Part 6 (1/2)
”I a.s.sure you,” said Morton, much embarra.s.sed, ”that I have not the means of receiving you at Milnwood without my uncle's consent and knowledge; nor, if I could do so, would I think myself justifiable in engaging him unconsciously in danger, which, most of all others, he fears and deprecates.”
”Well,” said the traveller, ”I have but one word to say. Did you ever hear your father mention John Balfour of Burley?”
”His ancient friend and comrade, who saved his life, with almost the loss of his own, in the battle of Longmarston-Moor?--Often, very often.”
”I am that Balfour,” said his companion. ”Yonder stands thy uncle's house; I see the light among the trees. The avenger of blood is behind me, and my death certain unless I have refuge there. Now, make thy choice, young man; to shrink from the side of thy father's friend, like a thief in the night, and to leave him exposed to the b.l.o.o.d.y death from which he rescued thy father, or to expose thine uncle's wordly goods to such peril, as, in this perverse generation, attends those who give a morsel of bread or a draught of cold water to a Christian man, when peris.h.i.+ng for lack of refreshment!”
A thousand recollections thronged on the mind of Morton at once. His father, whose memory he idolized, had often enlarged upon his obligations to this man, and regretted, that, after having been long comrades, they had parted in some unkindness at the time when the kingdom of Scotland was divided into Resolutioners and Protesters; the former of whom adhered to Charles II. after his father's death upon the scaffold, while the Protesters inclined rather to a union with the triumphant republicans.
The stern fanaticism of Burley had attached him to this latter party, and the comrades had parted in displeasure, never, as it happened, to meet again. These circ.u.mstances the deceased Colonel Morton had often mentioned to his son, and always with an expression of deep regret, that he had never, in any manner, been enabled to repay the a.s.sistance, which, on more than one occasion, he had received from Burley.
To hasten Morton's decision, the night-wind, as it swept along, brought from a distance the sullen sound of a kettle-drum, which, seeming to approach nearer, intimated that a body of horse were upon their march towards them.
”It must be Claverhouse, with the rest of his regiment. What can have occasioned this night-march? If you go on, you fall into their hands--if you turn back towards the borough-town, you are in no less danger from Cornet Grahame's party.--The path to the hill is beset. I must shelter you at Milnwood, or expose you to instant death;--but the punishment of the law shall fall upon myself, as in justice it should, not upon my uncle.--Follow me.”
Burley, who had awaited his resolution with great composure, now followed him in silence.
The house of Milnwood, built by the father of the present proprietor, was a decent mansion, suitable to the size of the estate, but, since the accession of this owner, it had been suffered to go considerably into disrepair. At some little distance from the house stood the court of offices. Here Morton paused.
”I must leave you here for a little while,” he whispered, ”until I can provide a bed for you in the house.”
”I care little for such delicacy,” said Burley; ”for thirty years this head has rested oftener on the turf, or on the next grey stone, than upon either wool or down. A draught of ale, a morsel of bread, to say my prayers, and to stretch me upon dry hay, were to me as good as a painted chamber and a prince's table.”
It occurred to Morton at the same moment, that to attempt to introduce the fugitive within the house, would materially increase the danger of detection. Accordingly, having struck a light with implements left in the stable for that purpose, and having fastened up their horses, he a.s.signed Burley, for his place of repose, a wooden bed, placed in a loft half-full of hay, which an out-of-door domestic had occupied until dismissed by his uncle in one of those fits of parsimony which became more rigid from day to day. In this untenanted loft Morton left his companion, with a caution so to shade his light that no reflection might be seen from the window, and a promise that he would presently return with such refreshments as he might be able to procure at that late hour. This last, indeed, was a subject on which he felt by no means confident, for the power of obtaining even the most ordinary provisions depended entirely upon the humour in which he might happen to find his uncle's sole confidant, the old housekeeper. If she chanced to be a-bed, which was very likely, or out of humour, which was not less so, Morton well knew the case to be at least problematical.
Cursing in his heart the sordid parsimony which pervaded every part of his uncle's establishment, he gave the usual gentle knock at the bolted door, by which he was accustomed to seek admittance, when accident had detained him abroad beyond the early and established hours of rest at the house of Milnwood. It was a sort of hesitating tap, which carried an acknowledgment of transgression in its very sound, and seemed rather to solicit than command attention. After it had been repeated again and again, the housekeeper, grumbling betwixt her teeth as she rose from the chimney corner in the hall, and wrapping her checked handkerchief round her head to secure her from the cold air, paced across the stone-pa.s.sage, and repeated a careful ”Wha's there at this time o' night?” more than once before she undid the bolts and bars, and cautiously opened the door.
”This is a fine time o' night, Mr Henry,” said the old dame, with the tyrannic insolence of a spoilt and favourite domestic;--”a braw time o'
night and a bonny, to disturb a peaceful house in, and to keep quiet folk out o' their beds waiting for you. Your uncle's been in his maist three hours syne, and Robin's ill o' the rheumatize, and he's to his bed too, and sae I had to sit up for ye mysell, for as sair a hoast as I hae.”
Here she coughed once or twice, in further evidence of the egregious inconvenience which she had sustained.
”Much obliged to you, Alison, and many kind thanks.”
”Hegh, sirs, sae fair-fas.h.i.+oned as we are! Mony folk ca' me Mistress Wilson, and Milnwood himsell is the only ane about this town thinks o'
ca'ing me Alison, and indeed he as aften says Mrs Alison as ony other thing.”
”Well, then, Mistress Alison,” said Morton, ”I really am sorry to have kept you up waiting till I came in.”
”And now that you are come in, Mr Henry,” said the cross old woman, ”what for do you no tak up your candle and gang to your bed? and mind ye dinna let the candle sweal as ye gang alang the wainscot parlour, and haud a'
the house scouring to get out the grease again.”
”But, Alison, I really must have something to eat, and a draught of ale, before I go to bed.”
”Eat?--and ale, Mr Henry?--My certie, ye're ill to serve! Do ye think we havena heard o' your grand popinjay wark yonder, and how ye bleezed away as muckle pouther as wad hae shot a' the wild-fowl that we'll want atween and Candlemas--and then ganging majoring to the piper's Howff wi' a' the idle loons in the country, and sitting there birling, at your poor uncle's cost, nae doubt, wi' a' the scaff and raff o' the water-side, till sun-down, and then coming hame and crying for ale, as if ye were maister and mair!”
Extremely vexed, yet anxious, on account of his guest, to procure refreshments if possible, Morton suppressed his resentment, and good-humouredly a.s.sured Mrs Wilson, that he was really both hungry and thirsty; ”and as for the shooting at the popinjay, I have heard you say you have been there yourself, Mrs Wilson--I wish you had come to look at us.”