Now is Cupid a child of conscience — he makes restitution. — SHAKSPEARE

Mr. Duncan MacWheeble, no longer Commissary or Bailie, though still enjoying the empty name of the latter dignity, had escaped proscription by an early secession from the insurgent party and by his insignificance.

Edward found him in his office, immersed among papers and accounts. Before him was a large bicker of oatmeal porridge, and at the side thereof a horn spoon and a bottle of two-penny. Eagerly running his eye over a voluminous law-paper, he from time to time shovelled an immense spoonful of these nutritive viands into his capacious mouth. A pot-bellied Dutch bottle of brandy which stood by intimated either that this honest limb of the law had taken his morning already, or that he meant to season his porridge with such digestive; or perhaps both circumstances might reasonably be inferred. His night-cap and morning-gown, had whilome been of tartan, but, equally cautious and frugal, the honest Bailie had got them dyed black, lest their original ill-omened colour might remind his visitors of his unlucky excursion to Derby. To sum up the picture, his face was daubed with snuff up to the eyes, and his fingers with ink up to the knuckles. He looked dubiously at Waverley as he approached the little green rail which fenced his desk and stool from the approach of the vulgar. Nothing could give the Bailie more annoyance than the idea of his acquaintance being claimed by any of the unfortunate gentlemen who were now so much more likely to need assistance than to afford profit. But this was the rich young Englishman; who knew what might be his situation? He was the Baron’s friend too; what was to be done?

While these reflections gave an air of absurd perplexity to the poor man’s visage, Waverley, reflecting on the communication he was about to make to him, of a nature so ridiculously contrasted with the appearance of the individual, could not help bursting out a-laughing, as he checked the propensity to exclaim with Syphax —

Cato’s a proper person to intrust

A love-tale with.

As Mr. Macwheeble had no idea of any person laughing heartily who was either encircled by peril or oppressed by poverty, the hilarity of Edward’s countenance greatly relieved the embarrassment of his own, and, giving him a tolerably hearty welcome to Little Veolan, he asked what he would choose for breakfast. His visitor had, in the first place, something for his private ear, and begged leave to bolt the door. Duncan by no means liked this precaution, which savoured of danger to be apprehended; but he could not now draw back.

Convinced he might trust this man, as he could make it his interest to be faithful, Edward communicated his present situation and future schemes to Macwheeble. The wily agent listened with apprehension when he found Waverley was still in a state of proscription; was somewhat comforted by learning that he had a passport; rubbed his hands with glee when he mentioned the amount of his present fortune; opened huge eyes when he heard the brilliancy of his future expectations; but when he expressed his intention to share them with Miss Rose Bradwardine, ecstasy had almost deprived the honest man of his senses. The Bailie started from his three-footed stool like the Pythoness from her tripod; flung his best wig out of the window, because the block on which it was placed stood in the way of his career; chucked his cap to the ceiling, caught it as it fell; whistled ‘Tullochgorum’; danced a Highland fling with inimitable grace and agility, and then threw himself exhausted into a chair, exclaiming, ‘Lady Wauverley! ten thousand a year the least penny! Lord preserve my poor understanding!’

‘Amen with all my heart,’ said Waverley; ‘but now, Mr. Macwheeble, let us proceed to business.’ This word had somewhat a sedative effect, but the Bailie’s head, as he expressed himself, was still ‘in the bees.’ He mended his pen, however, marked half a dozen sheets of paper with an ample marginal fold, whipped down Dallas of St. Martin’s ‘Styles’ from a shelf, where that venerable work roosted with Stair’s ‘Institutions,’ Dirleton’s ‘Doubts,’ Balfour’s ‘Practiques,’ and a parcel of old account-books, opened the volume at the article Contract of Marriage, and prepared to make what he called a’sma’ minute to prevent parties frae resiling.’

With some difficulty Waverley made him comprehend that he was going a little too fast. He explained to him that he should want his assistance, in the first place, to make his residence safe for the time, by writing to the officer at Tully-Veolan that Mr. Stanley, an English gentleman nearly related to Colonel Talbot, was upon a visit of business at Mr. Macwheeble’s, and, knowing the state of the country, had sent his passport for Captain Foster’s inspection. This produced a polite answer from the officer, with an invitation to Mr. Stanley to dine with him, which was declined (as may easily be supposed) under pretence of business.

Waverley’s next request was, that Mr. Macwheeble would despatch a man and horse to — — the post-town at which Colonel Talbot was to address him, with directions to wait there until the post should bring a letter for Mr. Stanley, and then to forward it to Little Veolan with all speed. In a moment the Bailie was in search of his apprentice (or servitor, as he was called Sixty Years Since), Jock Scriever, and in not much greater space of time Jock was on the back of the white pony. ‘Tak care ye guide him weel, sir, for he’s aye been short in the wind since — ahem — Lord be gude to me! (in a low voice), I was gaun to come out wi’ — since I rode whip and spur to fetch the Chevalier to redd Mr. Wauverley and Vich lan Vohr; and an uncanny coup I gat for my pains. Lord forgie your honour! I might hae broken my neck; but troth it was in a venture, mae ways nor ane; but this maks amends for a’. Lady Wauverley! ten thousand a year! Lord be gude unto me!’

‘But you forget, Mr. Macwheeble, we want the Baron’s consent — the lady’s — ’

‘Never fear, I’se be caution for them; I’se gie you my personal warrandice. Ten thousand a year! it dings Balmawhapple out and out — a year’s rent’s worth a’ Balmawhapple, fee and life-rent! Lord make us thankful!’

To turn the current of his feelings, Edward inquired if he had heard anything lately of the Chieftain of Glennaquoich.

‘Not one word,’ answered Macwheeble, ‘but that he was still in Carlisle Castle, and was soon to be panelled for his life. I dinna wish the young gentlem............