"Hout fie, Mr. Dinmont, that's no like you, to gie the country an ill name--I wot, there has been nane stirred in the Waste since Sawney Culloch, the travelling-merchant, that Rowley Overdees and Jock Penny suffered for at Carlisle twa years since. There's no ane in Bewcastle would do the like o' that now--we be a' true folk now.""Ay, Tib, that will be when the deil's blind,--and his een's no sair yet. But hear ye, gudewife, I have been through maist feck [*Part] o' Galloway and Dumfriesshire, and I have been round by Carlisle, and I was at the Staneshiebank fair the day, and I would like ill to be rubbit sae near hame, so I'll take the gate.""Hae ye been in Dumfries and Galloway?" said the old dame, who sat smoking by the fireside, and who had not yet spoken a word.
"Troth have I, gudewife, and a weary round I've had o't.""Then ye'll maybe ken a place they ca' Ellangowan?
"Ellangowan, that was Mr. Bertram's--I ken the place weel eneugh.
The Laird died about a fortnight since, as I heard.""Died!"--said the old woman, dropping her pipe, and rising and coming forward upon the floor--died?--are you sure of that?""Troth, am I," said Dinmont, "for it made nae sma' noise in the countryside. He died just at the roup of the stocking and furniture; it stoppit the roup, and mony folk were disappointed.
They said he was the last of an auld family too, and mony were sorry--for gude blude's scarcer in Scotland than it has been.""Dead!" replied the old woman, whom our readers have already recognised as their acquaintance Meg Merrilies--"dead! that quits a' scores. And did ye say he died without an heir?""Ay did he, gudewife, and the estate's sell'd by the same token;for they said, they couldna have sell'd it, if there had been an heir-male.""Sell'd!" echoed the gipsy, with something like a scream; "and wha durst buy Ellangowan that was not of Bertram's blude?--and wha could tell whether the bonny knave-bairn may not come back to claim his ain!--wha durst buy the estate and the castle of Ellangowan?""Troth, gudewife, just ane o' thae writer chields that buys a'
thing--they ca' him Glossin, I think."
"Glossin!--Gibbie Glossin!--that I have carried in my creels a hundred times, for his mother wasna muckle better than mysell--he to presume to buy the barony of Ellangowan!--Gude be wi' us--it is an awfu' warld!--I wished him ill--but no sic a downfa' as a' that neither--wae's me! wae's me to think o't!"--She remained a moment silent, but still opposing with her hand the farmer's retreat, who, betwixt every question, was about to turn his back, but good-humouredly stopped on observing the deep interest his answers appeared to excite.
"It will be seen and heard of--earth and sea will not hold their peace langer!--Can ye say if the same man be now the Sheriff of the county that has been sae for some years past?""Na, he's got some other berth in Edinburgh, they say--but gude day, gudewife, I maun ride." She followed him to his horse, and, while he drew the births of his saddle, adjusted the walise, and put on the bridle, still plied him with questions concerning Mr.
Bertram's death, and the fate of his daughter; on which, however, she could obtain little information from the honest farmer.
"Did ye ever see a place they ca' Derncleugh, about a mile frae the Place of Ellangowan?""I wot weel have I, gudewife,--a wild-looking den it is, wi' a wheen auld wa's o' shealins sonder--I saw it when I gaed ower the ground wi' ane that wanted to take the farm."It was a blythe bit ance said Meg, speaking to herself,--"Did ye notice if there was an auld saugh [*Willow] tree that's maist blawn down, but yet its roots are in the earth, and it hangs ower the bit burn--mony a day hae I wrought my stocking, and sat on my sunkie [*a Stool.] under that saugh.""Hout, deills i' the wife, wi' her saughs, and her sunkies, and Ellangowans--Godsake, woman, let me away--there's saxpence t'ye to buy half a mutchkin, instead o' clavering about thae auld-warld stories.""Thanks to ye, gudeman--and now ye hae answered a' my questions, and never speired wherefore I asked thein, I'll gie you a bit canny [*Prudent] advice, and ye maunna speir what for neither.
Tib Mumps will be out wi' the stirrup-dram in a gliffing [*Twinkling]--he'll ask ye whether ye gang ower Willie's brae, or through Conscowthart moss--tell her ony ane ye like, but be sure (speaking low and emphatically) to tak the ane ye dinna tell her."The farmer laughed and promised, and the Gipsy retreated.
"Will you take her advice?" said Brown, who had been an attentive listener to this conversation.
"That will I no--the randy quean!--Na, I had far rather Tib Mumps kenn'd which way I was gaun than her--though Tib's no muckle to lippen [*Trust] to neither, and I would advise ye on no account to stay in the house a' night."In a moment after, Tib, the landlady, appeared with her stirrup-cup, which was taken off. She then, as Meg had predicted, inquired whether he went the hill or the moss road. He answered, the latter; and, having bid Brown good-bye, and again told him, "he depended on seeing him at Charlies-hope, the morn at latest," he rode off at a round pace.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway.
