallan.”
“Wretch! do you call that horrid perjury, attended with consequences yet more dreadful–do you esteem that a service to the house of your benefactors?”
“I served her, wha was then the head of Glenallan, as she required me to serve her. The cause was between God and her conscience–the manner between God and mine–She is gane to her account, and I maun follow. Have I taulds you a’?”
“No,” answered Lord Glenallan–“you have yet more to tell–you have to tell me of the death of the angel whom your perjury drove to despair, stained, as she thought herself, with a crime so horrible. Speak truth– was that dreadful–was that horrible incident”–he could scarcely articulate the words–“was it as reported? or was it an act of yet further, though not more atrocious cruelty, inflicted by others?”
“I understand you,” said Elspeth. “But report spoke truth;–our false witness was indeed the cause, but the deed was her ain distracted act. On that fearfu’ disclosure, when ye rushed frae the Countess’s presence and saddled your horse, and left the castle like a fire-flaught, the Countess hadna yet discovered your private marriage; she hadna fund out that the union, which she had framed this awfu’ tale to prevent, had e’en taen place. Ye fled from the house as if the fire o’ Heaven was about to fa’ upon it, and Miss Neville, atween reason and the want o’t, was put under sure ward. But the ward sleep’t, and the prisoner waked–the window was open–the way was before her–there was the cliff, and there was the sea!–O, when will I forget that!”
“And thus died,” said the Earl, “even so as was reported?”
“No, my lord. I had gane out to the cove–the tide was in, and it flowed, as ye’ll remember, to the foot o’ that cliff–it was a great convenience that for my husband’s trade–Where am I wandering?–I saw a white object dart frae the tap o’ the cliff like a sea-maw through the mist, and then a heavy flash and sparkle of the waters showed me it was a human creature that had fa’en into the waves. I was bold and strong, and familiar with the tide. I rushed in and grasped her gown, and drew her out and carried her on my shouthers–I could hae carried twa sic then–carried her to my hut, and laid her on my bed. Neighbours cam and brought help; but the words she uttered in her ravings, when she got back the use of speech, were such, that I was fain to send them awa, and get up word to Glenallan House. The Countess sent down her Spanish servant Teresa–if ever there was a fiend on earth in human form, that woman was ane. She and I were to watch the unhappy leddy, and let no other person approach.–God knows what Teresa’s part was to hae been–she tauld it not to me–but Heaven took the conclusion in its ain hand. The poor leddy! she took the pangs of travail before her time, bore a male child, and died in the arms of me–of her mortal enemy! Ay, _ye_ may weep–she was a sightly creature to see to–but think ye, if I didna mourn her then, that I can mourn her now? Na, na, I left Teresa wi’ the dead corpse and new-born babe, till I gaed up to take the Countess’s commands what was to be done. Late as it was, I ca’d her up, and she gar’d me ca’ up your brother”–
“My brother?”
“Yes, Lord Geraldin, e’en your brother, that some said she aye wished to be her heir. At ony rate, he was the person maist concerned in the succession and heritance of the house of Glenallan.”
“And is it possible to believe, then, that my brother, out of avarice to grasp at my inheritance, would lend himself to such a base and dreadful stratagem?”
“Your mother believed it,” said the old beldam with a fiendish laugh–“it was nae plot of my making; but what they did or said I will not say, because I did not hear. Lang and sair they consulted in the black wainscot dressing-room; and when your brother passed through the room where I was waiting, it seemed to me (and I have often thought sae since syne) that the fire of hell was in his cheek and een. But he had left some of it with his mother, at ony rate. She entered the room like a woman demented, and the first words she spoke were, Elspeth Cheyne, did you ever pull a new-budded flower?’ I answered, as ye may believe, that I often had. Then,’ said she, ye will ken the better how to blight the spurious and heretical blossom that has sprung forth this night to disgrace my father’s noble house–See here;’–(and she gave me a golden bodkin)–nothing but gold must shed the blood of Glenallan. This child is already as one of the dead, and since thou and Teresa alone ken that it lives, let it be dealt upon as ye will answer to me!’ and she turned away in her fury, and left me with the bodkin in my hand.–Here it is; that and the ring of Miss Neville, are a’ I hae preserved of my ill-gotten gear–for muckle was the gear I got. And weel hae I keepit the secret, but no for the gowd or gear either.”
Her long and bony hand held out to Lord Glenallan a gold bodkin, down which in fancy he saw the blood of his infant trickling.
“Wretch! had you the heart?”
“I kenna if I could hae had it or no. I returned to my cottage without feeling the ground that I trode on; but Teresa and the child were gane– a’ that was alive was gane–naething left but the lifeless corpse.”
“And did you never learn my infant’s fate?”
“I could but guess. I have tauld ye your mother’s purpose, and I ken Teresa was a fiend. She was never mair seen in Scotland, and I have heard that she returned to her ain land. A dark curtain has fa’en ower the past, and the few that witnessed ony part of it could only surmise something of seduction and suicide. You yourself”–
“I know–I know it all,” answered the Earl.
“You indeed know all that I can say–And now, heir of Glenallan, can you forgive me?”
“Ask forgiveness of God, and not of man,” said the Earl, turning away.
“And how shall I ask of the pure and unstained what is denied to me by a sinner like mysell? If I hae sinned, hae I not suffered?–Hae I had a day’s peace or an hour’s rest since these lang wet locks of hair first lay upon my pillow at Craigburnfoot?–Has not my house been burned, wi’ my bairn in the cradle?–Have not my boats been wrecked, when a’ others weather’d the gale?–Have not a’ that were near and dear to me dree’d penance for my sin?–Has not the fire had its share o’ them–the winds had their part–the sea had her part?–And oh!” she added, with a lengthened groan, looking first upwards towards Heaven, and then bending her eyes on the floor–“O that the earth would take her part, that’s been lang lang wearying to be joined to it!”
Lord Glenallan had reached the door of the cottage, but the generosity of his nature did not permit him to leave the unhappy woman in this state of desperate reprobation. “May God forgive thee, wretched woman,” he said, “as sincerely as I do!–Turn for mercy to Him who can alone grant mercy, and may your prayers be heard as if they were mine own!–I will send a religious man.”
“Na, na–nae priest! nae priest!” she ejaculated; and the door of the cottage opening as she spoke, prevented her from proceeding.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
Still in his dead hand clenched remain the strings That thrill his father’s heart–e’en as the limb, Lopped off and laid in grave, retains, they tell us, Strange commerce with the mutilated stump, Whose nerves are twinging still in maimed existence. Old Play.
The Antiquary, as we informed the reader in the end of the thirty-first CHAPTER, [tenth] had shaken off the company of worthy Mr. Blattergowl, although he offered to entertain him with an abstract of the ablest speech he had ever known in the teind court, delivered by the procurator for the church in the remarkable case of the parish of Gatherem. Resisting this temptation, our senior preferred a solitary path, which again conducted him to the cottage of Mucklebackit. When he came in front of the fisherman’s hut, he observed a man working intently, as if to repair a shattered boat which lay upon the beach, and going up to him was surprised to find it was Mucklebackit himself. “I am glad,” he said in a tone of sympathy–“I am glad, Saunders, that you feel yourself able to make this exertion.”
“And what would ye have me to do,” answered the fisher gruffly, “unless I wanted to see four children starve, because ane is drowned? It’s weel wi’ you gentles, that can sit in the house wi’ handkerchers at your een when ye lose a friend; but the like o’ us maun to our wark again, if our hearts were beating as hard as my hammer.”
Without taking more notice of Oldbuck, he proceeded in his labour; and the Antiquary, to whom the display of human nature under the influence of agitating passions was never indifferent, stood beside him, in silent attention, as if watching the progress of the work. He observed more than once the man’s hard features, as if by the force of association, prepare to accompany the sound of the saw and hammer with his usual symphony of a rude tune, hummed or whistled,–and as often a slight twitch of convulsive expression showed, that ere the sound was uttered, a cause for suppressing it rushed upon his mind. At length, when he had patched a considerable rent, and was beginning to mend another, his feelings appeared altogether to derange the power of attention necessary for his work. The piece of wood which he was about to nail on was at first too long; then he sawed it off too short, then chose another equally ill adapted for the purpose. At length, throwing it down in anger, after wiping his dim eye with his quivering hand, he exclaimed, “There is a curse either on me or on this auld black bitch of a boat, that I have hauled up high and dry, and patched and clouted sae mony years, that she might drown my poor Steenie at the end of them, an’ be d–d to her!” and he flung his hammer against the boat, as if she had been the intentional cause of his misfortune. Then recollecting himself, he added, “Yet what needs ane be angry at her, that has neither soul nor sense?–though I am no that muckle better mysell. She’s but a rickle o’ auld rotten deals nailed thegither, and warped wi’ the wind and the sea–and I am a dour carle, battered by foul weather at sea and land till I am maist as senseless as hersell. She maun be mended though again the morning tide– that’s a thing o’ necessity.”
Thus speaking, he went to gather together his instruments, and attempt to resume his labour,–but Oldbuck took him kindly by the arm. “Come, come,” he said, “Saunders, there is no work for you this day–I’ll send down Shavings the carpenter to mend the boat, and he may put the day’s work into my account–and you had better not come out to-morrow, but stay to comfort your family under this dispensation, and the gardener will bring you some vegetables and meal from Monkbarns.”
“I thank ye, Monkbarns,” answered the poor fisher; “I am a plain-spoken man, and hae little to say for mysell; I might hae learned fairer fashions frae my mither lang syne, but I never saw muckle gude they did her; however, I thank ye. Ye were aye kind and neighbourly, whatever folk says o’ your being near and close; and I hae often said, in thae times when they were ganging to raise up the puir folk against the gentles–I hae often said, neer a man should steer a hair touching to Monkbarns while Steenie and I could wag a finger–and so said Steenie too. And, Monkbarns, when ye laid his head in the grave (and mony thanks for the respect), ye, saw the mouls laid on an honest lad that likit you weel, though he made little phrase about it.”
Oldbuck, beaten from the pride of his affected cynicism, would not willingly have had any one by on that occasion to quote to him his favourite maxims of the Stoic philosophy. The large drops fell fast from his own eyes, as he begged the father, who was now melted at recollecting the bravery and generous sentiments of his son, to forbear useless sorrow, and led him by the arm towards his own home, where another scene awaited our Antiquary.
As he entered, the first person whom he beheld was Lord Glenallan. Mutual surprise was in their countenances as they saluted each other–with haughty reserve on the part of Mr. Oldbuck, and embarrassment on that of the Earl.
“My Lord Glenallan, I think?” said Mr. Oldbuck.
“Yes–much changed from what he was when he knew Mr. Oldbuck.”
“I do not mean,” said the Antiquary, “to intrude upon your lordship–I only came to see this distressed family.”
“And you have found one, sir, who has still greater claims on your compassion.”
“My compassion? Lord Glenallan cannot need my compassion. If Lord Glenallan could need it, I think he would hardly ask it.”
“Our former acquaintance,” said the Earl–
“Is of such ancient date, my lord–was of such short duration, and was connected with circumstances so exquisitely painful, that I think we may dispense with renewing it.”
So saying, the Antiquary turned away, and left the hut; but Lord Glenallan followed him into the open air, and, in spite of a hasty “Good morning, my lord,” requested a few minutes’ conversation, and the favour of his advice in an important matter.
“Your lordship will find many more capable to advise you, my lord, and by whom your intercourse will be deemed an honour. For me, I am a man retired from business and the world, and not very fond of raking up the past events of my useless life;–and forgive me if I say, I have particular pain in reverting to that period of it when I acted like a fool, and your lordship like”–He stopped short.
“Like a villain, you would say,” said Lord Glenallan–“for such I must have appeared to you.”
“My lord–my lord, I have no desire to hear your shrift,” said the Antiquary.
“But, sir, if I can show you that I am more sinned against than sinning– that I have been a man miserable beyond the power of description, and who looks forward at this moment to an untimely grave as to a haven of rest, you will not refuse the confidence which, accepting your appearance at this critical moment as a hint from Heaven, I venture thus to press on you.”
“Assuredly, my lord, I shall shun no longer the continuation of this extraordinary interview.”
“I must then recall to you our occasional meetings upwards of twenty years since at Knockwinnock Castle,–and I need not remind you of a lady who was then a member of that family.”
“The unfortunate Miss Eveline Neville, my lord; I remember it well.”
“Towards whom you entertained sentiments”–
“Very different from those with which I before and since have regarded her sex. Her gentleness, her docility, her pleasure in the studies which I pointed out to her, attached my affections more than became my age though that was not then much advanced–or the solidity of my character. But I need not remind your lordship of the various modes in which you indulged your gaiety at the expense of an awkward and retired student, embarrassed by the expression of feelings so new to him, and I have no doubt that the young lady joined you in the well-deserved ridicule–it is the way of womankind. I have spoken at once to the painful circumstances of my addresses and their rejection, that your lordship may be satisfied everything is full in my memory, and may, so far as I am concerned, tell your story without scruple or needless delicacy.”
“I will,” said Lord Glenallan. “But first let me say, you do injustice to the memory of the gentlest and kindest, as well as to the most unhappy of women, to suppose she could make a jest of the honest affection of a man like you. Frequently did she blame me, Mr. Oldbuck, for indulging my levity at your expense–may I now presume you will excuse the gay freedoms which then offended you?–my state of mind has never since laid me under the necessity of apologizing for the inadvertencies of a light and happy temper.”
“My lord, you are fully pardoned,” said Mr. Oldbuck. “You should be aware, that, like all others, I was ignorant at the time that I placed myself in competition with your lordship, and understood that Miss Neville was in a state of dependence which might make her prefer a competent independence and the hand of an honest man–But I am wasting time–I would I could believe that the views entertained towards her by others were as fair and honest as mine!”
“Mr. Oldbuck, you judge harshly.”
“Not without cause, my lord. When I only, of all the magistrates of this county–having neither, like some of them, the honour to be connected with your powerful family–nor, like others, the meanness to fear it,– when I made some inquiry into the manner of Miss Neville’s death–I shake you, my lord, but I must be plain–I do own I had every reason to believe that she had met most unfair dealing, and had either been imposed upon by a counterfeit marriage, or that very strong measures had been adopted to stifle and destroy the evidence of a real union. And I cannot doubt in my own mind, that this cruelty on your lordship’s part, whether coming of your own free will, or proceeding from the influence of the late Countess, hurried the unfortunate young lady to the desperate act by which her life was terminated.”
“You are deceived, Mr. Oldbuck, into conclusions which are not just, however naturally they flow from the circumstances. Believe me, I respected you even when I was most embarrassed by your active attempts to investigate our family misfortunes. You showed yourself more worthy of Miss Neville than I, by the spirit with which you persisted in vindicating her reputation even after her death. But the firm belief that your well-meant efforts could only serve to bring to light a story too horrible to be detailed, induced me to join my unhappy mother in schemes to remove or destroy all evidence of the legal union which had taken place between Eveline and myself. And now let us sit down on this bank,– for I feel unable to remain longer standing,–and have the goodness to listen to the extraordinary discovery which I have this day made.”
They sate down accordingly; and Lord Glenallan briefly narrated his unhappy family history–his concealed marriage–the horrible invention by which his mother had designed to render impossible that union which had already taken place. He detailed the arts by which the Countess, having all the documents relative to Miss Neville’s birth in her hands, had produced those only relating to a period during which, for family reasons, his father had consented to own that young lady as his natural daughter, and showed how impossible it was that he could either suspect or detect the fraud put upon him by his mother, and vouched by the oaths of her attendants, Teresa and Elspeth. “I left my paternal mansion,” he concluded, “as if the furies of hell had driven me forth, and travelled with frantic velocity I knew not whither. Nor have I the slightest recollection of what I did or whither I went, until I was discovered by my brother. I will not trouble you with an account of my sick-bed and recovery, or how, long afterwards, I ventured to inquire after the sharer of my misfortunes, and heard that her despair had found a dreadful remedy for all the ills of life. The first thing that roused me to thought was hearing of your inquiries into this cruel business; and you will hardly wonder, that, believing what I did believe, I should join in those expedients to stop your investigation, which my brother and mother had actively commenced. The information which I gave them concerning the circumstances and witnesses of our private marriage enabled them to baffle your zeal. The clergyman, therefore, and witnesses, as persons who had acted in the matter only to please the powerful heir of Glenallan, were accessible to his promises and threats, and were so provided for, that they had no objections to leave this country for another. For myself, Mr. Oldbuck,” pursued this unhappy man, “from that moment I considered myself as blotted out of the book of the living, and as having nothing left to do with this world. My mother tried to reconcile me to life by every art–even by intimations which I can now interpret as calculated to produce a doubt of the horrible tale she herself had fabricated. But I construed all she said as the fictions of maternal affection. I will forbear all reproach. She is no more–and, as her wretched associate said, she knew not how the dart was poisoned, or how deep it must sink, when she threw it from her hand. But, Mr. Oldbuck, if ever, during these twenty years, there crawled upon earth a living being deserving of your pity, I have been that man. My food has not nourished me–my sleep has not refreshed me–my devotions have not comforted me– all that is cheering and necessary to man has been to me converted into poison. The rare and limited intercourse which I have held with others has been most odious to me. I felt as if I were bringing the contamination of unnatural and inexpressible guilt among the gay and the innocent. There have been moments when I had thoughts of another description–to plunge into the adventures of war, or to brave the dangers of the traveller in foreign and barbarous climates–to mingle in political intrigue, or to retire to the stern seclusion of the anchorites of our religion;–all these are thoughts which have alternately passed through my mind, but each required an energy, which was mine no longer, after the withering stroke I had received. I vegetated on as I could in the same spot–fancy, feeling, judgment, and health, gradually decaying, like a tree whose bark has been destroyed,–when first the blossoms fade, then the boughs, until its state resembles the decayed and dying trunk that is now before you. Do you now pity and forgive me?”
“My lord,” answered the Antiquary, much affected, “my pity–my forgiveness, you have not to ask, for your dismal story is of itself not only an ample excuse for whatever appeared mysterious in your conduct, but a narrative that might move your worst enemies (and I, my lord, was never of the number) to tears and to sympathy. But permit me to ask what you now mean to do, and why you have honoured me, whose opinion can be of little consequence, with your confidence on this occasion?”
“Mr. Oldbuck,” answered the Earl, “as I could never have foreseen the nature of that confession which I have heard this day, I need not say that I had no formed plan of consulting you, or any one, upon affairs the tendency of which I could not even have suspected. But I am without friends, unused to business, and, by long retirement, unacquainted alike with the laws of the land and the habits of the living generation; and when, most unexpectedly, I find myself immersed in the matters of which I know least, I catch, like a drowning man, at the first support that offers. You are that support, Mr. Oldbuck. I have always heard you mentioned as a man of wisdom and intelligence–I have known you myself as a man of a resolute and independent spirit;–and there is one circumstance,” said he, “which ought to combine us in some degree–our having paid tribute to the same excellence of character in poor Eveline. You offered yourself to me in my need, and you were already acquainted with the beginning of my misfortunes. To you, therefore, I have recourse for advice, for sympathy, for support.”
“You shall seek none of them in vain, my lord,” said Oldbuck, “so far as my slender ability extends;–and I am honoured by the preference, whether it arises from choice, or is prompted by chance. But this is a matter to be ripely considered. May I ask what are your principal views at present?”
“To ascertain the fate of my child,” said the Earl, “be the consequences what they may, and to do justice to the honour of Eveline, which I have only permitted to be suspected to avoid discovery of the yet more horrible taint to which I was made to believe it liable.”
“And the memory of your mother?”
“Must bear its own burden,” answered the Earl with a sigh: “better that she were justly convicted of deceit, should that be found necessary, than that others should be unjustly accused of crimes so much more dreadful.”
“Then, my lord,” said Oldbuck, “our first business must be to put the information of the old woman, Elspeth, into a regular and authenticated form.”
“That,” said Lord Glenallan, “will be at present, I fear, impossible. She is exhausted herself, and surrounded by her distressed family. To-morrow, perhaps, when she is alone–and yet I doubt, from her imperfect sense of right and wrong, whether she would speak out in any one’s presence but my own. I am too sorely fatigued.”
“Then, my lord,” said the Antiquary, whom the interest of the moment elevated above points of expense and convenience, which had generally more than enough of weight with him, “I would propose to your lordship, instead of returning, fatigued as you are, so far as to Glenallan House, or taking the more uncomfortable alternative of going to a bad inn at Fairport, to alarm all the busybodies of the town–I would propose, I say, that you should be my guest at Monkbarns for this night. By to-morrow these poor people will have renewed their out-of-doors vocation–for sorrow with them affords no respite from labour,–and we will visit the old woman Elspeth alone, and take down her examination.”
After a formal apology for the encroachment, Lord Glenallan agreed to go with him, and underwent with patience in their return home the whole history of John of the Girnel, a legend which Mr. Oldbuck was never known to spare any one who crossed his threshold.
The arrival of a stranger of such note, with two saddle-horses and a servant in black, which servant had holsters on his saddle-bow, and a coronet upon the holsters, created a general commotion in the house of Monkbarns. Jenny Rintherout, scarce recovered from the hysterics which she had taken on hearing of poor Steenie’s misfortune, chased about the turkeys and poultry, cackled and screamed louder than they did, and ended by killing one-half too many. Miss Griselda made many wise reflections on the hot-headed wilfulness of her brother, who had occasioned such devastation, by suddenly bringing in upon them a papist nobleman. And she ventured to transmit to Mr. Blattergowl some hint of the unusual slaughter which had taken place in the _basse-cour,_ which brought the honest clergyman to inquire how his friend Monkbarns had got home, and whether he was not the worse of being at the funeral, at a period so near the ringing of the bell for dinner, that the Antiquary had no choice left but to invite him to stay and bless the meat. Miss M’Intyre had on her part some curiosity to see this mighty peer, of whom all had heard, as an eastern caliph or sultan is heard of by his subjects, and felt some degree of timidity at the idea of encountering a person, of whose unsocial habits and stern manners so many stories were told, that her fear kept at least pace with her curiosity. The aged housekeeper was no less flustered and hurried in obeying the numerous and contradictory commands of her mistress, concerning preserves, pastry and fruit, the mode of marshalling and dishing the dinner, the necessity of not permitting the melted butter to run to oil, and the danger of allowing Juno–who, though formally banished from the parlour, failed not to maraud about the out-settlements of the family–to enter the kitchen.
The only inmate of Monkbarns who remained entirely indifferent on this momentous occasion was Hector M’Intyre, who cared no more for an Earl than he did for a commoner, and who was only interested in the unexpected visit, as it might afford some protection against his uncle’s displeasure, if he harboured any, for his not attending the funeral, and still more against his satire upon the subject of his gallant but unsuccessful single combat with the _phoca,_ or seal.
To these, the inmates of his household, Oldbuck presented the Earl of Glenallan, who underwent, with meek and subdued civility, the prosing speeches of the honest divine, and the lengthened apologies of Miss Griselda Oldbuck, which her brother in vain endeavoured to abridge. Before the dinner hour, Lord Glenallan requested permission to retire a while to his chamber. Mr. Oldbuck accompanied his guest to the Green Room, which had been hastily prepared for his reception. He looked around with an air of painful recollection.
“I think,” at length he observed, “I think, Mr. Oldbuck, that I have been in this apartment before.”
“Yes, my lord,” answered Oldbuck, “upon occasion of an excursion hither from Knockwinnock–and since we are upon a subject so melancholy, you may perhaps remember whose taste supplied these lines from Chaucer, which now form the motto of the tapestry.”
“I guess”, said the Earl, “though I cannot recollect. She excelled me, indeed, in literary taste and information, as in everything else; and it is one of the mysterious dispensations of Providence, Mr. Oldbuck, that a creature so excellent in mind and body should have been cut off in so miserable a manner, merely from her having formed a fatal attachment to such a wretch as I am.”
Mr. Oldbuck did not attempt an answer to this burst of the grief which lay ever nearest to the heart of his guest, but, pressing Lord Glenallan’s hand with one of his own, and drawing the other across his shaggy eyelashes, as if to brush away a mist that intercepted his sight, he left the Earl at liberty to arrange himself previous to dinner.
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
–Life, with you,
Glows in the brain and dances in the arteries; ‘Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath quaffed, That glads the heart and elevates the fancy: Mine is the poor residuum of the cup, Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only soiling, With its base dregs, the vessel that contains it. Old Play.
“Now, only think what a man my brother is, Mr. Blattergowl, for a wise man and a learned man, to bring this Yerl into our house without speaking a word to a body! And there’s the distress of thae Mucklebackits–we canna get a fin o’ fish–and we hae nae time to send ower to Fairport for beef, and the mutton’s but new killed–and that silly fliskmahoy, Jenny Rintherout, has taen the exies, and done naething but laugh and greet, the skirl at the tail o’ the guffaw, for twa days successfully–and now we maun ask that strange man, that’s as grand and as grave as the Yerl himsell, to stand at the sideboard! and I canna gang into the kitchen to direct onything, for he’s hovering there, making some pousowdie* for my Lord, for he doesna eat like ither folk neither–And how to sort the strange servant man at dinner time–I am sure, Mr. Blattergowl, a’thegither, it passes my judgment.”
* _Pousowdie,_–Miscellaneous mess.
“Truly, Miss Griselda,” replied the divine, “Monkbarns was inconsiderate. He should have taen a day to see the invitation, as they do wi’ the titular’s condescendence in the process of valuation and sale. But the great man could not have come on a sudden to ony house in this parish where he could have been better served with _vivers_–that I must say– and also that the steam from the kitchen is very gratifying to my nostrils;–and if ye have ony household affairs to attend to, Mrs. Griselda, never make a stranger of me–I can amuse mysell very weel with the larger copy of Erskine’s Institutes.”
And taking down from the window-seat that amusing folio, (the Scottish Coke upon Littleton), he opened it, as if instinctively, at the tenth title of Book Second, “of Teinds or Tythes,” and was presently deeply wrapped up in an abstruse discussion concerning the temporality of benefices.
The entertainment, about which Miss Oldbuck expressed so much anxiety, was at length placed upon the table; and the Earl of Glenallan, for the first time since the date of his calamity, sat at a stranger’s board, surrounded by strangers. He seemed to himself like a man in a dream, or one whose brain was not fully recovered from the effects of an intoxicating potion. Relieved, as he had that morning been, from the image of guilt which had so long haunted his imagination, he felt his sorrows as a lighter and more tolerable load, but was still unable to take any share in the conversation that passed around him. It was, indeed, of a cast very different from that which he had been accustomed to. The bluntness of Oldbuck, the tiresome apologetic harangues of his sister, the pedantry of the divine, and the vivacity of the young soldier, which savoured much more of the camp than of the court, were all new to a nobleman who had lived in a retired and melancholy state for so many years, that the manners of the world seemed to him equally strange and unpleasing. Miss M’Intyre alone, from the natural politeness and unpretending simplicity of her manners, appeared to belong to that class of society to which he had been accustomed in his earlier and better days.
Nor did Lord Glenallan’s deportment less surprise the company. Though a plain but excellent family-dinner was provided (for, as Mr. Blattergowl had justly said, it was impossible to surprise Miss Griselda when her larder was empty), and though the Antiquary boasted his best port, and assimilated it to the Falernian of Horace, Lord Glenallan was proof to the allurements of both. His servant placed before him a small mess of vegetables, that very dish, the cooking of which had alarmed Miss Griselda, arranged with the most minute and scrupulous neatness. He ate sparingly of these provisions; and a glass of pure water, sparkling from the fountain-head, completed his repast. Such, his servant said, had been his lordship’s diet for very many years, unless upon the high festivals of the Church, or when company of the first rank were entertained at Glenallan House, when he relaxed a little in the austerity of his diet, and permitted himself a glass or two of wine. But at Monkbarns, no anchoret could have made a more simple and scanty meal.
The Antiquary was a gentleman, as we have seen, in feeling, but blunt and careless in expression, from the habit of living with those before whom he had nothing to suppress. He attacked his noble guest without scruple on the severity of his regimen.
“A few half-cold greens and potatoes–a glass of ice-cold water to wash them down–antiquity gives no warrant for it, my lord. This house used to be accounted a _hospitium,_ a place of retreat for Christians; but your lordship’s diet is that of a heathen Pythagorean, or Indian Bramin–nay, more severe than either, if you refuse these fine apples.”