And fast her tears did fa
“Ye wadna be warn’d, my son Johnie,
Frae the hunting to bide2 awa!”
Old Ballad3.
When he entered the cottage, Morton perceived that the old hostess had spoken truth. The inside of the hut belied6 its outward appearance, and was neat, and even comfortable, especially the inner apartment, in which the hostess informed her guest that he was to sup and sleep. Refreshments7 were placed before him such as the little inn afforded; and though he had small occasion for them, he accepted the offer, as the means of maintaining some discourse8 with the landlady9. Notwithstanding her blindness, she was assiduous in her attendance, and seemed, by a sort of instinct, to find her way to what she wanted.
“Have you no one but this pretty little girl to assist you in waiting on your guests?” was the natural question.
“None, sir,” replied his old hostess; “I dwell alone, like the widow of Zarephath. Few guests come to this puir place, and I haena custom eneugh to hire servants. I had anes twa fine sons that lookit after a’ thing. — But God gives and takes away — His name be praised!” she continued, turning her clouded eyes towards Heaven. —“I was anes better off, that is, waridly speaking, even since I lost them; but that was before this last change.”
“Indeed!” said Morton; “and yet you are a Presbyterian, my good mother?”
“I am, sir; praised be the light that showed me the right way,” replied the landlady.
“Then I should have thought,” continued the guest, the Revolution would have brought you nothing but good.”
“If,” said the old woman, “it has brought the land gude, and freedom of worship to tender consciences, it’s little matter what it has brought to a puir blind worm like me.”
“Still,” replied Morton, “I cannot see how it could possibly injure you.”
“It’s a lang story, sir,” answered his hostess, with a sigh. “But ae night, sax weeks or thereby11 afore Bothwell Brigg, a young gentleman stopped at this puir cottage, stiff and bloody12 with wounds, pale and dune13 out wi’ riding, and his horse sae weary he couldna drag ae foot after the other, and his foes15 were close ahint him, and he was ane o’ our enemies. What could I do, sir? You that’s a sodger will think me but a silly auld wife; but I fed him, and relieved him, and keepit him hidden till the pursuit was ower.”
“And who,” said Morton, “dares disapprove16 of your having done so?”
“I kenna,” answered the blind woman; “I gat ill-will about it amang some o’ our ain folk. They said I should hae been to him what Jael was to Sisera. But weel I wot I had nae divine command to shed blood, and to save it was baith like a woman and a Christian17. And then they said I wanted natural affection, to relieve ane that belanged to the band that murdered my twa sons.”
“That murdered your two sons?”
“Ay, sir; though maybe ye’ll gie their deaths another name. The tane fell wi’ sword in hand, fighting for a broken national Covenant18; the tother — oh, they took him and shot him dead on the green before his mother’s face! My auld een dazzled when the shots were looten off, and, to my thought, they waxed weaker and weaker ever since that weary day; and sorrow, and heart-break, and tears that would not be dried, might help on the disorder19. But, alas20! betraying Lord Evandale’s young blood to his enemies’ sword wad ne’er hae brought my Ninian and Johnie alive again.”
“Lord Evandale?” said Morton, in surprise. “Was it Lord Evandale whose life you saved?”
“In troth, even his,” she replied. “And kind he was to me after, and gae me a cow and calf21, malt, meal, and siller, and nane durst steer22 me when he was in power. But we live on an outside bit of Tillietudlem land, and the estate was sair plea’d between Leddy Margaret Bellenden and the present laird, Basil Olifant, and Lord Evandale backed the auld leddy for love o’ her daughter Miss Edith, as the country said, ane o’ the best and bonniest lassies in Scotland. But they behuved to gie way, and Basil gat the Castle and land, and on the back o’ that came the Revolution, and wha to turn coat faster than the laird? for he said he had been a true Whig a’ the time, and turned papist only for fashion’s sake. And then he got favour, and Lord Evandale’s head was under water; for he was ower proud and manfu’ to bend to every blast o’ wind, though mony a ane may ken5 as weel as me that be his ain principles as they might, he was nae ill friend to our folk when he could protect us, and far kinder than Basil Olifant, that aye keepit the cobble head doun the stream. But he was set by and ill looked on, and his word ne’er asked; and then Basil, wha’s a revengefu’ man, set himsell to vex23 him in a’ shapes, and especially by oppressing and despoiling24 the auld blind widow, Bessie Maclure, that saved Lord Evandale’s life, and that he was sae kind to. But he’s mistaen if that’s his end; for it will be lang or Lord Evandale hears a word frae me about the selling my kye for rent or e’er it was due, or the putting the dragoons on me when the country’s quiet, or onything else that will vex him — I can bear my ain burden patiently, and warld’s loss is the least part o’t.”
Astonished and interested at this picture of patient, grateful, and high-minded resignation, Morton could not help bestowing25 an execration26 upon the poor-spirited rascal27 who had taken such a dastardly course of vengeance28.
“Dinna curse him, sir,” said the old woman; “I have heard a good man say that a curse was like a stone flung up to the heavens, and maist like to return on the head that sent it. But if ye ken Lord Evandale, bid him look to himsell, for I hear strange words pass atween the sodgers that are lying here, and his name is often mentioned; and the tane o’ them has been twice up at Tillietudlem. He’s a kind of favourite wi’ the laird, though he was in former times ane o’ the maist cruel oppressors ever rade through a country (out-taken Sergeant29 Bothwell) — they ca’ him Inglis.”
“I have the deepest interest in Lord Evandale’s safety,” said Morton, “and you may depend on my finding some mode to apprise30 him of these suspicious circumstances. And, in return, my good friend, will you indulge me with another question? Do you know anything of Quintin Mackell of Irongray?”
“Do I know whom?” echoed the blind woman, in a tone of great surprise and alarm.
“Quintin Mackell of Irongray,” repeated Morton. “Is there anything so alarming in the sound of that name?”
“Na, na,” answered the woman, with hesitation31; “but to hear him asked after by a stranger and a sodger — Gude protect us, what mischief32 is to come next!”
“None by my means, I assure you,” said Morton; “the subject of my inquiry33 has nothing to fear from me if, as I suppose, this Quintin Mackell is the same with John Bal ——-.”
“Do not mention his name,” said the widow, pressing his lips with her fingers. “I see you have his secret and his pass-word, and I’ll be free wi’ you. But, for God’s sake, speak lound and low. In the name of Heaven, I trust ye seek him not to his hurt! Ye said ye were a sodger?”
“I said truly; but one he has nothing to fear from. I commanded a party at Bothwell Bridge.”
“Indeed?” said the woman. “And verily there is something in your voice I can trust. Ye speak prompt and readily, and like an honest man.”
“I trust I am so,” said Morton.
“But nae displeasure to you, sir, in thae waefu’ times,” continued Mrs. Maclure, “the hand of brother is against brother, and he fears as mickle almaist frae this Government as e’er he did frae the auld persecutors.”
“Indeed?” said Morton, in a tone of inquiry; I was not aware of that. But I am only just now returned from abroad.”
“I’ll tell ye,” said the blind woman, first assuming an attitude of listening that showed how effectually her powers of collecting intelligence had been transferred from the eye to the ear; for, instead of casting a glance of circumspection34 around, she stooped her face, and turned her head slowly around, in such a manner as to insure that there was not the slightest sound stirring in the neighbourhood, and then continued — “I’ll tell ye. Ye ken how he has laboured to raise up again the Covenant, burned, broken, and buried in the hard hearts and selfish devices of this stubborn people. Now, when he went to Holland, far from the countenance35 and thanks of the great, and the comfortable fellowship of the godly, both whilk he was in right to expect, the Prince of Orange wad show him no favour, and the ministers no godly communion. This was hard to bide for ane that had suffered and done mickle — ower mickle, it may be; but why suld I be a judge? He came back to me and to the auld place o’ refuge that had often received him in his distresses36, mair especially before the great day of victory at Drumclog, for I sail ne’er forget how he was bending hither of a’ nights in the year on that e’ening after the play when young Milnwood wan10 the popinjay; but I warned him off for that time.”
“What!” exclaimed Morton, “it was you that sat in your red cloak by the high-road, and told him there was a lion in the path?”
“In the name of Heaven! wha are ye?” said the old woman, breaking off her narrative37 in astonishment38. “But be wha ye may,” she continued, resuming it with tranquillity39, “ye can ken naething waur o’ me than that I hae been willing to save the life o’ friend and foe14.”
“I know no ill of you, Mrs. Maclure, and I mean no ill by you; I only wished to show you that I know so much of this person’s affairs that I might be safely intrusted with the rest. Proceed, if you please, in your narrative.”
“There is a strange command in your voice,” said the blind woman, “though its tones are sweet. I have little mair to say. The Stewarts hae been dethroned, and William and Mary reign40 in their stead; but nae mair word of the Covenant than if it were a dead letter. They hae taen the indulged clergy41, and an Erastian General Assembly of the ante pure and triumphant42 Kirk of Scotland, even into their very arms and bosoms43. Our faithfu’ champions o’ the testimony44 agree e’en waur wi’ this than wi’ the open tyranny and apostasy45 of the persecuting46 times, for souls are hardened and deadened, and the mouths of fasting multitudes are crammed47 wi’ fizenless bran instead of the sweet word in season; and mony an hungry, starving creature, when he sits down on a Sunday forenoon to get something that might warm him to the great work, has a dry clatter48 o’ morality driven about his lugs49, and —”
“In short,” said Morton, desirous to stop a discussion which the good old woman, as enthusiastically attached to her religious profession as to the duties of humanity, might probably have indulged longer — “In short, you are not disposed to acquiesce50 in this new government, and Burley is of the same opinion?”
“Many of our brethren, sir, are of belief we fought for the Covenant, and fasted and prayed and suffered for that grand national league, and now we are like neither to see nor hear tell of that which we suffered and fought and fasted and prayed for. And anes it was thought something might be made by bringing back the auld family on a new bargain and a new bottom, as, after a’, when King James went awa, I understand the great quarrel of the English against him was in behalf of seven unhallowed prelates; and sae, though ae part of our people were free to join wi’ the present model, and levied51 an armed regiment52 under the Yerl of Angus, yet our honest friend, and others that stude up for purity of doctrine53 and freedom of conscience, were determined54 to hear the breath o’ the Jacobites before they took part again them, fearing to fa’ to the ground like a wall built with unslaked mortar55, or from sitting between twa stools.”
“They chose an odd quarter,” said Morton, “from which to expect freedom of conscience and purity of doctrine.”
“Oh, dear sir!” said the landlady, “the natural day-spring rises in the east, but the spiritual dayspring may rise in the north, for what we blinded mortals ken.”
“And Burley went to the north to seek it?” replied the guest.
“Truly ay, sir; and he saw Claver’se himsell, that they ca’ Dundee now.”
“What!” exclaimed Morton, in amazement56; “I would have sworn that meeting would have been the last of one of their lives.”
“Na, na, sir; in troubled times, as I understand,” said Mrs. Maclure, “there’s sudden changes — Montgomery and Ferguson and mony ane mair that were King James’s greatest faes are on his side now. Claver’se spake our friend fair, and sent him to consult with Lord Evandale. But then there was a break-off, for Lord Evandale wadna look at, hear, or speak wi’ him; and now he’s anes wud and aye waur, and roars for revenge again Lord Evandale, and will hear nought57 of onything but burn and slay58. And oh, thae starts o’ passion! they unsettle his mind, and gie the Enemy sair advantages.”
“The enemy?” said Morton; “What enemy?”
“What enemy? Are ye acquainted familiarly wi’ John Balfour o’ Burley, and dinna ken that he has had sair and frequent combats to sustain against the Evil One? Did ye ever see him alone but the Bible was in his hand, and the drawn59 sword on his knee? Did ye never sleep in the same room wi’ him, and hear him strive in his dreams with the delusions60 of Satan? Oh, ye ken little o’ him if ye have seen him only in fair daylight; for nae man can put the face upon his doleful visits and strifes that he can do. I hae seen him, after sic a strife61 of agony, tremble that an infant might hae held him, while the hair on his brow was drapping as fast as ever my puir thatched roof did in a heavy rain.” As she spoke4, Morton began to recollect62 the appearance of Burley during his sleep in the hay-loft at Milnwood, the report of Cuddie that his senses had become impaired63, and some whispers current among the Cameronians, who boasted frequently of Burley’s soul-exercises and his strifes with the foul64 fiend — which several circumstances led him to conclude that this man himself was a victim to those delusions, though his mind, naturally acute and forcible, not only disguised his superstition65 from those in whose opinion it might have discredited66 his judgment67, but by exerting such a force as is said to be proper to those afflicted68 with epilepsy, could postpone69 the fits which it occasioned until he was either freed from superintendence, or surrounded by such as held him more highly on account of these visitations. It was natural to suppose, and could easily be inferred from the narrative of Mrs. Maclure, that disappointed ambition, wrecked70 hopes, and the downfall of the party which he had served with such desperate fidelity71, were likely to aggravate72 enthusiasm into temporary insanity73. It was, indeed, no uncommon74 circumstance in those singular times that men like Sir Harry75 Vane, Harrison, Overton, and others, themselves slaves to the wildest and most enthusiastic dreams, could, when mingling76 with the world, conduct themselves not only with good sense in difficulties, and courage in dangers, but with the most acute sagacity and determined valour. The subsequent part of Mrs. Maclure’s information confirmed Morton in these impressions.
“In the grey of the morning,” she said, “my little Peggy sail show ye the gate to him before the sodgers are up. But ye maun let his hour of danger, as he ca’s it, be ower, afore ye venture on him in his place of refuge. Peggy will tell ye when to venture in. She kens77 his ways weel, for whiles she carries him some little helps that he canna do without to sustain life.”
“And in what retreat, then,” said Morton, “has this unfortunate person found refuge?”
“An awsome place,” answered the blind woman, “as ever living creature took refuge in; they ca it the Black Linn of Linklater. It’s a doleful place, but he loves it abune a’ others, because he has sae often been in safe hiding there; and it’s my belief he prefers it to a tapestried78 chamber79 and a down bed. But ye’ll see ‘t. I hae seen it mysell mony a day syne80. I was a daft hempie lassie then, and little thought what was to come o’t. — Wad ye choose ony thing, sir, ere ye betake yoursell to your rest, for ye maun stir wi’ the first dawn o’ the grey light?”
“Nothing more, my good mother,” said Morton; and they parted for the evening.
Morton recommended himself to Heaven, threw himself on the bed, heard, between sleeping and waking, the trampling81 of the dragoon horses at the riders’ return from their patrol, and then slept soundly after such painful agitation82.
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1
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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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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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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9
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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12
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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13
dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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14
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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15
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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16
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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17
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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18
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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33
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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42
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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43
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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44
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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45
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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47
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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48
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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49
lugs
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| 钎柄 | |
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50
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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51
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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52
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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53
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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54
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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55
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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56
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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57
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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58
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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59
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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60
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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61
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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62
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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72
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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