The Antiquary — Complete by Walter Scott (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📗

imperative and impatient”—

“Tittle-tattle, woman,” said the impatient and agitated Antiquary, “where is my dear Mary?”

“Just where ye suld be yoursell, Monkbarns—up-stairs, and in her warm bed.”

“I could have sworn it,” said Oldbuck laughing, but obviously much relieved—“I could have sworn it;—the lazy monkey did not care if we were all drowned together. Why did you say she went out?”

“But ye wadna wait to hear out my tale, Monkbarns—she gaed out, and she came in again with the gardener sae sune as she saw that nane o’ ye were clodded ower the Craig, and that Miss Wardour was safe in the chariot; she was hame a quarter of an hour syne, for it’s now ganging ten—sair droukit was she, puir thing, sae I e’en put a glass o’ sherry in her water-gruel.”

“Right, Grizel, right—let womankind alone for coddling each other. But hear me, my venerable sister—start not at the word venerable; it implies many praiseworthy qualities besides age; though that too is honourable, albeit it is the last quality for which womankind would wish to be honoured—But perpend my words: let Lovel and me have forthwith the relics of the chicken-pie, and the reversion of the port.”

“The chicken-pie! the port!—ou dear! brother—there was but a wheen banes, and scarce a drap o’ the wine.”

The Antiquary’s countenance became clouded, though he was too well bred to give way, in the presence of a stranger, to his displeased surprise at the disappearance of the viands on which he had reckoned with absolute certainty. But his sister understood these looks of ire. “Ou dear! Monkbarns, what’s the use of making a wark?”

“I make no wark, as ye call it, woman.”

“But what’s the use o’ looking sae glum and glunch about a pickle banes?—an ye will hae the truth, ye maun ken the minister came in, worthy man—sair distressed he was, nae doubt, about your precarious situation, as he ca’d it (for ye ken how weel he’s gifted wi’ words), and here he wad bide till he could hear wi’ certainty how the matter was likely to gang wi’ ye a’—He said fine things on the duty of resignation to Providence’s will, worthy man! that did he.”

Oldbuck replied, catching the same tone, “Worthy man!—he cared not how soon Monkbarns had devolved on an heir-female, I’ve a notion;—and while he was occupied in this Christian office of consolation against impending evil, I reckon that the chicken-pie and my good port disappeared?”

“Dear brother, how can you speak of sic frivolities, when you have had sic an escape from the craig?”

“Better than my supper has had from the minister’s craig, Grizzle—it’s all discussed, I suppose?”

“Hout, Monkbarns, ye speak as if there was nae mair meat in the house—wad ye not have had me offer the honest man some slight refreshment after his walk frae the manse?”

Oldbuck half-whistled, half-hummed, the end of the old Scottish ditty,

O, first they eated the white puddings, And then they eated the black, O, And thought the gudeman unto himsell, The deil clink down wi’ that, O!

His sister hastened to silence his murmurs, by proposing some of the relies of the dinner. He spoke of another bottle of wine, but recommended in preference a glass of brandy which was really excellent. As no entreaties could prevail on Lovel to indue the velvet night-cap and branched morning-gown of his host, Oldbuck, who pretended to a little knowledge of the medical art, insisted on his going to bed as soon as possible, and proposed to despatch a messenger (the indefatigable Caxon) to Fairport early in the morning, to procure him a change of clothes.

This was the first intimation Miss Oldbuck had received that the young stranger was to be their guest for the night; and such was the surprise with which she was struck by a proposal so uncommon, that, had the superincumbent weight of her head-dress, such as we before described, been less preponderant, her grey locks must have started up on end, and hurled it from its position.

“Lord haud a care o’ us!” exclaimed the astounded maiden.

“What’s the matter now, Grizel?”

“Wad ye but just speak a moment, Monkbarns?”

“Speak!—what should I speak about? I want to get to my bed—and this poor young fellow—let a bed be made ready for him instantly.”

“A bed?—The Lord preserve us!” again ejaculated Grizel.

“Why, what’s the matter now?—are there not beds and rooms enough in the house?—was it not an ancient hospitium, in which, I am warranted to say, beds were nightly made down for a score of pilgrims?”

“O dear, Monkbarns! wha kens what they might do lang syne?—but in our time—beds—ay, troth, there’s beds enow sic as they are—and rooms enow too—but ye ken yoursell the beds haena been sleepit in, Lord kens the time, nor the rooms aired.—If I had kenn’d, Mary and me might hae gaen down to the manse—Miss Beckie is aye fond to see us—(and sae is the minister, brother)—But now, gude save us!”—

“Is there not the Green Room, Grizel?”

“Troth is there, and it is in decent order too, though naebody has sleepit there since Dr. Heavysterne, and”—

“And what?”

“And what! I am sure ye ken yoursell what a night he had—ye wadna expose the young gentleman to the like o’ that, wad ye?”

Lovel interfered upon hearing this altercation, and protested he would far rather walk home than put them to the least inconvenience—that the exercise would be of service to him—that he knew the road perfectly, by night or day, to Fairport—that the storm was abating, and so forth—adding all that civility could suggest as an excuse for escaping from a hospitality which seemed more inconvenient to his host than he could possibly have anticipated. But the howling of the wind, and the pattering of the rain against the windows, with his knowledge of the preceding fatigues of the evening, must have prohibited Oldbuck, even had he entertained less regard for his young friend than he really felt, from permitting him to depart. Besides, he was piqued in honour to show that he himself was not governed by womankind—“Sit ye down, sit ye down, sit ye down, man,” he reiterated;—“an ye part so, I would I might never draw a cork again, and here comes out one from a prime bottle of—strong ale—right anno domini—none of your Wassia Quassia decoctions, but brewed of Monkbarns barley—John of the Girnel never drew a better flagon to entertain a wandering minstrel, or palmer, with the freshest news from Palestine.—And to remove from your mind the slightest wish to depart, know, that if you do so, your character as a gallant knight is gone for ever. Why, ‘tis an adventure, man, to sleep in the Green Room at Monkbarns.—Sister, pray see it got ready—And, although the bold adventurer, Heavysterne, dree’d pain and dolour in that charmed apartment, it is no