CHAPTER VI.
Next morning Clavers, with fifty dragoons, arrived at Chapelhope, where they alighted on the green; and putting their horses to forage, he and Sir Thomas Livingston, Captain Bruce, and Mr Adam Copland, before mentioned, a gentleman of Clavers’ own troop, went straight into the kitchen. Walter was absent at the hill. The goodwife was sitting lonely in the east room, brooding over her trials and woes in this life, and devising means to get rid of her daughter, and with her of all the devouring spirits that haunted Chapelhope; consequently the first and only person whom the gentlemen found in the kitchen was old Nanny. Clavers, who entered first, kept a shy and sullen distance, for he never was familiar with any one; but Bruce, who was a jocular Irish gentleman, and well versed in harassing and inveigling the ignorant country people to their destruction, made two low bows (almost to the ground) to the astonished dame, and accosted her as follows: “How are you to–day, mistress?—I hope you are very well?”
“Thank ye kindly, sir,” said Nanny, curtseying in return; “deed I’m no sae weel as I hae been; I hae e’en seen better days; but I keep aye the heart aboon, although the achings and the stitches hae been sair on me the year.”
“Lack–a–day! I am so very sorry for that!—Where do they seize you? about the heart, I suppose?—Oh, dear soul! to be sure you do not know how sorry I am for your case—it must be so terribly bad! You should have the goodness to consult your physician, and get blood let.”
“Dear bairn, I hae nae blude to spare—an’ as for doctors, I haena muckle to lippen to them. To be sure, they are whiles the means, under Providence”——
“Oho!” said he, putting his finger to his nose, and turning to his associates with a wry face,—“Oho! the means under Providence!—a d‑‑d whig, by ‑‑‑‑. Tell me, my dear and beautiful Mistress Stitchaback, do you really believe in that blessed thing, Providence?”
“Do I believe in Providence!—Did ever ony body hear sic a question as that? Gae away, ye muckle gouk—d’ye think to make a fool of a puir body?”
So saying, she gave him a hearty slap on the cheek; at which his companions laughing, Bruce became somewhat nettled, and, drawing out his sword, he pointed at the recent stains of blood upon it. “Be so good as to look here, my good lady,” said he, “and take very good note of all that I say, and more; for harkee, you must either renounce Providence, and all that I bid you renounce,—and you must, beside that, answer all the questions that I shall ever be after asking,—or, do you see, I am a great doctor—this is my very elegant lance—and I’ll draw the blood that shall soon ease you of all your stitches and pains.”
“I dinna like your fleem ava, man—’tis rather ower grit for an auld body’s veins. But ye’re surely some silly skemp of a fallow, to draw out your sword on a puir auld woman. Dinna think, howanabee, that I care for outher you or it. I’ll let ye see how little I mind ye; for weel I ken your comrades wadna let ye fash me, e’en though ye were sae silly as to offer. Na, na; d’ye ever think that little bonny demure–looking lad there wad suffer ye to hurt a woman?—I wat wad he no! He has mair discreation in his little finger than you hae i’ your hale bouk.—Now try me, master doctor—I’ll nouther renounce ae thing that ye bid me, nor answer ae question that ye speer at me.”
“In the first place, then, my good hearty dame, do you acknowledge or renounce the Covenant?”
“Aha! he’s wise wha wats that, an’ as daft that speers.”
“Ay, or no, in a moment—No juggling with me, old Mrs Skinflint.”
“I’ll tell ye what ye do, master—if ony body speer at ye, gin auld Nanny i’ the Chapelhope renounces the Covenant, shake your head an’ say ye dinna ken.”
“And pray, my very beautiful girl, what do you keep this old tattered book for?”
“For a fancy to gar fools speer, an’ ye’re the first—Come on now, sir, wi’ your catechis—Wally–dye man! gin ye be nae better a fighter than ye’re an examiner, ye may gie up the craft.”
Bruce here bit his lip, and looked so stern that Nanny, with a hysterical laugh, ran away from him, and took shelter behind Clavers.
“You are a d‑‑d fool, Bruce,” said he, “and constantly blundering.—Our business here, mistress, is to discover, if possible, who were the murderers of an honest curate, and some of our own soldiers that were slain in this neighbourhood while discharging their duty; if you can give us any information on that subject, you shall be well rewarded.”
“Ye’ll hear about the curate, sir—ye’ll hear about him—he was found out to be a warlock, and shot dead.—But ah, dear bairn! nane alive can gie you information about the soldiers!—It was nae human hand did that deed, and there was nae e’e out o’ heaven saw it done—There wasna a man that day in a’ the Hope up an’ down—that deed will never be fund out, unless a spirit rise frae the dead an’ tell o’t—Muckle fear, an’ muckle grief it has been the cause o’ here!—But the men war a’ decently buried; what mair could be done?”
“Do you say that my men were all decently buried?”
“Ay, troth, I wat weel, worthy sir, and wi’ the burial–service too.—My master and mistress are strong king’s folk.”
“So you are not the mistress of this house?”
“A bonny like mistress I wad be, forsooth—Na, na, my mistress is sittin be hersel ben the house there.” With that, Nanny fell a working and singing full loud—
“Little wats she wha’s coming,
Little wats she wha’s coming,
Strath and Correy’s ta’en the bent,
An’ Ferriden an’ a’s coming;
Knock and Craigen Sha’s coming,
Keppoch an’ Macraw’s coming,
Clan–Mackinnon’s ower the Kyle,
An’ Donald Gun an’ a’s coming.”
Anxious now to explore the rest of the house, they left Nanny singing her song, and entered the little parlour hastily, where, finding no one, and dreading that some escape might be effected, Clavers and Livingston burst into the Old Room, and Bruce and Copland into the other. In the Old Room they found the beautiful witch Katharine, with the train of her snow–white joup drawn over her head, who looked as if taken in some evil act by surprise, and greatly confounded when she saw two gentlemen enter her sanctuary in splendid uniforms. As they approached, she made a slight curtsey, to which they deigned no return; but going straight up to her, Clavers seized her by both wrists. “And is it, indeed, true,” said he, “my beautiful shepherdess, that we have caught you at your prayers so early this morning?”
“And what if you have, sir?” returned she.
“Why, nothing at all, save that I earnestly desire, and long exceedingly to join with you in your devotional exercises,” laying hold of her in the rudest manner.
Katharine screamed so loud that in an instant old Nanny was at their side, with revenge gleaming from her half–shaded eyes, and heaving over her shoulder a large green–kale gully, with which she would doubtless have silenced the renowned Dundee for ever, had not Livingston sprung forward with the utmost celerity, and caught her arm just as the stroke was descending. But Nanny did not spare her voice; she lifted it up with shouts on high, and never suffered one yell to lose hearing of another.
Walter, having just then returned from the hill, and hearing the hideous uproar in the Old Room, rushed into it forthwith to see what was the matter. Katharine was just sinking, when her father entered, within the grasp of the gentle and virtuous Clavers. The backs of both the knights were towards Walter as he came in, and they were so engaged amid bustle and din that neither of them perceived him, until he was close at their backs. He was at least a foot taller than any of them, and nearly as wide round the chest as them both. In one moment his immense fingers grasped both their slender necks, almost meeting behind each of their windpipes. They were rendered powerless at once—they attempted no more struggling with the women, for so completely had Walter’s gripes unnerved them, that they could scarcely lift their arms from their sides; neither could they articulate a word, or utter any other sound than a kind of choaked gasping for breath. Walter wheeled them about to the light, and looked alternately at each of them, without quitting or even slackening his hold.
“Callants, wha ir ye ava?—or what’s the meanin’ o’ a’ this unmencefu’ rampaging?”
Sir Thomas gave his name in a hoarse and broken voice; but Clavers, whose nape Walter’s right hand embraced, and whose rudeness to his daughter had set his mountain–blood a–boiling, could not answer a word. Walter, slackening his hold somewhat, waited for an answer, but none coming—
“Wha ir ye, I say, ye bit useless weazel–blawn like urf that ye’re?”
The haughty and insolent Clavers was stung with rage; but seeing no immediate redress was to be had, he endeavoured to pronounce his dreaded name, but it was in a whisper scarcely audible, and stuck in his throat—“Jo—o—o Graham,” said he.
“Jock Graham do they ca’ ye?—Ye’re but an unmannerly whalp, man. And ye’re baith king’s officers too!—Weel, I’ll tell ye what it is, my denty clever callants; if it warna for the blood that’s i’ your master’s veins, I wad nite your twa bits o’ pows thegither.”
He then threw them from him; the one the one way, and the other the other, and lifting his huge oak staff, he strode out at the door, saying, as he left them,—“Hech! are free men to be guidit this gate—I’ll step down to the green to your commander, an’ tell him what kind o’ chaps he keeps about him to send into fock’s houses.—Dirty unmensefu’ things!”
Clavers soon recovering his breath, and being ready to burst with rage and indignation, fell a cursing and fuming most violently; but Sir T. Livingston could scarcely refrain from breaking out into a convulsion of laughter. Clavers had already determined upon ample revenge, for the violation of all the tender ties of nature was his delight, and wherever there was wealth to be obtained, or a private pique to be revenged, there never was wanting sufficient pretext in those days for cutting off individuals, or whole families, as it suited. On the very day previous to that, the Earl of Traquair had complained, in company with Clavers and his officers, of a tenant of his, in a place called Bald, who would neither cultivate his farm nor give it up. Captain Bruce asked if he prayed in his family? The Earl answered jocularly, that he believed he did nothing else. Bruce said that was enough; and the matter passed over without any farther notice. But next morning, Bruce went out with four dragoons, and shot the farmer as he was going out to his work. Instances of this kind are numerous, if either history or tradition can be in aught believed; but in all the annals of that age, there is scarcely a single instance recorded of any redress having been granted to the harassed country people for injuries received. At this time, the word of Argyle’s rising had already spread, and Clavers actually traversed the country more like an exterminating angel, than a commander of a civilized army.
Such were the men with whom Walter had to do; and the worst thing of all, he was not aware of it. He had heard of such things, but he did not believe them; for he loved his king and country, and there was nothing that vexed him more than hearing of aught to their disparagement; but unluckily his notions of freedom and justice were far above what the subjects of that reign could count upon.
When Clavers and Livingstone entered the Old Room, it will be remembered that Bruce and Copland penetrated into the other. There they found the goodwife of Chapelhope, neatly dressed in her old–fashioned style, and reading on her Bible, an exercise in which she gloried, and of which she was very proud.
Bruce instantly desired her “to lay that very comely and precious book on the hottest place of all the beautiful fire, that was burning so pleasantly with long crackling peat; and that then he would converse with her about things that were, to be sure, of far greater and mightier importance.”
“Hout, dear sir, ye ken that’s no consistent wi’ natural reason—Can any thing be o’ greater importance than the tidings o’ grace an’ salvation, an’ the joys o’ heaven?”
“Oho!” cried Bruce, and straddled around the room with his face turned to the joists.—“My dear Copland, did you ever hear such a thing in all the days that ever you have to live? Upon my soul, the old woman is talking of grace, and salvation, and the joys of heaven too, by Saint G‑‑! My dearest honey and darling, will you be so kind as stand up upon the soles of your feet, and let me see what kind of a figure you will be in heaven. Now, by the cross of Saint Patrick, I would take a journey there to see you go swimming through Heaven in that same form, with your long waist, and plaitted quoif, and that same charming face of yours. Och! och! me! what a vile she whig we have got in this here corner!—Copland, my dear soul, I foresee that all the ewes and kine of Chapelhope will soon be rouped at the cross of Selkirk, and then what blessed lawings we shall have! Now my dear mistress Grace, you must be after renouncing the joys of heaven immediately; for upon my honour, the very sight of your face would spoil the joys of any place whatever, and the first thing you must do is to lay that delightful old book with the beautiful margin along the side of it, on the coals; but before you do that we shall sing to his praise and glory from the 7th verse of the 149th psalm.”
He then laid aside his helmet and sung the psalm, giving out each line with a whine that was truly ludicrous, after which he put the Bible into the goodwife’s hand, and desired her, in a serious tone, instantly to lay it on the fire. The captain’s speech to his companions about the ewes and kine of Chapelhope was not altogether lost on the conscience of Maron Linton. It was not, as she afterwards said, like water spilt upon the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. “Why, dear sir,” said she, “ye ken, after a’, that the beuk’s naething but paper an’ ink, an’ three shillings an’ aughtpence will buy as gude a ane frae Geordy Dabson, the morn, an’ if there be ony sin in’t, it will lye at your door, an’ no at mine. I’ll ne’er haigel wi’ my king’s officer about three and aughtpence.”
So saying, Maron laid the Bible on the fire, which soon consumed it to ashes.
“Now, may the devil take me,” said Bruce, “if I do not believe that you are a true woman after all, and if so, my purse is lighter by one half than it was; but, my dear honey, you have the very individual and genuine seeds of whiggism in your constitution—You have, I will swear, been at many a harmless and innocent conventicle.”
“Ye ken little about me, sir.—Gude forbid that ever I countenanced sic traitors to the kirk and state!”
“Amen! say I; but I prophecy and say unto thee, that the first field–meeting into which thou goest in the beauty of holiness, thou shalt be established for ever with thy one foot in Dan and the other in Beersheba, and shalt return to thy respective place of abode as rank a whig as ever swung in the Grass–Market.”
A long dialogue next ensued, in which the murder of the priest, Mass John Binram, was discussed at full length, and by which Bruce and Copland discerned, that superstitious as Maron was, she told them what she deemed to be the truth, though in a strange round–about way. Just as they were beginning to talk over the mysterious murder of the soldiers, Claverhouse and Sir Thomas joined them, and Bruce, turning round to them, said, “My lord, this very honest woman assures me, that she believes the two principal murderers of the curate are lying concealed in a linn not far hence, and there seems to be little doubt but that they must likewise have been concerned in the murder of our soldiers.”
Clavers, the horrors of whose execrations are yet fresh in the memory of our peasants, burst out as follows, to the astonishment of Bruce, who was not aware of his chagrin, or of aught having befallen him.
“May the devil confound and d‑‑n them to hell!—May he make a brander of their ribs to roast their souls on!”
Maron Linton, hearing herself called a good woman, and finding that she was approven of, could not refrain from interfering here.
“Dear sir, my lord, ye sudna swear that gate, for it’s unco ill–faur’d ye ken—an’ at ony rate, the deil canna damn naebody—if ye will swear, swear sense.”
The rage of the general, and the simplicity of the goodwife, was such an amusing contrast, that the three attendants laughed aloud. Clavers turned his deep grey eye upon them, which more than the eye of any human being resembled that of a serpent—offence gleamed in it.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “do you consider where you are, and what you are about? Sacre! am I always to be trysted with boys and fools?”
He then began and examined the goodwife with much feigned deference and civility, which so pleased her that she told him every thing with great readiness. She was just beginning to relate the terrible, but unfortunate story of the Brownie of Bodsbeck, and his train of officious spirits; of the meat which they devoured, and in all probability would have ended the relation with the woeful connection between the Brownie and her daughter, and the part that she had taken in the murder of the soldiers, when Walter entered the room with a discomposed mien, and gave a new turn to the conversation. But that eventful scene must be left to the next chapter.