"Aweel, aweel, Jock," answered Mr. Skreigh, with a tone of mild
solemnity, "our accounts differ in no material particulars; but I
had no knowledge that ye had seen the man.--So ye see, my friends,
that this soothsayer having prognosticated evil to the boy, his
father engaged a godly minister to be with him morn and night."

"Ay, that was him they ca'd Dominie Sampson," said the postilion.

"He's but a dumb dog that," observed the Deacon; "I have heard that
he never could preach five words of a sermon endlang, for as lang
as he has been licensed."

"Weel, but," said the precentor, waving his hand, as if eager to
retrieve the command of the discourse, he waited on the young
Laird by night and day. Now, it chanced, when the bairn was near
five years auld, that the Laird had a sight of his errors, and
determined to put these Egyptians aff his ground; and he caused
them to remove; and that Frank Kennedy, that was a rough swearing
fellow, he was sent to turn them off. And he cursed and damned at
them, and they swure at him; and that Meg Merrilies, that was the
maist powerfu' with the Enemy of Mankind, she as gude as said she
would have him, body and soul, before three days were ower his
head. And I have it from a sure hand, and that's ane wha saw it,
and that's John Wilson, that was the laird's groom, that Meg
appeared to the Laird as he was riding hame from Singleside, over
Gibbie's-know, and threatened him wi' what she wad do to his
family; but whether it was Meg, or something waur in her likeness,
for it seemed bigger than ony mortal creature, John could not say."

"Aweel," said the postilion, "it might be sae--I canna say against
it, for I was not in the country at the time; but John Wilson was a
blustering kind of chield, without the heart of a sprug."
[*Sparrow]

"And what was the end of all this?" said the stranger, with some
impatience.

"Ou, the event and upshot of it was, sir," said the precentor,
"that while they were all looking on, beholding a king's ship chase
a smuggler, this Kennedy suddenly brake away frae them without ony
reason that could be descried--ropes nor tows wad not hae held
him--and made for the wood of Warroch as fast as his beast could
carry him; and by the way he met the young Laird and his governor,
and he snatched up the bairn, and swure, if he was bewitched, the
bairn should have the same luck as him; and the minister followed
as fast as he could, and almaist as fast as them, for he was
wonderfully swift of foot--and he saw Meg the witch, or her master
in her similitude, rise suddenly out of the ground, and claught the
bairn suddenly out of the gauger's arms--and then he rampauged and
drew his sword--for ye ken a fie man and a cusser fearsna the
deil."

"I believe that's very true," said the postilion.

"So, sir, she grippit him, and clodded [*Hurled] him like a stane
from the sling ower the craigs of Warroch Head, where he was found
that evening--but what became of the babe, frankly I cannot say.
But he that was minister here then, that's now in a better place,
had an opinion that the bairn was only conveyed to Fairyland for a
season."

The stranger had smiled slightly at some parts of this recital, but
ere he could answer, the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and
a smart servant, handsomely dressed, with a cockade in his hat,
bustled into the kitchen, with "Make a little room, good people";
when, observing the stranger, he descended at once into the modest
and civil domestic, his hat sunk down by his side, and he put a
letter into his master's hands. "The family at Ellangowan, sir,
are in great distress, and unable to receive any visits."

"I know it," replied his master.--"And now, madam, it you will have
the goodness to allow me to occupy the parlour you mentioned, as
you are disappointed of your guests--"

"Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Mac-Candlish, and hastened to light
the way with all the imperative bustle which an active landlady
loves to display on such occasions.

"Young man," said the Deacon to the servant, filling a glass,
"ye'll no be the waur o' this, after your ride."

"Not a feather, sir,--thank ye--your very good health, sir."

"And wha may your master be, friend?"

"What, the gentleman that was here?--that's the famous Colonel
Mannering, sir, from the East Indies."

"What, him we read of in the newspapers?"

"Ay, ay, just the same. It was he relieved Cuddieburn, and
defended Chingalore, and defeated the great Mahratta chief, Ram
Jolli Bundleman--I was with him in most of his campaigns."

"Lord safe us," said the landlady, "I must go see what he would
have for supper--that I should set him down here!"

"Oh, he likes that all the better, mother;--you never saw a plainer
creature in your life than our old Colonel; and yet he has a spice
of the devil in him too."

The rest of the evening's conversation below stairs tending little
to edification, we shall, with the reader's leave, step up to the
parlour.



CHAPTER XII.

  --Reputation?--that's man's idol set up against God, the
  Maker of all laws, Who hath commanded us we should not
  kill, And yet we say we must, for Reputation! What honest
  man can either fear his own, Or else will hurt another's
  reputation? Fear to do base unworthy things is valour; If
  they be done to us, to suffer them Is valour
  too.--        BEN JONSON,

The Colonel was walking pensively up and down the parlour, when the
officious landlady re-entered to take his commands. Having given
them in the manner he thought would be most acceptable "for the
good of the house," he begged to detain her a moment.

"I think," he said, "madam, if I understood the good people right,
Mr. Bertram lost his son in his fifth year?"

"Oh ay, sir, there's nae doubt o' that, though there are mony idle
clashes [* Tittle-tattle], about the way and manner, for it's an
auld story now, and everybody tells it, as we were doing, their ain
way by the ingleside. But lost the bairn was in his fifth year, as
your honour says, Colonel; and the news being rashly tell'd to the
leddy, then great with child, cost her her life that samyn
night--and the Laird never throve after that day, but was just
careless of everything--though, when his daughter Miss Lucy grew
up, she tried to keep order within doors--but what could she do,
poor thing so now they're out of house and hauld."

"Can you recollect, madam, about what time of the year the child
was lost?" The landlady, after a pause, and some recollection,
answered, "she was positive it was about this season and added
some local recollections that fixed the date in her memory, as
occurring about the beginning of November, 17-."

The stranger took two or three turns round the room in silence, but
signed to Mrs. Mac-Candlish not to leave it.

Did I rightly apprehend," he said, "that the estate of Ellangowan
is in the market?"

"In the market?--it will be sell'd the morn to the highest
bidder--that's no the morn, Lord help me! which is the Sabbath, but
on Monday, the first free day; and the furniture and stocking is to
be roupit [*Auctioned] at the same time on the ground--it's the
opinion of the haill country, that the sale has been shamefully
forced on at this time, when there's sae little money stirring in
Scotland wi' this weary American war, that somebody may get the
land a bargain--Deil be in them, that I should say sae!"--the good
lady's wrath rising at the supposed injustice.

"And where will the sale take place?"

"On the, premises, as the advertisement says--that's at the house
of Ellangowan, your honour, as I understand it."

"And who exhibits the title-deeds, rent-roll, and plan?"

"A very decent man, sir; the Sheriff-substitute of the county, who
has authority from the Court of Session. He's in the town just
now, if your honour would like to see hint; and he can tell you
mair about the loss of the bairn than onybody, for the
Sheriff-depute (that's his principal, like) took much pains to come
at the truth o' that matter, as I have heard."

"And this gentleman's name is--"

"Mac-Morlan, sir,--he's a man o' character, and weel spoken o'."

"Send my compliments--Colonel Mannering's compliments to him, and I
would be glad he would do me the pleasure of supping with me, and
bring these papers with him--and I beg, good madam, you will say
nothing of this to any one else."

"Me, sir? ne'er a word shall I say--I wish your honour (a curtsey),
or ony honourable gentleman that's fought for his country (another
curtsey), had the land, since the auld family maun quit (a sigh),
rather than that wily scoundrel, Glossin, that's risen on the ruin
of the best friend he ever had--and now I think on't, I'll slip on
my hood and pattens, and gang to Mr. Mac-Morlan mysell--he's at
hame e'en now-it's hardly a step."

"Do so, my good landlady, and many thanks--and bid my servant step
here with my portfolio in the meantime."

In a minute or two, Colonel Mannering was quietly seated with his
writing materials before him. We have the privilege of looking
over his shoulder as he writes, and we willingly communicate its
substance to our readers. The letter was addressed to Arthur
Mervyn, Esq., of Mervyn Hall, Llanbraithwaite, Westmoreland. It
contained some account of the writer's previous journey since
parting with him, and then proceeded as follows:-

"And now, why will you still upbraid me with my melancholy,
Mervyn?--Do you think, after the lapse of twenty-five years,
battles, wounds, imprisonment, you, who have remained in the bosom
of domestic happiness, experience little change, that your step is
as light, and your fancy as full of sunshine, is a blessed effect
of health and temperament, co-operating with content and a smooth
current down the course of life. But my career has been one of
difficulties, and doubts, and errors. From my infancy I have been
the sport of accident, and though the wind has often borne me into
harbour, it has seldom been into that which the pilot destined. Let
me recall to you--but the task must be brief--the odd and wayward
fates of my youth, and the misfortunes or my manhood.

"The former, you will say, had nothing very appalling. All was not
for the best; but all was tolerable. My father, the eldest son of
an ancient but reduced family, left me with little, save the name
of the head of the house, to the protection of his more fortunate
brothers. They were so fond of me that they almost quarrelled
about me. My uncle, the bishop, would have had me in orders, and
offered me a living--my uncle, the merchant, would have put me into
a counting-house, and proposed to give me a share in the thriving
concern of Mannering and Marshall, in Lombard' Street--So, between
these two stools, or rather these two soft, easy, well-stuffed
chairs of divinity and commerce, my unfortunate person slipped
down, and pitched upon a dragoon saddle. Again, the bishop wished
me to marry the niece and heiress of the Dean of Lincoln; and my
uncle, the alderman, proposed to me the only daughter of old
Sloethorn, the great wine-merchant, rich enough to play at
span-counters with moidores, and make thread-papers of bank
notes--and somehow I slipped my neck out of both nooses, and
married--poor--poor Sophia Wellwood.

"You will say, my military career in India, when I followed my
regiment there, should have given me some satisfaction; and so it
assuredly has. You will remind me also, that if I disappointed the
hopes of my guardians, I did not incur their displeaslure--that the
bishop, at his death, bequeathed me his blessing, his manuscript
sermons, and a curious portfolio, containing the heads of eminent
divines of the Church of England; and that my uncle, Sir Paul
Mannering, left me sole heir and executor to his large fortune.

"Yet this availeth me nothing--I told you I had that upon my mind
which I should carry to my grave with me, a perpetual aloes in the
draught of existence. I will tell you the cause more in detail
than I had the heart to do while under your hospitable roof. You
will often hear it mentioned, and perhaps with different and
unfounded circumstances. I will, therefore, speak it out; and then
let the event itself, and the sentiments of melancholy with which
it has impressed me, never again be subject of discussion between
us.

"Sophia, as you well know, followed me to India. She was as
innocent as gay; but, unfortunately for us both, as gay as
innocent. My own manners were partly formed by studies I had
forsaken, and habits of seclusion, not quite consistent with my
situation as commandant of a regiment in a country, where universal
hospitality is offered and expected by every settler claiming the
rank of a gentleman. In a moment of peculiar pressure (you know
how hard we were sometimes run to obtain white faces to countenance
our line-of-battle), a young man, named Brown, joined our regiment
as a volunteer, and finding the military duty more to his fancy
than commerce, in which he had been engaged, remained with us as a
cadet. Let me do my unhappy victim justice--he behaved with such
gallantry on every occasion that offered, that the first vacant
commission was considered as his due. I was absent for some weeks
upon a distant expedition; when I returned, I found this young
fellow established quite as the friend of the house, and habitual
attendant of my wife and daughter. It was an arrangement which
displeased me in many particulars, though no objection could be
made to his manners or character--Yet I might have been reconciled
to his familiarity in my family, but for the suggestions of
another. If you read over--what I never dare open--the play of
Othello, you will have some idea of what followed--I mean of my
motives--my actions, thank God! were less reprehensible. There was
another cadet ambitious of the vacant situation. He called my
attention to what he led me to term coquetry between my wife and
this young man. Sophia was virtuous, but proud of her virtue; and,
irritated by my jealousy, she was so imprudent as to press and
encourage an intimacy which she saw I disapproved and regarded with
suspicion. Between Brown and me there existed a sort of internal
dislike. He made an effort or two to overcome my prejudice; but,
prepossessed as I was, I placed them to a wrong motive. Feeling
himself repulsed, and with scorn, he desisted; and as he was
without family and friends, he was naturally more watchful of the
deportment of one who had both.

"It is odd with what torture I write this letter, I feel inclined,
nevertheless, to protract the operation, just as if my doing so
could put off the catastrophe which has so long embittered my
life. But--it must he told, and it shall be told briefly.

"My wife, though no longer young, was still eminently handsome,
and--let me say thus far in my own justification--she was fond of
being thought so--I am repeating what I said before--In a word, of
her virtue I never entertained a doubt; but, pushed by the artful
suggestions of Archer, I thought she cared little for my peace of
mind, and that the young fellow, Brown, paid his attentions in my
despite, and in defiance of me. He perhaps considered me, on his
part, as an oppressive aristocratic man, who made my rank in
society, and in the army, the means of galling those whom
circumstances placed beneath me. And if he discovered my silly
jealousy, he probably considered the fretting me in that sore point
of my character, as one means of avenging the petty indignities to
which I had it in my power to subject him. Yet an acute friend of
mine gave a more harmless, or at least a less offensive,
construction to his attentions, which he conceived to be meant for
my daughter Julia, though immediately addressed to propitiate the
influence of her mother. This could have been no very flattering
or pleasing enterprise on the part of an obscure and nameless young
man; but I should not have been offended at this folly, as I was at
the higher degree of presumption I suspected. Offended, however, I
was, and in a mortal degree.

"A very slight spark will kindle a flame where everything lies open
to catch it. I have absolutely forgot the proximate cause of
quarrel, but it was some trifle which occurred at the card-table,
which occasioned high words and a challenge. We met in the morning
beyond the walls and esplanade of the fortress which I then
commanded, on the frontiers of the settlement. This was arranged
for Brown's safety, had he escaped. I almost wish he had, though
at my own expense but he fell by the first fire. We strove to
assist him but some of these Loolies, a species of native banditti
who were always on the watch for prey, poured in upon us. Archer
and I gained our horses with difficulty, and cut our way through
them after a hard conflict, in the course of which he received some
desperate wounds. To complete the misfortunes of this miserable
day, my wife, who suspected the design with which I left the
fortress, had ordered her palanquin to follow me, and was alarmed
and almost made prisoner by another troop of these plunderers. She
was quickly released by a party of our cavalry; but I cannot
disguise from myself, that the incidents of this fatal morning gave
a severe shock to health already delicate. The confession of
Archer, who thought himself dying, that he had invented some
circumstances, and, for his purposes, put the worst construction
upon others, and the full explanation and exchange of forgiveness
with me which this produced, could not check the progress of her
disorder. She died within about eight months after this incident,
bequeathing me only the girl, of whom Mrs. Mervyn is so good as to
undertake the temporary charge. Julia was also extremely ill; so
much so, that I was induced to throw up my command and return to
Europe, where her native air, time, and the novelty of the scenes
around her, have contributed to dissipate her dejection, and
restore her health.

"Now that you know my story, you will no longer ask me the reason
of my melancholy, but permit me to brood upon it as I may.  There
is, surely, in the above narrative, enough to embitter, though not
to poison, the chalice, which the fortune and fame you so often
mention had prepared to regale my years of retirement.

"I could add circumstances which our old tutor would have quoted as
instances of day fatality,--you would laugh were I to mention such
particulars, especially as you know I put no faith in them. Yet,
since I have come to the very house from which I now write, I have
learned a singular coincidence, which, if I find it truly
established by tolerable evidence, will serve us hereafter for
subject of curious discussion. But I will spare you at present, as
I expect a person to speak about a purchase of property now open in
this part of the country. It is a place to which I have a foolish
partiality, and I hope my purchasing may be convenient to those
who are parting with it, as there is a plan for buying it under
the value. My respectful compliments to Mrs. Mervyn, and I will
trust you, though you boast to be so lively a young gentleman, to
kiss Julia for me.--

"Adieu, dear Mervyn.--

Mr. Mac-Morlan now entered the room. The well-known character of
Colonel Mannering at once disposed this gentleman, who was a man of
intelligence and probity, to be open and confidential. He
explained the advantages and disadvantages of the property. "It
was settled," he said, "the greater part of it at least, upon
heirs-male, and the purchaser would have the privilege of retaining
in his hands a large proportion of the price, in case of the
reappearance, within a certain limited term, of the child who had
disappeared."

"To what purpose, then, force forward a sale?" said Mannering.

Mac-Morlan smiled. "Ostensibly," he answered, "to substitute the
interest of money, instead of the ill-paid and precarious rents of
an unimproved estate; but chiefly, it was believed, to suit the
wishes and views of a certain intended purchaser, who had become a
principal creditor, and forced himself into the management of the
affairs by means best known to himself, and who, it was thought,
would find it very convenient to purchase the estate without paying
down the price."

Mannering consulted with Mr. Mac-Morlan upon the steps for
thwarting this unprincipled attempt. They then conversed long on
the singular disappearance of Harry Bertram upon his fifth
birthday, verifying thus the random prediction of Mannering, of
which, however, it will readily be supposed he made no beast. Mr.
Mac-Morlan was not himself in office when that incident took place;
but he was well acquainted with all the circumstances, and promised
that our hero should have them detailed by the Sheriff-depute
himself, if, as he proposed, he should become a settler in that
part of Scotland. With this assurance they parted, well satisfied
with each other, and with the evening's conference.

On the Sunday following, Colonel Mannering attended the parish
church with great decorum. None of the Ellangowan family were
present; and it was understood that the old Laird was rather worse
than better. Jock Jabos, once more despatched for him, returned
once more without his errand; but, on the following day, Miss
Bertram hoped he might be removed.



CHAPTER XIII.

  They told me, by the sentence of the law, They had
  commission to seize all thy fortune.-- Here stood a ruffian
  with a horrid face, Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate,
  Tumbled into a heap for public sale;--There was another,
  making villainous jests At thy undoing; but had tacit
  possession Of all thy ancient most domestic
  ornaments.           --OTWAY.

Early next morning, Mannering mounted his horse, and, accompanied
by his servant, took the road to Ellangowan. He had no need to
inquire the way. A sale in the country is a place of public resort
and amusement, and people of various descriptions streamed to it
from all quarters.

After a pleasant ride of about an hour, the old towers of the ruin
presented themselves in the landscape. The thoughts, with what
different feelings he had lost sight of them so many years before,
thronged upon the mind of the traveller. The landscape was the
same; but how changed the feelings, hopes, and views, of the
spectator! Then, life and love were new, and all the prospect was
gilded by their rays. And now, disappointed in affection, sated
with fame, and what the world calls success, his mind goaded by
bitter and repentant recollection, his best hope was to find a
retirement in which he might nurse the melancholy that was to
accompany him to his grave. "Yet why should an individual mourn
over the instability of his hopes, and the vanity of his
prospects? The ancient chiefs, who erected these enormous and
massive towers 'to be the fortress of their race and the seat of
their power', could they have dreamed the day was to come, when the
last of their descendants should be expelled, a ruined wanderer,
from his possessions! But Nature's bounties are unaltered. The
sun will shine as fair on these ruins, whether the property of a
stranger, or of a sordid and obscure trickster of the abused law,
as when the banners of the founder first waved upon their
battlements."

These reflections brought Mannering to the door of the house, which
was that day open to all. He entered among others, who traversed
the apartments, some to select articles for purchase, others to
gratify their curiosity. There is something melancholy in such a
scene, even under the most favourable circumstances. The confused
state of the furniture, displaced for the convenience of being
easily viewed and carried off by the purchasers, is disagreeable to
the eye. Those articles which, properly and decently arranged,
look creditable and handsome, have then a paltry and wretched
appearance; and the apartments, stripped of all that render them
commodious and comfortable, have an aspect of ruin and
dilapidation. It is disgusting also, to see the scenes of domestic
society and seclusion thrown open to the gaze of the curious and
the vulgar; to hear their coarse speculations and brutal jests upon
the fashions and furniture to which they are unaccustomed,--a
frolicsome humour much cherished by, the whisky which in Scotland
is always put in circulation on such occasions. All these are
ordinary effects of such a scene as Ellangowan now presented; but
the moral feeling, that, in this case, they indicated the total
ruin of an ancient and honourable family, gave them treble weight
and poignancy.

It was some time before Colonel Mannering could find any one
disposed to answer his reiterated questions concerning Ellangowan
himself. At length, an old maid-servant, who held her apron to her
eyes as she spoke, told him, "the Laird was something better, and
they hoped he would be able to leave the house that day. Miss Lucy
expected the chaise every moment, and, as the day was fine for the
time o' year, they had carried him in his easy-chair up to the
green before the auld castle, to be out of the way of this unco
spectacle."  Hither Colonel Mannering went in quest of him, and
soon came in sight of the little group, which consisted of four
persons. The ascent was steep, so that he had time to reconnoitre
them as he advanced, and to consider in what mode he should make
his address.

Mr. Bertram, paralytic, and almost incapable of moving, occupied
his easy-chair, attired in his night-cap, and a loose camlet coat,
his feet wrapped in blankets. Behind him, with his hands crossed
on the cane upon which he rested, stood Dominie Sampson, whom
Mannering recognised at once. Time had made no change upon him,
unless that his black coat seemed more brown, and his gaunt cheeks
more lank, than when Mannering last saw him. On one side of the
old man was a sylph-like form--a young woman of about seventeen,
whom the Colonel accounted to be his daughter. She was looking,
from time to time, anxiously towards the avenue, as if expecting
the post-chaise; and between whiles busied herself in adjusting the
blankets, so as to protect her father from the cold, and in
answering inquiries, which he seemed to make with a captious and
querulous manner. She did not trust herself to look towards the
Place, although the hum of the assembled crowd must have drawn her
attention in that direction. The fourth person of the group was a
handsome and genteel young man, who seemed to share Miss Bertram's
anxiety, and her solicitude to soothe and accommodate her parent.

This young man was the first who observed Colonel Mannering, and
immediately stepped forward to meet him, as if politely to prevent
his drawing nearer to the distressed group. Mannering instantly
paused and explained. "He was," he said, "a stranger, to whom Mr.
Bertram had formerly shown kindness and hospitality; he would not
have intruded himself upon him at a period of distress, did it not
seem to be in some degree a moment also of desertion; he wished
merely to offer such services as might be in his power to Mr.
Bertram and the young lady."

He then paused at a little distance from the chair. His old
acquaintance gazed at him with lack-lustre eye, that intimated no
tokens of recognition--the Dominie seemed too deeply sunk in
distress even to observe his presence. The young man spoke aside
with Miss Bertram, who advanced timidly, and thanked Colonel
Mannering for his goodness; "but," she said, the tears gushing fast
into her eyes--"her father, she feared, was not so much himself
as to be able to remember him."

She then retreated towards the chair, accompanied by the
Colonel.--"Father," she said, "this is Mr. Mannering, an old
friend, come to inquire after you."

"He's very heartily welcome," said the old man, raising himself in
his chair, and attempting a gesture of courtesy, while a gleam of
hospitable satisfaction seemed to pass over his faded features;
"but, Lucy, my dear, let us go down to the house; you should not
keep the gentleman here in the cold.--Dominie, take the key of the
wine-cooler. Mr. a--a--the gentleman will surely take something
after his ride."

Mannering was unspeakably affected by the contrast which his
recollection made between this reception and that with which he had
been greeted by the same individual when they last met. He could
not restrain his tears, and his evident emotion at once attained
him the confidence of the friendless young lady.

"Alas!" she said, "this is distressing even to a stranger; but it
may be better for my poor father to be in this way, than if he knew
and could feel all."

A servant in livery now came up the path, and spoke in an undertone
to the young gentleman--"Mr. Charles, my lady's wanting you yonder
sadly, to bid for her for the black ebony cabinet; and Lady Jean
Devorgoil is wi' her an' a'--ye maun come away directly."

"Tell them ye could not find me, Tom; or, stay,--say I am looking
at the horses."

"No, no, no," said Lucy Bertram earnestly; "if you would not add to
the misery of this miserable moment, go to the company
directly.--This gentleman, I am sure, will see us to the carriage."

"Unquestionably, madam," said Mannering; "your young friend may
rely on my attention."

"Farewell, then," said young Hazlewood, and whispered a word in her
ear--then ran down the steep hastily, as if not trusting his
resolution at a slower pace.

"Where's Charles Hazlewood running?" said the invalid, who
apparently was accustomed to his presence and attentions; "where's
Charles Hazlewood running?--what takes him away now?"

"He'll return in a little while," said Lucy gently.

The sound of voices was now heard from the ruins. The reader may
remember there was a communication between the castle and the
beach, up which the speakers had ascended.

"Yes, there's plenty of shells and sea-ware for manure, as you
observe--and if one inclined to build a new house, which might
indeed be necessary, there's a great deal of good hewn stone about
this old dungeon for the devil here--"

"Good God!" said Miss Bertram hastily to Sampson, "'tis that wretch
Glossin's voice!--if my father sees him, it will kill him
outright!"

Sampson wheeled perpendicularly round, and moved with long strides
to confront the attorney, as he issued from beneath the portal arch
of the ruin. "Avoid ye!" he said--"I avoid ye! wouldst thou kill
and take possession?"

"Come, come, Master Dominie Sampson," answered Glossin insolently,
"if ye cannot preach in the pulpit, we'll have no preaching here.
We go by the law, my good friend; we leave the gospel to you."

The very mention of this man's name had been of late a subject of
the most violent irritation to the unfortunate patient. The sound
of his voice now produced an instantaneous effect. Mr. Bertram
started up without assistance, and turned round towards him; the
ghastliness of his features forming a strange contrast with the
violence of his exclamations.--"Out of my sight, ye viper!--ye
frozen viper, that I warmed till ye stung me!--Art thou not afraid
that the walls of my father's dwelling should fall and crush thee
limb and bone?--Are ye not afraid the very lintels of the door of
Ellangowan castle should break open and swallow you up?--Were ye
not friendless,--houseless,--penniless,--when I took ye by the
hand--and are Ye not expelling me--me, and that innocent girl--
friendless, houseless, and penniless, from the house that has
sheltered us and ours for a thousand years?"

Had Glossin been alone, he would probably have slunk off; but the
consciousness that a stranger was present, besides the person who
came with him (a sort of land-surveyor), determined him to resort
to impudence. The task, however, was almost too hard, even for his
effrontery--"Sir--Sir--Mr. Bertram--Sir, you should not blame me,
but your own imprudence, Sir--"

The indignation of Mannering was mounting very high. "Sir," he
said to Glossin, "without entering into the merits of this
controversy, I must inform you, that you have chosen a very
improper place, time, and presence for it. And you will oblige me
by withdrawing without more words."

Glossin, being a tall, strong, muscular man, was not unwilling
rather to turn upon a stranger whom he hoped to bully, than
maintain his wretched cause against his injured patron:--"I do not
know who you are, sir," he said, "and I shall permit no man to use
such d-d freedom with me."

Mannering was naturally hot-tempered--his eyes flashed a dark
light--he compressed his nether lip so closely that the blood
sprung, and approaching Glossin--"Look you, sir," he said, "that
you do not know me is of little consequence. I know you; and, if
you do not instantly descend that bank, without uttering a single
syllable, by the Heaven that is above us, you shall make but one
step from the top to the bottom!"

The commanding tone of rightful anger silenced at once the ferocity
of the bully. He hesitated, turned on his heel, and, muttering
something between his teeth about unwillingness to alarm the lady,
relieved them of his hateful company.

Mrs. Mac-Candlish's postilion, who had come up in time to hear
what passed, said aloud, "If he had stuck by the way, I would have
lent him a heezie, [* Kick] the dirty scoundrel, as willingly as
ever I pitched a boddle." [* A small copper coin]

He then stepped forward to announce that his horses were in
readiness for the invalid and his daughter.

But they were no longer necessary. The debilitated frame of Mr.
Bertram was exhausted by this last effort of indignant anger, and
when he sunk again upon his chair, he expired almost without a
struggle or groan. So little alteration did the extinction of the
vital spark make upon his external appearance, that the screams of
his daughter, when she saw his eye fix and felt his pulse stop,
first announced his death to the spectators.



CHAPTER XIV.

  The bell strikes one.--We take no note of time But from its
  loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an
  angel spoke, I feel the solemn
  sound.--             YOUNG.

The moral which the poet has rather quaintly deduced from
the necessary mode of measuring time, may he well applied to
our feelings respecting that portion of it which constitutes
human life. We observe the aged, the infirm, and those
engaged in occupations of immediate hazard, trembling as it
were upon the very brink of non-existence, but we derive no
lesson from the precariousness of their tenure until it has
altogether failed. Then, for a moment at least,

                Our hopes and fears
  Start up alarm'd, and o'er life's narrow verge
  Look down--On what? --a fathomless abyss,
  A dark eternity,--how surely ours!--

The crowd of assembled gazers and idlers at Ellangowan had followed
the views of amusement, or what they called business, which brought
them there, with little regard to the feelings of those who were
suffering--upon that occasion. Few, indeed, knew anything of the
family. The father, betwixt seclusion, misfortune, and imbecility,
had drifted, as it were, for many years out of the notice of his
contemporaries-the daughter had never been known to them. But when
the general murmur announced that the unfortunate Mr. Bertram had
broken his heart in the effort to leave the mansion of his
forefathers, there poured forth a torrent of sympathy, like the
waters from the rock when stricken by the wand of the, prophet. The
ancient descent and unblemished integrity of the family were
respectfully remembered; above all, the sacred veneration due to
misfortune, which in Scotland seldom demands its tribute in vain,
then claimed and received it.

Mr. Mac-Morlan hastily announced, that he would suspend all further
proceedings in the sale of the estate and other property, and
relinquish the possession of the premises to the young lady, until
she could consult with her friends, and provide for the burial of
her father.

Glossin had cowered for a few minutes under the general expression
of sympathy, till, hardened by observing that no appearance of
popular indignation was directed his way, he had the audacity to
require that the sale should proceed.

"I will take it upon my own authority to adjourn it," said the
Sheriff-substitute," and will be responsible for the consequences.
I will also give due notice when it is again to go forward. It is
for the benefit of all concerned that the lands should bring the
highest price the state of the market will admit, and this is
surely no time to expect it--I will take the responsibility upon
myself."

Glossin left the room, and the house too, with secrecy and
despatch; and it was probably well for him he did so, since our
friend Jock Jabos was already haranguing a numerous tribe of
barelegged boys on the propriety of pelting him off the estate.

Some of the rooms were hastily put in order for the reception of
the young lady, and of her father's dead body. Mannering now found
his further interference would be unnecessary, and might be
misconstrued. He observed, too, that several families connected
with that of Ellangowan, and who indeed derived their principal
claim of gentility from the alliance, were now disposed to pay to
their trees of genealogy a tribute, which the adversity of their
supposed relatives had been inadequate to call forth; and that the
honour of superintending the funeral rites of the dead Godfrey
Bertram (as in the memorable case of Homer's birthplace) was likely
to be debated by seven gentlemen of rank and fortune, none of whom
had offered him an asylum while living. He therefore resolved, as
his presence was altogether useless, to make a short tour of a
fortnight, at the end of which period the adjourned sale of the
estate of Ellangowan was to proceed.

But before he departed, he solicited an interview with the
Dominie. The poor man appeared, on being informed a gentleman
wanted to speak to him, with some expression of surprise in his
gaunt features, to which recent sorrow had given an expression yet
more grisly. He made two or three profound reverences to
Mannering, and then, standing erect, patiently waited an
explanation of his commands.

"You are probably at a loss to guess, Mr. Sampson," said Mannering,
"what a stranger may have to say to you?"

"Unless it were to request, that I would undertake to train up some
youth in polite letters, and humane learning--but I cannot--I
cannot--I have yet a task to perform."

"No, Mr. Sampson, my wishes are not so ambitious. I have no son,
and my only daughter, I presume, you would not consider as a fit
pupil."

"Of a surety, no," replied the simple-minded Sampson. "Nathless, it
was I who did educate Miss Lucy in all useful learning,--albeit it
was the housekeeper who did teach her those unprofitable exercises
of hemming and shaping."

"Well, sir," replied Mannering, "it is of Miss Lucy I meant to
speak--you have, I presume, no recollection of me?"

Sampson, always sufficiently absent in mind, neither remembered the
astrologer of past years, nor even the stranger who had taken his
patron's part against Glossin, so much had his friend's sudden
death embroiled his ideas.

"Well, that does not signify," pursued the Colonel; "I am an old
acquaintance of the late Mr. Bertram, able and willing to assist
his daughter in her present circumstances. Besides, I have thoughts
of making this purchase, and I should wish things kept in order
about the place; will you have the goodness to apply this small sum
in the usual family expenses?"--He put into the Dominie's hand a
purse containing some gold.

"Pro-di-gi-ous!" exclaimed Dominie Sampson. "But if your honour
would tarry--"

"Impossible, sir--impossible," said Mannering, making his escape
from him.

"Pro-di-gi-ous!" again exclaimed Sampson, following to the head of
the, stairs, still holding out the purse.  "But as touching this
coined money--" Mannering escaped downstairs as fast as possible.

"Pro-di-gi-ous!" exclaimed Dominie Sampson, yet the third time,
now standing at the front door. "But as touching this specie--"

But Mannering was now on horseback, and out of hearing. The
Dominie, who had never, either in his own right, or as trustee for
another, been possessed of a quarter part of this sum, though it
was not above twenty guineas, "took counsel," as he expressed
himself, "how he should demean himself with respect unto the fine
gold thus left in his charge." Fortunately he found a disinterested
adviser in Mac-Morlan, who pointed out the most proper means of
disposing of it for contributing to Miss Bertram's convenience,
being no doubt the purpose to which it was destined by the
bestower.

Many of the neighbouring gentry were now sincerely eager in
pressing offers of hospitality and kindness upon Miss Bertram. But
she felt a natural reluctance to enter any family, for the first
time, as an object rather of benevolence than hospitality, and
determined to wait the opinion and advice of her father's nearest
female relation, Mrs. Margaret Bertram of Singleside, an old
unmarried lady, to whom she wrote an account of her present
distressful Situation.

The funeral of the late Mr. Bertram was performed with decent
privacy, and the unfortunate young lady was now to consider herself
as but the temporary tenant of the house in which she had been
born, and where her patience and soothing attentions had so long
"rocked the cradle of declining age." Her communication with Mr.
Mac-Morlan encouraged her to hope that she would not be suddenly or
unkindly deprived of this asylum; but fortune had ordered
otherwise.

For two days before the appointed day for the sale of the lands and
estate of Ellangowan, Mac-Morlan daily expected the appearance of
Colonel Mannering, or at least a letter containing powers to act
for him. But none such arrived. Mr. Mac-Morlan waked early in the
morning,--walked over to the Post-office,--there were no letters
for him. He endeavoured to persuade himself that he should see
Colonel Mannering to breakfast, and ordered his wife to place her
best china, and prepare herself accordingly. But the preparations
were in vain. "Could I have foreseen this," he said, "I would
have travelled Scotland over, but I would have found some one to
bid against Glossin."--Alas! such reflections were all too late.
The appointed hour arrived; and the parties met in the Masons'
Lodge at Kippletringan, being the place fixed for the adjourned
sale. Mac-Morlan spent as much time in preliminaries as decency
would permit, and read over the articles of sale as slowly as if
he--had been reading his own death-warrant. He turned his eye
every time the door of the room opened, with hopes which grew
fainter and fainter. He listened to every noise in the street of
the village, and endeavoured to distinguish in it the sound of
hoofs or wheels. It was all in vain. A bright idea then occurred,
that Colonel Mannering might have employed some other person in the
transaction--he would not have wasted a moment's thought upon the
want of confidence in himself, which such a manoeuvre would have
evinced. But this hope also was groundless. After a solemn pause,
Mr. Glossin offered the upset price for the lands and barony of
Ellangowan. No reply was made, and no competitor appeared; so,
after a lapse of the usual interval by the running of a sand-glass,
upon the intended purchaser entering the proper sureties, Mr.
Mac-Morlan was obliged, in technical terms, to "find and declare
the sale lawfully completed, and to prefer the said Gilbert Glossin
as the purchaser of the said lands and estate." The honest writer
refused to partake of a splendid entertainment with which Gilbert
Glossin, Esquire, now of Ellangowan, treated the rest of the
company, and returned home in huge bitterness of spirit, which he
vented in complaints against the fickleness and caprice of these
Indian nabobs, who never knew what they would be at for ten days
together. Fortune generously determined to take the blame upon
herself, and cut off even this vent of Mac-Morlan's resentment.

An express arrived about six o'clock at night, "very particularly
drunk," the maidservant said, with a packet from Colonel Mannering,
dated four days back, at a town about a hundred miles' distance
from Kippletringan, containing full powers to Mr. Mac-Morlan, or
any one whom he might employ, to make the intended purchase, and
stating, that some family business of consequence called the
Colonel himself to Westmoreland, where a letter would find him,
addressed to the care of Arthur Mervyn, Esq., of Mervyn Hall.

Mac-Morlan, in the transports of his wrath, flung the power of
attorney at the head of the innocent maid-servant, and was only
forcibly withheld from horsewhipping the rascally messenger, by
whose sloth and drunkenness the disappointment had taken place.



CHAPTER XV.

  My gold is gone, my money is spent, My land now take it
  unto thee.  Give me thy gold, good John o' Scales, And
  thine for aye my land shall be.  Then John he did him to
  record draw, And John he caste him a gods-pennie; But for
  every pounde that John agreed, The land, I wis, was well
  worth three.
      Heir of Linne.

The Galwegian John o' the Scales was a more clever fellow than his
prototype. He contrived to make himself heir of Lione without the
disagreeable ceremony of "telling down the good red gold." Miss
Bertram no sooner heard this painful, and of late unexpected
intelligence, than she proceeded in the preparations she had
already made for leaving the mansion-house immediately. Mr.
Mac-Morlan assisted her in these arrangements, and pressed upon her
so kindly the hospitality and protection of his roof, until she
should receive an answer from her cousin' or be enabled to adopt
some settled plan of life, that she felt there would be unkindness
in refusing an invitation urged with such earnestness. Mrs.
Mac-Morlan was a lady-like person, and well qualified by birth and
manners to receive the visit, and to make her house agreeable to
Miss Bertram. A home, therefore, and an hospitable reception, were
secured to her, and she went on, with better heart, to pay the
wages and receive the adieus of the few domestics of her father's
family.

Where there are estimable qualities or, either side, this task is
always affecting--the present circumstances rendered it doubly so.
All received their due, and even a trifle more, and with thanks and
good wishes, to which some added tears, took farewell of their
young mistress. There remained in the parlour only Mr. Mac-Morlan,
who came to attend his guest to his house, Dominie Sampson, and
Miss Bertram. "And now," said the poor girl, "I must bid farewell
to one of my oldest and kindest friends.--God bless you, Mr.
Sampson, and requite to you all the kindness of your instructions
to your poor pupil, and your friendship to him that is gone--I hope
I shall often hear from you." She slid into his hand a paper
containing some pieces of gold, and rose, as if to leave the room.

Dominie Sampson also rose; but it was to stand aghast with utter
astonishment. The idea of parting from Miss Lucy, go where she
might, had never once occurred to the simplicity of his
understanding.--He laid the money on the table. "It is certainly
inadequate," said Mac-Morlan, mistaking his meaning, "but the
circumstances--"

Mr. Sampson waved his hand impatiently.--"It is not the lucre--it
is not the lucre--but that I, that have ate of her father's loaf,
and drank of his cup, for twenty years and more--to think that I am
going to leave her--and to leave her in distress and dolour--No,
Miss Lucy, you need never think it! You would not consent to put
forth your father's poor dog, and would you use me waur than a
messan? No, Miss Lucy Bertram, while I live I will not separate
from you. I'll be no burden--I have thought how to prevent that.
But, as Ruth said unto Naomi, 'Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to
depart from thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou
dwellest I will dwell; thy people shall be my people, and thy God
shall be my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be
buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death do
part thee and me.' "

During this speech, the longest ever Dominie Sampson was known to
utter, the affectionate creature's eyes streamed with tears, and
neither Lucy nor Mac-Morlan could refrain from sympathising with
this unexpected burst of feeling and attachment. "Mr. Sampson,"
said Mac-Morlan, after having had recourse to his snuff-box and
handkerchief alternately, "my house is large enough, and if you
will accept of a bed there, while Miss Bertram honours us with her
residence, I shall think myself very happy, and my roof much
favoured by receiving a man of your worth and fidelity." And then,
with a delicacy which was meant to remove any objection on Miss
Bertram's part to bringing with her this unexpected satellite, he
added, "My business requires my frequently having occasion for a
better accountant than any of my present clerks, and I should be
glad to have recourse to your assistance in that way now and then."

"Of a surety, of a surety," said Sampson eagerly; "I understand
book-keeping by double entry and the Italian method."

Our postilion had thrust himself into the room to announce his
chaise and horses; he tarried, unobserved, during this
extraordinary scene, and assured Mrs. Mac-Candlish it was the most
moving thing he ever saw; "the death of the gray mare, puir hizzie,
was naething till't." This trifling circumstance afterwards had
consequences of greater moment to the Dominie.

The visitors were hospitably welcomed by Mrs. Mac-Morlan, to whom,
as well as to others, her Husband intimated that he had engaged .
Dominie Sampson's assistance to disentangle some perplexed
accounts; during which occupation he would, for convenience' sake,
reside with the family. Mr. MacMorlan's knowledge of the world
induced him to put this colour upon the matter, aware, that however
honourable the fidelity of the Dominie's attachment might be, both
to his own heart and to the family of Ellangowan, his exterior ill
qualified him to be a "squire of dames," and rendered him, upon the
whole, rather a ridiculous appendage to a beautiful young woman of
seventeen.