Red Cap Tales, Stolen from the Treasure Chest of the Wizard of the North
by S. R. Crockett · English · Gutenberg #22656 · 513,040 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Red Cap Tales, Stolen from the Treasure Chest of the Wizard of the North
Author: S. R. Crockett
Walter Scott
Release date: September 17, 2007 [eBook #22656]
Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22656
Credits: Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Emille and the Booksmiths
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RED CAP TALES
[Illustration: Red Cap among the Wizard's Treasures.]
RED CAP TALES
STOLEN FROM THE TREASURE CHEST OF THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH
WHICH THEFT IS HUMBLY ACKNOWLEDGED BY
S. R. CROCKETT
=New York= THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK 1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1904.
=Norwood Press=
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
THE WHY!
FOUR CHILDREN WOULD NOT READ SCOTT
SO I told them these stories--and others--to lure them to the printed
book, much as carrots are dangled before the nose of the reluctant
donkey. They are four average intelligent children enough, but they hold
severely modern views upon storybooks. _Waverley_, in especial, they
could not away with. They found themselves stuck upon the very
threshold.
Now, since the first telling of these Red Cap Tales, the Scott shelf in
the library has been taken by storm and escalade. It is permanently
gap-toothed all along the line. Also there are nightly skirmishes, even
to the laying on of hands, as to who shall sleep with _Waverley_ under
his pillow.
It struck me that there must be many oldsters in the world who, for the
sake of their own youth, would like the various Sweethearts who now
inhabit their nurseries, to read Sir Walter with the same breathless
eagerness as they used to do--how many years agone? It is chiefly for
their sakes that I have added several interludes, telling how
Sweetheart, Hugh John, Sir Toady Lion, and Maid Margaret received my
petty larcenies from the full chest of the Wizard.
At any rate, Red Cap succeeded in one case--why should he not in
another? I claim no merit in the telling of the tales, save that, like
medicines well sugar-coated, the patients mistook them for candies
and--asked for more.
The books are open. Any one can tell Scott's stories over again in his
own way. This is mine.
S. R. CROCKETT.
CONTENTS
CERTAIN SMALL PHARAOHS THAT KNEW NOT JOSEPH 1
RED CAP TALES FROM "WAVERLEY"
THE FIRST TALE:
I. GOOD-BYE TO WAVERLEY-HONOUR 11
II. THE ENCHANTED CASTLE 16
III. THE BARON AND THE BEAR 21
_THE FIRST INTERLUDE OF ACTION_ 28
THE SECOND TALE:
I. THE CATTLE-LIFTING 31
II. THE ROBBER'S CAVE 35
_THE SECOND INTERLUDE_ 41
THE THIRD TALE:
I. THE CHIEF OF THE MAC-IVORS AND THE CHIEF'S SISTER 46
II. MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLE 55
_THE THIRD INTERLUDE--BEING MAINLY A FEW WORDS
UPON HEROES_ 62
THE FOURTH TALE:
HERE AND THERE AMONG THE HEATHER 64
_INTERLUDE OF STICKING-PLASTER_ 78
THE FIFTH TALE:
THE WHITE COCKADE 81
THE SIXTH TALE:
BLACK LOOKS AND BRIGHT SWORDS 94
_INTERLUDE OF BREVITY_ 104
THE LAST TALE:
THE BARON'S SURPRISE 105
RED CAP TALES FROM "GUY MANNERING"
_WHERE WE TOLD THE SECOND TALE_ 123
THE FIRST TALE:
I. WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY 124
_INTERLUDE OF INTERROGATION_ 140
THE SECOND TALE:
I. HAPPY DOMINIE SAMPSON 143
II. DANDIE DINMONT 150
III. IN THE LION'S MOUTH 158
_INTERLUDE OF LOCALITY_ 162
THE THIRD TALE:
THE RETURN OF DIRK HATTERAICK 166
THE FOURTH TALE:
THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE 185
_INTERLUDE OF CONSULTATION_ 204
RED CAP TALES FROM "ROB ROY"
THE FIRST TALE:
FRANK THE HIGHWAYMAN 211
_INTERLUDE OF DISCUSSION_ 236
THE SECOND TALE:
I. IN THE TOILS OF RASHLEIGH 241
II. ROB ROY AT LAST 254
III. THE BAILIE FIGHTS WITH FIRE 267
IV. THE DROWNING OF THE SPY 276
_INTERLUDE OF EXPOSTULATION_ 284
THE THIRD TALE:
I. IN THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES 288
II. THE ESCAPE 294
III. THE DEATH OF RASHLEIGH 307
RED CAP TALES FROM "THE ANTIQUARY"
THE FIRST TALE:
I. THE MYSTERIOUS MR. LOVEL 326
II. THE NIGHT OF STORM 337
_INTERLUDE OF WARNING_ 352
THE SECOND TALE:
I. LOVEL FIGHTS A DUEL 354
II. THE SEEKERS OF TREASURE 370
III. MISTICOT'S GRAVE 377
_A QUITE SUPERFLUOUS INTERLUDE_ 389
THE THIRD TALE:
I. THE EARL'S SECRET 396
II. THE MOTHER'S VENGEANCE 400
III. THE HEIR OF GLENALLAN 408
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
BY SIMON HARMON VEDDER
1 Red Cap among the Wizard's treasures _Frontispiece_
WAVERLEY
_Facing page_
2 In an instant his red cap was off and he was
bowing and saluting . . . with . . . extravagant gestures 20
3 So fierce was the attack . . . made on Edward, that the
young man was compelled to draw his pistol 66
4 Rose Bradwardine . . . watched him with a sigh on her lip
and colour on her cheek 84
5 "Vich Ian Vohr," it said in a dreadful voice, "beware of
to-morrow" 102
GUY MANNERING
6 "Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan," she cried 136
7 He would stand there transfixed . . . till a serving-maid
pulled his skirts to tell him dinner was waiting 150
8 He saw his late companion . . . engaged in deadly combat
with a couple of rascals 154
9 Hazlewood snatched the gun from the servant and haughtily
ordered Brown to stand back and not to alarm the lady 170
ROB ROY
10 He took the lantern . . . and holding it up, proceeded to
examine the stern, set countenance of Frank's guide 256
11 The fight between Frank and Rashleigh 266
12 "Stand!" she cried, . . . "and tell me what you seek in
Macgregor's country" 278
13 The girl's face, perhaps not altogether unintentionally,
touched that of Frank Osbaldistone 300
THE ANTIQUARY
14 "Turn back! Turn back!" he cried 344
15 Dousterswivel flung himself on his knees 375
16 He lighted his beacon accordingly 410
RED CAP TALES
CERTAIN SMALL PHARAOHS THAT KNEW NOT JOSEPH
IT was all Sweetheart's fault, and this is how it came about.
She and I were at Dryburgh Abbey, sitting quietly on a rustic seat, and
looking toward the aisle in which slept the Great Dead. The long
expected had happened, and we had made pilgrimage to our Mecca. Yet, in
spite of the still beauty of the June day, I could see that a shadow lay
upon our Sweetheart's brow.
"Oh, I know he was great," she burst out at last, "and what you read me
out of the _Life_ was nice. I like hearing about Sir Walter--but--"
I knew what was coming.
"But what?" I said, looking severely at the ground, so that I might be
able to harden my heart against the pathos of Sweetheart's expression.
"But--I can't read the novels--indeed I can't. I have tried _Waverley_
at least twenty times. And as for _Rob Roy_--"
Even the multiplication table failed here, and at this, variously
a-sprawl on the turf beneath, the smaller fry giggled.
"Course," said Hugh John, who was engaged in eating grass like an ox,
"we know it is true about _Rob Roy_. She read us one whole volume, and
there wasn't no Rob Roy, nor any fighting in it. So we pelted her with
fir-cones to make her stop and read over _Treasure Island_ to us
instead!"
"Yes, though we had heard it twenty times already," commented Sir Toady
Lion, trying his hardest to pinch his brother's legs on the sly.
"Books wifout pictures is silly!" said a certain Maid Margaret, a
companion new to the honourable company, who was weaving daisy-chains,
her legs crossed beneath her, Turk fashion. In literature she had got as
far as words of one syllable, and had a poor opinion even of them.
"_I_ had read all Scott's novels long before I was your age," I said
reprovingly.
The children received this announcement with the cautious silence with
which every rising generation listens to the experiences of its elders
when retailed by way of odious comparison.
"Um-m!" said Sir Toady, the licensed in speech; "_we_ know all that. Oh,
yes; and you didn't like fruit, and you liked medicine in a big spoon,
and eating porridge and--"
"Oh, we know--we know!" cried all the others in chorus. Whereupon I
informed them what would have happened to us thirty years ago if we had
ventured to address our parents in such fashion. But Sweetheart, with
the gravity of her age upon her, endeavoured to raise the discussion to
its proper level.
"Scott writes such a lot before you get at the story," she objected,
knitting her brows; "why couldn't he just have begun right away?"
"With Squire Trelawney and Dr. Livesey drawing at their pipes in the
oak-pannelled dining room, and Black Dog outside the door, and Pew
coming tapping along the road with his stick!" cried Hugh John, turning
off a sketchy synopsis of his favourite situations in fiction.
"Now that's what I call a proper book!" said Sir Toady, hastily rolling
himself out of the way of being kicked. (For with these unusual
children, the smooth ordinary upper surfaces of life covered a constant
succession of private wars and rumours of wars, which went on under the
table at meals, in the schoolroom, and even, it is whispered, in
church.)
As for blithe Maid Margaret, she said nothing, for she was engaged in
testing the capacities of a green slope of turf for turning somersaults
upon.
"In Sir Walter Scott's time," I resumed gravely, "novels were not
written for little girls--"
"Then why did you give us Miss Edgeworth to read?" said Sweetheart,
quickly. But I went on without noticing the interruption, "Now, if you
like, I will tell you some of Sir Walter's stories over again, and then
I will mark in your own little edition the chapters you can read for
yourselves."
The last clause quieted the joyous shout which the promise of a
story--any sort of a story--had called forth. An uncertain look crept
over their faces, as if they scented afar off that abomination of
desolation--"lessons in holiday time."
"_Must_ we read the chapters?" said Hugh John, unhopefully.
"Tell us the stories, anyway, and leave it to our honour!" suggested Sir
Toady Lion, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Is it a story--oh, don't begin wifout me!" Maid Margaret called from
behind the trees, her sturdy five-year-old legs carrying her to the
scene of action so fast that her hat fell off on the grass and she had
to turn back for it.
"Well, I will tell you, if I can, the story of 'Waverley,'" I said.
"Was he called after the pens?" said Toady Lion the irreverent, but
under his breath. He was, however, promptly kicked into silence by his
peers--seriously this time, for he who interferes with the telling of a
story is a "Whelk,"--which, for the moment, is the family word for
whatever is base, mean, unprofitable, and unworthy of being associated
with.
But first I told them about the writing of _Waverley_, and the hand at
the Edinburgh back window which wrote and wrote. Only that, but the
story as told by Lockhart had affected my imagination as a boy.
"Did you ever hear of the Unwearied Hand?" I asked them.
"It sounds a nice title," said Sir Toady; "had he only one?"
"It was in the early summer weather of 1814," I began, "after a dinner
in a house in George Street, that a young man, sitting at the wine with
his companions, looked out of the window, and, turning pale, asked his
next neighbour to change seats with him.
"'There it is--at it again!' he said, with a thump of his fist on
thetable that made the decanters jump, and clattered the glasses;
'it has haunted me every night these three weeks. Just when I am
lifting my glass I look through the window, and there it is at
it--writing--writing--always writing!'
"So the young men, pressing about, looked eagerly, and lo! seen through
the back window of a house in a street built at right angles, they saw
the shape of a man's hand writing swiftly, steadily, on large quarto
pages. As soon as one was finished, it was added to a pile which grew
and grew, rising, as it were, visibly before their eyes.
"'It goes on like that all the time, even after the candles are lit,'
said the young man, 'and it makes me ashamed. I get no peace for it when
I am not at my books. Why cannot the man do his work without making
others uncomfortable?'
"Perhaps some of the company may have thought it was not a man at all,
but some prisoned fairy tied to an endless task--Wizard Michael's
familiar spirit, or Lord Soulis's imp Red Cap doing his master's bidding
with a goose-quill.
"But it was something much more wonderful than any of these. It was the
hand of Walter Scott finishing _Waverley_, at the rate of a volume every
ten days!"
"Why did he work so hard?" demanded Hugh John, whom the appearance of
fifty hands diligently writing would not have annoyed--no, not if they
had all worked like sewing-machines.
"Because," I answered, "the man who wrote _Waverley_ was beginning to
have more need of money. He had bought land. He was involved in other
people's misfortunes. Besides, for a long time, he had been a great
poet, and now of late there had arisen a greater."
"I know," cried Sweetheart, "Lord Byron--but _I_ don't think he was."
"Anyway Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu is ripping!" announced Hugh John,
and, rising to his feet, he whistled shrill in imitation of the outlaw.
It was the time to take the affairs of children at the fulness of the
tide.
"I think," I ventured, "that you would like the story of _Waverley_ if I
were to tell it now. I know you will like _Rob Roy_. Which shall it be
first?"
Then there were counter-cries of "Waverley" and "Rob Roy"--all the fury
of a contested election. But Sweetheart, waiting till the brawlers were
somewhat breathed, indicated the final sense of the meeting by saying
quietly, "_Tell us the one the hand was writing!_"
RED CAP TALES
TOLD FROM
WAVERLEY
THE FIRST TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"[1]
I. GOOD-BYE TO WAVERLEY-HONOUR
ON a certain Sunday evening, toward the middle of the eighteenth
century, a young man stood practising the guards of the broadsword in
the library of an old English manor-house. The young man was Captain
Edward Waverley, recently assigned to the command of a company in
Gardiner's regiment of dragoons, and his uncle was coming in to say a
few words to him before he set out to join the colours.
Being a soldier and a hero, Edward Waverley was naturally tall and
handsome, but, owing to the manner of his education, his uncle, an high
Jacobite of the old school, held that he was "somewhat too bookish" for
a proper man. He must therefore see a little of the world, asserted old
Sir Everard.
His Aunt Rachel had another reason for wishing him to leave
Waverley-Honour. She had actually observed her Edward look too often
across at the Squire's pew in church! Now Aunt Rachel held it no wrong
to look at Squire Stubbs's pew if only that pew had been empty. But it
was (oh, wickedness!) just when it contained the dear old-fashioned
sprigged gown and the fresh pretty face of Miss Cecilia Stubbs, that
Aunt Rachel's nephew looked most often in that direction. In addition to
which the old lady was sure she had observed "that little Celie Stubbs"
glance over at her handsome Edward in a way that--well, when _she_ was
young! And here the old lady bridled and tossed her head, and the words
which her lips formed themselves to utter (though she was too ladylike
to speak them) were obviously "The Minx!" Hence it was clear to the most
simple and unprejudiced that a greater distance had better be put
between the Waverley loft and the Squire's pew--and that as soon as
possible.
Edward's uncle, Sir Everard, had wished him to travel abroad in company
with his tutor, a staunch Jacobite clergyman by the name of Mr.
Pembroke. But to this Edward's father, who was a member of the
government, unexpectedly refused his sanction. Now Sir Everard despised
his younger brother as a turncoat (and indeed something little better
than a spy), but he could not gainsay a father's authority, even though
he himself had brought the boy up to be his heir.
"I am willing that you should be a soldier," he said to Edward; "your
ancestors have always been of that profession. Be brave like them, but
not rash. Remember you are the last of the Waverleys and the hope of
the house. Keep no company with gamblers, with rakes, or with Whigs. Do
your duty to God, to the Church of England, and--" He was going to say
"to the King," when he remembered that by his father's wish Edward was
going to fight the battles of King George. So the old Jacobite finished
off rather lamely by repeating, "to the Church of England and all
constituted authorities!"
Then the old man, not trusting himself to say more, broke off abruptly
and went down to the stables to choose the horses which were to carry
Edward to the north. Finally, he delivered into the hands of his nephew
an important letter addressed as follows:--
"To Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine, Esquire of Bradwardine, at his principal
mansion of Tully-Veolan in Perthshire, North Britain,--_These._--"
For that was the dignified way in which men of rank directed their
letters in those days.
The leave-taking of Mr. Pembroke, Edward's tutor, was even longer and
more solemn. And had Edward attended in the least to his moralisings, he
might have felt somewhat depressed. In conclusion, the good clergyman
presented him with several pounds of foolscap, closely written over in
a neat hand.
"These," he said, handling the sheets reverently, "are purposely written
small that they may be convenient to keep by you in your saddle-bags.
They are my works--my unpublished works. They will teach you the real
fundamental principles of the Church, principles concerning which, while
you have been my pupil, I have been under obligation never to speak to
you. But now as you read them, I doubt not but that the light will come
upon you! At all events, I have cleared my conscience."
Edward, in the quiet of his chamber, glanced at the heading of the
first: _A Dissent from Dissenters or the Comprehension Confuted_. He
felt the weight and thickness of the manuscript, and promptly confuted
their author by consigning the package to that particular corner of his
travelling trunk where he was least likely to come across it again.
On the other hand, his Aunt Rachel warned him with many head-shakings
against the forwardness of the ladies whom he would meet with in
Scotland (where she had never been). Then, more practically, she put
into his hand a purse of broad gold pieces, and set on his finger a
noble diamond ring.
As for Miss Celie Stubbs, she came to the Waverley church on the last
day before his departure, arrayed in all her best and newest clothes,
mighty fine with hoops, patches, and silks everywhere. But Master
Edward, who had his uniform on for the first time, his gold-laced hat
beside him on the cushion, his broadsword by his side, and his spurs on
his heels, hardly once looked at the Squire's pew. At which neglect
little Celie pouted somewhat at the time, but since within six months
she was married to Jones, the steward's son at Waverley-Honour, with
whom she lived happy ever after, we may take it that her heart could not
have been very deeply touched by Edward's inconstancy.
* * * * *
[As a suitable first taste of the original I now read to my audience
from a pocket _Waverley_, Chapter the Sixth, "The Adieus of Waverley."
It was listened to on the whole with more interest than I had hoped for.
It was an encouraging beginning. But Sir Toady, always irrepressible,
called out a little impatiently: "That's enough about him. Now tell us
what he _did!_" And this is how I endeavoured to obey.]
II. THE ENCHANTED CASTLE
Edward Waverley found his regiment quartered at Dundee in Scotland, but,
the time being winter and the people of the neighbourhood not very fond
of the "red soldiers," he did not enjoy the soldiering life so much as
he had expected. So, as soon as the summer was fairly come, he asked
permission to visit the Castle of Bradwardine, in order to pay his
respects to his uncle's friend.
It was noon of the second day after setting out when Edward Waverley
arrived at the village of Tully-Veolan to which he was bound. Never
before had he seen such a place. For, at his uncle's house of
Waverley-Honour, the houses of villagers, all white and neat, stood
about a village green, or lurked ancient and ivy-grown under the shade
of great old park trees. But the turf-roofed hovels of Tully-Veolan,
with their low doors supported on either side by all too intimate piles
of peat and rubbish, appeared to the young Englishman hardly fit for
human beings to live in. Indeed, from the hordes of wretched curs which
barked after the heels of his horse, Edward might have supposed them
meant to serve as kennels--save, that is, for the ragged urchins who
sprawled in the mud of the road and the old women who, distaff in hand,
dashed out to rescue them from being trampled upon by Edward's charger.
Passing gardens as full of nettles as of pot-herbs, and entering between
a couple of gate-posts, each crowned by the image of a rampant bear, the
young soldier at last saw before him, at the end of an avenue, the steep
roofs and crow-stepped gable ends of Bradwardine, half dwelling-house,
half castle. Here Waverley dismounted, and, giving his horse to the
soldier-servant who had accompanied him, he entered a court in which no
sound was to be heard save the plashing of a fountain. He saw the door
of a tall old mansion before him. Going up he raised the knocker, and
instantly the echoes resounded through the empty house. But no one came
to answer. The castle appeared uninhabited, the court a desert. Edward
glanced about him, half expecting to be hailed by some ogre or giant, as
adventurers used to be in the fairy tales he had read in childhood. But
instead he only saw all sorts of bears, big and little, climbing (as it
seemed) on the roof, over the windows, and out upon the ends of the
gables--while over the door at which he had been vainly knocking he read
in antique lettering the motto, "BEWAR THE BAR." But all these bruins
were of stone, and each one of them kept as still and silent as did
everything else about this strange mansion--except, that is, the
fountain, which, behind him in the court, kept up its noisy splashing.
Feeling, somehow, vaguely uncomfortable, Edward Waverley crossed the
court into a garden, green and pleasant, but to the full as solitary as
the castle court. Here again he found more bears, all sitting up in rows
on their haunches, on parapets and along terraces, as if engaged in
looking at the view. He wandered up and down, searching for some one to
whom to speak, and had almost made up his mind that he had found a real
enchanted Castle of Silence, when in the distance he saw a figure
approaching up one of the green walks. There was something uncouth and
strange about the way the newcomer kept waving his hands over his
head--then, for no apparent reason, flapping them across his breast like
a groom on a frosty day, hopping all the time first on one foot and then
on the other. Tiring of this way of getting over the ground, he would
advance by standing leaps, keeping both feet together. The only thing he
seemed quite incapable of doing was to use his feet, one after the
other, as ordinary people do when they are walking. Indeed, this strange
guardian of the enchanted castle of Bradwardine looked like a gnome or
fairy dwarf. For he was clad in an old-fashioned dress of grey, slashed
with scarlet. On his legs were scarlet stockings and on his head a
scarlet cap, which in its turn was surmounted by a turkey's feather.
He came along dancing and singing in jerks and snatches, till, suddenly
looking up from the ground, he saw Edward. In an instant his red cap was
off, and he was bowing and saluting, and again saluting and bowing,
with, if possible, still more extravagant gestures than before. Edward
asked this curious creature if the Baron Bradwardine were at home, and
what was his astonishment to be instantly answered in rhyme:
"The Knight's to the mountain
His bugle to wind;
The Lady's to greenwood
Her garland to bind.
The bower of Burd Ellen
Has moss on the floor,
That the step of Lord William,
Be silent and sure."
This was impressive enough, surely; but, after all, it did not tell
young Captain what he wanted to know. So he continued to question the
strange wight, and finally, after eliciting many unintelligible sounds,
was able to make out the single word "butler."
[Illustration: "HE came along dancing and singing in jerks and snatches,
till, suddenly looking up from the ground, he saw Edward. In an instant
his red cap was off, and he was bowing and saluting, and again saluting
and bowing, with, if possible, still more extravagant gestures than
before."]
Pouncing upon this, Edward commanded the Unknown to lead him instantly
to the butler.
Nothing loath, the fool danced and capered on in front, and, at a
turning of the path, they found an old man, who seemed by his dress to
be half butler, half gardener, digging diligently among the flower beds.
Upon seeing Captain Waverley, he let drop his spade, undid his green
apron, frowning all the time at Edward's guide for bringing his master's
guest upon him without warning, to find him digging up the earth like a
common labourer. But the Bradwardine butler had an explanation ready.
His Honour was with the folk, getting down the Black Hag (so he confided
to Edward). The two gardener lads had been ordered to attend his Honour.
So in order to amuse himself, he, the majordomo of Bradwardine, had been
amusing himself with dressing Miss Rose's flower beds. It was but seldom
that he found time for such like, though personally he was very fond of
garden work.
"He cannot get it wrought in more than two days a week, at no rate
whatever!" put in the scarecrow in the red cap and the turkey feather.
"Go instantly and find his Honour at the Black Hag," cried the majordomo
of Bradwardine, wrathful at this interference, "and tell him that there
is a gentleman come from England waiting him at the Hall."
"Can this poor fellow deliver a letter?" Edward asked doubtfully.
"With all fidelity, sir," said the butler, "that is, to any one whom he
respects. After all, he is more knave than fool. We call the innocent
Davie Dolittle, though his proper name is Davie Gellatley. But the truth
is, that since my young mistress, Miss Rose Bradwardine, took a fancy to
dress him up in fine clothes, the creature cannot be got to do a single
hand's turn of work. But here comes Miss Rose herself. Glad will she be
to welcome one of the name of Waverley to her father's house!"
III. THE BARON AND THE BEAR
Rose Bradwardine was still quite young. Scarce did the tale of her
years number seventeen, but already she was noted over all the
countryside as a pretty girl, with a skin like snow, and hair that
glistened like pale gold when the light fell upon it. Living so far from
society, she was naturally not a little shy. But as soon as her first
feeling of bashfulness was over, Rose spoke freely and brightly. Edward
and she, however, had but little time to be alone together. For it was
not long before the Baron of Bradwardine appeared, striding toward them
as if he had possessed himself of the giant's seven-league boots.
Bradwardine was a tall, thin, soldierly man, who in his time had seen
much of the world, and who under a hard and even stern exterior, hid a
heart naturally warm.
He was much given to the singing of French songs and to making long and
learned Latin quotations. And indeed he quoted Latin, even with the
tears standing in his eyes, as he first shook Edward by the hand and
then embraced him in the foreign fashion on both cheeks--all to express
the immense pleasure it was to receive in his house of Tully-Veolan "a
worthy scion of the old stock of Waverley-Honour."
While Miss Rose ran off to make some changes in her dress, the Baron
conducted Edward into a hall hung about with pikes and armour. Four or
five servants, in old-fashioned livery, received them with honour, the
majordomo at their head. The butler-gardener was not to be caught
napping a second time.
Bradwardine took Captain Waverley at once into an old dining room all
panelled with black oak, round the walls of which hung pictures of
former chiefs of the line of Tully-Veolan. Somewhere out-of-doors a bell
was ringing to announce the arrival of other guests, and Edward observed
with some interest that the table was laid for six people. In such a
desolate country it seemed difficult to imagine where they would arrive
from.
Upon this point Edward soon received enlightenment. First, there was the
Laird of Balmawhapple,--"a discreet young gentleman," said the Baron,
"much given to field sports." Next came the Laird of Killancureit, who
cultivated his own fields and cared for his own cattle--thereby (quoth
the Baron) showing the commonness of his origin. Added to these were a
"non-juring" Episcopal minister--that is, one who had refused to take
the oaths of allegiance to King George's government, and, last of all,
the "Baron-Bailie" or land-steward of Bradwardine, one Mr. Macwheeble.
This last, to show his consciousness of his inferior position, seated
himself as far as possible from the table, and as often as he wanted to
eat, he bent himself nearly double over his plate, in the shape of a
clasp-knife about to shut. When dinner was over, Rose and the clergyman
discreetly retired, when, with a sign to the butler, the Baron of
Bradwardine produced out of a locked case a golden cup called the
Blessed Bear of Bradwardine, in which first the host and then all the
company pledged the health of the young English stranger. After a while,
the Baron and Edward set out to see their guests a certain distance on
their way, going with them down the avenue to the village "change-house"
or inn, where Balmawhapple and Killancureit had stabled their horses.
Edward, being weary, would much rather have found himself in bed, but
this desertion of good company the Baron would noways allow. So under
the low cobwebbed roof of Lucky Macleary's kitchen the four gentlemen
sat down to "taste the sweets of the night." But it was not long before
the wine began to do its work in their heads. Each one of them, Edward
excepted, talked or sang without paying any attention to his fellows.
From wine they fell to politics, when Balmawhapple proposed a toast
which was meant to put an affront upon the uniform Edward wore, and the
King in whose army he served.
"To the little gentleman in black velvet," cried the young Laird, "he
who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his neck
over a mound of his making!"
The "little gentleman in black velvet" was the mole over whose hillock
King William's horse is said to have stumbled, while the "white horse"
represented the house of Hanover.
Though of a Jacobite family, Edward could not help taking offence at the
obvious insult, but the Baron was before him. The quarrel was not his,
he assured him. The guest's quarrel was the host's--so long as he
remained under his roof.
"Here," quoth the Baron, "I am _in loco parentis_ to you, Captain
Waverley. I am bound to see you scatheless. And as for you, Mr. Falconer
of Balmawhapple, I warn you to let me see no more aberrations from the
paths of good manners."
"And I tell you, Mr. Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine of Bradwardine and
Tully-Veolan," retorted the other, in huge disdain, "that I will make a
muir cock of the man that refuses my toast, whether he be a crop-eared
English Whig wi' a black ribband at his lug, or ane wha deserts his
friends to claw favour wi' the rats of Hanover!"
In an instant rapiers were out, and the Baron and Balmawhapple hard at
it. The younger man was stout and active, but he was no match for the
Baron at the sword-play. And the encounter would not have lasted long,
had not the landlady, Lucky Macleary, hearing the well-known clash of
swords, come running in on them, crying that surely the gentlemen would
not bring dishonour on an honest widow-woman's house, when there was all
the lee land in the country to do their fighting upon.
So saying, she stopped the combat very effectually by flinging her plaid
over the weapons of the adversaries.
* * * * *
Next morning Edward awoke late, and in no happy frame of mind. It was an
age of duels, and with his first waking thoughts there came the memory
of the insult which had been passed upon him by the Laird of
Balmawhapple. His position as an officer and a Waverley left him no
alternative but to send that sportsman a challenge. Upon descending, he
found Rose Bradwardine presiding at the breakfast table. She was alone,
but Edward felt in no mood for conversation, and sat gloomy, silent, and
ill-content with himself and with circumstances. Suddenly he saw the
Baron and Balmawhapple pass the window arm in arm, and the next moment
the butler summoned him to speak with his master in another apartment.
There he found Balmawhapple, no little sulky and altogether silent, with
the Baron by his side. The latter in his capacity of mediator made
Edward a full and complete apology for the events of the past
evening--an apology which the young man gladly accepted along with the
hand of the offender--somewhat stiffly given, it is true, owing to the
necessity of carrying his right arm in a sling--the result (as
Balmawhapple afterwards assured Miss Rose) of a fall from his horse.
It was not till the morning of the second day that Edward learned the
whole history of this reconciliation, which had at first been so welcome
to him. It was Daft Davie Gellatley, who, by the roguish singing of a
ballad, first roused his suspicions that something underlay
Balmawhapple's professions of regret for his conduct.
"The young man will brawl at the evening board
_Heard ye so merry the little birds sing?_
But the old man will draw at the dawning the sword,
_And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing._"
Edward could see by the sly looks of the Fool that he meant something
personal by this, so he plied the butler with questions, and discovered
that the Baron had actually fought Balmawhapple on the morning after the
insult, and wounded him in the sword-arm!
Here, then, was the secret of the young Laird's unexpected submission
and apology. As Davie Gellatley put it, Balmawhapple had been "sent hame
wi' his boots full o' bluid!"
THE FIRST INTERLUDE OF ACTION
The tale-telling had at this point to be broken
off. Clouds began to spin themselves from Eildon
top. Dinner also was in prospect, and, most of all,
having heard so much of the tale, the four
listeners desired to begin to "play Waverley."
Sweetheart made a stately, if skirted,
Bradwardine. Besides, she was in _Cæsar_, and
had store of Latin quotations--mostly, it is true,
from the examples in the grammar, such as "_Illa
incedit regina!_" Certainly she walked like a
queen. Or, as it might be expressed, more fittingly
with the character of the Baron in the original:
"Stately stepped she east the wa',
And stately stepped she west."
Hugh John considered the hero's part in any story
only his due. His only fault with that of Waverley
was that so far he had done so little. He specially
resented the terrible combat "in the dawning"
between the Baron and the overbold Balmawhapple
(played by Maid Margaret). Sir Toady Lion as low
comedian ("camelion" he called it) performed
numerous antics as Daft Davie Gellatley. He had
dressed the part to perfection by putting his
striped jersey on outside his coat, and sticking in
his cricket cap such feathers as he could find.
"Lie down, Hugh John," he cried, in the middle of
his dancing and singing round and round the
combatants; "why, you are asleep in bed!"
This, according to the authorities, being obvious,
the baffled hero had to succumb, with the muttered
reflection that "Jim Hawkins wouldn't have had to
stay asleep, when there was a fight like that going
on!"
Still, however, Hugh John could not restrain the
natural rights of criticism. He continually raised
his head from his pillow of dried branches to watch
Sweetheart and Maid Margaret.
"You fight just like girls," he cried indignantly;
"keep your left hand behind you, Bradwardine--or
Balmawhapple will hack it off! I say--girls _are_
silly things. You two are afraid of hurting each
other. Now me and Toady Lion--"
And he gave details of a late fraternal combat much
in the manner of Froissart.
It is to be noted that thus far both Sweetheart and
Maid Margaret disdained the female parts, the
latter even going the length of saying that she
preferred Celie Stubbs, the Squire's daughter at
Waverley-Honour, to Rose Bradwardine. On being
asked for an explanation of this heresy, she said,
"Well, at any rate, Celie Stubbs got a new hat to
come to church in!"
* * * * *
And though I read the "Repentance and a
Reconciliation" chapter, which makes number Twelve
of _Waverley_, to the combatants, I was conscious
that I must hasten on to scenes more exciting if I
meant to retain the attention of my small but
exacting audience. Furthermore, it was beginning to
rain. So, hurriedly breaking off the tale, we drove
back to Melrose across the green holms of St.
Boswells.
It was after the hour of tea, and the crowd of
visitors had ebbed away from the precincts of the
Abbey before the tale was resumed. A flat "throuch"
stone sustained the narrator, while the four
disposed themselves on the sunny grass, in the
various attitudes of severe inattention which youth
assumes when listening to a story. Sweetheart pored
into the depths of a buttercup. Hugh John scratched
the freestone of a half-buried tomb with a nail
till told to stop. Sir Toady Lion, having a
"pinch-bug" coralled in his palms, sat regarding it
cautiously between his thumbs. Only Maid Margaret,
her dimpled chin on her knuckles, sat looking
upward in rapt attention. For her there was no joy
like that of a story. Only, she was too young to
mind letting the tale-teller know it. That made the
difference.
Above our heads the beautiful ruin mounted, now all
red gold in the lights, and purple in the shadows,
while round and round, and through and through,
from highest tower to lowest arch, the swifts
shrieked and swooped.
THE SECOND TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
I. THE CATTLE-LIFTING
NEXT morning (I continued, looking up for inspiration to the pinnacles
of Melrose, cut against the clear sky of evening, as sharply as when
"John Morow, master mason," looked upon his finished work and found it
very good)--next morning, as Captain Edward Waverley was setting out for
his morning walk, he found the castle of Bradwardine by no means the
enchanted palace of silence he had first discovered. Milkmaids,
bare-legged and wild-haired, ran about distractedly with pails and
three-legged stools in their hands, crying, "Lord, guide us!" and "Eh,
sirs!"
Bailie Macwheeble, mounted on his dumpy, round-barrelled pony, rode
hither and thither with half the ragged rascals of the neighbourhood
clattering after him. The Baron paced the terrace, every moment glancing
angrily up at the Highland hills from under his bushy grey eyebrows.
From the byre-lasses and the Bailie, Edward could obtain no satisfactory
explanation of the disturbance. He judged it wiser not to seek it from
the angry Baron.
Within-doors, however, he found Rose, who, though troubled and anxious,
replied to his questions readily enough.
"There has been a 'creach,' that is, a raid of cattle-stealers from out
of the Highland hills," she told him, hardly able to keep back her
tears--not, she explained, because of the lost cattle, but because she
feared that the anger of her father might end in the slaying of some of
the Caterans, and in a blood-feud which would last as long as they or
any of their family lived.
"And all because my father is too proud to pay blackmail to Vich Ian
Vohr!" she added.
"Is the gentleman with that curious name," said Edward, "a local robber
or a thief-taker?"
"Oh, no," Rose laughed outright at his southern ignorance, "he is a
great Highland chief and a very handsome man. Ah, if only my father
would be friends with Fergus Mac-Ivor, then Tully-Veolan would once
again be a safe and happy home. He and my father quarrelled at a county
meeting about who should take the first place. In his heat he told my
father that he was under his banner and paid him tribute. But it was
Bailie Macwheeble who had paid the money without my father's knowledge.
And since then he and Vich Ian Vohr have not been friends."
"But what is blackmail?" Edward asked in astonishment. For he thought
that such things had been done away with long ago. All this was just
like reading an old black-letter book in his uncle's library.
"It is money," Rose explained, "which, if you live near the Highland
border, you must pay to the nearest powerful chief--such as Vich Ian
Vohr. And then, if your cattle are driven away, all you have to do is
just to send him word and he will have them sent back, or others as good
in their places. Oh, you do not know how dreadful to be at feud with a
man like Fergus Mac-Ivor. I was only a girl of ten when my father and
his servants had a skirmish with a party of them, near our home-farm--so
near, indeed, that some of the windows of the house were broken by the
bullets, and three of the Highland raiders were killed. I remember
seeing them brought in and laid on the floor in the hall, each wrapped
in his plaid. And next morning their wives and daughters came, clapping
their hands and crying the _coronach_ and shrieking--and they carried
away the dead bodies, with the pipes playing before them. Oh, I could
not sleep for weeks afterward, without starting up, thinking that I
heard again these terrible cries."
All this seemed like a dream to Waverley--to hear this young gentle girl
of seventeen talk familiarly of dark and bloody deeds, such as even he,
a grown man and a soldier, had only imagined--yet which she had seen
with her own eyes!
By dinner-time the Baron's mood had grown somewhat less stormy. He
seemed for the moment to forget his wounded honour, and was even
offering, as soon as the quarrel was made up, to provide Edward with
introductions to many powerful northern chiefs, when the door opened,
and a Highlander in full costume was shown in by the butler.
"Welcome, Evan Dhu Maccombich!" said the Baron, without rising, and
speaking in the manner of a prince receiving an embassy; "what news from
Fergus Mac-Ivor Vich Ian Vohr?"
The ambassador delivered a courteous greeting from the Highland chief.
"Fergus Mac-Ivor (he said) was sorry for the cloud that hung between him
and his ancient friend. He hoped that the Baron would be sorry too--and
that he should say so. More than this he did not ask."
This the Baron readily did, drinking to the health of the chief of the
Mac-Ivors, while Evan Maccombich in turn drank prosperity to the house
of Bradwardine.
II. THE ROBBER'S CAVE
Then these high matters being finished, the Highlander retired with
Bailie Macwheeble, doubtless to arrange with him concerning the arrears
of blackmail. But of that the Baron was supposed to know nothing. This
done, the Highlander began to ask all about the party which had driven
off the cattle, their appearance, whence they had come, and in what
place they had last been seen. Edward was much interested by the man's
shrewd questions and the quickness with which he arrived at his
conclusions. While on his part Evan Dhu was so flattered by the evident
interest of the young Englishman, that he invited him to "take a walk
with him into the mountains in search of the cattle," promising him that
if the matter turned out as he expected, he would take Edward to such a
place as he had never seen before and might never have a chance of
seeing again.
Waverley accepted with eager joy, and though Rose Bradwardine turned
pale at the idea, the Baron, who loved boldness in the young, encouraged
the adventure. He gave Edward a young gamekeeper to carry his pack and
to be his attendant, so that he might make the journey with fitting
dignity.
Through a great pass, full of rugged rocks and seamed with roaring
torrents--indeed, the very pass of Bally-Brough in which the reivers had
last been spied--across weary and dangerous morasses, where Edward had
perforce to spring from tuft to tussock of coarse grass, Evan Dhu led
our hero into the depths of the wild Highland country,--where no Saxon
foot trod or dared to tread without the leave of Vich Ian Vohr, as the
chief's foster-brother took occasion to inform Edward more than once.
By this time night was coming on, and Edward's attendant was sent off
with one of Evan Dhu's men, that they might find a place to sleep in,
while Evan himself pushed forward to warn the supposed cattle-stealer,
one Donald Bean Lean, of the party's near approach. For, as Evan Dhu
said, the Cateran might very naturally be startled by the sudden
appearance of a _sidier roy_--or red soldier--in the very place of his
most secret retreat.
Edward was thus left alone with the single remaining Highlander, from
whom, however, he could obtain no further information as to his
journey's end--save that, as the Sassenach was somewhat tired, Donald
Bean might possibly send the _currach_ for him.
Edward wished much to know whether the _currach_ was a horse, a cart, or
a chaise. But in spite of all his efforts, he could get no more out of
the man with the Lochaber axe than the words repeated over and over
again, "_Aich aye, ta currach! Aich aye, ta currach!_"
However, after stumbling on a little farther, they came out on the
shores of a loch, and the guide, pointing through the darkness in the
direction of a little spark of light far away across the water, said,
"Yon's ta cove!" Almost at the same moment the dash of oars was heard,
and a shrill whistle came to their ears out of the darkness. This the
Highlander answered, and a boat appeared in which Edward was soon
seated, and on his way to the robber's cave.
The light, which at first had been no bigger than a rush-light, grew
rapidly larger, glowing red (as it seemed) upon the very bosom of the
lake. Cliffs began to rise above their heads, hiding the moon. And, as
the boat rapidly advanced, Edward could make out a great fire kindled on
the shore, into which dark mysterious figures were busily flinging pine
branches. The fire had been built on a narrow ledge at the opening of a
great black cavern, into which an inlet of the loch seemed to advance.
The men rowed straight for this black entrance. Then, letting the boat
run on with shipped oars, the fire was soon passed and left behind, and
the cavern entered through a great rocky arch. At the foot of some
natural steps the boat stopped. The beacon brands which had served to
guide them were thrown hissing into the water, and Edward found himself
lifted out of the boat by brawny arms and carried almost bodily into the
depths of the cavern. Presently, however, he was allowed to walk, though
still guided on either side, when suddenly at a turn of the rock
passage, the cave opened out, and Edward found the famous Cateran,
Donald Bean Lean, and his whole establishment plain before his eyes.
The cavern was lit with pine torches, and about a charcoal fire five or
six Highlanders were seated, while in the dusk behind several others
slumbered, wrapped in their plaids. In a large recess to one side were
seen the carcasses of both sheep and cattle, hung by the heels as in a
butcher's shop, some of them all too evidently the spoils of the Baron
of Bradwardine's flocks and herds.
The master of this strange dwelling came forward to welcome Edward,
while Evan Dhu stood by his side to make the necessary introductions.
Edward had expected to meet with a huge savage warrior in the captain of
such banditti, but to his surprise he found Donald Bean Lean to be a
little man, pale and insignificant in appearance, and not even Highland
in dress. For at one time Donald had served in the French army. So now,
instead of receiving Edward in his national costume, he had put on an
old blue-and-red foreign uniform, in which he made so strange a figure
that, though it was donned in his honour, his visitor had hard work to
keep from laughing. Nor was the freebooter's conversation more in accord
with his surroundings. He talked much of Edward's family and
connections, and especially of his uncle's Jacobite politics--on which
last account, he seemed inclined to welcome the young man with more
cordiality than, as a soldier of King George, Edward felt to be his due.
The scene which followed was, however, better fitted to the time and
place.
At a half-savage feast Edward had the opportunity of tasting steaks
fresh cut from some of the Baron's cattle, broiled on the coals before
his eyes, and washed down with draughts of Highland whiskey.
Yet in spite of the warmth of his welcome, there was something very
secret and unpleasant about the shifty cunning glance of this little
robber-chief, who seemed to know so much about the royal garrisons, and
even about the men of Edward's own troop whom he had brought with him
from Waverley-Honour.
When at last they were left alone together, Evan Dhu having lain down in
his plaid, the little captain of cattle-lifters asked Captain Waverley
in a very significant manner, "if he had nothing particular to say to
him."
Edward, a little startled at the tone in which the question was put,
answered that he had no other reason for coming to the cave but a desire
to see so strange a dwelling-place.
For a moment Donald Bean Lean looked him full in the face, as if waiting
for something more, and then, with a nod full of meaning, he muttered:
"You might as well have confided in me. I am as worthy of trust as
either the Baron of Bradwardine or Vich Ian Vohr! But you are equally
welcome to my house!"
His heather bed, the flickering of the fire, the smoking torches, and
the movement of the wild outlaws going and coming about the cave, soon,
however, diverted Waverley's thoughts from the mysterious words of his
host. His eyelids drew together, nor did he reopen them till the morning
sun, reflected from the lake, was filling all the cave with a glimmering
twilight.
THE SECOND INTERLUDE
As soon as this part of the tale was finished, the
audience showed much greater eagerness to enter
immediately upon the acting of Donald Bean Lean's
cattle-raid, and its consequences, than it had
previously displayed as to the doings of Edward
Waverley.
As Hugh John admitted, this was "something like!"
The Abbey precincts were instantly filled with the
mingled sounds characteristic of all well-conducted
forays, and it was well indeed that the place was
wholly deserted. For the lowings of the driven
cattle, the shouts of the triumphant Highlanders,
the deep rage of the Baron, stalking to and fro
wrapped in his cloak on the Castle terrace, might
well have astonished the crowd which in these
summer days comes from the four corners of the
world "to view fair Melrose aright."
It was not till the edge had worn off their first
enthusiasm, that it became possible to collect them
again in order to read "The Hold of a Highland
Robber," which makes Chapter Seventeenth of
_Waverley_ itself. And the reading so fired the
enthusiasm of Sweetheart that she asked for the
book to take to bed with her. The boys were more
practical, though equally enthusiastic.
"Wait till we get home," cried Hugh John, cracking
his fingers and thumbs. "I know a proper place for
Donald Bean Lean's cave."
"And I," said Sir Toady Lion, "will light a fire by
the pond and toss the embers into the water. It
will be jolly to hear 'em hiss, I tell you!"
"But what," asked Maid Margaret, "shall we do for
the cattle and sheep that were hanging by the
heels, when Edward went into Donald Bean Lean's
cave?"
"Why, we will hang _you_ up by the heels and cut
slices off you!" said Sir Toady, with frowning
truculence.
Whereat the little girl, a little solemnised, began
to edge away from the dangerous neighbourhood of
such a pair of young cannibals. Sweetheart
reproached her brothers for inventing calumnies
against their countrymen.
"Even the Highlanders were never so wicked," she
objected; "they did not eat one another."
"Well, anyway," retorted Sir Toady Lion, unabashed,
"Sawney Bean did. Perhaps he was a cousin of
Donald's, though in the history it says that he
came from East Lothian."
"Yes," cried Hugh John, "and in an old book written
in Latin it says (father read it to us) that one of
his little girls was too young to be executed with
the rest on the sands of Leith. So the King sent
her to be brought up by kind people, where she was
brought up without knowing anything of her father,
the cannibal, and her mother, the cannibaless--"
"Oh," cried Sweetheart, who knew what was coming,
putting up her hands over her ears, "please don't
tell that dreadful story all over again."
"Father read it out of a book--so there!" cried Sir
Toady, implacably, "go on, Hugh John!"
"And so when this girl was about as big as
Sweetheart, and, of course, could not remember her
grandfather's nice cave or the larder where the
arms and legs were hung up to dry in the smoke--"
"Oh, you horrid boy!" cried Sweetheart, not,
however, removing herself out of ear-shot--because,
after all, it was nice to shiver just a little.
"Oh, yes, and I have seen the cave," cried Sir
Toady, "it is on the shore near Ballantrae--a
horrid place. Go on, Hugh John, tell about Sawney
Bean's grandchild!"
"Well, she grew up and up, playing with dolls just
like other girls, till she was old enough to be
sent out to service. And after she had been a while
about the house to which she went, it was noticed
that some of the babies in the neighbourhood began
to go a-missing, and they found--"
"I think she was a nursemaid!" interrupted Sir
Toady, dispassionately. "That must have been it.
The little wretches cried--_so she ate them!_"
"Oh," cried Sweetheart, stopping her ears with her
fingers, "don't tell us what they found--I believe
you made it all up, anyway."
"No, I didn't," cried Hugh John, shouting in her
ear as if to a very deaf person, "it was father who
read it to us, out of a big book with fat black
letters. So it must be true!"
Sir Toady was trying to drag away his sister's arms
that she might have the benefit of details, when I
appeared in the distance. Whereupon Hugh John, who
felt his time growing limited, concluded thus, "And
when they were taking the girl away to hang her,
the minister asked her why she had killed the
babies, and she answered him, 'If people only knew
how good babies were--especially little
girls--_there would not be one left between Forth
and Solway!_'"
Then quite unexpectedly Maid Margaret began to sob
bitterly.
"They _shan't_ hang me up and eat me," she cried,
running as hard as she could and flinging herself
into my arms; "Hugh John and Sir Toady say they
will, as soon as we get home."
Happily I had a light cane of a good vintage in my
hand, and it did not take long to convince the pair
of young scamps of the inconvenience of frightening
their little sister. Sweetheart looked on
approvingly as two forlorn young men were walked
off to a supper, healthfully composed of plain
bread and butter, and washed down by some nice cool
water from the pump.
"I told you!" she said, "you wouldn't believe me."
All the same she was tender-hearted enough to
convey a platter of broken meats secretly up to
their "condemned cell," as I knew from finding the
empty plate under their washstand in the morning.
And as Maid Margaret was being carried off to be
bathed and comforted, a Voice, passing their door,
threatened additional pains and penalties to little
boys who frightened their sisters.
"It was all in a book," said Hugh John, defending
himself from under the bedclothes, "father read it
to us!"
"We did it for her good," suggested Sir Toady.
"If I hear another word out of you--" broke in the
Voice; and then added, "go to sleep this instant!"
The incident of the cave had long been forgotten
and forgiven, before I could continue the story of
Waverley in the cave of Donald Bean Lean. We sat
once more "in oor ain hoose at hame," or rather
outside it, near a certain pleasant chalet in a
wood, from which place you can see a brown and
turbulent river running downward to the sea.
THE THIRD TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
I. THE CHIEF OF THE MAC-IVORS AND THE CHIEF'S SISTER
WHEN Edward awoke next morning, he could not for a moment remember where
he was. The cave was deserted. Only the grey ashes of the fire, a few
gnawed bones, and an empty keg remained to prove that he was still on
the scene of last night's feast. He went out into the sunlight. In a
little natural harbour the boat was lying snugly moored. Farther out, on
a rocky spit, was the mark of last night's beacon-fire. Here Waverley
had to turn back. Cliffs shut him in on every side, and Edward was at a
loss what to do, till he discovered, climbing perilously out in the rock
above the cave mouth, some slight steps or ledges. These he mounted with
difficulty, and, passing over the shoulder of the cliff, found himself
presently on the shores of a loch about four miles long, surrounded on
every side by wild heathery mountains.
In the distance he could see a man fishing and a companion watching him.
By the Lochaber axe which the latter carried Edward recognised the
fisher as Evan Dhu. On a stretch of sand under a birch tree, a girl was
laying out a breakfast of milk, eggs, barley bread, fresh butter, and
honeycomb. She was singing blithely, yet she must have had to travel far
that morning to collect such dainties in so desolate a region.
This proved to be Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean, and it is
nothing to her discredit that she had made herself as pretty as she
could, that she might attend upon the handsome young Englishman. All
communication, however, had to be by smiles and signs, for Alice spoke
no English. Nevertheless she set out her dainties with right good-will,
and then seated herself on a stone a little distance away to watch for
an opportunity of serving the young soldier.
Presently Evan Dhu came up with his catch, a fine salmon-trout, and soon
slices of the fish were broiling on the wood embers. After breakfast,
Alice gathered what was left into a wicker basket, and, flinging her
plaid about her, presented her cheek to Edward for "the stranger's
kiss." Evan Dhu made haste to secure a similar privilege, but Alice
sprang lightly up the bank out of his reach, and with an arch wave of
her hand to Edward she disappeared.
Then Evan Dhu led Edward back to the boat. The three men embarked, and
after emerging from the mouth of the cavern, a clumsy sail was hoisted,
and they bore away up the lake--Evan Dhu all the time loud in the
praises of Alice Bean Lean.
Edward said that it was a pity that such a maiden should be the daughter
of a common thief. But this Evan hotly denied. According to Evan, Donald
Bean Lean, though indeed no reputable character, was far from being a
thief. A thief was one who stole a cow from a poor cotter, but he who
lifted a drove from a Sassenach laird was "a gentleman drover."
"But he would be hanged, all the same, if he were caught!" objected
Edward. "I do not see the difference."
"To be sure, he would _die for the law_, as many a pretty man has done
before him," cried Evan. "And a better death than to die, lying on damp
straw in yonder cave like a mangy tyke!"
"And what," Edward suggested, "would become of pretty Alice then?"
"Alice is both canny and fendy," said the bold Evan Dhu, with a cock of
his bonnet, "and I ken nocht to hinder me to marry her mysel'!"
Edward laughed and applauded the Highlander's spirit, but asked also as
to the fate of the Baron of Bradwardine's cattle.
"By this time," said Evan, "I warrant they are safe in the pass of
Bally-Brough and on their road back to Tully-Veolan. And that is more
than a regiment of King George's red soldiers could have brought about!"
Evan Dhu had indeed some reason to be proud.
Reassured as to this, Edward accompanied his guide with more confidence
toward the castle of Vich Ian Vohr. The "five miles Scots" seemed to
stretch themselves out indefinitely, but at last the figure of a hunter,
equipped with gun, dogs, and a single attendant, was seen far across the
heath.
"_Shogh_," said the man with the Lochaber axe, "tat's the Chief!"
Evan Dhu, who had boasted of his master's great retinue, denied it
fiercely.
"The Chief," he said, "would not come out with never a soul with him but
Callum Beg, to meet with an English gentleman."
But in spite of this prophecy, the Chief of Clan Ivor it was. Fergus
Mac-Ivor, whom his people called Vich Ian Vohr, was a young man of much
grace and dignity, educated in France, and of a strong, secret, and
turbulent character, which by policy he hid for the most part under an
appearance of courtesy and kindness. He had long been mustering his clan
in secret, in order once more to take a leading part in another attempt
to dethrone King George, and to set on the throne of Britain either the
Chevalier St. George or his son Prince Charles.
When Waverley and the Chief approached the castle--a stern and rugged
pile, surrounded by walls, they found a large body of armed Highlanders
drawn up before the gate.
"These," said Vich Ian Vohr, carelessly, "are a part of the clan whom I
ordered out, to see that they were in a fit state to defend the country
in such troublous times. Would Captain Waverley care to see them go
through part of their exercise?"
Thereupon the men, after showing their dexterity at drill, and their
fine target-shooting, divided into two parties, and went through the
incidents of a battle--the charge, the combat, the flight, and the
headlong pursuit--all to the sound of the great warpipes.
Edward asked why, with so large a force, the Chief did not at once put
down such robber bands as that of Donald Bean Lean.
"Because," said the Chief, bitterly, "if I did, I should at once be
summoned to Stirling Castle to deliver up the few broadswords the
government has left us. I should gain little by that. But there is
dinner," he added, as if anxious to change the subject, "let me show you
the inside of my rude mansion."
The long and crowded dinner-table to which Edward sat down, told of the
Chief's immense hospitality. After the meal, healths were drunk, and the
bard of the clan recited a wild and thrilling poem in Gaelic--of which,
of course, Edward could not understand so much as one word, though it
excited the clansmen so that they sprang up in ecstasy, many of them
waving their arms about in sympathy with the warlike verses. The Chief,
exactly in the ancient manner, presented a silver cup full of wine to
the minstrel. He was to drink the one and keep the other for himself.
After a few more toasts, Vich Ian Vohr offered to take Waverley up to be
presented to his sister. They found Flora Mac-Ivor in her parlour, a
plain and bare chamber with a wide prospect from the windows. She had
her brother's dark curling hair, dark eyes, and lofty expression, but
her expression seemed sweeter, though not, perhaps, softer. She was,
however, even more fiercely Jacobite than her brother, and her devotion
to "the King over the Water" (as they called King James) was far more
unselfish than that of Vich Ian Vohr. Flora Mac-Ivor had been educated
in a French convent, yet now she gave herself heart and soul to the good
of her wild Highland clan and to the service of him whom she looked on
as the true King.
She was gracious to Edward, and at the request of Fergus, told him the
meaning of the war-song he had been listening to in the hall. She was,
her brother said, famed for her translations from Gaelic into English,
but for the present she could not be persuaded to recite any of these to
Edward.
He had better fortune, however, when, finding Flora Mac-Ivor in a wild
spot by a waterfall, she sang him, to the accompaniment of a harp, a
song of great chiefs and their deeds which fired the soul of the young
man. He could not help admiring--he almost began to love her from that
moment.
After this reception, Edward continued very willingly at
Glennaquoich--both because of his growing admiration for Flora, and
because his curiosity increased every day as to this wild race, and the
life so different from all that he had hitherto known. Nothing occurred
for three weeks to disturb his pleasant dreams, save the chance
discovery, made when he was writing a letter to the Baron, that he had
somehow lost his seal with the arms of Waverley, which he wore attached
to his watch. Flora was inclined to blame Donald Bean Lean for the
theft, but the Chief scouted the idea. It was impossible, he said, when
Edward was his guest, and, besides (he added slyly), Donald would never
have taken the seal and left the watch. Whereupon Edward borrowed Vich
Ian Vohr's seal, and, having despatched his letter, thought no more of
the matter.
Soon afterwards, whilst Waverley still remained at Glennaquoich, there
was a great hunting of the stag, to which Fergus went with three hundred
of his clan to meet some of the greatest Highland chiefs, his
neighbours. He took Edward with him, and the numbers present amounted
almost to those of a formidable army. While the clansmen drove in the
deer, the chiefs sat on the heather in little groups and talked in low
tones. During the _drive_, the main body of the deer, in their
desperation, charged right upon the place where the chief sportsmen
were waiting in ambush. The word was given for every one to fling
himself down on his face. Edward, not understanding the language,
remained erect, and his life was only saved by the quickness of Vich Ian
Vohr, who seized him and flung him down, holding him there by main force
till the whole herd had rushed over them. When Edward tried to rise, he
found that he had severely sprained his ankle.
However, among those present at the _drive_, there was found an old man,
half-surgeon, half-conjurer, who applied hot fomentations, muttering all
the time of the operation such gibberish as _Gaspar-Melchior-Balthazar-max-prax-fax!_
Thus it happened that, to his great disappointment, Edward was unable to
accompany the clansmen and their chiefs any farther. So Vich Ian Vohr
had Edward placed in a litter, woven of birch and hazel, and walked
beside this rude couch to the house of an old man, a smaller chieftain,
who, with only a few old vassals, lived a retired life at a place called
Tomanrait.
Here he left Edward to recruit, promising to come back in a few days, in
the hope that by that time Edward would be able to ride a Highland pony
in order to return to Glennaquoich.
On the sixth morning Fergus returned, and Edward gladly mounted to
accompany him. As they approached the castle, he saw, with pleasure,
Flora coming to meet them.
II. MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLE
The Chief's beautiful sister appeared very glad to see Edward, and, as
her brother spoke a few hasty words to her in Gaelic, she suddenly
clasped her hands, and, looking up to heaven, appeared to ask a blessing
upon some enterprise. She then gave Edward some letters that had arrived
for him during his absence. It was perhaps as well that Edward took
these to his room to open, considering the amount of varied ill news
that he found in them.
The first was from his father, who had just been dismissed from his
position as King's minister, owing (as he put it) to the ingratitude of
the great--but really, as was proved afterwards, on account of some
political plots which he had formed against his chief, the prime
minister of the day.
Then his generous uncle, Sir Everard, wrote that all differences were
over between his brother and himself. He had espoused his quarrel, and
he directed Edward at once to send in the resignation of his commission
to the War Office without any preliminaries, forbidding him longer to
serve a government which had treated his father so badly.
But the letter which touched Edward most deeply was one from his
commanding officer at Dundee, which declared curtly that if he did not
report himself at the headquarters of the regiment within three days
after the date of writing, he would be obliged to take steps in the
matter which would be exceedingly disagreeable to Captain Waverley.
Edward at once sat down and wrote to Colonel Gardiner that, as he had
thus chosen to efface the remembrance of past civilities, there was
nothing left to him but to resign his commission, which he did formally,
and ended his letter by requesting his commanding officer to forward
this resignation to the proper quarter.
No little perplexed as to the meaning of all this, Edward was on his way
to consult Fergus Mac-Ivor on the subject, when the latter advanced with
an open newspaper in his hand.
"Do your letters," he asked, "confirm this unpleasant news?"
And he held out the _Caledonian Mercury_, in which not only did he find
his father's disgrace chronicled, but on turning to the _Gazette_ he
found the words, "Edward Waverley, Captain in the --th regiment of
dragoons, superseded for absence without leave." The name of his
successor, one Captain Butler, followed immediately.
On looking at the date of Colonel Gardiner's missive as compared with
that of the _Gazette_, it was evident that his commanding officer had
carried out his threat to the letter. Yet it was not at all like him to
have done so. It was still more out of keeping with the constant
kindness that he had shown to Edward. It was the young man's first idea,
in accordance with the customs of the time, to send Colonel Gardiner a
challenge. But, upon Fergus Mac-Ivor's advice, Edward ultimately
contented himself with adding a postscript to his first letter, marking
the time at which he had received the first summons, and regretting that
the hastiness of his commander's action had prevented his anticipating
it by sending in his resignation.
"That, if anything," said Fergus, "will make this Calvinistic colonel
blush for his injustice."
But it was not long before some part at least of the mystery was made
plain. Fergus took advantage of Edward's natural anger at his unworthy
treatment, to reveal to him that a great rising was about to take place
in the Highlands in favour of King James, and to urge him to cast in his
lot with the clans. Flora, on the contrary, urged him to be careful and
cautious, lest he should involve others to whom he owed everything, in a
common danger with himself.
Edward, whose fancy (if not whose heart) had gradually been turning more
and more toward the beautiful and patriotic Flora, appeared less
interested in rebellion than in obtaining her brother's good-will and
bespeaking his influence with his sister.
"Out upon you," cried Fergus, with pretended ill-humour, "can you think
of nothing but ladies at such a time? Besides, why come to me in such a
matter? Flora is up the glen. Go and ask herself. And Cupid go with you!
But do not forget that my lovely sister, like her loving brother, is apt
to have a pretty strong will of her own!"
Edward's heart beat as he went up the rocky hillside to find Flora. She
received and listened to him with kindness, but steadily refused to
grant him the least encouragement. All her thoughts, her hopes, her life
itself, were set on the success of this one bold stroke for a crown.
Till the rightful King was on his throne, she could not think of
anything else. Love and marriage were not for such as Flora Mac-Ivor.
Edward, in spite of the manifest good-will of the chief, had to be
content with such cold comfort as he could extract from Flora's promise
that she would remember him in her prayers!
Next morning Edward was awakened to the familiar sound of Daft Davie
Gellatley's voice singing below his window. For a moment he thought
himself back at Tully-Veolan. Davie was declaring loudly that
"_My heart's in the Highland, my heart is not here._"
Then, immediately changing to a less sentimental strain, he added with a
contemptuous accent:
"_There's nocht in the Highlands but syboes and leeks,_
_And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks;_
_Wanting the breeks, and without hose or shoon,_
_But we'll a' win the breeks when King Jamie comes hame._"
Edward, eager to know what had brought the Bradwardine "innocent" so far
from home, dressed hastily and went down. Davie, without stopping his
dancing for a moment, came whirling past, and, as he went, thrust a
letter into Waverley's hand. It proved to be from Rose Bradwardine, and
among other things it contained the news that the Baron had gone away to
the north with a body of horsemen, while the red soldiers had been at
Tully-Veolan searching for her father and also asking after Edward
himself. Indeed they had carried off his servant prisoner, together with
everything he had left at Tully-Veolan. Rose also warned him against the
danger of returning thither, and at the same time sent her compliments
to Fergus and Flora. The last words in the letter were, "_Is she not as
handsome and accomplished as I described her to be?_"
Edward was exceedingly perplexed. Knowing his innocence of all treason,
he could not imagine why he should be accused of it. He consulted
Fergus, who told him he would to a certainty be hanged or imprisoned if
he went south. Nevertheless, Edward persisted in "running his hazard."
The Chief, though wishful to keep him, did not absolutely say him nay.
Flora, instead of coming down to bid him good-bye, sent only excuses. So
altogether it was in no happy frame of mind that Edward rode away to the
south upon the Chief's horse, Brown Dermid, and with Callum Beg for an
attendant in the guise of a Lowland groom.
Callum warned his master against saying anything when they got to the
first little Lowland town, either on the subject of the Highlands, or
about his master, Vich Ian Vohr.
"The people there are bitter Whigs, teil burst them!" he said fiercely.
As they rode on they saw many people about the street, chiefly old women
in tartan hoods and red cloaks, who seemed to cast up their hands in
horror at the sight of Waverley's horse. Edward asked the reason.
"Oh," said Callum Beg, "it's either the muckle Sunday hersel', or the
little government Sunday that they caa the Fast!"
It proved to be the latter, and the innkeeper, a severe sly-looking man,
received them with scanty welcome. Indeed, he only admitted them because
he remembered that it was in his power to fine them for the crime of
travelling on a Fast Day by an addition to the length of his reckoning
next morning.
But as soon as Edward announced his wish for a horse and guide to Perth,
the hypocritical landlord made ready to go with him in person. Callum
Beg, excited by the golden guinea which Waverley gave him, offered to
show his gratitude by waiting a little distance along the road, and
"kittlin' the landlord's quarters wi' her skene-occle"--or, in other
words, setting a dagger in his back. Apparently Vich Ian Vohr's page
thought no more of such a deed than an ordinary English boy would have
thought of stealing an apple out of an orchard.
THE THIRD INTERLUDE--BEING MAINLY A FEW WORDS UPON HEROES
Among the listeners there was somewhat less
inclination than before to act this part of the
story. For one thing, the boys were righteously
indignant at the idea of any true hero being in
love--unless, indeed, he could carry off his bride
from the deck of a pirate vessel, cutlass in hand,
and noble words of daring on his lips.
As for the girls, well--they knew that the bushes
were dripping wet, and that if they set their feet
upon their native heath, they would certainly be
made to change their stockings as soon as they went
home. This was a severe discourager of romance.
There was nothing to prevent any one of them from
asking questions, however. _That_ was a business in
which they excelled.
"But why did the Highland people want to rebel,
anyway?" demanded Hugh John. "If I could have
hunted like that, and raided, and carried off
cattle, and had a castle with pipes playing and
hundreds of clansmen to drill, I shouldn't have
been such a soft as to rebel and get them all taken
away from me!"
"It was because they were loyal to their rightful
King," said Sweetheart, who is a Cavalier and a
Jacobite--in the intervals of admiring Cromwell,
and crying because they shot down the poor
Covenanters.
"_I_ think," said Sir Toady, who had been sitting
very thoughtful, "that they just liked to fight,
and King George would not let them. So they wanted
a king who would not mind. Same as us, you know. If
we are caught fighting in school, we get whipped,
but father lets us fight outside as much as we want
to. Besides, what did old Vich Ian Vohr want with
all these silly Highlanders, eating up everything
in his castle, if there were never any battles that
they could fight for him?"
This was certainly a very strong and practical
view, and so much impressed the others that they
sat a long while quiet, turning it over in their
minds.
"Well, at any rate," said Sweetheart, dropping her
head with a sigh to go on with her seam, "I know
that Flora Mac-Ivor was truly patriotic. See how
she refused to listen to Waverley, all because she
wanted to give her life for the cause."
"Humph," said Hugh John, disrespectfully turning up
his nose, "that's all girls think about--loving,
an' marrying, an' playing on harps--"
"I don't play on harps," sighed Sweetheart, "but I
do wish I had a banjo!"
"I wish I had a targe and a broadsword, and the
Chief's horse, Brown Dermid, to ride on," said Hugh
John, putting on his "biggety" look.
"And a nice figure you would cut," sneered Sir
Toady Lion, provokingly; "Highlanders don't fight
on horseback! You ought to know that!"
Whereupon the first engagement of the campaign was
immediately fought out on the carpet. And it was
not till after the intervention of the Superior
Power had restored quiet that the next tale from
_Waverley_ could be proceeded with.
THE FOURTH TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
HERE AND THERE AMONG THE HEATHER
NOT long after Callum Beg had been left behind, and indeed almost as
soon as the innkeeper and Edward were fairly on their way, the former
suddenly announced that his horse had fallen lame and that they must
turn aside to a neighbouring smithy to have the matter attended to.
"And as it is the Fast Day, and the smith a religious man, it may cost
your Honour as muckle as sixpence a shoe!" suggested the wily innkeeper,
watching Edward's face as he spoke.
For this announcement Edward cared nothing. He would gladly have paid a
shilling a nail to be allowed to push forward on his journey with all
speed. Accordingly to the smithy of Cairnvreckan they went. The village
was in an uproar. The smith, a fierce-looking man, was busy hammering
"dogs' heads" for musket-locks, while among the surrounding crowd the
names of great Highland chiefs--Clanronald, Glengarry, Lochiel, and that
of Vich Ian Vohr himself, were being bandied from mouth to mouth.
Edward soon found himself surrounded by an excited mob, in the midst of
which the smith's wife, a wild witchlike woman, was dancing, every now
and then casting her child up in the air as high as her arms would
reach, singing all the while, and trying to anger the crowd, and
especially to infuriate her husband, by the Jacobite songs which she
chanted.
At last the smith could stand this provocation no longer. He snatched a
red-hot bar of iron from the forge, and rushed at his wife, crying out
that he would "thrust it down her throat." Then, finding himself held
back by the crowd from executing vengeance on the woman, all his anger
turned upon Edward, whom he took to be a Jacobite emissary. For the news
which had caused all this stir was that Prince Charles had landed and
that the whole Highlands was rallying to his banner.
So fierce and determined was the attack which the angry smith of
Cairnvreckan made on Edward that the young man was compelled to draw his
pistol in self-defence. And as the crowd threatened him and the smith
continued furiously to attack with the red-hot iron, almost
unconsciously his finger pressed the trigger. The shot went off, and
immediately the smith fell to the ground. Then Edward, borne down by the
mob, was for some time in great danger of his life. He was saved at last
by the interference of the minister of the parish, a kind and gentle old
man, who caused Edward's captors to treat him more tenderly. So that
instead of executing vengeance upon the spot as they had proposed, they
brought him before the nearest magistrate, who was, indeed, an old
military officer, and, in addition, the Laird of the village of
Cairnvreckan, one Major Melville by name.
[Illustration: "SO fierce and determined was the attack which the angry
smith of Cairnvreckan made on Edward that the young man was compelled to
draw his pistol in self-defence."]
The latter proved to be a stern soldier, so severe in manner that he
often became unintentionally unjust. Major Melville found that though
the blacksmith's wound proved to be a mere scratch, and though he had to
own that the provocation given was a sufficient excuse for Edward's
hasty action, yet he must detain the young man prisoner upon the warrant
issued against Edward Waverley, which had been sent out by the Supreme
Court of Scotland.
Edward, who at once owned to his name, was astonished beyond words to
find that not only was he charged with being in the company of actual
rebels, such as the Baron of Bradwardine and Vich Ian Vohr, but also
with trying to induce his troop of horse to revolt by means of private
letters addressed to one of them, Sergeant Houghton, in their barracks
at Dundee. Captain Waverley was asserted to have effected this through
the medium of a pedlar named Will Ruthven, or Wily Will--whose very name
Edward had never heard up to that moment.
As the magistrate's examination proceeded, Waverley was astonished to
find that, instead of clearing himself, everything he said, every
article he carried about his person, was set down by Major Melville as
an additional proof of his complicity with treason. Among these figured
Flora's verses, his own presence at the great hunting match among the
mountains, his father's and Sir Everard's letters, even the huge
manuscripts written by his tutor (of which he had never read six
pages)--all were brought forward as so many evidences of his guilt.
Finally, the magistrate informed Edward that he would be compelled to
detain him a prisoner in his house of Cairnvreckan. But that if he would
furnish such information as it was doubtless in his power to give
concerning the forces and plans of Vich Ian Vohr and the other Highland
chiefs, he might, after a brief detention, be allowed to go free. Edward
fiercely exclaimed that he would die rather than turn informer against
those who had been his friends and hosts. Whereupon, having refused all
hospitality, he was conducted to a small room, there to be guarded till
there was a chance of sending him under escort to the Castle of
Stirling.
Here he was visited by Mr. Morton, the minister who had saved him from
the clutches of the mob, and so sympathetically and kindly did he speak,
that Edward told him his whole story from the moment when he had first
left Waverley-Honour. And though the minister's favourable report did
not alter the opinion Major Melville had formed of Edward's treason, it
softened his feelings toward the young man so much that he invited him
to dinner, and afterwards did his best to procure him favourable
treatment from the Westland Whig captain, Mr. Gifted Gilfillan, who
commanded the party which was to convoy him to Stirling Castle.
The escort which was to take Edward southward was not so strong as it
might have been. Part of Captain Gifted Gilfillan's command had stayed
behind to hear a favourite preacher upon the occasion of the afternoon
Fast Day service at Cairnvreckan. Others straggled for purposes of their
own, while as they went along, their leader lectured Edward upon the
fewness of those that should be saved. Heaven, he informed Edward, would
be peopled exclusively by the members of his own denomination. Captain
Gifted was still engaged in condemning all and sundry belonging to the
Churches of England and Scotland, when a stray pedlar joined his party
and asked of "his Honour" the favour of his protection as far as
Stirling, urging as a reason the uncertainty of the times and the value
of the property he carried in his pack.
The pedlar, by agreeing with all that was said, and desiring further
information upon spiritual matters, soon took the attention of Captain
Gifted Gilfillan from his prisoner. He declared that he had even
visited, near Mauchline, the very farm of the Whig leader. He
congratulated him upon the fine breed of cattle he possessed. Then he
went on to speak of the many evil, popish, and unchristian things he had
seen in his travels as a pedlar over the benighted countries of Europe.
Whereupon Gifted Gilfillan became so pleased with his companion and so
enraptured with his subject, that he allowed his party to string itself
out along the route without an attempt at discipline, or even the power
of supporting each other in case of attack.
The leaders were ascending a little hill covered with whin bushes and
crowned with low brushwood, when, after looking about him quickly to
note some landmarks, the pedlar put his fingers to his mouth and
whistled. He explained that he was whistling on a favourite dog, named
Bawty, which he had lost. The Covenanter reproved him severely for
thinking of a useless dog in the midst of such precious and improving
conversation as they were holding together.
But in spite of his protests the pedlar persisted in his whistling, and
presently, out of a copse close to the path, six or eight stout
Highlanders sprang upon them brandishing their claymores.
"The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon!" shouted Gifted Gilfillan, nothing
daunted. And he was proceeding to lay about him stoutly, when the
pedlar, snatching a musket, felled him to the ground with the butt. The
scattered Whig party hurried up to support their leader. In the scuffle,
Edward's horse was shot, and he himself somewhat bruised in falling.
Whereupon some of the Highlanders took him by the arms, and
half-supported, half-carried him away from the highroad, leaving the
unconscious Gifted still stretched on the ground. The Westlanders, thus
deprived of a leader, did not even attempt a pursuit, but contented
themselves with sending a few dropping shots after the Highlanders,
which, of course, did nobody any harm.
They carried Edward fully two miles, and it was not till they reached
the deep covert of a distant glen that they stopped with their burden.
Edward spoke to them repeatedly, but the only answer he got was that
they "had no English." Even the mention of the name of Vich Ian Vohr,
which he had hitherto regarded as a talisman, produced no response.
Moreover, Edward could see from the tartans of his captors that they
were not of the Clan Ivor. Nor did the hut, into which they presently
conveyed our hero, reveal any more. Edward was placed in a large bed,
planked all round, and after his bruises were attended to by an old
woman, the sliding panel was shut upon him. A kind of fever set his
ideas wandering, and sometimes he fancied that he heard the voice of
Flora Mac-Ivor speaking in the hut without. He tried to push back the
panel, but the inmates had secured it on the outside with a large nail.
Waverley remained some time in these narrow quarters, ministered to by
the old woman and at intervals hearing the same gentle girlish voice
speaking outside, without, however, ever being able to see its owner. At
last, after several days, two of the Highlanders who had first captured
him returned, and by signs informed him that he must get ready to follow
them immediately.
At this news Edward, thoroughly tired of his confinement, rejoiced, and,
upon rising, found himself sufficiently well to travel. He was seated in
the smoky cottage quietly waiting the signal for departure, when he felt
a touch on his arm, and, turning, he found himself face to face with
Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean. With a quick movement she
showed him the edges of a bundle of papers which she as swiftly
concealed. She then laid her finger on her lips, and glided away to
assist old Janet, his nurse, in packing his saddle-bags. With the tail
of his eye, however, Edward saw the girl fold the papers among his linen
without being observed by the others. This being done, she took no
further notice of him whatever, except that just at the last, as she was
leaving the cottage, she turned round and gave him a smile and nod of
farewell.
The tall Highlander who was to lead the party now made Edward understand
that there was considerable danger on the way. He must follow without
noise, and do exactly as he was bidden. A steel pistol and a broadsword
were given him for use in case of attack. The party had not been long
upon its night journeying, moving silently along through the woods and
copses in Indian file, before Edward found that there was good reason
for this precaution.
At no great distance he heard the cry of an English sentinel, "All's
well!" Again and again the cry was taken up by other sentries till the
sound was lost in the distance. The enemy was very near, but the trained
senses of the Highlanders in their own rugged country were more than a
match for the discipline of the regulars.
A little farther on they passed a large building, with lights still
twinkling in the windows. Presently the tall Highlander stood up and
sniffed. Then motioning Waverley to do as he did, he began to crawl on
all fours toward a low and ruinous sheep-fold. With some difficulty
Edward obeyed, and with so much care was the stalk conducted, that
presently, looking over a stone wall, he could see an outpost of five or
six soldiers lying round their camp-fire, while in front a sentinel
paced backward and forward, regarding the heavens and whistling _Nancy
Dawson_ as placidly as if he were a hundred miles from any wild rebel
Highlandmen.
At that moment the moon, which up to this time had been hidden behind
clouds, shone out clear and bright. So Edward and his Highland guide had
perforce to remain where they were, stuck up against the dike, not
daring to continue their journey in the full glare of light, while the
Highlander muttered curses on "MacFarlane's lanthorn," as he called the
moon.
At last the Highlander, motioning Edward to stay where he was, began
with infinite pains to worm his way backward on all fours, taking
advantage of every bit of cover, lying stock-still behind a boulder
while the sentry was looking in his direction, and again crawling
swiftly to a more distant bush as often as he turned his back or marched
the other way. Presently Edward lost sight of the Highlander, but before
long he came out again at an altogether different part of the thicket,
in full view of the sentinel, at whom he immediately fired a shot--the
bullet wounding the soldier on the arm, stopping once and for all the
whistling of _Nancy Dawson_.
Then all the soldiers, awakened by the shot and their comrade's cry,
advanced alertly toward the spot where the tall man had been seen. He
had, however, retired, but continued to give them occasionally such a
view of his figure in the open moonlight, as to lead them yet farther
from the path.
Meanwhile, taking advantage of their leader's ruse, Waverley and his
attendants made good speed over the heather till they got behind a
rising ground, from which, however, they could still hear the shouts of
the pursuers, and the more distant roll of the royal drums beating to
arms. They had not gone far before they came upon an encampment in a
hollow. Here several Highlanders, with a horse or two, lay concealed.
They had not arrived very long before the tall Highlander, who had led
the soldiers such a dance, made his appearance quite out of breath, but
laughing gayly at the ease with which he had tricked his pursuers.
Edward was now mounted on a stout pony, and the whole party set forward
at a good round pace, accompanied by the Highlanders as an escort. They
continued without molestation all the night, till, in the morning light,
they saw a tall old castle on the opposite bank of the river, upon the
battlements of which they could see the plaid and targe of a Highland
sentry, and over which floated the white banner of the exiled Stuarts.
They passed through a small town, and presently were admitted into the
courtyard of the ancient fortress, where Edward was courteously
received by a chief in full dress and wearing a white cockade. He showed
Waverley directly to a half-ruinous apartment where, however, there was
a small camp bed. Here he was about to leave him, after asking him what
refreshment he would take, when Edward, who had had enough of mysteries,
requested that he might be told where he was.
"You are in the castle of Doune, in the district of Menteith," said the
governor of the castle, "and you are in no danger whatever. I command
here for his Royal Highness Prince Charles."
At last it seemed to Waverley as if he had reached a place of rest and
safety. But it was not to be. On the very next day he was put in charge
of a detachment of irregular horsemen who were making their way eastward
to join the forces of the Prince. The leader of this band was no other
than the Laird of Balmawhapple, who, backing words by deeds, had
mustered his grooms and huntsmen in the cause of the Stuarts. Edward
attempted to speak civilly to him, but found himself brutally repulsed.
Captain Falconer of Balmawhapple had noways forgotten the shrewd pinch
in the sword-arm which he had received from the Baron of Bradwardine in
Waverley's quarrel.
At first Edward had better luck with his Lieutenant, a certain
horse-coper or dealer. This man had sold Balmawhapple the chargers upon
which to mount his motley array, and seeing no chance of getting his
money except by "going out" himself, he had accepted the post of
Lieutenant in the Chevalier's army. So far good. But just at the moment
when it seemed that our hero was about to get some information of a
useful sort, Balmawhapple rode up, and demanded of his Lieutenant if he
had not heard his orders that no one should speak to the prisoner.
After that they marched in silence, till, as the little company of
adventurers was passing Stirling Castle, Balmawhapple must needs sound
his trumpet and display his white banner. This bravado, considerably to
that gentleman's discomfiture, was answered at once by a burst of smoke
from the Castle, and the next moment a cannon-ball knocked up the earth
a few feet from the Captain's charger, and covered Balmawhapple himself
with dirt and stones. An immediate retreat of the command took place
without having been specially ordered.
As they approached Edinburgh, they could see that white wreaths of smoke
circled the Castle. The cannonade rolled continuously. Balmawhapple,
however, warned by what had happened at Stirling, gave the Castle a wide
berth, and finally, without having entered the city, he delivered up
his prisoner at the door of the ancient palace of Holyrood.
And so, for the time being, Edward's adventures in the wild Highlands
were ended.
INTERLUDE OF STICKING-PLASTER
This time the children were frankly delighted.
"It's just like _Kidnapped_, father," cried Hugh
John, more truly than he dreamed of, "there's the
Flight through the Heather, you remember, and the
tall man is Allan Breck, heading off the soldiers
after the Red Fox was shot. There was a sentinel
that whistled, too--Allan heard him when he was
fishing, and learned the tune--oh, and a lot of
things the same!"
"I like the part best where Alice Bean gives him
the papers," said Sweetheart; "perhaps she was in
love with him, too."
"Pshaw!" cried Toady Lion; "much good that did him.
He never even got them looked at. But it was a pity
that he did not get a chance at a King George
soldier with that lovely sword and steel pistol.
The Highlanders had all the luck."
"I would have banged it off anyway," declared Hugh
John; "fancy carrying a pistol like that all the
way, scouting and going Indian file, and never
getting a shot at anybody!"
"What I want to know," said Sweetheart, dreamily,
"is why they all thought Edward a traitor. I
believe the papers that Alice Bean Lean put in his
bag would reveal the secret, if Waverley only had
time to read them."
"Him," said Sir Toady, naturally suspicious of all
girls' heroes, "why, he's always falling down and
getting put to bed. Then somebody has to nurse
him. Why doesn't he go out and fight, like Fergus
Mac-Ivor? Then perhaps Flora would have him; though
what he wanted her for--a girl--I don't know. She
could only play harps and--make poetry."
So with this bitter scorn for the liberal arts,
they all rushed off to enact the whole story, the
tale-teller consenting, as occasion required, to
take the parts of the wounded smith, the stern
judge, or the Cameronian Captain. Hugh John
hectored insufferably as Waverley. Sir Toady
scouted and stalked as the tall Highlander, whom he
refused to regard as anybody but Allan Breck.
Sweetheart moved gently about as Alice
Bean--preparing breakfast was quite in her
line--while Maid Margaret, wildly excited, ran
hither and thither as a sort of impartial chorus,
warning all and sundry of the movements of the
enemy.
I saw her last, seated on a knoll and calling out
"Bang" at the pitch of her voice. She was, she
explained, nothing less imposing than the castle of
Edinburgh itself, cannonading the ranks of the
Pretender. While far away, upon wooden chargers,
Balmawhapple's cavalry curvetted on the slopes of
Arthur's Seat and cracked vain pistols at the
frowning fortress. There was, in fact, all through
the afternoon, a great deal of imagination loose in
our neighbourhood. And even far into the gloaming
sounds of battle, boastful recriminations, the
clash of swords, the trample and rally of the heavy
charge, even the cries of the genuinely wounded,
came fitfully from this corner and that of the wide
shrubberies.
And when all was over, as they sat reunited, Black
Hanoverian and White Cockade, victor and
vanquished, in the kindly truce of the
supper-table, Hugh John delivered his verdict.
"That's the best tale you have told us yet. Every
man of us needed to have sticking-plaster put on
when we came in--even Sweetheart!"
Than which, of course, nothing _could_ have been
more satisfactory.
THE FIFTH TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
THE WHITE COCKADE
IT was Fergus Mac-Ivor himself who welcomed Edward within the palace of
Holyrood, where the adventurous Prince now kept his court.
Hardly would he allow Edward even to ask news of Flora, before carrying
him off into the presence-chamber to be presented. Edward was deeply
moved by the Chevalier's grace and dignity, as well as moved by the
reception he received. The Prince praised the deeds of his ancestors,
and called upon him to emulate them. He also showed him a proclamation
in which his name was mentioned along with those of the other rebels as
guilty of high treason. Edward's heart was melted. This princely
kindness, so different from the treatment which he had received at the
hands of the English government, the direct appeal of the handsome and
gallant young Chevalier, perhaps also the thought of pleasing Flora in
the only way open to him, all overwhelmed the young man, so that, with a
sudden burst of resolve, he knelt down and devoted his life and his
sword to the cause of King James.
The Prince raised and embraced Waverley, and in a few words confided to
him that the English general, having declined battle and gone north to
Aberdeen, had brought his forces back to Dunbar by sea. Here it was the
Prince's instant intention to attack him.
Before taking leave he presented Edward with the splendid silver-hilted
sword which he wore, itself an heirloom of the Stuarts. Then he gave him
over into the hands of Fergus Mac-Ivor, who forthwith proceeded to make
Waverley into a true son of Ivor by arraying him in the tartan of the
clan, with plaid floating over his shoulder and buckler glancing upon
his arm.
Soon after came the Baron of Bradwardine, anxious about the honour of
his young friend Edward. He said that he desired to know the truth as
to the manner in which Captain Waverley had lost his commission in
Colonel Gardiner's dragoons,--so that, if he should hear his honour
called in question, he might be able to defend it,--which, no doubt, he
would have performed as stoutly and loyally as he had previously done
upon the sulky person of the Laird of Balmawhapple.
The morrow was to be a day of battle. But it was quite in keeping with
the gay character of the adventurer-prince, that the evening should be
spent in a hall in the ancient palace of Holyrood. Here Edward, in his
new full dress as a Highlander and a son of Ivor, shone as the
handsomest and the boldest of all. And this, too, in spite of the marked
coldness with which Flora treated him. But to make amends, Rose
Bradwardine, close by her friend's side, watched him with a sigh on her
lip, and colour on her cheek--yet with a sort of pride, too, that she
should have been the first to discover what a gallant and soldierly
youth he was. Jacobite or Hanoverian, she cared not. At Tully-Veolan or
at a court ball, she was equally proud of Edward Waverley.
Next morning our hero was awakened by the screaming of the warpipes
outside his bedroom, and Callum Beg, his attendant, informed him that
he would have to hurry if he wished to come up with Fergus and the Clan
Ivor, who had marched out with the Prince when the morning was yet grey.
Thus spurred, Edward proved himself no laggard. On they went, threading
their way through the ranks of the Highland army, now getting mixed up
with Balmawhapple's horsemen, who, careless of discipline, went spurring
through the throng amid the curses of the Highlanders. For the first
time Edward saw with astonishment that more than half the clansmen were
poorly armed, many with only a scythe on a pole or a sword without a
scabbard, while some for a weapon had nothing better than their dirks,
or even a stake pulled out of the hedge. Then it was that Edward, who
hitherto had only seen the finest and best armed men whom Fergus could
place in the field, began to harbour doubts as to whether this
unmilitary array could defeat a British army, and win the crown of three
kingdoms for the young Prince with whom he had rashly cast in his lot.
[Illustration: "ROSE BRADWARDINE, close by her friend's side, watched
him with a sigh on her lip, and colour on her cheek--yet with a sort of
pride, too, that she should have been the first to discover what a
gallant and soldierly youth he was."]
But his dismal and foreboding thoughts were quickly changed to pride
when whole Clan Ivor received him with a unanimous shout and the braying
of their many warpipes.
"Why," said one of a neighbouring clan, "you greet the young Sassenach
as if he were the Chief himself!"
"If he be not Bran, he is Bran's brother!" replied Evan Dhu, who was now
very grand under the name of Ensign Maccombich.
"Oh, then," replied the other, "that will doubtless be the young English
duinhé-wassel who is to be married to the Lady Flora?"
"That may be or that may not be," retorted Evan, grimly; "it is no
matter of yours or mine, Gregor."
The march continued--first by the shore toward Musselburgh and then
along the top of a little hill which looked out seaward. While marching
thus, news came that Bradwardine's horse had had a skirmish with the
enemy, and had sent in some prisoners.
Almost at the same moment from a sort of stone shed (called a sheep
smearing-house) Edward heard a voice which, as if in agony, tried to
repeat snatches of the Lord's Prayer. He stopped. It seemed as if he
knew that voice.
He entered, and found in the corner a wounded man lying very near to
death. It was no other than Houghton, the sergeant of his own troop, to
whom he had written to send him the books. At first he did not recognise
Edward in his Highland dress. But as soon as he was assured that it
really was his master who stood beside him, he moaned out, "Oh, why did
you leave us, Squire?" Then in broken accents he told how a certain
pedlar called Ruffin had shown them letters from Edward, advising them
to rise in mutiny.
"Ruffin!" said Edward, "I know nothing of any such man. You have been
vilely imposed upon, Houghton."
"Indeed," said the dying man, "I often thought so since. And we did not
believe till he showed us your very seal. So Tims was shot, and I was
reduced to the ranks."
Not long after uttering these words, poor Houghton breathed his last,
praying his young master to be kind to his old father and mother at
Waverley-Honour, and not to fight with these wild petticoat men against
old England.
The words cut Edward to the heart, but there was no time for sentiment
or regret. The army of the Prince was fast approaching the foe. The
English regiments came marching out to meet them along the open shore,
while the Highlanders took their station on the higher ground to the
south. But a morass separated the combatants, and though several
skirmishes took place on the flanks, the main fighting had to be put off
till another day. That night both sides slept on their arms, Fergus and
Waverley joining their plaids to make a couch, on which they lay, with
Callum Beg watching at their heads.
Before three, they were summoned to the presence of the Prince. They
found him giving his final directions to the chiefs. A guide had been
found who would guide the army across the morass. They would then turn
the enemy's flank, and after that the Highland yell and the Highland
claymore must do the rest.
The mist of the morning was still rolling thick through the hollow
between the armies when Clan Ivor got the word to charge. Prestonpans
was no midnight surprise. The English army, regularly ranked, stood
ready, waiting. But their cavalry, suddenly giving way, proved
themselves quite unable to withstand the furious onslaught of the
Highlanders. Edward charged with the others, and was soon in the
thickest of the fray. It happened that while fighting on the battle
line, he was able to save the life of a distinguished English officer,
who, with the hilt of his broken sword yet in his hand, stood by the
artillery from which the gunners had run away, disdaining flight and
waiting for death. The victory of the Highlanders was complete. Edward
even saw his old commander, Colonel Gardiner, struck down, yet was
powerless to save him. But long after, the reproach in the eyes of the
dying soldier haunted him. Yet it expressed more sorrow than
anger--sorrow to see him in such a place and in such a dress.
But this was soon forgotten when the prisoner he had taken, and whom the
policy of the Prince committed to his care and custody, declared himself
as none other than Colonel Talbot, his uncle's dearest and most intimate
friend. He informed Waverley that on his return from abroad he had found
both Sir Everard and his brother in custody on account of Edward's
reported treason. He had, therefore, immediately started for Scotland to
endeavour to bring back the truant. He had seen Colonel Gardiner, and
had found him, after having made a less hasty inquiry into the mutiny
of Edward's troop, much softened toward the young man. All would have
come right, concluded Colonel Talbot, had it not been for our hero's
joining openly with the rebels in their mad venture.
Edward was smitten to the heart when he heard of his uncle's sufferings,
believing that they were on his account. But he was somewhat comforted
when Colonel Talbot told him that through his influence Sir Everard had
been allowed out under heavy bail, and that Mr. Richard Waverley was
with him at Waverley-Honour.
Yet more torn with remorse was Edward when, having once more arrived in
Edinburgh, he found at last the leather valise which contained the
packet of letters Alice Bean Lean had placed among his linen. From these
he learned that Colonel Gardiner had thrice written to him, once indeed
sending the letter by one of the men of Edward's own troop, who had been
instructed by the pedlar to go back and tell the Colonel that his
officer had received them in person. Instead of being delivered to
Waverley, the letters had been given to a certain Mr. William Ruffin, or
Riven, or Ruthven, whom Waverley saw at once could be none other than
Donald Bean Lean himself. Then all at once remembering the business of
the robber cave, he understood the loss of his seal, and poor Houghton's
dying reproach that he should not have left the lads of his troop so
long by themselves.
Edward now saw clearly how in a moment of weakness he had made a great
and fatal mistake by joining with the Jacobites. But his sense of honour
was such that in spite of all Colonel Talbot could say, he would not go
back on his word. His own hastiness, the clever wiles of Fergus
Mac-Ivor, Flora's beauty, and most of all the rascality of Donald Bean
Lean had indeed brought his neck, as old Major Melville had prophesied,
within the compass of the hangman's rope.
The best Edward could now do was to send a young soldier of his troop,
who had been taken at Prestonpans, to his uncle and his father with
letters explaining all the circumstances. By Colonel Talbot's advice and
help this messenger was sent aboard one of the English vessels cruising
in the Firth, well furnished with passes which would carry him in safety
all the way to Waverley-Honour.
Still the days went by, and nothing was done. Still the Prince halted in
Edinburgh waiting for reinforcements which never came. He was always
hopeful that more clans would declare for him or that other forces would
be raised in the Lowlands or in England. And meanwhile, chiefly because
in the city there was nothing for them to do, plans and plots were being
formed. Quarrellings and jealousies became the order of the day among
the troops of the White Cockade. One morning Fergus Mac-Ivor came in to
Edward's lodgings, furious with anger because the Prince had refused him
two requests,--one, to make good his right to be an Earl, and the other,
to give his consent to his marriage with Rose Bradwardine. Fergus must
wait for the first, the Prince had told him, because that would offend a
chief of his own name and of greater power, who was still hesitating
whether or not to declare for King James. As for Rose Bradwardine,
neither must he think of her. Her affections were already engaged. The
Prince knew this privately, and, indeed, had promised already to favour
the match upon which her heart was set.
As for Edward himself, he began about this time to think less and less
of the cruelty of Flora Mac-Ivor. He could not have the moon, that was
clear--and he was not a child to go on crying for it. It was evident,
also, that Rose Bradwardine liked him, and her marked favour, and her
desire to be with him, had their effect upon a heart still sore from
Flora's repeated and haughty rejections.
One of the last things Edward was able to do in Edinburgh, was to obtain
from the Prince the release of Colonel Talbot, whom he saw safely on his
way to London from the port of Leith. After that it was with actual
relief that Edward found the period of waiting in Edinburgh at last at
an end, and the Prince's army to the number of six thousand men marching
southward into England. All was now to be hazarded on the success of a
bold push for London.
The Highlanders easily escaped a superior army encamped on the borders.
They attacked and took Carlisle on their way, and at first it seemed as
if they had a clear path to the capital before them. Fergus, who marched
with his clan in the van of the Prince's army, never questioned their
success for a moment. But Edward's clearer eye and greater knowledge of
the odds made no such mistake.
He saw that few joined them, and those men of no great weight, while all
the time the forces of King George were daily increasing. Difficulties
of every kind arose about them the farther they marched from their
native land. Added to which there were quarrels and dissensions among
the Prince's followers, those between his Irish officers and such
Highland chiefs as Fergus being especially bitter.
Even to Edward, Fergus became fierce and sullen, quite unlike his former
gay and confident self. It was about Flora that the quarrel, long
smouldering, finally broke into flame. As they passed this and that
country-seat, Fergus would always ask if the house were as large as
Waverley-Honour, and whether the estate or the deer park were of equal
size. Edward had usually to reply that they were not nearly so great.
Whereupon Fergus would remark that in that case Flora would be a happy
woman.
"But," said Waverley, who tired of the implied obligation, "you forget
Miss Flora has refused me, not once, but many times. I am therefore
reluctantly compelled to resign all claims upon her hand."
At this, Fergus thought fit to take offence, saying that having once
made application for Flora's hand, Waverley had no right to withdraw
from his offer without the consent of her guardian. Edward replied that
so far as he was concerned, the matter was at an end. He would never
press himself upon any lady who had repeatedly refused him.
Whereupon, Fergus turned away furiously, and the quarrel was made.
Edward betook himself to the camp of his old friend, the Baron, and, as
he remembered the instruction he had received in the dragoons, he became
easily a leader and a great favourite among the Lowland cavalry which
followed the old soldier Bradwardine.
But he had left seeds of bitter anger behind him in the camp of the
proud clan he had quitted.
Some of the Lowland officers warned him of his danger, and Evan Dhu, the
Chief's foster-brother--who, ever since the visit to the cave had taken
a liking to Edward--waited for him secretly in a shady place and bade
him beware. The truth was that the Clan Mac-Ivor had taken it into their
heads that Edward had somehow slighted their Lady Flora. They saw that
the Chief's brow was dark against Edward, and therefore he became all at
once fair game for a bullet or a stab in the dark.
And the first of these was not long in arriving.
* * * * *
And here (I concluded) is the end of the fifth
tale.
"Go on--oh--go on!" shouted all the four listeners
in chorus; "we don't want to play or to talk, just
now. We want to know what happened."
"Very well, then," said I, "then the next story
shall be called 'Black Looks and Bright Swords.'"
Carrying out which resolve we proceeded at once to
the telling of
THE SIXTH TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
BLACK LOOKS AND BRIGHT SWORDS
IT was in the dusk of an avenue that Evan Dhu had warned Waverley to
beware, and ere he had reached the end of the long double line of trees,
a pistol cracked in the covert, and a bullet whistled close past his
ear.
"There he is," cried Edward's attendant, a stout Merseman of the
Baron's troop; "it's that devil's brat, Callum Beg."
And Edward, looking through the trees, could make out a figure running
hastily in the direction of the camp of the Mac-Ivors.
Instantly Waverley turned his horse, and rode straight up to Fergus.
"Colonel Mac-Ivor," he said, without any attempt at salutation, "I have
to inform you that one of your followers has just attempted to murder me
by firing upon me from a lurking-place."
"Indeed!" said the Chief, haughtily; "well, as that, save in the matter
of the lurking-place, is a pleasure I presently propose for myself, I
should be glad to know which of my clansmen has dared to anticipate me."
"I am at your service when you will, sir," said Edward, with equal
pride, "but in the meantime the culprit was your page, Callum Beg."
"Stand forth, Callum Beg," cried Vich Ian Vohr; "did you fire at Mr.
Waverley?"
"No," said the unblushing Callum.
"You did," broke in Edward's attendant, "I saw you as plain as ever I
saw Coudingham kirk!"
"You lie!" returned Callum, not at all put out by the accusation. But
his Chief demanded Callum's pistol. The hammer was down. The pan and
muzzle were black with smoke, the barrel yet warm. It had that moment
been fired.
"Take that!" cried the Chief, striking the boy full on the head with the
metal butt; "take that, for daring to act without orders and then lying
to disguise it."
Callum made not the slightest attempt to escape the blow, and fell as if
he had been slain on the spot.
"And now, Mr. Waverley," said the Chief, "be good enough to turn your
horse twenty yards with me out upon the common. I have a word to say to
you."
Edward did so, and as soon as they were alone, Fergus fiercely charged
him with having thrown aside his sister Flora in order to pay his court
to Rose Bradwardine, whom, as he knew, Fergus had chosen for his own
bride.
"It was the Prince--the Prince himself who told me!" added Fergus,
noticing the astonishment on Edward's face.
"Did the Prince tell you that I was engaged to Miss Rose Bradwardine?"
cried Edward.
"He did--this very morning," shouted Fergus; "he gave it as a reason for
a second time refusing my request. So draw and defend yourself, or
resign once and forever all claims to the lady."
"In such a matter I will not be dictated to by you or any man living!"
retorted Waverley, growing angry in his turn.
In a moment swords were out and a fierce combat was beginning, when a
number of Bradwardine's cavalry, who being Lowlanders were always at
feud with the Highlandmen, rode hastily up, calling on their companions
to follow. They had heard that there was a chance of a fight between
their corps and the Highlanders. Nothing would have pleased them
better. The Baron himself threatened that unless the Mac-Ivors returned
to their ranks, he would charge them, while they on their side pointed
their guns at him and his Lowland cavalry.
A cry that the Prince was approaching alone prevented bloodshed. The
Highlanders returned to their places. The cavalry dressed its ranks. It
was indeed the Chevalier who arrived. His first act was to get one of
his French officers, the Count of Beaujeu, to set the regiment of
Mac-Ivors and the Lowland cavalry again upon the road. He knew that the
Count's broken English would put them all in better humour, while he
himself remained to make the peace between Fergus and Waverley.
Outwardly the quarrel was soon made up. Edward explained that he had no
claims whatever to be considered as engaged to Rose Bradwardine or any
one else, while Fergus sulkily agreed that it was possible he had made a
mistake. The Prince made them shake hands, which they did with the air
of two dogs whom only the presence of the master kept from flying at
each other's throats. Then after calming the Clan Mac-Ivor and riding
awhile with the Baron's Lowland cavalry, the Prince returned to the
Count of Beaujeu, saying with a sigh, as he reined his charger beside
him, "Ah, my friend, believe me this business of prince-errant is no bed
of roses!"
* * * * *
It was not long before the poor Prince had a further proof of this fact.
On the 5th of December, after a council at Derby, the Highland chiefs,
disappointed that the country did not rally about them, and that the
government forces were steadily increasing on all sides, compelled the
Prince to fall back toward Scotland. Fergus Mac-Ivor fiercely led the
opposition to any retreat. He would win the throne for his Prince, or if
he could not, then he and every son of Ivor would lay down their lives.
That was his clear and simple plan of campaign. But he was easily
overborne by numbers, and when he found himself defeated in council, he
shed actual tears of grief and mortification. From that moment Vich Ian
Vohr was an altered man.
Since the day of the quarrel Edward had seen nothing of him. It was,
therefore, with great surprise that he saw Fergus one evening enter his
lodgings and invite him to take a walk with him. The Chieftain smiled
sadly as he saw his old friend take down his sword and buckle it on.
There was a great change in the appearance of Vich Ian Vohr. His cheek
was hollow. His eye burned as if with fever.
As soon as the two young men had reached a beautiful and solitary glen,
Fergus began to tell Edward that he had found out how wrongheaded and
rash he had been in the matter of their quarrel. "Flora writes me,"
continued Fergus, "that she never had, and never could have, the least
intention of giving you any encouragement. I acted hastily--like a
madman!"
Waverley hastily entreated him to let all be forgotten, and the two
comrades-in-arms shook hands, this time heartily and sincerely.
Notwithstanding, the gloom on the Chief's brow was scarcely lightened.
He even besought Waverley to betake himself at once out of the kingdom
by an eastern port, to marry Rose Bradwardine, and to take Flora with
him as a companion to Rose, and also for her own protection.
Edward was astonished at this complete change in Fergus.
"What!" he cried, "abandon the expedition on which we have all
embarked?"
"Embarked," answered the Chief, bitterly; "why, man, the expedition is
going to pieces! It is time for all those who can, to get ashore in the
longboat!"
"And what," said Edward, "are the other Highland chiefs going to do?"
"Oh, the chiefs," said Fergus, contemptuously, "they think that all the
heading and hanging will, as before, fall to the lot of the Lowlands,
and that they will be left alone in their poor and barren Highlands, to
'listen to the wind on the hill till the waters abate.' But they will be
disappointed. The government will make sure work this time, and leave
not a clan in all the Highlands able to do them hurt. As for me, it will
not matter. I shall either be dead or taken by this time to-morrow. I
have seen the _Bodach Glas_--the Grey Spectre."
Edward looked the surprise he did not speak.
"Why!" continued Fergus, in a low voice, "were you so long about
Glennaquoich and yet never heard of the Bodach Glas? The story is well
known to every son of Ivor. I will tell it you in a word. My forefather,
Ian nan Chaistel, wasted part of England along with a Lowland chief
named Halbert Hall. After passing the Cheviots on their way back, they
quarrelled about the dividing of the spoil, and from words came speedily
to blows. In the fight, the Lowlanders were cut off to the last man, and
their leader fell to my ancestor's sword. But ever since that day the
dead man's spirit has crossed the Chief of Clan Ivor on the eve of any
great disaster. My father saw him twice, once before he was taken
prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, and once again on the morning of the day on
which he died."
Edward cried out against such superstition.
"How can you," he said, "you who have seen the world, believe such
child's nonsense as that?"
"Listen," said the Chief, "here are the facts, and you can judge for
yourself. Last night I could not sleep for thinking on the downfall of
all my hopes for the cause, for the Prince, for the clan--so, after
lying long awake, I stepped out into the frosty air. I had crossed a
small foot-bridge, and was walking backward and forward, when I saw,
clear before me in the moonlight, a tall man wrapped in a grey plaid,
such as the shepherds wear. The figure kept regularly about four yards
from me."
"That is an easy riddle," exclaimed Edward; "why, my dear Fergus, what
you saw was no more than a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress!"
"So I thought at first," answered Fergus, "and I was astonished at the
man's audacity in daring to dog me. I called to him, but got no answer.
I felt my heart beating quickly, and to find out what I was afraid of, I
turned and faced first north, and then south, east, and west. Each way I
turned, I saw the grey figure before my eyes at precisely the same
distance! Then I knew I had seen the Bodach Glas. My hair stood up, and
so strong an impression of awe came upon me that I resolved to return to
my quarters. As I went, the spirit glided steadily before me, till we
came to the narrow bridge, where it turned and stood waiting for me. I
could not wade the stream. I could not bring myself to turn back. So,
making the sign of the cross, I drew my sword and cried aloud, 'In the
name of God, Evil Spirit, give place!'
"'_Vich Ian Vohr_,' it said in a dreadful voice, '_beware of
to-morrow!_'
"It was then within half a yard of my sword's point, but as the words
were uttered it was gone. There was nothing either on the bridge or on
the way home. All is over. I am doomed. I have seen the Bodach Glas,
the curse of my house."
[Illustration: "THE spirit glided steadily before me, till we came to
the narrow bridge, where it turned and stood waiting for me. I could not
wade the stream. I could not bring myself to turn back. So, making the
sign of the cross, I drew my sword and cried aloud, 'In the name of God,
Evil Spirit, give place!'
"'_Vich Ian Vohr_,' it said in a dreadful voice, '_beware of
to-morrow!_'"]
Edward could think of nothing to say in reply. His friend's belief in
the reality of the vision was too strong. He could only ask to be
allowed to march once more with the sons of Ivor, who occupied the post
of danger in the rear. Edward easily obtained the Baron's leave to do
so, and when the Clan Mac-Ivor entered the village, he joined them, once
more arm in arm with their Chieftain. At the sight, all the Mac-Ivors'
ill feeling was blown away in a moment. Evan Dhu received him with a
grin of pleasure. And the imp Callum, with a great patch on his head,
appeared particularly delighted to see him.
But Waverley's stay with the Clan Ivor was not to be long. The enemy was
continually harassing their flanks, and the rear-guard had to keep
lining hedges and dikes in order to beat them off. Night was already
falling on the day which Fergus had foretold would be his last, when in
a chance skirmish of outposts the Chief with a few followers found
himself surrounded by a strong attacking force of dragoons. A swift eddy
of the battle threw Edward out to one side. The cloud of night lifted,
and he saw Evan Dhu and a few others, with the Chieftain in their midst,
desperately defending themselves against a large number of dragoons who
were hewing at them with their swords. It was quite impossible for
Waverley to break through to their assistance. Night shut down
immediately, and he found it was equally impossible for him to rejoin
the retreating Highlanders, whose warpipes he could still hear in the
distance.
INTERLUDE OF BREVITY
The _Bodach Glas_ held the children. The brilliant
sunshine of the High Garden in which they had
listened to the tale became instantly palest
moonlight, and between them and the strawberry bed
they saw the filmy plaid of the Grey Spectre of the
House of Ivor. It had been helpful and even
laudable to play-act the chief scenes when the
story was beginning, but now they had no time. It
would have been an insult to the interest of the
narrative.
Doubtless, if they had had the book, they would
have _skipped_, to know "how it all ended." But it
was time for the evening walk. So, instead of
stringing themselves out along the way as was their
custom, seeing if the raspberry bushes had grown
any taller since the morning, the four collected in
a close swarm about the tale-teller, like bees
about an emigrant queen.
"You must tell us the rest--you _must!_" they said,
linking arms about my waist to prevent any attempt
at an evasion of such just demands.
So, being secretly no little pleased with their
eagerness, I launched out upon the conclusion of
the whole matter--which showed, among other things,
how Waverley-Honour was more honoured than ever and
the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine threefold blessed.
THE LAST TALE FROM "WAVERLEY"
THE BARON'S SURPRISE
AFTER wandering about for some time Edward came unexpectedly upon a
hamlet. Lights gleamed down the street, and Edward could hear loud
voices and the tramp of horses. The sound of shouted orders and
soldiers' oaths soon told him that he was in great danger. For these
were English troops, and if they caught him in his Mac-Ivor tartan,
would assuredly give him short shrift and a swift bullet.
Lingering a moment uncertainly near the gate of a small garden
enclosure, he felt himself caught by gentle hands and drawn toward a
house.
"Come, Ned," said a low voice, "the dragoons are down the village, and
they will do thee a mischief. Come with me into feyther's!"
Judging this to be very much to the purpose, Edward followed, but when
the girl saw the tall figure in tartans instead of the sweetheart she
had expected, she dropped the candle she had lighted, and called out for
her father.
A stout Westmoreland peasant at once appeared, poker in hand, and
presently Edward found himself not ill received--by the daughter on
account of a likeness to her lover (so she said) and by the father
because of a certain weakness for the losing side. So, in the house of
Farmer Jopson, Edward slept soundly that night, in spite of the dangers
which surrounded him on every side. In the morning the true Edward,
whose name turned out to be Ned Williams, was called in to consult with
father and daughter. It seemed impossible for Edward to go north to
rejoin the Prince's forces. They had evacuated Penrith and marched away
toward Carlisle. The whole intervening country was covered by scouting
parties of government horsemen. Whereupon Ned Williams, who wished above
all things to rid the house of his handsome namesake, lest his
sweetheart Cicely should make other mistakes, offered to get Waverley a
change of clothes, and to conduct him to his father's farm near
Ulswater. Neither old Jopson nor his daughter would accept a farthing of
money for saving Waverley's life. A hearty handshake paid one; a kiss,
the other. And so it was not long before Ned Williams was introducing
our hero to his family, in the character of a young clergyman who was
detained in the north by the unsettled state of the country.
On their way into Cumberland they passed the field of battle where
Edward had lost sight of Fergus. Many bodies still lay upon the face of
the moorland, but that of Vich Ian Vohr was not among them, and Edward
passed on with some hope that in spite of the _Bodach Glas_, Fergus
might have escaped his doom. They found Callum Beg, however, his tough
skull cloven at last by a dragoon's sword, but there was no sign either
of Evan or of his Chieftain.
In the secure shelter of good Farmer Williams's house among the hills,
it was Edward's lot to remain somewhat longer than he intended. In the
first place, it was wholly impossible to move for ten days, owing to a
great fall of snow. Then he heard how that the Prince had retreated
farther into Scotland, how Carlisle had been besieged and taken by the
English, and that the whole north was covered by the hosts of the Duke
of Cumberland and General Wade.
But in the month of January it happened that the clergyman who came to
perform the ceremony at the wedding of Ned Williams and Cicely Jopson,
brought with him a newspaper which he showed to Edward. In it Waverley
read with astonishment a notice of his father's death in London, and of
the approaching trial of Sir Everard for high treason--unless (said the
report) Edward Waverley, son of the late Richard Waverley, and heir to
the baronet, should in the meantime surrender himself to justice.
It was with an aching anxious heart that Waverley set out by the
northern diligence for London. He found himself in the vehicle opposite
to an officer's wife, one Mrs. Nosebag, who tormented him all the way
with questions, on several occasions almost finding him out, and once at
least narrowly escaping giving him an introduction to a recruiting
sergeant of his own regiment.
However, in spite of all risks, he arrived safely under Colonel Talbot's
roof, where he found that, though the news of his father's death was
indeed true, yet his own conduct certainly had nothing to do with the
matter--nor was Sir Everard in the slightest present danger.
Whereupon, much relieved as to his family, Edward proclaimed his
intention of returning to Scotland as soon as possible--not indeed to
join with the rebels again, but for the purpose of seeking out Rose
Bradwardine and conducting her to a place of safety.
It was not, perhaps, the wisest course he might have pursued. But during
his lonely stay at Farmer Williams's farm, Edward's heart had turned
often and much to Rose. He could not bear to think of her alone and
without protection. By means of a passport (which had been obtained for
one Frank Stanley, Colonel Talbot's nephew), Waverley was able easily to
reach Edinburgh. Here from the landlady, with whom he and Fergus had
lodged, Edward first heard the dread news of Culloden, of the slaughter
of the clans, the flight of the Prince, and, worst of all, how Fergus
and Evan Dhu, captured the night of the skirmish, were presently on
trial for their lives at Carlisle. Flora also was in Carlisle, awaiting
the issue of the trial, while with less certainty Rose Bradwardine was
reported to have gone back to her father's mansion of Tully-Veolan.
Concerning the brave old Baron himself, Edward could get no news, save
that he had fought most stoutly at Culloden, but that the government
were particularly bitter against him because he had been '_out_'
twice--that is, he had taken part both in the first rising of the year
1715, and also in that which had just been put down in blood at
Culloden.
Without a moment's hesitation, Edward set off for Tully-Veolan, and
after one or two adventures he arrived there, only to find the white
tents of a military encampment whitening the moor above the village. The
house itself had been sacked. Part of the stables had been burned, while
the only living being left about the mansion of Tully-Veolan was no
other than poor Davie Gellatley, who, chanting his foolish songs as
usual, greeted Edward with the cheering intelligence that "_A' were dead
and gane--Baron--Bailie--Saunders Saunderson--and Lady Rose that sang
sae sweet!_"
However, it was not long before he set off at full speed, motioning
Waverley to follow him. The innocent took a difficult and dangerous path
along the sides of a deep glen, holding on to bushes, rounding perilous
corners of rock, till at last the barking of dogs directed them to the
entrance of a wretched hovel. Here Davie's mother received Edward with a
sullen fierceness which the young man could not understand--till, from
behind the door, holding a pistol in his hand, unwashed, gaunt, and
with a three weeks' beard fringing his hollow cheeks, he saw come
forth--the Baron of Bradwardine himself.
After the first gladsome greetings were over, the old man had many a
tale to tell his young English friend. But his chief grievance was not
his danger of the gallows, nor the discomfort of his hiding-place, but
the evil-doing of his cousin, to whom, as it now appeared, the Barony of
Bradwardine now belonged. Malcolm of Inch-Grabbit had, it appeared, come
to uplift the rents of the Barony. But the country people, being
naturally indignant that he should have so readily taken advantage of
the misfortune of his kinsman, received him but ill. Indeed, a shot was
fired at the new proprietor by some unknown marksman in the gloaming,
which so frightened the heir that he fled at once to Stirling and had
the estate promptly advertised for sale.
"In addition to which," continued the old man, "though I bred him up
from a boy, he hath spoken much against me to the great folk of the
time, so that they have sent a company of soldiers down here to destroy
all that belongs to me, and to hunt his own blood-kin like a partridge
upon the mountains."
"Aye," cried Janet Gellatley, "and if it had not been for my poor Davie
there, they would have catched the partridge, too!"
Then with a true mother's pride Janet told the story of how the poor
innocent had saved his master. The Baron was compelled by the strictness
of the watch to hide, all day and most of the nights, in a cave high up
in a wooded glen.
"A comfortable place enough," the old woman explained; "for the goodman
of Corse-Cleugh has filled it with straw. But his Honour tires of it,
and he comes down here whiles for a warm at the fire, or at times a
sleep between the blankets. But once, when he was going back in the
dawn, two of the English soldiers got a glimpse of him as he was
slipping into the wood and banged off a gun at him. I was out on them
like a hawk, crying if they wanted to murder a poor woman's innocent
bairn! Whereupon they swore down my throat that they had seen 'the auld
rebel himself,' as they called the Baron. But my Davie, that some folk
take for a simpleton, being in the wood, caught up the old grey cloak
that his Honour had dropped to run the quicker, and came out from among
the trees as we were speaking, majoring and play-acting so like his
Honour that the soldier-men were clean beguiled, and even gave me
sixpence to say nothing about their having let off their gun at 'poor
crack-brained Sawney,' as they named my Davie!"
It was not till this long tale was ended that Waverley heard what he had
come so far to find out--that Rose was safe in the house of a Whig
Laird, an old friend of her father's, and that the Bailie, who had early
left the army of the Prince, was trying his best to save something out
of the wreck for her.
The next morning Edward went off to call on Bailie Macwheeble. At first
the man of law was not very pleased to see him, but when he learned that
Waverley meant to ask Rose to be his wife, he flung his best wig out of
the window and danced the Highland fling for very joy. This rejoicing
was a little marred by the fact that Waverley was still under
proscription. But when a messenger of the Bailie's had returned from the
nearest post-town with a letter from Colonel Talbot, all fear on this
account was at an end. Colonel Talbot had, though with the greatest
difficulty, obtained royal Protections for both the Baron of Bradwardine
and for Edward himself. There was no doubt that full pardons would
follow in due course.
Right thankfully the Baron descended from his cave, as soon as Edward
carried him the good news, and with Davie Gellatley and his mother, all
went down to the house of Bailie Macwheeble, where supper was
immediately served.
It was from old Janet Gellatley, Davie's mother, that Waverley learned
whom he had to thank for rescuing him from the hands of Captain Gifted
Gilfillan, and to whom the gentle voice belonged which had cheered him
during his illness. It was none other than Rose Bradwardine herself. To
her, Edward owed all. She had even given up her jewels to Donald Bean
Lean, that he might go scatheless. She it was who had provided a nurse
for him in the person of old Janet Gellatley herself, and lastly she had
seen him safely on his way to Holyrood under the escort of the sulky
Laird of Balmawhapple.
So great kindness certainly required very special thanks. And Edward was
not backward in asking the Baron for permission to accompany him to the
house of Duchran, where Rose was at present residing. So well did Edward
express his gratitude to Rose, that she consented to give all her life
into his hands, that he might go on showing how thankful he was.
Of course the marriage could not take place for some time, because the
full pardons of the Baron and Edward took some time to obtain. For
Fergus Mac-Ivor, alas, no pardon was possible. He and Evan Dhu were
condemned to be executed for high treason at Carlisle, and all that
Edward could do was only to promise the condemned Chieftain that he
would be kind to the poor clansmen of Vich Ian Vohr, for the sake of his
friend.
As for Evan Dhu, he might have escaped. The Judge went the length of
offering to show mercy, if Evan would only ask it. But when Evan Dhu was
called upon to plead before the Court, his only request was that he
might be permitted to go down to Glennaquoich and bring up six men to be
hanged in the place of Vich Ian Vohr.
"And," he said, "ye may begin with me the first man!"
At this there was a laugh in the Court. But Evan, looking about him
sternly, added: "If the Saxon gentlemen are laughing because a poor man
such as me thinks my life, or the life of any six of my degree, is worth
that of Vich Ian Vohr, they may be very right. But if they laugh because
they think I would not keep my word, and come back to redeem him, I can
tell them they ken neither the heart of a Hielandman nor the honour of a
gentleman!"
After these words, there was no more laughing in that Court.
Nothing now could save Fergus Mac-Ivor. The government were resolved on
his death as an example, and both he and Evan were accordingly executed,
along with many others of the unhappy garrison of Carlisle.
* * * * *
Edward and Rose were married from the house of Duchran, and some days
after they started, according to the custom of the time, to spend some
time upon an estate which Colonel Talbot had bought, as was reported, a
very great bargain. The Baron had been persuaded to accompany them,
taking a place of honour in their splendid coach and six, the gift of
Sir Everard. The coach of Mr. Rubrick of Duchran came next, full of
ladies, and many gentlemen on horseback rode with them as an escort to
see them well on their way.
At the turning of the road which led to Tully-Veolan, the Bailie met
them. He requested the party to turn aside and accept of his hospitality
at his house of Little Veolan. The Baron, somewhat put out, replied that
he and his son-in-law would ride that way, but that they would not bring
upon him the whole matrimonial procession. It was clear, however, that
the Baron rather dreaded visiting the ancient home of his ancestors,
which had been so lately sold by the unworthy Malcolm of Inch-Grabbit
into the hands of a stranger. But as the Bailie insisted, and as the
party evidently wished to accept, he could not hold out.
When the Baron arrived at the avenue, he fell into a melancholy
meditation, thinking doubtless of the days when he had taken such pride
in the ancient Barony which had passed for ever away from the line of
the Bradwardines. From these bitter thoughts he was awakened by the
sight of the two huge stone bears which had been replaced over the
gate-posts.
Then down the avenue came the two great deer-hounds, Ban and Buscar,
which had so long kept their master company in his solitude, with Daft
Davie Gellatley dancing behind them.
The Baron was then informed that the present owner of the Barony was no
other than Colonel Talbot himself. But that if he did not care to visit
the new owner of Bradwardine, the party would proceed to Little Veolan,
the house of Bailie Macwheeble.
Then, indeed, the Baron had need of all his greatness of mind. But he
drew a long breath, took snuff abundantly, and remarked that as they had
brought him so far, he would not pass the Colonel's gate, and that he
would be happy to see the new master of his tenants. When he alighted in
front of the Castle, the Baron was astonished to find how swiftly the
marks of spoliation had been removed. Even the roots of the felled trees
had disappeared. All was fair and new about the house of Tully-Veolan,
even to the bright colours of the garb of Davie Gellatley, who ran first
to one and then to the other of the company, passing his hands over his
new clothes and crying, "Braw, braw Davie!"
The dogs, Bran and Buscar, leaping upon him, brought tears into the
Baron's eyes, even more than the kind welcome of Colonel Talbot's wife,
the Lady Emily. Still more astonishing appeared the changes in the so
lately ruined courtyard. The burned stables had been rebuilt upon a
newer and better plan. The pigeon-house was restocked, and populous with
fluttering wings. Even the smallest details of the garden, and the
multitude of stone bears on the gables, had all been carefully restored
as of old.
The Baron could hardly believe his eyes, and he marvelled aloud that
Colonel Talbot had not thought fit to replace the Bradwardine arms by
his own. But here the Colonel, suddenly losing patience, declared that
he would not, even to please these foolish boys, Waverley and Frank
Stanley (and his own more foolish wife), continue to impose upon another
old soldier. So without more ado he told the Baron that he had only
advanced the money to buy back the Barony, and that he would leave
Bailie Macwheeble to explain to whom the estate really belonged.
Trembling with eagerness the Bailie advanced, a formidable roll of
papers in his hand.
He began triumphantly to explain that Colonel Talbot had indeed bought
Bradwardine, but that he had immediately exchanged it for Brere-wood
Lodge, which had been left to Edward under his father's will.
Bradwardine had therefore returned to its ancient Lord in full and
undisputed possession, and the Baron was once more master of all his
hereditary powers, subject only to an easy yearly payment to his
son-in-law.
Tears were actually in the old gentleman's eyes as he went from room to
room, so that he could scarce speak a word of welcome either to the
guests within, or of thanks to the rejoicing farmers and cottars who,
hearing of his return, had gathered without. The climax of his joy was,
however, reached when the Blessed Bear of Bradwardine itself, the
golden cup of his line, mysteriously recovered out of the spoil of the
English army by Frank Stanley, was brought to the Baron's elbow by old
Saunders Saunderson.
Truth to tell, the recovery of this heirloom afforded the old man almost
as much pleasure as the regaining of his Barony, and there is little
doubt that a tear mingled with the wine, as, holding the Blessed Bear in
his hand, the Baron solemnly proposed the healths of the united families
of Waverley-Honour and Bradwardine.
THE END OF THE LAST TALE FROM "WAVERLEY."
RED CAP TALES
TOLD FROM
GUY MANNERING
GUY MANNERING
WHERE WE TOLD THE SECOND TALE
SUMMER there had been none. Autumn was a mockery. The golden harvest
fields lay prostrate under drenching floods of rain. Every burn foamed
creamy white in the linns and sulked peaty brown in the pools. The
heather, rich in this our Galloway as an emperor's robe, had scarce
bloomed at all. The very bees went hungry, for the lashing rain had
washed all the honey out of the purple bells.
Nevertheless, in spite of all, we were again in Galloway--that is, the
teller of tales and his little congregation of four. The country of _Guy
Mannering_ spread about us, even though we could scarce see a hundred
yards of it. The children flattened their noses against the blurred
window-panes to look. Their eyes watered with the keen tang of the peat
reek, till, tired with watching the squattering of ducks in farm
puddles, they turned as usual upon the family sagaman, and demanded,
with that militant assurance of youth which succeeds so often, that he
should forthwith and immediately "tell them something."
The tales from _Waverley_ had proved so enthralling that there was a
general demand for "another," and Sir Toady Lion, being of an
arithmetical turn of mind, proclaimed that there was plenty of material,
in so much as he had counted no fewer than twenty-four "all the same"
upon the shelf before he left home.
Thus, encouraged by the dashing rain on the windows and with the low
continual growl of Solway surf in our ears, we bent ourselves to fill a
gap in a hopeless day by the retelling of
A FIRST TALE FROM "GUY MANNERING"
I. WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
THROUGH storm and darkness a young Oxford scholar came to the New Place
of Ellangowan. He had been again and again refused shelter along the
road for himself and his tired horse, but at last he found himself
welcomed by Godfrey Bertram, the Laird of Ellangowan, attended by
Dominie Sampson, his faithful companion, the village schoolmaster, on
the threshold of the great house.
That very night an heir was born to the line of the Bertrams of
Ellangowan, one of the most ancient in Galloway, and as usual the New
Place was full of company come from far and near to make merry over the
event. Godfrey himself, a soft, good-natured, pliable man, welcomed
Mannering (for that was the name of the young Oxford student), and set
him forthwith to calculating the horoscope of the babe from the stars.
This, Mannering, to whom astrology seemed no better than child's play,
was at first unwilling to do, until the awkward opposition of Dominie
Sampson, as well as some curiosity to see if he could remember the terms
of the sham-science learned in youth, caused him to consent to make the
calculation.
He was still further pushed on by the appearance of a wild gipsy woman,
a sort of queen among the ragged wandering tribe which camped in a
little hamlet on the Laird's estates. She entered the house singing
shrilly a kind of ancient spell:
"Trefoil, vervain, John's wort, dill,
Hinder witches of their will!
Weel is them, that weel may
Fast upon Saint Andrew's day.
Saint Bride and her brat,
Saint Colme and his cat,
Saint Michael and his spear
Keep the house frae reif and weir."
So sang Meg Merrilies, the gipsy, a great cudgel in her hand, and her
dress and bearing more like those of a man than of a woman. Elf-locks
shot up through the holes in her bonnet, and her black eyes rolled with
a kind of madness. Soon, however, Godfrey, who evidently only half
disbelieved in her powers as a witch, dismissed her to the kitchen with
fair words, while Guy Mannering, whom his strange adventure had rendered
sleepless, walked forth into the night. The vast ruins of the ancient
castle of the Bertrams rose high and silent on the cliffs above him, but
beneath, in the little sandy cove, lights were still moving briskly,
though it was the dead hour of the night. A smuggler brig was disloading
a cargo of brandy, rum, and silks, most likely, brought from the Isle of
Man.
At sight of his figure moving on the cliffs above, a voice on the shore
sang out, "Ware hawk! Douse the glim!" And in a moment all was darkness
beneath him.
When Mannering returned to his chamber in the dim light of the morning,
he proceeded to carry out his calculations according to the strictest
rules of astrology, marking carefully the hour of the birth of the babe.
He found that young Harry Bertram, for so it had been decided to name
the child, was threatened with danger in his _fifth_, his _tenth_, and
his _twenty-first_ years.
More dissatisfied than he cared to own with these results, Mannering
walked out again to view the ruins of the old castle of Ellangowan in
the morning light. They were, he now saw, of vast extent and much
battered on the side toward the sea--so much so, indeed, that he could
observe through a gap in the mason-work, the smuggling brig getting
ready to be off with the tide. Guy Mannering penetrated into the
courtyard, and was standing there quietly, thinking of the past
greatness of the house of Bertram, when suddenly, from a chamber to the
left, he heard the voice of the gipsy, Meg Merrilies. A few steps took
him to a recess from which, unseen himself, he could observe what she
was doing. She continued to twirl her distaff, seemingly unconscious of
his presence, and also, after her own fashion, to "spae" the fortune of
young Harry Bertram, just as Mannering had so lately been doing himself.
Curiosity as to whether their results would agree kept him quiet while
she wove her spell. At last she gave her verdict: "A long life, three
score and ten years, but thrice broken by trouble or danger. The threads
thrice broke, three times united. He'll be a lucky lad if he wins
through wi' it!"
Mannering had hardly time to be astonished at the manner in which the
gipsy's prophecy confirmed his own half-playful calculations, before a
voice, loud and hoarse as the waves that roared beneath the castle,
called to the witch-wife, "Meg, Meg Merrilies--gipsy--hag--tousand
deyvils!"
"Coming, Captain--I am coming!" answered Meg, as calmly as if some one
had been calling her pet names. Through the broken portion of the wall
to seaward a man made his appearance. He was hard of feature,
savage-looking, and there was a cruel glint in his eyes which told of a
heart without pity.
The man's body, powerful and thick-set as an oak, his immense strength,
his savage temper made him shunned and disliked. There were few indeed
who would have ventured to cross the path of Dirk Hatteraick, whose best
name was "black smuggler," and whose worst a word it was safest to speak
in a whisper, lest a bird of the air should carry the matter.
On the present occasion Dirk had come to the gipsy queen to demand of
her a charm for a fair wind and a prosperous voyage. For the less
religion such a man has, the more superstitious he is apt to be.
"Where are you, Mother Deyvilson?" he cried again. "Donner and blitzen,
here we have been staying for you full half an hour! Come, bless the
good ship and the voyage--and be cursed to ye for a hag of Satan!"
At that moment, catching sight of Mannering, the smuggler stopped with a
strange start. He thrust his hand into his pocket as if to draw out a
hidden weapon, exclaiming: "What cheer, brother? You seem on the
outlook, eh?"
But with a glance at the intruder Meg Merrilies checked him. In a moment
Hatteraick had altered his tone, and was speaking to Mannering civilly,
yet still with an undercurrent of sullen suspicion which he tried to
disguise under a mask of familiarity.
"You are, I suppose," said Mannering, calmly, "the master of that vessel
in the bay?"
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the sailor, "I am Captain Dirk Hatteraick of the
_Yungfrauw Hagenslaapen_, and I am not ashamed of my name or of my
vessel, either. Right cognac I carry--rum, lace, real Mechlin, and
Souchong tea--if you will come aboard, I will send you ashore with a
pouchful of that last--Dirk Hatteraick knows how to be civil!"
Mannering got rid of his offers without openly offending the man, and
was well content to see the precious pair vanish down the stone stairs
which had formerly served the garrison of the castle in time of siege.
On his return to the house of Ellangowan, Mannering related his
adventure, and asked of his host who this villanous-looking Dutchman
might be, and why he was allowed to wander at will on his lands.
This was pulling the trigger, and Mr. Bertram at once exploded into a
long catalogue of griefs. According to him, the man was undoubtedly one
Captain Dirk Hatteraick, a smuggler or free-trader. As for allowing him
on his lands--well, Dirk was not very canny to meddle with. Besides,
impossible as it was to believe, he, Godfrey Bertram of Ellangowan, was
not upon his Majesty's commission of the peace for the county. Jealousy
had kept him off--among other things the ill-will of the sitting member.
Besides which--after all a gentleman must have his cognac, and his lady
her tea and silks. Only smuggled articles came into the country. It was
a pity, of course, but he was not more to blame than others.
Thus the Laird maundered on, and Mannering, glad to escape being asked
about the doubtful fortune which the stars had predicted for the young
heir, did not interrupt him. On the next day, however, before he mounted
his horse, he put the written horoscope into a sealed envelope, and,
having strictly charged Bertram that it should not be opened till his
son reached the age of five years, he took his departure with many
expressions of regret.
The next five years were outwardly prosperous ones for Godfrey Bertram
of Ellangowan. As the result of an election where he had been of much
service to the winning candidate, he was again made a Justice of the
Peace, and immediately he set about proving to his brothers of the bench
that he could be both a determined and an active magistrate. But this
apparent good, brought as usual much of evil with it. Many old kindly
customs and courtesies had endeared Godfrey Bertram to his poorer
neighbours. He was, they said, no man's enemy, and even the gipsies of
the little settlement would have cut off their right hands before they
touched a pennyworth belonging to the Laird, their patron and protector.
But the other landlords twitted him with pretending to be an active
magistrate, and yet harbouring a gang of gipsies at his own door-cheek.
Whereupon the Laird went slowly and somewhat sadly home, revolving
schemes for getting rid of the colony of Derncleugh, at the head of
which was the old witch-wife Meg Merrilies.
Occasions of quarrel were easy to find. The sloe-eyed gipsy children
swinging on his gates were whipped down. The rough-coated donkeys
forbidden to eat their bite of grass in peace by the roadside. The men
were imprisoned for poaching, and matters went so far that one stout
young fellow was handed over to the press-gang at Dumfries and sent to
foreign parts to serve on board a man-of-war.
The gipsies, on their side, robbed the Ellangowan hen-roosts, stole the
linen from my lady's bleaching-green, cut down and barked the young
trees--though all the while scarce believing that their ancient friend
the Laird of Ellangowan had really turned against them.
During these five years the son, so strangely brought into the world on
the night of Mannering's visit, had been growing into the boldest and
brightest of boys. A wanderer by nature from his youth, he went
fearlessly into each nook and corner of his father's estates in search
of berries and flowers. He hunted every bog for rushes to weave
grenadiers' caps, and haled the hazelnuts from the lithe coppice boughs.
To Dominie Sampson, long since released from his village school, the
difficult task was committed of accompanying, restraining, and guiding
this daring spirit and active body. Shy, uncouth, awkward, with the
memory of his failure in the pulpit always upon him, the Dominie was
indeed quite able to instruct his pupil in the beginnings of learning,
but it proved quite out of his power to control the pair of twinkling
legs belonging to Master Harry Bertram. Once was the Dominie chased by a
cross-grained cow. Once he fell into the brook at the stepping-stones,
and once he was bogged in his middle in trying to gather water-lilies
for the young Laird. The village matrons who relieved Dominie Sampson
on this last occasion, declared that the Laird might just as well "trust
the bairn to the care o' a tatie-bogle!"[2] But the good tutor, nothing
daunted, continued grave and calm through all, only exclaiming, after
each fresh misfortune, the single word "Prodeegious!"
Often, too, Harry Bertram sought out Meg Merrilies at Derncleugh, where
he played his pranks among the gipsies as fearlessly as within the walls
of Ellangowan itself. Meanwhile the war between that active magistrate
Godfrey Bertram and the gipsies grew ever sharper. The Laird was
resolved to root them out, in order to stand well with his brother
magistrates. So the gipsies sullenly watched while the ground officer
chalked their doors in token that they must "flit" at the next term.
At last the fatal day arrived. A strong force of officers summoned the
gipsies to quit their houses, and when they did not obey, the sheriff's
men broke down the doors and pulled the roofs off the poor huts of
Derncleugh.
Godfrey Bertram, who was really a kindly man, had gone away for the day
to avoid the sight, leaving the business to the chief exciseman of the
neighbourhood,--one Frank Kennedy, a bold, roistering blade, who knew no
fear, and had no qualms whatever about ridding the neighbourhood of a
gang of "sorners and thieves," as he called the Derncleugh gipsies.
But as Godfrey was riding back to Ellangowan with a single servant,
right in the middle of the King's highway, he met the whole congregation
of the exiles, evicted from their ruined houses, and sullenly taking
their way in search of a new shelter against the storms of the oncoming
winter. His servant rode forward to command every man to stand to his
beast's head while the Laird was passing.
"He shall have his half of the road," growled one of the tall thin
gipsies, his features half-buried in a slouch hat, "but he shall have no
more. The highway is as free to our cuddies as to his horse."
Never before had the Laird of Ellangowan received such a discourteous
reception. Anxious at the last to leave a good impression, he stammered
out as he passed one of the older men, "And your son, Gabriel Baillie,
is he well?" (He meant the young man who had been sent by means of the
press-gang to foreign parts.) With a deep scowl the old man replied, "If
I had heard otherwise, _you_ would have heard it too!"
At last Godfrey Bertram thought that he had escaped. He had passed the
last laden donkey of the expelled tribe. He was urging his beast toward
Ellangowan with a saddened spirit, when suddenly at a place where the
road was sunk between two high banks, Meg Merrilies appeared above him,
a freshly cut sapling in her hand, her dark eyes flashing anger, and her
elf-locks straying in wilder confusion than ever.
"Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan," she cried, "ride your ways,
Godfrey Bertram! This day ye have quenched seven smoking hearths--see if
the fire in your own parlour burns the brighter for that? Ye have riven
the thatch off seven cottars' houses--look if your roof-tree stands the
faster. There are thirty yonder that would have shed their lifeblood for
you--thirty, from the child of a week to the auld wife of a hundred,
that you have made homeless, that you have sent out to sleep with the
fox and the blackcock. Our bairns are hanging on our weary backs--look
to it that your braw cradle at hame is the fairer spread! Now ride your
ways, Godfrey Bertram. These are the last words ye shall ever hear from
Meg Merrilies, and this the last staff that I shall ever cut in the
bonny woods of Ellangowan!"
[Illustration: "MEG MERRILIES appeared above him, a freshly cut sapling
in her hand, her dark eyes flashing anger, and her elf-locks straying
in wilder confusion than ever.
"'Ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan,' she cried, 'ride your ways,
Godfrey Bertram! This day ye have quenched seven smoking hearths--see if
the fire in your own parlour burns the brighter for that!'"]
And with the gesture of a queen delivering sentence she broke the
sapling she had held in her hand, and flung the fragments into the road.
The Laird was groping in his pocket for half a crown, and thinking
meanwhile what answer to make. But disdaining both his reply and his
peace-offering, Meg strode defiantly downhill after the caravan.
* * * * *
Not only was there war by land at Ellangowan. There was also war by sea.
The Laird, determined for once not to do things by halves, had begun to
support Frank Kennedy, the chief revenue officer, in his campaign
against the smugglers. Armed with Ellangowan's warrant, and guided by
his people who knew the country, Kennedy swooped down upon Dirk
Hatteraick as he was in the act of landing a large cargo upon
Ellangowan's ground. After a severe combat he had been able to clap the
government broad-arrow upon every package and carry them all off to the
nearest customs' post. Dirk Hatteraick got safely away, but he went,
vowing in English, Dutch, and German, the direst vengeance against Frank
Kennedy, Godfrey Bertram, and all his enemies.
It was a day or two after the eviction of the gipsies when the Lady of
Ellangowan, suddenly remembering that it was her son Harry's fifth
birthday, demanded of her husband that he should open and read the
horoscope written by the wandering student of the stars five years
before. While they were arguing about the matter, it was suddenly
discovered that little Harry was nowhere to be found. His guardian,
Dominie Sampson, having returned without him, was summoned to give an
account of his stewardship by the angry mother.
"Mr. Sampson," she cried, "it is the most extraordinary thing in the
world wide, that you have free up-putting in this house,--bed, board,
washing, and twelve pounds sterling a year just to look after that
boy,--and here you have let him out of your sight for three hours at a
time!"
Bowing with awkward gratitude at each clause in this statement of his
advantages, the poor Dominie was at last able to stammer out that Frank
Kennedy had taken charge of Master Harry, in the face of his protest,
and had carried him off to Warroch Head to see the taking of Dirk
Hatteraick's ship by the King's sloop-of-war, which he had ridden all
the way to Wigton Bay to bring about.
"And if that be so," cried the Lady of Ellangowan, "I am very little
obliged to Frank Kennedy. The bairn may fall from his horse, or anything
may happen."
The Laird quieted his wife by telling her that he and Frank Kennedy had
together seen the sloop-of-war giving chase to Dirk Hatteraick's ship,
and that even then the Dutchman, disabled and on fire, was fast drifting
upon the rocks. Frank Kennedy had ridden off to assist in the capture by
signalling to the man-of-war from Warroch Head, and had evidently picked
up little Harry upon the way. He would doubtless, continued the Laird,
be back in a little time. For he had ordered the punch-bowl to be made
ready, that they might drink good luck to the King's service and
confusion to all smugglers and free-traders wherever found.
But hour after hour went by, and neither Frank Kennedy nor the boy Harry
returned. The night approached. Parties of searchers anxiously beat the
woods and patrolled the cliffs. For long they found nothing, but at last
a boat's crew, landing perilously at the foot of the precipices, came
upon the body of the excise officer, a sword-cut in his head, lying
half in and half out of the water. He had been flung from the cliffs
above. Frank Kennedy was dead--as to that there was no question. But
what had become of the child, Harry Bertram? That--no one could answer.
Not a trace of him was to be found. The smuggler's ship still burned
fiercely, but Dirk Hatteraick and his men had completely vanished. Some
one suggested the gipsies, whereupon the Laird mounted the first horse
he came across and rode furiously to the huts of Derncleugh. Bursting in
a door, he found on the ruined hearth of the house that had once
sheltered Meg Merrilies, a fire still smouldering. But there, too,
Godfrey Bertram discovered nothing and no one.
While he remained on the spot, dazed and uncertain, looking at the
blackened hearthstone, his old servant entered hastily to bid him return
at once to Ellangowan. His wife had been taken dangerously ill. Godfrey
spurred as fast as horse would carry him, but Death had gone faster, and
had arrived before him. When he reached the gate, the Lady of Ellangowan
was dead, leaving him with a little baby girl less than an hour old. The
shock of Kennedy's murder and her own little Harry's loss had killed
her.
INTERLUDE OF INTERROGATION
The melancholy conclusion of the first _Guy
Mannering_ tale kept the children quieter than
usual. I think they regretted a little the gallant
opening of _Waverley_, but as ever they were full
of questions.
"And all that happened here, in our Galloway?"
began Sweetheart, looking about her at the hills of
dark heather and the sparkling Solway sands, from
which the storm-clouds were just beginning to lift.
"Yes," I answered her, "though it is doubtful if
Scott ever _was_ in Galloway. But he had seen
Criffel across from Dumfries-shire, and the castle
of Ellangowan is certainly described from the ruins
of Caerlaverock, opposite New Abbey. Besides, had
he not good old Joseph Train, the Castle Douglas
exciseman, to tell him everything--than whom no man
knew Galloway better?"
"Did gipsies really steal children?" said Maid
Margaret, with some apprehension. She was somewhat
anxious, for an affirmative answer might interfere
with certain wide operations in blackberrying which
she was planning.
"Sometimes they did," I answered, "but not nearly
so often as they were blamed for. They had usually
enough mouths of their own to feed. So, unless they
were sure of a ransom, or perhaps occasionally for
the sake of revenge, gipsies very seldom were
guilty of kidnapping."
"But they always do steal them in books," said Hugh
John; "well, I would just like to see them cart me
off! And if they took Sir Toady Lion, they would
soon send him back. He eats so much!"
This was Hugh John's idea of a joke, and somewhat
hastily I interrupted fraternal strife by returning
to the general subject.
"Adam Smith, a very learned man, who afterwards
wrote _The Wealth of Nations_, was stolen by
gipsies when a child," I said.
"_I_ wish they had just kept him," said Hugh John,
unexpectedly; "then we wouldn't have had to
paraphrase the beastly thing at school. It is as
full of jaw-breakers as a perch is full of bones."
"Was little Harry really stolen by gipsies, or was
he killed over the cliff?" queried Maid Margaret.
"Of course he was stolen, silly," broke in Sir
Toady Lion, sagely; "look how much more of the book
there has got to be all about him. Think there
would be all that, if he got killed right at the
beginning, eh?"
"Do any people smuggle nowadays?" demanded Hugh
John.
"Of course they do--in Spain," interjected Sir
Toady Lion, "father got put in prison there once."
"That was all owing to a mistake," I explained
hastily (for really this had nothing to do with
Scott); "it was only because your parent happened
to be wearing the same kind of hat as a certain
well-known smuggler, a very desperate character."
"HUM-M!" said Sir Toady Lion, suddenly developing a
cold in the nose.
"Well, anyway, they do smuggle--though not much in
this country now," said Sweetheart, "and I'm glad
father knew a man who smuggled in Spain. It makes
this book so much more real."
"Getting put in prison instead of him made it
almost _too_ real," said Sir Toady. He is a most
disconcerting and ironical boy. One often wonders
where he gets it from.
So to shut off further questioning, I proceeded
immediately with the telling of the second tale
from _Guy Mannering_.
THE SECOND TALE FROM "GUY MANNERING"
I. HAPPY DOMINIE SAMPSON
IT was seventeen long years after the murder of Frank Kennedy and the
disappearance of little Harry Bertram when Guy Mannering, now a soldier
famous for his wars in the East, penetrated a second time into Galloway.
His object was to visit the family of Ellangowan, and secretly, also, to
find out for himself in what way his random prophesies had worked out.
But he arrived at an unfortunate time. He found that, chiefly by the
plotting and deceit of a rascally lawyer, one Gilbert Glossin, the
Bertrams were on the point of being sold out of Ellangowan. All their
money had been lost, and the sale of the estate was being forced on by
the rascally lawyer Glossin for his own ends.
The old man Godfrey Bertram also was very near his end. And indeed on
the very day of the sale, and while Mannering was paying his respects to
his former host, the sight of Glossin so enraged the feeble old man that
he was taken with a violent passion, falling back in his chair and dying
in a few minutes.
Mannering, whose heart was greatly touched, was most anxious to do all
that he could to assist Lucy Bertram, the old man's daughter, but he was
compelled by an urgent summons to return into England. It had been his
intention to save the estate of Ellangowan from the clutches of the
scoundrel Glossin by buying it himself, but the drunkenness of a postboy
whom he had sent with a letter to Mr. Mac-Morlan, the lawyer in charge
of the sale, defeated his intentions, so that Ellangowan became the
property of the traitor. So young Lucy Bertram and Dominie Sampson (who
refused to be separated from her) became for the moment inmates of Mr.
Mac-Morlan's house. The Dominie found a pupil or two in the
neighbourhood that he might not be chargeable to his dear Lucy or her
friend Mr. Mac-Morlan. And so, in the twenty-first year after the birth
of an heir, and after Mannering's prophecy concerning him, there seemed
an end to the ancient house of the Bertrams of Ellangowan.
During these years, Colonel Mannering also had a tale to tell. Wedded
early to the wife of his youth and his heart, he had gone to India in
the service of the Honourable, the East India Company. There by his
valour and talent he had rapidly acquired both wealth and position. But
during the twenty-first year an event occurred which gave him a distaste
for the land of his adoption, and he had come back to his native country
with the idea of settling down, far away from old memories and new
entanglements.
In a duel which he had fought in India with a young man named Brown--a
brave youth of no position, who had offended Mannering by his attentions
to his daughter, and by establishing himself in his house as a friend of
the family--he had left Brown for dead on the field, hardly escaping
himself with his life from a sudden attack of the armed banditti who, in
the India of that day, were always hovering round desert places. The
shock of that morning had so told on the health of Mannering's wife that
she died shortly afterwards, leaving him with one daughter, Julia--a
proud, sprightly, sentimental girl, whom he had brought home, and placed
under the care of a friend named Mervyn, whose house stood upon one of
the Cumberland lakes.
So it came about that when Mannering was in Scotland, he received a
letter from his friend which took him to Mervyn Hall as fast as
horse-flesh could carry him.
His friend wrote, as he was careful to say, without his wife's
knowledge. Mr. Mervyn told Colonel Mannering that he was certain that
his daughter Julia was receiving secret visits from some one whom she
did not dare to see openly. Not only were there long solitary walks and
hill-climbings, but on several occasions he had heard up the lake at
midnight, as if under her windows, a flageolet playing a little Indian
air to which Julia Mannering was partial. This was evidently a signal,
for a boat had been seen hastily crossing the lake, and the sash of
Julia's window had been heard to shut down at the first alarm. Mr.
Mervyn said that, little as he liked playing the part of tale-bearer, he
felt that Julia was under his care, and he would not deserve his old
name of Downright Dunstable if he did not inform her father of what he
had discovered. Julia, he said, was both a charming and high spirited
girl, but she was too much her own father's daughter to be without
romantic ideas. On the whole, concluded Mr. Mervyn, it behooved the
Colonel to come at once to Mervyn Hall and look after his own property.
This was the letter which, put into his hands at a seaport town in
Scotland, lost Mannering the estate of Ellangowan, and threw the ancient
seat of many generations of Bertrams into the clutches of the
scoundrelly Glossin. For Colonel Mannering instantly posted off to the
south, having first of all sent despatches to Mr. Mac-Morlan by the
untrustworthy postilion--the same who arrived a day too late for the
sale.
When Colonel Mannering first went to Mervyn Hall, he could make nothing
of the case. Of course he believed Brown to have died by his hand in
India, and he could find no traces of any other man likely to be making
love to his daughter. Nevertheless he had brought back a plan with him
from Scotland, which, he thought, would put an end to all future
difficulties. The helplessness of Lucy Bertram had moved his heart.
Besides, he was more amused than he cared to own by the originality of
the Dominie. He had easily obtained, by means of Mr. Mac-Morlan, a
furnished house in the neighbourhood of Ellangowan, and he resolved for
a time at least to repose himself there after his campaigns. His
daughter Julia would thus have a companion in Lucy Bertram, and it was
easy to provide the Dominie with an occupation. For the library of an
uncle of Mannering's, who had been a learned bishop of the Church of
England, had been willed to him. The Dominie was the very man to put the
books in order. So indeed it was arranged, after some saucy remarks from
Miss Mannering as to the supposed Scottish accent and probable red hair
of her companion.
Then Colonel Mannering, accustomed to do nothing by halves, sent down
his directions about Dominie Sampson, whose heart indeed would have been
broken if he had been separated from the young mistress over whom he had
watched from childhood.
"Let the poor man be properly dressed," wrote the Colonel to Mr.
Mac-Morlan, "and let him accompany his young lady to Woodbourne!"
The dressing of Dominie Sampson was, however, easier said than done. For
it would hurt the pride of the Dominie to have clothes presented to him
as to a schoolboy. But Lucy Bertram soon settled the matter. The
Dominie, she said, would never notice the difference, if they put one
garment at a time into his sleeping room and took away the other. This
was what her father had always done when the wardrobe of his dependent
needed renewing. Nor had the Dominie ever showed the least consciousness
of the change.
So said, so done. A good tailor, having come and looked Mr. Sampson
over, readily agreed to provide him with two excellent suits, one black
and one raven grey, such as would fit the Dominie as well as a man of
such an out-of-the-way build could be fitted by merely human needles and
shears.
The Dominie, when completely equipped, made no remark upon the
change--further than that, in his opinion, the air of a seaport town
like Kippletringan seemed to be favourable to wearing-apparel.
It was the depth of winter when the Mannerings arrived at Woodbourne.
All were a little anxious. Even Dominie Sampson longed to be at his
books, and going repeatedly to the windows demanded, "Why tarry the
wheels of their chariot?" But when at last they came, Lucy and Julia
Bertram were soon friends, while the Dominie stood with uplifted hands,
exclaiming, "Prodeegious! Prodeegious!" as, one after another, the
thirty or forty cart-loads of books were deposited on the library floor
ready to his hand. His arms flapped like windmills, and the uncouth
scholar counted himself the happiest man on earth as he began to
arrange the great volumes on the shelves. Not that he got on very
quickly. For he wrote out the catalogue in his best running-hand. He put
the books on the shelves as carefully as if they had been old and
precious china. Yet in spite of the Dominie's zeal, his labours advanced
but slowly. Often he would chance to open a volume when halfway up the
ladder. Then, his eye falling upon some entrancing passage, he would
stand there transfixed, oblivious of the flight of time, till a
serving-maid pulled his skirts to tell him dinner was waiting. He would
then bolt his food in three-inch squares, and rush back to the library,
often with his dinner napkin still tied round his neck like a pinafore.
Thus, for the first time in his life, Dominie Sampson was perfectly
content.
[Illustration: "HIS eye falling upon some entrancing passage, he would
stand there transfixed, oblivious of the flight of time, till a
serving-maid pulled his skirts to tell him dinner was waiting."]
II. DANDIE DINMONT
But the story now turns to the young man Brown, or, to give him his full
title, Captain Vanbeest Brown, whom Colonel Mannering had left for dead
on an Indian field. He did not die, but he had been compelled to
undergo a long captivity among the bandits before he found his way back
to his regiment. The new Colonel whom he found in Mannering's place had
been kind to him, and he soon found himself in command of a troop of
dragoons. He was at present on leave in England, and, as he was
conscious that Mannering had no reason for his ill-will and apparent
cruelty, Brown felt that he on his part had no reason for standing on
ceremony with such a man. He loved Julia Mannering, and, to say the
least of it, she did not discourage him. So it was he who had played the
Hindoo air upon the lake--he with whom Julia had talked at her window,
even as Mervyn had related in his letter to his friend Colonel
Mannering.
When the Colonel and his daughter went away to Scotland, Captain Brown,
having no relatives in the country, resolved to follow them. He set out
on foot, having for sole companion a little terrier named Wasp. On the
way he had to pass a long and weary waste of heath and morass. One house
alone broke the monotonous expanse. It was little better than a shed,
but was sheltered by an ash tree, and a clay-built shed alongside served
for a rude stable. A stout pony stood tethered in front of the door,
busy with a feed of oats. Stillness brooded all around. It was a poor
place, but Captain Brown had wandered too far and seen too much to care
about appearances. He stooped his head and entered at the low door. In
a few minutes he found himself attacking a round of beef and washing it
down with home-brewed ale in company with the owner of the pony tethered
outside, a certain Mr. Dandie Dinmont, a store-farmer on his way home
from a Cumberland fair. At first only pleasant nods passed between them
as they drank to each other in silence.
Presently Brown noticed, seated in the great chimney, a very tall old
woman clad in a red cloak and a slouched bonnet, having all the
appearance of a gipsy or tinker. She smoked silently at her clay pipe,
while the doubtful-looking landlady went about her affairs.
Brown's terrier Wasp was the means of his striking up an acquaintance
with the sturdy farmer opposite, who, hearing that he had never seen a
blackcock, invited him forthwith to Charlies-hope, the name of his farm,
where he promised him he should both see blackcock, shoot blackcock, and
eat blackcock. Dandie Dinmont was going on to tell Brown of his
wanderings, when the old crone in the red cloak by the side of the fire
suddenly broke silence by asking if he had been recently in Galloway,
and if he knew Ellangowan.
"Ellangowan!" cried the farmer, "I ken it weel! Auld Laird Bertram died
but a fortnight ago, and the estate and everything had to be sold for
want of an heir male."
The old gipsy (who, of course, was no other than Meg Merrilies) sprang
at once to her feet.
"And who dared buy the estate, when the bonny knave-bairn that heirs it
may any day come back to claim his ain?"
"It was, I believe," said Dandie Dinmont, "one of these writer bodies
that buy up everything,--Gilbert Glossin by name!"
"Ay, Gibbie Glossin," said the old witch-wife, "mony a time I hae
carried him in my creels. But maybe ye'll hae heard o' Derncleugh, about
a mile frae Ellangowan?"
"And a wild-looking den it is," said the farmer; "nothing but old ruined
walls."
"It was a blithe bit once," said the gipsy, as if talking to herself;
"did ye notice if there was a willow tree half blown down, that hangs
over the bit burnie? Mony is the time hae I sat there and knitted my
stockin'."
"The deil's in the wife," cried Dandie; "let me away! Here's saxpence
for ye to buy half-a-mutchkin, instead o' claverin' o' auld-world
tales."
The gipsy took the money from the farmer, and tendered in return this
advice: "When Tib Mumps brings ye out the stirrup-cup, and asks ye
whether ye will gang ower Willie's brae or by the Conscowthartmoss, be
sure to choose the road ye _dinna_ tell her."
The farmer laughed and promised. But to Brown he said that after all he
would rather that Tib Mumps kenned where he was going than yon gipsy
queen, so he would e'en hold on his way.
Captain Brown soon followed on foot, but at the door he found himself
stopped by Meg Merrilies, who, with much earnestness, asked his name and
from whence he came.
"My name is Brown," he answered, a little impatiently; "I come from the
East Indies."
[Illustration: "HE had not gone very far, and was still in the heart of
the morass, when he saw his late companion of the ale-house engaged in
deadly combat with a couple of rascals, one of them armed with a
cutlass, and the other with a bludgeon."]
The old gipsy appeared disappointed by his answer, and Brown put a
shilling into her hand as he took his leave. However, he had not gone
very far, and was still in the heart of the morass, when he saw his late
companion of the ale-house engaged in deadly combat with a couple of
rascals, one of them armed with a cutlass, and the other with a
bludgeon. Brown's terrier Wasp ran forward, barking furiously, but
before Brown could come to his assistance the ruffians had got Dandie
Dinmont down, and the man with the bludgeon bestowed some merciless
blows upon his head. Then with a shout they turned their attention to
Brown, crying that "the first one was content." But Brown was a staunch
antagonist, and they soon found that they had met more than their match.
Whereupon the leader bade him follow his nose over the heath, for that
they had nothing to say to him.
But, since to do this was to abandon Dandie Dinmont to their mercy,
Brown refused point-blank. Affairs were at this pass when Dandie,
staggering to his feet, his loaded whip in his hand, managed to come to
the assistance of his rescuer, whereupon the two men took to their heels
and ran as hard as they could over the moor.
Then the farmer, who knew their ways, bade Brown mount behind him on his
horse Dumple, for he warned him that in five minutes "the whole
clanjamphrey" would be down upon them. And even as he spoke five or six
men made their appearance, running toward them over the moss. But Dumple
was staunch, and by dint of following the safest roads, and being left
to pick his own way in the difficult places, Dandie's pony soon left the
villains behind him. Then, following the old Roman road, they reached
Dinmont's farm of Charlies-hope, across the border, not long after
nightfall.
A furious barking from innumerable terriers and dogs of all breeds was
their welcome. And soon Brown found himself within four hospitable
walls, where not only were his own wants satisfied, but the wounds of
the master of the house were bound up by his buxom wife.
At kindly Charlies-hope, Brown remained several days, while Dandie
Dinmont showed him the best sport to be had upon the border. Together
they hunted the fox after the manner of the country--that is, treating
Reynard as a thief and a robber, with whom no conditions are to be
observed. Together they went to the night fishing, where Brown heard the
leisters or steel tridents ringing on the stones at the bottom of the
water, as the fishers struck at the salmon in the light of the blazing
torches kindled to attract the fish. Otter-hunting and badger-baiting
filled in the time, so that Brown had never been so well amused in his
life. But he begged from his host that the badger, which had made so
gallant a defence, should be allowed henceforth to go scot-free. Dandie
promised with willingness, happy to oblige his guest, though quite
unable to understand why any one should "care about a brock." When Brown
told this hearty family that he must leave them, he was compelled to
promise, over and over again, that he would soon return. The chorus of
Dandie's tow-headed youngsters burst into one unanimous howl.
"Come back again, Captain," cried one sturdy little chap, "and Jennie
shall be your wife."
Jennie, a girl of eleven, promptly ran and hid herself behind her
mother.
"Captain, come back," said a little fat roll-about girl of six, holding
up her mouth to be kissed; "come back and I'll be your wife my
ainsel'!"
It was hard to leave so hospitable a home to go where, to say the least
of it, one was not wanted. Especially was it so when the sturdy farmer,
grasping Brown's hand, said with a certain shamefacedness, "There's a
pickle siller that I do not ken what to do wi', after Ailie has gotten
her new goon and the bairns their winter duds. But I was thinking, that
whiles you army gentlemen can buy yoursel's up a step. If ye wad tak the
siller, a bit scrape o' a pen wad be as guid to me. Ye could take your
ain time about paying it back. And--and it would be a great convenience
to me."
Brown was much moved, but he could only thank his kind host heartily and
promise that in case of need he would not forget to draw upon his purse.
So they parted, Brown leaving his little terrier Wasp to share bed and
board with the eldest of the Dinmont boys, who right willingly undertook
the task as a kind of security for his master's return.
Dinmont conveyed his guest some distance, and afterward, from the first
Dumfries-shire town which they entered, Brown took a carriage to carry
him part of the way in the direction of Woodbourne, where Julia
Mannering was at present residing.
III. IN THE LION'S MOUTH
Night and mist stopped him after many miles of journeying. The postboy
had lost his way, and could offer no suggestions. Brown descended to see
if by chance, in this wild place, they were near any farm-house at which
he could ask the way. Standing tiptoe upon a bank, it seemed as if he
could see in the distance a light feebly glimmering.
Brown proceeded toward it, but soon found himself stumbling among ruins
of cottages, the side walls of which were lying in shapeless heaps, half
covered with snow, while the gables still stood up gaunt and black
against the sky. He ascended a bank, steep and difficult, and found
himself in front of a small square tower, from the chinks of which a
light showed dimly. Listening cautiously, he heard a noise as of stifled
groaning.
Brown approached softly, and looked through a long arrow-slit upon a
dismal scene. Smoke filled a wretched apartment. On a couch a man lay,
apparently dying, while beside him, wrapped in a long cloak, a woman sat
with bent head, crooning to herself and occasionally moistening the
sufferer's lips with some liquid.
"It will not do," Brown heard her say at last "he cannot pass away with
the crime on his soul. It tethers him here. I must open the door."
As she did so she saw Brown standing without. He, on his part,
recognised in the woman the gipsy wife whom he had seen on the Waste of
Cumberland, when he and Dandie Dinmont had had their fight with the
robbers.
"Did I not tell you neither to mix nor mingle?" said the woman; "but
come in. Here is your only safety!"
Even as she spoke, the head of the wounded man fell back. He was dead,
and, before Brown could think of seeking safety in flight, they heard in
the distance the sound of voices approaching.
"They are coming!" whispered the gipsy; "if they find you here, you are
a dead man. Quick--you cannot escape. Lie down, and, whatever you see or
hear, do not stir, as you value your life."
Brown had no alternative but to obey. So the old gipsy wife covered him
over with old sacks as he lay in the corner upon a couch of straw.
Then Meg went about the dismal offices of preparing the dead man for
burial, but Brown could see that she was constantly pausing to listen to
the sounds which every moment grew louder without. At last a gang of
fierce-looking desperadoes poured tumultuously in, their leader abusing
the old woman for leaving the door open.
But Meg Merrilies had her answer ready.
"Did you ever hear of a door being barred when a man was in the
death-agony?" she cried. "Think ye the spirit could win away through all
these bolts and bars?"
"Is he dead, then?" asked one of the ruffians, glancing in the direction
of the bed.
"Ay, dead enough," growled another; "but here is the wherewithal to give
him a rousing lykewake!" And going to the corner he drew out a large jar
of brandy, while Meg busied herself in preparing pipes and tobacco.
Brown in his corner found his mind a little eased when he saw how
eagerly she went about her task.
"She does not mean to betray me, then!" he said to himself. Though for
all that, he could see no gleam of womanly tenderness on her face, nor
imagine any reason she should not give him up to her associates.
That they were a gang of murderers was soon evident from their talk. The
man, now wrapped in the dark sea-cloak, whose dead face looked down on
their revels, was referred to as one who had often gloried in the murder
of Frank Kennedy. But some of the others held that the deed was not
wisely done, because after that the people of the country would not do
business with the smugglers.
"It did up the trade for one while!" said one; "the people turned
rusty!"
Then there were evident threats uttered against some one whose name
Brown did not hear.
"I think," said the leader of the ruffians, "that we will have to be
down upon the fellow one of these nights, and let him have it well!"
After a while the carousing bandits called for what they called "Black
Peter." It was time (they said) "to flick it open."
To Brown's surprise and indignation, Black Peter proved to be nothing
else than his own portmanteau, which gave him reasons for some very dark
thoughts as to the fate of his postboy. He watched the rascals force his
bag open and coolly divide all that was in it among them. Yet he dared
not utter a word, well aware that had he done so, the next moment a
knife would have been at his throat.
At last, to his great relief, Brown saw them make their preparations for
departure. He was left alone with the dead man and the old woman.
Meg Merrilies waited till the first sun of the winter's morn had come,
lest one of the revellers of the night should take it into his head to
turn back. Then she led Brown by a difficult and precipitous path, till
she could point out to him, on the other side of some dense plantations,
the road to Kippletringan.
"And here," said she, mysteriously putting a large leathern purse into
his hand, "is what will in some degree repay the many alms your house
has given me and mine!"
She was gone before he could reply, and when Brown opened the purse, he
was astonished to find in it gold to the amount of nearly one hundred
pounds, besides many valuable jewels. The gipsy had endowed him with a
fortune.
INTERLUDE OF LOCALITY
"And all this happened here?" repeated Sweetheart,
incredulously, pointing up at the dark purple
mountains of Screel and Ben Gairn.
"Well," I answered, "Scott's Solway is the Dumfries
Solway, not the Galloway Solway. Portanferry exists
not far from Glencaple on the eastern bank of Nith,
and the castle of Ellangowan is as like as possible
to Caerlaverock."
"But he _says_ Galloway!" objected Sweetheart, who
has a pretty persistence of her own. "And I wanted
Ellangowan to be in Galloway. What with Carlyle
having been born there, the Dumfries folk have
quite enough to be proud of!"
"Yes, Scott _says_ Ellangowan is in Galloway," said
I, "but nevertheless to any on
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