The Antiquary — Complete

CHAPTER NINETEENTH

As the Antiquary lifted the latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear the shrill tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting forth an old ballad in a wild and doleful recitative.

A diligent collector of these legendary scraps of ancient poetry, his foot refused to cross the threshold when his ear was thus arrested, and his hand instinctively took pencil and memorandum-book. From time to time the old woman spoke as if to the children—“Oh ay, hinnies, whisht! whisht! and I’ll begin a bonnier ane than that—

I dinna mind the neist verse weel—my memory’s failed, and theres unco thoughts come ower me—God keep us frae temptation!”

Here her voice sunk in indistinct muttering.

“It’s a historical ballad,” said Oldbuck, eagerly, “a genuine and undoubted fragment of minstrelsy! Percy would admire its simplicity— Ritson could not impugn its authenticity.”

“Ay, but it’s a sad thing,” said Ochiltree, “to see human nature sae far owertaen as to be skirling at auld sangs on the back of a loss like hers.”

“Hush! hush!” said the Antiquary—“she has gotten the thread of the story again. “—And as he spoke, she sung—

“Chafron!” exclaimed the Antiquary,—“equivalent, perhaps, to cheveron;—the word’s worth a dollar,”—and down it went in his red book.

Ye maun ken, hinnies, that this Roland Cheyne, for as poor and auld as I sit in the chimney-neuk, was my forbear, and an awfu’ man he was that dayin the fight, but specially after the Earl had fa’en, for he blamed himsell for the counsel he gave, to fight before Mar came up wi’ Mearns, and Aberdeen, and Angus.”

Her voice rose and became more animated as she recited the warlike counsel of her ancestor—

“Do you hear that, nephew?” said Oldbuck;—“you observe your Gaelic ancestors were not held in high repute formerly by the Lowland warriors.”

“I hear,” said Hector, “a silly old woman sing a silly old song. I am surprised, sir, that you, who will not listen to Ossian’s songs of Selma, can be pleased with such trash. I vow, I have not seen or heard a worse halfpenny ballad; I don’t believe you could match it in any pedlar’s pack in the country. I should be ashamed to think that the honour of the Highlands could be affected by such doggrel. “—And, tossing up his head, he snuffed the air indignantly.

Apparently the old woman heard the sound of their voices; for, ceasing her song, she called out, “Come in, sirs, come in—good-will never halted at the door-stane.”

They entered, and found to their surprise Elspeth alone, sitting “ghastly on the hearth,” like the personification of Old Age in the Hunter’s song of the Owl,* “wrinkled, tattered, vile, dim-eyed, discoloured, torpid.”

* See Mrs. Grant on the Highland Superstitions, vol. ii. p. 260, for this fine translation from the Gaelic.

“They’re a’ out,” she said, as they entered; “but an ye will sit a blink, somebody will be in. If ye hae business wi’ my gude-daughter, or my son, they’ll be in belyve,—I never speak on business mysell. Bairns, gie them seats—the bairns are a’ gane out, I trow,”—looking around her;—“I was crooning to keep them quiet a wee while since; but they hae cruppen out some gate. Sit down, sirs, they’ll be in belyve;” and she dismissed her spindle from her hand to twirl upon the floor, and soon seemed exclusively occupied in regulating its motion, as unconscious of the presence of the strangers as she appeared indifferent to their rank or business there.

“I wish,” said Oldbuck, “she would resume that canticle, or legendary fragment. I always suspected there was a skirmish of cavalry before the main battle of the Harlaw.” *

* Note H. Battle of Harlaw.

“If your honour pleases,” said Edie, “had ye not better proceed to the business that brought us a’ here? I’se engage to get ye the sang ony time.”

“I believe you are right, Edie—Do manus—I submit. But how shall we manage? She sits there the very image of dotage. Speak to her, Edie—try if you can make her recollect having sent you to Glenallan House.”

Edie rose accordingly, and, crossing the floor, placed himself in the same position which he had occupied during his former conversation with her. “I’m fain to see ye looking sae weel, cummer; the mair, that the black ox has tramped on ye since I was aneath your roof-tree.”

“Ay,” said Elspeth; but rather from a general idea of misfortune, than any exact recollection of what had happened,—“there has been distress amang us of late—I wonder how younger folk bide it—I bide it ill. I canna hear the wind whistle, and the sea roar, but I think I see the coble whombled keel up, and some o’ them struggling in the waves!—Eh, sirs; sic weary dreams as folk hae between sleeping and waking, before they win to the lang sleep and the sound! I could amaist think whiles my son, or else Steenie, my oe, was dead, and that I had seen the burial. Isna that a queer dream for a daft auld carline? What for should ony o’ them dee before me?—it’s out o’ the course o’ nature, ye ken.”

“I think you’ll make very little of this stupid old woman,” said Hector,—who still nourished, perhaps, some feelings of the dislike excited by the disparaging mention of his countrymen in her lay—“I think you’ll make but little of her, sir; and it’s wasting our time to sit here and listen to her dotage.”

“Hector,” said the Antiquary, indignantly, “if you do not respect her misfortunes, respect at least her old age and grey hairs: this is the last stage of existence, so finely treated by the Latin poet—

“That’s Latin!” said Elspeth, rousing herself as if she attended to the lines, which the Antiquary recited with great pomp of diction—“that’s Latin!” and she cast a wild glance around her—“Has there a priest fund me out at last?”

“You see, nephew, her comprehension is almost equal to your own of that fine passage.”

“I hope you think, sir, that I knew it to be Latin as well as she did?”

“Why, as to that—But stay, she is about to speak.”

“I will have no priest—none,” said the beldam, with impotent vehemence; “as I have lived I will die—none shall say that I betrayed my mistress, though it were to save my soul!”

“That bespoke a foul conscience,” said the mendicant;—“I wuss she wad mak a clean breast, an it were but for her sake;” and he again assailed her.

“Weel, gudewife, I did your errand to the Yerl.”

“To what Earl? I ken nae Earl;—I ken’d a Countess ance—I wish to Heaven I had never ken’d her! for by that acquaintance, neighbour, their cam,”— and she counted her withered fingers as she spoke “first Pride, then Malice, then Revenge, then False Witness; and Murder tirl’d at the door-pin, if he camna ben. And werena thae pleasant guests, think ye, to take up their quarters in ae woman’s heart? I trow there was routh o’ company.”

“But, cummer,” continued the beggar, “it wasna the Countess of Glenallan I meant, but her son, him that was Lord Geraldin.”

“I mind it now,” she said; “I saw him no that langsyne, and we had a heavy speech thegither. Eh, sirs! the comely young lord is turned as auld and frail as I am: it’s muckle that sorrow and heartbreak, and crossing of true love, will do wi’ young blood. But suldna his mither hae lookit to that hersell?—we were but to do her bidding, ye ken. I am sure there’s naebody can blame me—he wasna my son, and she was my mistress. Ye ken how the rhyme says—I hae maist forgotten how to sing, or else the tune’s left my auld head—

Then he was but of the half blude, ye ken, and her’s was the right Glenallan after a’. Na, na, I maun never maen doing and suffering for the Countess Joscelin—never will I maen for that.”

Then drawing her flax from the distaff, with the dogged air of one who is resolved to confess nothing, she resumed her interrupted occupation.

“I hae heard,” said the mendicant, taking his cue from what Oldbuck had told him of the family history—“I hae heard, cummer, that some ill tongue suld hae come between the Earl, that’s Lord Geraldin, and his young bride.”

“Ill tongue?” she said in hasty alarm; “and what had she to fear frae an ill tongue?—she was gude and fair eneugh—at least a’ body said sae. But had she keepit her ain tongue aff ither folk, she might hae been living like a leddy for a’ that’s come and gane yet.”

“But I hae heard say, gudewife,” continued Ochiltree, “there was a clatter in the country, that her husband and her were ower sibb when they married.”

“Wha durst speak o’ that?” said the old woman hastily; “wha durst say they were married?—wha ken’d o’ that?—Not the Countess—not I. If they wedded in secret, they were severed in secret—They drank of the fountains of their ain deceit.”

“No, wretched beldam!” exclaimed Oldbuck, who could keep silence no longer, “they drank the poison that you and your wicked mistress prepared for them.”

“Ha, ha!” she replied, “I aye thought it would come to this. It’s but sitting silent when they examine me—there’s nae torture in our days; and if there is, let them rend me!—It’s ill o’ the vassal’s mouth that betrays the bread it eats.”

“Speak to her, Edie,” said the Antiquary; “she knows your voice, and answers to it most readily.”

“We shall mak naething mair out o’ her,” said Ochiltree. “When she has clinkit hersell down that way, and faulded her arms, she winna speak a word, they say, for weeks thegither. And besides, to my thinking, her face is sair changed since we cam in. However, I’se try her ance mair to satisfy your honour.—So ye canna keep in mind, cummer, that your auld mistress, the Countess Joscelin, has been removed?”

“Removed!” she exclaimed; for that name never failed to produce its usual effect upon her; “then we maun a’ follow—a’ maun ride when she is in the saddle. Tell them to let Lord Geraldin ken we’re on before them. Bring my hood and scarf—ye wadna hae me gang in the carriage wi’ my leddy, and my hair in this fashion?”

She raised her shrivelled arms, and seemed busied like a woman who puts on her cloak to go abroad, then dropped them slowly and stiffly; and the same idea of a journey still floating apparently through her head, she proceeded, in a hurried and interrupted manner,—“Call Miss Neville—What do you mean by Lady Geraldin? I said Eveline Neville, not Lady Geraldin— there’s no Lady Geraldin; tell her that, and bid her change her wet gown, and no’ look sae pale. Bairn! what should she do wi’ a bairn?—maidens hae nane, I trow.—Teresa—Teresa—my lady calls us!—Bring a candle;—the grand staircase is as mirk as a Yule midnight—We are coming, my lady!”—With these words she sunk back on the settle, and from thence sidelong to the floor. *

* Note I. Elspeth’s death.

“Impossible,” said Oldbuck, hastily advancing, as did his nephew. But nothing was more certain. She had expired with the last hurried word that left her lips; and all that remained before them were the mortal relics of the creature who had so long struggled with an internal sense of concealed guilt, joined to all the distresses of age and poverty.

“God grant that she be gane to a better place!” said Edie, as he looked on the lifeless body; “but oh! there was something lying hard and heavy at her heart. I have seen mony a ane dee, baith in the field o’ battle, and a fair-strae death at hame; but I wad rather see them a’ ower again, as sic a fearfu’ flitting as hers!”

“We must call in the neighbours,” said Oldbuck, when he had somewhat recovered his horror and astonishment, “and give warning of this additional calamity. I wish she could have been brought to a confession. And, though of far less consequence, I could have wished to transcribe that metrical fragment. But Heaven’s will must be done!”

They left the hut accordingly, and gave the alarm in the hamlet, whose matrons instantly assembled to compose the limbs and arrange the body of her who might be considered as the mother of their settlement. Oldbuck promised his assistance for the funeral.

“Your honour,” said Alison Breck, who was next in age to the deceased, “suld send doun something to us for keeping up our hearts at the lykewake, for a’ Saunders’s gin, puir man, was drucken out at the burial o’ Steenie, and we’ll no get mony to sit dry-lipped aside the corpse. Elspeth was unco clever in her young days, as I can mind right weel, but there was aye a word o’ her no being that chancy. Ane suldna speak ill o’ the dead—mair by token, o’ ane’s cummer and neighbour—but there was queer things said about a leddy and a bairn or she left the Craigburnfoot. And sae, in gude troth, it will be a puir lykewake, unless your honour sends us something to keep us cracking.”

“You shall have some whisky,” answered Oldbuck, “the rather that you have preserved the proper word for that ancient custom of watching the dead. You observe, Hector, this is genuine Teutonic, from the Gothic Leichnam, a corpse. It is quite erroneously called Late-wake, though Brand favours that modern corruption and derivation.”

“I believe,” said Hector to himself, “my uncle would give away Monkbarns to any one who would come to ask it in genuine Teutonic! Not a drop of whisky would the old creatures have got, had their president asked it for the use of the Late-wake.”

While Oldbuck was giving some farther directions, and promising assistance, a servant of Sir Arthur’s came riding very hard along the sands, and stopped his horse when he saw the Antiquary. “There had something,” he said, “very particular happened at the Castle”—(he could not, or would not, explain what)—“and Miss Wardour had sent him off express to Monkbarns, to beg that Mr. Oldbuck would come to them without a moment’s delay.”

“I am afraid,” said the Antiquary, “his course also is drawing to a close. What can I do?”

“Do, sir?” exclaimed Hector, with his characteristic impatience,—“get on the horse, and turn his head homeward—you will be at Knockwinnock Castle in ten minutes.”

“He is quite a free goer,” said the servant, dismounting to adjust the girths and stirrups,—“he only pulls a little if he feels a dead weight on him.”

“I should soon be a dead weight off him, my friend,” said the Antiquary.—“What the devil, nephew, are you weary of me? or do you suppose me weary of my life, that I should get on the back of such a Bucephalus as that? No, no, my friend, if I am to be at Knockwinnock to-day, it must be by walking quietly forward on my own feet, which I will do with as little delay as possible. Captain M’Intyre may ride that animal himself, if he pleases.”

“I have little hope I could be of any use, uncle, but I cannot think of their distress without wishing to show sympathy at least—so I will ride on before, and announce to them that you are coming.—I’ll trouble you for your spurs, my friend.”

“You will scarce need them, sir,” said the man, taking them off at the same time, and buckling them upon Captain Mlntyre’s heels, “he’s very frank to the road.”

Oldbuck stood astonished at this last act of temerity, “are you mad, Hector?” he cried, “or have you forgotten what is said by Quintus Curtius, with whom, as a soldier, you must needs be familiar,—Nobilis equus umbra quidem virgae regitur; ignavus ne calcari quidem excitari potest; which plainly shows that spurs are useless in every case, and, I may add, dangerous in most.”

But Hector, who cared little for the opinion of either Quintus Curtius or of the Antiquary, upon such a topic, only answered with a heedless “Never fear—never fear, sir.”

“There they go, well matched,” said Oldbuck, looking after them as they started—“a mad horse and a wild boy, the two most unruly creatures in Christendom! and all to get half an hour sooner to a place where nobody wants him; for I doubt Sir Arthur’s griefs are beyond the cure of our light horseman. It must be the villany of Dousterswivel, for whom Sir Arthur has done so much; for I cannot help observing, that, with some natures, Tacitus’s maxim holdeth good: Beneficia eo usque laeta sunt dum videntur exsolvi posse; ubi multum antevenere, pro gratia odium redditur,—from which a wise man might take a caution, not to oblige any man beyond the degree in which he may expect to be requited, lest he should make his debtor a bankrupt in gratitude.”

Murmuring to himself such scraps of cynical philosophy, our Antiquary paced the sands towards Knockwinnock; but it is necessary we should outstrip him, for the purpose of explaining the reasons of his being so anxiously summoned thither.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

From the time that Sir Arthur Wardour had become possessor of the treasure found in Misticot’s grave, he had been in a state of mind more resembling ecstasy than sober sense. Indeed, at one time his daughter had become seriously apprehensive for his intellect; for, as he had no doubt that he had the secret of possessing himself of wealth to an unbounded extent, his language and carriage were those of a man who had acquired the philosopher’s stone. He talked of buying contiguous estates, that would have led him from one side of the island to the other, as if he were determined to brook no neighbour save the sea. He corresponded with an architect of eminence, upon a plan of renovating the castle of his forefathers on a style of extended magnificence that might have rivalled that of Windsor, and laying out the grounds on a suitable scale. Troops of liveried menials were already, in fancy, marshalled in his halls, and—for what may not unbounded wealth authorize its possessor to aspire to?—the coronet of a marquis, perhaps of a duke, was glittering before his imagination. His daughter—to what matches might she not look forward? Even an alliance with the blood-royal was not beyond the sphere of his hopes. His son was already a general—and he himself whatever ambition could dream of in its wildest visions.

In this mood, if any one endeavoured to bring Sir Arthur down to the regions of common life, his replies were in the vein of Ancient Pistol—

The reader may conceive the amazement of Miss Wardour, when, instead of undergoing an investigation concerning the addresses of Lovel, as she had expected from the long conference of her father with Mr. Oldbuck, upon the morning of the fated day when the treasure was discovered, the conversation of Sir Arthur announced an imagination heated with the hopes of possessing the most unbounded wealth. But she was seriously alarmed when Dousterswivel was sent for to the Castle, and was closeted with her father—his mishap condoled with—his part taken, and his loss compensated. All the suspicions which she had long entertained respecting this man became strengthened, by observing his pains to keep up the golden dreams of her father, and to secure for himself, under various pretexts, as much as possible out of the windfall which had so strangely fallen to Sir Arthur’s share.

Other evil symptoms began to appear, following close on each other. Letters arrived every post, which Sir Arthur, as soon as he had looked at the directions, flung into the fire without taking the trouble to open them. Miss Wardour could not help suspecting that these epistles, the contents of which seemed to be known to her father by a sort of intuition, came from pressing creditors. In the meanwhile, the temporary aid which he had received from the treasure dwindled fast away. By far the greater part had been swallowed up by the necessity of paying the bill of six hundred pounds, which had threatened Sir Arthur with instant distress. Of the rest, some part was given to the adept, some wasted upon extravagances which seemed to the poor knight fully authorized by his full-blown hopes,—and some went to stop for a time the mouths of such claimants as, being weary of fair promises, had become of opinion with Harpagon, that it was necessary to touch something substantial. At length circumstances announced but too plainly, that it was all expended within two or three days after its discovery; and there appeared no prospect of a supply. Sir Arthur, naturally impatient, now taxed Dousterswivel anew with breach of those promises through which he had hoped to convert all his lead into gold. But that worthy gentleman’s turn was now served; and as he had grace enough to wish to avoid witnessing the fall of the house which he had undermined, he was at the trouble of bestowing a few learned terms of art upon Sir Arthur, that at least he might not be tormented before his time. He took leave of him, with assurances that he would return to Knockwinnock the next morning, with such information as would not fail to relieve Sir Arthur from all his distresses.

“For, since I have consulted in such matters, I ave never,” said Mr. Herman Dousterswivel, “approached so near de arcanum, what you call de great mystery,—de Panchresta—de Polychresta—I do know as much of it as Pelaso de Taranta, or Basilius—and either I will bring you in two and tree days de No. III. of Mr. Mishdigoat, or you shall call me one knave myself, and never look me in de face again no more at all.”

The adept departed with this assurance, in the firm resolution of making good the latter part of the proposition, and never again appearing before his injured patron. Sir Arthur remained in a doubtful and anxious state of mind. The positive assurances of the philosopher, with the hard words Panchresta, Basilius, and so forth, produced some effect on his mind. But he had been too often deluded by such jargon, to be absolutely relieved of his doubt, and he retired for the evening into his library, in the fearful state of one who, hanging over a precipice, and without the means of retreat, perceives the stone on which he rests gradually parting from the rest of the crag, and about to give way with him.

The visions of hope decayed, and there increased in proportion that feverish agony of anticipation with which a man, educated in a sense of consequence, and possessed of opulence,—the supporter of an ancient name, and the father of two promising children,—foresaw the hour approaching which should deprive him of all the splendour which time had made familiarly necessary to him, and send him forth into the world to struggle with poverty, with rapacity, and with scorn. Under these dire forebodings, his temper, exhausted by the sickness of delayed hope, became peevish and fretful, and his words and actions sometimes expressed a reckless desperation, which alarmed Miss Wardour extremely. We have seen, on a former occasion, that Sir Arthur was a man of passions lively and quick, in proportion to the weakness of his character in other respects; he was unused to contradiction, and if he had been hitherto, in general, good-humoured and cheerful, it was probably because the course of his life had afforded no such frequent provocation as to render his irritability habitual.

On the third morning after Dousterswivel’s departure, the servant, as usual, laid on the breakfast table the newspaper and letters of the day. Miss Wardour took up the former to avoid the continued ill-humour of her father, who had wrought himself into a violent passion, because the toast was over-browned.

“I perceive how it is,” was his concluding speech on this interesting subject,—“my servants, who have had their share of my fortune, begin to think there is little to be made of me in future. But while I am the scoundrel’s master I will be so, and permit no neglect—no, nor endure a hair’s-breadth diminution of the respect I am entitled to exact from them.”

“I am ready to leave your honour’s service this instant,” said the domestic upon whom the fault had been charged, “as soon as you order payment of my wages.”

Sir Arthur, as if stung by a serpent, thrust his hand into his pocket, and instantly drew out the money which it contained, but which was short of the man’s claim. “What money have you got, Miss Wardour?” he said, in a tone of affected calmness, but which concealed violent agitation.

Miss Wardour gave him her purse; he attempted to count the bank notes which it contained, but could not reckon them. After twice miscounting the sum, he threw the whole to his daughter, and saying, in a stern voice, “Pay the rascal, and let him leave the house instantly!” he strode out of the room.

The mistress and servant stood alike astonished at the agitation and vehemence of his manner.

“I am sure, ma’am, if I had thought I was particularly wrang, I wadna hae made ony answer when Sir Arthur challenged me. I hae been lang in his service, and he has been a kind master, and you a kind mistress, and I wad like ill ye should think I wad start for a hasty word. I am sure it was very wrang o’ me to speak about wages to his honour, when maybe he has something to vex him. I had nae thoughts o’ leaving the family in this way.”

“Go down stair, Robert,” said his mistress—“something has happened to fret my father—go down stairs, and let Alick answer the bell.”

When the man left the room, Sir Arthur re-entered, as if he had been watching his departure. “What’s the meaning of this?” he said hastily, as he observed the notes lying still on the table—“Is he not gone? Am I neither to be obeyed as a master or a father?”

“He is gone to give up his charge to the housekeeper, sir,—I thought there was not such instant haste.”

“There is haste, Miss Wardour,” answered her father, interrupting her;—“What I do henceforth in the house of my forefathers, must be done speedily, or never.”

He then sate down, and took up with a trembling hand the basin of tea prepared for him, protracting the swallowing of it, as if to delay the necessity of opening the post-letters which lay on the table, and which he eyed from time to time, as if they had been a nest of adders ready to start into life and spring upon him.

“You will be happy to hear,” said Miss Wardour, willing to withdraw her father’s mind from the gloomy reflections in which he appeared to be plunged, “you will be happy to hear, sir, that Lieutenant Taffril’s gun-brig has got safe into Leith Roads—I observe there had been apprehensions for his safety—I am glad we did not hear them till they were contradicted.”

“And what is Taffril and his gun-brig to me?”

“Sir!” said Miss Wardour in astonishment; for Sir Arthur, in his ordinary state of mind, took a fidgety sort of interest in all the gossip of the day and country.

“I say,” he repeated in a higher and still more impatient key, “what do I care who is saved or lost? It’s nothing to me, I suppose?”

“I did not know you were busy, Sir Arthur; and thought, as Mr. Taffril is a brave man, and from our own country, you would be happy to hear”—

“Oh, I am happy—as happy as possible—and, to make you happy too, you shall have some of my good news in return.” And he caught up a letter. “It does not signify which I open first—they are all to the same tune.”

He broke the seal hastily, ran the letter over, and then threw it to his daughter. “Ay—I could not have lighted more happily!—this places the copestone.”

Miss Wardour, in silent terror, took up the letter. “Read it—read it aloud!” said her father; “it cannot be read too often; it will serve to break you in for other good news of the same kind.”

She began to read with a faltering voice, “Dear Sir.”

“He dears me too, you see, this impudent drudge of a writer’s office, who, a twelvemonth since, was not fit company for my second table—I suppose I shall be dear Knight’ with him by and by.”

“Dear Sir,” resumed Miss Wardour; but, interrupting herself, “I see the contents are unpleasant, sir—it will only vex you my reading them aloud.”

“If you will allow me to know my own pleasure, Miss Wardour, I entreat you to go on—I presume, if it were unnecessary, I should not ask you to take the trouble.”

“Having been of late taken into copartnery,” continued Miss Wardour, reading the letter, “by Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, son of your late correspondent and man of business, Girnigo Greenhorn, Esq., writer to the signet, whose business I conducted as parliament-house clerk for many years, which business will in future be carried on under the firm of Greenhorn and Grinderson (which I memorandum for the sake of accuracy in addressing your future letters), and having had of late favours of yours, directed to my aforesaid partner, Gilbert Greenhorn, in consequence of his absence at the Lamberton races, have the honour to reply to your said favours.”

“You see my friend is methodical, and commences by explaining the causes which have procured me so modest and elegant a correspondent. Go on—I can bear it.”

And he laughed that bitter laugh which is perhaps the most fearful expression of mental misery. Trembling to proceed, and yet afraid to disobey, Miss Wardour continued to read—“I am for myself and partner, sorry we cannot oblige you by looking out for the sums you mention, or applying for a suspension in the case of Goldiebirds’ bond, which would be more inconsistent, as we have been employed to act as the said Goldiebirds’ procurators and attorneys, in which capacity we have taken out a charge of horning against you, as you must be aware by the schedule left by the messenger, for the sum of four thousand seven hundred and fifty-six pounds five shillings and sixpence one-fourth of a penny sterling, which, with annual-rent and expenses effeiring, we presume will be settled during the currency of the charge, to prevent further trouble. Same time, I am under the necessity to observe our own account, amounting to seven hundred and sixty-nine pounds ten shillings and sixpence, is also due, and settlement would be agreeable; but as we hold your rights, title-deeds, and documents in hypothec, shall have no objection to give reasonable time—say till the next money term. I am, for myself and partner, concerned to add, that Messrs. Goldiebirds’ instructions to us are to proceed peremptorie and sine mora, of which I have the pleasure to advise you, to prevent future mistakes, reserving to ourselves otherwise to age’ as accords. I am, for self and partner, dear sir, your obliged humble servant, Gabriel Grinderson, for Greenhorn and Grinderson.”

“Ungrateful villain!” said Miss Wardour.

“Why, no—it’s in the usual rule, I suppose; the blow could not have been perfect if dealt by another hand—it’s all just as it should be,” answered the poor Baronet, his affected composure sorely belied by his quivering lip and rolling eye—“But here’s a postscript I did not notice—come, finish the epistle.”

“I have to add (not for self but partner) that Mr. Greenhorn will accommodate you by taking your service of plate, or the bay horses, if sound in wind and limb, at a fair appreciation, in part payment of your accompt.”

“G—d confound him!” said Sir Arthur, losing all command of himself at this condescending proposal: “his grandfather shod my father’s horses, and this descendant of a scoundrelly blacksmith proposes to swindle me out of mine! But I will write him a proper answer.”

And he sate down and began to write with great vehemence, then stopped and read aloud:—“Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn,—in answer to two letters of a late date, I received a letter from a person calling himself Grinderson, and designing himself as your partner. When I address any one, I do not usually expect to be answered by deputy—I think I have been useful to your father, and friendly and civil to yourself, and therefore am now surprised—And yet,” said he, stopping short, “why should I be surprised at that or anything else? or why should I take up my time in writing to such a scoundrel?—I shan’t be always kept in prison, I suppose; and to break that puppy’s bones when I get out, shall be my first employment.”

“In prison, sir?” said Miss Wardour, faintly.

“Ay, in prison to be sure. Do you make any question about that? Why, Mr. what’s his name’s fine letter for self and partner seems to be thrown away on you, or else you have got four thousand so many hundred pounds, with the due proportion of shillings, pence, and half-pence, to pay that aforesaid demand, as he calls it.”

“I, sir? O if I had the means!—But where’s my brother?—why does he not come, and so long in Scotland? He might do something to assist us.”

“Who, Reginald?—I suppose he’s gone with Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, or some such respectable person, to the Lamberton races—I have expected him this week past; but I cannot wonder that my children should neglect me as well as every other person. But I should beg your pardon, my love, who never either neglected or offended me in your life.”

And kissing her cheek as she threw her arms round his neck, he experienced that consolation which a parent feels, even in the most distressed state, in the assurance that he possesses the affection of a child.

Miss Wardour took the advantage of this revulsion of feeling, to endeavour to soothe her father’s mind to composure. She reminded him that he had many friends.

“I had many once,” said Sir Arthur; “but of some I have exhausted their kindness with my frantic projects; others are unable to assist me—others are unwilling. It is all over with me. I only hope Reginald will take example by my folly.”

“Should I not send to Monkbarns, sir?” said his daughter.

“To what purpose? He cannot lend me such a sum, and would not if he could, for he knows I am otherwise drowned in debt; and he would only give me scraps of misanthropy and quaint ends of Latin.”

“But he is shrewd and sensible, and was bred to business, and, I am sure, always loved this family.”

“Yes, I believe he did. It is a fine pass we are come to, when the affection of an Oldbuck is of consequence to a Wardour! But when matters come to extremity, as I suppose they presently will—it may be as well to send for him. And now go take your walk, my dear—my mind is more composed than when I had this cursed disclosure to make. You know the worst, and may daily or hourly expect it. Go take your walk—I would willingly be alone for a little while.”

When Miss Wardour left the apartment, her first occupation was to avail herself of the half permission granted by her father, by despatching to Monkbarns the messenger, who, as we have already seen, met the Antiquary and his nephew on the sea-beach.

Little recking, and indeed scarce knowing, where she was wandering, chance directed her into the walk beneath the Briery Bank, as it was called. A brook, which in former days had supplied the castle-moat with water, here descended through a narrow dell, up which Miss Wardour’s taste had directed a natural path, which was rendered neat and easy of ascent, without the air of being formally made and preserved. It suited well the character of the little glen, which was overhung with thickets and underwood, chiefly of larch and hazel, intermixed with the usual varieties of the thorn and brier. In this walk had passed that scene of explanation between Miss Wardour and Lovel which was overheard by old Edie Ochiltree. With a heart softened by the distress which approached her family, Miss Wardour now recalled every word and argument which Lovel had urged in support of his suit, and could not help confessing to herself, it was no small subject of pride to have inspired a young man of his talents with a passion so strong and disinterested. That he should have left the pursuit of a profession in which he was said to be rapidly rising, to bury himself in a disagreeable place like Fairport, and brood over an unrequited passion, might be ridiculed by others as romantic, but was naturally forgiven as an excess of affection by the person who was the object of his attachment. Had he possessed an independence, however moderate, or ascertained a clear and undisputed claim to the rank in society he was well qualified to adorn, she might now have had it in her power to offer her father, during his misfortunes, an asylum in an establishment of her own. These thoughts, so favourable to the absent lover, crowded in, one after the other, with such a minute recapitulation of his words, looks, and actions, as plainly intimated that his former repulse had been dictated rather by duty than inclination. Isabella was musing alternately upon this subject, and upon that of her father’s misfortunes, when, as the path winded round a little hillock covered with brushwood, the old Blue-Gown suddenly met her.

With an air as if he had something important and mysterious to communicate, he doffed his bonnet, and assumed the cautious step and voice of one who would not willingly be overheard. “I hae been wishing muckle to meet wi’ your leddyship—for ye ken I darena come to the house for Dousterswivel.”

“I heard indeed,” said Miss Wardour, dropping an alms into the bonnet—“I heard that you had done a very foolish, if not a very bad thing, Edie— and I was sorry to hear it.”

“Hout, my bonny leddy—fulish? A’ the world’s fules—and how should auld Edie Ochiltree be aye wise?—And for the evil—let them wha deal wi’ Dousterswivel tell whether he gat a grain mair than his deserts.”

“That may be true, Edie, and yet,” said Miss Wardour, “you may have been very wrong.”

“Weel, weel, we’se no dispute that e’ennow—it’s about yoursell I’m gaun to speak. Div ye ken what’s hanging ower the house of Knockwinnock?”

“Great distress, I fear, Edie,” answered Miss Wardour; “but I am surprised it is already so public.”

“Public!—Sweepclean, the messenger, will be there the day wi’ a’ his tackle. I ken it frae ane o’ his concurrents, as they ca’ them, that’s warned to meet him; and they’ll be about their wark belyve; whare they clip, there needs nae kame—they shear close eneugh.”

“Are you sure this bad hour, Edie, is so very near?—come, I know, it will.”

“It’s e’en as I tell you, leddy. But dinna be cast down—there’s a heaven ower your head here, as weel as in that fearful night atween the Ballyburghness and the Halket-head. D’ye think He, wha rebuked the waters, canna protect you against the wrath of men, though they be armed with human authority?”

“It is indeed all we have to trust to.”

“Ye dinna ken—ye dinna ken: when the night’s darkest, the dawn’s nearest. If I had a gude horse, or could ride him when I had him, I reckon there wad be help yet. I trusted to hae gotten a cast wi’ the Royal Charlotte, but she’s coupit yonder, it’s like, at Kittlebrig. There was a young gentleman on the box, and he behuved to drive; and Tam Sang, that suld hae mair sense, he behuved to let him, and the daft callant couldna tak the turn at the corner o’ the brig; and od! he took the curbstane, and he’s whomled her as I wad whomle a toom bicker—it was a luck I hadna gotten on the tap o’ her. Sae I came down atween hope and despair, to see if ye wad send me on.”

“And, Edie—where would ye go?” said the young lady.

“To Tannonburgh, my leddy” (which was the first stage from Fairport, but a good deal nearer to Knockwinnock), “and that without delay—it’s a’ on your ain business.”

“Our business, Edie? Alas! I give you all credit for your good meaning; but”—

“There’s nae buts about it, my leddy, for gang I maun,” said the persevering Blue-Gown.

“But what is it that you would do at Tannonburgh?—or how can your going there benefit my father’s affairs?”

“Indeed, my sweet leddy,” said the gaberlunzie, “ye maun just trust that bit secret to auld Edie’s grey pow, and ask nae questions about it. Certainly if I wad hae wared my life for you yon night, I can hae nae reason to play an ill pliskie t’ye in the day o’ your distress.”

“Well, Edie, follow me then,” said Miss Wardour, “and I will try to get you sent to Tannonburgh.”

“Mak haste then, my bonny leddy—mak haste, for the love o’ goodness!”— and he continued to exhort her to expedition until they reached the Castle.