“The devil’s i’ the woman!” cried honest John. “Could I lay the lad on the front o’ the mare, and bring him hame like a sack o’ corn? He’s sorry enough and sick enough by this time, if that’s a consolation; but do you think it was me to face the sodger officers, and say he bud not to list?—and him had listed, if I preached till the morn. Na, wife, he’s fast and sure—as fast as the Ould Hunderd himsel’. If ye’ll take my advice, the best thing you can do is to put up his bundle and make him commforable. He’s brewed, and so must he drink. It’s for better, for warse, like the marriage state itsel’.”
“And grand I would be taking your advice!” said the landlady, more from habit than anger; “and a grand joodge you would mak’ o’ what a mother’ll do for her son! Eyeh, away! I’ve nae pleasure in man nor woman. Oh, my Sammy! and after all the pains the Colonel took to speak a word to the lad himsel’; and after all his schooling and what was done for him; and a new waistcoat and buttons I bought him mysel’ but a week agoo; and everything he could set his face to to make him commforable. Oh! Sammy, Sammy! what will ye say when your mother’s grey hairs is brought to the grave in sorrow along o’ you? I’ll tear the een out o’ that murderin’ Ould Hunderd if he come near this door!—I will! if he was the best customer in twenty mile. What do I care for his dribble of drink and his deceiving tongue? If it hadn’t been for him, I would ne’er have lost my Sammy, the best lad, though I say it as shouldn’t, and the cleverest, ye could set your eyes on. I could have trusted him with every key in the house, I could; and the modestest lad! Praise him to his face, and he would colour up like a girl. If I had but had the sense to ging and speak to the offisher mysel’!”
“Eyeh, woman, if ye but had!” said John, “ye would have knowed better; yon’er he is fast enough, and no a penny less than thirty pound’ll buy him off, and ye know best yoursel’ if ye can spare that off of the business in such bad times; but there’s mair as bad off as you. And I can tell you I saw greater folk nor our Sam look wistful at the ribbons. As I sat down by the chimney side, who should come in but Mr. Roger, him that should be the young Squire by rights, if the ould wan had done fairly by him. He stood i’ the door, as I might be dooing, and gave a look athwart the place. If he warn’t envying of the lads as could ’list, and no more said, never trust my word again. I’ll bet a shilling he was in twenty minds to take the bounty himsel’. Though he is a gentleman, he’s a deal worse off nor our Sam; he’ll goo hanging about in London, till the great folk doo somat for him. He durstent set for’ard bold, and into the ranks wi’ him. I’m more grieveder like, in a general way, for the sort of him nor our lad. Dry thy een, wife, and set on a great wash, and take it out on th’ wench; it’ll do thee good, and thoo canst do nae benefit to Sam.”
Mrs. Gilsland, though she contradicted her husband as usual, found some wisdom in his advice, and, after doing something elaborately the reverse for a time, adopted it, to the discomfiture of her poor maid-of-all-work, who might not have appreciated her master’s counsel had she been aware of it. A good scold did the landlady good; she sought out poor Sam’s wardrobe, collected a little heap of articles to be washed and mended for him, and managed, by this means, to get through the day with tolerable comfort, though interrupted by many gossiping visits of condolence, in all of which she renewed and expatiated upon her grief. When the evening arrived, Mrs. Gilsland was in considerable force, with red eyes, and face a little swollen, but strong in all her natural eloquence and courage, lying in wait for the arrival of the unsuspecting “Ould Hunderd,” who had not yet been informed, so far as she was aware of, what had taken place. Before he made his appearance, however, there arrived the carrier from Kenlisle, who made a diversion in her excitement. He brought a note from Horace Scarsdale to John Gilsland, enclosing an open one, addressed to Peggy at Marchmain, and requested her to send his trunk with the bearer; a communication which very much roused the curiosity of both husband and wife. While they were considering this billet, Sergeant Kennedy came in as usual, and got his place, and his pipe, in the public room, without calling forth any demonstration of hostilities. When she became aware of his presence, Mrs. Gilsland rushed into the apartment, with the note still in her hand.
“Eyeh, gude forgive me if I’m like to swear!” cried the indignant mother, “you’re here, ye ould deceiver! You’re here to beguile other folks’s sons, and dare to look me in the face as if ye had ne’er done mischief in your days. Where’s my Sam? Where’s my lad, that never had an ill thought intill his head till he came to speech of you? Well did the Cornel say ye wur an ould humbug! Where’s my son?”
“Husht! husht!” said the Sergeant, soothingly—“I have heard on’t already in the town. I always said he was a lad of spirit—he’ll make a good souldhier, and some day ye’ll be proud enough to see him in his uniform. Husht, would you have the onlearned believe he had ’listed in drink, or because of ill-doing? You’re an oncommon discreet woman when ye like. Think of the poor lad’s credit, then, and hould your peace. Would you make the foulks think he ’listed like a ne’er-do-well? Husht, if any person says so of Sam Gilsland to me, Sergeant Kennedy, o’ the Ould Hunderd, I’ll knock him down.”
This sudden new aspect of the subject took away the good woman’s breath; she was not prepared for so skilful a defence, since, to blame her son in blaming Kennedy, was the last thing she could have thought of. After a few moments she recovered herself, but not the full advantage she had started with.
“I said you was a deceiver, and it’s proved upon me,” said Mrs. Gilsland; “and you think you can take me in with your lyin’ tongue as well as my boy! How dare ye speak of drink or ill-doing and my Sam?—a steadier lad was never born; he’s no’ like you, you ould sponge that you are, soaking in whatever’s gooing in the way of liquor. He’s no as long-tongued nor as acquaint with ill; and but for coming across of you when the lad knowed no better, and taking a’ your stories for Gospel, he’d ha’ been here this day. And you sit and lift up your face to me in my own house, you do! Ye ould storyteller!—ye cruel deceiver!—ye onnat’ral ould man! You a feyther yoursel’ and make other foulks’s house desolate! But what need I speak?—there’s wan there forenenst ye, that cares little more nor you do, for all the lad I’m naming is his son as well as mine!”
This sudden attack took the unfortunate John entirely by surprise; he recoiled a step or two, with an exclamation of amazement and injury. He had been standing calmly by, enjoying the unusual pleasure of listening to his wife’s eloquence as a spectator, and rather rejoicing in the castigation of the sergeant. This assault took away his breath—nor was it allowed to remain a single blow. Before anyone could speak, an old cracked, high-pitched voice made itself heard from the door of the apartment, where, shivering with cold, and anger, and age, with an old checked shawl thrown over her cap, old Sally from the Grange shook her withered and trembling hand at the unhappy John.
“It’s you that’s a-spreading tales against the young maister—it’s you!” she cried, in her shrill accents; “and it’s you, Betty Gilsland, that’s puttin’ him up to it; you that’s eaten the Squire’s bread, and married on his present, and thrived wi’ his coostom. Fie upon me for a silly ould fool, that thought there was such a thing as thankfulness to the fore in this world! Eh, man! to think ye should have come coorting to the Grange kitchen, many’s the day, and eaten your commforable supper wi’ the rest on us, and yet have the heart to turn again Mr. Roger, like the gentry themsels! I would not have believed it if half the sheer had ta’en their Bible oath—no, not for nothing but hearing on it mysel’. What ill did he ever doo you, that you should raise a story on Mr. Roger? Oh, fie, fie, fie, for shame!”