Rob Roy (Unabridged). Walter Scott
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laughing.”
“Upon my word of honour, Miss Vernon,” said I, with an impatient feeling of her childish disposition to mirth, “I have not the most distant conception of what you mean. I am happy to afford you any subject of amusement, but I am quite ignorant in what it consists.”
“Nay, there’s no sound jest after all,” said the young lady, composing herself; “only one looks so very ridiculous when he is fairly perplexed. But the matter is serious enough. Do you know one Moray, or Morris, or some such name?”
“Not that I can at present recollect.”
“Think a moment. Did you not lately travel with somebody of such a name?”
“The only man with whom I travelled for any length of time was a fellow whose soul seemed to lie in his portmanteau.”
“Then it was like the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, which lay among the ducats in his leathern purse. That man has been robbed, and he has lodged an information against you, as connected with the violence done to him.”
“You jest, Miss Vernon!”
“I do not, I assure you — the thing is an absolute fact.”
“And do you,” said I, with strong indignation, which I did not attempt to suppress, “do you suppose me capable of meriting such a charge?”
“You would call me out for it, I suppose, had I the advantage of being a man — You may do so as it is, if you like it — I can shoot flying, as well as leap a five-barred gate.”
“And are colonel of a regiment of horse besides,” replied I, reflecting how idle it was to be angry with her —“But do explain the present jest to me.”
“There’s no jest whatever,” said Diana; “you are accused of robbing this man, and my uncle believes it as well as I did.”
“Upon my honour, I am greatly obliged to my friends for their good opinion!”
“Now do not, if you can help it, snort, and stare, and snuff the wind, and look so exceedingly like a startled horse — There’s no such offence as you suppose — you are not charged with any petty larceny or vulgar felony — by no means. This fellow was carrying money from Government, both specie and bills, to pay the troops in the north; and it is said he has been also robbed of some despatches of great consequence.”
“And so it is high treason, then, and not simple robbery, of which I am accused!”
“Certainly — which, you know, has been in all ages accounted the crime of a gentleman. You will find plenty in this country, and one not far from your elbow, who think it a merit to distress the Hanoverian government by every means possible.”
“Neither my politics nor my morals, Miss Vernon, are of a description so accommodating.”
“I really begin to believe that you are a Presbyterian and Hanoverian in good earnest. But what do you propose to do?”
“Instantly to refute this atrocious calumny.— Before whom,” I asked, “was this extraordinary accusation laid.”
“Before old Squire Inglewood, who had sufficient unwillingness to receive it. He sent tidings to my uncle, I suppose, that he might smuggle you away into Scotland, out of reach of the warrant. But my uncle is sensible that his religion and old predilections render him obnoxious to Government, and that, were he caught playing booty, he would be disarmed, and probably dismounted (which would be the worse evil of the two), as a Jacobite, papist, and suspected person.”36
“I can conceive that, sooner than lose his hunters, he would give up his nephew.”
“His nephew, nieces, sons — daughters, if he had them, and whole generation,” said Diana;—“therefore trust not to him, even for a single moment, but make the best of your way before they can serve the warrant.”
“That I shall certainly do; but it shall be to the house of this Squire Inglewood — Which way does it lie?”
“About five miles off, in the low ground, behind yonder plantations — you may see the tower of the clock-house.”
“I will be there in a few minutes,” said I, putting my horse in motion.
“And I will go with you, and show you the way,” said Diana, putting her palfrey also to the trot.
“Do not think of it, Miss Vernon,” I replied. “It is not — permit me the freedom of a friend — it is not proper, scarcely even delicate, in you to go with me on such an errand as I am now upon.”
“I understand your meaning,” said Miss Vernon, a slight blush crossing her haughty brow;—“it is plainly spoken;” and after a moment’s pause she added, “and I believe kindly meant.”
“It is indeed, Miss Vernon. Can you think me insensible of the interest you show me, or ungrateful for it?” said I, with even more earnestness than I could have wished to express. “Yours is meant for true kindness, shown best at the hour of need. But I must not, for your own sake — for the chance of misconstruction — suffer you to pursue the dictates of your generosity; this is so public an occasion — it is almost like venturing into an open court of justice.”
“And if it were not almost, but altogether entering into an open court of justice, do you think I would not go there if I thought it right, and wished to protect a friend? You have no one to stand by you — you are a stranger; and here, in the outskirts of the kingdom, country justices do odd things. My uncle has no desire to embroil himself in your affair; Rashleigh is absent, and were he here, there is no knowing which side he might take; the rest are all more stupid and brutal one than another. I will go with you, and I do not fear being able to serve you. I am no fine lady, to be terrified to death with law-books, hard words, or big wigs.”
“But my dear Miss Vernon”—
“But my dear Mr. Francis, be patient and quiet, and let me take my own way; for when I take the bit between my teeth, there is no bridle will stop me.”
Flattered with the interest so lovely a creature seemed to take in my fate, yet vexed at the ridiculous appearance I should make, by carrying a girl of eighteen along with me as an advocate, and seriously concerned for the misconstruction to which her motives might be exposed, I endeavoured to combat her resolution to accompany me to Squire Inglewood’s. The self-willed girl told me roundly, that my dissuasions were absolutely in vain; that she was a true Vernon, whom no consideration, not even that of being able to do but little to assist him, should induce to abandon a friend in distress; and that all I could say on the subject might be very well for pretty, well-educated, well-behaved misses from a town boarding-school, but did not apply to her, who was accustomed to mind nobody’s opinion but her own.
While she spoke thus, we were advancing hastily towards Inglewood Place, while, as if to divert me from the task of further remonstrance, she drew a ludicrous picture of the magistrate and his clerk.— Inglewood was — according to her description — a white-washed Jacobite; that is, one who, having been long a non-juror, like most of the other gentlemen of the country, had lately qualified himself to act as a justice, by taking the oaths to Government. “He had done so,” she said, “in compliance with the urgent request of most of his brother squires, who saw, with regret, that the palladium of silvan sport, the game-laws, were likely to fall into disuse for want of a magistrate who would enforce them; the nearest acting justice being the Mayor of Newcastle, and he, as being rather inclined to the consumption of the game when properly dressed, than to its preservation when alive, was more partial, of course, to the cause of the poacher than of the sportsman. Resolving, therefore, that it was expedient some one of their number should sacrifice the scruples of Jacobitical loyalty to the good of the community, the Northumbrian country gentlemen imposed the duty on Inglewood, who, being very inert in most of his feelings and sentiments, might, they thought, comply with any political creed without much repugnance. Having thus procured the body of justice, they proceeded,”