“I’ll tell you aboot him i’ the noo; but wait a wee, doctor, till I bring ye something warm.”
I did not disapprove of the medicine proposed by the host of the Cross-Keys of St Dunstan, as I was anxious to know as much as possible about the place and people; and the influence of hot punch in making even silent persons communicative is quite proverbial. Mr Barlas, after a brief absence, returned to the snug little parlour, bearing his own private blue bottle, capable, I should think, of holding a good half-gallon of Islay or Glenlivet; and we were soon sitting comfortably, with steaming tumblers before us, beside a blazing fire.
“This is something social like, noo, doctor,” said the composed and considerate landlord. “Ye were wantin’ to hear aboot the Laird. Weel, I’ll tell ye what sort o’ a being he is, that ye may be on your guard when ye gang to the Haugh the morn. Laird Ramsay has mair gear, doctor, than ony half-dozen o’ his neighbours for mony miles roond, and he’s a queer character wi’d a’. He’s unco auld-fashioned for a man in his station, an’ speaks muckle sic like as ye hear me speakin’ i’ the noo. He gets the name o’ haudin’ a gude grip o’ his siller; but I’ve nae reason to compleen, as he spends freely eneuch when he comes to the Cross-Keys, no forgettin’ the servant-lass and the ostler; an’ I ken for a fac’ that he slips a canny shillin’ noo and again into the loofs o’ the puir folk o’ St Dunstan. He’s unco douce and proud,—ye micht maist say saucy,—until ye get the richt side o’ him, an’ then he’s the best o’ freends; an’ nane better than the Laird at a twa-handed crack.”
“And how do you get to the right side of him, Mr Barlas?” I interjected.
“That’s the very thing I was gaun to tell ye, doctor. Lay on the butter weel. Butter him on baith sides, an’ then ye easy get to the richt side. Praise his land, his craps, his nowte, his house, his garden, his Glenlivet, his everything; but tak care what ye say o’ his dochter to his face.”
“The Laird has got a daughter, then, it seems?”
“Ay, that he has, an’ a comely quean she is; but he’ll be a clever man wha can rin awa wi’ her frae the Haugh. The Laird just dotes upon her, an’ he wouldna pairt wi’ her for love or siller. If she has a sweetheart, I’m thinkin’ he’ll need to sook his thoomb, an’ bide a wee.”
In answer to my inquiries the landlord informed me that Miss Jessie Ramsay was the Laird’s only daughter, and that her mother had been dead for several years. His information and anecdotes regarding the eccentric character of the old-fashioned proprietor of the Haugh, excited my curiosity so much that I resolved to pay him an early visit on the following day. After sitting for an hour or two, during which time Mr Barlas became more and more loquacious, I seized the first favourable opportunity to propose an adjournment, and receiving the reluctant assent of mine host, I retired to rest, and slept soundly in spite of all the crowing cocks of St Dunstan.
In the morning the tidings were through the whole village that a new doctor had come, and several people became suddenly unwell, for the express purpose, I presume, of testing my skill. Three urgent cases I found to be ordinary headache, and, fearing lest my trip to the Haugh might be delayed for two weeks, I hired the best hack the Cross-Keys could afford, and made off for the domicile of the eccentric Laird. The owner of the hack was very anxious to accompany me, but I preferred making the excursion alone. The weather was mild and delightful; the trees seemed lovelier in decay than in the fulness of summer life; and the Tweed flowed and murmured softly as the waters of Siloah. Half-an-hour’s riding brought me to the Haugh—an ancient edifice embosomed among trees. In the prime of its youth it would doubtless be considered a splendid mansion; but in its old age it had an ungainly appearance, although not altogether destitute of a certain picturesque air. After disposing of my hack to a little Jack-of-all-work urchin, who was looking about for some work to do, or meditating mischief, I knocked at the door, and was ushered, by an old serving-woman, into a quaint apartment, crammed with antique furniture. The mantelpiece absolutely groaned under its load of ornaments, while a great spreading plume of peacock’s feathers waved triumphantly over all. This must be the Laird’s fancy, I thought, and not the taste of Miss Jessie. Several pictures illustrative of fox-hunting, and two portraits, adorned the walls. None of them could be considered as belonging to any particular school, or as masterpieces in art. On the window-blinds a besieging force was represented as assaulting a not very formidable castle.
While I sat amusing myself with the oddities of the apartment, the door opened, and the Laird entered. He was a gray-haired, ruddy-faced, shrewd-looking man of fifty or thereabouts. I was rather taken with his dress. He wore a blue coat of antique cut, knee breeches, long brown gaiters with metal buttons, and his vest was beautified with perpendicular yellow stripes. There was an air of dignity about him when he entered as though he were conscious that he was Laird of the Haugh, and that I had come to consult him about some important business. Being a Justice of the Peace, as I afterwards learned, he probably wished to impress a stranger with a sense of his official greatness. I did not know very well whether to address him as Mr Ramsay or the “Laird;” but he relieved me of the difficulty by saying in broad Scotch, “This is a grand day, sir; hae ye ridden far?”