Tales of My Landlord - All 7 Novels in One Edition (Illustrated) - Walter Scott

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for remaining silent. Mrs. Wilson, in perplexity, and with some apprehension, repeated her question.

      “What were ye pleased to want wi’ me, sir? Ye said ye kend Mr. Harry Morton?”

      “Pardon me, madam,” answered Henry, “it was of one Silas Morton I spoke.” The old woman’s countenance fell.

      “It was his father, then, ye kent o’, the brother o’ the late Milnwood? Ye canna mind him abroad, I wad think,— he was come hame afore ye were born. I thought ye had brought me news of poor Maister Harry.”

      “It was from my father I learned to know Colonel Morton,” said Henry; “of the son I know little or nothing,— rumour says he died abroad on his passage to Holland.”

      “That’s ower like to be true,” said the old woman with a sigh, “and mony a tear it’s cost my auld een. His uncle, poor gentleman, just sough’d awa wi’ it in his mouth. He had been gieing me preceeze directions anent the bread and the wine and the brandy at his burial, and how often it was to be handed round the company (for, dead or alive, he was a prudent, frugal, painstaking man), and then he said, said he, ‘Ailie,’ (he aye ca’d me Ailie; we were auld acquaintance), ‘Ailie, take ye care and haud the gear weel thegither; for the name of Morton of Milnwood ‘s gane out like the last sough of an auld sang.’ And sae he fell out o’ ae dwam into another, and ne’er spak a word mair, unless it were something we cou’dna mak out, about a dipped candle being gude eneugh to see to dee wi’. He cou’d ne’er bide to see a moulded ane, and there was ane, by ill luck, on the table.”

      While Mrs. Wilson was thus detailing the last moments of the old miser, Morton was pressingly engaged in diverting the assiduous curiosity of the dog, which, recovered from his first surprise, and combining former recollections, had, after much snuffing and examination, begun a course of capering and jumping upon the stranger which threatened every instant to betray him. At length, in the urgency of his impatience, Morton could not forbear exclaiming, in a tone of hasty impatience, “Down, Elphin! down, sir!”

      “Ye ken our dog’s name,” said the old lady, struck with great and sudden surprise,—“ye ken our dog’s name, and it’s no a common ane. And the creature kens you too,” she continued, in a more agitated and shriller tone,—“God guide us! it’s my ain bairn!”

      So saying, the poor old woman threw herself around Morton’s neck, cling to him, kissed him as if he had been actually her child, and wept for joy. There was no parrying the discovery, if he could have had the heart to attempt any further disguise. He returned the embrace with the most grateful warmth, and answered,—

      “I do indeed live, dear Ailie, to thank you for all your kindness, past and present, and to rejoice that there is at least one friend to welcome me to my native country.”

      “Friends!” exclaimed Ailie, “ye’ll hae mony friends,— ye ‘ll hae mony friends; for ye will hae gear, hinny,— ye will hae gear. Heaven mak ye a gude guide o’t! But eh, sirs!” she continued, pushing him back from her with her trembling hand and shrivelled arm, and gazing in his face as if to read, at more convenient distance, the ravages which sorrow rather than time had made on his face,—“Eh, sirs! ye’re sair altered, hinny; your face is turned pale, and your een are sunken, and your bonny red-and-white cheeks are turned a’ dark and sun-burnt. Oh, weary on the wars! mony ‘s the comely face they destroy.— And when cam ye here, hinny? And where hae ye been? And what hae ye been doing? And what for did ye na write to us? And how cam ye to pass yoursell for dead? And what for did ye come creepin’ to your ain house as if ye had been an unto body, to gie poor auld Ailie sic a start?” she concluded, smiling through her tears. It was some time ere Morton could overcome his own emotion so as to give the kind old woman the information which we shall communicate to our readers in the next chapter.

      Chapter 40

       Table of Contents

      Aumerle that was,

       But that is gone for being Richard’s friend;

       And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.

      Richard II.

      The scene of explanation was hastily removed from the little kitchen to Mrs. Wilson’s own matted room,— the very same which she had occupied as housekeeper, and which she continued to retain. “It was,” she said, “better secured against sifting winds than the hall, which she had found dangerous to her rheumatisms, and it was more fitting for her use than the late Milnwood’s apartment, honest man, which gave her sad thoughts;” and as for the great oak parlour, it was never opened but to be aired, washed, and dusted, according to the invariable practice of the family, unless upon their most solemn festivals. In the matted room, therefore, they were settled, surrounded by pickle-pots and conserves of all kinds, which the ci-devant housekeeper continued to compound, out of mere habit, although neither she herself, nor any one else, ever partook of the comfits which she so regularly prepared.

      Morton, adapting his narrative to the comprehension of his auditor, informed her briefly of the wreck of the vessel and the loss of all hands, excepting two or three common seamen who had early secured the skiff, and were just putting off from the vessel when he leaped from the deck into their boat, and unexpectedly, as well as contrary to their inclination, made himself partner of their voyage and of their safety. Landed at Flushing, he was fortunate enough to meet with an old officer who had been in service with his father. By his advice, he shunned going immediately to the Hague, but forwarded his letters to the court of the Stadtholder.

      “Our prince,” said the veteran, “must as yet keep terms with his father-inlaw and with your King Charles; and to approach him in the character of a Scottish malecontent would render it imprudent for him to distinguish you by his favour. Wait, therefore, his orders, without forcing yourself on his notice; observe the strictest prudence and retirement; assume for the present a different name; shun the company of the British exiles; and, depend upon it, you will not repent your prudence.”

      The old friend of Silas Morton argued justly. After a considerable time had elapsed, the Prince of Orange, in a progress through the United States, came to the town where Morton, impatient at his situation and the incognito which he was obliged to observe, still continued, nevertheless, to be a resident. He had an hour of private interview assigned, in which the prince expressed himself highly pleased with his intelligence, his prudence, and the liberal view which he seemed to take of the factions of his native country, their motives and their purposes.

      “I would gladly,” said William, “attach you to my own person; but that cannot be without giving offence in England. But I will do as much for you, as well out of respect for the sentiments you have expressed, as for the recommendations you have brought me. Here is a commission in a Swiss regiment at present in garrison in a distant province, where you will meet few or none of your countrymen. Continue to be Captain Melville, and let the name of Morton sleep till better days.”

      “Thus began my fortune,” continued Morton; “and my services have, on various occasions, been distinguished by his Royal Highness, until the moment that brought him to Britain as our political deliverer. His commands must excuse my silence to my few friends in Scotland; and I wonder not at the report of my death, considering the wreck of the vessel, and that I found no occasion to use the letters of exchange with which I was furnished by the liberality of some of them,— a circumstance which must have confirmed the belief that I had perished.”

      “But, dear hinny,” asked Mrs. Wilson, “did ye find nae Scotch body at the Prince of Oranger’s court that kend ye? I wad hae thought Morton o’ Milnwood was kend a’ through the country.”

      “I was purposely engaged in distant service,” said Morton, “until a period when few, without as deep and kind a motive of interest as yours, Ailie, would have known the stripling Morton in Major-General Melville.”

      “Malville was your mother’s name,” said Mrs. Wilson; “but Morton sounds far bonnier in my auld lugs. And when ye tak up the lairdship, ye

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