arranged and combined the information of the evening, which flew next
morning through a hundred channels, and in a hundred varieties, through
the world of Fairport. Many, strange, and inconsistent, were the rumours
to which their communications and conjectures gave rise. Some said
Tennant and Co. were broken, and that all their bills had come back
protested--others that they had got a great contract from Government, and
letters from the principal merchants at Glasgow, desiring to have
shares upon a premium. One report stated, that Lieutenant Taffril had
acknowledged a private marriage with Jenny Caxon--another, that he had
sent her a letter upbraiding her with the lowness of her birth and
education, and bidding her an eternal adieu. It was generally rumoured
that Sir Arthur Wardour’s affairs had fallen into irretrievable
confusion, and this report was only doubted by the wise, because it
was traced to Mrs. Mailsetter’s shop,--a source more famous for the
circulation of news than for their accuracy. But all agreed that a
packet from the Secretary of State’s office, had arrived, directed
for Mr. Lovel, and that it had been forwarded by an orderly dragoon,
despatched from the head-quarters at Edinburgh, who had galloped through
Fairport without stopping, except just to inquire the way to Monkbarns.
The reason of such an extraordinary mission to a very peaceful and
retired individual, was variously explained. Some said Lovel was an
emigrant noble, summoned to head an insurrection that had broken out
in La Vende’e--others that he was a spy--others that he was a general
officer, who was visiting the coast privately--others that he was a
prince of the blood, who was travelling incognito.
Meanwhile the progress of the packet which occasioned so much
speculation, towards its destined owner at Monkbarns, had been perilous
and interrupted. The bearer, Davie Mailsetter, as little resembling
a bold dragoon as could well be imagined, was carried onwards towards
Monkbarns by the pony, so long as the animal had in his recollection
the crack of his usual instrument of chastisement, and the shout of the
butcher’s boy. But feeling how Davie, whose short legs were unequal to
maintain his balance, swung to and fro upon his back, the pony began to
disdain furthur compliance with the intimations he had received. First,
then, he slackened his pace to a walk This was no point of quarrel
between him and his rider, who had been considerably discomposed by the
rapidity of his former motion, and who now took the opportunity of his
abated pace to gnaw a piece of gingerbread, which had been thrust into
his hand by his mother in order to reconcile this youthful emissary of
the post-office to the discharge of his duty. By and by, the crafty pony
availed himself of this surcease of discipline to twitch the rein out of
Davies hands, and applied himself to browse on the grass by the side of
the lane. Sorely astounded by these symptoms of self-willed rebellion,
and afraid alike to sit or to fall, poor Davie lifted up his voice
and wept aloud. The pony, hearing this pudder over his head, began
apparently to think it would be best both for himself and Davie to
return from whence they came, and accordingly commenced a retrograde
movement towards Fairport. But, as all retreats are apt to end in utter
rout, so the steed, alarmed by the boy’s cries, and by the flapping of
the reins, which dangled about his forefeet--finding also his nose turned
homeward, began to set off at a rate which, if Davie kept the saddle (a
matter extremely dubious), would soon have presented him at Heukbane’s
stable-door,--when, at a turn of the road, an intervening auxiliary, in
the shape of old Edie Ochiltree, caught hold of the rein, and stopped
his farther proceeding. “Wha’s aught ye, callant? whaten a gate’s that
to ride?”
“I canna help it!” blubbered the express; “they ca’ me little Davie.”
“And where are ye gaun?”
“I’m gaun to Monkbarns wi’ a letter.”
“Stirra, this is no the road to Monkbarns.”
But Davie could oinly answer the expostulation with sighs and tears.
Old Edie was easily moved to compassion where childhood was in the
case.--“I wasna gaun that gate,” he thought, “but it’s the best o’ my
way o’ life that I canna be weel out o’ my road. They’ll gie me quarters
at Monkbarns readily eneugh, and I’ll e’en hirple awa there wi’ the
wean, for it will knock its hams out, puir thing, if there’s no somebody
to guide the pony.--Sae ye hae a letter, hinney? will ye let me see’t?”
“I’m no gaun to let naebody see the letter,” sobbed the boy, “till I
gie’t to Mr. Lovel, for I am a faithfu’ servant o’ the office--if it
werena for the powny.”
“Very right, my little man,” said Ochiltree, turning the reluctant
pony’s head towards Monkbarns; “but we’ll guide him atween us, if he’s
no a’ the sweerer.”
Upon the very height of Kinprunes, to which Monkbarns had invited Lovel
after their dinner, the Antiquary, again reconciled to the once degraded
spot, was expatiating upon the topics the scenery afforded for a
description of Agricola’s camp at the dawn of morning, when his eye was
caught by the appearance of the mendicant and his protegee. “What the
devil!--here comes Old Edie, bag and baggage, I think.”
The beggar explained his errand, and Davie, who insisted upon a
literal execution of his commission by going on to Monkbarns, was with
difficulty prevailed upon to surrender the packet to its proper owner,
although he met him a mile nearer than the place he had been directed
to. “But my minnie said, I maun be sure to get twenty shillings and
five shillings for the postage, and ten shillings and sixpence for the
express--there’s the paper.”
“Let me see--let me see,” said Oldbuck, putting on his spectacles, and
examining the crumpled copy of regulations to which Davie appealed.
“Express, per man and horse, one day, not to exceed ten shillings and
sixpence. One day? why, it’s not an hour--Man and horse? why, ‘tis a
monkey on a starved cat!”
“Father wad hae come himsell,” said Davie, “on the muckle red mear, an
ye wad hae bidden till the morn’s night.”
“Four-and-twenty hours after the regular date of delivery! You little
cockatrice egg, do you understand the art of imposition so early?”
“Hout Monkbarns! dinna set your wit against a bairn,” said the beggar;
“mind the butcher risked his beast, and the wife her wean, and I am sure
ten and sixpence isna ower muckle. Ye didna gang sae near wi’ Johnnie
Howie, when”--
Lovel, who, sitting on the supposed Praetorium, had glanced over the
contents of the packet, now put an end to the altercation by paying
Davies demand; and then turning to Mr. Oldbuck, with a look of much
agitation, he excused himself from returning with him to Monkbarns’ that
evening.--“I must instantly go to Fairport, and perhaps leave it on a
moment’s notice;--your kindness, Mr. Oldbuck, I can never forget.”
“No bad news, I hope?” said the Antiquary.
“Of a very chequered complexion,” answered his friend. “Farewell--in good
or bad fortune I will not forget your regard.”
“Nay, nay--stop a moment. If--if--” (making an effort)--“if there be any
pecuniary inconvenience--I have fifty--or a hundred guineas at your
service--till--till Whitsunday--or indeed as long as you please.”
“I am much obliged, Mr. Oldbuck, but I am amply provided,” said his
mysterious young friend. “Excuse me--I really cannot sustain further
conversation at present. I will write or see you, before I leave
Fairport--that is, if I find myself obliged to go.”
So saying, he shook the Antiquary’s hand warmly, turned from him, and
walked rapidly towards the town, “staying no longer question.”
“Very extraordinary indeed!” said Oldbuck;--“but there’s something about
this lad I can never fathom; and yet I cannot for my heart think ill of
him neither. I must go home and take off the fire in the Green Room, for
none of my womankind will venture into it after twilight.”
“And how am I to win hame?” blubbered the disconsolate express.
“It’s a fine night,” said the Blue-Gown, looking up to the skies; “I had
as gude gang back to the town, and take care o’ the wean.”
“Do so, do so, Edie;” and rummaging for some time in his huge waistcoat
pocket till he found the object of his search, the Antiquary added,
“there’s sixpence to ye to buy sneeshin.”
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
“I am bewitched with the rogue’s company. If the rascal has not
given me medicines to make me love him, I’ll be hanged; it could
not be else. I have drunk medicines.”
Second Part of Henry IV.
Regular for a fortnight were the inquiries of the Antiquary at the
veteran Caxon, whether he had heard what Mr. Lovel was about; and as
regular were Caxon’s answers, “that the town could learn naething about
him whatever, except that he had received anither muckle letter or twa
frae the south, and that he was never seen on the plainstanes at a’.”
“How does he live, Caxon?”
“Ou, Mrs. Hadoway just dresses him a beefsteak or a muttonchop, or makes
him some Friar’s chicken, or just what she likes hersell, and he eats it
in the little red parlour off his bedroom. She canna get him to say
that he likes ae thing better than anither; and she makes him tea in a
morning, and he settles honourably wi’ her every week.”
“But does he never stir abroad?”
“He has clean gi’en up walking, and he sits a’ day in his room reading
or writing; a hantle letters he has written, but he wadna put them into
our post-house, though Mrs. Hadoway offered to carry them hersell, but
sent them a’ under ae cover to the sheriff; and it’s Mrs. Mailsetter’s
belief, that the sheriff sent his groom to put them into the post-office
at Tannonburgh; it’s my puir thought, that he jaloused their looking
into his letters at Fairport; and weel had he need, for my puir daughter
Jenny”--
“Tut, don’t plague me with your womankind, Caxon. About this poor young
lad.--Does he write nothing but letters?”
“Ou, ay--hale sheets o’ other things, Mrs. Hadoway says. She wishes
muckle he could be gotten to take a walk; she thinks he’s but looking
very puirly, and his appetite’s clean gane; but he’ll no hear o’ ganging
ower the door-stane--him that used to walk sae muckle too.”
“That’s wrong--I have a guess what he’s busy about; but he must not
work too hard neither. I’ll go and see him this very day--he’s deep,
doubtless, in the Caledoniad.”
Having formed this manful resolution, Mr. Oldbuck equipped himself
for the expedition with his thick walking-shoes and gold-headed cane,
muttering the while the words of Falstaff which we have chosen for the
motto of this CHAPTER; for the Antiquary was himself rather surprised
at the degree of attachment which he could not but acknowledge be
entertained for this stranger. The riddle was notwithstanding easily
solved. Lovel had many attractive qualities, but he won our Antiquary’s
heart by being on most occasions an excellent listener.
A walk to Fairport had become somewhat of an adventure with Mr. Oldbuck,
and one which he did not often care to undertake. He hated greetings in
the market-place; and there were generally loiterers in the streets to
persecute him, either about the news of the day, or about some petty
pieces of business. So, on this occasion, he had no sooner entered the
streets of Fairport, than it was “Good-morrow, Mr. Oldbuck--a sight o’
you’s gude, for sair een: what d’ye think of the news in the Sun the
day?--they say the great attempt will be made in a fortnight.”
“I wish to the Lord it were made and over, that I might hear no more
about it.”
“Monkbarns, your honour,” said the nursery and seedsman, “I hope the
plants gied satisfaction?--and if ye wanted ony flower-roots fresh frae
Holland, or” (this in a lower key) “an anker or twa o’ Cologne gin, ane
o’ our brigs cam in yestreen.”
“Thank ye, thank ye,--no occasion at present, Mr. Crabtree,” said the
Antiquary, pushing resolutely onward.
“Mr. Oldbuck,” said the town-clerk (a more important person, who came
in front and ventured to stop the old gentleman), “the provost,
understanding you were in town, begs on no account that you’ll quit it
without seeing him; he wants to speak to ye about bringing the water
frae the Fairwell-spring through a part o’ your lands.”
“What the deuce!--have they nobody’s land but mine to cut and carve on?--I
won’t consent, tell them.”
“And the provost,” said the clerk, going on, without noticing the
rebuff, “and the council, wad be agreeable that you should hae the auld
stones at Donagild’s chapel, that ye was wussing to hae.”
“Eh!--what?--Oho! that’s another story--Well, well, I’ll call upon the
provost, and we’ll talk about it.”
“But ye maun speak your mind on’t forthwith, Monkbarns, if ye want the
stones; for Deacon Harlewalls thinks the carved through-stanes might be
put with advantage on the front of the new council-house--that is, the
twa cross-legged figures that the callants used to ca’ Robin and Bobbin,
ane on ilka door-cheek; and the other stane, that they ca’d Ailie
Dailie, abune the door. It will be very tastefu’, the Deacon says, and
just in the style of modern Gothic.”
“Lord deliver me from this Gothic generation!” exclaimed the
Antiquary,--“A monument of a knight-templar on each side of a Grecian
porch, and a Madonna on the top of it!--O crimini!--Well, tell the provost
I wish to have the stones, and we’ll not differ about the water-course.
It’s lucky I happened to come this way to-day.”
They parted mutually satisfied; but the wily clerk had most reason to
exult in the dexterity he had displayed, since the whole proposal of
an exchange between the monuments (which the council had determined to
remove as a nuisance, because they encroached three feet upon the public
road), and the privilege of conveying the water to the burgh through the
estate of Monkbarns, was an idea which had originated with himself upon
the pressure of the moment.
Through these various entanglements, Monkbarns (to use the phrase by
which he was distinguished in the country) made his way at length to
Mrs. Hadoway’s. This good woman was the widow of a late clergyman at
Fairport, who had been reduced by her husband’s untimely death, to that
state of straitened and embarrassed circumstances in which the widows of
the Scotch clergy are too often found. The tenement which she occupied,
and the furniture of which she was possessed, gave her the means of
letting a part of her house; and as Lovel had been a quiet, regular,
and profitable lodger, and had qualified the necessary intercourse which
they had together with a great deal of gentleness and courtesy, Mrs.
Hadoway, not, perhaps, much used to such kindly treatment, had become
greatly attached to her lodger, and was profuse in every sort of
personal attention which circumstances permitted her to render him.
To cook a dish somewhat better than ordinary for “the poor young
gentleman’s dinner;” to exert her interest with those who remembered
her husband, or loved her for her own sake and his, in order to procure
scarce vegetables, or something which her simplicity supposed might
tempt her lodger’s appetite, was a labour in which she delighted,
although she anxiously concealed it from the person who was its object.
She did not adopt this secrecy of benevolence to avoid the laugh of
those who might suppose that an oval face and dark eyes, with a clear
brown complexion, though belonging to a woman of five-and-forty, and
enclosed within a widow’s close-drawn pinners, might possibly still
aim at making conquests; for, to say truth, such a ridiculous suspicion
having never entered into her own head, she could not anticipate its
having birth in that of any one else. But she concealed her attentions
solely out of delicacy to her guest, whose power of repaying them she
doubted as much as she believed in his inclination to do so, and in
his being likely to feel extreme pain at leaving any of her civilities
unrequited. She now opened the door to Mr. Oldbuck, and her surprise at
seeing him brought tears into her eyes, which she could hardly restrain.
“I am glad to see you, sir--I am very glad to see you. My poor gentleman
is, I am afraid, very unwell; and oh, Mr. Oldbuck, he’ll see neither
doctor, nor minister, nor writer! And think what it would be, if, as
my poor Mr. Hadoway used to say, a man was to die without advice of the
three learned faculties!”
“Greatly better than with them,” grumbled the cynical Antiquary. “I tell
you, Mrs. Hadoway, the clergy live by our sins, the medical faculty by
our diseases, and the law gentry by our misfortunes.”
“O fie, Monkbarns!--to hear the like o’ that frae you!--But yell walk up
and see the poor young lad?--Hegh sirs? sae young and weel-favoured--and
day by day he has eat less and less, and now he hardly touches onything,
only just pits a bit on the plate to make fashion--and his poor cheek has
turned every day thinner and paler, sae that he now really looks as auld
as me, that might be his mother--no that I might be just that neither,
but something very near it.”
“Why does he not take some exercise?” said Oldbuck.
“I think we have persuaded him to do that, for he has bought a horse
from Gibbie Golightly, the galloping groom. A gude judge o’ horse-flesh
Gibbie tauld our lass that he was--for he offered him a beast he thought
wad answer him weel eneugh, as he was a bookish man, but Mr. Lovel wadna
look at it, and bought ane might serve the Master o’ Morphie--they keep
it at the Graeme’s Arms, ower the street;--and he rode out yesterday
morning and this morning before breakfast--But winna ye walk up to his
room?”
“Presently, presently. But has he no visitors?”
“O dear, Mr. Oldbuck, not ane; if he wadna receive them when he was weel
and sprightly, what chance is there of onybody in Fairport looking in
upon him now?”
“Ay, ay, very true,--I should have been surprised had it been
otherwise--Come, show me up stairs, Mrs. Hadoway, lest I make a blunder,
and go where I should not.”
The good landlady showed Mr. Oldbuck up her narrow staircase, warning
him of every turn, and lamenting all the while that he was laid under
the necessity of mounting up so high. At length she gently tapped at
the door of her guest’s parlour. “Come in,” said Lovel; and Mrs. Hadoway
ushered in the Laird of Monkbarns.
The little apartment was neat and clean, and decently
furnished--ornamented, too, by such relics of her youthful arts of
sempstress-ship as Mrs. Hadoway had retained; but it was close,
overheated, and, as it appeared to Oldbuck, an unwholesome situation
for a young person in delicate health,--an observation which ripened
his resolution touching a project that had already occurred to him in
Lovel’s behalf. With a writing-table before him, on which lay a quantity
of books and papers, Lovel was seated on a couch, in his night-gown and
slippers. Oldbuck was shocked at the change which had taken place in
his personal appearance. His cheek and brow had assumed a ghastly white,
except where a round bright spot of hectic red formed a strong and
painful contrast, totally different from the general cast of hale and
hardy complexion which had formerly overspread and somewhat embrowned
his countenance. Oldbuck observed, that the dress he wore belonged to a
deep mourning suit, and a coat of the same colour hung on a chair
near to him. As the Antiquary entered, Lovel arose and came forward to
welcome him.
“This is very kind,” he said, shaking him by the hand, and thanking him
warmly for his visit--“this is very kind, and has anticipated a visit
with which I intended to trouble you. You must know I have become a
horseman lately.”
“I understand as much from Mrs. Hadoway--I only hope, my good young
friend, you have been fortunate in a quiet horse. I myself inadvertently
bought one from the said Gibbie Golightly, which brute ran two miles on
end with me after a pack of hounds, with which I had no more to do than
the last year’s snow; and after affording infinite amusement, I suppose,
to the whole hunting field, he was so good as to deposit me in a dry
ditch--I hope yours is a more peaceful beast?”
“I hope, at least, we shall make our excursions on a better plan of
mutual understanding.”
“That is to say, you think yourself a good horseman?”
“I would not willingly,” answered Lovel, “confess myself a very bad
one.”
“No--all you young fellows think that would be equal to calling
yourselves tailors at once--But have you had experience? for, crede
experto, a horse in a passion is no joker.”
“Why, I should be sorry to boast myself as a great horseman; but when
I acted as aide-de-camp to Sir----in the cavalry action at--, last year, I
saw many better cavaliers than myself dismounted.”
“Ah! you have looked in the face of the grisly god of arms then?--you are
acquainted with the frowns of Mars armipotent? That experience fills up
the measure of your qualifications for the epopea! The Britons, however,
you will remember, fought in chariots--covinarii is the phrase of
Tacitus;--you recollect the fine description of their dashing among the
Roman infantry, although the historian tells us how ill the rugged face
of the ground was calculated for equestrian combat; and truly, upon the
whole, what sort of chariots could be driven in Scotland anywhere but
on turnpike roads, has been to me always matter of amazement. And well
now--has the Muse visited you?--have you got anything to show me?”
“My time,” said Lovel, with a glance at his black dress, “has been less
pleasantly employed.”
“The death of a friend?” said the Antiquary.
“Yes, Mr. Oldbuck--of almost the only friend I could ever boast of
possessing.”
“Indeed? Well, young man,” replied his visitor, in a tone of seriousness
very different from his affected gravity, “be comforted. To have lost a
friend by death while your mutual regard was warm and unchilled, while
the tear can drop unembittered by any painful recollection of coldness
or distrust or treachery, is perhaps an escape from a more heavy
dispensation. Look round you--how few do you see grow old in the
affections of those with whom their early friendships were formed! Our
sources of common pleasure gradually dry up as we journey on through the
vale of Bacha, and we hew out to ourselves other reservoirs, from
which the first companions of our pilgrimage are excluded;--jealousies,
rivalries, envy, intervene to separate others from our side, until
none remain but those who are connected with us rather by habit than
predilection, or who, allied more in blood than in disposition, only
keep the old man company in his life, that they may not be forgotten at
his death--
Haec data poena diu viventibus.
Ah, Mr. Lovel! if it be your lot to reach the chill, cloudy, and
comfortless evening of life, you will remember the sorrows of your youth
as the light shadowy clouds that intercepted for a moment the beams
of the sun when it was rising. But I cram these words into your ears
against the stomach of your sense.”
“I am sensible of your kindness,” answered the youth; “but the wound
that is of recent infliction must always smart severely, and I should be
little comforted under my present calamity--forgive me for saying so--by
the conviction that life had nothing in reserve for me but a train of
successive sorrows. And permit me to add, you, Mr. Oldbuck, have
least reason of many men to take so gloomy a view of life. You have
a competent and easy fortune--are generally respected--may, in your own
phrase, vacare musis, indulge yourself in the researches to which your
taste addicts you; you may form your own society without doors--and
within you have the affectionate and sedulous attention of the nearest
relatives.”
“Why, yes--the womankind, for womankind, are, thanks to my training, very
civil and tractable--do not disturb me in my morning studies--creep across
the floor with the stealthy pace of a cat, when it suits me to take a
nap in my easy-chair after dinner or tea. All this is very well; but I
want something to exchange ideas with--something to talk to.”
“Then why do you not invite your nephew, Captain M’Intyre, who is
mentioned by every one as a fine spirited young fellow, to become a
member of your family?”
“Who?” exclaimed Monkbarns, “my nephew Hector?--the Hotspur of the
North? Why, Heaven love you, I would as soon invite a firebrand into my
stackyard. He’s an Almanzor, a Chamont--has a Highland pedigree as long
as his claymore, and a claymore as long as the High Street of Fairport,
which he unsheathed upon the surgeon the last time he was at Fairport. I
expect him here one of these days; but I will keep him at staff’s end, I
promise you. He an inmate of my house! to make my very chairs and tables
tremble at his brawls. No, no--I’ll none of Hector M’Intyre. But hark ye,
Lovel;--you are a quiet, gentle-tempered lad; had not you better set up
your staff at Monkbarns for a month or two, since I conclude you do not
immediately intend to leave this country?--I will have a door opened out
to the garden--it will cost but a trifle--there is the space for an old
one which was condemned long ago--by which said door you may pass and
repass into the Green Chamber at pleasure, so you will not interfere
with the old man, nor he with you. As for your fare, Mrs. Hadoway tells
me you are, as she terms it, very moderate of your mouth, so you will
not quarrel with my humble table. Your washing”--