St. Ronan's Well. Вальтер Скотт

on the Spring-well-head muirs.”

      “The devil you did, Mick!” replied the Lord of the Manor, also aside; – “Well, I am obliged to you for giving me some reason for the ill thoughts I had of him – I knew he was some trumpery scamp – I'll blow him, by” —

      “Whisht – stop – hush – haud your tongue, St. Ronan's, – keep a calm sough – ye see, I intended the process, by your worthy father's desire, before the Quarter Sessions – but I ken na – The auld sheriff-clerk stood the lad's friend – and some of the justices thought it was but a mistake of the marches, and sae we couldna get a judgment – and your father was very ill of the gout, and I was feared to vex him, and so I was fain to let the process sleep, for fear they had been assoilzied. – Sae ye had better gang cautiously to wark, St. Ronan's, for though they were summoned, they were not convict.”

      “Could you not take up the action again?” said Mr. Mowbray.

      “Whew! it's been prescribed sax or seeven year syne. It is a great shame, St. Ronan's, that the game laws, whilk are the very best protection that is left to country gentlemen against the encroachment of their inferiors, rin sae short a course of prescription – a poacher may just jink ye back and forward like a flea in a blanket, (wi' pardon) – hap ye out of ae county and into anither at their pleasure, like pyots – and unless ye get your thum-nail on them in the very nick o' time, ye may dine on a dish of prescription, and sup upon an absolvitor.”

      “It is a shame indeed,” said Mowbray, turning from his confident and agent, and addressing himself to the company in general, yet not without a peculiar look directed to Tyrrel.

      “What is a shame, sir?” said Tyrrel, conceiving that the observation was particularly addressed to him.

      “That we should have so many poachers upon our muirs, sir,” answered St. Ronan's. “I sometimes regret having countenanced the Well here, when I think how many guns it has brought on my property every season.”

      “Hout fie! hout awa, St. Ronan's!” said his Man of Law; “no countenance the Waal? What would the country-side be without it, I would be glad to ken? It's the greatest improvement that has been made on this country since the year forty-five. Na, na, it's no the Waal that's to blame for the poaching and delinquencies on the game. We maun to the Aultoun for the howf of that kind of cattle. Our rules at the Waal are clear and express against trespassers on the game.”

      “I can't think,” said the Squire, “what made my father sell the property of the old change-house yonder, to the hag that keeps it open out of spite, I think, and to harbour poachers and vagabonds! – I cannot conceive what made him do so foolish a thing!”

      “Probably because your father wanted money, sir,” said Tyrrel, dryly; “and my worthy landlady, Mrs. Dods, had got some. – You know, I presume, sir, that I lodge there?”

      “Oh, sir,” replied Mowbray, in a tone betwixt scorn and civility, “you cannot suppose the present company is alluded to; I only presumed to mention as a fact, that we have been annoyed with unqualified people shooting on our grounds, without either liberty or license. And I hope to have her sign taken down for it – that is all. – There was the same plague in my father's days, I think, Mick?”

      But Mr. Meiklewham, who did not like Tyrrel's looks so well as to induce him to become approver on the occasion, replied with an inarticulate grunt, addressed to the company, and a private admonition to his patron's own ear, “to let sleeping dogs lie.”

      “I can scarce forbear the fellow,” said St. Ronan's; “and yet I cannot well tell where my dislike to him lies – but it would be d – d folly to turn out with him for nothing; and so, honest Mick, I will be as quiet as I can.”

      “And that you may be so,” said Meiklewham, “I think you had best take no more wine.”

      “I think so too,” said the Squire; “for each glass I drink in his company gives me the heartburn – yet the man is not different from other raffs either – but there is a something about him intolerable to me.”

      So saying, he pushed back his chair from the table, and —regis ad exemplar– after the pattern of the Laird, all the company arose.

      Sir Bingo got up with reluctance, which he testified by two or three deep growls, as he followed the rest of the company into the outer apartment, which served as an entrance-hall, and divided the dining-parlour from the tea-room, as it was called. Here, while the party were assuming their hats, for the purpose of joining the ladies' society, (which old-fashioned folk used only to take up for that of going into the open air,) Tyrrel asked a smart footman, who stood near, to hand him the hat which lay on the table beyond.

      “Call your own servant, sir,” answered the fellow, with the true insolence of a pampered menial.

      “Your master,” answered Tyrrel, “ought to have taught you good manners, my friend, before bringing you here.”

      “Sir Bingo Binks is my master,” said the fellow, in the same insolent tone as before.

      “Now for it, Bingie,” said Mowbray, who was aware that the Baronet's pot-courage had arrived at fighting pitch.

      “Yes!” said Sir Bingo aloud, and more articulately than usual – “The fellow is my servant – what has any one to say to it?”

      “I at least have my mouth stopped,” answered Tyrrel, with perfect composure. “I should have been surprised to have found Sir Bingo's servant better bred than himself.”

      “What d'ye mean by that, sir?” said Sir Bingo, coming up in an offensive attitude, for he was no mean pupil of the Fives-Court – “What d'ye mean by that? D – n you, sir! I'll serve you out before you can say dumpling.”

      “And I, Sir Bingo, unless you presently lay aside that look and manner, will knock you down before you can cry help.”

      The visitor held in his hand a slip of oak, with which he gave a flourish, that, however slight, intimated some acquaintance with the noble art of single-stick. From this demonstration Sir Bingo thought it prudent somewhat to recoil, though backed by a party of friends, who, in their zeal for his honour, would rather have seen his bones broken in conflict bold, than his honour injured by a discreditable retreat; and Tyrrel seemed to have some inclination to indulge them. But, at the very instant when his hand was raised with a motion of no doubtful import, a whispering voice, close to his ear, pronounced the emphatic words – “Are you a man?”

      Not the thrilling tone with which our inimitable Siddons used to electrify the scene, when she uttered the same whisper, ever had a more powerful effect upon an auditor, than had these unexpected sounds on him, to whom they were now addressed. Tyrrel forgot every thing – his quarrel – the circumstances in which he was placed – the company. The crowd was to him at once annihilated, and life seemed to have no other object than to follow the person who had spoken. But suddenly as he turned, the disappearance of the monitor was at least equally so, for, amid the group of commonplace countenances by which he was surrounded, there was none which assorted to the tone and words, which possessed such a power over him. “Make way,” he said, to those who surrounded him; and it was in the tone of one who was prepared, if necessary, to make way for himself.

      Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's stepped forward. “Come, sir,” said he, “this will not do – you have come here, a stranger among us, to assume airs and dignities, which, by G – d, would become a duke, or a prince! We must know who or what you are, before we permit you to carry your high tone any farther.”

      This address seemed at once to arrest Tyrrel's anger, and his impatience to leave the company. He turned to Mowbray, collected his thoughts for an instant, and then answered him thus: – “Mr. Mowbray, I seek no quarrel with any one here – with you, in particular, I am most unwilling to have any disagreement. I came here by invitation, not certainly expecting much pleasure, but, at the same time, supposing myself secure from incivility. In the last point, I find myself mistaken, and therefore wish the company good-night. I must also make my adieus to the ladies.”

      So saying, he walked several steps, yet, as it seemed, rather irresolutely, towards the door of the card-room