The Heart of Midlothian & Rob Roy. Walter Scott

have seen many works of the renowned artist,” I replied, “but never beheld one more to my liking!”

      “Well, I know as little of pictures as you do of heraldry,” replied Miss Vernon; “yet I have the advantage of you, because I have always admired the painting without understanding its value.”

      “While I have neglected pipes and tabors, and all the whimsical combinations of chivalry, still I am informed that they floated in the fields of ancient fame. But you will allow their exterior appearance is not so peculiarly interesting to the uninformed spectator as that of a fine painting.— Who is the person here represented?”

      “My grandfather. He shared the misfortunes of Charles I., and, I am sorry to add, the excesses of his son. Our patrimonial estate was greatly impaired by his prodigality, and was altogether lost by his successor, my unfortunate father. But peace be with them who have got it!— it was lost in the cause of loyalty.”

      “Your father, I presume, suffered in the political dissensions of the period?”

      “He did indeed;— he lost his all. And hence is his child a dependent orphan — eating the bread of others — subjected to their caprices, and compelled to study their inclinations; yet prouder of having had such a father, than if, playing a more prudent but less upright part, he had left me possessor of all the rich and fair baronies which his family once possessed.”

      As she thus spoke, the entrance of the servants with dinner cut off all conversation but that of a general nature.

      When our hasty meal was concluded, and the wine placed on the table, the domestic informed us, “that Mr. Rashleigh had desired to be told when our dinner was removed.”

      “Tell him,” said Miss Vernon, “we shall be happy to see him if he will step this way — place another wineglass and chair, and leave the room.— You must retire with him when he goes away,” she continued, addressing herself to me; “even my liberality cannot spare a gentleman above eight hours out of the twenty-four; and I think we have been together for at least that length of time.”

      “The old scythe-man has moved so rapidly,” I answered, “that I could not count his strides.”

      “Hush!” said Miss Vernon, “here comes Rashleigh;” and she drew off her chair, to which I had approached mine rather closely, so as to place a greater distance between us. A modest tap at the door,— a gentle manner of opening when invited to enter,— a studied softness and humility of step and deportment, announced that the education of Rashleigh Osbaldistone at the College of St. Omers accorded well with the ideas I entertained of the manners of an accomplished Jesuit. I need not add, that, as a sound Protestant, these ideas were not the most favourable. “Why should you use the ceremony of knocking,” said Miss Vernon, “when you knew that I was not alone?”

      This was spoken with a burst of impatience, as if she had felt that Rashleigh’s air of caution and reserve covered some insinuation of impertinent suspicion. “You have taught me the form of knocking at this door so perfectly, my fair cousin,” answered Rashleigh, without change of voice or manner, “that habit has become a second nature.”

      “I prize sincerity more than courtesy, sir, and you know I do,” was Miss Vernon’s reply.

      “Courtesy is a gallant gay, a courtier by name and by profession,” replied Rashleigh, “and therefore most fit for a lady’s bower.”

      “But Sincerity is the true knight,” retorted Miss Vernon, “and therefore much more welcome, cousin. But to end a debate not over amusing to your stranger kinsman, sit down, Rashleigh, and give Mr. Francis Osbaldistone your countenance to his glass of wine. I have done the honours of the dinner, for the credit of Osbaldistone Hall.”

      Rashleigh sate down, and filled his glass, glancing his eye from Diana to me, with an embarrassment which his utmost efforts could not entirely disguise. I thought he appeared to be uncertain concerning the extent of confidence she might have reposed in me, and hastened to lead the conversation into a channel which should sweep away his suspicion that Diana might have betrayed any secrets which rested between them. “Miss Vernon,” I said, “Mr. Rashleigh, has recommended me to return my thanks to you for my speedy disengagement from the ridiculous accusation of Morris; and, unjustly fearing my gratitude might not be warm enough to remind me of this duty, she has put my curiosity on its side, by referring me to you for an account, or rather explanation, of the events of the day.”

      “Indeed?” answered Rashleigh; “I should have thought” (looking keenly at Miss Vernon) “that the lady herself might have stood interpreter;” and his eye, reverting from her face, sought mine, as if to search, from the expression of my features, whether Diana’s communication had been as narrowly limited as my words had intimated. Miss Vernon retorted his inquisitorial glance with one of decided scorn; while I, uncertain whether to deprecate or resent his obvious suspicion, replied, “If it is your pleasure, Mr. Rashleigh, as it has been Miss Vernon’s, to leave me in ignorance, I must necessarily submit; but, pray, do not withhold your information from me on the ground of imagining that I have already obtained any on the subject. For I tell you, as a man of honour, I am as ignorant as that picture of anything relating to the events I have witnessed today, excepting that I understand from Miss Vernon, that you have been kindly active in my favour.”

      “Miss Vernon has overrated my humble efforts,” said Rashleigh, “though I claim full credit for my zeal. The truth is, that as I galloped back to get some one of our family to join me in becoming your bail, which was the most obvious, or, indeed, I may say, the only way of serving you which occurred to my stupidity, I met the man Cawmil — Colville — Campbell, or whatsoever they call him. I had understood from Morris that he was present when the robbery took place, and had the good fortune to prevail on him (with some difficulty, I confess) to tender his evidence in your exculpation — which I presume was the means of your being released from an unpleasant situation.”

      “Indeed?— I am much your debtor for procuring such a seasonable evidence in my behalf. But I cannot see why (having been, as he said, a fellow-sufferer with Morris) it should have required much trouble to persuade him to step forth and bear evidence, whether to convict the actual robber, or free an innocent person.”

      “You do not know the genius of that man’s country, sir,” answered Rashleigh;—“discretion, prudence, and foresight, are their leading qualities; these are only modified by a narrow-spirited, but yet ardent patriotism, which forms as it were the outmost of the concentric bulwarks with which a Scotchman fortifies himself against all the attacks of a generous philanthropical principle. Surmount this mound, you find an inner and still dearer barrier — the love of his province, his village, or, most probably, his clan; storm this second obstacle, you have a third — his attachment to his own family — his father, mother, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, to the ninth generation. It is within these limits that a Scotchman’s social affection expands itself, never reaching those which are outermost, till all means of discharging itself in the interior circles have been exhausted. It is within these circles that his heart throbs, each pulsation being fainter and fainter, till, beyond the widest boundary, it is almost unfelt. And what is worst of all, could you surmount all these concentric outworks, you have an inner citadel, deeper, higher, and more efficient than them all — a Scotchman’s love for himself.”

      “All this is extremely eloquent and metaphorical, Rashleigh,” said Miss Vernon, who listened with unrepressed impatience; “there are only two objections to it: first, it is not true; secondly, if true, it is nothing to the purpose.”

      “It is true, my fairest Diana,” returned Rashleigh; “and moreover, it is most instantly to the purpose. It is true, because you cannot deny that I know the country and people intimately, and the character is drawn from deep and accurate consideration — and it is to the purpose, because it answers Mr. Francis Osbaldistone’s question, and shows why this same wary Scotchman, considering our kinsman to be neither his countryman, nor a Campbell, nor his cousin in any of the inextricable combinations by which they extend their pedigree; and, above all, seeing no prospect of personal advantage, but, on the contrary, much hazard of loss of time