“Hout, my bonny leddy—fulish? A’ the world’s fules—and how should auld Edie Ochiltree be aye wise?—And for the evil—let them wha deal wi’ Dousterswivel tell whether he gat a grain mair than his deserts.”
“That may be true, Edie, and yet,” said Miss Wardour, “you may have been very wrong.”
“Weel, weel, we’se no dispute that e’ennow—it’s about yoursell I’m gaun to speak. Div ye ken what’s hanging ower the house of Knockwinnock?”
“Great distress, I fear, Edie,” answered Miss Wardour; “but I am surprised it is already so public.”
“Public!—Sweepclean, the messenger, will be there the day wi’ a’ his tackle. I ken it frae ane o’ his concurrents, as they ca’ them, that’s warned to meet him; and they’ll be about their wark belyve; whare they clip, there needs nae kame—they shear close eneugh.”
“Are you sure this bad hour, Edie, is so very near?—come, I know, it will.”
“It’s e’en as I tell you, leddy. But dinna be cast down—there’s a heaven ower your head here, as weel as in that fearful night atween the Ballyburghness and the Halket-head. D’ye think He, wha rebuked the waters, canna protect you against the wrath of men, though they be armed with human authority?”
“It is indeed all we have to trust to.”
“Ye dinna ken—ye dinna ken: when the night’s darkest, the dawn’s nearest. If I had a gude horse, or could ride him when I had him, I reckon there wad be help yet. I trusted to hae gotten a cast wi’ the Royal Charlotte, but she’s coupit yonder, it’s like, at Kittlebrig. There was a young gentleman on the box, and he behuved to drive; and Tam Sang, that suld hae mair sense, he behuved to let him, and the daft callant couldna tak the turn at the corner o’ the brig; and od! he took the curbstane, and he’s whomled her as I wad whomle a toom bicker—it was a luck I hadna gotten on the tap o’ her. Sae I came down atween hope and despair, to see if ye wad send me on.”
“And, Edie—where would ye go?” said the young lady.