"Eh, sirs!" said Jenny Rintherout, under her breath to her gossip, "it's

awsome to hear your gudemither break out in that gait—it's like the dead

speaking to the living."

"Ye're no that far wrang, lass; she minds naething o' what passes the

day—but set her on auld tales, and she can speak like a prent buke.

She kens mair about the Glenallan family than maist folk—the gudeman's

father was their fisher mony a day. Ye maun ken the papists make a great

point o' eating fish—it's nae bad part o' their religion that, whatever

the rest is—I could aye sell the best o' fish at the best o' prices for

the Countess's ain table, grace be wi' her! especially on a Friday—But

see as our gudemither's hands and lips are ganging—now it's working in

her head like barm—she'll speak eneugh the night. Whiles she'll no speak

a word in a week, unless it be to the bits o' bairns."

"Hegh, Mrs. Mucklebackit, she's an awsome wife!" said Jenny in reply.

"D'ye think she's a'thegither right? Folk say she downa gang to the

kirk, or speak to the minister, and that she was ance a papist but since

her gudeman's been dead, naebody kens what she is. D'ye think yoursell

that she's no uncanny?"

"Canny, ye silly tawpie! think ye ae auld wife's less canny than

anither? unless it be Alison Breck—I really couldna in conscience swear

for her; I have kent the boxes she set fill'd wi' partans, when"—

"Whisht, whisht, Maggie," whispered Jenny—"your gudemither's gaun to

speak again."

"Wasna there some ane o' ye said," asked the old sibyl, "or did I dream,

or was it revealed to me, that Joscelind, Lady Glenallan, is dead, an'

buried this night?"

"Yes, gudemither," screamed the daughter-in-law, "it's e'en sae."

"And e'en sae let it be," said old Elspeth; "she's made mony a sair

heart in her day—ay, e'en her ain son's—is he living yet?"

"Ay, he's living yet; but how lang he'll live—however, dinna ye mind his

coming and asking after you in the spring, and leaving siller?"

"It may be sae, Magge—I dinna mind it—but a handsome gentleman he was,

and his father before him. Eh! if his father had lived, they might hae

been happy folk! But he was gane, and the lady carried it in—ower and

out-ower wi' her son, and garr'd him trow the thing he never suld hae

trowed, and do the thing he has repented a' his life, and will repent

still, were his life as lang as this lang and wearisome ane o' mine."

"O what was it, grannie?"—and "What was it, gudemither?"—and "What was

it, Luckie Elspeth?" asked the children, the mother, and the visitor, in

one breath.

"Never ask what it was," answered the old sibyl, "but pray to God that

ye arena left to the pride and wilfu'ness o' your ain hearts: they may

be as powerful in a cabin as in a castle—I can bear a sad witness to

that. O that weary and fearfu' night! will it never gang out o' my auld

head!— Eh! to see her lying on the floor wi' her lang hair dreeping wi'

the salt water!—Heaven will avenge on a' that had to do wi't. Sirs! is

my son out wi' the coble this windy e'en?"

"Na, na, mither—nae coble can keep the sea this wind; he's sleeping in

his bed out-ower yonder ahint the hallan."

"Is Steenie out at sea then?"

"Na, grannie—Steenie's awa out wi' auld Edie Ochiltree, the gaberlunzie;

maybe they'll be gaun to see the burial."

"That canna be," said the mother of the family; "we kent naething o't

till Jock Rand cam in, and tauld us the Aikwoods had warning to attend—

they keep thae things unco private—and they were to bring the corpse a'

the way frae the Castle, ten miles off, under cloud o' night. She has

lain in state this ten days at Glenallan House, in a grand chamber a'

hung wi' black, and lighted wi' wax cannle."

"God assoilzie her!" ejaculated old Elspeth, her head apparently still

occupied by the event of the Countess's death; "she was a hard-hearted

woman, but she's gaen to account for it a', and His mercy is infinite—

God grant she may find it sae!" And she relapsed into silence, which she

did not break again during the rest of the evening.

"I wonder what that auld daft beggar carle and our son Steenie can be

doing out in sic a nicht as this," said Maggie Mucklebackit; and her

expression of surprise was echoed by her visitor. "Gang awa, ane o' ye,

hinnies, up to the heugh head, and gie them a cry in case they're within

hearing; the car-cakes will be burnt to a cinder."

The little emissary departed, but in a few minutes came running back

with the loud exclamation, "Eh, Minnie! eh, grannie! there's a white

bogle chasing twa black anes down the heugh."

A noise of footsteps followed this singular annunciation, and young

Steenie Mucklebackit, closely followed by Edie Ochiltree, bounced into

the hut. They were panting and out of breath. The first thing Steenie

did was to look for the bar of the door, which his mother reminded him

had been broken up for fire-wood in the hard winter three years ago;

"for what use," she said, "had the like o' them for bars?"

"There's naebody chasing us," said the beggar, after he had taken his

breath: "we're e'en like the wicked, that flee when no one pursueth."

"Troth, but we were chased," said Steenie, "by a spirit or something

little better."

"It was a man in white on horseback," said Edie, "for the soft grund

that wadna bear the beast, flung him about, I wot that weel; but I didna

think my auld legs could have brought me aff as fast; I ran amaist as

fast as if I had been at Prestonpans."*

* [This refers to the flight of the government forces at the battle of

Prestonpans, 1745.]

"Hout, ye daft gowks!" said Luckie Mucklebackit, "it will hae been some

o' the riders at the Countess's burial."

"What!" said Edie, "is the auld Countess buried the night at St. Ruth's?

Ou, that wad be the lights and the noise that scarr'd us awa; I wish I

had ken'd—I wad hae stude them, and no left the man yonder—but they'll

take care o' him. Ye strike ower hard, Steenie I doubt ye foundered the

chield."

"Neer a bit," said Steenie, laughing; "he has braw broad shouthers, and

I just took measure o' them wi' the stang. Od, if I hadna been something

short wi' him, he wad hae knockit your auld hams out, lad."

"Weel, an I win clear o' this scrape," said Edie, "I'se tempt Providence

nae mair. But I canna think it an unlawfu' thing to pit a bit trick on

sic a landlouping scoundrel, that just lives by tricking honester folk."

"But what are we to do with this?" said Steenie, producing a

pocket-book.

"Od guide us, man," said Edie in great alarm, "what garr'd ye touch the

gear? a very leaf o' that pocket-book wad be eneugh to hang us baith."

"I dinna ken," said Steenie; "the book had fa'en out o' his pocket, I

fancy, for I fand it amang my feet when I was graping about to set him

on his logs again, and I just pat it in my pouch to keep it safe; and

then came the tramp of horse, and you cried, Rin, rin,' and I had nae

mair thought o' the book."

"We maun get it back to the loon some gait or other; ye had better take

it yoursell, I think, wi' peep o' light, up to Ringan Aikwood's. I wadna

for a hundred pounds it was fund in our hands."

Steenie undertook to do as he was directed.

"A bonny night ye hae made o't, Mr. Steenie," said Jenny Rintherout,

who, impatient of remaining so long unnoticed, now presented herself to

the young fisherman—"A bonny night ye hae made o't, tramping about wi'

gaberlunzies, and getting yoursell hunted wi' worricows, when ye suld be

sleeping in your bed, like your father, honest man."

This attack called forth a suitable response of rustic raillery from

the young fisherman. An attack was now commenced upon the car-cakes and

smoked fish, and sustained with great perseverance by assistance of a

bicker or two of twopenny ale and a bottle of gin. The mendicant then

retired to the straw of an out-house adjoining,—the children had one

by one crept into their nests,—the old grandmother was deposited in

her flock-bed,—Steenie, notwithstanding his preceding fatigue, had the

gallantry to accompany Miss Rintherout to her own mansion, and at what

hour he returned the story saith not,—and the matron of the family,

having laid the gathering-coal upon the fire, and put things in some

sort of order, retired to rest the last of the family.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

—Many great ones

Would part with half their states, to have the plan

And credit to beg in the first style.

Beggar's Bush.

Old Edie was stirring with the lark, and his first inquiry was after

Steenie and the pocket-book. The young fisherman had been under the

necessity of attending his father before daybreak, to avail themselves

of the tide, but he had promised that, immediately on his return, the

pocket-book, with all its contents, carefully wrapped up in a piece

of sail-cloth, should be delivered by him to Ringan Aikwood, for

Dousterswivel, the owner.

The matron had prepared the morning meal for the family, and,

shouldering her basket of fish, tramped sturdily away towards Fairport.

The children were idling round the door, for the day was fair and

sun-shiney. The ancient grandame, again seated on her wicker-chair by

the fire, had resumed her eternal spindle, wholly unmoved by the yelling

and screaming of the children, and the scolding of the mother, which

had preceded the dispersion of the family. Edie had arranged his various

bags, and was bound for the renewal of his wandering life, but first

advanced with due courtesy to take his leave of the ancient crone.

"Gude day to ye, cummer, and mony ane o' them. I will be back about the

fore-end o'har'st, and I trust to find ye baith haill and fere."

"Pray that ye may find me in my quiet grave," said the old woman, in

a hollow and sepulchral voice, but without the agitation of a single

feature.

"Ye're auld, cummer, and sae am I mysell; but we maun abide His will—

we'll no be forgotten in His good time."

"Nor our deeds neither," said the crone: "what's dune in the body maun

be answered in the spirit."

"I wot that's true; and I may weel tak the tale hame to mysell, that hae

led a misruled and roving life. But ye were aye a canny wife. We're a'

frail—but ye canna hae sae muckle to bow ye down."

"Less than I might have had—but mair, O far mair, than wad sink the

stoutest brig e'er sailed out o' Fairport harbour!—Didna somebody say

yestreen—at least sae it is borne in on my mind, but auld folk hae weak

fancies—did not somebody say that Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, was

departed frae life?"

"They said the truth whaever said it," answered old Edie; "she was

buried yestreen by torch-light at St. Ruth's, and I, like a fule, gat a

gliff wi' seeing the lights and the riders."

"It was their fashion since the days of the Great Earl that was killed

at Harlaw;—they did it to show scorn that they should die and be buried

like other mortals; the wives o' the house of Glenallan wailed nae wail

for the husband, nor the sister for the brother.—But is she e'en ca'd to

the lang account?"

"As sure," answered Edie, "as we maun a' abide it."

"Then I'll unlade my mind, come o't what will."

This she spoke with more alacrity than usually attended her expressions,

and accompanied her words with an attitude of the hand, as if throwing

something from her. She then raised up her form, once tall, and still

retaining the appearance of having been so, though bent with age and

rheumatism, and stood before the beggar like a mummy animated by some

wandering spirit into a temporary resurrection. Her light-blue eyes

wandered to and fro, as if she occasionally forgot and again remembered

the purpose for which her long and withered hand was searching among the

miscellaneous contents of an ample old-fashioned pocket. At length she

pulled out a small chip-box, and opening it, took out a handsome ring,

in which was set a braid of hair, composed of two different colours,

black and light brown, twined together, encircled with brilliants of

considerable value.

"Gudeman," she said to Ochiltree, "as ye wad e'er deserve mercy, ye maun

gang my errand to the house of Glenallan, and ask for the Earl."

"The Earl of Glenallan, cummer! ou, he winna see ony o' the gentles o'

the country, and what likelihood is there that he wad see the like o' an

auld gaberlunzie?"

"Gang your ways and try;—and tell him that Elspeth o' the

Craigburnfoot—he'll mind me best by that name—maun see him or she be

relieved frae her lang pilgrimage, and that she sends him that ring in

token of the business she wad speak o'."

Ochiltree looked on the ring with some admiration of its apparent value,

and then carefully replacing it in the box, and wrapping it in an old

ragged handkerchief, he deposited the token in his bosom.

"Weel, gudewife," he said, "I'se do your bidding, or it's no be my

fault. But surely there was never sic a braw propine as this sent to

a yerl by an auld fishwife, and through the hands of a gaberlunzie

beggar."

With this reflection, Edie took up his pike-staff, put on his

broad-brimmed bonnet, and set forth upon his pilgrimage. The old woman

remained for some time standing in a fixed posture, her eyes directed

to the door through which her ambassador had departed. The appearance

of excitation, which the conversation had occasioned, gradually left

her features; she sank down upon her accustomed seat, and resumed her

mechanical labour of the distaff and spindle, with her wonted air of

apathy.

Edie Ochiltree meanwhile advanced on his journey. The distance to

Glenallan was ten miles, a march which the old soldier accomplished in

about four hours. With the curiosity belonging to his idle trade and

animated character, he tortured himself the whole way to consider

what could be the meaning of this mysterious errand with which he was

entrusted, or what connection the proud, wealthy, and powerful Earl

of Glenallan could have with the crimes or penitence of an old doting

woman, whose rank in life did not greatly exceed that of her messenger.

He endeavoured to call to memory all that he had ever known or heard of

the Glenallan family, yet, having done so, remained altogether unable

to form a conjecture on the subject. He knew that the whole extensive

estate of this ancient and powerful family had descended to the

Countess, lately deceased, who inherited, in a most remarkable degree,

the stern, fierce, and unbending character which had distinguished the

house of Glenallan since they first figured in Scottish annals. Like

the rest of her ancestors, she adhered zealously to the Roman Catholic

faith, and was married to an English gentleman of the same communion,

and of large fortune, who did not survive their union two years. The

Countess was, therefore, left an early widow, with the uncontrolled

management of the large estates of her two sons. The elder, Lord

Geraldin, who was to succeed to the title and fortune of Glenallan, was

totally dependent on his mother during her life. The second, when

he came of age, assumed the name and arms of his father, and took

possession of his estate, according to the provisions of the Countess's

marriage-settlement. After this period, he chiefly resided in England,

and paid very few and brief visits to his mother and brother; and these

at length were altogether dispensed with, in consequence of his becoming

a convert to the reformed religion.

But even before this mortal offence was given to its mistress, his

residence at Glenallan offered few inducements to a gay young man like

Edward Geraldin Neville, though its gloom and seclusion seemed to suit

the retired and melancholy habits of his elder brother. Lord Geraldin,

in the outset of life, had been a young man of accomplishment and hopes.

Those who knew him upon his travels entertained the highest expectations

of his future career. But such fair dawns are often strangely overcast.

The young nobleman returned to Scotland, and after living about a year

in his mother's society at Glenallan House, he seemed to have adopted

all the stern gloom and melancholy of her character. Excluded from

politics by the incapacities attached to those of his religion, and

from all lighter avocationas by choice, Lord Geraldin led a life of the

strictest retirement. His ordinary society was composed of the clergyman

of his communion, who occasionally visited his mansion; and very rarely,

upon stated occasions of high festival, one or two families who still

professed the Catholic religion were formally entertained at Glenallan

House. But this was all; their heretic neighbours knew nothing of

the family whatever; and even the Catholics saw little more than the

sumptuous entertainment and solemn parade which was exhibited on those

formal occasions, from which all returned without knowing whether most

to wonder at the stern and stately demeanour of the Countess, or the

deep and gloomy dejection which never ceased for a moment to cloud the

features of her son. The late event had put him in possession of his

fortune and title, and the neighbourhood had already begun to conjecture

whether gaiety would revive with independence, when those who had some

occasional acquaintance with the interior of the family spread abroad

a report, that the Earl's constitution was undermined by religious

austerities, and that in all probability he would soon follow his mother

to the grave. This event was the more probable, as his brother had died

of a lingering complaint, which, in the latter years of his life,

had affected at once his frame and his spirits; so that heralds and

genealogists were already looking back into their records to discover

the heir of this ill-fated family, and lawyers were talking with

gleesome anticipation, of the probability of a "great Glenallan cause."

As Edie Ochiltree approached the front of Glenallan House,* an ancient

building of great extent, the most modern part of which had been

designed by the celebrated Inigo Jones, he began to consider in what

way he should be most likely to gain access for delivery of his message;

and, after much consideration, resolved to send the token to the Earl by

one of the domestics.

* [Supposed to represent Glammis Castle, in Forfarshire, with which the

Author was well acquainted.]

With this purpose he stopped at a cottage, where he obtained the means

of making up the ring in a sealed packet like a petition, addressed,

Forr his hounor the Yerl of Glenllan—These. But being aware that

missives delivered at the doors of great houses by such persons as

himself, do not always make their way according to address, Edie

determined, like an old soldier, to reconnoitre the ground before

he made his final attack. As he approached the porter's lodge, he

discovered, by the number of poor ranked before it, some of them being

indigent persons in the vicinity, and others itinerants of his own

begging profession,—that there was about to be a general dole or

distribution of charity.

"A good turn," said Edie to himself, "never goes unrewarded—I'll maybe

get a good awmous that I wad hae missed but for trotting on this auld

wife's errand."

Accordingly, he ranked up with the rest of this ragged regiment,

assuming a station as near the front as possible,—a distinction due, as

he conceived, to his blue gown and badge, no less than to his years and

experience; but he soon found there was another principle of precedence

in this assembly, to which he had not adverted.

"Are ye a triple man, friend, that ye press forward sae bauldly?—I'm

thinking no, for there's nae Catholics wear that badge."

"Na, na, I am no a Roman," said Edie.

"Then shank yoursell awa to the double folk, or single folk, that's the

Episcopals or Presbyterians yonder: it's a shame to see a heretic hae

sic a lang white beard, that would do credit to a hermit."

Ochiltree, thus rejected from the society of the Catholic mendicants,

or those who called themselves such, went to station himself with the

paupers of the communion of the church of England, to whom the noble

donor allotted a double portion of his charity. But never was a

poor occasional conformist more roughly rejected by a High-church

congregation, even when that matter was furiously agitated in the days

of good Queen Anne.

"See to him wi' his badge!" they said;—"he hears ane o' the king's

Presbyterian chaplains sough out a sermon on the morning of every

birth-day, and now he would pass himsell for ane o' the Episcopal

church! Na, na!—we'll take care o' that."

Edie, thus rejected by Rome and Prelacy, was fain to shelter himself

from the laughter of his brethren among the thin group of Presbyterians,

who had either disdained to disguise their religious opinions for the

sake of an augmented dole, or perhaps knew they could not attempt the

imposition without a certainty of detection.

The same degree of precedence was observed in the mode of distributing

the charity, which consisted in bread, beef, and a piece of money, to

each individual of all the three classes. The almoner, an ecclesiastic

of grave appearance and demeanour, superintended in person the

accommodation of the Catholic mendicants, asking a question or two of

each as he delivered the charity, and recommending to their prayers

the soul of Joscelind, late Countess of Glenallan, mother of their

benefactor. The porter, distinguished by his long staff headed with

silver, and by the black gown tufted with lace of the same colour, which

he had assumed upon the general mourning in the family, overlooked

the distribution of the dole among the prelatists. The less-favoured

kirk-folk were committed to the charge of an aged domestic.

As this last discussed some disputed point with the porter, his name, as

it chanced to be occasionally mentioned, and then his features, struck

Ochiltree, and awakened recollections of former times. The rest of the

assembly were now retiring, when the domestic, again approaching the

place where Edie still lingered, said, in a strong Aberdeenshire accent,

"Fat is the auld feel-body deeing, that he canna gang avay, now that

he's gotten baith meat and siller?"

"Francis Macraw," answered Edie Ochiltree, "d'ye no mind Fontenoy, and

keep thegither front and rear?'"

"Ohon! ohon!" cried Francie, with a true north-country yell of

recognition, "naebody could hae said that word but my auld front-rank

man, Edie Ochiltree! But I'm sorry to see ye in sic a peer state, man."

"No sae ill aff as ye may think, Francis. But I'm laith to leave this

place without a crack wi' you, and I kenna when I may see you again, for

your folk dinna mak Protestants welcome, and that's ae reason that I hae

never been here before."

"Fusht, fusht," said Francie, "let that flee stick i' the wa'—when the

dirt's dry it will rub out;—and come you awa wi' me, and I'll gie ye

something better thau that beef bane, man."

Having then spoke a confidential word with the porter (probably to

request his connivance), and having waited until the almoner had

returned into the house with slow and solemn steps, Francie Macraw

introduced his old comrade into the court of Glenallan House, the gloomy

gateway of which was surmounted by a huge scutcheon, in which the herald

and undertaker had mingled, as usual, the emblems of human pride and of

human nothingness,—the Countess's hereditary coat-of-arms, with all

its numerous quarterings, disposed in a lozenge, and surrounded by the

separate shields of her paternal and maternal ancestry, intermingled

with scythes, hour glasses, skulls, and other symbols of that mortality

which levels all distinctions. Conducting his friend as speedily as

possible along the large paved court, Macraw led the way through a

side-door to a small apartment near the servants' hall, which, in virtue

of his personal attendance upon the Earl of Glenallan, he was entitled

to call his own. To produce cold meat of various kinds, strong beer,

and even a glass of spirits, was no difficulty to a person of Francis's

importance, who had not lost, in his sense of conscious dignity, the

keen northern prudence which recommended a good understanding with the

butler. Our mendicant envoy drank ale, and talked over old stories

with his comrade, until, no other topic of conversation occurring, he

resolved to take up the theme of his embassy, which had for some time

escaped his memory.

"He had a petition to present to the Earl," he said;—for he judged

it prudent to say nothing of the ring, not knowing, as he afterwards

observed, how far the manners of a single soldier* might have been

corrupted by service in a great house.