第 二十三 章 · WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH

. WAVERLEY CONTINUES AT GLENNAQUOICH

As Flora concluded her song, Fergus stood before them. “I knew I should

find you here, even without the assistance of my friend Bran. A simple

and unsublimed taste now, like my own, would prefer a _jet d’eau_ at

Versailles to this cascade, with all its accompaniments of rock and

roar; but this is Flora’s Parnassus, Captain Waverley, and that

fountain her Helicon. It would be greatly for the benefit of my cellar

if she could teach her coadjutor, Mac-Murrough, the value of its

influence: he has just drunk a pint of usquebaugh to correct, he said,

the coldness of the claret. Let me try its virtues.” He sipped a little

water in the hollow of his hand, and immediately commenced, with a

theatrical air,—

“O Lady of the desert, hail!

That lovest the harping of the Gael,

Through fair and fertile regions borne,

Where never yet grew grass or corn.

But English poetry will never succeed under the influence of a Highland

Helicon. _Allons, courage!_

O vous, qui buvez, à tasse pleine,

A cette heureuse fontaine,

Où on ne voit, sur le rivage,

Que quelques vilains troupeaux,

Suivis de nymphes de village,

Qui les escortent sans sabots—”

“A truce, dear Fergus! spare us those most tedious and insipid persons

of all Arcadia. Do not, for Heaven’s sake, bring down Coridon and

Lindor upon us.”

“Nay, if you cannot relish _la houlette et le chalumeau_, have with you

in heroic strains.”

“Dear Fergus, you have certainly partaken of the inspiration of

Mac-Murrough’s cup rather than of mine.”

“I disclaim it, _ma belle demoiselle_, although I protest it would be

the more congenial of the two. Which of your crack-brained Italian

romancers is it that says,

Io d’Elicona niente

Mi curo, in fe de Dio; che’l bere d’acque

(Bea chi ber ne vuol) sempre mi spiacque![*]

[* Good sooth, I reck nought of your Helicon;

Drink water whoso will, in faith I will drink none.]

But if you prefer the Gaelic, Captain Waverley, here is little Cathleen

shall sing you Drimmindhu. Come, Cathleen, _astore_ (that is, my dear),

begin; no apologies to the _Cean-kinné_.”

Cathleen sung with much liveliness a little Gaelic song, the burlesque

elegy of a countryman on the loss of his cow, the comic tones of which,

though he did not understand the language, made Waverley laugh more

than once.[*]

[* This ancient Gaelic ditty is still well known, both in the Highlands

and in Ireland. It was translated into English, and published, if I

mistake not, under the auspices of the facetious Tom D’Urfey, by the

title of “Colley, my Cow.”]

“Admirable, Cathleen!” cried the Chieftain; “I must find you a handsome

husband among the clansmen one of these days.”

Cathleen laughed, blushed, and sheltered herself behind her companion.

In the progress of their return to the castle, the Chieftain warmly

pressed Waverley to remain for a week or two, in order to see a grand

hunting party, in which he and some other Highland gentlemen proposed

to join. The charms of melody and beauty were too strongly impressed in

Edward’s breast to permit his declining an invitation so pleasing. It

was agreed, therefore, that he should write a note to the Baron of

Bradwardine, expressing his intention to stay a fortnight at

Glennaquoich, and requesting him to forward by the bearer (a _gilly_ of

the Chieftain’s) any letters which might have arrived for him.

This turned the discourse upon the Baron, whom Fergus highly extolled

as a gentleman and soldier. His character was touched with yet more

discrimination by Flora, who observed he was the very model of the old

Scottish cavalier, with all his excellencies and peculiarities. “It is

a character, Captain Waverley, which is fast disappearing; for its best

point was a self-respect which was never lost sight of till now. But in

the present time the gentlemen whose principles do not permit them to

pay court to the existing government are neglected and degraded, and

many conduct themselves accordingly; and, like some of the persons you

have seen at Tully-Veolan, adopt habits and companions inconsistent

with their birth and breeding. The ruthless proscription of party seems

to degrade the victims whom it brands, however unjustly. But let us

hope a brighter day is approaching, when a Scottish country gentleman

may be a scholar without the pedantry of our friend the Baron, a

sportsman without the low habits of Mr. Falconer, and a judicious

improver of his property without becoming a boorish two-legged steer

like Killancureit.”

Thus did Flora prophesy a revolution, which time indeed has produced,

but in a manner very different from what she had in her mind.

The amiable Rose was next mentioned, with the warmest encomium on her

person, manners, and mind. “That man,” said Flora, “will find an

inestimable treasure in the affections of Rose Bradwardine who shall be

so fortunate as to become their object. Her very soul is in home, and

in the discharge of all those quiet virtues of which home is the

centre. Her husband will be to her what her father now is, the object

of all her care, solicitude, and affection. She will see nothing, and

connect herself with nothing, but by him and through him. If he is a

man of sense and virtue, she will sympathise in his sorrows, divert his

fatigue, and share his pleasures. If she becomes the property of a

churlish or negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she

will not long survive his unkindness. And, alas! how great is the

chance that some such unworthy lot may be that of my poor friend! O

that I were a queen this moment, and could command the most amiable and

worthy youth of my kingdom to accept happiness with the hand of Rose

Bradwardine!”

“I wish you would command her to accept mine _en attendant_,” said

Fergus, laughing.

I don’t know by what caprice it was that this wish, however jocularly

expressed, rather jarred on Edward’s feelings, notwithstanding his

growing inclination to Flora and his indifference to Miss Bradwardine.

This is one of the inexplicabilities of human nature, which we leave

without comment.

“Yours, brother?” answered Flora, regarding him steadily. “No; you have

another bride—Honour; and the dangers you must run in pursuit of her

rival would break poor Rose’s heart.”

With this discourse they reached the castle, and Waverley soon prepared

his despatches for Tully-Veolan. As he knew the Baron was punctilious

in such matters, he was about to impress his billet with a seal on

which his armorial bearings were engraved, but he did not find it at

his watch, and thought he must have left it at Tully-Veolan. He

mentioned his loss, borrowing at the same time the family seal of the

Chieftain.

“Surely,” said Miss Mac-Ivor, “Donald Bean Lean would not—”

“My life for him in such circumstances,” answered her brother;

“besides, he would never have left the watch behind.”

“After all, Fergus,” said Flora, “and with every allowance, I am

surprised you can countenance that man.”

“I countenance him? This kind sister of mine would persuade you,

Captain Waverley, that I take what the people of old used to call “a

steakraid,” that is, a “collop of the foray,” or, in plainer words, a

portion of the robber’s booty, paid by him to the Laird, or Chief,

through whose grounds he drove his prey. O, it is certain that, unless

I can find some way to charm Flora’s tongue, General Blakeney will send

a sergeant’s party from Stirling (this he said with haughty and

emphatic irony) to seize Vich Ian Vohr, as they nickname me, in his own

castle.”

“Now, Fergus, must not our guest be sensible that all this is folly and

affectation? You have men enough to serve you without enlisting

banditti, and your own honour is above taint. Why don’t you send this

Donald Bean Lean, whom I hate for his smoothness and duplicity even

more than for his rapine, out of your country at once? No cause should

induce me to tolerate such a character.”

“_No_ cause, Flora?” said the Chieftain significantly.

“No cause, Fergus! not even that which is nearest to my heart. Spare it

the omen of such evil supporters!”

“O but, sister,” rejoined the Chief gaily, “you don’t consider my

respect for _la belle passion_. Evan Dhu Maccombich is in love with

Donald’s daughter, Alice, and you cannot expect me to disturb him in

his amours. Why, the whole clan would cry shame on me. You know it is

one of their wise sayings, that a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but

a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.”

“Well, Fergus, there is no disputing with you; but I would all this may

end well.”

“Devoutly prayed, my dear and prophetic sister, and the best way in the

world to close a dubious argument. But hear ye not the pipes, Captain

Waverley? Perhaps you will like better to dance to them in the hall

than to be deafened with their harmony without taking part in the

exercise they invite us to.”

Waverley took Flora’s hand. The dance, song, and merry-making

proceeded, and closed the day’s entertainment at the castle of Vich Ian

Vohr. Edward at length retired, his mind agitated by a variety of new

and conflicting feelings, which detained him from rest for some time,

in that not unpleasing state of mind in which fancy takes the helm, and

the soul rather drifts passively along with the rapid and confused tide

of reflections than exerts itself to encounter, systematise, or examine

them. At a late hour he fell asleep, and dreamed of Flora Mac-Ivor.