“Muckle gude may it do ye, my bonny man. I trow ye dinna get sic a skirl-in-the-pan as that at Niel Blane’s. His wife was a canny body, and could dress things very weel for ane in her line o’ business, but no like a gentleman’s housekeeper, to be sure. But I doubt the daughter’s a silly thing—an unco cockernony she had busked on her head at the kirk last Sunday. I am doubting that there will be news o’ a’ thae braws. But my auld een’s drawing thegither—dinna hurry yoursell, my bonny man, tak mind about the putting out the candle, and there’s a horn of ale, and a glass of clow-gillie-flower water; I dinna gie ilka body that; I keep it for a pain I hae whiles in my ain stamach, and it’s better for your young blood than brandy. Sae, gude-night to ye, Mr Henry, and see that ye tak gude care o’ the candle.”
Morton promised to attend punctually to her caution, and requested her not to be alarmed if she heard the door opened, as she knew he must again, as usual, look to his horse, and arrange him for the night. Mrs Wilson then retreated, and Morton, folding up his provisions, was about to hasten to his guest, when the nodding head of the old housekeeper was again thrust in at the door, with an admonition, to remember to take an account of his ways before he laid himself down to rest, and to pray for protection during the hours of darkness.
Such were the manners of a certain class of domestics, once common in Scotland, and perhaps still to be found in some old manor-houses in its remote counties. They were fixtures in the family they belonged to; and as they never conceived the possibility of such a thing as dismissal to be within the chances of their lives, they were, of course, sincerely attached to every member of it. [Note: A masculine retainer of this kind, having offended his master extremely, was commanded to leave his service instantly. “In troth and that will I not,” answered the domestic; “if your honour disna ken when ye hae a gude servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and go away I will not.” On another occasion of the same nature, the master said, “John, you and I shall never sleep under the same roof again;” to which John replied, with much, “Whare the deil can your honour be ganging?”] On the other hand, when spoiled by the indulgence or indolence of their superiors, they were very apt to become ill-tempered, self-sufficient, and tyrannical; so much so, that a mistress or master would sometimes almost have wished to exchange their crossgrained fidelity for the smooth and accommodating duplicity of a modern menial.
CHAPTER VI.
Yea, this man’s brow, like to a tragic leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
Shakspeare.
Being at length rid of the housekeeper’s presence, Morton made a collection of what he had reserved from the provisions set before him, and prepared to carry them to his concealed guest. He did not think it necessary to take a light, being perfectly acquainted with every turn of the road; and it was lucky he did not do so, for he had hardly stepped beyond the threshold ere a heavy trampling of horses announced, that the body of cavalry, whose kettle-drums [Note: Regimental music is never played at night. But who can assure us that such was not the custom in Charles the Second’s time? Till I am well informed on this point, the kettle-drums shall clash on, as adding something to the picturesque effect of the night march.] they had before heard, were in the act of passing along the high-road which winds round the foot of the bank on which the house of Milnwood was placed. He heard the commanding officer distinctly give the word halt. A pause of silence followed, interrupted only by the occasional neighing or pawing of an impatient charger.
“Whose house is this?” said a voice, in a tone of authority and command.
“Milnwood, if it like your honour,” was the reply.
“Is the owner well affected?” said the enquirer.
“He complies with the orders of government, and frequents an indulged minister,” was the response.