"And yet, if you would give me time, I could write--" I began.
"And what would be my Lord Durrisdeer's answer?" asks he.
"And, at any rate, how much more expeditious that I should go myself!" says he. "But all this is quite a waste of breath. At seven to-morrow the chaise will be at the door. For I start from the door, Mackellar; I do not skulk through woods and take my chaise upon the wayside--shall we say, at Eagles?"
My mind was now thoroughly made up. "Can you spare me quarter of an hour at St. Bride's?" said I. "I have a little necessary business with Carlyle."
"An hour, if you prefer," said he. "I do not seek to deny that the money for your seat is an object to me; and you could always get the first to Glascow with saddle-horses."
"Well," said I, "I never thought to leave old Scotland."
"This will be an ill journey for someone," I said. "I think, sir, for you. Something speaks in my bosom; and so much it says plain--that this is an ill-omened journey."
"If you take to prophecy," says he, "listen to that."
There came up a violent squall off the open Solway, and the rain was dashed on the great windows.
"Do ye ken what that bodes, warlock?" said he, in a broad accent: "that there'll be a man Mackellar unco sick at sea."
When I got to my chamber, I sat there under a painful excitation, hearkening to the turmoil of the gale, which struck full upon that gable of the house. What with the pressure on my spirits, the eldritch cries of the wind among the turret-tops, and the perpetual trepidation of the masoned house, sleep fled my eyelids utterly. I sat by my taper, looking on the black panes of the window, where the storm appeared continually on the point of bursting in its entrance; and upon that empty field I beheld a perspective of consequences that made the hair to rise upon my scalp. The child corrupted, the home broken up, my master dead, or worse than dead, my mistress plunged in desolation--all these I saw before me painted brightly on the darkness; and the outcry of the wind appeared to mock at my inaction.
The chaise came to the door in a strong drenching mist. We took our leave in silence: the house of Durrisdeer standing with drooping gutters and windows closed, like a place dedicate to melancholy. I observed the Master kept his head out, looking back on these splashed walls and glimmering roofs, till they were suddenly swallowed in the mist; and I must suppose some natural sadness fell upon the man at this departure; or was it some prevision of the end? At least, upon our mounting the long brae from Durrisdeer, as we walked side by side in the wet, he began first to whistle and then to sing the saddest of our country tunes, which sets folk weeping in a tavern, "Wandering Willie." The set of words he used with it I have not heard elsewhere, and could never come by any copy; but some of them which were the most appropriate to our departure linger in my memory. One verse began--