The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (fun to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: Walter Scott
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“Four devils and six of their imps!” retorted the Antiquary; “do you think I am mad, Maggie?”
“And div ye think,” rejoined the virago, setting her arms akimbo, “that my man and my sons are to gae to the sea in weather like yestreen and the day—sic a sea as it’s yet outby—and get naething for their fish, and be misca’d into the bargain, Monkbarns? It’s no fish ye’re buying—it’s men’s lives.”
“Well, Maggie, I’ll bid you fair—I’ll bid you a shilling for the fluke and the cock-padle, or sixpence separately—and if all your fish are as well paid, I think your man, as you call him, and your sons, will make a good voyage.”
“Deil gin their boat were knockit against the Bell-Rock rather! it wad be better, and the bonnier voyage o’ the twa. A shilling for thae twa bonnie fish! Od, that’s ane indeed!”
“Well, well, you old beldam, carry your fish up to Monkbarns, and see what my sister will give you for them.”
“Na, na, Monkbarns, deil a fit—I’ll rather deal wi’ yoursell; for though you’re near enough, yet Miss Grizel has an unco close grip—I’ll gie ye them” (in a softened tone) “for three-and-saxpence.”
“Eighteen-pence, or nothing!”
“Eighteen-pence!!!” (in a loud tone of astonishment, which declined into a sort of rueful whine, when the dealer turned as if to walk away)—“Yell no be for the fish then?”—(then louder, as she saw him moving off)—“I’ll gie ye them—and—and—and a half-a-dozen o’ partans to make the sauce, for three shillings and a dram.”
“Half-a-crown then, Maggie, and a dram.”
“Aweel, your honour maun hae’t your ain gate, nae doubt; but a dram’s worth siller now—the distilleries is no working.”
“And I hope they’ll never work again in my time,” said Oldbuck.
“Ay, ay—it’s easy for your honour, and the like o’ you gentle-folks to say sae, that hae stouth and routh, and fire and fending and meat and claith, and sit dry and canny by the fireside—but an ye wanted fire, and meat, and dry claes, and were deeing o’ cauld, and had a sair heart, whilk is warst ava’, wi’ just tippence in your pouch, wadna ye be glad to buy a dram wi’t, to be eilding and claes, and a supper and heart’s ease into the bargain, till the morn’s morning?”
“It’s even too true an apology, Maggie. Is your goodman off to sea this morning, after his exertions last night?”
“In troth is he, Monkbarns; he was awa this morning by four o’clock, when the sea was working like barm wi’ yestreen’s wind, and our bit coble dancing in’t like a cork.”
“Well, he’s an industrious fellow. Carry the fish up to Monkbarns.”
“That I will—or I’ll send little Jenny, she’ll rin faster; but I’ll ca’ on Miss Grizzy for the dram mysell, and say ye sent me.”
A nondescript animal, which might have passed for a mermaid, as it was paddling in a pool among the rocks, was summoned ashore by the shrill screams of its dam; and having been made decent, as her mother called it, which was performed by adding a short red cloak to a petticoat, which was at first her sole covering, and which reached scantily below her knee, the child was dismissed with the fish in a basket, and a request on the part of Monkbarns that they might be prepared for dinner. “It would have been long,” said Oldbuck, with much self-complacency, “ere my womankind could have made such a reasonable bargain with that old skin-flint, though they sometimes wrangle with her for an hour together under my study window, like three sea-gulls screaming and sputtering in a gale of wind. But come, wend we on our way to Knockwinnock.”
CHAPTER TWELFTH. Beggar?—the only freeman of your commonwealth; Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws, Obey no governor, use no religion But what they draw from their own ancient custom, Or constitute themselves, yet they are no rebels. Brome.
With our reader’s permission, we will outstep the slow, though sturdy pace of the Antiquary, whose halts, as he, turned round to his companion at every moment to point out something remarkable in the landscape, or to enforce some favourite topic more emphatically than the exercise of walking permitted, delayed their progress considerably.
Notwithstanding the fatigues and dangers of the preceding evening, Miss Wardour was able to rise at her usual hour, and to apply herself to her usual occupations, after she had first satisfied her anxiety concerning her father’s state of health. Sir Arthur was no farther indisposed than by the effects of great agitation and unusual fatigue, but these were sufficient to induce him to keep his bedchamber.
To look back on the events of the preceding day, was, to Isabella, a very unpleasing retrospect. She owed her life, and that of her father, to the very person by whom, of all others, she wished least to be obliged, because she could hardly even express common gratitude towards him without encouraging hopes which might be injurious to them both. “Why should it be my fate to receive such benefits, and conferred at so much personal risk, from one whose romantic passion I have so unceasingly laboured to discourage? Why should chance have given him this advantage over me? and why, oh why, should a half-subdued feeling in my own bosom, in spite of my sober reason, almost rejoice that he has attained it?”
While Miss Wardour thus taxed herself with wayward caprice, she, beheld advancing down the avenue, not her younger and more dreaded preserver, but the old beggar who had made such a capital figure in the melodrama of the preceding evening.
She rang the bell for her maid-servant. “Bring the old man up stairs.”
The servant returned in a minute or two—“He will come up at no rate, madam;—he says his clouted shoes never were on a carpet in his life, and that, please God, they never shall.—Must I take him into the servants’ hall?”
“No; stay, I want to speak with him—Where is he?” for she had lost sight of him as he approached the house.
“Sitting in the sun on the stone-bench in the court, beside the window of the flagged parlour.”
“Bid him stay there—I’ll come down to the parlour, and speak with him at the window.”
She came down
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