LITMIR.BIZ

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to ken it?— it’s no that dooms far frae my ain parish of Dreepdaily, that lies a bittock farther to the west. But what may your honour be gaun to Glasgow for?”

      “Particular business,” replied I.

      “That’s as muckle as to say, Speer nae questions, and I’ll tell ye nae lees.— To Glasgow?”— he made a short pause —“I am thinking ye wad be the better o’ some ane to show you the road.”

      “Certainly, if I could meet with any person going that way.”

      “And your honour, doubtless, wad consider the time and trouble?”

      “Unquestionably — my business is pressing, and if you can find any guide to accompany me, I’ll pay him handsomely.”

      “This is no a day to speak o’ carnal matters,” said Andrew, casting his eyes upwards; “but if it werena Sabbath at e’en, I wad speer what ye wad be content to gie to ane that wad bear ye pleasant company on the road, and tell ye the names of the gentlemen’s and noblemen’s seats and castles, and count their kin to ye?”

      “I tell you, all I want to know is the road I must travel; I will pay the fellow to his satisfaction — I will give him anything in reason.”

      “Onything,” replied Andrew, “is naething; and this lad that I am speaking o’ kens a’ the short cuts and queer by-paths through the hills, and”—

      “I have no time to talk about it, Andrew; do you make the bargain for me your own way.”

      “Aha! that’s speaking to the purpose,” answered Andrew.—“I am thinking, since sae be that sae it is, I’ll be the lad that will guide you mysell.”

      “You, Andrew?— how will you get away from your employment?”

      “I tell’d your honour a while syne, that it was lang that I hae been thinking o’ flitting, maybe as lang as frae the first year I came to Osbaldistone Hall; and now I am o’ the mind to gang in gude earnest — better soon as syne — better a finger aff as aye wagging.”

      “You leave your service, then?— but will you not lose your wages?”

      “Nae doubt there will be a certain loss; but then I hae siller o’ the laird’s in my hands that I took for the apples in the auld orchyard — and a sair bargain the folk had that bought them — a wheen green trash — and yet Sir Hildebrand’s as keen to hae the siller (that is, the steward is as pressing about it) as if they had been a’ gowden pippins — and then there’s the siller for the seeds — I’m thinking the wage will be in a manner decently made up.— But doubtless your honour will consider my risk of loss when we win to Glasgow — and ye’ll be for setting out forthwith?”

      “By day-break in the morning,” I answered.

      “That’s something o’ the suddenest — whare am I to find a naig?— Stay — I ken just the beast that will answer me.”

      “At five in the morning, then, Andrew, you will meet me at the head of the avenue.”

      “Deil a fear o’ me (that I suld say sae) missing my tryste,” replied Andrew, very briskly; “and if I might advise, we wad be aff twa hours earlier. I ken the way, dark or light, as weel as blind Ralph Ronaldson, that’s travelled ower every moor in the country-side, and disna ken the colour of a heather-cowe when a’s dune.”

      I highly approved of Andrew’s amendment on my original proposal, and we agreed to meet at the place appointed at three in the morning. At once, however, a reflection came across the mind of my intended travelling companion.

      “The bogle! the bogle! what if it should come out upon us?— I downa forgather wi’ thae things twice in the four-and-twenty hours.”

      “Pooh! pooh!” I exclaimed, breaking away from him, “fear nothing from the next world — the earth contains living fiends, who can act for themselves without assistance, were the whole host that fell with Lucifer to return to aid and abet them.”

      With these words, the import of which was suggested by my own situation, I left Andrew’s habitation, and returned to the Hall.

      I made the few preparations which were necessary for my proposed journey, examined and loaded my pistols, and then threw myself on my bed, to obtain, if possible, a brief sleep before the fatigue of a long and anxious journey. Nature, exhausted by the tumultuous agitations of the day, was kinder to me than I expected, and I stink into a deep and profound slumber, from which, however, I started as the old clock struck two from a turret adjoining to my bedchamber. I instantly arose, struck a light, wrote the letter I proposed to leave for my uncle, and leaving behind me such articles of dress as were cumbrous in carriage, I deposited the rest of my wardrobe in my valise, glided down stairs, and gained the stable without impediment. Without being quite such a groom as any of my cousins, I had learned at Osbaldistone Hall to dress and saddle my own horse, and in a few minutes I was mounted and ready for my sally.

      As I paced up the old avenue, on which the waning moon threw its light with a pale and whitish tinge, I looked back with a deep and boding sigh towards the walls which contained Diana Vernon, under the despondent impression that we had probably parted to meet no more. It was impossible, among the long and irregular lines of Gothic casements, which now looked ghastly white in the moonlight, to distinguish that of the apartment which she inhabited. “She is lost to me already,” thought I, as my eye wandered over the dim and indistinguishable intricacies of architecture offered by the moonlight view of Osbaldistone Hall —“She is lost to me already, ere I have left the place which she inhabits! What hope is there of my maintaining any correspondence with her, when leagues shall lie between?”

      While I paused in a reverie of no very pleasing nature, the “iron tongue of time told three upon the drowsy ear of night,” and reminded me of the necessity of keeping my appointment with a person of a less interesting description and appearance — Andrew Fairservice.

      At the gate of the avenue I found a horseman stationed in the shadow of the wall, but it was not until I had coughed twice, and then called “Andrew,” that the horticulturist replied, “I’se warrant it’s Andrew.”

      “Lead the way, then,” said I, “and be silent if you can, till we are past the hamlet in the valley.”

      Andrew led the way accordingly, and at a much brisker pace than I would have recommended.— and so well did he obey my injunctions of keeping silence, that he would return no answer to my repeated inquiries into the cause of such unnecessary haste. Extricating ourselves by short cuts, known to Andrew, from the numerous stony lanes and by-paths which intersected each other in the vicinity of the Hall, we reached the open heath and riding swiftly across it, took our course among the barren hills which divide England from Scotland on what are called the Middle Marches. The way, or rather the broken track which we occupied, was a happy interchange of bog and shingles; nevertheless, Andrew relented nothing of his speed, but trotted manfully forward at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour. I was both surprised and provoked at the fellow’s obstinate persistence, for we made abrupt ascents and descents over ground of a very break-neck character, and traversed the edge of precipices, where a slip of the horse’s feet would have consigned the rider to certain death. The moon, at best, afforded a dubious and imperfect light; but in some places we were so much under the shade of the mountain as to be in total darkness, and then I could only trace Andrew by the clatter of his horse’s feet, and the fire which they struck from the flints. At first, this rapid motion, and the attention which, for the sake of personal safety, I was compelled to give to the conduct of my horse, was of service, by forcibly diverting my thoughts from the various painful reflections which must otherwise have pressed on my mind. But at length, after hallooing repeatedly to Andrew to ride slower, I became seriously incensed at his impudent perseverance in refusing either to obey or to reply to me. My anger was, however, quite impotent. I attempted once or twice to get up alongside of my self-willed guide, with the purpose of knocking him off his horse with the butt-end of my whip; but Andrew was better mounted than I, and either the spirit of the animal which he bestrode,

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