``Weel, weel, Mrs.Heukbane,'' answered Mrs.Mailsetter, a little out of humour, and even out of countenance, ``I am sure I am never against being neighbour-like, and living and letting live, as they say; and since I hae been sic a fule as to show you the post-office order--ou, nae doubt, it maun be obeyed.But I'll no need your callant, mony thanks to ye--I'll send little Davie on your powny, and that will be just five-and-threepence to ilka ane o' us, ye ken.''
``Davie! the Lord help ye, the bairn's no ten year auld;and, to be plain wi' ye, our powny reists a bit, and it's dooms sweer to the road, and naebody can manage him but our Jock.''
``I'm sorry for that,'' answered the postmistress, gravely;``it's like we maun wait then till the gudeman comes hame, after a'--for I wadna like to be responsible in trusting the letter to sic a callant as Jock--our Davie belangs in a manner to the office.''
``Aweel, aweel, Mrs.Mailsetter, I see what ye wad be at--but an ye like to risk the bairn, I'll risk the beast.''
Orders were accordingly given.The unwilling pony was brought out of his bed of straw, and again equipped for service --Davie (a leathern post-bag strapped across his shoulders)was perched upon the saddle, with a tear in his eye, and a switch in his hand.Jock good-naturedly led the animal out of town, and, by the crack of his whip, and the whoop and halloo of his too well-known voice, compelled it to take the road towards Monkbarns.
Meanwhile the gossips, like the sibyls after consulting their leaves, arranged and combined the information of the evening, which flew next morning through a hundred channels, and in a hundred varieties, through the world of Fairport.Many, strange, and inconsistent, were the rumours to which their communications and conjectures gave rise.Some said Tennant and Co.were broken, and that all their bills had come back protested--others that they had got a great contract from Government, and letters from the principal merchants at Glasgow, desiring to have shares upon a premium.One report stated, that Lieutenant Taffril had acknowledged a private marriage with Jenny Caxon--another, that he had sent her a letter upbraiding her with the lowness of her birth and education, and bidding her an eternal adieu.It was generally rumoured that Sir Arthur Wardour's affairs had fallen into irretrievable confusion, and this report was only doubted by the wise, because it was traced to Mrs.Mailsetter's shop,--a source more famous for the circulation of news than for their accuracy.But all agreed that a packet from the Secretary of State's office, had arrived, directed for Mr.Lovel, and that it had been forwarded by an orderly dragoon, despatched from the head-quarters at Edinburgh, who had galloped through Fairport without stopping, except just to inquire the way to Monkbarns.The reason of such an extraordinary mission to a very peaceful and retired individual, was variously explained.
Some said Lovel was an emigrant noble, summoned to head an insurrection that had broken out in La Vend<e'>e--others that he was a spy--others that he was a general officer, who was visiting the coast privately--others that he was a prince of the blood, who was travelling _incognito._Meanwhile the progress of the packet which occasioned so much speculation, towards its destined owner at Monkbarns, had been perilous and interrupted.The bearer, Davie Mailsetter, as little resembling a bold dragoon as could well be imagined, was carried onwards towards Monkbarns by the pony, so long as the animal had in his recollection the crack of his usual instrument of chastisement, and the shout of the butcher's boy.But feeling how Davie, whose short legs were unequal to maintain his balance, swung to and fro upon his back, the pony began to disdain furthur compliance with the intimations he had received.First, then, he slackened his pace to a walk This was no point of quarrel between him and his rider, who had been considerably discomposed by the rapidity of his former motion, and who now took the opportunity of his abated pace to gnaw a piece of gingerbread, which had been thrust into his hand by his mother in order to reconcile this youthful emissary of the post-office to the discharge of his duty.By and by, the crafty pony availed himself of this surcease of discipline to twitch the rein out of Davies hands, and applied himself to browse on the grass by the side of the lane.Sorely astounded by these symptoms of self-willed rebellion, and afraid alike to sit or to fall, poor Davie lifted up his voice and wept aloud.
