The Antiquary — Complete

A stare, as if he did not comprehend the question, was Lord Glenallan's answer. Edie saw his mind was elsewhere, and did not venture to repeat a query which was so little germain to the matter.

'Are you a Catholic, old man?' demanded the Earl.

'No, my lord,' said Ochiltree stoutly; for the remembrance of the unequal division of the dole rose in his mind at the moment; 'I thank Heaven I am a good Protestant.'

'He who can conscientiously call himself good, has indeed reason to thank Heaven, be his form of Christianity what it will—But who is he that shall dare to do so!'

'Not I,' said Edie; 'I trust to beware of the sin of presumption.'

'What was your trade in your youth?' continued the Earl.

'A soldier, my lord; and mony a sair day's kemping I've seen. I was to have been made a sergeant, but'—

'A soldier! then you have slain and burnt, and sacked and spoiled?'

'I winna say,' replied Edie, 'that I have been better than my neighbours;—it's a rough trade—war's sweet to them that never tried it.'

'And you are now old and miserable, asking from precarious charity the food which in your youth you tore from the hand of the poor peasant?'

'I am a beggar, it is true, my lord; but I am nae just sae miserable neither. For my sins, I hae had grace to repent of them, if I might say sae, and to lay them where they may be better borne than by me; and for my food, naebody grudges an auld man a bit and a drink—Sae I live as I can, and am contented to die when I am ca'd upon.'

'And thus, then, with little to look back upon that is pleasant or praiseworthy in your past life—with less to look forward to on this side of eternity, you are contented to drag out the rest of your existence? Go, begone! and in your age and poverty and weariness, never envy the lord of such a mansion as this, either in his sleeping or waking moments—Here is something for thee.'

The Earl put into the old man's hand five or six guineas. Edie would perhaps have stated his scruples, as upon other occasions, to the amount of the benefaction, but the tone of Lord Glenallan was too absolute to admit of either answer or dispute. The Earl then called his servant—'See this old man safe from the castle—let no one ask him any questions—and you, friend, begone, and forget the road that leads to my house.'

'That would be difficult for me,' said Edie, looking at the gold which he still held in his hand, 'that would be e'en difficult, since your honour has gien me such gade cause to remember it.'

Lord Glenallan stared, as hardly comprehending the old man's boldness in daring to bandy words with him, and, with his hand, made him another signal of departure, which the mendicant instantly obeyed. 

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch, ruled their little court
The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.

Crabbe's Village.

Francis Macraw, agreeably to the commands of his master, attended the mendicant, in order to see him fairly out of the estate, without permitting him to have conversation, or intercourse, with any of the Earl's dependents or domestics. But, judiciously considering that the restriction did not extend to himself, who was the person entrusted with the convoy, he used every measure in his power to extort from Edie the nature of his confidential and secret interview with Lord Glenallan. But Edie had been in his time accustomed to cross- examination, and easily evaded those of his quondam comrade. 'The secrets of grit folk,' said Ochiltree within himself, 'are just like the wild beasts that are shut up in cages. Keep them hard and fast sneaked up, and it's a' very weel or better—but ance let them out, they will turn and rend you. I mind how ill Dugald Gunn cam aff for letting loose his tongue about the Major's leddy and Captain Bandilier.'

Francis was therefore foiled in his assaults upon the fidelity of the mendicant, and, like an indifferent chess-player, became, at every unsuccessful movement, more liable to the counter-checks of his opponent.

'Sae ye uphauld ye had nae particulars to say to my lord but about yer ain matters?'

'Ay, and about the wee bits o' things I had brought frae abroad,' said Edie. 'I ken'd you popist folk are unco set on the relics that are fetched frae far-kirks and sae forth.'

'Troth, my Lord maun be turned feel outright,' said the domestic, 'an he puts himsell into sic a carfuffle, for onything ye could bring him, Edie.'

'I doubtna ye may say true in the main, neighbour,' replied the beggar; 'but maybe he's had some hard play in his younger days, Francis, and that whiles unsettles folk sair.'

'Troth, Edie, and ye may say that—and since it's like yell neer come back to the estate, or, if ye dee, that ye'll no find me there, I'se e'en tell you he had a heart in his young time sae wrecked and rent, that it's a wonder it hasna broken outright lang afore this day.'

'Ay, say ye sae?' said Ochiltree; 'that maun hae been about a woman, I reckon?'

'Troth, and ye hae guessed it,' said Francie—'jeest a cusin o' his nain—Miss Eveline Neville, as they suld hae ca'd her;—there was a sough in the country about it, but it was hushed up, as the grandees were concerned;—it's mair than twenty years syne—ay, it will be three-and-twenty.'

'Ay, I was in America then,' said the mendicant, 'and no in the way to hear the country clashes.'

'There was little clash about it, man,' replied Macraw; 'he liked this young leddy, ana suld hae married her, but his mother fand it out, and then the deil gaed o'er Jock Webster. At last, the peer lass clodded hersell o'er the scaur at the Craigburnfoot into the sea, and there was an end o't.'

'An end o't wi' the puir leddy,' said the mendicant, 'but, as I reckon, nae end o't wi' the yerl.'

'Nae end o't till his life makes an end,' answered the Aberdonian.

'But what for did the auld Countess forbid the marriage?' continued the persevering querist.

'Fat for!—she maybe didna weel ken for fat hersell, for she gar'd a' bow to her bidding, right or wrang—But it was ken'd the young leddy was inclined to some o' the heresies of the country—mair by token, she was sib to him nearer than our Church's rule admits of. Sae the leddy was driven to the desperate act, and the yerl has never since held his head up like a man.'

'Weel away!' replied Ochiltree:—'it's e'en queer I neer heard this tale afore.'

'It's e'en queer that ye heard it now, for deil ane o' the servants durst hae spoken o't had the auld Countess been living. Eh, man, Edie! but she was a trimmer—it wad hae taen a skeely man to hae squared wi' her!—But she's in her grave, and we may loose our tongues a bit fan we meet a friend.—But fare ye weel, Edie—I maun be back to the evening-service. An' ye come to Inverurie maybe sax months awa, dinna forget to ask after Francie Macraw.'

What one kindly pressed, the other as firmly promised; and the friends having thus parted, with every testimony of mutual regard, the domestic of Lord Glenallan took his road back to the seat of his master, leaving Ochiltree to trace onward his habitual pilgrimage.

It was a fine summer evening, and the world—that is, the little circle which was all in all to the individual by whom it was trodden, lay before Edie Ochiltree, for the choosing of his night's quarters. When he had passed the less hospitable domains of Glenallan, he had in his option so many places of refuge for the evening, that he was nice, and even fastidious in the choice. Ailie Sim's public was on the road-side about a mile before him, but there would be a parcel of young fellows there on the Saturday night, and that was a bar to civil conversation. Other