Chương Chương 65 · MORE EXPLANATION

. MORE EXPLANATION

With the first dawn of day, old Janet was scuttling about the house to

wake the Baron, who usually slept sound and heavily.

“I must go back,” he said to Waverley, “to my cove; will you walk down

the glen wi’ me?” They went out together, and followed a narrow and

entangled foot-path, which the occasional passage of anglers or

wood-cutters had traced by the side of the stream. On their way the

Baron explained to Waverley that he would be under no danger in

remaining a day or two at Tully-Veolan, and even in being seen walking

about, if he used the precaution of pretending that he was looking at

the estate as agent or surveyor for an English gentleman who designed

to be purchaser. With this view he recommended to him to visit the

Bailie, who still lived at the factor’s house, called Little Veolan,

about a mile from the village, though he was to remove at next term.

Stanley’s passport would be an answer to the officer who commanded the

military; and as to any of the country people who might recognise

Waverley, the Baron assured him he was in no danger of being betrayed

by them.

“I believe,” said the old man, “half the people of the barony know that

their poor auld laird is somewhere hereabout; for I see they do not

suffer a single bairn to come here a bird-nesting; a practice whilk,

when I was in full possession of my power as baron, I was unable

totally to inhibit. Nay, I often find bits of things in my way, that

the poor bodies, God help them! leave there, because they think they

may be useful to me. I hope they will get a wiser master, and as kind a

one as I was.”

A natural sigh closed the sentence; but the quiet equanimity with which

the Baron endured his misfortunes had something in it venerable and

even sublime. There was no fruitless repining, no turbid melancholy; he

bore his lot, and the hardships which it involved, with a good-humored,

though serious composure, and used no violent language against the

prevailing party.

“I did what I thought my duty,” said the good old man, “and

questionless they are doing what they think theirs. It grieves me

sometimes to look upon these blackened walls of the house of my

ancestors; but doubtless officers cannot always keep the soldier’s hand

from depredation and spuilzie, and Gustavus Adolphus himself, as ye may

read in Colonel Munro his “Expedition with the Worthy Scotch Regiment

called Mackay’s Regiment” did often permit it. Indeed I have myself

seen as sad sights as Tully-Veolan now is when I served with the

Maréchal Duke of Berwick. To be sure we may say with Virgilius Maro,

‘Fuimus Troes’—and there’s the end of an auld sang. But houses and

families and men have a’ stood lang eneugh when they have stood till

they fall with honour; and now I hae gotten a house that is not unlike

a _domus ultima_”—they were now standing below a steep rock. “We poor

Jacobites,” continued the Baron, looking up, “are now like the conies

in Holy Scripture (which the great traveller Pococke calleth Jerboa), a

feeble people, that make our abode in the rocks. So, fare you well, my

good lad, till we meet at Janet’s in the even; for I must get into my

Patmos, which is no easy matter for my auld stiff limbs.”

With that he began to ascend the rock, striding, with the help of his

hands, from one precarious footstep to another, till he got about

half-way up, where two or three bushes concealed the mouth of a hole,

resembling an oven, into which the Baron insinuated, first his head and

shoulders, and then, by slow gradation, the rest of his long body; his

legs and feet finally disappearing, coiled up like a huge snake

entering his retreat, or a long pedigree introduced with care and

difficulty into the narrow pigeon-hole of an old cabinet. Waverley had

the curiosity to clamber up and look in upon him in his den, as the

lurking-place might well be termed. Upon the whole, he looked not

unlike that ingenious puzzle called “a reel in a bottle,” the marvel of

children (and of some grown people too, myself for one), who can

neither comprehend the mystery how it has got in or how it is to be

taken out. The cave was very narrow, too low in the roof to admit of

his standing, or almost of his sitting up, though he made some awkward

attempts at the latter posture. His sole amusement was the perusal of

his old friend Titus Livius, varied by occasionally scratching Latin

proverbs and texts of Scripture with his knife on the roof and walls of

his fortalice, which were of sandstone. As the cave was dry, and filled

with clean straw and withered fern, “it made,” as he said, coiling

himself up with an air of snugness and comfort which contrasted

strangely with his situation, “unless when the wind was due north, a

very passable _gîte_ for an old soldier.” Neither, as he observed, was

he without sentries for the purpose of reconnoitring. Davie and his

mother were constantly on the watch to discover and avert danger; and

it was singular what instances of address seemed dictated by the

instinctive attachment of the poor simpleton when his patron’s safety

was concerned.

With Janet, Edward now sought an interview. He had recognised her at

first sight as the old woman who had nursed him during his sickness

after his delivery from Gifted Gilfillan. The hut also, although a

little repaired and somewhat better furnished, was certainly the place

of his confinement; and he now recollected on the common moor of

Tully-Veolan the trunk of a large decayed tree, called the trysting-tree,

which he had no doubt was the same at which the Highlanders

rendezvoused on that memorable night. All this he had combined in his

imagination the night before; but reasons which may probably occur to

the reader prevented him from catechising Janet in the presence of the

Baron.

He now commenced the task in good earnest; and the first question was,

Who was the young lady that visited the hut during his illness? Janet

paused for a little; and then observed, that to keep the secret now

would neither do good nor ill to anybody.

“It was just a leddy that hasna her equal in the world—Miss Rose

Bradwardine!”

“Then Miss Rose was probably also the author of my deliverance,”

inferred Waverley, delighted at the confirmation of an idea which local

circumstances had already induced him to entertain.

“I wot weel, Mr. Wauverley, and that was she e’en; but sair, sair angry

and affronted wad she hae been, puir thing, if she had thought ye had

been ever to ken a word about the matter; for she gar’d me speak aye

Gaelic when ye was in hearing, to mak ye trow we were in the Hielands.

I can speak it weil eneugh, for my mother was a Hieland woman.”

A few more questions now brought out the whole mystery respecting

Waverley’s deliverance from the bondage in which he left Cairnvreckan.

Never did music sound sweeter to an amateur than the drowsy tautology

with which old Janet detailed every circumstance thrilled upon the ears

of Waverley. But my reader is not a lover and I must spare his

patience, by attempting to condense within reasonable compass the

narrative which old Janet spread through a harangue of nearly two

hours.

When Waverley communicated to Fergus the letter he had received from

Rose Bradwardine by Davie Gellatley, giving an account of Tully-Veolan

being occupied by a small party of soldiers, that circumstance had

struck upon the busy and active mind of the Chieftain. Eager to

distress and narrow the posts of the enemy, desirous to prevent their

establishing a garrison so near him, and willing also to oblige the

Baron—for he often had the idea of marriage with Rose floating through

his brain—he resolved to send some of his people to drive out the

red-coats and to bring Rose to Glennaquoich. But just as he had ordered

Evan with a small party on this duty, the news of Cope’s having marched

into the Highlands, to meet and disperse the forces of the Chevalier

ere they came to a head, obliged him to join the standard with his

whole forces.

He sent to order Donald Bean to attend him; but that cautious

freebooter, who well understood the value of a separate command,

instead of joining, sent various apologies which the pressure of the

times compelled Fergus to admit as current, though not without the

internal resolution of being revenged on him for his procrastination,

time and place convenient. However, as he could not amend the matter,

he issued orders to Donald to descend into the Low Country, drive the

soldiers from Tully-Veolan, and, paying all respect to the mansion of

the Baron, to take his abode somewhere near it, for protection of his

daughter and family, and to harass and drive away any of the armed

volunteers or small parties of military which he might find moving

about the vicinity. As this charge formed a sort of roving commission,

which Donald proposed to interpret in the way most advantageous to

himself, as he was relieved from the immediate terrors of Fergus, and

as he had, from former secret services, some interest in the councils

of the Chevalier, he resolved to make hay while the sun shone. He

achieved without difficulty the task of driving the soldiers from

Tully-Veolan; but, although he did not venture to encroach upon the

interior of the family, or to disturb Miss Rose, being unwilling to

make himself a powerful enemy in the Chevalier’s army,

For well he knew the Baron’s wrath was deadly;

yet he set about to raise contributions and exactions upon the

tenantry, and otherwise to turn the war to his own advantage. Meanwhile

he mounted the white cockade, and waited upon Rose with a pretext of

great devotion for the service in which her father was engaged, and

many apologies for the freedom he must necessarily use for the support

of his people. It was at this moment that Rose learned, by open-mouthed

fame, with all sorts of exaggeration, that Waverley had killed the

smith at Cairnvreckan, in an attempt to arrest him; had been cast into

a dungeon by Major Melville of Cairnvreckan, and was to be executed by

martial law within three days. In the agony which these tidings excited

she proposed to Donald Bean the rescue of the prisoner. It was the very

sort of service which he was desirous to undertake, judging it might

constitute a merit of such a nature as would make amends for any

peccadilloes which he might be guilty of in the country. He had the

art, however, pleading all the while duty and discipline, to hold off,

until poor Rose, in the extremity of her distress, offered to bribe him

to the enterprise with some valuable jewels which had been her

mother’s.

Donald Bean, who had served in France, knew, and perhaps

over-estimated, the value of these trinkets. But he also perceived

Rose’s apprehensions of its being discovered that she had parted with

her jewels for Waverley’s liberation. Resolved this scruple should not

part him and the treasure, he voluntarily offered to take an oath that

he would never mention Miss Rose’s share in the transaction; and,

foreseeing convenience in keeping the oath and no probable advantage in

breaking it, he took the engagement—in order, as he told his

lieutenant, to deal handsomely by the young lady—in the only mode and

form which, by a mental paction with himself, he considered as binding:

he swore secrecy upon his drawn dirk. He was the more especially moved

to this act of good faith by some attentions that Miss Bradwardine

showed to his daughter Alice, which, while they gained the heart of the

mountain damsel, highly gratified the pride of her father. Alice, who

could now speak a little English, was very communicative in return for

Rose’s kindness, readily confided to her the whole papers respecting

the intrigue with Gardiner’s regiment, of which she was the depositary,

and as readily undertook, at her instance, to restore them to Waverley

without her father’s knowledge. For “they may oblige the bonnie young

lady and the handsome young gentleman,” said Alice, “and what use has

my father for a whin bits o’ scarted paper?”

The reader is aware that she took an opportunity of executing this

purpose on the eve of Waverley’s leaving the glen.

How Donald executed his enterprise the reader is aware. But the

expulsion of the military from Tully-Veolan had given alarm, and while

he was lying in wait for Gilfillan, a strong party, such as Donald did

not care to face, was sent to drive back the insurgents in their turn,

to encamp there, and to protect the country. The officer, a gentleman

and a disciplinarian, neither intruded himself on Miss Bradwardine,

whose unprotected situation he respected, nor permitted his soldiers to

commit any breach of discipline. He formed a little camp upon an

eminence near the house of Tully-Veolan, and placed proper guards at

the passes in the vicinity. This unwelcome news reached Donald Bean

Lean as he was returning to Tully-Veolan. Determined, however, to

obtain the guerdon of his labour, he resolved, since approach to

Tully-Veolan was impossible, to deposit his prisoner in Janet’s

cottage, a place the very existence of which could hardly have been

suspected even by those who had long lived in the vicinity, unless they

had been guided thither, and which was utterly unknown to Waverley

himself. This effected, he claimed and received his reward. Waverley’s

illness was an event which deranged all their calculations. Donald was

obliged to leave the neighbourhood with his people, and to seek more

free course for his adventures elsewhere. At Rose’s entreaty, he left

an old man, a herbalist, who was supposed to understand a little of

medicine, to attend Waverley during his illness.

In the meanwhile, new and fearful doubts started in Rose’s mind. They

were suggested by old Janet, who insisted that, a reward having been

offered for the apprehension of Waverley, and his own personal effects

being so valuable, there was no saying to what breach of faith Donald

might be tempted. In an agony of grief and terror, Rose took the daring

resolution of explaining to the Prince himself the danger in which Mr.

Waverley stood, judging that, both as a politician and a man of honour

and humanity, Charles Edward would interest himself to prevent his

falling into the hands of the opposite party. This letter she at first

thought of sending anonymously, but naturally feared it would not in

that case be credited. She therefore subscribed her name, though with

reluctance and terror, and consigned it in charge to a young man, who

at leaving his farm to join the Chevalier’s army, made it his petition

to her to have some sort of credentials to the adventurer, from whom he

hoped to obtain a commission.

The letter reached Charles Edward on his descent to the Lowlands, and,

aware of the political importance of having it supposed that he was in

correspondence with the English Jacobites, he caused the most positive

orders to be transmitted to Donald Bean Lean to transmit Waverley, safe

and uninjured, in person or effects, to the governor of Doune Castle.

The freebooter durst not disobey, for the army of the Prince was now so

near him that punishment might have followed; besides, he was a

politician as well as a robber, and was unwilling to cancel the

interest created through former secret services by being refractory on

this occasion. He therefore made a virtue of necessity, and transmitted

orders to his lieutenant to convey Edward to Doune, which was safely

accomplished in the mode mentioned in a former chapter. The governor of

Doune was directed to send him to Edinburgh as a prisoner, because the

Prince was apprehensive that Waverley, if set at liberty, might have

resumed his purpose of returning to England, without affording him an

opportunity of a personal interview. In this, indeed, he acted by the

advice of the Chieftain of Glennaquoich, with whom it may be remembered

the Chevalier communicated upon the mode of disposing of Edward, though

without telling him how he came to learn the place of his confinement.

This, indeed, Charles Edward considered as a lady’s secret; for

although Rose’s letter was couched in the most cautious and general

terms, and professed to be written merely from motives of humanity and

zeal for the Prince’s service, yet she expressed so anxious a wish that

she should not be known to have interfered, that the Chevalier was

induced to suspect the deep interest which she took in Waverley’s

safety. This conjecture, which was well founded, led, however, to false

inferences. For the emotion which Edward displayed on approaching Flora

and Rose at the ball of Holyrood was placed by the Chevalier to the

account of the latter; and he concluded that the Baron’s views about

the settlement of his property, or some such obstacle, thwarted their

mutual inclinations. Common fame, it is true, frequently gave Waverley

to Miss Mac-Ivor; but the Prince knew that common fame is very prodigal

in such gifts; and, watching attentively the behaviour of the ladies

towards Waverley, he had no doubt that the young Englishman had no

interest with Flora, and was beloved by Rose Bradwardine. Desirous to

bind Waverley to his service, and wishing also to do a kind and

friendly action, the Prince next assailed the Baron on the subject of

settling his estate upon his daughter. Mr. Bradwardine acquiesced; but

the consequence was that Fergus was immediately induced to prefer his

double suit for a wife and an earldom, which the Prince rejected in the

manner we have seen. The Chevalier, constantly engaged in his own

multiplied affairs, had not hitherto sought any explanation with

Waverley, though often meaning to do so. But after Fergus’s declaration

he saw the necessity of appearing neutral between the rivals, devoutly

hoping that the matter, which now seemed fraught with the seeds of

strife, might be permitted to lie over till the termination of the

expedition. When, on the march to Derby, Fergus, being questioned

concerning his quarrel with Waverley, alleged as the cause that Edward

was desirous of retracting the suit he had made to his sister, the

Chevalier plainly told him that he had himself observed Miss Mac-Ivor’s

behaviour to Waverley, and that he was convinced Fergus was under the

influence of a mistake in judging of Waverley’s conduct, who, he had

every reason to believe, was engaged to Miss Bradwardine. The quarrel

which ensued between Edward and the Chieftain is, I hope, still in the

remembrance of the reader. These circumstances will serve to explain

such points of our narrative as, according to the custom of

story-tellers, we deemed it fit to leave unexplained, for the purpose

of exciting the reader’s curiosity.

When Janet had once finished the leading facts of this narrative,

Waverley was easily enabled to apply the clue which they afforded to

other mazes of the labyrinth in which he had been engaged. To Rose

Bradwardine, then, he owed the life which he now thought he could

willingly have laid down to serve her. A little reflection convinced

him, however, that to live for her sake was more convenient and

agreeable, and that, being possessed of independence, she might share

it with him either in foreign countries or in his own. The pleasure of

being allied to a man of the Baron’s high worth, and who was so much

valued by his uncle Sir Everard, was also an agreeable consideration,

had anything been wanting to recommend the match. His absurdities,

which had appeared grotesquely ludicrous during his prosperity, seemed,

in the sunset of his fortune, to be harmonised and assimilated with the

noble features of his character, so as to add peculiarity without

exciting ridicule. His mind occupied with such projects of future

happiness, Edward sought Little Veolan, the habitation of Mr. Duncan

Macwheeble.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Now is Cupid a child of conscience—he makes restitution.

SHAKSPEARE.

Mr. Duncan MacWheeble, no longer Commissary or Bailie, though still

enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription

by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his

insignificance.

Edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts.

Before him was a large bicker of oatmeal porridge, and at the side

thereof a horn spoon and a bottle of two-penny. Eagerly running his eye

over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense

spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. A

pot-bellied Dutch bottle of brandy which stood by intimated either that

this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he

meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both

circumstances might reasonably be inferred. His night-cap and

morning-gown, had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and

frugal, the honest Bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original

ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to

Derby. To sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the

eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. He looked dubiously

at Waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his

desk and stool from the approach of the vulgar. Nothing could give the

Bailie more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed

by any of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to

need assistance than to afford profit. But this was the rich young

Englishman; who knew what might be his situation? He was the Baron’s

friend too; what was to be done?

[Illustration]

While these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor

man’s visage, Waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to

make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance

of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he

checked the propensity to exclaim with Syphax—

Cato’s a proper person to intrust

A love-tale with.

As Mr. Macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was

either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of

Edward’s countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own,

and, giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to Little Veolan, he asked

what he would choose for breakfast. His visitor had, in the first

place, something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the

door. Duncan by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of

danger to be apprehended; but he could not now draw back.

Convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to

be faithful, Edward communicated his present situation and future

schemes to Macwheeble. The wily agent listened with apprehension when

he found Waverley was still in a state of proscription; was somewhat

comforted by learning that he had a passport; rubbed his hands with

glee when he mentioned the amount of his present fortune; opened huge

eyes when he heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when

he expressed his intention to share them with Miss Rose Bradwardine,

ecstasy had almost deprived the honest man of his senses. The Bailie

started from his three-footed stool like the Pythoness from her tripod;

flung his best wig out of the window, because the block on which it was

placed stood in the way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling,

caught it as it fell; whistled “Tullochgorum”; danced a Highland fling

with inimitable grace and agility, and then threw himself exhausted

into a chair, exclaiming, “Lady Wauverley! ten thousand a year the

least penny! Lord preserve my poor understanding!”

[Illustration]

“Amen with all my heart,” said Waverley; “but now, Mr. Macwheeble, let

us proceed to business.” This word had somewhat a sedative effect, but

the Bailie’s head, as he expressed himself, was still “in the bees.” He

mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an

ample marginal fold, whipped down Dallas of St. Martin’s “Styles” from

a shelf, where that venerable work roosted with Stair’s “Institutions,”

Dirleton’s “Doubts,” Balfour’s “Practiques,” and a parcel of old

account-books, opened the volume at the article Contract of Marriage,

and prepared to make what he called a “sma’ minute to prevent parties

frae resiling.”

With some difficulty Waverley made him comprehend that he was going a

little too fast. He explained to him that he should want his

assistance, in the first place, to make his residence safe for the

time, by writing to the officer at Tully-Veolan that Mr. Stanley, an

English gentleman nearly related to Colonel Talbot, was upon a visit of

business at Mr. Macwheeble’s, and, knowing the state of the country,

had sent his passport for Captain Foster’s inspection. This produced a

polite answer from the officer, with an invitation to Mr. Stanley to

dine with him, which was declined (as may easily be supposed) under

pretence of business.

Waverley’s next request was, that Mr. Macwheeble would despatch a man

and horse to——, the post-town at which Colonel Talbot was to address

him, with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter

for Mr. Stanley, and then to forward it to Little Veolan with all

speed. In a moment the Bailie was in search of his apprentice (or

servitor, as he was called Sixty Years Since), Jock Scriever, and in

not much greater space of time Jock was on the back of the white pony.

“Tak care ye guide him weel, sir, for he’s aye been short in the wind

since—ahem—Lord be gude to me! (in a low voice), I was gaun to come out

wi’—since I rode whip and spur to fetch the Chevalier to redd Mr.

Wauverley and Vich Ian Vohr; and an uncanny coup I gat for my pains.

Lord forgie your honour! I might hae broken my neck; but troth it was

in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but this maks amends for a’. Lady

Wauverley! ten thousand a year! Lord be gude unto me!”

“But you forget, Mr. Macwheeble, we want the Baron’s consent—the

lady’s—”

“Never fear, I’se be caution for them; I’se gie you my personal

warrandice. Ten thousand a year! it dings Balmawhapple out and out—a

year’s rent’s worth a’ Balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! Lord make us

thankful!”

To turn the current of his feelings, Edward inquired if he had heard

anything lately of the Chieftain of Glennaquoich.

“Not one word,” answered Macwheeble, “but that he was still in Carlisle

Castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. I dinna wish the

young gentleman ill,” he said, “but I hope that they that hae got him

will keep him, and no let him back to this Hieland border to plague us

wi’ black-mail and a’ manner o’ violent, wrongous, and masterfu’

oppression and spoliation, both by himself and others of his causing,

sending, and hounding out; and he couldna tak care o’ the siller when

he had gotten it neither, but flung it a’ into yon idle quean’s lap at

Edinburgh; but light come light gane. For my part, I never wish to see

a kilt in the country again, nor a red-coat, nor a gun, for that

matter, unless it were to shoot a paitrick; they’re a’ tarr’d wi’ ae

stick. And when they have done ye wrang, even when ye hae gotten

decreet of spuilzie, oppression, and violent profits against them, what

better are ye? They hae na a plack to pay ye; ye need never extract

it.”

With such discourse, and the intervening topics of business, the time

passed until dinner, Macwheeble meanwhile promising to devise some mode

of introducing Edward at the Duchran, where Rose at present resided,

without risk of danger or suspicion; which seemed no very easy task,

since the laird was a very zealous friend to government. The

poultry-yard had been laid under requisition, and cockyleeky and Scotch

collops soon reeked in the Bailie’s little parlour. The landlord’s

cork-screw was just introduced into the muzzle of a pint bottle of

claret (cribbed possibly from the cellars of Tully-Veolan), when the

sight of the grey pony passing the window at full trot induced the

Bailie, but with due precaution, to place it aside for the moment.

Enter Jock Scriever with a packet for Mr. Stanley; it is Colonel

Talbot’s seal, and Edward’s ringers tremble as he undoes it. Two

official papers, folded, signed, and sealed in all formality, drop out.

They were hastily picked up by the Bailie, who had a natural respect

for everything resembling a deed, and, glancing slily on their titles,

his eyes, or rather spectacles, are greeted with “Protection by his

Royal Highness to the person of Cosmo Comyne Bradwardine, Esq., of that

ilk, commonly called Baron of Bradwardine, forfeited for his accession

to the late rebellion.” The other proves to be a protection of the same

tenor in favour of Edward Waverley, Esq. Colonel Talbot’s letter was in

these words:—

MY DEAR EDWARD,—I am just arrived here, and yet I have finished my

business; it has cost me some trouble though, as you shall hear. I

waited upon his Royal Highness immediately on my arrival, and found him

in no very good humour for my purpose. Three or four Scotch gentlemen

were just leaving his levee. After he had expressed himself to me very

courteously; “Would you think it,” he said, “Talbot, here have been

half a dozen of the most respectable gentlemen and best friends to

government north of the Forth, Major Melville of Cairnvreckan, Rubrick

of Duchran, and others, who have fairly wrung from me, by their

downright importunity, a present protection and the promise of a future

pardon for that stubborn old rebel whom they call Baron of Bradwardine.

They allege that his high personal character, and the clemency which he

showed to such of our people as fell into the rebels’ hands, should

weigh in his favour, especially as the loss of his estate is likely to

be a severe enough punishment. Rubrick has undertaken to keep him at

his own house till things are settled in the country; but it’s a little

hard to be forced in a manner to pardon such a mortal enemy to the

House of Brunswick.” This was no favourable moment for opening my

business; however, I said I was rejoiced to learn that his Royal

Highness was in the course of granting such requests, as it emboldened

me to present one of the like nature in my own name. He was very angry,

but I persisted; I mentioned the uniform support of our three votes in,

the house, touched modestly on services abroad, though valuable only in

his Royal Highness’s having been pleased kindly to accept them, and

founded pretty strongly on his own expressions of friendship and

good-will. He was embarrassed, but obstinate. I hinted the policy of

detaching, on all future occasions, the heir of such a fortune as your

uncle’s from the machinations of the disaffected. But I made no

impression. I mentioned the obligations which I lay under to Sir

Everard and to you personally, and claimed, as the sole reward of my

services, that he would be pleased to afford me the means of evincing

my gratitude. I perceived that he still meditated a refusal, and,

taking my commission from my pocket, I said (as a last resource) that,

as his Royal Highness did not, under these pressing circumstances,

think me worthy of a favour which he had not scrupled to grant to other

gentlemen whose services I could hardly judge more important than my

own, I must beg leave to deposit, with all humility, my commission in

his Royal Highness’s hands, and to retire from the service. He was not

prepared for this; he told me to take up my commission, said some

handsome things of my services, and granted my request. You are

therefore once more a free man, and I have promised for you that you

will be a good boy in future, and remember what you owe to the lenity

of government. Thus you see my prince can be as generous as yours. I do

not pretend, indeed, that he confers a favour with all the foreign

graces and compliments of your Chevalier errant; but he has a plain

English manner, and the evident reluctance with which he grants your

request indicates the sacrifice which he makes of his own inclination

to your wishes. My friend, the adjutant-general, has procured me a

duplicate of the Baron’s protection (the original being in Major

Melville’s possession), which I send to you, as I know that if you can

find him you will have pleasure in being the first to communicate the

joyful intelligence. He will of course repair to the Duchran without

loss of time, there to ride quarantine for a few weeks. As for you, I

give you leave to escort him thither, and to stay a week there, as I

understand a certain fair lady is in that quarter. And I have the

pleasure to tell you that whatever progress you can make in her good

graces will be highly agreeable to Sir Everard and Mrs. Rachel, who

will never believe your views and prospects settled, and the three

ermines passant in actual safety, until you present them with a Mrs.

Edward Waverley. Now, certain love-affairs of my own—a good many years

since—interrupted some measures which were then proposed in favour of

the three ermines passant; so I am bound in honour to make them amends.

Therefore make good use of your time, for, when your week is expired,

it will be necessary that you go to London to plead your pardon in the

law courts.

“Ever, dear Waverley, yours most truly,

“PHILIP TALBOT.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Happy’s the wooing

That’s not long a doing.

When the first rapturous sensation occasioned by these excellent

tidings had somewhat subsided, Edward proposed instantly to go down to

the glen to acquaint the Baron with their import. But the cautious

Bailie justly observed that, if the Baron were to appear instantly in

public, the tenantry and villagers might become riotous in expressing

their joy, and give offence to “the powers that be,” a sort of persons

for whom the Bailie always had unlimited respect. He therefore proposed

that Mr. Waverley should go to Janet Gellatley’s and bring the Baron up

under cloud of night to Little Veolan, where he might once more enjoy

the luxury of a good bed. In the meanwhile, he said, he himself would

go to Captain Foster and show him the Baron’s protection, and obtain

his countenance for harbouring him that night, and he would have horses

ready on the morrow to set him on his way to the Duchran along with Mr.

Stanley, “whilk denomination, I apprehend, your honour will for the

present retain,” said the Bailie.

“Certainly, Mr. Macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen

yourself in the evening to meet your patron?”

“That I wad wi’ a’ my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for

putting me in mind o’ my bounden duty. But it will be past sunset afore

I get back frae the Captain’s, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has

a bad name; there’s something no that canny about auld Janet Gellatley.

The Laird he’ll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and

venturesome, and feared neither man nor deevil, an sae’s seen o’t. But

right sure am I Sir George Mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt

there are witches, since the Bible says thou shalt not suffer them to

live; and that no lawyer in Scotland can doubt it, since it is

punishable with death by our law. So there’s baith law and gospel for

it. An his honour winna believe the Leviticus, he might aye believe the

Statute-book; but he may tak his ain way o’t; it’s a’ ane to Duncan

Macwheeble. However, I shall send to ask up auld Janet this e’en; it’s

best no to lightly them that have that character; and we’ll want Davie

to turn the spit, for I’ll gar Eppie put down a fat goose to the fire

for your honours to your supper.”

When it was near sunset Waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not

but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit

object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors. It resembled

exactly the description of Spenser:—

There, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found

A little cottage built of sticks and reeds,

In homely wise, and wall’d with sods around,

In which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds,

And wilful want, all careless of her needs,

So choosing solitary to abide

Far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds,

And hellish arts, from people she might hide,

And hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied.

He entered the cottage with these verses in his memory. Poor old Janet,

bent double with age and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about

the hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to

make her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her

expected guests. Waverley’s step made her start, look up, and fall

a-trembling, so much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron’s

safety. With difficulty Waverley made her comprehend that the Baron was

now safe from personal danger; and when her mind had admitted that

joyful news, it was equally hard to make her believe that he was not to

enter again upon possession of his estate. “It behoved to be,” she

said, “he wad get it back again; naebody wad be sae gripple as to tak

his gear after they had gi’en him a pardon: and for that Inch-Grabbit,

I could whiles wish mysell a witch for his sake, if I werena feared the

Enemy wad tak me at my word.” Waverley then gave her some money, and

promised that her fidelity should be rewarded. “How can I be rewarded,

sir, sae weel as just to see my auld maister and Miss Rose come back

and bruik their ain?”

Waverley now took leave of Janet, and soon stood beneath the Baron’s

Patmos. At a low whistle he observed the veteran peeping out to

reconnoitre, like an old badger with his head out of his hole. “Ye hae

come rather early, my good lad,” said he, descending; “I question if

the red-coats hae beat the tattoo yet, and we’re not safe till then.”

“Good news cannot be told too soon,” said Waverley; and with infinite

joy communicated to him the happy tidings. The old man stood for a

moment in silent devotion, then exclaimed, “Praise be to God! I shall

see my bairn again.”

“And never, I hope, to part with her more,” said Waverley.

“I trust in God not, unless it be to win the means of supporting her;

for my things are but in a bruckle state;—but what signifies warld’s

gear?”

“And if,” said Waverley modestly, “there were a situation in life which

would put Miss Bradwardine beyond the uncertainty of fortune, and in

the rank to which she was born, would you object to it, my dear Baron,

because it would make one of your friends the happiest man in the

world?” The Baron turned and looked at him with great earnestness.

“Yes,” continued Edward, “I shall not consider my sentence of

banishment as repealed unless you will give me permission to accompany

you to the Duchran, and—”

The Baron seemed collecting all his dignity to make a suitable reply to

what, at another time, he would have treated as the propounding a

treaty of alliance between the houses of Bradwardine and Waverley. But

his efforts were in vain; the father was too mighty for the Baron; the

pride of birth and rank were swept away; in the joyful surprise a

slight convulsion passed rapidly over his features, as he gave way to

the feelings of nature, threw his arms around Waverley’s neck, and

sobbed out—“My son, my son! if I had been to search the world, I would

have made my choice here.” Edward returned the embrace with great

sympathy of feeling, and for a little while they both kept silence. At

length it was broken by Edward. “But Miss Bradwardine?”

“She had never a will but her old father’s; besides, you are a likely

youth, of honest principles and high birth; no, she never had any other

will than mine, and in my proudest days I could not have wished a mair

eligible espousal for her than the nephew of my excellent old friend,

Sir Everard. But I hope, young man, ye deal na rashly in this matter? I

hope ye hae secured the approbation of your ain friends and allies,

particularly of your uncle, who is _in loco parentis?_ Ah! we maun tak

heed o’ that.” Edward assured him that Sir Everard would think himself

highly honoured in the flattering reception his proposal had met with,

and that it had his entire approbation; in evidence of which he put

Colonel Talbot’s letter into the Baron’s hand. The Baron read it with

great attention. “Sir Everard,” he said, “always despised wealth in

comparison of honour and birth; and indeed he hath no occasion to court

the _Diva Pecunia_. Yet I now wish, since this Malcolm turns out such a

parricide, for I can call him no better, as to think of alienating the

family inheritance—I now wish (his eyes fixed on a part of the roof

which was visible above the trees) that I could have left Rose the auld

hurley-house and the riggs belanging to it. And yet,” said he, resuming

more cheerfully, “it’s maybe as weel as it is; for, as Baron of

Bradwardine, I might have thought it my duty to insist upon certain

compliances respecting name and bearings, whilk now, as a landless

laird wi’ a tocherless daughter, no one can blame me for departing

from.”

“Now, Heaven be praised!” thought Edward, “that Sir Everard does not

hear these scruples! The three ermines passant and rampant bear would

certainly have gone together by the ears.” He then, with all the ardour

of a young lover, assured the Baron that he sought for his happiness

only in Rose’s heart and hand, and thought himself as happy in her

father’s simple approbation as if he had settled an earldom upon his

daughter.

They now reached Little Veolan. The goose was smoking on the table, and

the Bailie brandished his knife and fork. A joyous greeting took place

between him and his patron. The kitchen, too, had its company. Auld

Janet was established at the ingle-nook; Davie had turned the spit to

his immortal honour; and even Ban and Buscar, in the liberality of

Macwheeble’s joy, had been stuffed to the throat with food, and now lay

snoring on the floor.

The next day conducted the Baron and his young friend to the Duchran,

where the former was expected, in consequence of the success of the

nearly unanimous application of the Scottish friends of government in

his favour. This had been so general and so powerful that it was almost

thought his estate might have been saved, had it not passed into the

rapacious hands of his unworthy kinsman, whose right, arising out of

the Baron’s attainder, could not be affected by a pardon from the

crown. The old gentleman, however, said, with his usual spirit, he was

more gratified by the hold he possessed in the good opinion of his

neighbours than he would have been in being rehabilitated and restored

_in integrum_, had it been found practicable.”

We shall not attempt to describe the meeting of the father and

daughter, loving each other so affectionately, and separated under such

perilous circumstances. Still less shall we attempt to analyse the deep

blush of Rose at receiving the compliments of Waverley, or stop to

inquire whether she had any curiosity respecting the particular cause

of his journey to Scotland at that period. We shall not even trouble

the reader with the humdrum details of a courtship Sixty Years Since.

It is enough to say that, under so strict a martinet as the Baron, all

things were conducted in due form. He took upon himself, the morning

after their arrival, the task of announcing the proposal of Waverley to

Rose, which she heard with a proper degree of maiden timidity. Fame

does, however, say that Waverley had the evening before found five

minutes to apprise her of what was coming, while the rest of the

company were looking at three twisted serpents which formed a _jet

d’eau_ in the garden.

My fair readers will judge for themselves; but, for my part, I cannot

conceive how so important an affair could be communicated in so short a

space of time; at least, it certainly took a full hour in the Baron’s

mode of conveying it.

Waverley was now considered as a received lover in all the forms. He

was made, by dint of smirking and nodding on the part of the lady of

the house, to sit next Miss Bradwardine at dinner, to be Miss

Bradwardine’s partner at cards. If he came into the room, she of the

four Miss Rubricks who chanced to be next Rose was sure to recollect

that her thimble or her scissors were at the other end of the room, in

order to leave the seat nearest to Miss Bradwardine vacant for his

occupation. And sometimes, if papa and mamma were not in the way to

keep them on their good behaviour, the misses would titter a little.

The old Laird of Duchran would also have his occasional jest, and the

old lady her remark. Even the Baron could not refrain; but here Rose

escaped every embarrassment but that of conjecture, for his wit was

usually couched in a Latin quotation. The very footmen sometimes

grinned too broadly, the maidservants giggled mayhap too loud, and a

provoking air of intelligence seemed to pervade the whole family. Alice

Bean, the pretty maid of the cavern, who, after her father’s

misfortune, as she called it, had attended Rose as _fille-de-chambre_,

smiled and smirked with the best of them. Rose and Edward, however,

endured all these little vexatious circumstances as other folks have

done before and since, and probably contrived to obtain some

indemnification, since they are not supposed, on the whole, to have

been particularly unhappy during Waverley’s six days’ stay at the

Duchran.

It was finally arranged that Edward should go to Waverley-Honour to

make the necessary arrangements for his marriage, thence to London to

take the proper measures for pleading his pardon, and return as soon as

possible to claim the hand of his plighted bride. He also intended in

his journey to visit Colonel Talbot; but, above all, it was his most

important object to learn the fate of the unfortunate Chief of

Glennaquoich; to visit him at Carlisle, and to try whether anything

could be done for procuring, if not a pardon, a commutation at least,

or alleviation, of the punishment to which he was almost certain of

being condemned; and, in case of the worst, to offer the miserable

Flora an asylum with Rose, or otherwise to assist her views in any mode

which might seem possible. The fate of Fergus seemed hard to be

averted. Edward had already striven to interest his friend, Colonel

Talbot, in his behalf; but had been given distinctly to understand by

his reply that his credit in matters of that nature was totally

exhausted.

The Colonel was still in Edinburgh, and proposed to wait there for some

months upon business confided to him by the Duke of Cumberland. He was

to be joined by Lady Emily, to whom easy travelling and goat’s whey

were recommended, and who was to journey northward under the escort of

Francis Stanley. Edward, therefore, met the Colonel at Edinburgh, who

wished him joy in the kindest manner on his approaching happiness, and

cheerfully undertook many commissions which our hero was necessarily

obliged to delegate to his charge. But on the subject of Fergus he was

inexorable. He satisfied Edward, indeed, that his interference would be

unavailing; but, besides, Colonel Talbot owned that he could not

conscientiously use any influence in favour of that unfortunate

gentleman. “Justice,” he said, “which demanded some penalty of those

who had wrapped the whole nation in fear and in mourning, could not

perhaps have selected a fitter victim. He came to the field with the

fullest light upon the nature of his attempt. He had studied and

understood the subject. His father’s fate could not intimidate him; the

lenity of the laws which had restored to him his father’s property and

rights could not melt him. That he was brave, generous, and possessed

many good qualities only rendered him the more dangerous; that he was

enlightened and accomplished made his crime the less excusable; that he

was an enthusiast in a wrong cause only made him the more fit to be its

martyr. Above all, he had been the means of bringing many hundreds of

men into the field who, without him, would never have broken the peace

of the country.

“I repeat it,” said the Colonel, “though Heaven knows with a heart

distressed for him as an individual, that this young gentleman has

studied and fully understood the desperate game which he has played. He

threw for life or death, a coronet or a coffin; and he cannot now be

permitted, with justice to the country, to draw stakes because the dice

have gone against him.”

Such was the reasoning of those times, held even by brave and humane

men towards a vanquished enemy. Let us devoutly hope that, in this

respect at least, we shall never see the scenes or hold the sentiments

that were general in Britain Sixty Years Since.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Tomorrow? O that’s sudden!—Spare him, spare him!

SHAKSPEARE.

Edward, attended by his former servant Alick Polwarth, who had

re-entered his service at Edinburgh, reached Carlisle while the

commission of Oyer and Terminer on his unfortunate associates was yet

sitting. He had pushed forward in haste, not, alas! with the most

distant hope of saving Fergus, but to see him for the last time. I

ought to have mentioned that he had furnished funds for the defence of

the prisoners in the most liberal manner, as soon as he heard that the

day of trial was fixed. A solicitor and the first counsel accordingly

attended; but it was upon the same footing on which the first

physicians are usually summoned to the bedside of some dying man of

rank—the doctors to take the advantage of some incalculable chance of

an exertion of nature, the lawyers to avail themselves of the barely

possible occurrence of some legal flaw. Edward pressed into the court,

which was extremely crowded; but by his arriving from the north, and

his extreme eagerness and agitation, it was supposed he was a relation

of the prisoners, and people made way for him. It was the third sitting

of the court, and there were two men at the bar. The verdict of

“Guilty” was already pronounced. Edward just glanced at the bar during

the momentous pause which ensued. There was no mistaking the stately

form and noble features of Fergus Mac-Ivor, although his dress was

squalid and his countenance tinged with the sickly yellow hue of long

and close imprisonment. By his side was Evan Maccombich. Edward felt

sick and dizzy as he gazed on them; but he was recalled to himself as

the Clerk of Arraigns pronounced the solemn words: “Fergus Mac-Ivor of

Glennaquoich, otherwise called Vich Ian Vohr, and Evan Mac-Ivor, in the

Dhu of Tarrascleugh, otherwise called Evan Dhu, otherwise called Evan

Maccombich, or Evan Dhu MacCombich—you, and each of you, stand

attainted of high treason. What have you to say for yourselves why the

Court should not pronounce judgment against you, that you die according

to law?”

Fergus, as the presiding Judge was putting on the fatal cap of

judgment, placed his own bonnet upon his head, regarded him with a

steadfast and stern look, and replied in a firm voice, “I cannot let

this numerous audience suppose that to such an appeal I have no answer

to make. But what I have to say you would not bear to hear, for my

defence would be your condemnation. Proceed, then, in the name of God,

to do what is permitted to you. Yesterday and the day before you have

condemned loyal and honourable blood to be poured forth like water.

Spare not mine. Were that of all my ancestors in my veins, I would have

perilled it in this quarrel.” He resumed his seat and refused again to

rise.

Evan Maccombich looked at him with great earnestness, and, rising up,

seemed anxious to speak; but the confusion of the court, and the

perplexity arising from thinking in a language different from that in

which he was to express himself, kept him silent. There was a murmur of

compassion among the spectators, from the idea that the poor fellow

intended to plead the influence of his superior as an excuse for his

crime. The Judge commanded silence, and encouraged Evan to proceed. “I

was only ganging to say, my lord,” said Evan, in what he meant to be an

insinuating manner, “that if your excellent honour and the honourable

Court would let Vich Ian Vohr go free just this once, and let him gae

back to France, and no to trouble King George’s government again, that

ony six o’ the very best of his clan will be willing to be justified in

his stead; and if you’ll just let me gae down to Glennaquoich, I’ll

fetch them up to ye mysell, to head or hang, and you may begin wi’ me

the very first man.”

Notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, a sort of laugh was

heard in the court at the extraordinary nature of the proposal. The

Judge checked this indecency, and Evan, looking sternly around, when

the murmur abated, “If the Saxon gentlemen are laughing,” he said,

“because a poor man, such as me, thinks my life, or the life of six of

my degree, is worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, it’s like enough they may be

very right; but if they laugh because they think I would not keep my

word and come back to redeem him, I can tell them they ken neither the

heart of a Hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman.”

There was no farther inclination to laugh among the audience, and a

dead silence ensued.

The Judge then pronounced upon both prisoners the sentence of the law

of high treason, with all its horrible accompaniments. The execution

was appointed for the ensuing day. “For you, Fergus Mac-Ivor,”

continued the Judge, “I can hold out no hope of mercy. You must prepare

against to-morrow for your last sufferings here, and your great audit

hereafter.”

“I desire nothing else, my lord,” answered Fergus, in the same manly

and firm tone.

The hard eyes of Evan, which had been perpetually bent on his Chief,

were moistened with a tear. “For you, poor ignorant man,” continued the

Judge, “who, following the ideas in which you have been educated, have

this day given us a striking example how the loyalty due to the king

and state alone is, from your unhappy ideas of clanship, transferred to

some ambitious individual who ends by making you the tool of his

crimes—for you, I say, I feel so much compassion that, if you can make

up your mind to petition for grace, I will endeavour to procure it for

you. Otherwise—”

“Grace me no grace,” said Evan; “since you are to shed Vich Ian Vohr’s

blood, the only favour I would accept from you is to bid them loose my

hands and gie me my claymore, and bide you just a minute sitting where

you are!”

“Remove the prisoners,” said the Judge; “his blood be upon his own

head.”

Almost stupefied with his feelings, Edward found that the rush of the

crowd had conveyed him out into the street ere he knew what he was

doing. His immediate wish was to see and speak with Fergus once more.

He applied at the Castle where his unfortunate friend was confined, but

was refused admittance. “The High Sheriff,” a non-commissioned officer

said, “had requested of the governor that none should be admitted to

see the prisoner excepting his confessor and his sister.”

“And where was Miss Mac-Ivor?” They gave him the direction. It was the

house of a respectable Catholic family near Carlisle.

Repulsed from the gate of the Castle, and not venturing to make

application to the High Sheriff or Judges in his own unpopular name, he

had recourse to the solicitor who came down in Fergus’s behalf. This

gentleman told him that it was thought the public mind was in danger of

being debauched by the account of the last moments of these persons, as

given by the friends of the Pretender; that there had been a

resolution, therefore, to exclude all such persons as had not the plea

of near kindred for attending upon them. Yet he promised (to oblige the

heir of Waverley-Honour) to get him an order for admittance to the

prisoner the next morning, before his irons were knocked off for

execution.

“Is it of Fergus Mac-Ivor they speak thus,” thought Waverley, “or do I

dream? Of Fergus, the bold, the chivalrous, the free-minded, the lofty

chieftain of a tribe devoted to him? Is it he, that I have seen lead

the chase and head the attack, the brave, the active, the young, the

noble, the love of ladies, and the theme of song,—is it he who is

ironed like a malefactor, who is to be dragged on a hurdle to the

common gallows, to die a lingering and cruel death, and to be mangled

by the hand of the most outcast of wretches? Evil indeed was the

spectre that boded such a fate as this to the brave Chief of

Glennaquoich!”

With a faltering voice he requested the solicitor to find means to warn

Fergus of his intended visit, should he obtain permission to make it.

He then turned away from him, and, returning to the inn, wrote a

scarcely intelligible note to Flora Mac-Ivor, intimating his purpose to

wait upon her that evening. The messenger brought back a letter in

Flora’s beautiful Italian hand, which seemed scarce to tremble even

under this load of misery. “Miss Flora Mac-Ivor,” the letter bore,

“could not refuse to see the dearest friend of her dear brother, even

in her present circumstances of unparalleled distress.”

When Edward reached Miss Mac-Ivor’s present place of abode he was

instantly admitted. In a large and gloomy tapestried apartment Flora

was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of

white flannel. At a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a

foreigner, and of a religious order. She was reading in a book of

Catholic devotion, but when Waverley entered laid it on the table and

left the room. Flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand,

but neither ventured to attempt speech. Her fine complexion was totally

gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as

white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her

sable dress and jet-black hair. Yet, amid these marks of distress there

was nothing negligent or ill-arranged about her attire; even her hair,

though totally without ornament, was disposed with her usual attention

to neatness. The first words she uttered were, “Have you seen him?”

“Alas, no,” answered Waverley, “I have been refused admittance.”

“It accords with the rest,” she said; “but we must submit. Shall you

obtain leave, do you suppose?”

“For—for—tomorrow,” said Waverley; but muttering the last word so

faintly that it was almost unintelligible.

“Ay, then or never,” said Flora, “until”—she added, looking upward—“the

time when, I trust, we shall all meet. But I hope you will see him

while earth yet bears him. He always loved you at his heart, though—but

it is vain to talk of the past.”

“Vain indeed!” echoed Waverley.

“Or even of the future, my good friend,” said Flora, “so far as earthly

events are concerned; for how often have I pictured to myself the

strong possibility of this horrid issue, and tasked myself to consider

how I could support my part; and yet how far has all my anticipation

fallen short of the unimaginable bitterness of this hour!”

“Dear Flora, if your strength of mind—”

“Ay, there it is,” she answered, somewhat wildly; “there is, Mr.

Waverley, there is a busy devil at my heart that whispers—but it were

madness to listen to it—that the strength of mind on which Flora prided

herself has murdered her brother!”

“Good God! how can you give utterance to a thought so shocking?”

“Ay, is it not so? But yet it haunts me like a phantom; I know it is

unsubstantial and vain; but it _will_ be present; will intrude its

horrors on my mind; will whisper that my brother, as volatile as

ardent, would have divided his energies amid a hundred objects. It was

I who taught him to concentrate them and to gage all on this dreadful

and desperate cast. Oh that I could recollect that I had but once said

to him, ‘He that striketh with the sword shall die by the sword’; that

I had but once said, ‘Remain at home; reserve yourself, your vassals,

your life, for enterprises within the reach of man.’ But O, Mr.

Waverley, I spurred his fiery temper, and half of his ruin at least

lies with his sister!”

The horrid idea which she had intimated, Edward endeavoured to combat

by every incoherent argument that occurred to him. He recalled to her

the principles on which both thought it their duty to act, and in which

they had been educated.

“Do not think I have forgotten them,” she said, looking up with eager

quickness; “I do not regret his attempt because it was wrong!—O no, on

that point I am armed—but because it was impossible it could end

otherwise than thus.”

“Yet it did not always seem so desperate and hazardous as it was; and

it would have been chosen by the bold spirit of Fergus whether you had

approved it or no; your counsels only served to give unity and

consistence to his conduct; to dignify, but not to precipitate, his

resolution.” Flora had soon ceased to listen to Edward, and was again

intent upon her needlework.

“Do you remember,” she said, looking up with a ghastly smile, “you once

found me making Fergus’s bride-favours, and now I am sewing his bridal

garment. Our friends here,” she continued, with suppressed emotion,

“are to give hallowed earth in their chapel to the bloody relics of the

last Vich Ian Vohr. But they will not all rest together; no—his head!—I

shall not have the last miserable consolation of kissing the cold lips

of my dear, dear Fergus!”

The unfortunate Flora here, after one or two hysterical sobs, fainted

in her chair. The lady, who had been attending in the ante-room, now

entered hastily, and begged Edward to leave the room, but not the

house.

When he was recalled, after the space of nearly half an hour, he found

that, by a strong effort, Miss Mac-Ivor had greatly composed herself.

It was then he ventured to urge Miss Bradwardine’s claim to be

considered as an adopted sister, and empowered to assist her plans for

the future.

“I have had a letter from my dear Rose,” she replied, “to the same

purpose. Sorrow is selfish and engrossing, or I would have written to

express that, even in my own despair, I felt a gleam of pleasure at

learning her happy prospects, and at hearing that the good old Baron

has escaped the general wreck. Give this to my dearest Rose; it is her

poor Flora’s only ornament of value, and was the gift of a princess.”

She put into his hands a case containing the chain of diamonds with

which she used to decorate her hair. “To me it is in future useless.

The kindness of my friends has secured me a retreat in the convent of

the Scottish Benedictine nuns in Paris. Tomorrow—if indeed I can

survive tomorrow—I set forward on my journey with this venerable

sister. And now, Mr. Waverley, adieu! May you be as happy with Rose as

your amiable dispositions deserve; and think sometimes on the friends

you have lost. Do not attempt to see me again; it would be mistaken

kindness.”

She gave him her hand, on which Edward shed a torrent of tears, and

with a faltering step withdrew from the apartment, and returned to the

town of Carlisle. At the inn he found a letter from his law friend

intimating that he would be admitted to Fergus next morning as soon as

the Castle gates were opened, and permitted to remain with him till the

arrival of the Sheriff gave signal for the fatal procession.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XL

A darker departure is near,

The death-drum is muffled, and sable the bier.

CAMPBELL.

After a sleepless night, the first dawn of morning found Waverley on

the esplanade in front of the old Gothic gate of Carlisle Castle. But

he paced it long in every direction before the hour when, according to

the rules of the garrison, the gates were opened and the draw-bridge

lowered. He produced his order to the sergeant of the guard and was

admitted.

The place of Fergus’s confinement was a gloomy and vaulted apartment in

the central part of the Castle; a huge old tower, supposed to be of

great antiquity, and surrounded by outworks, seemingly of Henry VIII.’s

time, or somewhat later. The grating of the large old-fashioned bars

and bolts, withdrawn for the purpose of admitting Edward, was answered

by the clash of chains, as the unfortunate Chieftain, strongly and

heavily fettered, shuffled along the stone floor of his prison to fling

himself into his friend’s arms.

“My dear Edward,” he said, in a firm and even cheerful voice, “this is

truly kind. I heard of your approaching happiness with the highest

pleasure. And how does Rose? and how is our old whimsical friend the

Baron? Well, I trust, since I see you at freedom. And how will you

settle precedence between the three ermines passant and the bear and

boot-jack?”

“How, O how, my dear Fergus, can you talk of such things at such a

moment!”

“Why, we have entered Carlisle with happier auspices, to be sure; on

the 16th of November last, for example, when we marched in side by

side, and hoisted the white flag on these ancient towers. But I am no

boy, to sit down and weep because the luck has gone against me. I knew

the stake which I risked; we played the game boldly and the forfeit

shall be paid manfully. And now, since my time is short, let me come to

the questions that interest me most—the Prince, has he escaped the

bloodhounds?”

“He has, and is in safety.”

“Praised be God for that! Tell me the particulars of his escape.”

Waverley communicated that remarkable history, so far as it had then

transpired, to which Fergus listened with deep interest. He then asked

after several other friends; and made many minute inquiries concerning

the fate of his own clansmen. They had suffered less than other tribes

who had been engaged in the affair; for, having in a great measure

dispersed and returned home after the captivity of their Chieftain,

according to the universal custom of the Highlanders, they were not in

arms when the insurrection was finally suppressed, and consequently

were treated with less rigour. This Fergus heard with great

satisfaction.

“You are rich,” he said, “Waverley, and you are generous. When you hear

of these poor Mac-Ivors being distressed about their miserable

possessions by some harsh overseer or agent of government, remember you

have worn their tartan and are an adopted son of their race. The Baron,

who knows our manners and lives near our country, will apprise you of

the time and means to be their protector. Will you promise this to the

last Vich Ian Vohr?”

Edward, as may well be believed, pledged his word; which he afterwards

so amply redeemed that his memory still lives in these glens by the

name of the Friend of the Sons of Ivor.

“Would to God,” continued the Chieftain, “I could bequeath to you my

rights to the love and obedience of this primitive and brave race; or

at least, as I have striven to do, persuade poor Evan to accept of his

life upon their terms, and be to you what he has been to me, the

kindest, the bravest, the most devoted—”

The tears which his own fate could not draw forth fell fast for that of

his foster-brother.

“But,” said he, drying them, “that cannot be. You cannot be to them

Vich Ian Vohr; and these three magic words,” said he, half smiling,

“are the only Open Sesame to their feelings and sympathies, and poor

Evan must attend his foster-brother in death, as he has done through

his whole life.”

“And I am sure,” said Maccombich, raising himself from the floor, on

which, for fear of interrupting their conversation, he had lain so

still that, in the obscurity of the apartment, Edward was not aware of

his presence—“I am sure Evan never desired or deserved a better end

than just to die with his Chieftain.”

“And now,” said Fergus, “while we are upon the subject of clanship—what

think you now of the prediction of the Bodach Glas?” Then, before

Edward could answer, “I saw him again last night: he stood in the slip

of moonshine which fell from that high and narrow window towards my

bed. “Why should I fear him?” I thought; “to-morrow, long ere this

time, I shall be as immaterial as he.” “False spirit,” I said, “art

thou come to close thy walks on earth and to enjoy thy triumph in the

fall of the last descendant of thine enemy?” The spectre seemed to

beckon and to smile as he faded from my sight. What do you think of it?

I asked the same question of the priest, who is a good and sensible

man; he admitted that the church allowed that such apparitions were

possible, but urged me not to permit my mind to dwell upon it, as

imagination plays us such strange tricks. What do you think of it?”

“Much as your confessor,” said Waverley, willing to avoid dispute upon

such a point at such a moment. A tap at the door now announced that

good man, and Edward retired while he administered to both prisoners

the last rites of religion, in the mode which the Church of Rome

prescribes.

In about an hour he was re-admitted; soon after, a file of soldiers

entered with a blacksmith, who struck the fetters from the legs of the

prisoners.

“You see the compliment they pay to our Highland strength and courage;

we have lain chained here like wild beasts, till our legs are cramped

into palsy, and when they free us they send six soldiers with loaded

muskets to prevent our taking the castle by storm!”

Edward afterwards learned that these severe precautions had been taken

in consequence of a desperate attempt of the prisoners to escape, in

which they had very nearly succeeded.

Shortly afterwards the drums of the garrison beat to arms. “This is the

last turn-out,” said Fergus, “that I shall hear and obey. And now, my

dear, dear Edward, ere we part let us speak of Flora—a subject which

awakes the tenderest feeling that yet thrills within me.”

“We part not _here!_” said Waverley.

“O yes, we do; you must come no farther. Not that I fear what is to

follow for myself,” he said proudly. “Nature has her tortures as well

as art, and how happy should we think the man who escapes from the

throes of a mortal and painful disorder in the space of a short half

hour? And this matter, spin it out as they will, cannot last longer.

But what a dying man can suffer firmly may kill a living friend to look

upon. This same law of high treason,” he continued, with astonishing

firmness and composure, “is one of the blessings, Edward, with which

your free country has accommodated poor old Scotland; her own

jurisprudence, as I have heard, was much milder. But I suppose one day

or other—when there are no longer any wild Highlanders to benefit by

its tender mercies—they will blot it from their records as levelling

them with a nation of cannibals. The mummery, too, of exposing the

senseless head—they have not the wit to grace mine with a paper

coronet; there would be some satire in that, Edward. I hope they will

set it on the Scotch gate though, that I may look, even after death, to

the blue hills of my own country, which I love so dearly. The Baron

would have added,

Moritur, et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.”

A bustle, and the sound of wheels and horses’ feet, was now heard in

the court-yard of the Castle. “As I have told you why you must not

follow me, and these sounds admonish me that my time flies fast, tell

me how you found poor Flora.”

Waverley, with a voice interrupted by suffocating sensations, gave some

account of the state of her mind.

“Poor Flora!” answered the Chief, “she could have borne her own

sentence of death, but not mine. You, Waverley, will soon know the

happiness of mutual affection in the married state—long, long may Rose

and you enjoy it!—but you can never know the purity of feeling which

combines two orphans like Flora and me, left alone as it were in the

world, and being all in all to each other from our very infancy. But

her strong sense of duty and predominant feeling of loyalty will give

new nerve to her mind after the immediate and acute sensation of this

parting has passed away. She will then think of Fergus as of the heroes

of our race, upon whose deeds she loved to dwell.”

“Shall she not see you then?” asked Waverley. “She seemed to expect

it.”

“A necessary deceit will spare her the last dreadful parting. I could

not part with her without tears, and I cannot bear that these men

should think they have power to extort them. She was made to believe

she would see me at a later hour, and this letter, which my confessor

will deliver, will apprise her that all is over.”

An officer now appeared and intimated that the High Sheriff and his

attendants waited before the gate of the Castle to claim the bodies of

Fergus Mac-Ivor and Evan Maccombich. “I come,” said Fergus.

Accordingly, supporting Edward by the arm and followed by Evan Dhu and

the priest, he moved down the stairs of the tower, the soldiers

bringing up the rear. The court was occupied by a squadron of dragoons

and a battalion of infantry, drawn up in hollow square. Within their

ranks was the sledge or hurdle on which the prisoners were to be drawn

to the place of execution, about a mile distant from Carlisle. It was

painted black, and drawn by a white horse. At one end of the vehicle

sat the executioner, a horrid-looking fellow, as beseemed his trade,

with the broad axe in his hand; at the other end, next the horse, was

an empty seat for two persons. Through the deep and dark Gothic archway

that opened on the drawbridge were seen on horseback the High Sheriff

and his attendants, whom the etiquette betwixt the civil and military

powers did not permit to come farther. “This is well _got up_ for a

closing scene,” said Fergus, smiling disdainfully as he gazed around

upon the apparatus of terror. Evan Dhu exclaimed with some eagerness,

after looking at the dragoons,” These are the very chields that

galloped off at Gladsmuir, before we could kill a dozen o’ them. They

look bold enough now, however.” The priest entreated him to be silent.

The sledge now approached, and Fergus, turning round, embraced

Waverley, kissed him on each side of the face, and stepped nimbly into

his place. Evan sat down by his side. The priest was to follow in a

carriage belonging to his patron, the Catholic gentleman at whose house

Flora resided. As Fergus waved his hand to Edward the ranks closed

around the sledge, and the whole procession began to move forward.

There was a momentary stop at the gateway, while the governor of the

Castle and the High Sheriff went through a short ceremony, the military

officer there delivering over the persons of the criminals to the civil

power. “God save King George!” said the High Sheriff. When the

formality concluded, Fergus stood erect in the sledge, and, with a firm

and steady voice, replied,” God save King _James!_ “These were the last

words which Waverley heard him speak.

The procession resumed its march, and the sledge vanished from beneath

the portal, under which it had stopped for an instant. The dead march

was then heard, and its melancholy sounds were mingled with those of a

muffled peal tolled from the neighbouring cathedral. The sound of

military music died away as the procession moved on; the sullen clang

of the bells was soon heard to sound alone.

The last of the soldiers had now disappeared from under the vaulted

archway through which they had been filing for several minutes; the

court-yard was now totally empty, but Waverley still stood there as if

stupefied, his eyes fixed upon the dark pass where he had so lately

seen the last glimpse of his friend. At length a female servant of the

governor’s, struck with compassion, at the stupefied misery which his

countenance expressed, asked him if he would not walk into her master’s

house and sit down? She was obliged to repeat her question twice ere he

comprehended her, but at length it recalled him to himself. Declining

the courtesy by a hasty gesture, he pulled his hat over his eyes, and,

leaving the Castle, walked as swiftly as he could through the empty

streets till he regained his inn, then rushed into an apartment and

bolted the door.

In about an hour and a half, which seemed an age of unutterable

suspense, the sound of the drums and fifes performing a lively air, and

the confused murmur of the crowd which now filled the streets, so

lately deserted, apprised him that all was finished, and that the

military and populace were returning from the dreadful scene. I will

not attempt to describe his sensations.

In the evening the priest made him a visit, and informed him that he

did so by directions of his deceased friend, to assure him that Fergus

Mac-Ivor had died as he lived, and remembered his friendship to the

last. He added, he had also seen Flora, whose state of mind seemed more

composed since all was over. With her and sister Theresa the priest

proposed next day to leave Carlisle for the nearest seaport from which

they could embark for France. Waverley forced on this good man a ring

of some value and a sum of money to be employed (as he thought might

gratify Flora) in the services of the Catholic church for the memory of

his friend. “Fungarque inani munere,” he repeated, as the ecclesiastic

retired. “Yet why not class these acts of remembrance with other

honours, with which affection in all sects pursues the memory of the

dead?”

The next morning ere daylight he took leave of the town of Carlisle,

promising to himself never again to enter its walls. He dared hardly

look back towards the Gothic battlements of the fortified gate under

which he passed, for the place is surrounded with an old wall. “They’re

no there,” said Alick Polwarth, who guessed the cause of the dubious

look which Waverley cast backward, and who, with the vulgar appetite

for the horrible, was master of each detail of the butchery—“the heads

are ower the Scotch yate, as they ca’ it. It’s a great pity of Evan

Dhu, who was a very weel-meaning, good-natured man, to be a Hielandman;

and indeed so was the Laird o’ Glennaquoich too, for that matter, when

he wasna in ane o’ his tirrivies.”