"Is this all?" said the smuggler; "you had the price of half a cargo for winking at our job, and made us do your business too.""But, my good friend, you forget--in this case you will recover all your own goods.""Ay, at the risk of all our own necks--we could do that without you.""I doubt that, Captain Hatteraick," said Glossin dryly, "because you would probably find a dozen red-coats at the Custom-house, whom it must be my business, if we agree about this matter, to have removed. Come, come, I will be as liberal as I can, but you should have a conscience.""Now strafe mich der deyfel!--this provokes me more than all the rest.--You rob and you murder, and you want me to rob and murder, and play the silver-cooper, or kidnapper, as you call it, a dozen times over, and then, hagel and wind-sturm! you speak to me of conscience!--Can you think of no fairer way of getting rid of this unlucky lad?""No, meinheer; but as I commit him to your charge--""To my charge--to the charge of steel and gunpowder! and--well, if it must be, it must--but you have a tolerably good guess what's like to come of it.""Oh, my dear friend, I trust no degree of severity will be necessary," replied Glossin.
"Severity!" said the fellow, with a kind of groan, I wish you had had my dreams when I first came to this dog-hole, and tried to sleep among the dry seaweed.--First, there was that d-d fellow there, with his broken back, sprawling as he did when I hurled the rock over atop on him--ha, ha, you would have sworn he was lying on the floor where you stand, wriggling like a crushed frog--and then--""Nay, my friend," said Glossin, interrupting him, what signifies going over this nonsense?--If you are turned chicken-hearted, why, the game's up, that's all--the game's up with us both.""Chicken-hearted?--No. I have not lived so long upon the account to start at last, neither for Devil nor Dutchman."Well then, take another schnaps--the cold's at your heart still.--And now tell me, are any of your old crew with you?""Nein--all dead, shot, hanged, drowned, and damned. Brown was the last--all dead, but Gipsy Gab, and he would go off the country for a spill of money--or he'll be quiet for his own sake--or old Meg, his aunt, will keep him quiet for hers.""Which Meg?""Meg Merrilies, the old devil's limb of a gipsy witch.""Is she still alive?'
"Yaw."
"And in this country?"
"And in this country. She was at the Kaim of Derncleugh, at Vanbeest Brown's last wake, as they call it, the other night, with two of my people, and some of her own blasted gipsies.""That's another breaker ahead, Captain! Will she not squeak, think ye?""Not she--she won't start--she swore by the salmon, [*The great and inviolable oath of the strolling tribes] if we did the kinchin no harm, she would never tell how the gauger got it. Why, man, though I gave her a wipe with my hanger in the heat of the matter, and cut her arm, and though she was so long after in trouble about it up at your borough-town there, der deyvil! old Meg was as true as steel.""Why, that's true, as you say," replied Glossin. "And yet if she could be carried over to Zealand, or Hamburg, or--or--anywhere else, you know, it were as well."Hatteraick jumped upright upon his feet, and looked at Glossin from head to heel.--"I don't see the goat's foot," he said, "and yet he must be the very deyvil!--But Meg Merrilies is closer yet with the Kobold than you are--ay, and I had never such weather as after having drawn her blood. Nein, nein, I'll meddle with her no more-she's a witch of the fiend--a real deyvil's kind--but that's her affair. Donner and wetter! I'll neither make nor meddle--that's her work.--But for the rest--why, if I thought the trade would not suffer, I would soon rid you of the younker, if you send me word when he's under embargo."In brief and undertones the two worthy associates concerted their enterprise, and agreed at which of his haunts Hatteraick should be heard of. The stay of his lugger on the coast was not difficult, as there were no king's vessels there at the time.
CHAPTER XXXV.
You are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bids you--Because we come to do you service, you think we are ruffians. Othello.
When Glossin returned home, he found, among other letters and papers sent to him, one of considerable importance. It was signed by Mr. Protocol, an attorney in Edinburgh, and, addressing him as the agent for Godfrey Bertram, Esq., late of Ellangowan, and his representatives, acquainted him with the sudden death of Mrs.
Margaret Bertram of Singleside, requesting him to inform his clients thereof, in case they should judge it proper to have any person present for their interest at opening the repositories of the deceased. Mr. Glossin perceived at once that the letter-writer was unacquainted with the breach which had taken place between him and his late patron. The estate of the deceased lady should by rights as he well knew, descend to Lucy Bertram, but it was a thousand to one that the caprice of the old lady might have altered its destination. After running over contingencies and probabilities in his fertile mind, to ascertain what sort of personal advantage might accrue to him from this incident, he could not perceive any mode of availing himself of it, except in so far as it might go to assist his plan of recovering, or rather creating, a character, the want of which he had already experienced, and was likely to feel yet more deeply. "I must place myself," he thought, "on strong ground, that, if anything goes wrong with Dirk Hatteraick's project, I may have prepossessions in my favour at least."--Besides, to do Glossin justice, bad as he was, he might feel some desire to compensate to Miss Bertram in a small degree, and in a case in which his own interest did not interfere with hers, the infinite mischief which he had occasioned to her family. He therefore resolved early the next morning to ride over to Woodbourne.
