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

‘The deevil I maunna!’ said Willie; ‘and what for maunna I?—If he was ten gentles, he canna draw a bow like me, can he?’

‘Indeed I cannot, my honest friend,’ said I; ‘and if you will go with me to a house hard by, I would be glad to have a night with you.’

Here I looked round, and observed Benjie smothering a laugh, which I was sure had mischief in it. I seized him suddenly by the ear, and made him confess that he was laughing at the thoughts of the reception which a fiddler was likely to get from the Quakers at Mount Sharon. I chucked him from me, not sorry that his mirth had reminded me in time of what I had for the moment forgotten; and invited the itinerant to go with me to Shepherd’s Bush, from which I proposed to send word to Mr. Geddes that I should not return home that evening. But the minstrel declined this invitation also. He was engaged for the night, he said, to a dance in the neighbourhood, and vented a round execration on the laziness or drunkenness of his comrade, who had not appeared at the place of rendezvous.

‘I will go with you instead of him,’ said I, in a sudden whim; ‘and I will give you a crown to introduce me as your comrade.’

‘YOU gang instead of Rob the Rambler! My certie, freend, ye are no blate!’ answered Wandering Willie, in a tone which announced death to my frolic.

But Maggie, whom the offer of the crown had not escaped, began to open on that scent with a maundering sort of lecture. ‘Oh Willie! hinny Willie, whan will ye learn to be wise? There’s a crown to be win for naething but saying ae man’s name instead of anither. And, wae’s me! I hae just a shilling of this gentleman’s gieing, and a boddle of my ain; and ye wunna, bend your will sae muckle as to take up the siller that’s flung at your feet! Ye will die the death of a cadger’s powney, in a wreath of drift! and what can I do better than lie doun and die wi’ you? for ye winna let me win siller to keep either you or mysell leevin.’

‘Haud your nonsense tongue, woman,’ said Willie, but less absolutely than before. ‘Is he a real gentleman, or ane of the player-men?’

‘I’se uphaud him a real gentleman,’ said the woman.

‘I’se uphaud ye ken little of the matter,’ said Willie; ‘let us see haud of your hand, neebor, gin ye like.

I gave him my hand. He said to himself, ‘Aye, aye, here are fingers that have seen canny service.’ Then running his hand over my hair, my face, and my dress, he went on with his soliloquy; ‘Aye, aye, muisted hair, braidclaith o’ the best, and seenteen hundred linen on his back, at the least o’ it. And how do you think, my braw birkie, that you are to pass for a tramping fiddler?’

‘My dress is plain,’ said I,—indeed I had chosen my most ordinary suit, out of compliment to my Quaker friends,—‘and I can easily pass for a young farmer out upon a frolic. Come, I will double the crown I promised you.’

‘Damn your crowns!’ said the disinterested man of music. ‘I would like to have a round wi’ you, that’s certain;—but a farmer, and with a hand that never held pleugh-stilt or pettle, that will never do. Ye may pass for a trades-lad from Dumfries, or a student upon the ramble, or the like o’ that. But hark ye, lad; if ye expect to be ranting among the queans o’ lasses where ye are gaun, ye will come by the waur, I can tell ye; for the fishers are wild chaps, and will bide nae taunts.’

I promised to be civil and cautious; and, to smooth the good woman, I slipped the promised piece into her hand. The acute organs of the blind man detected this little manoeuvre.

‘Are ye at it again wi’ the siller, ye jaud? I’ll be sworn ye wad rather hear ae twalpenny clink against another, than have a spring from Rory Dall, [Blind Rorie, a famous musician according to tradition.] if he was-coming alive again anes errand. Gang doun the gate to Lucky Gregson’s and get the things ye want, and bide there till ele’en hours in the morn; and if you see Robin, send him on to me.’

‘Am I no gaun to the ploy, then?’ said Maggie, in a disappointed tone.

‘And what for should ye?’ said her lord and master; ‘to dance a’ night, I’se warrant, and no to be fit to walk your tae’s-length the morn, and we have ten Scots miles afore us? Na, na. Stable the steed, and pit your wife to bed, when there’s night wark to do.’

‘Aweel, aweel, Willie hinnie, ye ken best; but oh, take an unco care o’ yoursell, and mind ye haena the blessing o’ sight.’

‘Your tongue gars me whiles tire of the blessing of hearing, woman,’ replied ‘Willie, in answer to this tender exhortation.

But I now put in for my interest. ‘Hollo, good folks, remember that I am to send the boy to Mount Sharon, and if you go to the Shepherd’s Bush, honest woman, how the deuce am I to guide the blind man where he is going? I know little or nothing of the country.’

‘And ye ken mickle less of my hinnie, sir,’ replied Maggie, ‘that think he needs ony guiding; he’s the best guide himsell that ye’ll find between Criffell and Carlisle. Horse-road and foot-path, parish-road and kirk-road, high-road and cross-road, he kens ilka foot of ground in Nithsdale.’

‘Aye, ye might have said in braid Scotland, gudewife,’ added the fiddler. ‘But gang your ways, Maggie, that’s the first wise word ye hae spoke the day. I wish it was dark night, and rain, and wind, for the gentleman’s sake, that I might show him there is whiles when ane had better want een than have them; for I am as true a guide by darkness as by daylight.’

Internally as well pleased that my companion was not put to give me this last proof of his skill, I wrote a note with a pencil, desiring Samuel to bring my horses at midnight, when I thought my frolic would be wellnigh over, to the place to which the bearer should direct him, and I sent little Benjie with an apology to the worthy Quakers.

As we parted in different directions, the good woman said, ‘Oh, sir, if ye wad but ask Willie to tell ye ane of his tales to shorten the gate! He can speak like ony minister frae the pu’pit, and he might have been a minister himsell, but’—

‘Haud your tongue, ye fule!’ said Willie,—‘But stay, Meg—gie me a kiss, ne maunna part in anger, neither.’—And thus our society separated.

[It is certain that in many cases the blind have, by constant exercise of their other organs, learned to overcome a defect which one would think incapable of being supplied. Every reader must remember the celebrated Blind Jack of Knaresborough, who lived by laying out roads.]