by Walter Scott
When, however, I recollected the circumstances in which we formerly met, I could not doubt that the billet was most probably designed for him. He had made a marked figure among those mysterious personages over whom Diana seemed to exercise an influence, and from whom she experienced an influence in her turn. It was painful to think that the fate of a being so amiable was involved in that of desperadoes of this man’s description; yet it seemed impossible to doubt it. Of what use, however, could this person be to my father’s affairs?—I could think only of one. Rashleigh Osbaldistone had, at the instigation of Miss Vernon, certainly found means to produce Mr. Campbell when his presence was necessary to exculpate me from Morris’s accusation—Was it not possible that her influence, in like manner, might prevail on Campbell to produce Rashleigh? Speaking on this supposition, I requested to know where my dangerous kinsman was, and when Mr. Campbell had seen him. The answer was indirect.
‘It’s a kittle cast she has gien me to play; but yet it’s fan-play, and I winna baulk her. Mr. Osbaldistone, I dwell not very far from hence—my kinsman can show you the way— Leave Mr. Owen to do the best he can in Glasgow—do you come and see me in the glens, and it’s like I may pleasure you, and stead your father in his extremity. I am but a poor man; but wit’s better than wealth—and cousin,’ (turning from me to address Mr. Jarvie,) ‘if ye daur venture sae muckle as to eat a dish of Scotch collops, and a leg o’ red-deer venison wi’ me, come ye wi’ this Sassenach gentleman as far as Drymen or Bucklivie, or the Clachan of Aberfoil will be better than ony o’ them, and I’ll hae somebody waiting to weise ye the gate to the place where I may be for the time—What say ye, man?—There’s my thumb, I’ll ne‘er beguile thee.’
‘Na, na, Robin,’ said the cautious burgher, ‘I seldom Eke to leave the Gorbals; I have nae freedom to gang among your wild hills, Robin, and your kilted red-shanks—it disna become my place, man.’
‘The devil damn your place and you baith!’ reiterated Campbell. ‘The only drap o’ gentle bluid that’s in your body was our great grand-uncle’s that was justified at Dumbarton, and you set yourself up to say ye wad derogate frae your place to visit me!—Hark thee, man, I owe thee a day in harst—I’ll pay up your thousan pund Scots, plack and bawbee, gin ye‘ll be an honest fallow for anes, and just daiker up the gate wi’this Sassenach.’
‘Hout awa’ wi’ your gentility,’ replied the Bailie; ‘carry your gentle bluid to the Cross, and see what ye’ll buy wi’t.—But, if I were to come, wad ye really and soothfastly pay me the siller?’
‘I swear to ye,’ said the Highlander, ‘upon the halidome of him that sleeps beneath the grey stane at Inch-Cailleach.’1
‘Say nae mair,—Robin,—sae nae mair—We’ll see what may be dune.—But ye maunna expect me to gang ower the Highland line—I’ll gae beyond the line at no rate. Ye maun meet me about Bucklivie or the Clachan of Aberfoil, and dinna forget the needful.’
‘Nae fear—nae fear,’ said Campbell, ‘I’ll be as true as the steel blade that never failed its master.—But I must be budging, cousin, for the air o’ Glasgow tolbooth is no that ower salutary to a Highlander’s constitution.’
‘Troth,’ replied the merchant, ‘and if my duty were to be dune, ye couldna change your atmosphere, as the minister ca’s it, this ae wee while.—Ochon, that I sud ever be concerned in aiding and abetting an escape frae justice! it will be a shame and disgrace to me and mine, and my very father’s memory, for ever.’
‘Hout tout, man, let that flee stick in the wa’,’ answered his kinsman; ‘when the dirt’s dry it will rub out—Your father, honest man, could look ower a friend’s fault as weel as anither.’
‘Ye may be right, Robin,’ replied the Bailie, after a moment’s reflection; ‘he was a considerate man the deacon; he kend we had a’ our frailties, and he lo‘ed his friends—Ye’ll no hae forgotten him, Robin?’ This question he put in a softened tone, conveying as much at least of the ludicrous as the pathetic.
‘Forgotten him!’ replied his kinsman, ‘what suld ail me to forget him?—a wapping weaver he was, and wrought my first pair o’ hose.—But come awa‘, kinsman,
‘Come fill up my cap, come fill up my cann,
Come saddle my horses, and call up my man;
Come open your gates, and let me gae free,
I daurna stay langer in bonny Dundee.’
‘Whisht, sir!’ said the magistrate, in an authoritative tone —‘Hiring and singing sae near the latter end o’ the Sabbath! This house may hear ye sing anither tune yet—Aweel, we hae a’ backslidings to answer for—Stanchells, open the door.’
The jailor obeyed, and we all sallied forth. Stanchells looked with some surprise at the two strangers, wondering, doubtless, how they came into these premises, without his knowledge; but Mr. Jarvie’s ‘Friends o’ mine, Stanchells—friends o’ mine,’ silenced all disposition to enquiries. We now descended into the lower vestibule, and hollowed more than once for Dougal, to which summons no answer was returned; when Campbell observed, with a sardonic smile, ‘That if Dougal was the lad he kent him, he would scarce wait to get thanks for his ain share of the night’s wark, but was in all probability on the full trot to the pass of Ballamaha——’
‘And left us—and, abune a’, me, mysell, locked up in the tolbooth a’ night!’ exclaimed the Bailie, in ire and perturbation. ‘Ca’ for fore-hammers, sledge-hammers, pinches, and coulters; send for Deacon Yetdin, the smith, and let him ken that Bailie Jarvie’s shut up in the tolbooth by a Hieland blackguard, whom he’ll hang up as high as Haman——’
‘When ye catch him,’ said Campbell gravely; ‘but stay, the door is surely not locked.’
Indeed, on examination, we found that the door was not only left open, but that Dougal in his retreat had, by carrying off the keys along with him, taken care that no one should exercise his office of porter in a hurry.
‘He has glimmerings o’ common sense now, that creature Dougal,’ said Campbell; ‘he kend an open door might hae served me at a pinch.’
We were by this time in die street.
‘I tell you Robin,’ said the magistrate, ‘in my puir mind, if ye live the life ye do, ye shuld hae ane o’ your gillies door-keeper in every jail in Scotland, in case o’ the warst.’
‘Ane o’ my kinsmen a bailie in ilka burgh will just do as weel, cousin Nicol—so, gude-night or gude-morning to ye; and forget not the Clachan of Aberfoil.’
And without waiting for an answer, he sprung to the other side of die street, and was lost in the darkness. Immediately on his disappearance, we heard him give a low whistle of peculiar modulation; which was instantly replied to.
‘Hear to die Hieland deevils,’ said Mr. Jarvie;’ they think diemselves on die skirts of Ben Lomond already, where they may gang whewing and whistling about without minding Sunday or Saturday.’ Here he was interrupted by something which fell with a heavy clash on the street before us—‘Gude guide us! what’s this mair o‘t—Mattie, haud up the lantern—Conscience! if it isna the keys—Weel, that’s just as weel—they cost the burgh siller, and there might hae been some clavers about the loss o’ them—O, an Bailie Grahame were to get word o’ this night’s job, it wad be a sair hair in my neck!’
As we were still but a few steps from the tolbooth door, we carried back these implements of office, and consigned them to the head jailor, who, in lieu of the usual mode of making good his post by turning the keys, was keeping sentry in the vestibule till the arrival of some assistant, whom he had summoned in order to replace the Celtic fugitive Dougal.
Having discharged this piece of duty to the burgh, and my road lying the same way with the honest magistrate’s I profited by the light of his lantern, and he by my arm, to find our way through the streets, which, whatever they may now be, were then dark, uneven, and ill-paved. Age is easily propitiated by attentions from the young. The Bailie expressed himself interested in me, and added, ‘That since I was nane o’ that play-acting and play-ganging generation, whom his saul hated, he wad be gla
d if I wad eat a reisted haddock, or a fresh herring, at breakfast wi’ him the morn, and meet my friend, Mr. Owen, whom, by that time, he would place at liberty.’
‘My dear sir,’ said I, when I had accepted of the invitation with thanks, ‘how could you possibly connect me with the stage?’
‘I watna,’ replied Mr. Jarvie; ‘it was a bletherin’ phrasin’ chield they ca’ Fairservice, that cam at e’en to get an order to send the crier through the toun for ye at skreigh o’ day the morn. He tell’t me whae ye were, and how ye were sent frae your father’s house, because ye wadna be a dealer, and that ye mightna disgrace your family wi’ ganging on the stage. Ane Hammorgaw, our precentor, brought him here, and said he was an auld acquaintance; but I sent them baith awa wi’ a flae in their lug for bringing me sic an errand on sic a night. But I see he’s a fule-creature a’ thegither.and clean mista‘en about ye. I like ye, man,’ he continued; ‘I like a lad that will stand by his friends in trouble—I aye did it mysell, and sae did the deacon my father, rest and bless him! But ye suldna keep ower muckle company wi’ Hielandmen and thae wild cattle. Can a man touch pitch and no be defiled?—aye mind that. Nae doubt, the best and wisest may err—Once, twice, and thrice have I backslidden, man, and dune three things this night—my father wadna hae believed his een if he could hae looked up and seen me do them.’
He was by this time arrived at the door of his own dwelling. He paused, however, on the threshold, and went on in a solemn tone of deep contrition,—‘Firstly, I hae thought my ain thoughts on the Sabbath—Secondly, I hae gi‘en security for an Englishman—and, in the third and last place, well-a-day! I hae let an ill-doer escape from the place of imprisonment—But there’s balm in Gilead, Mr. Osbaldistone—Mattie, I can let mysell in—see Mr. Osbaldistone to Luckie Flyter’s, at the corner o’ the wynd.—Mr. Osbaldistone’—in a whisper—‘ye’ll offer nae incivility to Mattie—she’s an honest man’s daughter, and a near cousin o’ the Laird o’ Limmerfield’s.’
CHAPTER XXIV
Will it please your worship to accept of my poor service? I beseech that I may feed upon your bread, though it be the brownest, and drink of your drink, though it be of the smallest; for I will do your worship as much service for forty shillings as another man shall for three pounds.—Greene’s Tu Quoque.
I REMEMBERED the honest Bailie’s parting charge, but did not conceive there was any incivility in adding a kiss to the half-crown with which I remunerated Mattie’s attendance; nor did her ‘Fie for shame, sir,’ express any very deadly resentment of the affront. Repeated knocking at Mrs.Flyter’s gate awakened in due order, first, one or two stray dogs, who began to bark with all their might; next two or three night-capped heads, which were thrust out of the neighbouring windows to reprehend me for disturbing the solemnity of the Sunday night by that untimely noise. While I trembled lest the thunders of their wrath might dissolve in showers like that of Xantippe, Mrs. Flyter herself awoke, and began, in a tone of objurgation not unbecoming the philosophical spouse of Socrates, to scold one or two loiterers in her kitchen, for not hastening to the door to prevent a repetition of my noisy summons.
These worthies were, indeed, nearly concerned in the fracas which their laziness occasioned, being no other than the faithful Mr. Fairservice, with his friend Mr. Hammor-gaw, and another person, whom I afterwards found to be the town-crier, who were sitting over a cog of ale, as they called it, (at my expense, as my bill afterwards informed me,) in order to devise the terms and style of a proclamation to be made through the streets the next day, in order that’ the unfortunate young gentleman,’ as they had the impudence to qualify me, might be restored to his friends without farther delay. It may be supposed that I did not suppress my displeasure at this impertinent interference with my affairs; but Andrew set up such ejaculations of transport at my arrival, as fairly drowned my expressions of resentment. His raptures, perchance, were partly political; and the tears of joy which he shed had certainly their source in that noble fountain of emotion, the tankard. However, the tumultuous glee which he felt, or pretended to feel at my return, saved Andrew the broken head which I had twice destined him; first, on account of the colloquy he had held with the precentor on my affairs; and, secondly, for the impertinent history he had thought proper to give of me to Mr. Jarvie. I however contented myself with slapping the door of my bedroom in his face as he followed me, praising Heaven for my safe return, and mixing his joy with admonitions to me to take care how I walked my own ways in future. I then went to bed, resolving my first business in the morning should be to discharge dus troublesome, pedantic, self-conceited coxcomb, who seemed so much disposed to constitute himself rather a preceptor than a domestic.
Accordingly in the morning I resumed my purpose, and calling Andrew into my apartment, requested to know his charge for guiding and attending me as far as Glasgow. Mr. Fairservicc looked very blank at this demand, justly considering it as a presage to approaching dismission.
‘Your honour,’ he said, after some hesitation, ‘wunna think—wunna think——’
‘Speak out, you rascal, or I’ll break your head,’ said I, as Andrew, between the double risk of losing all by asking too much, or a part, by stating his demand lower than what I might be willing to pay, stood gasping in the agony of doubt and calculation.
Out it came with a bolt, however, at my threat; as the kind violence of a blow on the back sometimes delivers the windpipe from an intrusive morsel. ‘Aughteen pennies sterling per diem—that is by the day—your honour wadna thick unconscionable.’
‘It is double what is usual, and treble what you merit, Andrew; but there’s a guinea for you, and get about your business.’
‘The Lord forgi‘e us! Is your honour mad?’ exclaimed Andrew.
‘No; but I think you mean to make me so—I give you a third above your demand, and you stand staring and expostulating there as if I were cheating you.—Take your money, and go about your business.’
‘Gude safe us!’ continued Andrew, ‘in what can I hae offended your honour?—Certainly a’ flesh is but as flowers of the field; but if a bed of camomile hath value in medicine, of a surety the use of Andrew Fairservice to your honour is nothing less evident—it’s as muckle as your life’s worth to part wi’ me.’
‘Upon my honour,’ replied I, ‘it is difficult to say whether you are more knave or fool.—So you intend then to remain with me whether I like it or no ?’
‘Troth, I was e‘en thinking sae,’ replied Andrew dogmatically; ‘for if your honour disna ken when ye hae a gude servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and the deil be in my feet gin I leave ye—and there’s the brief and the lang o’t,—besides I hae received nae regular warning to quit my place.’
‘Your place, sir!’ said I; ‘why, you are no hired servant of mine, you are merely a guide, whose knowledge of the country I availed myself of on my road.’
‘I am no just a common servant, I admit, sir,’ remonstrated Mr. Fairservice; ‘but your honour kens I quitted a gude place at an hour’s notice, to comply wi’ your honour’s solicitations. A man might make honestly and wi’ a clear conscience, twenty sterling pounds per annum, weel counted, siller, o’ the garden at Osbaldistone Hall, and I wasna likely to gie up a’ that for a guinea, I trow—I reckoned on staying wi’ your honour to the term’s end at the least o’t; and I account upon my wage, board-wage, fee and bountith, ay, to that length o’t at the least.’
‘Come, come, sir,’ replied I, ‘these impudent pretensions won’t serve your turn; and if I hear any more of them, I shall convince you, that Squire Thornciff is not the only one of my name that can use his fingers.’
While I spoke thus, the whole matter struck me as so ridiculous, that, though really angry, I had some difficulty to forbear laughing at the gravity with which Andrew supported a plea so utterly extravagant. The rascal, aware of the impression he had made on my muscles, was encouraged to perseverance. He judged it safer, however, to take his pretensions a peg lower, in case of overstraining a
t the same time both his plea and my patience.
‘Admitting that my honour could part with a faithful servant, that had served me and mine by day and night for twenty years, in a strange place, and at a moment’s warning, he was weel assured,’ he said, ‘it wasna in my heart, nor in no true gentleman’s, to pit a puir lad like himsell, that had come forty or fifty, or say a hundred miles out o’ his road purely to bear my honour company, and that had nae hauding but his penny-fee, to sic a hardship as this comes to.’
I think it was you, Will, who once told me, that, to be an obstinate man, I am in certain things the most gullable and malleable of mortals. The fact is, that it is only contradiction which makes me peremptory, and when I do not feel myself called on to give battle to any proposition, I am always willing to grant it, rather than give myself much trouble. I knew this fellow to be a greedy, tiresome, meddling coxcomb; still, however, I must have some one about me in the quality of guide and domestic, and I was so much used to Andrew’s humour, that on some occasions it was rather amusing. In the state of indecision to which these reflections led me, I asked Fairservice if he knew the roads, towns, &c, in the north of Scotland, to which my father’s concerns with the proprietors of Highland forests were likely to lead me. I believe if I had asked him the road to the terrestrial paradise, he would have at that moment undertaken to guide me to it; so that I had reason afterwards to think myself fortunate in finding that his actual knowledge did not fall very much short of that which he asserted himself to possess. I fixed the amount of his wages, and reserved to myself the privilege of dismissing him when I chose, on paying him a week in advance. I gave him finally a severe lecture on his conduct of the preceding day, and then dismissed him, rejoicing at heart, though somewhat crestfallen in countenance, to rehearse to his friend, the precentor, who was taking his morning draught in the kitchen, the mode in which he had ‘cuitled up the daft young English squire.’
