Rob Roy Page 28

  Agreeable to appointment, I went next to Bailie Nicol Jarvie’s, where a comfortable morning’s repast was arranged in the parlour, which served as an apartment of all hours, and almost all work, to that honest gentleman. The bustling and benevolent magistrate had been as good as his word. I found my friend Owen at liberty, and, conscious of the refreshments and purification of brush and basin, was of course a very different person from Owen a prisoner, squalid, heart-broken, and hopeless. Yet the sense of pecuniary difficulties arising behind, before, and around him, had depressed his spirit, and the almost paternal embrace which the good man gave me, was embittered by a sigh of the deepest anxiety. And when he sate down, the heaviness in his eye and manner, so different from the quiet composed satisfaction which they usually exhibited, indicated that he was employing his arithmetic in mentally numbering up the days, the hours, the minutes, which yet remained as an interval between the dishonour of bills and the downfall of the great commercial establishment of Osbaldistone and Tresham. It was left to me, therefore, to do honour to our landlord’s hospitable cheer,—to his tea, right from China, which he got in a present from some eminent ship’s-husband at Wapping,—to his coffee, from a snug plantation of his own, as he informed us with a wink, called Saltmarket Grove, in the island of Jamaica,—to his English toast and ale, his Scotch dried salmon, his Lochfrne herrings, and even to the double damask tablecloth, ‘wrought by no hand, as you may guess,’ save that of his deceased father the worthy Deacon Jarvie.

  Having conciliated our good-humoured host by those little attentions which are great to most men, I endeavoured in my turn to gain from him some information which might be useful for my guidance, as well as for the satisfaction of my curiosity. We had not hitherto made the least allusion to the transactions of the preceding night, a circumstance which made my question sound somewhat abrupt, when, without any previous introduction of the subject, I took advantage of a pause when the history of the tablecloth ended, and that of the napkins was about to commence, to enquire, ‘Pray, by the by, Mr. Jarvie, who may this Mr. Robert Campbell be whom we met with last night?’

  The interrogatory seemed to strike the honest magistrate, to use the vulgar phrase, ‘all of a heap,’ and instead of answering, he returned the question,—‘Whae’s Mr. Robert Campbell?—ahem—ahay!—Whae’s Mr. Robert Campbell, quo’ he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I mean who, and what is he?’

  ‘Why, he’s—ahay!—he’s—ahem!—Where did ye meet with Mr. Robert Campbell, as ye ca’ him?’

  ‘I met him by chance,’ I replied,’ some months ago, in the north of England.’

  ‘Ou then, Mr. Osbaldistone,’ said the Bailie doggedly, ‘ye’ll ken as muckle about him as I do.’

  ‘I should suppose not, Mr. Jarvie,’ I replied; ‘you are his relation it seems, and his friend.’

  ‘There is some cousin-red between us, doubtless,’ said the Bailie reluctantly, ‘but we hae seen little o’ Ilk other since Rob gae up the cattle-line o’ dealing, poor fallow! he was hardly guided by them might hae used him better—and they haena made their plack a bawbee o’t neither. There’s mony ane this day wad rather they had never chased puir Robin frae the Cross o’ Glasgow—there’s mony ane wad rather see him again at the tail o’ three hundred kyloes, than at the head o’ thirty waur cattle.’

  ‘All this explains nothing to me, Mr. Jarvie, of Mr. Campbell’s rank, habits of life, and means of subsistence,’ I replied.

  ‘Rank?’ said Mr. Jarvie; ‘he’s a Hieland gentleman, nae doubt—better rank need nane to be;—and for habit, I judge he wears the Hieland habit amang the hills, though he has breeks on when he comes to Glasgow;—and as for his subsistence, what needs we care about his subsistence, sae lang as he asks naething frae us, ye ken. But I hae nae time for clavering about him e‘en now, because we maun look into your father’s concerns wi’ a’ speed.’

  So saying, he put on his spectacles, and sate down to examine Mr. Owen’s states, which the other thought it most prudent to communicate to him without reserve, I knew enough of business to be aware that nothing could be more acute and sagacious than the views which Mr. Jarvie entertained of the matters submitted to bis examination; and, to do him justice, it was marked by much fairness and even liberality. He scratched his ear indeed repeatedly, on observing the balance which stood at the debit of Osbaldi-stone and Tresham in account with himself personally.

  ‘It may be a dead loss,’ he observed; ‘and, conscience! whate‘er ane o’ your Lombard-street goldsmiths may say to it, it’s a snell ane in the Saut-Market o’ Glasgow. It will be a heavy deficit—a staff out o’ my bicker, I trow. But what then?—I trust the house wunna coup the crans for a’ that’s come and gane yet; and if it does, I’ll never bare sae base a mind as thae corbies in the Gallowgate—an I am to lose by ye, I’se ne‘er deny I hae won by ye mony a fair pund sterling —Sae, an it come to the warst, I’se e‘en lay the head o’ the sow to the tail o’ the grice.‘ 1

  I did not altogether understand the proverbial arrangement with which Mr. Jarvie consoled himself, but I could easily see that he took a kind and friendly interest in the arrangement of my father’s affairs, suggested several expedients, approved several plans proposed by Owen, and, by his countenance and counsel, greatly abated the gloom upon the brow of that afflicted delegate of my father’s establishment.

  As I was an idle spectator on this occasion, and, perhaps, as I showed some inclination more than once to return to the prohibited, and, apparently, the puzzling subject of Mr. Campbell, Mr. Jarvie dismissed me with little formality, with an advice to ‘gang up the gate to the college, where I wad find some chields could speak Greek and Latin weel,—at least they got plenty o’ siller for doing deil haet else, if they didna do that; and where I might read a spell o’ the worthy Mr. Zachary Boyd’s translation o’ the Scriptures—better poetry need nane to be, as he had been tell‘d by them that ken‘d, or suld hae kend, about sic things.’ But he seasoned this dismission with a kind and hospitable invitation,’ to come back and take part o’ his family-chack, at ane preceesely—there wad be a leg o’ mutton, and, it might be a tup’s head, for they were in season’; but, above all, I was to return at ‘ane o‘clock preceesely—it was the hour he and the deacon his father aye dined at—they pat it aff for naething nor for naebody.’

  CHAPTER XXV

  So stands the Thracian herdsman with his spea

  Full in the gap, and hopes the hunted bear;

  And hears him in the rustling wood, and sees

  His course at distance by the bending trees,

  And thinks—Here comes my mortal enemy,

  And either he must fell in fight, or I.

  Palamon and Arcite

  I TOOK the route towards the college, as recommended by Mr. Jarvie, less with the intention of seeking for any object of interest or amusement, than to arrange my own ideas, and meditate on my future conduct. I wandered from one quadrangle of old-fashioned buildings to another, and from thence to the College-yards, or walking-ground, where, pleased with the solitude of the place, most of the students being engaged in their classes, I took several turns, pondering on the waywardness of my own destiny.

  I could not doubt, from the circumstances attending my first meeting with this person Campbell, that he was engaged in some strangely desperate courses; and the reluctance with which Mr. Jarvie alluded to his person or pursuits, as well as all the scene of the preceding night, tended to confirm these suspicions. Yet to this man Diana Vernon had not, it would seem, hesitated to address herself in my behalf; and the conduct of the magistrate himself towards him showed an odd mixture of kindness, and even respect, with pity and censure. Something there must be uncommon in Campbell’s situation and character; and what was still more extraordinary, it seemed that his fate was doomed to have influence over, and connexion with my own. I resolved to bring Mr. Jarvie to close quarters on the first proper opportunity, and learn as much as possible on the subject of this mysterious person, in ord
er that I might judge whether it was possible for me, without prejudice to my reputation, to hold that degree of farther correspondence with him, to which he seemed to invite.

  While I was musing on these subjects, my attention was attracted by three persons who appeared at the upper end of the walk through which I was sauntering, seemingly engaged in very earnest conversation. That intuitive impression which announces to us the approach of whomsoever we love or hate with intense vehemence, long before a more indifferent eye can recognise their persons, flashed upon my mind the sure conviction that the midmost of these three men was Rashleigh Osbaldistone. To address him was my first impulse; my second was, to watch him until he was alone, or at least to reconnoitre his companions before confronting him. The party was still at such distance, and engaged in such deep discourse, that I had time to step unobserved to the other side of a small hedge, which imperfectly screened the alley in which I was walking.

  It was at this period the fashion of the young and gay to wear, in their morning walks, a scarlet cloak, often laced and embroidered, above their other dress, and it was the trick of the time for gallants occasionally to dispose it so as to muffle a part of the face. The imitating this fashion, with the degree of shelter which I received from the hedge, enabled me to meet my cousin, unobserved by him or the others, except perhaps as a passing stranger. I was not a little startled at recognizing in his companions that very Morris on whose account I had been summoned before Justice Inglewood, and Mr. MacVittie the merchant, from whose starched and severe aspect I had recoiled on the preceding day.

  A more ominous conjunction to my own affairs, and those of my father, could scarce have been formed. I remembered Morris’s false accusation against me, which he might be as easily induced to renew as he had been intimidated to withdraw; I recollected the inauspicious influence of MacVittie over my father’s affairs, testified by the imprisonment of Owen; and I now saw both these men combined with one, whose talents for mischief I deemed little inferior to those of the great author of all ill, and my abhorrence of whom almost amounted to dread.

  When they had passed me for some paces, I turned and passed them unobserved. At the end of the walk they separated, Morris and MacVittie leaving the gardens, and Rash-leigh returning alone through the walks. I was now determined to confront him, and demand reparation for the injuries he had done my father, though in what form redress was likely to be rendered remained to be known. This, however, I trusted to chance; and, flinging back the cloak in which I was muffled, I passed through a gap of the low hedge, and presented myself before Rashleigh, as, in a deep reverie, he paced down the avenue.

  Rashleigh was no man to be surprised or thrown off his guard by sudden occurrences. Yet he did not find me thus close to him, wearing undoubtedly in my face the marks of that indignation which was glowing in my bosom, without visibly starting at an apparition so sudden and so menacing.

  ‘You are well met, sir,’ was my commencement; ‘I was about to take a long and doubtful journey in quest of you’

  ‘You know little of him you sought then,’ replied Rash-leigh, with his usual undaunted composure. ‘I am easily found by my friends—still more easily by my foes;—your manner compels me to ask in which class I must rank Mr. Francis Osbaldistone?’

  ‘In that of your foes, sir,’ I answered; ‘in that of your mortal foes, unless you instantly do justice to your benefactor, my father, by accounting for his property.’

  ‘And to whom, Mr. Osbaldistone,’ answered Rashleigh, ‘am I, a member of your father’s commercial establishment, to be compelled to give any account of my proceedings in those concerns, which are in every respect identified with my own?—Surely not to a young gentleman whose exquisite taste for literature would render such discussions disgusting and unintelligible.’

  ‘Your sneer, sir, is no answer; I will not part with you until I have full satisfaction concerning the fraud you meditate—you shall go with me before a magistrate.’

  ‘Be it so,’ said Rashleigh, and made a step or two as if to accompany me; then pausing, proceeded:—‘Were I inclined to do as you would have me, you should soon feel which of us had most reason to dread the presence of a magistrate. But I have no wish to accelerate your fate. Go, young man! amuse yourself in your world of poetical imaginations, and leave the business of life to those who understand and can conduct it.’

  His intention, I believe, was to provoke me, and he succeeded. ‘Mr. Osbaldistone,’ I said,’ this tone of calm insolence shall not avail you. You ought to be aware that the name we both bear never submitted to insult, and shall not in my person be exposed to it.’

  ‘You remind me,’ said Rashleigh, with one of his blackest looks,’ that it was dishonoured in my person!—and you remind me also by whom! Do you think I have forgotten the evening at Osbaldistone Hall, when you cheaply and with impunity played the bully at my expense? For that insult—never to be washed out but by blood!—for the various times you have crossed my path, and always to my prejudice—for the persevering folly with which you seek to traverse schemes, the importance of which you neither know nor are capable of estimating,—for all these, sir, you owe me a long account, for which there shall come an early day of reckoning.’

  ‘Let it come when it will,’ I replied, ‘I shall be willing and ready to meet it. Yet you seem to have forgotten the heaviest article—that I had the pleasure to aid Miss Vernon’s good sense and virtous feeling in extricating her from your infamous toils.’

  I think his dark eyes flashed actual fire at this home-taunt, and yet his voice retained the same calm expressive tone with which he had hitherto conducted the conversation.

  ‘I had other views with respect to you, young man,’ was his answer, ‘less hazardous for you, and more suitable to my present character and former education. But I see you will draw on yourself the personal chastisement your boyish insolence so well merits. Follow me to a more remote spot, where we are less likely to be interrupted.’

  I followed him accordingly, keeping a strict eye on his motions, for I believed him capable of the very worst actions. We reached an open spot in a sort of wilderness, laid out in the Dutch taste, with dipped hedges, and one or two statues. I was on my guard, and it was well with me that I was so; for Rashleigh’s sword was out and at my breast ere I could throw down my cloak, or get my weapon unsheathed, so that I only saved my life by springing a pace or two backwards. He had some advantage in the difference of our weapons; for his sword, as I recollect, was longer than mine, and had one of those bayonet or three-cornered blades which are now generally worn; whereas, mine was what was then called a Saxon blade—narrow, flat, and two-edged, and scarcely so manageable as that of my enemy. In other respects we were pretty equally matched; for what advantage I might possess in superior address and agility, was fully counterbalanced by Rashleigh’s great strength and coolness. He fought, indeed, more like a fiend than a man—with concentrated spite and desire of blood, only allayed by that cool consideration which made his worst actions appear yet worse from the air of deliberate premeditation which seemed to accompany them. His obvious malignity of purpose never for a moment threw him off his guard, and he exhausted every feint and stratagem proper to the science of defence; while, at the same time, he meditated the most desperate catastrophe to our rencounter.

  On my part, the combat was at first sustained with more moderation. My passions, though hasty, were not malevolent; and the walk of two or three minute’s space gave me time to reflect that Rashleigh was my father’s nephew, the son of an uncle, who after his fashion had been kind to me, and that his falling by my hand could not but occasion much family distress. My first resolution, therefore, was to attempt to disarm my antagonist; a manoeuvre in which, confiding in my superiority of skill and practice, I anticipated little difficulty. I found, however, I had met my match; and one or two foils which I received, and from the consequences of which I narrowly escaped, obliged me to observe more caution in my mode of fighting. By degrees I became ex
asperated at the rancour with which Rashleigh sought my life, and returned his passes with an inveteracy resembling in some degree his own; so that the combat had all the appearance of being destined to have a tragic issue. That issue had nearly taken place at my expense. My foot slipped in a full lounge which I made at my adversary, and I could not so far recover myself as completely to parry the thrust with which my pass was repaid. Yet it took but partial effect, running through my waistcoat, grazing my ribs, and passing through my coat behind. The hilt of Rash-leigh’s sword, so great was the vigour of his thrust, struck against my breast with such force as to give me great pain, and confirm me in the momentary belief that I was mortally wounded. Eager for revenge, I grappled with my enemy, seizing with my left hand the hilt of his sword, and shortening my own with the purpose of running him through the body. Our death-grapple was interrupted by a man who forcibly threw himself between us, and pushing us separate from each other, exclaimed, in a loud and commanding voice, ‘What! the sons of those fathers who sucked the same breast shedding each other’s bluid as it were strangers’!—By the hand of my father, I will cleave to the brisket the first man that mints another stroke!’