Old Mortality, Volume 2.

by Walter Scott

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shades! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.

  It is not by corporal wants and infirmities only that men of the mostdistinguished talents are levelled, during their lifetime, with thecommon mass of mankind. There are periods of mental agitation when thefirmest of mortals must be ranked with the weakest of his brethren, andwhen, in paying the general tax of humanity, his distresses are evenaggravated by feeling that he transgresses, in the indulgence of hisgrief, the rules of religion and philosophy by which he endeavours ingeneral to regulate his passions and his actions. It was during such aparoxysm that the unfortunate Morton left Fairy Knowe. To know that hislong-loved and still-beloved Edith, whose image had filled his mind forso many years, was on the point of marriage to his early rival, who hadlaid claim to her heart by so many services as hardly left her a title torefuse his addresses, bitter as the intelligence was, yet came not as anunexpected blow.

  During his residence abroad he had once written to Edith. It was to bidher farewell for ever, and to conjure her to forget him. He had requestedher not to answer his letter; yet he half hoped, for many a day, that shemight transgress his injunction. The letter never reached her to whom itwas addressed, and Morton, ignorant of its miscarriage, could onlyconclude himself laid aside and forgotten, according to his ownself-denying request. All that he had heard of their mutual relationssince his return to Scotland prepared him to expect that he could onlylook upon Miss Bellenden as the betrothed bride of Lord Evandale; andeven if freed from the burden of obligation to the latter, it would stillhave been inconsistent with Morton's generosity of disposition to disturbtheir arrangements, by attempting the assertion of a claim proscribed byabsence, never sanctioned by the consent of friends, and barred by athousand circumstances of difficulty. Why then did he seek the cottagewhich their broken fortunes had now rendered the retreat of Lady MargaretBellenden and her granddaughter? He yielded, we are under the necessityof acknowledging, to the impulse of an inconsistent wish which many mighthave felt in his situation.

  Accident apprised him, while travelling towards his native district, thatthe ladies, near whose mansion he must necessarily pass, were absent; andlearning that Cuddie and his wife acted as their principal domestics, hecould not resist pausing at their cottage to learn, if possible, the realprogress which Lord Evandale had made in the affections of Miss Bellenden--alas! no longer his Edith. This rash experiment ended as we haverelated, and he parted from the house of Fairy Knowe, conscious that hewas still beloved by Edith, yet compelled, by faith and honour, torelinquish her for ever. With what feelings he must have listened to thedialogue between Lord Evandale and Edith, the greater part of which heinvoluntarily overheard, the reader must conceive, for we dare notattempt to describe them. An hundred times he was tempted to burst upontheir interview, or to exclaim aloud, "Edith, I yet live!" and as oftenthe recollection of her plighted troth, and of the debt of gratitudewhich he owed Lord Evandale (to whose influence with Claverhouse hejustly ascribed his escape from torture and from death), withheld himfrom a rashness which might indeed have involved all in further distress,but gave little prospect of forwarding his own happiness. He repressedforcibly these selfish emotions, though with an agony which thrilled hisevery nerve.

  "No, Edith!" was his internal oath, "never will I add a thorn to thypillow. That which Heaven has ordained, let it be; and let me not add, bymy selfish sorrows, one atom's weight to the burden thou hast to bear. Iwas dead to thee when thy resolution was adopted; and never, never shaltthou know that Henry Morton still lives!"

  As he formed this resolution, diffident of his own power to keep it, andseeking that firmness in flight which was every moment shaken by hiscontinuing within hearing of Edith's voice, he hastily rushed from hisapartment by the little closet and the sashed door which led to thegarden.

  But firmly as he thought his resolution was fixed, he could not leave thespot where the last tones of a voice so beloved still vibrated on hisear, without endeavouring to avail himself of the opportunity which theparlour window afforded to steal one last glance at the lovely speaker.It was in this attempt, made while Edith seemed to have her eyesunalterably bent upon the ground, that Morton's presence was detected byher raising them suddenly. So soon as her wild scream made this known tothe unfortunate object of a passion so constant, and which seemed soill-fated, he hurried from the place as if pursued by the furies. Hepassed Halliday in the garden without recognising or even being sensiblethat he had seen him, threw himself on his horse, and, by a sort ofinstinct rather than recollection, took the first by-road in preferenceto the public route to Hamilton.

  In all probability this prevented Lord Evandale from learning that he wasactually in existence; for the news that the Highlanders had obtained adecisive victory at Killiecrankie had occasioned an accurate look-out tobe kept, by order of the Government, on all the passes, for fear of somecommotion among the Lowland Jacobites. They did not omit to postsentinels on Bothwell Bridge; and as these men had not seen any travellerpass westward in that direction, and as, besides, their comradesstationed in the village of Bothwell were equally positive that none hadgone eastward, the apparition, in the existence of which Edith andHalliday were equally positive, became yet more mysterious in thejudgment of Lord Evandale, who was finally inclined to settle in thebelief that the heated and disturbed imagination of Edith had summoned upthe phantom she stated herself to have seen, and that Halliday had, insome unaccountable manner, been infected by the same superstition.Meanwhile, the by-path which Morton pursued, with all the speed which hisvigorous horse could exert, brought him in a very few seconds to thebrink of the Clyde, at a spot marked with the feet of horses, who wereconducted to it as a watering-place. The steed, urged as he was to thegallop, did not pause a single instant, but, throwing himself into theriver, was soon beyond his depth. The plunge which the animal made as hisfeet quitted the ground, with the feeling that the cold water rose abovehis swordbelt, were the first incidents which recalled Morton, whosemovements had been hitherto mechanical, to the necessity of takingmeasures for preserving himself and the noble animal which he bestrode. Aperfect master of all manly exercises, the management of a horse in waterwas as familiar to him as when upon a meadow. He directed the animal'scourse somewhat down the stream towards a low plain, or holm, whichseemed to promise an easy egress from the river. In the first and secondattempt to get on shore, the horse was frustrated by the nature of theground, and nearly fell backwards on his rider. The instinct ofself-preservation seldom fails, even in the most desperate circumstances,to recall the human mind to some degree of equipoise, unless whenaltogether distracted by terror, and Morton was obliged to the danger inwhich he was placed for complete recovery of his self-possession. A thirdattempt, at a spot more carefully and judiciously selected, succeededbetter than the former, and placed the horse and his rider in safety uponthe farther and left-hand bank of the Clyde.

  "But whither," said Morton, in the bitterness of his heart, "am I now todirect my course? or rather, what does it signify to which point of thecompass a wretch so forlorn betakes himself? I would to God, could thewish be without a sin, that these dark waters had flowed over me, anddrowned my recollection of that which was, and that which is!"The sense of impatience, which the disturbed state of his feelings hadoccasioned, scarcely had vented itself in these violent expressions, erehe was struck with shame at having given way to such a paroxysm. Heremembered how signally the life which he now held so lightly in thebitterness of his disappointment had been preserved through the almostincessant perils which had beset him since he entered upon his publiccareer.

  "I am a fool!" he said, "and worse than a fool, to set light by thatexistence which Heaven has so often preserved in the most marvellousmanner. Something there yet remains for me in this world, were it only tob
ear my sorrows like a man, and to aid those who need my assistance. Whathave I seen, what have I heard, but the very conclusion of that which Iknew was to happen? They"--he durst not utter their names even insoliloquy--"they are embarrassed and in difficulties. She is stripped ofher inheritance, and he seems rushing on some dangerous career, withwhich, but for the low voice in which he spoke, I might have becomeacquainted. Are there no means to aid or to warn them?"

  As he pondered upon this topic, forcibly withdrawing his mind from hisown disappointment, and compelling his attention to the affairs of Edithand her betrothed husband, the letter of Burley, long forgotten, suddenlyrushed on his memory, like a ray of light darting through a mist."Their ruin must have been his work," was his internal conclusion. "If itcan be repaired, it must be through his means, or by information obtainedfrom him. I will search him out. Stern, crafty, and enthusiastic as heis, my plain and downright rectitude of purpose has more than onceprevailed with him. I will seek him out, at least; and who knows whatinfluence the information I may acquire from him may have on the fortunesof those whom I shall never see more, and who will probably never learnthat I am now suppressing my own grief, to add, if possible, to theirhappiness."

  Animated by these hopes, though the foundation was but slight, he soughtthe nearest way to the high-road; and as all the tracks through thevalley were known to him since he hunted through them in youth, he had noother difficulty than that of surmounting one or two enclosures, ere hefound himself on the road to the small burgh where the feast of thepopinjay had been celebrated. He journeyed in a state of mind sad indeedand dejected, yet relieved from its earlier and more intolerable state ofanguish; for virtuous resolution and manly disinterestedness seldom failto restore tranquillity even where they cannot create happiness. Heturned his thoughts with strong effort upon the means of discoveringBurley, and the chance there was of extracting from him any knowledgewhich he might possess favourable to her in whose cause he interestedhimself; and at length formed the resolution of guiding himself by thecircumstances in which he might discover the object of his quest,trusting that, from Cuddie's account of a schism betwixt Burley and hisbrethren of the Presbyterian persuasion, he might find him lessrancorously disposed against Miss Bellenden, and inclined to exert thepower which he asserted himself to possess over her fortunes, morefavourably than heretofore.

  Noontide had passed away when our traveller found himself in theneighbourhood of his deceased uncle's habitation of Milnwood. It roseamong glades and groves that were chequered with a thousand earlyrecollections of joy and sorrow, and made upon Morton that mournfulimpression, soft and affecting, yet, withal, soothing, which thesensitive mind usually receives from a return to the haunts of childhoodand early youth, after having experienced the vicissitudes and tempestsof public life. A strong desire came upon him to visit the house itself."Old Alison," he thought, "will not know me, more than the honest couplewhom I saw yesterday. I may indulge my curiosity, and proceed on myjourney, without her having any knowledge of my existence. I think theysaid my uncle had bequeathed to her my family mansion,--well, be it so. Ihave enough to sorrow for, to enable me to dispense with lamenting such adisappointment as that; and yet methinks he has chosen an odd successorin my grumbling old dame, to a line of respectable, if not distinguished,ancestry. Let it be as it may, I will visit the old mansion at least oncemore."

  The house of Milnwood, even in its best days, had nothing cheerful aboutit; but its gloom appeared to be doubled under the auspices of the oldhousekeeper. Everything, indeed, was in repair; there were no slatesdeficient upon the steep grey roof, and no panes broken in the narrowwindows. But the grass in the court-yard looked as if the foot of man hadnot been there for years; the doors were carefully locked, and that whichadmitted to the hall seemed to have been shut for a length of time, sincethe spiders had fairly drawn their webs over the door-way and thestaples. Living sight or sound there was none, until, after muchknocking, Morton heard the little window, through which it wasusual to reconnoitre visitors, open with much caution. The face ofAlison, puckered with some score of wrinkles in addition to those withwhich it was furrowed when Morton left Scotland, now presented itself,enveloped in a /toy/, from under the protection of which some of her greytresses had escaped in a manner more picturesque than beautiful, whileher shrill, tremulous voice demanded the cause of the knocking."I wish to speak an instant with one Alison Wilson, who resides here,"said Henry.

  "She's no at hame the day," answered Mrs. Wilson, /in propria persona/,the state of whose headdress, perhaps, inspired her with this direct modeof denying herself; "and ye are but a mislear'd person to speer for herin sic a manner. Ye might hae had an M under your belt for MistressWilson of Milnwood."

  "I beg pardon," said Morton, internally smiling at finding in old Ailiethe same jealousy of disrespect which she used to exhibit upon formeroccasions,--"I beg pardon; I am but a stranger in this country, and havebeen so long abroad that I have almost forgotten my own language.""Did ye come frae foreign parts?" said Ailie; "then maybe ye may haeheard of a young gentleman of this country that they ca' Henry Morton?"

  "I have heard," said Morton, "of such a name in Germany."

  "Then bide a wee bit where ye are, friend; or stay,--gang round by theback o' the house, and ye'll find a laigh door; it's on the latch, forit's never barred till sunset. Ye 'll open 't,--and tak care ye dinna fa'ower the tub, for the entry's dark,--and then ye'll turn to the right,and then ye'll hand straught forward, and then ye'll turn to the rightagain, and ye 'll tak heed o' the cellarstairs, and then ye 'll be at thedoor o' the little kitchen,--it's a' the kitchen that's at Milnwoodnow,--and I'll come down t'ye, and whate'er ye wad say to MistressWilson ye may very safely tell it to me."

  A stranger might have had some difficulty, notwithstanding the minutenessof the directions supplied by Ailie, to pilot himself in safety throughthe dark labyrinth of passages that led from the back-door to the littlekitchen; but Henry was too well acquainted with the navigation of thesestraits to experience danger, either from the Scylla which lurked on oneside in shape of a bucking tub, or the Charybdis which yawned on theother in the profundity of a winding cellar-stair. His only impedimentarose from the snarling and vehement barking of a small cocking spaniel,once his own property, but which, unlike to the faithful Argus, saw hismaster return from his wanderings without any symptom of recognition.

  "The little dogs and all!" said Morton to himself, on being disowned byhis former favourite. "I am so changed that no breathing creature that Ihave known and loved will now acknowledge me!"

  At this moment he had reached the kitchen; and soon after, the tread ofAlison's high heels, and the pat of the crutch-handled cane which servedat once to prop and to guide her footsteps, were heard upon thestairs,--an annunciation which continued for some time ere she fairlyreached the kitchen.

  Morton had, therefore, time to survey the slender preparations forhousekeeping which were now sufficient in the house of his ancestors. Thefire, though coals are plenty in that neighbourhood, was husbanded withthe closest attention to economy of fuel, and the small pipkin, in whichwas preparing the dinner of the old woman and her maid-of-all-work, agirl of twelve years old, intimated, by its thin and watery vapour, thatAilie had not mended her cheer with her improved fortune.

  When she entered, the head, which nodded with self-importance; thefeatures, in which an irritable peevishness, acquired by habit andindulgence, strove with a temper naturally affectionate and good-natured;the coif; the apron; the blue-checked gown,--were all those of old Ailie;but laced pinners, hastily put on to meet the stranger, with some othertrifling articles of decoration, marked the difference between Mrs.Wilson, life-rentrix of Milnwood, and the housekeeper of the lateproprietor.

  "What were ye pleased to want wi' Mrs. Wilson, sir? I am Mrs. Wilson,"was her first address; for the five minutes time which she had gained forthe business of the toilet entitled her, she conceived, to assume thefull merit of her illustrious name, and shine forth on her guest
inunchastened splendour. Morton's sensations, confounded between the pastand present, fairly confused him so much that he would have haddifficulty in answering her, even if he had known well what to say. Butas he had not determined what character he was to adopt while concealingthat which was properly his own, he had an additional reason forremaining silent. Mrs. Wilson, in perplexity, and with some apprehension,repeated her question.

  "What were ye pleased to want wi' me, sir? Ye said ye kend Mr. HarryMorton?"

  "Pardon me, madam," answered Henry, "it was of one Silas Morton I spoke."The old woman's countenance fell.

  "It was his father, then, ye kent o', the brother o' the late Milnwood?Ye canna mind him abroad, I wad think,--he was come hame afore ye wereborn. I thought ye had brought me news of poor Maister Harry."

  "It was from my father I learned to know Colonel Morton," said Henry; "ofthe son I know little or nothing,--rumour says he died abroad on hispassage to Holland."

  "That's ower like to be true," said the old woman with a sigh, "and monya tear it's cost my auld een. His uncle, poor gentleman, just sough'd awawi' it in his mouth. He had been gieing me preceeze directions anent thebread and the wine and the brandy at his burial, and how often it was tobe handed round the company (for, dead or alive, he was a prudent,frugal, painstaking man), and then he said, said he, 'Ailie,' (he ayeca'd me Ailie; we were auld acquaintance), 'Ailie, take ye care and haudthe gear weel thegither; for the name of Morton of Milnwood 's gane outlike the last sough of an auld sang.' And sae he fell out o' ae dwam intoanother, and ne'er spak a word mair, unless it were something we cou'dnamak out, about a dipped candle being gude eneugh to see to dee wi'. Hecou'd ne'er bide to see a moulded ane, and there was ane, by ill luck, onthe table."

  While Mrs. Wilson was thus detailing the last moments of the old miser,Morton was pressingly engaged in diverting the assiduous curiosity of thedog, which, recovered from his first surprise, and combining formerrecollections, had, after much snuffing and examination, begun a courseof capering and jumping upon the stranger which threatened every instantto betray him. At length, in the urgency of his impatience, Morton couldnot forbear exclaiming, in a tone of hasty impatience, "Down, Elphin!down, sir!"

  "Ye ken our dog's name," said the old lady, struck with great and suddensurprise,--"ye ken our dog's name, and it's no a common ane. And thecreature kens you too," she continued, in a more agitated and shrillertone,--"God guide us! it's my ain bairn!"

  So saying, the poor old woman threw herself around Morton's neck, clingto him, kissed him as if he had been actually her child, and wept forjoy. There was no parrying the discovery, if he could have had the heartto attempt any further disguise. He returned the embrace with the mostgrateful warmth, and answered,--

  "I do indeed live, dear Ailie, to thank you for all your kindness, pastand present, and to rejoice that there is at least one friend to welcomeme to my native country."

  "Friends!" exclaimed Ailie, "ye'll hae mony friends,--ye 'll hae monyfriends; for ye will hae gear, hinny,--ye will hae gear. Heaven mak ye agude guide o't! But eh, sirs!" she continued, pushing him back from herwith her trembling hand and shrivelled arm, and gazing in his face as ifto read, at more convenient distance, the ravages which sorrow ratherthan time had made on his face,--"Eh, sirs! ye're sair altered, hinny;your face is turned pale, and your een are sunken, and your bonnyred-and-white cheeks are turned a' dark and sun-burnt. Oh, weary on thewars! mony 's the comely face they destroy.--And when cam ye here, hinny?And where hae ye been? And what hae ye been doing? And what for did ye nawrite to us? And how cam ye to pass yoursell for dead? And what for didye come creepin' to your ain house as if ye had been an unto body, to giepoor auld Ailie sic a start?" she concluded, smiling through her tears.It was some time ere Morton could overcome his own emotion so as to givethe kind old woman the information which we shall communicate to ourreaders in the next chapter.