Bab Bab 62 · WHAT’S TO BE DONE NEXT?

. WHAT’S TO BE DONE NEXT?

It was twilight when they arrived in town; and having shaken off his

companions, and walked through a good many streets to avoid the

possibility of being traced by them, Edward took a hackney-coach and

drove to Colonel Talbot’s house, in one of the principal squares at the

west end of the town. That gentleman, by the death of relations, had

succeeded since his marriage to a large fortune, possessed considerable

political interest, and lived in what is called great style.

When Waverley knocked at his door he found it at first difficult to

procure admittance, but at length was shown into an apartment where the

Colonel was at table. Lady Emily, whose very beautiful features were

still pallid from indisposition, sat opposite to him. The instant he

heard Waverley’s voice, he started up and embraced him. “Frank Stanley,

my dear boy, how d’ye do? Emily, my love, this is young Stanley.”

The blood started to the lady’s cheek as she gave Waverley a reception

in which courtesy was mingled with kindness, while her trembling hand

and faltering voice showed how much she was startled and discomposed.

Dinner was hastily replaced, and while Waverley was engaged in

refreshing himself, the Colonel proceeded—“I wonder you have come here,

Frank; the Doctors tell me the air of London is very bad for your

complaints. You should not have risked it. But I am delighted to see

you, and so is Emily, though I fear we must not reckon upon your

staying long.”

“Some particular business brought me up,” muttered Waverley.

“I supposed so, but I shan’t allow you to stay long. Spontoon” (to an

elderly military-looking servant out of livery), “take away these

things, and answer the bell yourself, if I ring. Don’t let any of the

other fellows disturb us. My nephew and I have business to talk of.”

When the servants had retired, “In the name of God, Waverley, what has

brought you here? It may be as much as your life is worth.”

“Dear Mr. Waverley,” said Lady Emily, “to whom I owe so much more than

acknowledgments can ever pay, how could you be so rash?”

“My father—my uncle—this paragraph,”—he handed the paper to Colonel

Talbot.

“I wish to Heaven these scoundrels were condemned to be squeezed to

death in their own presses,” said Talbot. “I am told there are not less

than a dozen of their papers now published in town, and no wonder that

they are obliged to invent lies to find sale for their journals. It is

true, however, my dear Edward, that you have lost your father; but as

to this flourish of his unpleasant situation having grated upon his

spirits and hurt his health—the truth is—for though it is harsh to say

so now, yet it will relieve your mind from the idea of weighty

responsibility—the truth then is, that Mr. Richard Waverley, through

this whole business, showed great want of sensibility, both to your

situation and that of your uncle; and the last time I saw him, he told

me, with great glee, that, as I was so good as to take charge of your

interests, he had thought it best to patch up a separate negotiation

for himself, and make his peace with government through some channels

which former connections left still open to him.”

“And my uncle, my dear uncle?”

“Is in no danger whatever. It is true (looking at the date of the

paper) there was a foolish report some time ago to the purport here

quoted, but it is entirely false. Sir Everard is gone down to

Waverley-Honour, freed from all uneasiness, unless upon your own

account. But you are in peril yourself; your name is in every

proclamation; warrants are out to apprehend you. How and when did you

come here?”

Edward told his story at length, suppressing his quarrel with Fergus;

for, being himself partial to Highlanders, he did not wish to give any

advantage to the Colonel’s national prejudice against them.

“Are you sure it was your friend Glen’s foot-boy you saw dead in

Clifton Moor?”

“Quite positive.”

“Then that little limb of the devil has cheated the gallows, for

cut-throat was written in his face; though (turning to Lady Emily) it

was a very handsome face too. But for you, Edward, I wish you would go

down again to Cumberland, or rather I wish you had never stirred from

thence, for there is an embargo in all the seaports, and a strict

search for the adherents of the Pretender; and the tongue of that

confounded woman will wag in her head like the clack of a mill, till

somehow or other she will detect Captain Butler to be a feigned

personage.”

“Do you know anything,” asked Waverley, “of my fellow-traveller?”

“Her husband was my sergeant-major for six years; she was a buxom

widow, with a little money; he married her, was steady, and got on by

being a good drill. I must send Spontoon to see what she is about; he

will find her out among the old regimental connections. To-morrow you

must be indisposed, and keep your room from fatigue. Lady Emily is to

be your nurse, and Spontoon and I your attendants. You bear the name of

a near relation of mine, whom none of my present people ever saw,

except Spontoon, so there will be no immediate danger. So pray feel

your head ache and your eyes grow heavy as soon as possible, that you

may be put upon the sick-list; and, Emily, do you order an apartment

for Frank Stanley, with all the attentions which an invalid may

require.”

In the morning the Colonel visited his guest. “Now,” said he, “I have

some good news for you. Your reputation as a gentleman and officer is

effectually cleared of neglect of duty and accession to the mutiny in

Gardiner’s regiment. I have had a correspondence on this subject with a

very zealous friend of yours, your Scottish parson, Morton; his first

letter was addressed to Sir Everard; but I relieved the good Baronet of

the trouble of answering it. You must know, that your free-booting

acquaintance, Donald of the Cave, has at length fallen into the hands

of the Philistines. He was driving off the cattle of a certain

proprietor, called Killan—something or other—”

“Killancureit?”

“The same. Now the gentleman being, it seems, a great farmer, and

having a special value for his breed of cattle, being, moreover, rather

of a timid disposition, had got a party of soldiers to protect his

property. So Donald ran his head unawares into the lion’s mouth, and

was defeated and made prisoner. Being ordered for execution, his

conscience was assailed on the one hand by a Catholic priest, on the

other by your friend Morton. He repulsed the Catholic chiefly on

account of the doctrine of extreme unction, which this economical

gentleman considered as an excessive waste of oil. So his conversion

from a state of impenitence fell to Mr. Morton’s share, who, I daresay,

acquitted himself excellently, though I suppose Donald made but a queer

kind of Christian after all. He confessed, however, before a

magistrate, one Major Melville, who seems to have been a correct,

friendly sort of person, his full intrigue with Houghton, explaining

particularly how it was carried on, and fully acquitting you of the

least accession to it. He also mentioned his rescuing you from the

hands of the volunteer officer, and sending you, by orders of the

Pret—Chevalier, I mean—as a prisoner to Doune, from whence he

understood you were carried prisoner to Edinburgh. These are

particulars which cannot but tell in your favour. He hinted that he had

been employed to deliver and protect you, and rewarded for doing so;

but he would not confess by whom, alleging that, though he would not

have minded breaking any ordinary oath to satisfy the curiosity of Mr.

Morton, to whose pious admonitions he owed so much, yet, in the present

case he had been sworn to silence upon the edge of his dirk,[39] which,

it seems, constituted, in his opinion, an inviolable obligation.”

“And what is become of him?”

“Oh, he was hanged at Stirling after the rebels raised the siege, with

his lieutenant and four plaids besides; he having the advantage of a

gallows more lofty than his friends.”

“Well, I have little cause either to regret or rejoice at his death;

and yet he has done me both good and harm to a very considerable

extent.”

“His confession, at least, will serve you materially, since it wipes

from your character all those suspicions which gave the accusation

against you a complexion of a nature different from that with which so

many unfortunate gentlemen, now or lately in arms against the

government, may be justly charged. Their treason—I must give it its

name, though you participate in its guilt—is an action arising from

mistaken virtue, and therefore cannot be classed as a disgrace, though

it be doubtless highly criminal. Where the guilty are so numerous,

clemency must be extended to far the greater number; and I have little

doubt of procuring a remission for you, providing we can keep you out

of the claws of justice till she has selected and gorged upon her

victims; for in this, as in other cases, it will be according to the

vulgar proverb, “First come, first served.” Besides, government are

desirous at present to intimidate the English Jacobites, among whom

they can find few examples for punishment. This is a vindictive and

timid feeling which will soon wear off, for of all nations the English

are least blood-thirsty by nature. But it exists at present, and you

must therefore be kept out of the way in the mean-time.”

Now entered Spontoon with an anxious countenance. By his regimental

acquaintances he had traced out Madam Nosebag, and found her full of

ire, fuss, and fidget at discovery of an impostor who had travelled

from the north with her under the assumed name of Captain Butler of

Gardiner’s dragoons. She was going to lodge an information on the

subject, to have him sought for as an emissary of the Pretender; but

Spontoon (an old soldier), while he pretended to approve, contrived to

make her delay her intention. No time, however, was to be lost: the

accuracy of this good dame’s description might probably lead to the

discovery that Waverley was the pretended Captain Butler, an

identification fraught with danger to Edward, perhaps to his uncle, and

even to Colonel Talbot. Which way to direct his course was now,

therefore, the question.

“To Scotland,” said Waverley.

“To Scotland?” said the Colonel; “with what purpose? Not to engage

again with the rebels, I hope?”

“No; I considered my campaign ended when, after all my efforts, I could

not rejoin them; and now, by all accounts, they are gone to make a

winter campaign in the Highlands, where such adherents as I am would

rather be burdensome than useful. Indeed, it seems likely that they

only prolong the war to place the Chevalier’s person out of danger, and

then to make some terms for themselves. To burden them with my presence

would merely add another party, whom they would not give up and could

not defend. I understand they left almost all their English adherents

in garrison at Carlisle, for that very reason. And on a more general

view, Colonel, to confess the truth, though it may lower me in your

opinion, I am heartly tired of the trade of war, and am, as Fletcher’s

Humorous Lieutenant says, ‘even as weary of this fighting—’”

“Fighting! pooh, what have you seen but a skirmish or two? Ah! if you

saw war on the grand scale—sixty or a hundred thousand men in the field

on each side!”

“I am not at all curious, Colonel. “Enough,” says our homely proverb,

“is as good as a feast.” The plumed troops and the big war used to

enchant me in poetry, but the night marches, vigils, couches under the

wintry sky, and such accompaniments of the glorious trade, are not at

all to my taste in practice; then for dry blows, I had _my_ fill of

fighting at Clifton, where I escaped by a hair’s-breadth half a dozen

times; and you, I should think—” He stopped.

“Had enough of it at Preston? you mean to say,” answered the Colonel,

laughing; “but ’tis my vocation, Hal.”

“It is not mine, though,” said Waverley; “and having honourably got rid

of the sword, which I drew only as a volunteer, I am quite satisfied

with my military experience, and shall be in no hurry to take it up

again.”

“I am very glad you are of that mind; but then what would you do in the

north?”

“In the first place, there are some seaports on the eastern coast of

Scotland still in the hands of the Chevalier’s friends; should I gain

any of them, I can easily embark for the Continent.”

“Good, your second reason?”

“Why, to speak the very truth, there is a person in Scotland upon whom

I now find my happiness depends more than I was always aware, and about

whose situation I am very anxious.”

“Then Emily was right, and there is a love affair in the case after

all? And which of these two pretty Scotchwomen, whom you insisted upon

my admiring, is the distinguished fair? Not Miss Glen— I hope.”

“No.”

“Ah, pass for the other; simplicity may be improved, but pride and

conceit never. Well, I don’t discourage you; I think it will please Sir

Everard, from what he said when I jested with him about it; only I hope

that intolerable papa, with his brogue, and his snuff, and his Latin,

and his insufferable long stories about the Duke of Berwick, will find

it necessary hereafter to be an inhabitant of foreign parts. But as to

the daughter, though I think you might find as fitting a match in

England, yet if your heart be really set upon this Scotch rosebud, why

the Baronet has a great opinion of her father and of his family, and he

wishes much to see you married and settled, both for your own sake and

for that of the three ermines passant, which may otherwise pass away

altogether. But I will bring you his mind fully upon the subject, since

you are debarred correspondence for the present, for I think you will

not be long in Scotland before me.”

“Indeed! and what can induce you to think of returning to Scotland? No

relenting longings towards the land of mountains and floods, I am

afraid.”

“None, on my word; but Emily’s health is now, thank God,

re-established, and, to tell you the truth, I have little hopes of

concluding the business which I have at present most at heart until I

can have a personal interview with his Royal Highness the

Commander-in-Chief; for, as Fluellen says, “the duke doth love me well,

and I thank heaven I have deserved some love at his hands.” I am now

going out for an hour or two to arrange matters for your departure;

your liberty extends to the next room, Lady Emily’s parlour, where you

will find her when you are disposed for music, reading, or

conversation. We have taken measures to exclude all servants but

Spontoon, who is as true as steel.”

In about two hours Colonel Talbot returned, and found his young friend

conversing with his lady; she pleased with his manners and information,

and he delighted at being restored, though but for a moment, to the

society of his own rank, from which he had been for some time excluded.

“And now,” said the Colonel, “hear my arrangements, for there is little

time to lose. This youngster, Edward Waverley, _alias_ Williams,

_alias_ Captain Butler, must continue to pass by his fourth _alias_ of

Francis Stanley, my nephew; he shall set out to-morrow for the North,

and the chariot shall take him the first two stages. Spontoon shall

then attend him; and they shall ride post as far as Huntingdon; and the

presence of Spontoon, well known on the road as my servant, will check

all disposition to inquiry. At Huntingdon you will meet the real Frank

Stanley. He is studying at Cambridge; but, a little while ago, doubtful

if Emily’s health would permit me to go down to the North myself, I

procured him a passport from the secretary of state’s office to go in

my stead. As he went chiefly to look after you, his journey is now

unnecessary. He knows your story; you will dine together at Huntingdon;

and perhaps your wise heads may hit upon some plan for removing or

diminishing the danger of your farther progress north-ward. And now

(taking out a morocco case), let me put you in funds for the campaign.”

“I am ashamed, my dear Colonel—”

“Nay,” said Colonel Talbot, “you should command my purse in any event;

but this money is your own. Your father, considering the chance of your

being attainted, left me his trustee for your advantage. So that you

are worth above £15,000, besides Brerewood Lodge—a very independent

person, I promise you. There are bills here for £200; any larger sum

you may have, or credit abroad, as soon as your motions require it.”

The first use which occurred to Waverley of his newly acquired wealth

was to write to honest Farmer Jopson, requesting his acceptance of a

silver tankard on the part of his friend Williams, who had not

forgotten the night of the eighteenth December last. He begged him at

the same time carefully to preserve for him his Highland garb and

accoutrements, particularly the arms, curious in themselves, and to

which the friendship of the donors gave additional value. Lady Emily

undertook to find some suitable token of remembrance likely to flatter

the vanity and please the taste of Mrs. Williams; and the Colonel, who

was a kind of farmer, promised to send the Ullswater patriarch an

excellent team of horses for cart and plough.

One happy day Waverley spent in London; and, travelling in the manner

projected, he met with Frank Stanley at Huntingdon. The two young men

were acquainted in a minute.

“I can read my uncle’s riddle,” said Stanley; “the cautious old soldier

did not care to hint to me that I might hand over to you this passport,

which I have no occasion for; but if it should afterwards come out as

the rattle-pated trick of a young Cantab, _cela ne tire à rien_. You

are therefore to be Francis Stanley, with this passport.” This proposal

appeared in effect to alleviate a great part of the difficulties which

Edward must otherwise have encountered at every turn; and accordingly

he scrupled not to avail himself of it, the more especially as he had

discarded all political purposes from his present journey, and could

not be accused of furthering machinations against the government while

travelling under protection of the secretary’s passport.

The day passed merrily away. The young student was inquisitive about

Waverley’s campaigns, and the manners of the Highlands, and Edward was

obliged to satisfy his curiosity by whistling a pibroch, dancing a

strathspey, and singing a Highland song. The next morning Stanley rode

a stage northward with his new friend, and parted from him with great

reluctance, upon the remonstrances of Spontoon, who, accustomed to

submit to discipline, was rigid in enforcing it.