The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (fun to read .txt) 📕

reserving to ourselves otherwise to age’ as accords. I am, for self and partner, dear sir, your obliged humble servant, Gabriel Grinderson, for Greenhorn and Grinderson.”

“Ungrateful villain!” said Miss Wardour.

“Why, no—it’s in the usual rule, I suppose; the blow could not have been perfect if dealt by another hand—it’s all just as it should be,” answered the poor Baronet, his affected composure sorely belied by his quivering lip and rolling eye—“But here’s a postscript I did not notice—come, finish the epistle.”

“I have to add (not for self but partner) that Mr. Greenhorn will accommodate you by taking your service of plate, or the bay horses, if sound in wind and limb, at a fair appreciation, in part payment of your accompt.”

“G—d confound him!” said Sir Arthur, losing all command of himself at this condescending proposal: “his grandfather shod my father’s horses, and this descendant of a scoundrelly blacksmith proposes to swindle me out of mine! But I will write him a proper answer.”

And he sate down and began to write with great vehemence, then stopped and read aloud:—“Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn,—in answer to two letters of a late date, I received a letter from a person calling himself Grinderson, and designing himself as your partner. When I address any one, I do not usually expect to be answered by deputy—I think I have been useful to your father, and friendly and civil to yourself, and therefore am now surprised—And yet,” said he, stopping short, “why should I be surprised at that or anything else? or why should I take up my time in writing to such a scoundrel?—I shan’t be always kept in prison, I suppose; and to break that puppy’s bones when I get out, shall be my first employment.”

“In prison, sir?” said Miss Wardour, faintly.

“Ay, in prison to be sure. Do you make any question about that? Why, Mr. what’s his name’s fine letter for self and partner seems to be thrown away on you, or else you have got four thousand so many hundred pounds, with the due proportion of shillings, pence, and half-pence, to pay that aforesaid demand, as he calls it.”

“I, sir? O if I had the means!—But where’s my brother?—why does he not come, and so long in Scotland? He might do something to assist us.”

“Who, Reginald?—I suppose he’s gone with Mr. Gilbert Greenhorn, or some such respectable person, to the Lamberton races—I have expected him this week past; but I cannot wonder that my children should neglect me as well as every other person. But I should beg your pardon, my love, who never either neglected or offended me in your life.”

And kissing her cheek as she threw her arms round his neck, he experienced that consolation which a parent feels, even in the most distressed state, in the assurance that he possesses the affection of a child.

Miss Wardour took the advantage of this revulsion of feeling, to endeavour to soothe her father’s mind to composure. She reminded him that he had many friends.

“I had many once,” said Sir Arthur; “but of some I have exhausted their kindness with my frantic projects; others are unable to assist me—others are unwilling. It is all over with me. I only hope Reginald will take example by my folly.”

“Should I not send to Monkbarns, sir?” said his daughter.

“To what purpose? He cannot lend me such a sum, and would not if he could, for he knows I am otherwise drowned in debt; and he would only give me scraps of misanthropy and quaint ends of Latin.”

“But he is shrewd and sensible, and was bred to business, and, I am sure, always loved this family.”

“Yes, I believe he did. It is a fine pass we are come to, when the affection of an Oldbuck is of consequence to a Wardour! But when matters come to extremity, as I suppose they presently will—it may be as well to send for him. And now go take your walk, my dear—my mind is more composed than when I had this cursed disclosure to make. You know the worst, and may daily or hourly expect it. Go take your walk—I would willingly be alone for a little while.”

When Miss Wardour left the apartment, her first occupation was to avail herself of the half permission granted by her father, by despatching to Monkbarns the messenger, who, as we have already seen, met the Antiquary and his nephew on the sea-beach.

Little recking, and indeed scarce knowing, where she was wandering, chance directed her into the walk beneath the Briery Bank, as it was called. A brook, which in former days had supplied the castle-moat with water, here descended through a narrow dell, up which Miss Wardour’s taste had directed a natural path, which was rendered neat and easy of ascent, without the air of being formally made and preserved. It suited well the character of the little glen, which was overhung with thickets and underwood, chiefly of larch and hazel, intermixed with the usual varieties of the thorn and brier. In this walk had passed that scene of explanation between Miss Wardour and Lovel which was overheard by old Edie Ochiltree. With a heart softened by the distress which approached her family, Miss Wardour now recalled every word and argument which Lovel had urged in support of his suit, and could not help confessing to herself, it was no small subject of pride to have inspired a young man of his talents with a passion so strong and disinterested. That he should have left the pursuit of a profession in which he was said to be rapidly rising, to bury himself in a disagreeable place like Fairport, and brood over an unrequited passion, might be ridiculed by others as romantic, but was naturally forgiven as an excess of affection by the person who was the object of his attachment. Had he possessed an independence, however moderate, or ascertained a clear and undisputed claim to the rank in society he was well qualified to adorn, she might now have had it in her power to offer her father, during his misfortunes, an asylum in an establishment of her own. These thoughts, so favourable to the absent lover, crowded in, one after the other, with such a minute recapitulation of his words, looks, and actions, as plainly intimated that his former repulse had been dictated rather by duty than inclination. Isabella was musing alternately upon this subject, and upon that of her father’s misfortunes, when, as the path winded round a little hillock covered with brushwood, the old Blue-Gown suddenly met her.

With an air as if he had something important and mysterious to communicate, he doffed his bonnet, and assumed the cautious step and voice of one who would not willingly be overheard. “I hae been wishing muckle to meet wi’ your leddyship—for ye ken I darena come to the house for Dousterswivel.”

“I heard indeed,” said Miss Wardour, dropping an alms into the bonnet—“I heard that you had done a very foolish, if not a very bad thing, Edie— and I was sorry to hear it.”

“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