Вальтер Скотт
Old Mortality, Complete
Much alarmed at the import of these expressions, which seemed to burst from him even in sleep with the stern energy accompanying the perpetration of some act of violence, Morton shook his guest by the shoulder in order to awake him. The first words he uttered were, “Bear me where ye will, I will avouch the deed!”
His glance around having then fully awakened him, he at once assumed all the stern and gloomy composure of his ordinary manner, and throwing himself on his knees, before speaking to Morton, poured forth an ejaculatory prayer for the suffering Church of Scotland, entreating that the blood of her murdered saints and martyrs might be precious in the sight of Heaven, and that the shield of the Almighty might be spread over the scattered remnant, who, for His name’s sake, were abiders in the wilderness. Vengeance—speedy and ample vengeance on the oppressors, was the concluding petition of his devotions, which he expressed aloud in strong and emphatic language, rendered more impressive by the Orientalism of Scripture.
When he had finished his prayer he arose, and, taking Morton by the arm, they descended together to the stable, where the Wanderer (to give Burley a title which was often conferred on his sect) began to make his horse ready to pursue his journey. When the animal was saddled and bridled, Burley requested Morton to walk with him a gun-shot into the wood, and direct him to the right road for gaining the moors. Morton readily complied, and they walked for some time in silence under the shade of some fine old trees, pursuing a sort of natural path, which, after passing through woodland for about half a mile, led into the bare and wild country which extends to the foot of the hills.
There was little conversation between them, until at length Burley suddenly asked Morton, “Whether the words he had spoken over-night had borne fruit in his mind?”
Morton answered, “That he remained of the same opinion which he had formerly held, and was determined, at least as far and as long as possible, to unite the duties of a good Christian with those of a peaceful subject.”
“In other words,” replied Burley, “you are desirous to serve both God and Mammon—to be one day professing the truth with your lips, and the next day in arms, at the command of carnal and tyrannic authority, to shed the blood of those who for the truth have forsaken all things? Think ye,” he continued, “to touch pitch and remain undefiled? to mix in the ranks of malignants, papists, papa-prelatists, latitudinarians, and scoffers; to partake of their sports, which are like the meat offered unto idols; to hold intercourse, perchance, with their daughters, as the sons of God with the daughters of men in the world before the flood—Think you, I say, to do all these things, and yet remain free from pollution? I say unto you, that all communication with the enemies of the Church is the accursed thing which God hateth! Touch not—taste not—handle not! And grieve not, young man, as if you alone were called upon to subdue your carnal affections, and renounce the pleasures which are a snare to your feet—I say to you, that the Son of David hath denounced no better lot on the whole generation of mankind.”
He then mounted his horse, and, turning to Morton, repeated the text of Scripture, “An heavy yoke was ordained for the sons of Adam from the day they go out of their mother’s womb, till the day that they return to the mother of all things; from him who is clothed in blue silk and weareth a crown, even to him who weareth simple linen,—wrath, envy, trouble, and unquietness, rigour, strife, and fear of death in the time of rest.”
Having uttered these words he set his horse in motion, and soon disappeared among the boughs of the forest.
“Farewell, stern enthusiast,” said Morton, looking after him; “in some moods of my mind, how dangerous would be the society of such a companion! If I am unmoved by his zeal for abstract doctrines of faith, or rather for a peculiar mode of worship, (such was the purport of his reflections,) can I be a man, and a Scotchman, and look with indifference on that persecution which has made wise men mad? Was not the cause of freedom, civil and religious, that for which my father fought; and shall I do well to remain inactive, or to take the part of an oppressive government, if there should appear any rational prospect of redressing the insufferable wrongs to which my miserable countrymen are subjected?– And yet, who shall warrant me that these people, rendered wild by persecution, would not, in the hour of victory, be as cruel and as intolerant as those by whom they are now hunted down? What degree of moderation, or of mercy, can be expected from this Burley, so distinguished as one of their principal champions, and who seems even now to be reeking from some recent deed of violence, and to feel stings of remorse, which even his enthusiasm cannot altogether stifle? I am weary of seeing nothing but violence and fury around me—now assuming the mask of lawful authority, now taking that of religious zeal. I am sick of my country—of myself—of my dependent situation—of my repressed feelings—of these woods—of that river—of that house—of all but—Edith, and she can never be mine! Why should I haunt her walks?—Why encourage my own delusion, and perhaps hers?—She can never be mine. Her grandmother’s pride—the opposite principles of our families—my wretched state of dependence—a poor miserable slave, for I have not even the wages of a servant—all circumstances give the lie to the vain hope that we can ever be united. Why then protract a delusion so painful?
“But I am no slave,” he said aloud, and drawing himself up to his full stature—“no slave, in one respect, surely. I can change my abode—my father’s sword is mine, and Europe lies open before me, as before him and hundreds besides of my countrymen, who have filled it with the fame of their exploits. Perhaps some lucky chance may raise me to a rank with our Ruthvens, our Lesleys, our Monroes, the chosen leaders of the famous Protestant champion, Gustavus Adolphus, or, if not, a soldier’s life or a soldier’s grave.”
When he had formed this determination, he found himself near the door of his uncle’s house, and resolved to lose no time in making him acquainted with it.
“Another glance of Edith’s eye, another walk by Edith’s side, and my resolution would melt away. I will take an irrevocable step, therefore, and then see her for the last time.”
In this mood he entered the wainscotted parlour, in which his uncle was already placed at his morning’s refreshment, a huge plate of oatmeal porridge, with a corresponding allowance of butter-milk. The favourite housekeeper was in attendance, half standing, half resting on the back of a chair, in a posture betwixt freedom and respect. The old gentleman had been remarkably tall in his earlier days, an advantage which he now lost by stooping to such a degree, that at a meeting, where there was some dispute concerning the sort of arch which should be thrown over a considerable brook, a facetious neighbour proposed to offer Milnwood a handsome sum for his curved backbone, alleging that he would sell any thing that belonged to him. Splay feet of unusual size, long thin hands, garnished with nails which seldom felt the steel, a wrinkled and puckered visage, the length of which corresponded with that of his person, together with a pair of little sharp bargain-making grey eyes, that seemed eternally looking out for their advantage, completed the highly unpromising exterior of Mr Morton of Milnwood. As it would have been very injudicious to have lodged a liberal or benevolent disposition in such an unworthy cabinet, nature had suited his person with a mind exactly in conformity with it, that is to say, mean, selfish, and covetous.
When this amiable personage was aware of the presence of his nephew, he hastened, before addressing him, to swallow the spoonful of porridge which he was in the act of conveying to his mouth, and, as it chanced to be scalding hot, the pain occasioned by its descent down his throat and into his stomach, inflamed the ill-humour with which he was already prepared to meet his kinsman.
“The deil take them that made them!” was his first ejaculation, apostrophizing his mess of porridge.
“They’re gude parritch eneugh,” said Mrs Wilson, “if ye wad but take time to sup them. I made them mysell; but if folk winna hae patience, they should get their thrapples causewayed.”
“Haud your peace, Alison! I was speaking to my nevoy.—How is this, sir? And what sort o’ scampering gates are these o’ going on? Ye were not at hame last night till near midnight.”
“Thereabouts, sir, I believe,” answered Morton, in an indifferent tone.
“Thereabouts, sir?—What sort of an answer is that, sir? Why came ye na hame when other folk left the grund?”
“I suppose you know the reason very well, sir,” said Morton; “I had the fortune to be the best marksman of the day, and remained, as is usual, to give some little entertainment to the other young men.”
“The deevil ye did, sir! And ye come to tell me that to my face? You pretend to gie entertainments, that canna come by a dinner except by sorning on a carefu’ man like me? But if ye put me to charges, I’se work it out o’ye. I seena why ye shouldna haud the pleugh, now that the pleughman has left us; it wad set ye better than wearing thae green duds, and wasting your siller on powther and lead; it wad put ye in an honest calling, and wad keep ye in bread without being behadden to ony ane.”
“I am very ambitious of learning such a calling, sir, but I don’t understand driving the plough.”
“And what for no? It’s easier than your gunning and archery that ye like sae weel. Auld Davie is ca’ing it e’en now, and ye may be goadsman for the first twa or three days, and tak tent ye dinna o’erdrive the owsen, and then ye will be fit to gang betweeu the stilts. Ye’ll ne’er learn younger, I’ll be your caution. Haggie-holm is heavy land, and Davie is ower auld to keep the coulter down now.”
“I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir, but I have formed a scheme for myself, which will have the same effect of relieving you of the burden and charge attending my company.”
“Ay? Indeed? a scheme o’ yours? that must be a denty ane!” said the uncle, with a very peculiar sneer; “let’s hear about it, lad.”
“It is said in two words, sir. I intend to leave this country, and serve abroad, as my father did before these unhappy troubles broke out at home. His name will not be so entirely forgotten in the countries where he served, but that it will procure his son at least the opportunity of trying his fortune as a soldier.”
“Gude be gracious to us!” exclaimed the housekeeper; “our young Mr Harry gang abroad? na, na! eh, na! that maun never be.”
Milnwood, entertaining no thought or purpose of parting with his nephew, who was, moreover, very useful to him in many respects, was thunderstruck at this abrupt declaration of independence from a person whose deference to him had hitherto been unlimited. He recovered himself, however, immediately.
“And wha do you think is to give you the means, young man, for such a wild-goose chase? Not I, I am sure. I can hardly support you at hame. And ye wad be marrying, I’se warrant, as your father did afore ye, too, and sending your uncle hame a pack o’ weans to be fighting and skirling through the house in my auld days, and to take wing and flee aff like yoursell, whenever they were asked to serve a turn about the town?”
“I have no thoughts of ever marrying,” answered Henry.
“Hear till him now!” said the housekeeper. “It’s a shame to hear a douce young lad speak in that way, since a’ the warld kens that they maun either marry or do waur.”
“Haud your peace, Alison,” said her master; “and you, Harry,” (he added more mildly,) “put this nonsense out o’ your head—this comes o’ letting ye gang a-sodgering for a day—mind ye hae nae siller, lad, for ony sic nonsense plans.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, my wants shall be very few; and would you please to give me the gold chain, which the Margrave gave to my father after the battle of Lutzen”—“Mercy on us! the gowd chain?” exclaimed his uncle.
“The chain of gowd!” re-echoed the housekeeper, both aghast with astonishment at the audacity of the proposal.
–“I will keep a few links,” continued the young man, “to remind me of him by whom it was won, and the place where he won it,” continued Morton; “the rest shall furnish me the means of following the same career in which my father obtained that mark of distinction.”
“Mercifu’ powers!” exclaimed the governante, “my master wears it every Sunday!”
“Sunday and Saturday,” added old Milnwood, “whenever I put on my black velvet coat; and Wylie Mactrickit is partly of opinion it’s a kind of heir-loom, that rather belangs to the head of the house than to the immediate descendant. It has three thousand links; I have counted them a thousand times. It’s worth three hundred pounds sterling.”
“That is more than I want, sir; if you choose to give me the third part of the money, and five links of the chain, it will amply serve my purpose, and the rest will be some slight atonement for the expense and trouble I have put you to.”
“The laddie’s in a creel!” exclaimed his uncle. “O, sirs, what will become o’ the rigs o’ Milnwood when I am dead and gane! He would fling the crown of Scotland awa, if he had it.”
“Hout, sir,” said the old housekeeper, “I maun e’en say it’s partly your ain faut. Ye maunna curb his head ower sair in neither; and, to be sure, since he has gane doun to the Howff, ye maun just e’en pay the lawing.”
“If it be not abune twa dollars, Alison,” said the old gentleman, very reluctantly.
“I’ll settle it myself wi’Niel Blane, the first time I gang down to the clachan,” said Alison, “cheaper than your honour or Mr Harry can do;” and then whispered to Henry, “Dinna vex him onymair; I’ll pay the lave out o’ the butter siller, and nae mair words about it.” Then proceeding aloud, “And ye maunna speak o’ the young gentleman hauding the pleugh; there’s puir distressed whigs enow about the country will be glad to do that for a bite and a soup—it sets them far better than the like o’ him.”
“And then we’ll hae the dragoons on us,” said Milnwood, “for comforting and entertaining intercommuned rebels; a bonny strait ye wad put us in!– But take your breakfast, Harry, and then lay by your new green coat, and put on your Raploch grey; it’s a mair mensfu’ and thrifty dress, and a mair seemly sight, than thae dangling slops and ribbands.”
Morton left the room, perceiving plainly that he had at present no chance of gaining his purpose, and, perhaps, not altogether displeased at the obstacles which seemed to present themselves to his leaving the neighbourhood of Tillietudlem. The housekeeper followed him into the next room, patting him on the back, and bidding him “be a gude bairn, and pit by his braw things.”
“And I’ll loop doun your hat, and lay by the band and ribband,” said the officious dame; “and ye maun never, at no hand, speak o’ leaving the land, or of selling the gowd chain, for your uncle has an unco pleasure in looking on you, and in counting the links of the chainzie; and ye ken auld folk canna last for ever; sae the chain, and the lands, and a’ will be your ain ae day; and ye may marry ony leddy in the country-side ye like, and keep a braw house at Milnwood, for there’s enow o’ means; and is not that worth waiting for, my dow?”
There was something in the latter part of the prognostic which sounded so agreeably in the ears of Morton, that he shook the old dame cordially by the hand, and assured her he was much obliged by her good advice, and would weigh it carefully before he proceeded to act upon his former resolution.
CHAPTER VII
From seventeen years till now, almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week.
As You Like it.
We must conduct our readers to the Tower of Tillietudlem, to which Lady Margaret Bellenden had returned, in romantic phrase, malecontent and full of heaviness, at the unexpected, and, as she deemed it, indelible affront, which had been brought upon her dignity by the public miscarriage of Goose Gibbie. That unfortunate man-at-arms was forthwith commanded to drive his feathered charge to the most remote parts of the common moor, and on no account to awaken the grief or resentment of his lady, by appearing in her presence while the sense of the affront was yet recent.
The next proceeding of Lady Margaret was to hold a solemn court of justice, to which Harrison and the butler were admitted, partly on the footing of witnesses, partly as assessors, to enquire into the recusancy of Cuddie Headrigg the ploughman, and the abetment which he had received from his mother—these being regarded as the original causes of the disaster which had befallen the chivalry of Tillietudlem. The charge being fully made out and substantiated, Lady Margaret resolved to reprimand the culprits in person, and, if she found them impenitent, to extend the censure into a sentence of expulsion from the barony. Miss Bellenden alone ventured to say any thing in behalf of the accused, but her countenance did not profit them as it might have done on any other occasion. For so soon as Edith had heard it ascertained that the unfortunate cavalier had not suffered in his person, his disaster had affected her with an irresistible disposition to laugh, which, in spite of Lady Margaret’s indignation, or rather irritated, as usual, by restraint, had broke out repeatedly on her return homeward, until her grandmother, in no shape imposed upon by the several fictitious causes which the young lady assigned for her ill-timed risibility, upbraided her in very bitter terms with being insensible to the honour of her family. Miss Bellenden’s intercession, therefore, had, on this occasion, little or no chance to be listened to.
As if to evince the rigour of her disposition, Lady Margaret, on this solemn occasion, exchanged the ivory-headed cane with which she commonly walked, for an immense gold-headed staff which had belonged to her father, the deceased Earl of Torwood, and which, like a sort of mace of office, she only made use of on occasions of special solemnity. Supported by this awful baton of command, Lady Margaret Bellenden entered the cottage of the delinquents.
There was an air of consciousness about old Mause, as she rose from her wicker chair in the chimney-nook, not with the cordial alertness of visage which used, on other occasions, to express the honour she felt in the visit of her lady, but with a certain solemnity and embarrassment, like an accused party on his first appearance in presence of his judge, before whom he is, nevertheless, determined to assert his innocence. Her arms were folded, her mouth primmed into an expression of respect, mingled with obstinacy, her whole mind apparently bent up to the solemn interview. With her best curtsey to the ground, and a mute motion of reverence, Mause pointed to the chair, which, on former occasions, Lady Margaret (for the good lady was somewhat of a gossip) had deigned to occupy for half an hour sometimes at a time, hearing the news of the county and of the borough. But at present her mistress was far too indignant for such condescension. She rejected the mute invitation with a haughty wave of her hand, and drawing herself up as she spoke, she uttered the following interrogatory in a tone calculated to overwhelm the culprit.
“Is it true, Mause, as I am informed by Harrison, Gudyill, and others of my people, that you hae taen it upon you, contrary to the faith you owe to God and the king, and to me, your natural lady and mistress, to keep back your son frae the wappen-schaw, held by the order of the sheriff, and to return his armour and abulyiements at a moment when it was impossible to find a suitable delegate in his stead, whereby the barony of Tullietudlem, baith in the person of its mistress and indwellers, has incurred sic a disgrace and dishonour as hasna befa’en the family since the days of Malcolm Canmore?”
Mause’s habitual respect for her mistress was extreme; she hesitated, and one or two short coughs expressed the difficulty she had in defending herself.
“I am sure—my leddy—hem, hem!—I am sure I am sorry—very sorry that ony cause of displeasure should hae occurred—but my son’s illness”– “Dinna tell me of your son’s illness, Mause! Had he been sincerely unweel, ye would hae been at the Tower by daylight to get something that wad do him gude; there are few ailments that I havena medical recipes for, and that ye ken fu’ weel.”
“O ay, my leddy! I am sure ye hae wrought wonderful cures; the last thing ye sent Cuddie, when he had the batts, e’en wrought like a charm.”
“Why, then, woman, did ye not apply to me, if there was only real need?—but there was none, ye fause-hearted vassal that ye are!”
“Your leddyship never ca’d me sic a word as that before. Ohon! that I suld live to be ca’d sae,” she continued, bursting into tears, “and me a born servant o’ the house o’ Tillietudlem! I am sure they belie baith Cuddie and me sair, if they said he wadna fight ower the boots in blude for your leddyship and Miss Edith, and the auld Tower—ay suld he, and I would rather see him buried beneath it, than he suld gie way—but thir ridings and wappenschawings, my leddy, I hae nae broo o’ them ava. I can find nae warrant for them whatsoever.”
“Nae warrant for them?” cried the high-born dame. “Do ye na ken, woman, that ye are bound to be liege vassals in all hunting, hosting, watching, and warding, when lawfully summoned thereto in my name? Your service is not gratuitous. I trow ye hae land for it.—Ye’re kindly tenants; hae a cot-house, a kale-yard, and a cow’s grass on the common.—Few hae been brought farther ben, and ye grudge your son suld gie me a day’s service in the field?”
“Na, my leddy—na, my leddy, it’s no that,” exclaimed Mause, greatly embarrassed, “but ane canna serve twa maisters; and, if the truth maun e’en come out, there’s Ane abune whase commands I maun obey before your leddyship’s. I am sure I would put neither king’s nor kaisar’s, nor ony earthly creature’s, afore them.”
“How mean ye by that, ye auld fule woman?—D’ye think that I order ony thing against conscience?”
“I dinna pretend to say that, my leddy, in regard o’ your leddyship’s conscience, which has been brought up, as it were, wi’ prelatic principles; but ilka ane maun walk by the light o’ their ain; and mine,” said Mause, waxing bolder as the conference became animated, “tells me that I suld leave a’—cot, kale-yard, and cow’s grass—and suffer a’, rather than that I or mine should put on harness in an unlawfu’ cause,”
“Unlawfu’!” exclaimed her mistress; “the cause to which you are called by your lawful leddy and mistress—by the command of the king—by the writ of the privy council—by the order of the lordlieutenant—by the warrant of the sheriff?”
“Ay, my leddy, nae doubt; but no to displeasure your leddyship, ye’ll mind that there was ance a king in Scripture they ca’d Nebuchadnezzar, and he set up a golden image in the plain o’ Dura, as it might be in the haugh yonder by the water-side, where the array were warned to meet yesterday; and the princes, and the governors, and the captains, and the judges themsells, forby the treasurers, the counsellors, and the sheriffs, were warned to the dedication thereof, and commanded to fall down and worship at the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and all kinds of music.”
“And what o’ a’ this, ye fule wife? Or what had Nebuchadnezzar to do with the wappen-schaw of the Upper Ward of Clydesdale?”
“Only just thus far, my leddy,” continued Mause, firmly, “that prelacy is like the great golden image in the plain of Dura, and that as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, were borne out in refusing to bow down and worship, so neither shall Cuddy Headrigg, your leddyship’s poor pleughman, at least wi’ his auld mither’s consent, make murgeons or Jenny-flections, as they ca’ them, in the house of the prelates and curates, nor gird him wi’ armour to fight in their cause, either at the sound of kettle-drums, organs, bagpipes, or ony other kind of music whatever.”
Lady Margaret Bellenden heard this exposition of Scripture with the greatest possible indignation, as well as surprise.
“I see which way the wind blaws,” she exclaimed, after a pause of astonishment; “the evil spirit of the year sixteen hundred and forty-twa is at wark again as merrily as ever, and ilka auld wife in the chimley-neuck will be for knapping doctrine wi’ doctors o’ divinity and the godly fathers o’ the church.”
“If your leddyship means the bishops and curates, I’m sure they hae been but stepfathers to the Kirk o’ Scotland. And, since your leddyship is pleased to speak o’ parting wi’ us, I am free to tell you a piece o’ my mind in another article. Your leddyship and the steward hae been pleased to propose that my son Cuddie suld work in the barn wi’ a new-fangled machine [Note: Probably something similar to the barn-fanners now used for winnowing corn, which were not, however, used in their present shape until about 1730. They were objected to by the more rigid sectaries on their first introduction, upon such reasoning as that of honest Mause in the text.] for dighting the corn frae the chaff, thus impiously thwarting the will of Divine Providence, by raising wind for your leddyship’s ain particular use by human art, instead of soliciting it by prayer, or waiting patiently for whatever dispensation of wind Providence was pleased to send upon the sheeling-hill. Now, my leddy”—“The woman would drive ony reasonable being daft!” said Lady Margaret; then resuming her tone of authority and indifference, she concluded, “Weel, Mause, I’ll just end where I sud hae begun—ye’re ower learned and ower godly for me to dispute wi’; sae I have just this to say,—either Cuddie must attend musters when he’s lawfully warned by the ground officer, or the sooner he and you flit and quit my bounds the better; there’s nae scarcity o’ auld wives or ploughmen; but, if there were, I had rather that the rigs of Tillietudlem bare naething but windle-straes and sandy lavrocks [Note: Bent-grass and sand-larks.] than that they were ploughed by rebels to the king.”
“Aweel, my leddy,” said Mause, “I was born here, and thought to die where my father died; and your leddyship has been a kind mistress, I’ll ne’er deny that, and I’se ne’er cease to pray for you, and for Miss Edith, and that ye may be brought to see the error of your ways. But still”—“The error of my ways!” interrupted Lady Margaret, much incensed—“The error of my ways, ye uncivil woman?”
“Ou, ay, my leddy, we are blinded that live in this valley of tears and darkness, and hae a’ ower mony errors, grit folks as weel as sma’—but, as I said, my puir bennison will rest wi’ you and yours wherever I am. I will be wae to hear o’ your affliction, and blithe to hear o’ your prosperity, temporal and spiritual. But I canna prefer the commands of an earthly mistress to those of a heavenly master, and sae I am e’en ready to suffer for righteousness’ sake.”
“It is very well,” said Lady Margaret, turning her back in great displeasure; “ye ken my will, Mause, in the matter. I’ll hae nae whiggery in the barony of Tillietudlem—the next thing wad be to set up a conventicle in my very withdrawing room.”
Having said this, she departed, with an air of great dignity; and Mause, giving way to feelings which she had suppressed during the interview,—for she, like her mistress, had her own feeling of pride,—now lifted up her voice and wept aloud.
Cuddie, whose malady, real or pretended, still detained him in bed, lay perdu during all this conference, snugly ensconced within his boarded bedstead, and terrified to death lest Lady Margaret, whom he held in hereditary reverence, should have detected his presence, and bestowed on him personally some of those bitter reproaches with which she loaded his mother. But as soon as he thought her ladyship fairly out of hearing, he bounced up in his nest.
“The foul fa’ ye, that I suld say sae,” he cried out to his mother, “for a lang-tongued clavering wife, as my father, honest man, aye ca’d ye! Couldna ye let the leddy alane wi’ your whiggery? And I was e’en as great a gomeral to let ye persuade me to lie up here amang the blankets like a hurcheon, instead o’ gaun to the wappen-schaw like other folk. Odd, but I put a trick on ye, for I was out at the window-bole when your auld back was turned, and awa down by to hae a baff at the popinjay, and I shot within twa on’t. I cheated the leddy for your clavers, but I wasna gaun to cheat my joe. But she may marry whae she likes now, for I’m clean dung ower. This is a waur dirdum than we got frae Mr Gudyill when ye garr’d me refuse to eat the plum-porridge on Yule-eve, as if it were ony matter to God or man whether a pleughman had suppit on minched pies or sour sowens.”
“O, whisht, my bairn, whisht,” replied Mause; “thou kensna about thae things—It was forbidden meat, things dedicated to set days and holidays, which are inhibited to the use of protestant Christians.”
“And now,” continued her son, “ye hae brought the leddy hersell on our hands!—An I could but hae gotten some decent claes in, I wad hae spanged out o’ bed, and tauld her I wad ride where she liked, night or day, an she wad but leave us the free house and the yaird, that grew the best early kale in the haill country, and the cow’s grass.”
“O wow! my winsome bairn, Cuddie,” continued the old dame, “murmur not at the dispensation; never grudge suffering in the gude cause.”
“But what ken I if the cause is gude or no, mither,” rejoined Cuddie, “for a’ ye bleeze out sae muckle doctrine about it? It’s clean beyond my comprehension a’thegither. I see nae sae muckle difference atween the twa ways o’t as a’ the folk pretend. It’s very true the curates read aye the same words ower again; and if they be right words, what for no? A gude tale’s no the waur o’ being twice tauld, I trow; and a body has aye the better chance to understand it. Every body’s no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.”
