folk pretend. It’s very true the curates read aye the same words ower again; and if they be right words, what for no? A gude tale’s no the waur o’ being twice tauld, I trow; and a body has aye the better chance to understand it. Every body’s no sae gleg at the uptake as ye are yoursell, mither.”
“O, my dear Cuddie, this is the sairest distress of a’,” said the anxious mother —“O, how aften have I shown ye the difference between a pure evangelical doctrine, and ane that’s corrupt wi’ human inventions? O, my bairn, if no for your ain saul’s sake, yet for my grey hairs”—“Weel, mither,” said Cuddie, interrupting her, “what need ye mak sae muckle din about it? I hae aye dune whate’er ye bade me, and gaed to kirk whare’er ye likit on the Sundays, and fended weel for ye in the ilka days besides. And that’s what vexes me mair than a’ the rest, when I think how I am to fend for ye now in thae brickle times. I am no clear if I can pleugh ony place but the Mains and Mucklewhame, at least I never tried ony other grund, and it wadna come natural to me. And nae neighbouring heritors will daur to take us, after being turned aff thae bounds for non-enormity.”
“Non-conformity, hinnie,” sighed Mause, “is the name that thae warldly men gie us.”
“Weel, aweel — we’ll hae to gang to a far country, maybe twall or fifteen miles aff. I could be a dragoon, nae doubt, for I can ride and play wi’ the broadsword a bit, but ye wad be roaring about your blessing and your grey hairs.” (Here Mause’s exclamations became extreme.) “Weel, weel, I but spoke o’t; besides, ye’re ower auld to be sitting cocked up on a baggage-waggon wi’ Eppie Dumblane, the corporal’s wife. Sae what’s to come o’ us I canna weel see — I doubt I’ll hae to tak the hills wi’ the wild whigs, as they ca’ them, and then it will be my lo to be shot down like a mawkin at some dikeside, or to be sent to heaven wi’ a Saint Johnstone’s tippit about my hause.”
“O, my bonnie Cuddie,” said the zealous Mause, “forbear sic carnal, self-seeking language, whilk is just a misdoubting o’ Providence — I have not seen the son of the righteous begging his bread, sae says the text; and your father was a douce honest man, though somewhat warldly in his dealings, and cumbered about earthly things, e’en like yoursell, my jo!”
“Aweel,” said Cuddie, after a little consideration, “I see but ae gate for’t, and that’s a cauld coal to blaw at, mither. Howsomever, mither, ye hae some guess o’ a wee bit kindness that’s atween Miss Edith and young Mr Henry Morton, that suld be ca’d young Milnwood, and that I hae whiles carried a bit book, or maybe a bit letter, quietly atween them, and made believe never to ken wha it cam frae, though I kend brawly. There’s whiles convenience in a body looking a wee stupid — and I have aften seen them walking at e’en on the little path by Dinglewood-burn; but naebody ever kend a word about it frae Cuddie; I ken I’m gay thick in the head, but I’m as honest as our auld fore-hand ox, puir fallow, that I’ll ne’er work ony mair — I hope they’ll be as kind to him that come ahint me as I hae been.— But, as I was saying, we’ll awa down to Milnwood and tell Mr Harry our distress They want a pleughman, and the grund’s no unlike our ain — I am sure Mr Harry will stand my part, for he’s a kind-hearted gentleman.— I’ll get but little penny-fee, for his uncle, auld Nippie Milnwood, has as close a grip as the deil himsell. But we’l, aye win a bit bread, and a drap kale, and a fire-side and theeking ower our heads, and that’s a’ we’ll want for a season.— Sae get up, mither, and sort your things to gang away; for since sae it is that gang we maun, I wad like ill to wait till Mr Harrison and auld Gudyill cam to pu’ us out by the lug and the horn.”
9 Probably something similar to the barn-fanners now used for winnowing corn, which were not, however, used in their present shape until about 1730. They were objected to by the more rigid sectaries on their first introduction, upon such reasoning as that of honest Mause in the text.
10 Bent-grass and sand-larks.
Chapter 8
The devil a puritan, or any thing else he is, but a time-server.
Twelfth Night.
It was evening when Mr Henry Morton perceived an old woman, wrapped in her tartan plaid, supported by a stout, stupid-looking fellow, in hoddin-grey, approach the house of Milnwood. Old Mause made her courtesy, but Cuddie took the lead in addressing Morton. Indeed, he had previously stipulated with his mother that he was to manage matters his own way; for though he readily allowed his general inferiority of understanding, and filially submitted to the guidance of his mother on most ordinary occasions, yet he said, “For getting a service, or getting forward in the warld, he could somegate gar the wee pickle sense he had gang muckle farther than hers, though she could crack like ony minister o’ them a’.”
Accordingly, he thus opened the conversation with young Morton: “A braw night this for the rye, your honour; the west park will be breering bravely this e’en.”
“I do not doubt it, Cuddie; but what can have brought your mother — this is your mother, is it not?” (Cuddie nodded.) “What can have brought your mother and you down the water so late?”
“Troth, stir, just what gars the auld wives trot — neshessity, stir — I’m seeking for service, stir.”
“For service, Cuddie, and at this time of the year? how comes that?”
Mause could forbear no longer. Proud alike of her cause and her sufferings, she commenced with an affected humility of tone, “It has pleased Heaven, an it like your honour, to distinguish us by a visitation”—“Deil’s in the wife and nae gude!” whispered Cuddie to his mother, “an ye come out wi’ your whiggery, they’ll no daur open a door to us through the haill country!” Then aloud and addressing Morton, “My mother’s auld, stir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in speaking to my leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit, (as I ken nae-body likes it if they could help themsells,) especially by her ain folk,— and Mr Harrison the steward, and Gudyill the butler, they’re no very fond o’ us, and it’s ill sitting at Rome and striving wi’ the Pope; sae I thought it best to flit before ill came to waur — and here’s a wee bit line to your honour frae a friend will maybe say some mair about it.”
Morton took the billet, and crimsoning up to the ears, between joy and surprise, read these words: “If you can serve these poor helpless people, you will oblige E. B.”
It was a few instants before he could attain composure enough to ask, “And what is your object, Cuddie? and how can I be of use to you?”
“Wark, stir, wark, and a service, is my object — a bit beild for my mither and mysell — we hae gude plenishing o’ our ain, if we had the cast o’ a cart to bring it down — and milk and meal, and greens enow, for I’m gay gleg at meal-time, and sae is my mither, lang may it be sae — And, for the penny-fee and a’ that, I’ll just leave it to the laird and you. I ken ye’ll no see a poor lad wranged, if ye can help it.”
Morton shook his head. “For the meat and lodging, Cuddie, I think I can promise something; but the penny-fee will be a hard chapter, I doubt.”
“I’ll tak my chance o’t, stir,” replied the candidate for service, “rather than gang down about Hamilton, or ony sic far country.”
“Well; step into the kitchen, Cuddie, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
The negotiation was not without difficulties. Morton had first to bring over the housekeeper, who made a thousand objections, as usual, in order to have the pleasure of being besought and entreated; but, when she was gained over, it was comparatively easy to induce old Milnwood to accept of a servant, whose wages were to be in his own option. An outhouse was, therefore, assigned to Mause and her son for their habitation, and it was settled that they were for the time to be admitted to eat