Chapter Chapter 64 · COMPARING OF NOTES

. COMPARING OF NOTES

The Baron’s story was short, when divested of the adages and

commonplaces, Latin, English, and Scotch, with which his erudition

garnished it. He insisted much upon his grief at the loss of Edward and

of Glennaquoich, fought the fields of Falkirk and Culloden, and related

how, after all was lost in the last battle, he had returned home, under

the idea of more easily finding shelter among his own tenants and on

his own estate than elsewhere. A party of soldiers had been sent to lay

waste his property, for clemency was not the order of the day. Their

proceedings, however, were checked by an order from the civil court.

The estate, it was found, might not be forfeited to the crown to the

prejudice of Malcolm Bradwardine of Inch-Grabbit, the heir-male, whose

claim could not be prejudiced by the Baron’s attainder, as deriving no

right through him, and who, therefore, like other heirs of entail in

the same situation, entered upon possession. But, unlike many in

similar circumstances, the new laird speedily showed that he intended

utterly to exclude his predecessor from all benefit or advantage in the

estate, and that it was his purpose to avail himself of the old Baron’s

evil fortune to the full extent. This was the more ungenerous, as it

was generally known that, from a romantic idea of not prejudicing this

young man’s right as heir-male, the Baron had refrained from settling

his estate on his daughter.

This selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were

partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor. In

the Baron’s own words, “The matter did not coincide with the feelings

of the commons of Bradwardine, Mr. Waverley; and the tenants were slack

and repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman

came to the village wi’ the new factor, Mr. James Howie, to lift the

rents, some wanchancy person—I suspect John Heatherblutter, the auld

gamekeeper, that was out wi’ me in the year Fifteen— fired a shot at him

in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that I may say with

Tullius In Catilinam, “Abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit.” He fled, sir,

as one may say, incontinent to Stirling. And now he hath advertised the

estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail. And

if I were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than

its passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of

nature, must have happened in a few years; whereas now it passes from

the lineage that should have possessed it in _sæcula sæculorum_. But

God’s will be done, _humana perpessi sumus_. Sir John of

Bradwardine—Black Sir John, as he is called—who was the common ancestor

of our house and the Inch-Grabbits, little thought such a person would

have sprung from his loins. Mean time, he has accused me to some of the

_primates_, the rulers for the time, as if I were a cut-throat, and an

abettor of bravoes and assassinates and _coupe-jarrets_. And they have

sent soldiers here to abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge

upon the mountains, as Scripture says of good King David, or like our

valiant Sir William Wallace—not that I bring myself into comparison

with either. I thought, when I heard you at the door, they had driven

the auld deer to his den at last; and so I e’en proposed to die at bay,

like a buck of the first head. But now, Janet, canna ye gie us

something for supper?”

“Ou ay, sir, I’ll brander the moor-fowl that John Heatherblutter

brought in this morning; and ye see puir Davie’s roasting the black

hen’s eggs. I daur say, Mr. Wauverley, ye never kend that a’ the eggs

that were sae weel roasted at supper in the Ha’-house were aye turned

by our Davie? There’s no the like o’ him ony gate for powtering wi’ his

fingers amang the het peat-ashes and roasting eggs.” Davie all this

while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes,

kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in

the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that “there goes reason

to roasting of eggs,” and justify the eulogium which poor Janet poured

out upon

Him whom she loved, her idiot boy.

“Davie’s no sae silly as folk tak him for, Mr. Wauverley; he wadna hae

brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his Honour;

indeed the very dogs kend ye, Mr. Wauverley, for ye was aye kind to

beast and body. I can tell you a story o’ Davie, wi’ his Honour’s

leave. His Honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times—the

mair’s the pity—he lies a’ day, and whiles a’ night, in the cove in the

dern hag; but though it’s a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o’

Corse-Cleugh has panged it wi’ a kemple o’ strae amaist, yet when the

country’s quiet, and the night very cauld, his Honour whiles creeps

doun here to get a warm at the ingle and a sleep amang the blankets,

and gangs awa in the morning. And so, ae morning, siccan a fright as I

got! Twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan

ploy—for the neb o’ them’s never out o’ mischief—and they just got a

glisk o’ his Honour as he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at

him. I out like a jer-falcon, and cried—‘Wad they shoot an honest

woman’s poor innocent bairn?’ And I fleyt at them, and threepit it was

my son; and they damned and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as

the villains ca’d his Honour; and Davie was in the wood, and heard the

tuilzie, and he, just out o’ his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle

that his Honour had flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o’

the very same bit o’ the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his

Honour, that they were clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff

their gun at crack-brained Sawney, as they ca’ him; and they gae me

saxpence, and twa saumon fish, to say naething about it. Na, na,

Davie’s no just like other folk, puir fallow; but he’s no sae silly as

folk tak him for. But, to be sure, how can we do eneugh for his Honour,

when we and ours have lived on his ground this twa hundred years; and

when he keepit my puir Jamie at school and college, and even at the

Ha’-house, till he gaed to a better place; and when he saved me frae

being ta’en to Perth as a witch—Lord forgi’e them that would touch sic

a puir silly auld body!—and has maintained puir Davie at heck and

manger maist feck o’ his life?”

Waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt Janet’s narrative

by an inquiry after Miss Bradwardine.

“She’s weel and safe, thank God! at the Duchran,” answered the Baron;

“the laird’s distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain,

Mr. Rubrick; and, though he be of Whig principles, yet he’s not

forgetful of auld friendship at this time. The Bailie’s doing what he

can to save something out of the wreck for puir Rose; but I doubt, I

doubt, I shall never see her again, for I maun lay my banes in some far

country.”

“Hout na, your Honour,” said old Janet, “ye were just as ill aff in the

feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an’ a’. And now the eggs is

ready, and the muir-cock’s brandered, and there’s ilk ane a trencher

and some saut, and the heel o’ the white loaf that cam frae the

Bailie’s, and there’s plenty o’ brandy in the greybeard that Luckie

Maclearie sent doun, and winna ye be suppered like princes?”

“I wish one Prince, at least, of our acquaintance may be no worse off,”

said the Baron to Waverley, who joined him in cordial hopes for the

safety of the unfortunate Chevalier.

They then began to talk of their future prospects. The Baron’s plan was

very simple. It was, to escape to France, where, by the interest of his

old friends, he hoped to get some military employment, of which he

still conceived himself capable. He invited Waverley to go with him, a

proposal in which he acquiesced, providing the interest of Colonel

Talbot should fail in procuring his pardon. Tacitly he hoped the Baron

would sanction his addresses to Rose, and give him a right to assist

him in his exile; but he forbore to speak on this subject until his own

fate should be decided. They then talked of Glennaquoich, for whom the

Baron expressed great anxiety, although, he observed, he was “the very

Achilles of Horatius Flaccus,—

“‘Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer.’

Which,” he continued, “has been thus rendered (vernacularly) by Struan

Robertson:—

“‘A fiery etter-cap, a fractious chiel,

As het as ginger, and as stieve as steel.’”

Flora had a large and unqualified share of the good old man’s sympathy.

It was now wearing late. Old Janet got into some kind of kennel behind

the hallan; Davie had been long asleep and snoring between Ban and

Buscar. These dogs had followed him to the hut after the mansion-house

was deserted, and there constantly resided; and their ferocity, with

the old woman’s reputation of being a witch, contributed a good deal to

keep visitors from the glen. With this view, Bailie Macwheeble provided

Janet underhand with meal for their maintenance, and also with little

articles of luxury for his patron’s use, in supplying which much

precaution was necessarily used. After some compliments, the Baron

occupied his usual couch, and Waverley reclined in an easy chair of

tattered velvet, which had once garnished the state bed-room of

Tully-Veolan (for the furniture of this mansion was now scattered

through all the cottages in the vicinity), and went to sleep as

comfortably as if he had been in a bed of down.