CHAPTER LXIII
DESOLATION
Waverly riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without anyadventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passportsufficiently answered, reached the borders of Scotland. Here he heardthe tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than hehad long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint andsetting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him likea shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous,the courteous, the noble-minded Adventurer, was then a fugitive, witha price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, sofaithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. Where, now, was the exaltedand high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night atClifton?--where the pure-hearted and primitive Baron of Bradwardine,whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of hisdisposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshakencourage? Those who clung for support to these fallen columns, Rose andFlora,--where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not theloss of their natural protectors have involved them? Of Flora he thoughtwith the regard of a brother for a sister--of Rose, with a sensation yetmore deep and tender. It might be still his fate to supply the wantof those guardians they had lost. Agitated by these thoughts, heprecipitated his journey.
When he arrived in Edinburgh, where his inquiries must necessarilycommence, he felt the full difficulty of his situation. Many inhabitantsof that city had seen and known him as Edward Waverley; how, then,could he avail himself of a passport as Francis Stanley? He resolved,there-fore, to avoid all company, and to move northward as soon aspossible. He was, however, obliged to wait a day or two in expectationof a letter from Colonel Talbot, and he was also to leave his ownaddress, under his feigned character, at a place agreed upon. Withthis latter purpose he sallied out in the dusk through the well-knownstreets, carefully shunning observation,--but in vain: one of the firstpersons whom he met at once recognized him, It was Mrs. Flockhart,Fergus Mac-Ivor's good-humoured landlady.
'Gude guide us, Mr. Waverley, is this you?--na, ye needna be feared forme--I wad betray nae gentleman in your circumstances. Eh, lack-a-day!lack-a-day! here's a change o' markets! how merry Colonel Mac-Ivor andyou used to be in our house!' And the good-natured widow shed a fewnatural tears. As there was no resisting her claim of acquaintance,Waverley acknowledged it with a good grace, as well as the danger of hisown situation. 'As it's near the darkening, sir, wad ye just step in byto our house, and tak a dish o' tea? and I am sure, if ye like to sleepin the little room, I wad tak care ye are no disturbed, and naebody wadken ye; for Kate and Matty, the limmers, gaed aff wi' twa o' Hawley'sdragoons, and I hae twa new queans instead o' them.'
Waverley accepted her invitation, and engaged her lodging for a night ortwo, satisfied he should be safer in the house of this simple creaturethan anywhere else. When he entered the parlour, his heart swelled tosee Fergus's bonnet, with the white cockade, hanging beside the littlemirror.
'Aye,' said Mrs. Flockhart, sighing, as she observed the direction ofhis eyes, 'the puir Colonel bought a new ane just the day before theymarched, and I winna let them tak that ane doun, but just to brush itilka day mysell; and whiles I look at it till I just think I hear himcry to Callum to bring him his bonnet, as he used to do when he wasganging out.--It's unco silly--the neighbours ca' me a Jacobite--butthey may say their say--I am sure it's no for that--but he was askind-hearted a gentleman as ever lived, and as weel-fa'rd too. Oh, d'yeken, sir, when he is to suffer?'
'Suffer! Good heaven!--Why, where is he?'
'Eh, Lord's sake! d'ye no ken? The poor Hieland body, Dugald Mahoney,cam here a while syne, wi' ane o' his arms cuttit off, and a sairclour in the head--ye'll mind Dugald? he carried aye an axe on hisshouther--and he cam here just begging, as I may say, for something toeat. Aweel, he tauld us the Chief, as they ca'd him (but I aye ca'him the Colonel), and Ensign Maccombich, that ye mind weel, were ta'ensomewhere beside the English border, when it was sae dark that his folknever missed him till it was ower late, and they were like to gang cleandaft. And he said that little Callum Beg (he was a bauld mischievouscallant that), and your honour, were killed that same night in thetuilzie, and mony mae braw men. But he grat when he spak o' the Colonel,ye never saw tie like. And now the word gangs, the Colonel is to betried, and to suffer wi' them that were ta'en at Carlisle.'
'And his sister?'
'Aye, that they ca'd the Lady Flora--weel, she's away up to Carlisle tohim, and lives wi' some grand Papist lady thereabouts, to be near him.'
'And,' said Edward, 'the other young lady?'
'Whilk other? I ken only of ae sister the Colonel had.'
'I mean Miss Bradwardine,' said Edward.
'Ou aye, the laird's daughter,' said his landlady. 'She was a very bonnylassie, poor thing, but far shyer than Lady Flora.'
'Where is she, for God's sake?'
'Ou, wha kens where ony o' them is now? Puir things, they're sair ta'endoun for their white cockades and their white roses; but she gaed northto her father's in Perthshire, when the Government troops cam back toEdinbro'. There was some pretty men amang them, and ane Major Whackerwas quartered on me, a very ceevil gentleman,--but oh, Mr. Waverley, hewas naething sae weel-fa'rd as the puir Colonel.'
'Do you know what is become of Miss Bradwardine's father?'
'The auld laird?--na, naebody kens that; but they say he foughtvery hard in that bluidy battle at Inverness; and Deacon Clark, thewhite-iron smith, says, that the Government folk are sair agane himfor having been OUT twice; and troth he might hae ta'en warning,--butthere's nae fule like an auld fule--the puir Colonel was only out ance.'
Such conversation contained almost all the good-natured widow knew ofthe fate of her late lodgers and acquaintances; but it was enough todetermine Edward at all hazards to proceed instantly to Tully-Veolan,where he concluded he should see, or at least hear, something of Rose.He therefore left a letter for Colonel Talbot at the place agreed upon,signed by his assumed name, and giving for his address the post-townnext to the Baron's residence.
From Edinburgh to Perth he took post-horses, resolving to make the restof his journey on foot--a mode of travelling to which he was partial,and which had the advantage of permitting a deviation from the road whenhe saw parties of military at a distance. His campaign had considerablystrengthened his constitution, and improved his habits of enduringfatigue. His baggage he sent before him as opportunity occurred.
As he advanced northward, the traces of war became visible. Brokencarriages, dead horses, unroofed cottages, trees felled for palisades,and bridges destroyed, or only partially repaired,--all indicated themovements of hostile armies. In those places where the gentry wereattached to the Stuart cause, their houses seemed dismantled ordeserted, the usual course of what may be called ornamental labour wastotally interrupted, and the inhabitants were seen gliding about, withfear, sorrow, and dejection on their faces.
It was evening when he approached the village of Tully-Veolan, withfeelings and sentiments--how different from those which attendedhis first entrance! Then, life was so new to him, that a dull ordisagreeable day was one of the greatest misfortunes which hisimagination anticipated, and it seemed to him that his time ought onlyto be consecrated to elegant or amusing study, and relieved by socialor youthful frolic. Now, how changed! how saddened, yet how elevatedwas his character, within the course of a very few months! Danger andmisfortune are rapid, though severe teachers. 'A sadder and a wiserman,' he felt, in internal confidence and mental dignity, a compensationfor the gay dreams which, in his case, experience had so rapidlydissolved.
As he approached the village, he saw, with surprise and anxiety, that aparty of soldiers were quartered near it, and, what was worse, that theyseemed stationary there. This he conjectured from a few tents which hebeheld glimmering upon what was called the Common Moor. To avoid therisk of being stopped and questioned in a place where he was so likelyto be recognized, he made a large circuit, altogeth
er avoiding thehamlet, and approaching the upper gate of the avenue by a by-path wellknown to him. A single glance announced that great changes had takenplace. One half of the gate, entirely destroyed and split up forfirewood, lay in piles, ready to be taken away; the other swunguselessly about upon its loosened hinges. The battlements above the gatewere broken and thrown down, and the carved Bears, which were said tohave done sentinel's duty upon the top for centuries, now, hurled fromtheir posts, lay among the rubbish. The avenue was cruelly wasted.Several large trees were felled and left lying across the path; and thecattle of the villagers, and the more rude hoofs of dragoon horses,had poached into black mud the verdant turf which Waverley had so muchadmired.
Upon entering the courtyard, Edward saw the fears realized which thesecircumstances had excited. The place had been sacked by the King'stroops, who, in wanton mischief, had even attempted to burn it; andthough the thickness of the walls had resisted the fire, unless to apartial extent, the stables and out-houses were totally consumed. Thetowers and pinnacles of the main building were scorched and blackened;the pavement of the court broken and shattered; the doors torn downentirely, or hanging by a single hinge; the windows dashed in anddemolished; and the court strewed with articles of furniture broken intofragments. The accessories of ancient distinction, to which theBaron, in the pride of his heart, had attached so much importance andveneration, were treated with peculiar contumely. The fountain wasdemolished, and the spring which had supplied it now flooded thecourtyard. The stone basin seemed to be destined for a drinking-troughfor cattle, from the manner in which it was arranged upon the ground.The whole tribe of Bears, large and small, had experienced as littlefavour as those at the head of the avenue; and one or two of the familypictures, which seemed to have served as targets for the soldiers, layon the ground in tatters. With an aching heart, as may well be imagined,Edward viewed this wreck of a mansion so respected. But his anxiety tolearn the fate of the proprietors, and his fears as to what that fatemight be, increased with every step. When he entered upon the terrace,new scenes of desolation were visible. The balustrade was brokendown, the walls destroyed, the borders overgrown with weeds, andthe fruit-trees cut down or grubbed up. In one compartment of thisold-fashioned garden were two immense horse-chestnut trees, of whosesize the Baron was particularly vain: too lazy, perhaps, to cut themdown, the spoilers, with malevolent ingenuity, had mined them, andplaced a quantity of gunpowder in the cavity. One had been shiveredto pieces by the explosion, and the fragments lay scattered around,encumbering the ground it had so long shadowed. The other mine had beenmore partial in its effect. About one-fourth of the trunk of the treewas torn from the mass, which, mutilated and defaced on the one side,still spread on the other its ample and undiminished boughs. [A pair ofchestnut trees, destroyed, the one entirely, and the other in part, bysuch a mischievous and wanton act of revenge, grew at Invergarry Castle,the fastness of Macdonald of Glengarry.]
Amid these general marks of ravage, there were some which moreparticularly addressed the feelings of Waverley. Viewing the front ofthe building, thus wasted and defaced, his eyes naturally sought thelittle balcony which more properly belonged to Rose's apartment--herTROISIEME, or rather CINQUIEME ETAGE. It was easily discovered, forbeneath it lay the stage-flowers and shrubs with which it was her prideto decorate it, and which had been hurled from the bartizan: several ofher books were mingled with broken flower-pots and other remnants. Amongthese, Waverley distinguished one of his own, a small copy of Ariosto,and gathered it as a treasure, though wasted by the wind and rain.
While, plunged in the sad reflections which the scene excited, hewas looking around for some one who might explain the fate of theinhabitants, he heard a voice from the interior of the building singing,in well-remembered accents, an old Scottish song:
They came upon us in the night, And brake my bower and slew my knight: My servants a' for life did flee, And left us in extremitie,
They slew my knight, to me sae dear; They slew my knight, and drave his gear; The moon may set, the sun may rise, But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes. [The first three couplets are from an old ballad, called the Border Widow's Lament.]
'Alas!' thought Edward, 'is it thou? Poor helpless being, art thou aloneleft, to gibber and moan, and fill with thy wild and unconnected scrapsof minstrelsy the halls that protected thee?'--He then called, firstlow, and then louder, 'Davie--Davie Gellatley!'
The poor simpleton showed himself from among the ruins of a sort ofgreenhouse, that once terminated what was called the Terrace-walk,but at first sight of a stranger retreated, as if in terror. Waverley,remembering his habits, began to whistle a tune to which he was partial,which Davie had expressed great pleasure in listening to, and had pickedup from him by the ear. Our hero's minstrelsy no more equalled that ofBlondel, than poor Davie resembled Coeur de Lion; but the melody hadthe same effect of producing recognition. Davie again stole from hislurking-place, but timidly, while Waverley, afraid of frightening him,stood making the most encouraging signals he could devise.--'It's hisghaist,' muttered Davie; yet, coming nearer, he seemed to acknowledgehis living acquaintance. The poor fool himself appeared the ghost ofwhat he had been. The peculiar dress in which he had been attired inbetter days, showed only miserable rags of its whimsical finery, thelack of which was oddly supplied by the remnants of tapestried hangings,window-curtains, and shreds of pictures, with which he had bedizened histatters. His face, too, had lost its vacant and careless air, and thepoor creature looked hollow-eyed, meagre, half-starved, and nervous toa pitiable degree.--After long hesitation, he at length approachedWaverley with some confidence, stared him sadly in the face, and said,'A' dead and gane--a' dead and gane!'
'Who are dead?' said Waverley, forgetting the incapacity of Davie tohold any connected discourse.
'Baron--and Bailie and Saunders Saunderson and Lady Rose, that sang saesweet--A' dead and gane--dead and gane!
But follow, follow me, While glow-worms light the lea; I'll show you where the dead should be-- Each in his shroud, While winds pipe loud, And the red moon peeps dim through the cloud. Follow, follow me; Brave should he be That treads by night the dead man's lea.'
With these' words, chanted in a wild and earnest tone, he made a signto Waverley to follow him, and walked rapidly towards the bottom of thegarden, tracing the bank of the stream, which, it may be remembered, wasits eastern boundary. Edward, over whom an involuntary shuddering stoleat the import of his words, followed him in some hope of an explanation.As the house was evidently deserted, he could not expect to find amongthe ruins any more rational informer.
Davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, andscrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from thewooded glen in which the old Tower of Tully-Veolan was situated. Hethen jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by Waverley,proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock, andturning with difficulty round others. They passed beneath the ruinsof the castle; Waverley followed, keeping up with his guide withdifficulty, for the twilight began to fall. Following the descent of thestream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light, whichhe now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes, seemed asurer guide. He soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance atlength reached the door of a wretched hut. A fierce barking of dogs wasat first heard, but it stilled at his approach. A voice sounded fromwithin, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced.
'Wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an oldwoman, apparently in great indignation. He heard Davie Gellatley, inanswer, whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself tothe simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door.There was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling ofthe dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door,not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt.To prevent this, Waver
ley lifted the latch himself.
In front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'Wha comes intofolk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' On one side, twogrim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity athis appearance, and seemed to recognize him. On the other side, halfconcealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealmentreluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand, and his left in theact of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure inthe remnants of a faded uniform, and a beard of three weeks' growth.
It was the Baron of Bradwardine. It is unnecessary to add, that he threwaside his weapon, and greeted Waverley with a hearty embrace.