Waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night or two, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creature than anywhere else. When he entered the parlour his heart swelled to see Fergus’s bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the little mirror.
“Ay,” said Mrs. Flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction of his eyes, “the puir Colonel bought a new ane just the day before they marched, and I winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush it ilka day mysell; and whiles I look at it till I just think I hear him cry to Callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he was ganging out. It’s unco silly—the neighbours ca’ me a Jacobite, but they may say their say—I am sure it’s no for that—but he was as kindhearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa’rd too. Oh, d’ye ken, sir, when he is to suffer?”
“Suffer! Good heaven! Why, where is he?”
“Eh, Lord’s sake! d’ye no ken? The poor Hieland body, Dugald Mahony, cam here a while syne, wi’ ane o’ his arms cuttit off, and a sair clour in the head—ye’ll mind Dugald, he carried aye an axe on his shouther—and he cam here just begging, as I may say, for something to eat. Aweel, he tauld us the Chief, as they ca’d him (but I aye ca’ him the Colonel), and Ensign Maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta’en somewhere beside the English border, when it was sae dark that his folk never missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang clean daft. And he said that little Callum Beg (he was a bauld mischievous callant that) and your honour were killed that same night in the tuilzie, and mony mae braw men. But he grat when he spak o’ the Colonel, ye never saw the like. And now the word gangs the Colonel is to be tried, and to suffer wi’ them that were ta’en at Carlisle.”
“And his sister?”
“Ay, that they ca’d the Lady Flora—weel, she’s away up to Carlisle to him, and lives wi’ some grand Papist lady thereabouts to be near him.”
“And,” said Edward, “the other young lady?”
“Whilk other? I ken only of ae sister the Colonel had.”
“I mean Miss Bradwardine,” said Edward.
“Ou, ay; the laird’s daughter” said his landlady. “She was a very bonny lassie, poor thing, but far shyer than Lady Flora.”
“Where is she, for God’s sake?”
“Ou, wha kens where ony o’ them is now? Puir things, they’re sair ta’en doun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed north to her father’s in Perthshire, when the government troops cam back to Edinbro’. There was some prettymen amang them, and ane Major Whacker was quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman—but O, Mr. Waverley, he was naething sae weel fa’rd as the puir Colonel.”
“Do you know what is become of Miss Bradwardine’s father?”
“The auld laird? Na, naebody kens that. But they say he fought very hard in that bluidy battle at Inverness; and Deacon Clank, the white-iron smith, says that the government folk are sair agane him for having been out twice—and troth he might hae ta’en warning, but there’s nae fule like an auld fule. The puir Colonel was only out ance.”
Such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew of the fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough to determine Edward, at all hazards, to proceed instantly to Tully-Veolan, where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of Rose. He therefore left a letter for Colonel Talbot at the place agreed upon, signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-town next to the Baron’s residence.
From Edinburgh to Perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the rest of his journey on foot; a mode of travelling to which he was partial, and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road when he saw parties of military at a distance. His campaign had considerably strengthened his constitution and improved his habits of enduring fatigue. His baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred.
As he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. Broken carriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades, and bridges destroyed or only partially repaired—all indicated the movements of hostile armies. In those places where the gentry were attached to the Stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled or deserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour was totally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, with fear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces.
It was evening when he approached the village of Tully-Veolan, with feelings and sentiments—how different from those which attended his first entrance! Then, life was so new to him that a dull or disagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which his imagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought only to be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by social or youthful frolic. Now, how changed, how saddened, yet how elevated was his character, within the course of a very few months! Danger and misfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. “A sadder and a wiser man,” he felt in internal confidence and mental dignity a compensation for the gay dreams which in his case experience had so rapidly dissolved.
As he approached the village he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that a party of soldiers were quartered near
