within him.”
“To be sure,” said Cuddie, hearing, and partly understanding, what had broken from Morton in resentment of his injuries, “it is no right to speak evil o’ dignities — my auld leddy aye said that, as nae doubt she had a gude right to do, being in a place o’ dignity hersell; and troth I listened to her very patiently, for she aye ordered a dram, or a sowp kale, or something to us, after she had gien us a hearing on our duties. But deil a dram, or kale, or ony thing else — no sae muckle as a cup o’ cauld water — do thae lords at Edinburgh gie us; and yet they are heading and hanging amang us, and trailing us after thae blackguard troopers, and taking our goods and gear as if we were outlaws. I canna say I tak it kind at their hands.”
“It would be very strange if you did,” answered Morton, with suppressed emotion.
“And what I like warst o’ a’,” continued poor Cuddie, “is thae ranting red-coats coming amang the lasses, and taking awa our joes. I had a sair heart o’ my ain when I passed the Mains down at Tillietudlem this morning about parritch-time, and saw the reek comin’ out at my ain lum-head, and kend there was some ither body than my auld mither sitting by the ingle-side. But I think my heart was e’en sairer, when I saw that hellicat trooper, Tam Halliday, kissing Jenny Dennison afore my face. I wonder women can hae the impudence to do sic things; but they are a’ for the red-coats. Whiles I hae thought o’ being a trooper mysell, when I thought naething else wad gae down wi’ Jenny — and yet I’ll no blame her ower muckle neither, for maybe it was a’ for my sake that she loot Tam touzle her tap-knots that gate.”
“For your sake?” said Morton, unable to refrain from taking some interest in a story which seemed to bear a singular coincidence with his own.
“E’en sae, Milnwood,” replied Cuddie; “for the puir quean gat leave to come near me wi’ speaking the loun fair, (d — n him, that I suld say sae!) and sae she bade me God speed, and she wanted to stap siller into my hand;— I’se warrant it was the tae half o’ her fee and bountith, for she wared the ither half on pinners and pearlings to gang to see us shoot yon day at the popinjay.”
“And did you take it, Cuddie?” said Morton.
“Troth did I no, Milnwood; I was sic a fule as to fling it back to her — my heart was ower grit to be behadden to her, when I had seen that loon slavering and kissing at her. But I was a great fule for my pains; it wad hae dune my mither and me some gude, and she’ll ware’t a’ on duds and nonsense.”
There was here a deep and long pause. Cuddie was probably engaged in regretting the rejection of his mistress’s bounty, and Henry Morton in considering from what motives, or upon what conditions, Miss Bellenden had succeeded in procuring the interference of Lord Evandale in his favour.
Was it not possible, suggested his awakening hopes, that he had construed her influence over Lord Evandale hastily and unjustly? Ought he to censure her severely, if, submitting to dissimulation for his sake, she had permitted the young nobleman to entertain hopes which she had no intention to realize? Or what if she had appealed to the generosity which Lord Evandale was supposed to possess, and had engaged his honour to protect the person of a favoured rival?
Still, however, the words which he had overheard recurred ever and anon to his remembrance, with a pang which resembled the sting of an adder.
“Nothing that she could refuse him!— was it possible to make a more unlimited declaration of predilection? The language of affection has not, within the limits of maidenly delicacy, a stronger expression. She is lost to me wholly, and for ever; and nothing remains for me now, but vengeance for my own wrongs, and for those which are hourly inflicted on my country.”
Apparently, Cuddie, though with less refinement, was following out a similar train of ideas; for he suddenly asked Morton in a low whisper —“Wad there be ony ill in getting out o’ thae chields’ hands an ane could compass it?”
“None in the world,” said Morton; “and if an opportunity occurs of doing so, depend on it I for one will not let it slip.”
“I’m blythe to hear ye say sae,” answered Cuddie. “I’m but a puir silly fallow, but I canna think there wad be muckle ill in breaking out by strength o’ hand, if ye could mak it ony thing feasible. I am the lad that will ne’er fear to lay on, if it were come to that; but our auld leddy wad hae ca’d that a resisting o’ the king’s authority.”
“I will resist any authority on earth,” said Morton, “that invades tyrannically my chartered rights as a freeman; and I am determined I will not be unjustly dragged to a jail, or perhaps a gibbet, if I can possibly make my escape from these men either by address or force.”
“Weel, that’s just my mind too, aye supposing we hae a feasible opportunity o’ breaking loose. But then ye speak o’ a charter; now these are things that only belang to the like o’ you that are a gentleman, and it mightna bear me through that am but a husbandman.”
“The charter that I speak of,” said Morton, “is common to the meanest Scotchman. It is that freedom from stripes and bondage which was claimed, as you may read in Scripture, by the Apostle Paul himself, and which every man who is free-born is called upon to defend, for his own sake and that of his countrymen.”
“Hegh, sirs!” replied Cuddie, “it wad hae been lang or my Leddy Margaret, or my mither either, wad hae fund out sic a wiselike doctrine in the Bible! The tane was aye graning about giving tribute to Caesar, and the tither is as daft wi’ her whiggery. I hae been clean spoilt, just wi’ listening to twa blethering auld wives; but if I could get a gentleman that wad let me tak on to be his servant, I am confident I wad be a clean contrary creature; and I hope your honour will think on what I am saying, if ye were ance fairly delivered out o’ this house of bondage, and just take me to be your ain wally-de-shamble.”
“My valet, Cuddie?” answered Morton; “alas! that would be sorry preferment, even if we were at liberty.”
“I ken what ye’re thinking — that because I am landward-bred, I wad be bringing ye to disgrace afore folk; but ye maun ken I’m gay gleg at the uptak; there was never ony thing dune wi’ hand but I learned gay readily, ‘septing reading, writing, and ciphering; but there’s no the like o’ me at the fit-ba’, and I can play wi’ the broadsword as weel as Corporal Inglis there. I hae broken his head or now, for as massy as he’s riding ahint us.— And then ye’ll no be gaun to stay in this country?”— said he, stopping and interrupting himself.
“Probably not,” replied Morton.
“Weel, I carena a boddle. Ye see I wad get my mither bestowed wi’ her auld graning tittie, auntie Meg, in the Gallowgate o’ Glasgow, and then I trust they wad neither burn her for a witch, or let her fail for fau’t o’ fude, or hang her up for an auld whig wife; for the provost, they say, is very regardfu’ o’ sic puir bodies. And then you and me wad gang and pouss our fortunes, like the folk i’ the daft auld tales about Jock the Giant-killer and Valentine and Orson; and we wad come back to merry Scotland, as the sang says, and I wad tak to the stilts again, and turn sic furs on the bonny rigs o’ Milnwood holms, that it wad be worth a pint but to look at them.”
“I fear,” said Morton, “there is very little chance, my good friend Cuddie, of our getting back to our old occupation.”
“Hout, stir — hout, stir,” replied Cuddie, “it’s aye gude to keep up a hardy heart — as broken a ship’s come to land.— But what’s that I hear? never stir, if my auld mither isna at the preaching again! I ken the sough o’ her texts, that sound just like the wind blawing through the spence; and there’s Kettledrummle setting to wark,
