Redgauntlet: A Tale of the Eighteenth Century by Walter Scott (classic romance novels txt) 📗

I thought it was fitting that Master Fairford should see him, why perhaps it is a matter that could be managed. Do you know anything about the old fellow?—you seemed to take some charge of him just now.’

‘No more than I should have done by any one in distress,’ said Geddes, not sorry to be appealed to; ‘but I will try what I can do to find out who he is, and what he is about in this country. But are we not a little too public in this open room?’

‘It’s well thought of,’ said Nanty; and at his command the barmaid ushered the party into a side-booth, Peter attending them in the instinctive hope that there would be more liquor drunk among them before parting. They had scarce sat down in their new apartment, when the sound of a violin was heard in the room which they had just left.

‘I’ll awa back yonder,’ said Peter, rising up again; ‘yon’s the sound of a fiddle, and when there is music, there’s ay something ganging to eat or drink.’

‘I am just going to order something here,’ said the Quaker; ‘but in the meantime, have you any objection, my good friend, to tell us your name?’

‘None in the world, if you are wanting to drink to me by name and surname,’ answered Peebles; ‘but, otherwise, I would rather evite your interrogatories.’

‘Friend,’ said the Quaker, ‘it is not for thine own health, seeing thou hast drunk enough already—however—here, handmaiden—bring me a gill of sherry.’

‘Sherry’s but shilpit drink, and a gill’s a sma’ measure for twa gentlemen to crack ower at their first acquaintance. But let us see your sneaking gill of sherry,’ said Poor Peter, thrusting forth his huge hand to seize on the diminutive pewter measure, which, according to the fashion of the time, contained the generous liquor freshly drawn from the butt.

‘Nay, hold, friend,’ said Joshua, ‘thou hast not yet told me what name and surname I am to call thee by.’

‘D—d sly in the Quaker,’ said Nanty, apart, ‘to make him pay for his liquor before he gives it him. Now, I am such a fool, that I should have let him get too drunk to open his mouth, before I thought of asking him a question.’

‘My name is Peter Peebles, then,’ said the litigant, rather sulkily, as one who thought his liquor too sparingly meted out to him; ‘and what have you to say to that?’

‘Peter Peebles?’ repeated Nanty Ewart and seemed to muse upon something which the words brought to his remembrance, while the Quaker pursued his examination.

‘But I prithee, Peter Peebles, what is thy further designation? Thou knowest, in our country, that some men are distinguished by their craft and calling, as cordwainers, fishers, weavers, or the like, and some by their titles as proprietors of land (which savours of vanity)—now, how may you be distinguished from others of the same name?’

‘As Peter Peebles of the great plea of Poor Peter Peebles against Plainstanes, ET PER CONTRA—if I am laird of naething else, I am ay a DOMINUS LITIS.’

‘It’s but a poor lairdship, I doubt,’ said Joshua.

‘Pray, Mr. Peebles,’ said Nanty, interrupting the conversation abruptly, ‘were not you once a burgess of Edinburgh?’

‘WAS I a burgess!’ said Peter indignantly, ‘and AM I not a burgess even now? I have done nothing to forfeit my right, I trow—once provost and ay my lord.’

‘Well, Mr. Burgess, tell me further, have you not some property in the Gude Town?’ continued Ewart.

‘Troth have I—that is, before my misfortunes, I had twa or three bonny bits of mailings amang the closes and wynds, forby the shop and the story abune it. But Plainstanes has put me to the causeway now. Never mind though, I will be upsides with him yet.’

‘Had not you once a tenement in the Covenant Close?’ again demanded Nanty.

‘You have hit it, lad, though ye look not like a Covenanter,’ said Peter; ‘we’ll drink to its memory—(Hout! the heart’s at the mouth o’ that ill-faur’d bit stoup already!)—it brought a rent, reckoning from the crawstep to the groundsill, that ye might ca’ fourteen punds a year, forby the laigh cellar that was let to Lucky Littleworth.’

‘And do you not remember that you had a poor old lady for your tenant, Mrs. Cantrips of Kittlebasket?’ said Nanty, suppressing his emotion with difficulty.

‘Remember! G—d, I have gude cause to remember her,’ said Peter, ‘for she turned a dyvour on my hands, the auld besom! and after a’ that the law could do to make me satisfied and paid, in the way of poinding and distrenzieing and sae forth, as the law will, she ran awa to the charity workhouse, a matter of twenty punds Scots in my debt—it’s a great shame and oppression that charity workhouse, taking in bankrupt dyvours that canna, pay their honest creditors.’

‘Methinks, friend,’ said the Quaker, ‘thine own rags might teach thee compassion for other people’s nakedness.’

‘Rags!’ said Peter, taking Joshua’s words literally; ‘does ony wise body put on their best coat when they are travelling, and keeping company with Quakers, and such other cattle as the road affords?’

‘The old lady DIED, I have heard,’ said Nanty, affecting a moderation which was belied by accents that faltered with passion.

‘She might live or die, for what I care,’ answered Peter the Cruel; ‘what business have folk to do to live that canna live as law will, and satisfy their just and lawful creditors?’

‘And you—you that are now yourself trodden down in the very kennel, are you not sorry for what you have done? Do you not repent having occasioned the poor widow woman’s death?’

‘What for should I repent?’ said Peter; ‘the law was on my side—a decreet of the bailies, followed by poinding, and an act of warding—a suspension intented, and the letters found orderly proceeded. I followed the auld rudas through twa courts—she cost me mair money than her lugs were worth.’

‘Now, by Heaven!’ said Nanty, ‘I would give a thousand guineas, if I had them, to have you worth my beating! Had you said you repented, it had been between God and your conscience; but to hear you boast of your villany—Do you think it little to have reduced the aged to famine, and the young to infamy—to have caused the death of one woman, the ruin of another, and to have driven a man to exile and despair? By Him that made me, I can scarce keep hands off you!

‘Off me? I defy ye!’ said Peter. ‘I take this honest man to witness that if ye stir the neck of my collar, I will have my action for stouthreif, spulzie, oppression, assault and battery. Here’s a bra’ din, indeed, about an auld wife gaun to the grave, a young limmer to the close-heads and causeway, and a sticket stibbler [A student of divinity who has not been able to complete his studies on theology.] to the sea instead of the gallows!’