WHAT'S TO BE DONE NEXT?
It was twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off
his companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the
possibility of being traced by them, Edward took a hackney-coach and
drove to Colonel Talbot's house, in one of the principal squares at the
west end of the town. That gentleman, by the death of relations, had
succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable
political interest, and lived in what is called great style.
When Waverley knocked at his door, he found it at first difficult to
procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the
Colonel was at table. Lady Emily, whose very beautiful features were
still pallid from indisposition, sat opposite to him. The instant he
heard Waverley's voice, he started up and embraced him. 'Frank Stanley,
my dear boy, how d'ye do?--Emily, my love, this is young Stanley.'
The blood started to the lady's cheek as she gave Waverley a reception,
in which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand
and faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed.
Dinner was hastily replaced, and while Waverley was engaged in
refreshing himself, the Colonel proceeded--'I wonder you have come
here, Frank; the doctors tell me the air of London is very bad for your
complaints. You should not have risked it. But I am delighted to see
you, and so is Emily, though I fear we must not reckon upon your staying
long.'
'Some particular business brought me up,' muttered Waverley.
'I supposed so, but I sha'n't allow you to stay long.--Spontoon' (to
an elderly military-looking servant out of livery), 'take away these
things, and answer the bell yourself, if I ring. Don't let any of the
other fellows disturb us.--My nephew and I have business to talk of.'
When the servants had retired, 'In the name of God, Waverley, what has
brought you here? It may be as much as your life is worth.'
'Dear Mr. Waverley,' said Lady Emily,' to whom I owe so much more than
acknowledgements can ever pity, how could you be so rash?'
'My father--my uncle--this paragraph,'--he handed the paper to Colonel
Talbot.
'I wish to Heaven' these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to
death in their own presses,' said Talbot. 'I am told there are not less
than a dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that
they are obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. It is
true, however, my dear Edward, that you have lost your father; but as
to this flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his
spirits, and hurt his health--the truth is--for though it is harsh
to say so now, yet it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty
responsibility--the truth then is, that Mr. Richard Waverley, through
this whole business, showed great want of sensibility, both to your
situation and that of your uncle; and the last time I saw him, he told
me, with great glee, that, as I was so good as to take charge of your
interests, he had thought it best to patch up a separate negotiation for
himself, and make his peace with Government through some channels which
former connexions left still open to him.'
'And my uncle--my dear uncle?'
'Is in no danger whatever. It is true' (looking at the date of the
paper) 'there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport
here quoted, but it is entirely false. Sir Everard is gone down to
Waverley-Honour, freed from all uneasiness, unless upon your own
account. But you are in peril yourself--your name is in every
proclamation--warrants are out to apprehend you. How and when did you
come here?'
Edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with Fergus;
for being himself partial to Highlanders, he did not wish to give any
advantage to the Colonel's national prejudice against them.
'Are you sure it was your friend Glen's footboy you saw dead in Clifton
Moor?'
'Quite positive.'
'Then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for
cut-throat was written in his face; though' (turning to Lady Emily) 'it
was a very handsome face too.--But for you, Edward, I wish you would go
down again to Cumberland, or rather I wish you had never stirred from
thence, for there is an embargo on all the seaports, and a strict search
for the adherents of the Pretender; and the tongue of that confounded
woman will wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till somehow or
other she will detect Captain Butler to be a feigned personage,'
'Do you know anything,' asked Waverley, 'of my fellow traveller?'
'Her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom widow,
with a little money--he married her--was steady, and got on by being a
good drill. I must send Spontoon to see what she is about; he will
find her out among the old regimental connexions. To-morrow you must be
indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. Lady Emily is to be your
nurse, and Spontoon and I your attendants. You bear the name of a
near relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw, except
Spontoon; so there will be no immediate danger. So pray feel your head
ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you may be put
upon the sick list; and, Emily, do you order an apartment for Frank
Stanley, with all the attention which an invalid may require.'
In the morning the Colonel visited his guest.--'Now,' said he, 'I have
some good news for you. Your reputation as a gentleman and officer is
effectually cleared of neglect of duty, and accession to the mutiny in
Gardiner's regiment. I have had a correspondence on this subject with
a very zealous friend of yours, your Scottish parson, Morton; his first
letter was addressed to Sir Everard; but I relieved the good Baronet
of the trouble of answering it. You must know, that your freebooting
acquaintance; Donald of the Cave, has at length fallen into the hands of
the Philistines. He was driving off the cattle of a certain proprietor,
called Killan--something or other--'
'Killancureit?'
'The same. Now, the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and
having a special value for his breed of cattle--being, moreover, rather
of a timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his
property. So Donald ran his head unawares into the lion's mouth, and was
defeated and made prisoner. Being ordered for execution, his conscience
was assailed on the one hand by a Catholic priest,--on the other by
your friend Morton. He repulsed the Catholic chiefly on account of the
doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical gentleman considered
as an excessive waste of oil. So his conversion from a state of
impenitence fell to Mr. Morton's share, who, I dare say, acquitted
himself excellently, though, I suppose, Donald made but a queer kind
of Christian after all. He confessed, however, before a magistrate--one
Major Melville, who seems to have been a correct, friendly sort of
person--his full intrigue with Houghton, explaining particularly how it
was carried on, and fully acquitting you of the least accession to
it. He also mentioned his rescuing you from the hands of the volunteer
officer, and sending you, by orders of the Pret--Chevalier, I mean as a
prisoner to Doune, from whence he understood you were carried prisoner
to Edinburgh. These are particulars which cannot but tell in your
favour. He hinted that he had been employed to deliver and protect you,
and rewarded for doing so; but he would not confess by whom, alleging,
that, though he would not have minded breaking any ordinary oath to
satisfy the curiosity of Mr. Morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed
so much, yet in the present case he had been sworn to silence upon the
edge of his dirk, [See Note 33.] which, it seems, constituted, in his
opinion, an inviolable obligation.'
'And what has become of him?'
'Oh, he was hanged at Stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with
his lieutenant, and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a
gallows more lofty than his friends.'
'Well, I have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death; and
yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable extent.'
His confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes from
your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation against
you a complexion of a nature different from that with which so many
unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the Government, may
be justly charged. Their treason--I must give it its name, though you
participate in its guilt--is an action arising from mistaken virtue, and
therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though it be doubtless highly
criminal. Where the guilty are so numerous, clemency must be extended to
far the greater number; and I have little doubt of procuring a remission
for you, provided we can keep you out of the claws of justice till
she has selected and gorged upon her victims; for in this, as in other
cases, it will be according to the vulgar proverb, 'First come, first
served.' Besides, Government are desirous at present to intimidate the
English Jacobites, among whom they can find few examples for punishment.
This is a vindictive and timid feeling which will soon wear off, for, of
all nations, the English are least bloodthirsty by nature. But it
exists at present, and you must therefore be kept out of the way in the
meantime.'
Now entered Spontoon with an anxious countenance. By his regimental
acquaintances he had traced out Madam Nosebag, and found her full of
ire, fuss, and fidget, at discovery of an impostor, who had travelled
from the north with her under the assumed name of Captain Butler of
Gardiner's dragoons. She was going to lodge an information on the
subject, to have him sought for as an emissary of the Pretender; but
Spontoon (an old soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived
to make her delay her intention. No time, however, was to be lost: the
accuracy of this good dame's description might probably lead to
the discovery that Waverley was the pretended Captain Butler; an
identification fraught with danger to Edward, perhaps to his uncle,
and even to Colonel Talbot. Which way to direct his course was now,
therefore, the question.
'To Scotland,' said Waverley.
'To Scotland!' said the Colonel; 'with what purpose?--not to engage
again with the rebels, I hope?'
'No--I considered my campaign ended, when, after all my efforts, I
could not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make
a winter campaign in the Highlands, where such adherents as I am would
rather be burdensome than useful. Indeed, it seems likely that they only
prolong the war to place the Chevalier's person out of danger, and then
to make some terms for themselves. To burden them with my presence would
merely add another party, whom they would not give up, and could not
defend. I understand they left almost all their English adherents in
garrison at Carlisle, for that very reason: and on a more general view,
Colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your opinion,
I am heartily tired of the trade of war, and am, as Fletcher's Humorous
Lieutenant says, "even as weary of this fighting"--'
'Fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two?-Ah! if you
saw war on the grand scale--sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field
on each side!'
'I am not at all curious, Colonel.--"Enough," says our homely proverb,
"is as good as a feast." The plumed troops and the big war used to
enchant me in poetry; but the night marches, vigils, couched under the
wintry sky, and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not
at all to my taste in practice:--then for dry blows, I had my fill of
fighting at Clifton, where I escaped by a hair's-breadth half a dozen
times; and you, I should think--' He stopped.
'Had enough of it at Preston? you mean to say,' answered the Colonel,
laughing; 'but, "'tis my vocation, Hal."'
'It is not mine, though,' said Waverley; 'and having honourably got rid
of the sword, which I drew only as a volunteer, I am quite satisfied
with my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up
again.'
'I am very glad you are of that mind--but then, what would you do in the
North?'
'In the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of
Scotland still in the hands of the Chevalier's friends; should I gain
any of them, I can easily embark for the Continent.'
'Good--your second reason?'
'Why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in Scotland upon whom
I now find my happiness, depends more than I was always aware, and about
whose situation I am very anxious.'
'Then Emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after
all?--And which of these two pretty Scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon
my admiring, is the distinguished fair?--not Miss Glen--I hope.'
'No.'
'Ah, pass for the other: simplicity may be improved, but pride and
conceit never. Well, I don't discourage you; I think it will please Sir
Everard, from what he said when I jested with him about it; only I hope
that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his Latin,
and his insufferable long stories about the Duke of Berwick, will find
it necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. But as
to the daughter, though I think you might find as fitting a match in
England, yet if your heart be really set upon this Scotch rosebud, why,
the Baronet has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he
wishes much to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and
for that of the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away
altogether. But I will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since
you are debarred correspondence for the present, for I think you will
not be long in Scotland before me.
Indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to Scotland?
No relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, I am
afraid.'
'None, on my word; but Emily's health is now, thank God, re-established,
and, to tell you the truth, I have little hopes of concluding the
business which I have at present most at heart, until I can have a
personal interview with his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief; for,
as Fluellen says, "The duke doth love me well, and I thank Heaven I have
deserved some love at his hands." I am now going out for an hour or two
to arrange matters for your departure; your liberty extends to the
next room, Lady Emily's parlour, where you will find her when you are
disposed for music, reading, or conversation. We have taken measures to
exclude all servants but Spontoon, who is as true as steel.'
In about two hours Colonel Talbot returned, and found his young friend
conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information,
and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the
society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded.'
'And now,' said the Colonel, 'hear my arrangements, for there is little
time to lose. This youngster, Edward Waverley, ALIAS Williams, ALIAS
Captain Butler, must continue to pass by his fourth ALIAS of Francis
Stanley, my nephew: he shall set out to-morrow for the North, and the
chariot shall take him the first two stages.' Spontoon shall then attend
him; and they shall ride post as far as Huntingdon; and the presence
of Spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check all
disposition to inquiry. At Huntingdon you will meet the real Frank
Stanley. He is studying at Cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful
if Emily's health would permit me to go down to the North myself, I
procured him a passport from the Secretary of State's office to go in
my stead. As he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now
unnecessary. He knows your story; you will dine together at Huntingdon;
and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or
diminishing the danger of your further progress northward. And now'
(taking out a morocco case), 'let me put you in funds for the campaign.'
'I am ashamed, my dear Colonel,--'
'Nay,' said Colonel Talbot, 'you should command my purse in any event;
but this money is your own. Your father, considering the chance of your
being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. So that you are
worth above L15,000, besides Brerewood Lodge--a very independent person,
I promise you. There are bills here for L200; any larger sum you may
have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.'
The first use which occurred to Waverley of his newly-acquired wealth,
was to write to honest Farmer Jopson, requesting his acceptance of a
silver tankard on the part of his friend Williams, who had not forgotten
the night of the eighteenth December last. He begged him at the same
time carefully to preserve for him his Highland garb and accoutrements,
particularly the arms--curious in themselves, and to which the
friendship of the donors gave additional value. Lady Emily undertook to
find some suitable token of remembrance, likely to flatter the vanity
and please the taste of Mrs. Williams; and the Colonel, who was a kind
of farmer, promised to send the Ullswater patriarch an excellent team of
horses for cart and plough.
One happy day Waverley spent in London; and, travelling in the manner
projected, he met with Frank Stanley at Huntingdon. The two young men
were acquainted in a minute.
'I can read my uncle's riddle,' said Stanley. 'The cautious old soldier
did not care to hint to me that I might hand over to you this passport,
which I have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as
the rattlepated trick of a young Cantab, CELA NE TIRE A RIEN. You are
therefore to be Francis Stanley, with this passport.' This proposal
appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which
Edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly
he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had
discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could
not be accused of furthering machinations against the Government while
travelling under protection of the Secretary's passport.
The day passed merrily away. The young student was inquisitive about
Waverley's campaigns, and the manners of the Highlands; and Edward
was obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a
strathspey, and singing a Highland song. The next morning Stanley rode
a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great
reluctance, upon the remonstrances of Spontoon, who, accustomed to
submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it.