For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch, ruled their little court
The pliant bow he formed, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.
Crabbe’s Village.
Francis Macraw, agreeably to the commands of his master, attended the mendicant, in order to see him fairly out of the estate, without permitting him to have conversation, or intercourse, with any of the Earl’s dependents or domestics. But, judiciously considering that the restriction did not extend to himself, who was the person entrusted with the convoy, he used every measure in his power to extort from Edie the nature of his confidential and secret interview with Lord Glenallan. But Edie had been in his time accustomed to cross-examination, and easily evaded those of his quondam comrade. “The secrets of grit folk,” said Ochiltree within himself, “are just like the wild beasts that are shut up in cages. Keep them hard and fast sneaked up, and it’s a’ very weel or better—but ance let them out, they will turn and rend you. I mind how ill Dugald Gunn cam aff for letting loose his tongue about the Major’s leddy and Captain Bandilier.”
Francis was therefore foiled in his assaults upon the fidelity of the mendicant, and, like an indifferent chess-player, became, at every unsuccessful movement, more liable to the counter-checks of his opponent.
“Sae ye uphauld ye had nae particulars to say to my lord but about yer ain matters?”
“Ay, and about the wee bits o’ things I had brought frae abroad,” said Edie. “I ken’d you popist folk are unco set on the relics that are fetched frae far-kirks and sae forth.”
“Troth, my Lord maun be turned feel outright,” said the domestic, “an he puts himsell into sic a carfuffle, for onything ye could bring him, Edie.”
“I doubtna ye may say true in the main, neighbour,” replied the beggar; “but maybe he’s had some hard play in his younger days, Francis, and that whiles unsettles folk sair.”
“Troth, Edie, and ye may say that—and since it’s like yell neer come back to the estate, or, if ye dee, that ye’ll no find me there, I’se e’en tell you he had a heart in his young time sae wrecked and rent, that it’s a wonder it hasna broken outright lang afore this day.”
“Ay, say ye sae?” said Ochiltree; “that maun hae been about a woman, I reckon?”
“Troth, and ye hae guessed it,” said Francie—“jeest a cusin o’ his nain—Miss Eveline Neville, as they suld hae ca’d her;—there was a sough in the country about it, but it was hushed up, as the grandees were concerned;—it’s mair than twenty years syne—ay, it will be three-and-twenty.”