father’s, for I served wi’ him in the 42d.”
“Serve where you please, you have no title to intrude on us,” said
M’Intyre, “or”--and he lifted his cane in terrorem, though without the
idea of touching the old man.
But Ochiltree’s courage was roused by the insult. “Haud down your
switch, Captain M’Intyre! I am an auld soldier, as I said before, and
I’ll take muckle frae your father’s son; but no a touch o’ the wand
while my pike-staff will haud thegither.”
“Well, well, I was wrong--I was wrong,” said M’Intyre; “here’s a crown
for you--go your ways--what’s the matter now?”
The old man drew himself up to the full advantage of his uncommon
height, and in despite of his dress, which indeed had more of the
pilgrim than the ordinary beggar, looked from height, manner, and
emphasis of voice and gesture, rather like a grey palmer or eremite
preacher, the ghostly counsellor of the young men who were around him,
than the object of their charity. His speech, indeed, was as homely
as his habit, but as bold and unceremonious as his erect and dignified
demeanour. “What are ye come here for, young men?” he said, addressing
himself to the surprised audience; “are ye come amongst the most lovely
works of God to break his laws? Have ye left the works of man, the
houses and the cities that are but clay and dust, like those that built
them--and are ye come here among the peaceful hills, and by the quiet
waters, that will last whiles aught earthly shall endure, to destroy
each other’s lives, that will have but an unco short time, by the course
of nature, to make up a lang account at the close o’t? O sirs! hae ye
brothers, sisters, fathers, that hae tended ye, and mothers that hae
travailed for ye, friends that hae ca’d ye like a piece o’ their ain
heart? and is this the way ye tak to make them childless and brotherless
and friendless? Ohon! it’s an ill feight whar he that wins has the warst
o’t. Think on’t, bairns. I’m a puir man--but I’m an auld man too--and what
my poverty takes awa frae the weight o’ my counsel, grey hairs and a
truthfu’ heart should add it twenty times. Gang hame, gang hame, like
gude lads--the French will be ower to harry us ane o’ thae days, and
ye’ll hae feighting eneugh, and maybe auld Edie will hirple out himsell
if he can get a feal-dyke to lay his gun ower, and may live to tell you
whilk o’ ye does the best where there’s a good cause afore ye.”
There was something in the undaunted and independent manner, hardy
sentiment, and manly rude elocution of the old man, that had its
effect upon the party, and particularly on the seconds, whose pride was
uninterested in bringing the dispute to a bloody arbitrament, and
who, on the contrary, eagerly watched for an opportunity to recommend
reconciliation.
“Upon my word, Mr. Lesley,” said Taffril, “old Adam speaks like an
oracle. Our friends here were very angry yesterday, and of course very
foolish;--today they should be cool, or at least we must be so in
their behalf. I think the word should be forget and forgive on both
sides,--that we should all shake hands, fire these foolish crackers in
the air, and go home to sup in a body at the Graeme’s-Arms.”
“I would heartily recommend it,” said Lesley; “for, amidst a great
deal of heat and irritation on both sides, I confess myself unable to
discover any rational ground of quarrel.”
“Gentlemen,” said M’Intyre, very coldly, “all this should have been
thought of before. In my opinion, persons that have carried this matter
so far as we have done, and who should part without carrying it any
farther, might go to supper at the Graeme’s-Arms very joyously, but
would rise the next morning with reputations as ragged as our friend
here, who has obliged us with a rather unnecessary display of his
oratory. I speak for myself, that I find myself bound to call upon you
to proceed without more delay.”
“And I,” said Lovel, “as I never desired any, have also to request these
gentlemen to arrange preliminaries as fast as possible.”
“Bairns! bairns!” cried old Ochiltree; but perceiving he was no longer
attended to--“Madmen, I should say--but your blood be on your heads!” And
the old man drew off from the ground, which was now measured out by
the seconds, and continued muttering and talking to himself in sullen
indignation, mixed with anxiety, and with a strong feeling of painful
curiosity. Without paying farther attention to his presence or
remonstrances, Mr. Lesley and the Lieutenant made the necessary
arrangements for the duel, and it was agreed that both parties should
fire when Mr. Lesley dropped his handkerchief.
The fatal sign was given, and both fired almost in the same moment.
Captain M’Intyre’s ball grazed the side of his opponent, but did not
draw blood. That of Lovel was more true to the aim; M’Intyre reeled
and fell. Raising himself on his arm, his first exclamation was, “It is
nothing--it is nothing--give us the other pistols.” But in an instant he
said, in a lower tone, “I believe I have enough--and what’s worse, I
fear I deserve it. Mr. Lovel, or whatever your name is, fly and save
yourself--Bear all witness, I provoked this matter.” Then raising himself
again on his arm, he added, “Shake hands, Lovel--I believe you to be
a gentleman--forgive my rudeness, and I forgive you my death--My poor
sister!”
The surgeon came up to perform his part of the tragedy, and Lovel stood
gazing on the evil of which he had been the active, though unwilling
cause, with a dizzy and bewildered eye. He was roused from his trance by
the grasp of the mendicant. “Why stand you gazing on your deed?--What’s
doomed is doomed--what’s done is past recalling. But awa, awa, if ye wad
save your young blood from a shamefu’ death--I see the men out by yonder
that are come ower late to part ye--but, out and alack! sune eneugh, and
ower sune, to drag ye to prison.”
“He is right--he is right,” exclaimed Taffril; “you must not attempt to
get on the high-road--get into the wood till night. My brig will be
under sail by that time, and at three in the morning, when the tide
will serve, I shall have the boat waiting for you at the Mussel-crag.
Away-away, for Heaven’s sake!”
“O yes! fly, fly!” repeated the wounded man, his words faltering with
convulsive sobs.
“Come with me,” said the mendicant, almost dragging him off; “the
Captain’s plan is the best--I’ll carry ye to a place where ye might be
concealed in the meantime, were they to seek ye ‘wi’ sleuth-hounds.”
“Go, go,” again urged Lieutenant Taffril--“to stay here is mere madness.”
“It was worse madness to have come hither,” said Lovel, pressing his
hand--“But farewell!” And he followed Ochiltree into the recesses of the
wood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST.
--The Lord Abbot had a soul
Subtile and quick, and searching as the fire;
By magic stairs he went as deep as hell,
And if in devils’ possession gold be kept,
He brought some sure from thence--‘tis hid in caves,
Known, save to me, to none.--
The Wonder of a Kingdome.
Lovel almost mechanically followed the beggar, who led the way with a
hasty and steady pace, through bush and bramble, avoiding the beaten
path, and often turning to listen whether there were any sounds of
pursuit behind them. They sometimes descended into the very bed of the
torrent, sometimes kept a narrow and precarious path, that the sheep
(which, with the sluttish negligence towards property of that sort
universal in Scotland, were allowed to stray in the copse) had made
along the very verge of its overhanging banks. From time to time Lovel
had a glance of the path which he had traversed the day before in
company with Sir Arthur, the Antiquary, and the young ladies. Dejected,
embarrassed, and occupied by a thousand inquietudes, as he then was,
what would he now have given to regain the sense of innocence which
alone can counter-balance a thousand evils! “Yet, then,” such was his
hasty and involuntary reflection, “even then, guiltless and valued by
all around me, I thought myself unhappy. What am I now, with this young
man’s blood upon my hands?--the feeling of pride which urged me to the
deed has now deserted me, as the actual fiend himself is said to do
those whom he has tempted to guilt.” Even his affection for Miss Wardour
sunk for the time before the first pangs of remorse, and he thought
he could have encountered every agony of slighted love to have had
the conscious freedom from blood-guiltiness which he possessed in the
morning.
These painful reflections were not interrupted by any conversation on
the part of his guide, who threaded the thicket before him, now holding
back the sprays to make his path easy, now exhorting him to make haste,
now muttering to himself, after the custom of solitary and neglected old
age, words which might have escaped Lovel’s ear even had he listened to
them, or which, apprehended and retained, were too isolated to convey
any connected meaning,--a habit which may be often observed among people
of the old man’s age and calling.
At length, as Lovel, exhausted by his late indisposition, the harrowing
feelings by which he was agitated, and the exertion necessary to keep up
with his guide in a path so rugged, began to flag and fall behind, two
or three very precarious steps placed him on the front of a precipice
overhung with brushwood and copse. Here a cave, as narrow in its
entrance as a fox-earth, was indicated by a small fissure in the rock,
screened by the boughs of an aged oak, which, anchored by its thick and
twisted roots in the upper part of the cleft, flung its branches almost
straight outward from the cliff, concealing it effectually from all
observation. It might indeed have escaped the attention even of those
who had stood at its very opening, so uninviting was the portal at which
the beggar entered. But within, the cavern was higher and more roomy,
cut into two separate branches, which, intersecting each other at right
angles, formed an emblem of the cross, and indicated the abode of an
anchoret of former times. There are many caves of the same kind in
different parts of Scotland. I need only instance those of Gorton, near
Rosslyn, in a scene well known to the admirers of romantic nature.
The light within the eave was a dusky twilight at the entrance, which
failed altogether in the inner recesses. “Few folks ken o’ this place,”
said the old man; “to the best o’my knowledge, there’s just twa living
by mysell, and that’s Jingling Jock and the Lang Linker. I have had mony
a thought, that when I fand mysell auld and forfairn, and no able to
enjoy God’s blessed air ony langer, I wad drag mysell here wi’ a pickle
ait-meal; and see, there’s a bit bonny dropping well that popples that
self-same gate simmer and winter;--and I wad e’en streek mysell out here,
and abide my removal, like an auld dog that trails its useless ugsome
carcass into some bush or bracken no to gie living things a scunner wi’
the sight o’t when it’s dead--Ay, and then, when the dogs barked at the
lone farm-stead, the gudewife wad cry, Whisht, stirra, that’ll be auld
Edie,’ and the bits o’ weans wad up, puir things, and toddle to the door
to pu’ in the auld Blue-Gown that mends a’ their bonny-dies--But there
wad be nae mair word o’ Edie, I trow.”
He then led Lovel, who followed him unresistingly, into one of the
interior branches of the cave. “Here,” he said, “is a bit turnpike-stair
that gaes up to the auld kirk abune. Some folks say this place was
howkit out by the monks lang syne to hide their treasure in, and some
said that they used to bring things into the abbey this gate by night,
that they durstna sae weel hae brought in by the main port and in open
day--And some said that ane o’ them turned a saint (or aiblins wad hae
had folk think sae), and settled him down in this Saint Ruth’s cell, as
the auld folks aye ca’d it, and garr’d big the stair, that he might
gang up to the kirk when they were at the divine service. The Laird
o’ Monkbarns wad hae a hantle to say about it, as he has about maist
things, if he ken’d only about the place. But whether it was made for
man’s devices or God’s service, I have seen ower muckle sin done in it
in my day, and far ower muckle have I been partaker of--ay, even here in
this dark cove. Mony a gudewife’s been wondering what for the red cock
didna craw her up in the morning, when he’s been roasting, puir fallow,
in this dark hole--And, ohon! I wish that and the like o’ that had been
the warst o’t! Whiles they wad hae heard the din we were making in the
very bowels o’ the earth, when Sanders Aikwood, that was forester in
thae days, the father o’ Ringan that now is, was gaun daundering about
the wood at e’en, to see after the Laird’s game and whiles he wad hae
seen a glance o’ the light frae the door o’ the cave, flaughtering
against the hazels on the other bank;--and then siccan stories as Sanders
had about the worricows and gyre-carlins that haunted about the auld
wa’s at e’en, and the lights that he had seen, and the cries that he had
heard, when there was nae mortal e’e open but his ain; and eh! as he wad
thrum them ower and ower to the like o’ me ayont the ingle at e’en, and
as I wad gie the auld silly carle grane for grane, and tale for tale,
though I ken’d muckle better about it than ever he did. Ay, ay--they were
daft days thae;--but they were a’ vanity, and waur,--and it’s fitting that
they wha hae led a light and evil life, and abused charity when they
were young, suld aiblins come to lack it when they are auld.”
While Ochiltree was thus recounting the exploits and tricks of his
earlier life, with a tone in which glee and compunction alternately
predominated, his unfortunate auditor had sat down upon the hermit’s
seat, hewn out of the solid rock, and abandoned himself to that
lassitude, both of mind and body, which generally follows a course of
events that have agitated both, The effect of his late indisposition,
which had much weakened his system, contributed to this lethargic
despondency. “The puir bairn!” said auld Edie, “an he sleeps in this
damp hole, he’ll maybe wauken nae mair, or catch some sair disease. It’s
no the same to him as to the like o’ us, that can sleep ony gate an anes
our wames are fu’. Sit up, Maister Lovel, lad! After a’s come and gane,
I dare say the captain-lad will do weel eneugh--and, after a’, ye are no
the first that has had this misfortune. I hae seen mony a man killed,
and helped to kill them mysell, though there was nae quarrel between
us--and if it isna wrang to kill folk we have nae quarrel wi’, just
because they wear another sort of a cockade, and speak a foreign
language, I canna see but a man may have excuse for killing his ain
mortal foe, that comes armed to the fair field to kill him. I dinna say
it’s right--God forbid--or that it isna sinfu’ to take away what ye canna
restore, and that’s the breath of man, whilk is in his nostrils; but I
say it is a sin to be forgiven if it’s repented of. Sinfu’ men are we
a’; but if ye wad believe an auld grey sinner that has seen the evil
o’ his ways, there is as much promise atween the twa boards o’ the
Testament as wad save the warst o’ us, could we but think sae.”
With such scraps of comfort and of divinity as he possessed, the
mendicant thus continued to solicit and compel the attention of Lovel,
until the twilight began to fade into night. “Now,” said Ochiltree, “I
will carry ye to a mair convenient place, where I hae sat mony a time to
hear the howlit crying out of the ivy tod, and to see the moonlight come
through the auld windows o’ the ruins. There can be naebody come
here after this time o’ night; and if they hae made ony search, thae
blackguard shirra’-officers and constables, it will hae been ower lang
syne. Od, they are as great cowards as ither folk, wi’ a’ their warrants
and king’s keys*--I hae gien some o’ them a gliff in my day, when they
were coming rather ower near me--But, lauded be grace for it! they canna
stir me now for ony waur than an auld man and a beggar, and my badge
is a gude protection; and then Miss Isabella Wardour is a tower o’
strength, ye ken”--(Lovel sighed)--“Aweel, dinna be cast down--bowls may a’
row right yet--gie the lassie time to ken her mind. She’s the wale o’ the
country for beauty, and a gude friend o’ mine--I gang by the bridewell
as safe as by the kirk on a Sabbath--deil ony o’ them daur hurt a hair o’
auld Edie’s head now; I keep the crown o’ the causey when I gae to the
borough, and rub shouthers wi’ a bailie wi’ as little concern as an he
were a brock.”
* The king’s keys are, in law phrase, the crow-bars and hammers used to
force doors and locks, in execution of the king’s warrant.
While the mendicant spoke thus, he was busied in removing a few loose
stones in one angle of the eave, which obscured the entrance of the
staircase of which he had spoken, and led the way into it, followed by
Lovel in passive silence.
“The air’s free eneugh,” said the old man; “the monks took care o’ that,
for they werena a lang-breathed generation, I reckon; they hae contrived
queer tirlie-wirlie holes, that gang out to the open air, and keep the
stair as caller as a kail-blade.”
Lovel accordingly found the staircase well aired, and, though narrow, it
was neither ruinous nor long, but speedily admitted them into a narrow
gallery contrived to run within the side wall of the chancel, from which
it received air and light through apertures ingeniously hidden amid the
florid ornaments of the Gothic architecture.
“This secret passage ance gaed round great part o’ the biggin,” said the
beggar, “and through the wa’ o’ the place I’ve heard Monkbarns ca’ the
Refractory” [meaning probably Refectory], “and so awa to the Prior’s ain
house. It’s like he could use it to listen what the monks were saying at
meal-time,--and then he might come ben here and see that they were busy
skreighing awa wi’ the psalms doun below there; and then, when he saw a’
was right and tight, he might step awa and fetch in a bonnie lass at
the cove yonder--for they were queer hands the monks, unless mony lees is
made on them. But our folk were at great pains lang syne to big up
the passage in some parts, and pu’ it down in others, for fear o’ some
uncanny body getting into it, and finding their way down to the cove: it
wad hae been a fashious job that--by my certie, some o’ our necks wad hae
been ewking.”
They now came to a place where the gallery was enlarged into a small
circle, sufficient to contain a stone seat. A niche, constructed exactly
before it, projected forward into the chancel, and as its sides were
latticed, as it were, with perforated stone-work, it commanded a full
view of the chancel in every direction, and was probably constructed, as
Edie intimated, to be a convenient watch-tower, from which the superior
priest, himself unseen, might watch the behaviour of his monks, and
ascertain, by personal inspection, their punctual attendance upon those
rites of devotion which his rank exempted him from sharing with them. As
this niche made one of a regular series which stretched along the wall
of the chancel, and in no respect differed from the rest when seen from
below, the secret station, screened as it was by the stone figure of
St. Michael and the dragon, and the open tracery around the niche, was
completely hid from observation. The private passage, confined to its
pristine breadth, had originally continued beyond this seat; but the
jealous precautions of the vagabonds who frequented the cave of St. Ruth
had caused them to build it carefully up with hewn stones from the ruin.
“We shall be better here,” said Edie, seating himself on the stone
bench, and stretching the lappet of his blue gown upon the spot, when he
motioned Lovel to sit down beside him--“we shall be better here than doun
below; the air’s free and mild, and the savour of the wallflowers, and
siccan shrubs as grow on thae ruined wa’s, is far mair refreshing than
the damp smell doun below yonder. They smell sweetest by night-time thae
flowers, and they’re maist aye seen about rained buildings. Now, Maister
Lovel, can ony o’ you scholars gie a gude reason for that?”
Lovel replied in the negative.
“I am thinking,” resumed the beggar, “that they’ll be, like mony folk’s
gude gifts, that often seem maist gracious in adversity--or maybe it’s a
parable, to teach us no to slight them that are in the darkness of sin
and the decay of tribulation, since God sends odours to refresh the
mirkest hour, and flowers and pleasant bushes to clothe the ruined
buildings. And now I wad like a wise man to tell me whether Heaven is
maist pleased wi’ the sight we are looking upon--thae pleasant and quiet
lang streaks o’ moonlight that are lying sae still on the floor o’ this
auld kirk, and glancing through the great pillars and stanchions o’ the
carved windows, and just dancing like on the leaves o’ the dark ivy as
the breath o’ wind shakes it--I wonder whether this is mair pleasing to
Heaven than when it was lighted up wi’ lamps, and candles nae doubt, and
roughies,* and wi’ the mirth and the frankincent that they speak of in
the Holy Scripture, and wi’ organs assuredly, and men and women singers,
and sackbuts, and dulcimers, and a’ instruments o’ music--I wonder
if that was acceptable, or whether it is of these grand parafle o’
ceremonies that holy writ says, It is an abomination to me.
* Links, or torches.
I am thinking, Maister Lovel, if twa puir contrite spirits like yours
and mine fand grace to make our petition”--
Here Lovel laid his hand eagerly on the mendicant’s arm, saying,--“Hush!
I heard some one speak.”
“I am dull o’ hearing,” answered Edie, in a whisper, “but we’re surely
safe here--where was the sound?”
Lovel pointed to the door of the chancel, which, highly ornamented,
occupied the west end of the building, surmounted by the carved window,
which let in a flood of moonlight over it.
“They can be nane o’ our folk,” said Edie in the same low and cautious
tone; “there’s but twa o’ them kens o’ the place, and they’re mony a
mile off, if they are still bound on their weary pilgrimage. I’ll never
think it’s the officers here at this time o’ night. I am nae believer in
auld wives’ stories about ghaists, though this is gey like a place for
them--But mortal, or of the other world, here they come!--twa men and a
light.”
And in very truth, while the mendicant spoke, two human figures darkened
with their shadows the entrance of the chancel--which had before opened
to the moon-lit meadow beyond, and the small lantern which one of them
displayed, glimmered pale in the clear and strong beams of the moon, as
the evening star does among the lights of the departing day. The first
and most obvious idea was, that, despite the asseverations of Edie
Ochiltree, the persons who approached the ruins at an hour so uncommon
must be the officers of justice in quest of Lovel. But no part of their
conduct confirmed the suspicion. A touch and a whisper from the old man
warned Lovel that his best course was to remain quiet, and watch their
motions from their present place of concealment. Should anything appear
to render retreat necessary, they had behind them the private stair-case
and cavern, by means of which they could escape into the wood long
before any danger of close pursuit. They kept themselves, therefore, as
still as possible, and observed with eager and anxious curiosity every
accent and motion of these nocturnal wanderers.
After conversing together some time in whispers, the two figures
advanced into the middle of the chancel; and a voice, which Lovel at
once recognised, from its tone and dialect, to be that of Dousterswivel,
pronounced in a louder but still a smothered tone, “Indeed, mine goot
sir, dere cannot be one finer hour nor season for dis great purpose.
You shall see, mine goot sir, dat it is all one bibble-babble dat Mr.
Oldenbuck says, and dat he knows no more of what he speaks than one
little child. Mine soul! he expects to get as rich as one Jew for his
poor dirty one hundred pounds, which I care no more about, by mine
honest wort, than I care for an hundred stivers. But to you, my most
munificent and reverend patron, I will show all de secrets dat art can
show--ay, de secret of de great Pymander.”
[Illustration: The Ruins of St. Ruth]