“That’s right,” replied the gratified “Spune.” “Have Cameron’s donkey and cart at the south end of Newington by ten o’clock. It’s moonlight, I think.”
“Dinna ken, but it’s a’ ane. I’ll be there; but, mind, you stand the whisky this time.”
And so (having indulged, perhaps, in our own way of putting this conversation—the contenu being the same) the important enterprise was arranged with that zest on the part of the grave and precise principal which results from secrecy; for it was impossible to suppose that Merrylees could suspect that even they were capable of preying on their fellow-labourer, and robbing the nest of any affections that might hang about it.
At the appointed time the “Moudiewart” was at his post with the little cuddy and the cart, where he was soon joined by his friend. Away they went,—Mowat driving, and the “Spune” lying extended in the vehicle, in utter disregard of the poor animal, not much larger than himself. With such an object before them, comprehending within the success of its acquisition the gratification of two of the strongest passions of degraded man, and no sensibility to admit of the feeling of a reaction in the quietness of the road and the increasing stillness of the hour, with, in addition, an auspicious moon, in whose face they could look only as a light-giving thing that makes gnomes out of head-stones, they might have been supposed to be merry. But no, there were no salient points in their natures from which could spring even that mirth which rides on the back of horrors. Mutely they drove along, with no sounds to break the silence, save the patter of the donkey’s feet and the turns of the wheels. Very different this silent progress from those expeditions in which Merrylees formed a part, and where, if there was necessarily absent everything like the rational discourse of human beings, there was yet something to relieve the monotony in the shout after draining off a glass, the muscular contortions, and the bizarres étourderies of their strange friend. It was the caravan without the fool, and even he, as a son of Momus and Angerona, or some such mongrels, was a droll against his will. Sad fate to him who, even in his efforts not to be the cause of mirth in others, could himself become the butt of those whom, not more stupid, he could, in his self-protection, afford to despise. But Merrylees had at length fallen among his enemies, and must abide the issue of a terrible revenge.
By about the hour of half-past twelve they had reached a part of the road where, by the convenience of a slap, they could leave their equipage, with the donkey’s neck fixed to a post, and his head within reach of some tempting provender. All this arranged to their satisfaction, they searched about for stray loungers, none of whom could be espied,—so straight they went to their destined work. As familiar with the burying-ground as they were with their own squalid dwellings, they were soon among the green hillocks, few of which, as they saw by the light of the moon, which came upon them in fitful gleams, making all these sombre things more like the productions of feerie than of honest nature, held out any temptations to these lovers of new sod. But at length the “Spune” stopped at an elevation more recent than any around it.
“This is the grave of Merrylees’ father anyhow,” said the superior.
“Then out with him,” said the stolid Mowat.
“Still the idiot,” said the other. “Did I not tell you last night he’s gone into powder ten years ago, and that it’s the sister we’re after?”
“Then out wi’ her,” was the sulky reply.
Nor did the “Spune” need the stimulus of the stolid. He began straight the work,—difficult and arduous to all but such adepts,—puffing, and drawing wind to puff again.