The Antiquary — Complete, Walter Scott [best novels for beginners .TXT] 📗

CHAPTER SIXTH. —Many great ones Would part with half their states, to have the plan And credit to beg in the first style. Beggar’s Bush.

Old Edie was stirring with the lark, and his first inquiry was after Steenie and the pocket-book. The young fisherman had been under the necessity of attending his father before daybreak, to avail themselves of the tide, but he had promised that, immediately on his return, the pocket-book, with all its contents, carefully wrapped up in a piece of sail-cloth, should be delivered by him to Ringan Aikwood, for Dousterswivel, the owner.

The matron had prepared the morning meal for the family, and, shouldering her basket of fish, tramped sturdily away towards Fairport. The children were idling round the door, for the day was fair and sun-shiney. The ancient grandame, again seated on her wicker-chair by the fire, had resumed her eternal spindle, wholly unmoved by the yelling and screaming of the children, and the scolding of the mother, which had preceded the dispersion of the family. Edie had arranged his various bags, and was bound for the renewal of his wandering life, but first advanced with due courtesy to take his leave of the ancient crone.

“Gude day to ye, cummer, and mony ane o’ them. I will be back about the fore-end o’har’st, and I trust to find ye baith haill and fere.”

“Pray that ye may find me in my quiet grave,” said the old woman, in a hollow and sepulchral voice, but without the agitation of a single feature.

“Ye’re auld, cummer, and sae am I mysell; but we maun abide His will— we’ll no be forgotten in His good time.”

“Nor our deeds neither,” said the crone: “what’s dune in the body maun be answered in the spirit.”

“I wot that’s true; and I may weel tak the tale hame to mysell, that hae led a misruled and roving life. But ye were aye a canny wife. We’re a’ frail—but ye canna hae sae muckle to bow ye down.”

“Less than I might have had—but mair, O far mair, than wad sink the stoutest brig e’er sailed out o’ Fairport harbour!—Didna somebody say yestreen—at least sae it is borne in on my mind, but auld folk hae weak fancies—did not somebody say that Joscelind, Countess of Glenallan, was departed frae life?”

“They said the truth whaever said it,” answered old Edie; “she was buried yestreen by torch-light at St. Ruth’s, and I, like a fule, gat a gliff wi’ seeing the lights and the riders.”

“It was their fashion since the days of the Great Earl that was killed at Harlaw;—they did it to show scorn that they should die and be buried like other mortals; the wives o’ the house of Glenallan wailed nae wail for the husband, nor the sister for the brother.—But is she e’en ca’d to the lang account?”

“As sure,” answered Edie, “as we maun a’ abide it.”

“Then I’ll unlade my mind, come o’t what will.”

This she spoke with more alacrity than usually attended her expressions, and accompanied her words with an attitude of the hand, as if throwing something from her. She then raised up her form, once tall, and still retaining the appearance of having been so, though bent with age and rheumatism, and stood before the beggar like a mummy animated by some wandering spirit into a temporary resurrection. Her light-blue eyes wandered to and fro, as if she occasionally forgot and again remembered the purpose for which her long and withered hand was searching among the miscellaneous contents of an ample old-fashioned pocket. At length she pulled out a small chip-box, and opening it, took out a handsome ring, in which was set a braid of hair, composed of two different colours, black and light brown, twined together, encircled with brilliants of considerable value.

“Gudeman,” she said to Ochiltree, “as ye wad e’er deserve mercy, ye maun gang my errand to the house of Glenallan, and ask for the Earl.”

“The Earl of Glenallan, cummer! ou, he winna see ony o’ the gentles o’ the country, and what likelihood is there that he wad see the like o’ an auld gaberlunzie?”

“Gang your ways and try;—and tell him that Elspeth o’ the Craigburnfoot—he’ll mind me best by that name—maun see him or she be relieved frae her lang pilgrimage, and that she sends him that ring in token of the business she wad speak o’.”

Ochiltree looked on the ring with some admiration of its apparent value, and then carefully replacing it in the box, and wrapping it in an old ragged handkerchief, he deposited the token in his bosom.

“Weel, gudewife,” he said, “I’se do your bidding, or it’s no be my fault. But surely there was never sic a braw propine as this sent to a yerl by an auld fishwife, and through the hands of a gaberlunzie beggar.”

With this reflection, Edie took up his pike-staff, put on his broad-brimmed bonnet, and set forth upon his pilgrimage. The old woman remained for some time standing in a fixed posture, her eyes directed to the door through which her ambassador had departed. The appearance of excitation, which the conversation had occasioned, gradually left her features; she sank down upon her accustomed seat, and resumed her mechanical labour of the distaff and spindle, with her wonted air of apathy.

Edie Ochiltree meanwhile advanced on his journey. The distance to Glenallan was ten miles, a march which the old soldier accomplished in about four hours. With the curiosity belonging to his idle trade and animated character, he tortured