Wilsons Tales of the Borders and Scotland, Vol. XXIII. | Page 3

interrupted by the entrance of
Mrs. Margaret Hislop of Toddrick's Wynd; notwithstanding that to this
personage he and Mrs. Dallas, and all the Dallases, were indebted for
the whiteness of their linen. No doubt she would be wanting payment
of her account; yet why apply to him, and not to Mrs. Dallas? And,
besides, it needed only one glance of the writer's eye to show that his

visitor had something more of the look of a client than a cleaner of
linen; a conclusion which was destined to be confirmed, when the
woman, taking up one of the high-backed chairs in the room, placed it
right opposite to the man of law, and, hitching her round body into
something like stiff dignity, seated herself. Nor was this change from
her usual deportment the only one she underwent; for, as soon appeared,
her style of speech was to pass from broad Scotch, not altogether into
the "Inglis" of the upper ranks, but into a mixture of the two tongues; a
feat which she performed very well, and for which she had been
qualified by having lived in the service of the great.
"And so Mr. Napier of Eastleys is dead?" she began.
"Yes," answered the writer, perhaps with a portion of cheerfulness,
seeing he was that gentleman's agent, or "doer," as it was then called; a
word far more expressive, as many clients can testify, at least after they
are "done;" and seeing also that a dead client is not finally "done" until
his affairs are wound up and consigned to the green box.
"And wha is his heir, think ye?" continued his questioner.
"Why, Charles Napier, his nephew," answered the writer, somewhat
carelessly.
"I'm no just a'thegither sure of that, Mr. Dallas," said she, with another
effort at dignity, which was unfortunately qualified by a knowing wink.
"The deil's in the woman," was the sharp retort, as the writer opened his
eyes wider than he had done since he laid down his parchments.
"The deil's in me or no in me," said she; "but this I'm sure of, that
Henrietta Hislop--that's our Henney, ye ken--the brawest and bonniest
lass in Toddrick's Wynd (and that's no saying little), is the lawful
heiress of Mr. John Napier of Eastleys, and was called Henrietta after
her mother."
"The honest woman's red wud," said the writer, laughing. "Why, Mrs.
Hislop, I always took you for a shrewd, sensible woman. Do you really
think that, because you bore a child to Mr. John Napier, therefore
Henney Hislop is the heiress of her reputed father?"
"Me bear a bairn to Mr. Napier!" cried the offended client. "Wha ever
said I was the mother of Henney Hislop?"
"Everybody," replied he. "We never doubted it, though I admit she has
none of your features."
"Everybody is a leear, then," rejoined the woman tartly. "There's no a

drap of blood in the lassie's body can claim kindred with me or mine;
though, if it were so, it would be no dishonour, for the Hislops were
lairds of Highslaps in Ayrshire at the time of Malcolm Mucklehead."
"And whose daughter, by the mother's side, is she, then?" asked he, as
his curiosity began to wax stronger.
"Ay, you have now your hand on the cocked egg," replied she, with a
look of mystery. "The other was a wind ane, and you've just to sit a
little and you'll see the chick."
The writer settled himself into attention, and the good dame thought it
proper, like some preachers who pause two or three minutes (the best
part of their discourse) after they have given out the text, to raise a
wonder how long they intend to hold their tongue, and thereby produce
attention, to retain her speech until she had attained the due solemnity.
"It is now," she began, in a low mysterious voice, "just sixteen years
come June,--and if ye want the day, it will be the 15th,--and if ye want
the hour, we may say eleven o'clock at night, when I was making ready
for my bed,--I heard a knock at my door, and the words of a woman,
'Oh, Mrs. Hislop, Mrs. Hislop!' So I ran and opened the door; and wha
think ye I saw but Jean Graham, Mr. Napier's cook, with een like twa
candles, and her mouth as wide as if she had been to swallow the
biggest sup of porridge that ever crossed ploughman's craig?"
"'What's ado, woman?' said I, for I thought something fearful had
happened.
"'Oh,' cried she, 'my lady's lighter, and ye're to come to Meggat's Land,
even noo, this minute, and bide nae man's hindrance.'
"'And so I will,' said I, as I threw my red plaid ower my head; then I
blew out my cruse, and out we came, jolting each