"And so the Cornel's at Marchmain; it's like you're acquaint with all
the history of that family, Patchey, my lad--tak up your glass; ould
comrades like you and me are no in the way of meeting every day, and
you've a long road and a lone across the moor."
So said Sergeant Kennedy, possessed with a virtuous curiosity to learn
all that could be learned from "the Cornel's own man," who, with the
instinct peculiar to his class, had speedily found out that good ale and
company were to be had at the "Tillington Arms," where Mrs. Gilsland
showed great respect and honour to the important Patchey. Patchey had
already taken glasses enough to increase his dignity and solemn
demeanour. He had grown slow and big of speech, and eloquent on the
great importance of his own services to the Colonel.
"He's a wise man for other folk," said Patchey deliberately, "but a
child, and nothing but a child, where his own affairs is concerned. If
it werena for me that ken the world, and keep a strict eye upon the
house, he would be ruined, mum; ye may take my word for it--ten times in
the year."
"Acquaint with all the family?--I'm no a braggart," said Patchey, in
answer to this question; "but it stands to natur that in the coorse of
our colloquies upon affairs in general the Cornel says many a thing to
me."
"Not a doubt about it--especially," said the Sergeant, gravely, "as
you're well known to be a discreet lad, and wan that's to be trusted--as
was known of ye since ever ye entered the regiment, though I say it. Ye
see, mistress, he was always a weel-respected man."
"The Cornel, as I was saying," continued Patchey, passing loftily over
this compliment, "says many a thing to me that it would ill become me
to say over again; but this ye a' ken as well as me. The gentleman at
Marchmain was married upon the Cornel's sister, and died of a stroke,
and the visitation of God, the day afore yesterday; and a' the great
fortune that's been lying gathering this mony a year has come to his
son."
"Eyeh, Mr. Patchey! but the fortin'--that's just the thing I cannot make
owght of, head nor tail," cried Mrs. Gilsland; "there was never no
signs, as ever I heard tell on, of fortin' at Marchmain, and for a screw
and ould skinflint, that would give nowght but the lowest for whatever
she wanted, I'll engage there's no the marrow of Peggy from Kenlisle to
Cardale; and if you had asked me, I could have vowed with my last breath
that the family had seen better days, and were as poor as ever a family
pretending to be gentry could be."
At this statement, which he took to be derogatory to his dignity,
Patchey squared his spare shoulders, and erected his head.
"Being near relations of my ain family," said Patchey, "where persons
have oucht to say agin the family at Marchmain, I would rather, of the
twa, that it was not said to me."
"Agin the family!" cried Mrs. Gilsland--"havers! wasn't Mr. Horry at my
house five nights in the week, and the Cornel himsel' brought Miss here
to dine? Do you mean to tell me its agin a family to say it's seen
better days? Eyeh! wae is me! to think there's no a soul in the Grange
but ould Sally, and the young Squire out upon the world to seek his
fortin' like any other man! but where's the man would dare to say I
thought the less o' Mr. Roger? That's no my disposition, Mr. Patchey. It
may be the way o' the world, but it isn't mine."
"Leftenant Musgrave, if it's him you're meaning, he'll do weel, mum,"
said Patchey, with solemnity; "he's been visiting at our house, and the
Cornel's tooken him up. I would not say but more folk nor the Cornel had
a kindness for that lad; but these affairs are awfu' delicate. I wadna
say a word for my life."
"Eyeh, man! I'll lay a shilling it's Miss!" cried Mrs. Gilsland, in
great excitement and triumph.
"But all this has little to do with the family at Marchmain," said
Sergeant Kennedy, as Patchey shook his head with mysterious
importance--"what's the rights o' that story if wan might ask, Patchey,
my friend?--for it's little likely the Cornel would keep a grand family
secret like that from a confidential man like you."
"Ye're right there, Sergeant; he'll say more to me, will our Cornel,
than to ony other living man, were it Mr. Ned or Mr. Tom, that are but
callants," said Patchey. "I ken mair nor most folk of a' our ain
concerns; but it's as good as a play to hear this. I've made it out, a
sma' bit at a time, mysel'; and if it werena that the gentleman's dead,
ye might hew me down into little bits, before ye would get anything that
wasna wanted to be heard, out of me. But he's gane, poor gentleman, and
a' the better for him, as I've little doubt; and Mr. Horry, as ye call
him, has come into a great fortune. Ye see the rights of it was
this:--the auld man of a', the grandfather, had been a captious auld
sinner, though I say it that should not; and being displeased ae way or
anither at his son, this ane that's now dead, he made a will, strick
cutting him off, and leaving the haill inheritance at his death to _his_
son, a baby in his nurse's arms. That's just the short and the long of
it. I've read sichlike in print; but it's no often ye meet wi' a devil's
invention like that in living life. And the Cornel's sister's husband,
ye see, he took it savage, being but a young man then; and the poor lady
died, and down came he here, with an ill heart at a' the world--and the
rest ye ken as weel as me."
"Eyeh, man, is that the tale?" said Mrs. Gilsland. "I wouldn't say but
it was dead hard upon Mr. Horry's papaw; but, dear life! was the man
crazed that he would take it out on his childer?--for more neglected
things than them two, begging your pardon, Mr. Patchey, were not in this
countryside; and how they've comed up to be as they are is just one of
the miracles of Providence. Neyther a play nor a lesson like other
folks's childer, nor a soul, to see them frae year's end to year's end.
It was common talk; that's the way I know; but, eyeh, Mr. Patchey! had
the very Cornel himsel' no thought for them poor childer there?"
"The Colonel was at his duty, mum," said Patchey. "He was resident at
Rum Chunder station, and me with him; and he served in the Burmah war,
and wherever bullets were flying, as the Sergeant can tell you. There
was little time to think of our own bairns, let alone ither people's, in
these days. The Colonel was in Indeea, and in het wark, and me with him,
for nigh upon forty year."
"Hot work, ye may well say, Patchey, my friend," said the Sergeant,
authoritatively. "It's little they know, them easy foulks at home, what
the like of huz souldiers goes through. Eat when you can and sleep when
you can, but work and fight awlways: them's the orders of life as was
upon you and me."
"Eyeh, Sergeant!" cried Mrs. Gilsland, suddenly facing round upon the
self-betrayed veteran, "was them the words you said to my Sam, when the
lad was 'ticed away and 'listed all out of your flatteries?--or to the
young Squire, when he hearkened to you? Eyeh, ye deceitful ould man!
Is't a parcel o' stories, and nowght else, ye tell to the poor young
lads, that knaw no better? and make poor mouths, and take pity on the
sodgherin', when ye're awl by yoursel'?"
"Whisht, mistress, whisht!" said the Sergeant, who had recovered during
this speech from his momentary dismay. "Did I say owght but what's come
true? Sam Gilsland's been home on furlough, Patchey--as pretty a lad as
ever handled a gun--corporal, and well spoken on; and the young Squire's
leftenant, and mentioned in the papers--and what could friend or
relation, if it was an onreasonable woman, wish for more?"
"Ye may make your mind easy, mum, about Leftenant Musgrave; and your
son, if he's steady, will come well on in the Rifles--'special when the
Cornel's tooken him up," said Patchey. "Our Cornel, he's that kind of a
man when he takes an interest in a lad he's not one that forgets. I
should say he would do uncommon well if he's steady, being come of
responsible folk, and the Cornel for a friend."
"The Lord be thankit, I have little reason to complain!" said Sam's
mother, wiping her eyes with her apron; "and it's a rael handsome
uniform, though it's no so gaudy as your redcoats. I took my Sam for an
officer and a grand gentleman when he came in at the door, before I saw
his honest face," cried the good woman, with a sob of pride; "and the
Cornel's good word is as good as a fortin', and he's uncommon kind is
the young Squire. I wish them all comfort and prosperity now and
evermore," she concluded, with a little solemn curtsey, giving emphasis
to her good wishes--"and Miss and Mr. Horry, as well; though he's no
more like the Cornel than you or me."
"He takes after the faither's family--he's no like none of our folk,"
said Patchey; "but, though I wouldna say the Cornel altogether approves
of him, he's much concerned about the young gentleman the noo. He's
showed great feeling after a', that young man; he was like a lad out of
his mind when the faither was ill; and the day of the death, what does
the Cornel find but Maister Horace dead on his face, fainted off in the
study, and in a high fever ever since. The like of that, ye ken, shows
feeling in a young man."
"Feeling? They were none such good friends in life, if awl tales be
true," said Mrs. Gilsland. "My man, John, was all but put to the door
when he went for Mr. Kerry's things; and a lad like him, that was never
greatly knawn for a loving heart, and was coming into a fortin'
besides--feeling here or feeling there, I don't see no occasion for Mr.
Horry fainting away."
"Nor me," said the Sergeant, emphatically; "but I ever said, and I'll
ever say, that though he's the Cornel's nevvy, and doubtless well
connected, and good blood on wan side of the house, I'll ever say yon's
an inscrutable lad."
"That may be," said the solemn Patchey; "but scrutable or no, he's in a
brain fever, and craves guid guiding, and here's me come for the
medicine, if I hadna fallen in with ower guid company. Weel, weel--an
hour mair or less will do the lad nae harm. I've little faith in physic
for such like disorders. If ye've a good constitution and a clear
conscience, and the help of Providence, ye'll fight through: if ye
havena, ye must e'en drop out of the ranks, and anither man'll take your
place. But I have Mr. Horace's bottle in my pocket a' this time; so,
with your leave, I'll bid you good day."
Saying which, Patchey stalked out of the "Tillington Arms," and took his
solemn way across the moor. His step was slow, and his cogitations
momentous. If he did not think much about Horace and his medicine, he
settled sundry knotty points in philosophy as he wended through the
fragrant heather. Patchey's gravity and intense sense of decorum
increased habitually with every glass he emptied; but, perhaps, when his
moralities flourished most, he made least haste about his immediate
business, and it is to be feared that the confidential communication
which the Colonel made to him when he reached the house was not of a
flattering character. Horace got his physic an hour or two later than
the proper time; but Patchey's flowers of eloquence blossomed no more
that day in the kitchen of Marchmain.