Yea, this man’s brow, like to a tragic leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
Shakspeare.
Being at length rid of the housekeeper’s presence, Morton made a
collection of what he had reserved from the provisions set before him,
and prepared to carry them to his concealed guest. He did not think it
necessary to take a light, being perfectly acquainted with every turn of
the road; and it was lucky he did not do so, for he had hardly stepped
beyond the threshold ere a heavy trampling of horses announced, that the
body of cavalry, whose kettle-drums [Note: Regimental music is never
played at night. But who can assure us that such was not the custom in
Charles the Second’s time? Till I am well informed on this point, the
kettle-drums shall clash on, as adding something to the picturesque
effect of the night march.] they had before heard, were in the act of
passing along the high-road which winds round the foot of the bank on
which the house of Milnwood was placed. He heard the commanding officer
distinctly give the word halt. A pause of silence followed, interrupted
only by the occasional neighing or pawing of an impatient charger.
“Whose house is this?” said a voice, in a tone of authority and command.
“Milnwood, if it like your honour,” was the reply.
“Is the owner well affected?” said the enquirer.
“He complies with the orders of government, and frequents an indulged
minister,” was the response.
“Hum! ay! indulged? a mere mask for treason, very impolitically allowed
to those who are too great cowards to wear their principles barefaced.--
Had we not better send up a party and search the house, in case some of
the bloody villains concerned in this heathenish butchery may be
concealed in it?”
Ere Morton could recover from the alarm into which this proposal had
thrown him, a third speaker rejoined, “I cannot think it at all
necessary; Milnwood is an infirm, hypochondriac old man, who never
meddles with politics, and loves his moneybags and bonds better than any
thing else in the world. His nephew, I hear, was at the wappenschaw
to-day, and gained the popinjay, which does not look like a fanatic. I
should think they are all gone to bed long since, and an alarm at this
time of night might kill the poor old man.”
“Well,” rejoined the leader, “if that be so, to search the house would be
lost time, of which we have but little to throw away. Gentlemen of the
Life-Guards, forward--March!”
A few notes on the trumpet, mingled with the occasional boom of the
kettle-drum, to mark the cadence, joined with the tramp of hoofs and the
clash of arms, announced that the troop had resumed its march. The moon
broke out as the leading files of the column attained a hill up which the
road winded, and showed indistinctly the glittering of the steel-caps;
and the dark figures of the horses and riders might be imperfectly traced
through the gloom. They continued to advance up the hill, and sweep over
the top of it in such long succession, as intimated a considerable
numerical force.
When the last of them had disappeared, young Morton resumed his purpose
of visiting his guest. Upon entering the place of refuge, he found him
seated on his humble couch with a pocket Bible open in his hand, which he
seemed to study with intense meditation. His broadsword, which he had
unsheathed in the first alarm at the arrival of the dragoons, lay naked
across his knees, and the little taper that stood beside him upon the old
chest, which served the purpose of a table, threw a partial and imperfect
light upon those stern and harsh features, in which ferocity was rendered
more solemn and dignified by a wild cast of tragic enthusiasm. His brow
was that of one in whom some strong o’ermastering principle has
overwhelmed all other passions and feelings, like the swell of a high
spring-tide, when the usual cliffs and breakers vanish from the eye, and
their existence is only indicated by the chasing foam of the waves that
burst and wheel over them. He raised his head, after Morton had
contemplated him for about a minute.
“I perceive,” said Morton, looking at his sword, “that you heard the
horsemen ride by; their passage delayed me for some minutes.”
“I scarcely heeded them,” said Balfour; “my hour is not yet come. That I
shall one day fall into their hands, and be honourably associated with
the saints whom they have slaughtered, I am full well aware. And I would,
young man, that the hour were come; it should be as welcome to me as ever
wedding to bridegroom. But if my Master has more work for me on earth, I
must not do his labour grudgingly.”
“Eat and refresh yourself,” said Morton; “tomorrow your safety requires
you should leave this place, in order to gain the hills, so soon as you
can see to distinguish the track through the morasses.”
“Young man,” returned Balfour, “you are already weary of me, and would be
yet more so, perchance, did you know the task upon which I have been
lately put. And I wonder not that it should be so, for there are times
when I am weary of myself. Think you not it is a sore trial for flesh and
blood, to be called upon to execute the righteous judgments of Heaven
while we are yet in the body, and continue to retain that blinded sense
and sympathy for carnal suffering, which makes our own flesh thrill when
we strike a gash upon the body of another? And think you, that when some
prime tyrant has been removed from his place, that the instruments of his
punishment can at all times look back on their share in his downfall with
firm and unshaken nerves? Must they not sometimes even question the truth
of that inspiration which they have felt and acted under? Must they not
sometimes doubt the origin of that strong impulse with which their
prayers for heavenly direction under difficulties have been inwardly
answered and confirmed, and confuse, in their disturbed apprehensions,
the responses of Truth itself with some strong delusion of the enemy?”
“These are subjects, Mr Balfour, on which I am ill qualified to converse
with you,” answered Morton; “but I own I should strongly doubt the origin
of any inspiration which seemed to dictate a line of conduct contrary to
those feelings of natural humanity, which Heaven has assigned to us as
the general law of our conduct.”
Balfour seemed somewhat disturbed, and drew himself hastily up, but
immediately composed himself, and answered coolly, “It is natural you
should think so; you are yet in the dungeon-house of the law, a pit
darker than that into which Jeremiah was plunged, even the dungeon of
Malcaiah the son of Hamelmelech, where there was no water but mire. Yet
is the seal of the covenant upon your forehead, and the son of the
righteous, who resisted to blood where the banner was spread on the
mountains, shall not be utterly lost, as one of the children of darkness.
Trow ye, that in this day of bitterness and calamity, nothing is required
at our hands but to keep the moral law as far as our carnal frailty will
permit? Think ye our conquests must be only over our corrupt and evil
affections and passions? No; we are called upon, when we have girded up
our loins, to run the race boldly, and when we have drawn the sword, we
are enjoined to smite the ungodly, though he be our neighbour, and the
man of power and cruelty, though he were of our own kindred, and the
friend of our own bosom.”
“These are the sentiments,” said Morton, “that your enemies impute to
you, and which palliate, if they do not vindicate, the cruel measures
which the council have directed against you. They affirm, that you
pretend to derive your rule of action from what you call an inward light,
rejecting the restraints of legal magistracy, of national law, and even
of common humanity, when in opposition to what you call the spirit within
you.”
“They do us wrong,” answered the Covenanter; “it is they, perjured as
they are, who have rejected all law, both divine and civil, and who now
persecute us for adherence to the Solemn League and Covenant between God
and the kingdom of Scotland, to which all of them, save a few popish
malignants, have sworn in former days, and which they now burn in the
market-places, and tread under foot in derision. When this Charles
Stewart returned to these kingdoms, did the malignants bring him back?
They had tried it with strong hand, but they failed, I trow. Could James
Grahame of Montrose, and his Highland caterans, have put him again in the
place of his father? I think their heads on the Westport told another
tale for many a long day. It was the workers of the glorious work--the
reformers of the beauty of the tabernacle, that called him again to the
high place from which his father fell. And what has been our reward? In
the words of the prophet, ‘We looked for peace, but no good came; and for
a time of health, and behold trouble--The snorting of his horses was
heard from Dan; the whole land trembled at the sound of the neighing of
his strong ones; for they are come, and have devoured the land and all
that is in it.’”
“Mr Balfour,” answered Morton, “I neither undertake to subscribe to or
refute your complaints against the government. I have endeavoured to
repay a debt due to the comrade of my father, by giving you shelter in
your distress, but you will excuse me from engaging myself either in your
cause, or in controversy. I will leave you to repose, and heartily wish
it were in my power to render your condition more comfortable.”
“But I shall see you, I trust, in the morning, ere I depart?--I am not a
man whose bowels yearn after kindred and friends of this world. When I
put my hand to the plough, I entered into a covenant with my worldly
affections that I should not look back on the things I left behind me.
Yet the son of mine ancient comrade is to me as mine own, and I cannot
behold him without the deep and firm belief, that I shall one day see him
gird on his sword in the dear and precious cause for which his father
fought and bled.”
With a promise on Morton’s part that he would call the refugee when it
was time for him to pursue his journey, they parted for the night.
Morton retired to a few hours’ rest; but his imagination, disturbed by
the events of the day, did not permit him to enjoy sound repose. There
was a blended vision of horror before him, in which his new friend seemed
to be a principal actor. The fair form of Edith Bellenden also mingled in
his dream, weeping, and with dishevelled hair, and appearing to call on
him for comfort and assistance, which he had not in his power to render.
He awoke from these unrefreshing slumbers with a feverish impulse, and a
heart which foreboded disaster. There was already a tinge of dazzling
lustre on the verge of the distant hills, and the dawn was abroad in all
the freshness of a summer morning.
“I have slept too long,” he exclaimed to himself, “and must now hasten to
forward the journey of this unfortunate fugitive.”
He dressed himself as fast as possible, opened the door of the house with
as little noise as he could, and hastened to the place of refuge occupied
by the Covenanter. Morton entered on tiptoe, for the determined tone and
manner, as well as the unusual language and sentiments of this singular
individual, had struck him with a sensation approaching to awe. Balfour
was still asleep. A ray of light streamed on his uncurtained couch, and
showed to Morton the working of his harsh features, which seemed agitated
by some strong internal cause of disturbance. He had not undressed. Both
his arms were above the bed-cover, the right hand strongly clenched, and
occasionally making that abortive attempt to strike which usually attends
dreams of violence; the left was extended, and agitated, from time to
time, by a movement as if repulsing some one. The perspiration stood on
his brow, “like bubbles in a late disturbed stream,” and these marks of
emotion were accompanied with broken words which escaped from him at
intervals--“Thou art taken, Judas--thou art taken--Cling not to my
knees--cling not to my knees--hew him down!--A priest? Ay, a priest of
Baal, to be bound and slain, even at the brook Kishon.--Fire arms will
not prevail against him--Strike--thrust with the cold iron--put him out
of pain--put him out of pain, were it but for the sake of his grey
hairs.”
Much alarmed at the import of these expressions, which seemed to burst
from him even in sleep with the stern energy accompanying the
perpetration of some act of violence, Morton shook his guest by the
shoulder in order to awake him. The first words he uttered were, “Bear me
where ye will, I will avouch the deed!”
His glance around having then fully awakened him, he at once assumed all
the stern and gloomy composure of his ordinary manner, and throwing
himself on his knees, before speaking to Morton, poured forth an
ejaculatory prayer for the suffering Church of Scotland, entreating that
the blood of her murdered saints and martyrs might be precious in the
sight of Heaven, and that the shield of the Almighty might be spread over
the scattered remnant, who, for His name’s sake, were abiders in the
wilderness. Vengeance--speedy and ample vengeance on the oppressors, was
the concluding petition of his devotions, which he expressed aloud in
strong and emphatic language, rendered more impressive by the Orientalism
of Scripture.
When he had finished his prayer he arose, and, taking Morton by the arm,
they descended together to the stable, where the Wanderer (to give Burley
a title which was often conferred on his sect) began to make his horse
ready to pursue his journey. When the animal was saddled and bridled,
Burley requested Morton to walk with him a gun-shot into the wood, and
direct him to the right road for gaining the moors. Morton readily
complied, and they walked for some time in silence under the shade of
some fine old trees, pursuing a sort of natural path, which, after
passing through woodland for about half a mile, led into the bare and
wild country which extends to the foot of the hills.
There was little conversation between them, until at length Burley
suddenly asked Morton, “Whether the words he had spoken over-night had
borne fruit in his mind?”
Morton answered, “That he remained of the same opinion which he had
formerly held, and was determined, at least as far and as long as
possible, to unite the duties of a good Christian with those of a
peaceful subject.”
“In other words,” replied Burley, “you are desirous to serve both God and
Mammon--to be one day professing the truth with your lips, and the next
day in arms, at the command of carnal and tyrannic authority, to shed the
blood of those who for the truth have forsaken all things? Think ye,” he
continued, “to touch pitch and remain undefiled? to mix in the ranks of
malignants, papists, papa-prelatists, latitudinarians, and scoffers; to
partake of their sports, which are like the meat offered unto idols; to
hold intercourse, perchance, with their daughters, as the sons of God
with the daughters of men in the world before the flood--Think you, I
say, to do all these things, and yet remain free from pollution? I say
unto you, that all communication with the enemies of the Church is the
accursed thing which God hateth! Touch not--taste not--handle not! And
grieve not, young man, as if you alone were called upon to subdue your
carnal affections, and renounce the pleasures which are a snare to your
feet--I say to you, that the Son of David hath denounced no better lot on
the whole generation of mankind.”
He then mounted his horse, and, turning to Morton, repeated the text of
Scripture, “An heavy yoke was ordained for the sons of Adam from the day
they go out of their mother’s womb, till the day that they return to the
mother of all things; from him who is clothed in blue silk and weareth a
crown, even to him who weareth simple linen,--wrath, envy, trouble, and
unquietness, rigour, strife, and fear of death in the time of rest.”
Having uttered these words he set his horse in motion, and soon
disappeared among the boughs of the forest.
“Farewell, stern enthusiast,” said Morton, looking after him; “in some
moods of my mind, how dangerous would be the society of such a companion!
If I am unmoved by his zeal for abstract doctrines of faith, or rather
for a peculiar mode of worship, (such was the purport of his
reflections,) can I be a man, and a Scotchman, and look with indifference
on that persecution which has made wise men mad? Was not the cause of
freedom, civil and religious, that for which my father fought; and shall
I do well to remain inactive, or to take the part of an oppressive
government, if there should appear any rational prospect of redressing
the insufferable wrongs to which my miserable countrymen are subjected?--
And yet, who shall warrant me that these people, rendered wild by
persecution, would not, in the hour of victory, be as cruel and as
intolerant as those by whom they are now hunted down? What degree of
moderation, or of mercy, can be expected from this Burley, so
distinguished as one of their principal champions, and who seems even now
to be reeking from some recent deed of violence, and to feel stings of
remorse, which even his enthusiasm cannot altogether stifle? I am weary
of seeing nothing but violence and fury around me--now assuming the mask
of lawful authority, now taking that of religious zeal. I am sick of my
country--of myself--of my dependent situation--of my repressed
feelings--of these woods--of that river--of that house--of all
but--Edith, and she can never be mine! Why should I haunt her walks?--Why
encourage my own delusion, and perhaps hers?--She can never be mine. Her
grandmother’s pride--the opposite principles of our families--my
wretched state of dependence--a poor miserable slave, for I have not
even the wages of a servant--all circumstances give the lie to the vain
hope that we can ever be united. Why then protract a delusion so
painful?
“But I am no slave,” he said aloud, and drawing himself up to his full
stature--“no slave, in one respect, surely. I can change my abode--my
father’s sword is mine, and Europe lies open before me, as before him and
hundreds besides of my countrymen, who have filled it with the fame of
their exploits. Perhaps some lucky chance may raise me to a rank with our
Ruthvens, our Lesleys, our Monroes, the chosen leaders of the famous
Protestant champion, Gustavus Adolphus, or, if not, a soldier’s life or a
soldier’s grave.”
When he had formed this determination, he found himself near the door of
his uncle’s house, and resolved to lose no time in making him acquainted
with it.
“Another glance of Edith’s eye, another walk by Edith’s side, and my
resolution would melt away. I will take an irrevocable step, therefore,
and then see her for the last time.”
In this mood he entered the wainscotted parlour, in which his uncle was
already placed at his morning’s refreshment, a huge plate of oatmeal
porridge, with a corresponding allowance of butter-milk. The favourite
housekeeper was in attendance, half standing, half resting on the back of
a chair, in a posture betwixt freedom and respect. The old gentleman had
been remarkably tall in his earlier days, an advantage which he now lost
by stooping to such a degree, that at a meeting, where there was some
dispute concerning the sort of arch which should be thrown over a
considerable brook, a facetious neighbour proposed to offer Milnwood a
handsome sum for his curved backbone, alleging that he would sell any
thing that belonged to him. Splay feet of unusual size, long thin hands,
garnished with nails which seldom felt the steel, a wrinkled and puckered
visage, the length of which corresponded with that of his person,
together with a pair of little sharp bargain-making grey eyes, that
seemed eternally looking out for their advantage, completed the highly
unpromising exterior of Mr Morton of Milnwood. As it would have been very
injudicious to have lodged a liberal or benevolent disposition in such an
unworthy cabinet, nature had suited his person with a mind exactly in
conformity with it, that is to say, mean, selfish, and covetous.
When this amiable personage was aware of the presence of his nephew, he
hastened, before addressing him, to swallow the spoonful of porridge
which he was in the act of conveying to his mouth, and, as it chanced to
be scalding hot, the pain occasioned by its descent down his throat and
into his stomach, inflamed the ill-humour with which he was already
prepared to meet his kinsman.
“The deil take them that made them!” was his first ejaculation,
apostrophizing his mess of porridge.
“They’re gude parritch eneugh,” said Mrs Wilson, “if ye wad but take time
to sup them. I made them mysell; but if folk winna hae patience, they
should get their thrapples causewayed.”
“Haud your peace, Alison! I was speaking to my nevoy.--How is this, sir?
And what sort o’ scampering gates are these o’ going on? Ye were not at
hame last night till near midnight.”
“Thereabouts, sir, I believe,” answered Morton, in an indifferent tone.
“Thereabouts, sir?--What sort of an answer is that, sir? Why came ye na
hame when other folk left the grund?”
“I suppose you know the reason very well, sir,” said Morton; “I had the
fortune to be the best marksman of the day, and remained, as is usual, to
give some little entertainment to the other young men.”
“The deevil ye did, sir! And ye come to tell me that to my face? You
pretend to gie entertainments, that canna come by a dinner except by
sorning on a carefu’ man like me? But if ye put me to charges, I’se work
it out o’ye. I seena why ye shouldna haud the pleugh, now that the
pleughman has left us; it wad set ye better than wearing thae green duds,
and wasting your siller on powther and lead; it wad put ye in an honest
calling, and wad keep ye in bread without being behadden to ony ane.”
“I am very ambitious of learning such a calling, sir, but I don’t
understand driving the plough.”
“And what for no? It’s easier than your gunning and archery that ye like
sae weel. Auld Davie is ca’ing it e’en now, and ye may be goadsman for
the first twa or three days, and tak tent ye dinna o’erdrive the owsen,
and then ye will be fit to gang betweeu the stilts. Ye’ll ne’er learn
younger, I’ll be your caution. Haggie-holm is heavy land, and Davie is
ower auld to keep the coulter down now.”
“I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I have formed a scheme for
myself, which will have the same effect of relieving you of the burden
and charge attending my company.”
“Ay? Indeed? a scheme o’ yours? that must be a denty ane!” said the
uncle, with a very peculiar sneer; “let’s hear about it, lad.”
“It is said in two words, sir. I intend to leave this country, and serve
abroad, as my father did before these unhappy troubles broke out at home.
His name will not be so entirely forgotten in the countries where he
served, but that it will procure his son at least the opportunity of
trying his fortune as a soldier.”
“Gude be gracious to us!” exclaimed the housekeeper; “our young Mr Harry
gang abroad? na, na! eh, na! that maun never be.”
Milnwood, entertaining no thought or purpose of parting with his nephew,
who was, moreover, very useful to him in many respects, was thunderstruck
at this abrupt declaration of independence from a person whose deference
to him had hitherto been unlimited. He recovered himself, however,
immediately.
“And wha do you think is to give you the means, young man, for such a
wild-goose chase? Not I, I am sure. I can hardly support you at hame. And
ye wad be marrying, I’se warrant, as your father did afore ye, too, and
sending your uncle hame a pack o’ weans to be fighting and skirling
through the house in my auld days, and to take wing and flee aff like
yoursell, whenever they were asked to serve a turn about the town?”
“I have no thoughts of ever marrying,” answered Henry.
“Hear till him now!” said the housekeeper. “It’s a shame to hear a douce
young lad speak in that way, since a’ the warld kens that they maun
either marry or do waur.”
“Haud your peace, Alison,” said her master; “and you, Harry,” (he added
more mildly,) “put this nonsense out o’ your head--this comes o’ letting
ye gang a-sodgering for a day--mind ye hae nae siller, lad, for ony sic
nonsense plans.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, my wants shall be very few; and would you please
to give me the gold chain, which the Margrave gave to my father after the
battle of Lutzen”--“Mercy on us! the gowd chain?” exclaimed his uncle.
“The chain of gowd!” re-echoed the housekeeper, both aghast with
astonishment at the audacity of the proposal.
--“I will keep a few links,” continued the young man, “to remind me of
him by whom it was won, and the place where he won it,” continued Morton;
“the rest shall furnish me the means of following the same career in
which my father obtained that mark of distinction.”
“Mercifu’ powers!” exclaimed the governante, “my master wears it every
Sunday!”
“Sunday and Saturday,” added old Milnwood, “whenever I put on my black
velvet coat; and Wylie Mactrickit is partly of opinion it’s a kind of
heir-loom, that rather belangs to the head of the house than to the
immediate descendant. It has three thousand links; I have counted them a
thousand times. It’s worth three hundred pounds sterling.”
“That is more than I want, sir; if you choose to give me the third part
of the money, and five links of the chain, it will amply serve my
purpose, and the rest will be some slight atonement for the expense and
trouble I have put you to.”
“The laddie’s in a creel!” exclaimed his uncle. “O, sirs, what will
become o’ the rigs o’ Milnwood when I am dead and gane! He would fling
the crown of Scotland awa, if he had it.”
“Hout, sir,” said the old housekeeper, “I maun e’en say it’s partly your
ain faut. Ye maunna curb his head ower sair in neither; and, to be sure,
since he has gane doun to the Howff, ye maun just e’en pay the lawing.”
“If it be not abune twa dollars, Alison,” said the old gentleman, very
reluctantly.
“I’ll settle it myself wi’ Niel Blane, the first time I gang down to the
clachan,” said Alison, “cheaper than your honour or Mr Harry can do;” and
then whispered to Henry, “Dinna vex him onymair; I’ll pay the lave out o’
the butter siller, and nae mair words about it.” Then proceeding aloud,
“And ye maunna speak o’ the young gentleman hauding the pleugh; there’s
puir distressed whigs enow about the country will be glad to do that for
a bite and a soup--it sets them far better than the like o’ him.”
“And then we’ll hae the dragoons on us,” said Milnwood, “for comforting
and entertaining intercommuned rebels; a bonny strait ye wad put us in!--
But take your breakfast, Harry, and then lay by your new green coat, and
put on your Raploch grey; it’s a mair mensfu’ and thrifty dress, and a
mair seemly sight, than thae dangling slops and ribbands.”
Morton left the room, perceiving plainly that he had at present no chance
of gaining his purpose, and, perhaps, not altogether displeased at the
obstacles which seemed to present themselves to his leaving the
neighbourhood of Tillietudlem. The housekeeper followed him into the next
room, patting him on the back, and bidding him “be a gude bairn, and pit
by his braw things.”
“And I’ll loop doun your hat, and lay by the band and ribband,” said the
officious dame; “and ye maun never, at no hand, speak o’ leaving the
land, or of selling the gowd chain, for your uncle has an unco pleasure
in looking on you, and in counting the links of the chainzie; and ye ken
auld folk canna last for ever; sae the chain, and the lands, and a’ will
be your ain ae day; and ye may marry ony leddy in the country-side ye
like, and keep a braw house at Milnwood, for there’s enow o’ means; and
is not that worth waiting for, my dow?”
There was something in the latter part of the prognostic which sounded so
agreeably in the ears of Morton, that he shook the old dame cordially by
the hand, and assured her he was much obliged by her good advice, and
would weigh it carefully before he proceeded to act upon his former
resolution.