God’s church is leaguer’d — haste to man the wall;
Haste where the Redcross banners wave on high,
Signal of honour’d death, or victory!
James Duff.
Morton and his companion had attained1 some distance from the town before either of them addressed the other. There was something, as we have observed, repulsive2 in the manner of the stranger, which prevented Morton from opening the conversation, and he himself seemed to have no desire to talk, until, on a sudden, he abruptly3 demanded, “What has your father’s son to do with such profane4 mummeries as I find you this day engaged in?”
“I do my duty as a subject, and pursue my harmless recreations according to my own pleasure,” replied Morton, somewhat offended.
“Is it your duty, think you, or that of any Christian6 young man, to bear arms in their cause who have poured out the blood of God’s saints in the wilderness7 as if it had been water? or is it a lawful8 recreation to waste time in shooting at a bunch of feathers, and close your evening with winebibbing in public-houses and market-towns, when He that is mighty9 is come into the land with his fan in his hand, to purge10 the wheat from the chaff11?”
“I suppose from your style of conversation,” said Morton, “that you are one of those who have thought proper to stand out against the government. I must remind you that you are unnecessarily using dangerous language in the presence of a mere12 stranger, and that the times do not render it safe for me to listen to it.”
“Thou canst not help it, Henry Morton,” said his companion; “thy Master has his uses for thee, and when he calls, thou must obey. Well wot I thou hast not heard the call of a true preacher, or thou hadst ere now been what thou wilt13 assuredly one day become.”
“We are of the presbyterian persuasion14, like yourself,” said Morton; for his uncle’s family attended the ministry15 of one of those numerous presbyterian clergymen, who, complying with certain regulations, were licensed16 to preach without interruption from the government. This indulgence, as it was called, made a great schism17 among the presbyterians, and those who accepted of it were severely18 censured19 by the more rigid20 sectaries, who refused the proffered21 terms. The stranger, therefore, answered with great disdain22 to Morton’s profession of faith.
“That is but an equivocation23 — a poor equivocation. Ye listen on the Sabbath to a cold, worldly, time-serving discourse24, from one who forgets his high commission so much as to hold his apostleship by the favour of the courtiers and the false prelates, and ye call that hearing the word! Of all the baits with which the devil has fished for souls in these days of blood and darkness, that Black Indulgence has been the most destructive. An awful dispensation it has been, a smiting25 of the shepherd and a scattering26 of the sheep upon the mountains — an uplifting of one Christian banner against another, and a fighting of the wars of darkness with the swords of the children of light!”
“My uncle,” said Morton, “is of opinion, that we enjoy a reasonable freedom of conscience under the indulged clergymen, and I must necessarily be guided by his sentiments respecting the choice of a place of worship for his family.”
“Your uncle,” said the horseman, “is one of those to whom the least lamb in his own folds at Milnwood is dearer than the whole Christian flock. He is one that could willingly bend down to the golden-calf of Bethel, and would have fished for the dust thereof when it was ground to powder and cast upon the waters. Thy father was a man of another stamp.”
“My father,” replied Morton, “was indeed a brave and gallant27 man. And you may have heard, sir, that he fought for that royal family in whose name I was this day carrying arms.”
“Ay; and had he lived to see these days, he would have cursed the hour he ever drew sword in their cause. But more of this hereafter — I promise thee full surely that thy hour will come, and then the words thou hast now heard will stick in thy bosom28 like barbed arrows. My road lies there.”
He pointed29 towards a pass leading up into a wild extent of dreary30 and desolate31 hills; but as he was about to turn his horse’s head into the rugged32 path, which led from the high-road in that direction, an old woman wrapped in a red cloak, who was sitting by the cross-way, arose, and approaching him, said, in a mysterious tone of voice, “If ye be of our ain folk, gangna up the pass the night for your lives. There is a lion in the path, that is there. The curate of Brotherstane and ten soldiers hae beset33 the pass, to hae the lives of ony of our puir wanderers that venture that gate to join wi’ Hamilton and Dingwall.”
“Have the persecuted35 folk drawn36 to any head among themselves?” demanded the stranger.
“About sixty or seventy horse and foot,” said the old dame37; “but, ewhow! they are puirly armed, and warse fended5 wi’ victual.”
“God will help his own,” said the horseman. “Which way shall I take to join them?”
“It’s a mere impossibility this night,” said the woman, “the troopers keep sae strict a guard; and they say there’s strange news come frae the east, that makes them rage in their cruelty mair fierce than ever — Ye maun take shelter somegate for the night before ye get to the muirs, and keep yoursell in hiding till the grey o’ the morning, and then you may find your way through the Drake Moss38. When I heard the awfu’ threatenings o’ the oppressors, I e’en took my cloak about me, and sate39 down by the wayside, to warn ony of our puir scattered40 remnant that chanced to come this gate, before they fell into the nets of the spoilers.”
“Have you a house near this?” said the stranger; “and can you give me hiding there?”
“I have,” said the old woman, “a hut by the way-side, it may be a mile from hence; but four men of Belial, called dragoons, are lodged41 therein, to spoil my household goods at their pleasure, because I will not wait upon the thowless, thriftless, fissenless ministry of that carnal man, John Halftext, the curate.”
“Good night, good woman, and thanks for thy counsel,” said the stranger, as he rode away.
“The blessings42 of the promise upon you,” returned the old dame; “may He keep you that can keep you.”
“Amen!” said the traveller; “for where to hide my head this night, mortal skill cannot direct me.”
“I am very sorry for your distress,” said Morton; “and had I a house or place of shelter that could be called my own, I almost think I would risk the utmost rigour of the law rather than leave you in such a strait. But my uncle is so alarmed at the pains and penalties denounced by the laws against such as comfort, receive, or consort43 with intercommuned persons, that he has strictly44 forbidden all of us to hold any intercourse45 with them.”
“It is no less than I expected,” said the stranger; “nevertheless, I might be received without his knowledge; — a barn, a hay-loft46, a cart-shed — any place where I could stretch me down, would be to my habits like a tabernacle of silver set about with planks47 of cedar48.”
“I assure you,” said Morton, much embarrassed, “that I have not the means of receiving you at Milnwood without my uncle’s consent and knowledge; nor, if I could do so, would I think myself justifiable49 in engaging him unconsciously in danger, which, most of all others, he fears and deprecates.”
“Well,” said the traveller, “I have but one word to say. Did you ever hear your father mention John Balfour of Burley?”
“His ancient friend and comrade, who saved his life, with almost the loss of his own, in the battle of Longmarston-Moor? — Often, very often.”
“I am that Balfour,” said his companion. “Yonder stands thy uncle’s house; I see the light among the trees. The avenger50 of blood is behind me, and my death certain unless I have refuge there. Now, make thy choice, young man; to shrink from the side of thy father’s friend, like a thief in the night, and to leave him exposed to the bloody51 death from which he rescued thy father, or to expose thine uncle’s wordly goods to such peril52, as, in this perverse53 generation, attends those who give a morsel54 of bread or a draught55 of cold water to a Christian man, when perishing for lack of refreshment56!”
A thousand recollections thronged57 on the mind of Morton at once. His father, whose memory he idolized, had often enlarged upon his obligations to this man, and regretted, that, after having been long comrades, they had parted in some unkindness at the time when the kingdom of Scotland was divided into Resolutioners and Protesters; the former of whom adhered to Charles II. after his father’s death upon the scaffold, while the Protesters inclined rather to a union with the triumphant58 republicans. The stern fanaticism59 of Burley had attached him to this latter party, and the comrades had parted in displeasure, never, as it happened, to meet again. These circumstances the deceased Colonel Morton had often mentioned to his son, and always with an expression of deep regret, that he had never, in any manner, been enabled to repay the assistance, which, on more than one occasion, he had received from Burley.
To hasten Morton’s decision, the night-wind, as it swept along, brought from a distance the sullen60 sound of a kettle-drum, which, seeming to approach nearer, intimated that a body of horse were upon their march towards them.
“It must be Claverhouse, with the rest of his regiment61. What can have occasioned this night-march? If you go on, you fall into their hands — if you turn back towards the borough-town, you are in no less danger from Cornet Grahame’s party. — The path to the hill is beset. I must shelter you at Milnwood, or expose you to instant death; — but the punishment of the law shall fall upon myself, as in justice it should, not upon my uncle. — Follow me.”
Burley, who had awaited his resolution with great composure, now followed him in silence.
The house of Milnwood, built by the father of the present proprietor62, was a decent mansion63, suitable to the size of the estate, but, since the accession of this owner, it had been suffered to go considerably64 into disrepair. At some little distance from the house stood the court of offices. Here Morton paused.
“I must leave you here for a little while,” he whispered, “until I can provide a bed for you in the house.”
“I care little for such delicacy,” said Burley; “for thirty years this head has rested oftener on the turf, or on the next grey stone, than upon either wool or down. A draught of ale, a morsel of bread, to say my prayers, and to stretch me upon dry hay, were to me as good as a painted chamber65 and a prince’s table.”
It occurred to Morton at the same moment, that to attempt to introduce the fugitive66 within the house, would materially increase the danger of detection. Accordingly, having struck a light with implements67 left in the stable for that purpose, and having fastened up their horses, he assigned Burley, for his place of repose68, a wooden bed, placed in a loft half-full of hay, which an out-of-door domestic had occupied until dismissed by his uncle in one of those fits of parsimony69 which became more rigid from day to day. In this untenanted loft Morton left his companion, with a caution so to shade his light that no reflection might be seen from the window, and a promise that he would presently return with such refreshments70 as he might be able to procure71 at that late hour. This last, indeed, was a subject on which he felt by no means confident, for the power of obtaining even the most ordinary provisions depended entirely72 upon the humour in which he might happen to find his uncle’s sole confidant, the old housekeeper73. If she chanced to be a-bed, which was very likely, or out of humour, which was not less so, Morton well knew the case to be at least problematical.
Cursing in his heart the sordid74 parsimony which pervaded75 every part of his uncle’s establishment, he gave the usual gentle knock at the bolted door, by which he was accustomed to seek admittance, when accident had detained him abroad beyond the early and established hours of rest at the house of Milnwood. It was a sort of hesitating tap, which carried an acknowledgment of transgression76 in its very sound, and seemed rather to solicit77 than command attention. After it had been repeated again and again, the housekeeper, grumbling78 betwixt her teeth as she rose from the chimney corner in the hall, and wrapping her checked handkerchief round her head to secure her from the cold air, paced across the stone-passage, and repeated a careful “Wha’s there at this time o’ night?” more than once before she undid80 the bolts and bars, and cautiously opened the door.
“This is a fine time o’ night, Mr Henry,” said the old dame, with the tyrannic insolence81 of a spoilt and favourite domestic; —“a braw time o’ night and a bonny, to disturb a peaceful house in, and to keep quiet folk out o’ their beds waiting for you. Your uncle’s been in his maist three hours syne82, and Robin’s ill o’ the rheumatize, and he’s to his bed too, and sae I had to sit up for ye mysell, for as sair a hoast as I hae.”
Here she coughed once or twice, in further evidence of the egregious83 inconvenience which she had sustained.
“Much obliged to you, Alison, and many kind thanks.”
“Hegh, sirs, sae fair-fashioned as we are! Mony folk ca’ me Mistress Wilson, and Milnwood himsell is the only ane about this town thinks o’ ca’ing me Alison, and indeed he as aften says Mrs Alison as ony other thing.”
“Well, then, Mistress Alison,” said Morton, “I really am sorry to have kept you up waiting till I came in.”
“And now that you are come in, Mr Henry,” said the cross old woman, “what for do you no tak up your candle and gang to your bed? and mind ye dinna let the candle sweal as ye gang alang the wainscot parlour, and haud a’ the house scouring84 to get out the grease again.”
“But, Alison, I really must have something to eat, and a draught of ale, before I go to bed.”
“Eat? — and ale, Mr Henry? — My certie, ye’re ill to serve! Do ye think we havena heard o’ your grand popinjay wark yonder, and how ye bleezed away as muckle pouther as wad hae shot a’ the wild-fowl that we’ll want atween and Candlemas — and then ganging majoring to the piper’s Howff wi’ a’ the idle loons in the country, and sitting there birling, at your poor uncle’s cost, nae doubt, wi’ a’ the scaff and raff o’ the water-side, till sun-down, and then coming hame and crying for ale, as if ye were maister and mair!”
Extremely vexed85, yet anxious, on account of his guest, to procure refreshments if possible, Morton suppressed his resentment86, and good-humouredly assured Mrs Wilson, that he was really both hungry and thirsty; “and as for the shooting at the popinjay, I have heard you say you have been there yourself, Mrs Wilson — I wish you had come to look at us.”
“Ah, Maister Henry,” said the old dame, “I wish ye binna beginning to learn the way of blawing in a woman’s lug87 wi’ a’ your whilly-wha’s! — Aweel, sae ye dinna practise them but on auld88 wives like me, the less matter. But tak heed89 o’ the young queans, lad. — Popinjay — ye think yoursell a braw fellow enow; and troth!” (surveying him with the candle,) “there’s nae fault to find wi’ the outside, if the inside be conforming. But I mind, when I was a gilpy of a lassock, seeing the Duke, that was him that lost his head at London — folk said it wasna a very gude ane, but it was aye a sair loss to him, puir gentleman — Aweel, he wan34 the popinjay, for few cared to win it ower his Grace’s head — weel, he had a comely90 presence, and when a’ the gentles mounted to show their capers91, his Grace was as near to me as I am to you; and he said to me, ‘Tak tent o’ yoursell, my bonny lassie, (these were his very words,) for my horse is not very chancy.’— And now, as ye say ye had sae little to eat or drink, I’ll let you see that I havena been sae unmindfu’ o’ you; for I dinna think it’s safe for young folk to gang to their bed on an empty stamach.”
To do Mrs Wilson justice, her nocturnal harangues92 upon such occasions not unfrequently terminated with this sage79 apophthegm, which always prefaced the producing of some provision a little better than ordinary, such as she now placed before him. In fact, the principal object of her maundering was to display her consequence and love of power; for Mrs Wilson was not, at the bottom, an illtempered woman, and certainly loved her old and young master (both of whom she tormented93 extremely) better than any one else in the world. She now eyed Mr Henry, as she called him, with great complacency, as he partook of her good cheer.
“Muckle gude may it do ye, my bonny man. I trow ye dinna get sic a skirl-inthe-pan as that at Niel Blane’s. His wife was a canny94 body, and could dress things very weel for ane in her line o’ business, but no like a gentleman’s housekeeper, to be sure. But I doubt the daughter’s a silly thing — an unco cockernony she had busked on her head at the kirk last Sunday. I am doubting that there will be news o’ a’ thae braws. But my auld een’s drawing thegither — dinna hurry yoursell, my bonny man, tak mind about the putting out the candle, and there’s a horn of ale, and a glass of clow-gillie-flower water; I dinna gie ilka body that; I keep it for a pain I hae whiles in my ain stamach, and it’s better for your young blood than brandy. Sae, gude-night to ye, Mr Henry, and see that ye tak gude care o’ the candle.”
Morton promised to attend punctually to her caution, and requested her not to be alarmed if she heard the door opened, as she knew he must again, as usual, look to his horse, and arrange him for the night. Mrs Wilson then retreated, and Morton, folding up his provisions, was about to hasten to his guest, when the nodding head of the old housekeeper was again thrust in at the door, with an admonition, to remember to take an account of his ways before he laid himself down to rest, and to pray for protection during the hours of darkness.
Such were the manners of a certain class of domestics, once common in Scotland, and perhaps still to be found in some old manor-houses in its remote counties. They were fixtures95 in the family they belonged to; and as they never conceived the possibility of such a thing as dismissal to be within the chances of their lives, they were, of course, sincerely attached to every member of it. 7 On the other hand, when spoiled by the indulgence or indolence of their superiors, they were very apt to become ill-tempered, self-sufficient, and tyrannical; so much so, that a mistress or master would sometimes almost have wished to exchange their crossgrained fidelity96 for the smooth and accommodating duplicity of a modern menial.
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1
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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fended
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的过去式和过去分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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14
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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41
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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42
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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43
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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45
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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46
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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47
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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48
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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49
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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50
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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51
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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54
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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55
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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71
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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72
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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73
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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77
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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78
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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80
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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81
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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82
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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83
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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84
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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85
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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87
lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
harangues
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| n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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94
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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95
fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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96
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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