“What has brought you here, sir?” said Mowbray, sternly.
“Hoitie toitie,” answered the traveller, “why, how came
“Pshaw, sir, you talk nonsense,” said Mowbray; “the tea-room is so infernally hot, that I had sat down here a moment to draw breath, when the young woman came in.”
“And you are going to run away, now the old gentleman is come in?” said Touchwood—“Come, sir, I am more your friend than you may think.”
“Sir, you are intrusive—I want nothing that you can give me,” said Mowbray.
“That is a mistake,” answered the senior; “for I can supply you with what most young men want—money and wisdom.”
“You will do well to keep both till they are wanted,” said Mowbray.
“Why, so I would, squire, only that I have taken something of a fancy for your family; and they are supposed to have wanted cash and good counsel for two generations, if not for three.”
“Sir,” said Mowbray, angrily, “you are too old either to play the buffoon, or to get buffoon's payment.”
“Which is like monkey's allowance, I suppose,” said the traveller, “more kicks than halfpence.—Well—at least I am not young enough to quarrel with boys for bullying. I'll convince you, however, Mr. Mowbray, that I know some more of your affairs than what you give me credit for.”
“It may be,” answered Mowbray, “but you will oblige me more by minding your own.”
“Very like; meantime, your losses to-night to my Lord Etherington are no trifle, and no secret neither.”
“Mr. Touchwood, I desire to know where you had your information?” said Mowbray.
“A matter of very little consequence compared to its truth or falsehood, Mr. Mowbray,” answered the old gentleman.
“But of the last importance to me, sir,” said Mowbray. “In a word, had you such information by or through means of Lord Etherington?—Answer me this single question, and then I shall know better what to think on the subject.”
“Upon my honour,” said Touchwood, “I neither had my information from Lord Etherington directly nor indirectly. I say thus much to give you satisfaction, and I now expect you will hear me with patience.”
“Forgive me, sir,” interrupted Mowbray, “one farther question. I understand something was said in disparagement of my sister just as I entered the tea-room?”
“Hem—hem—hem!” said Touchwood, hesitating. “I am sorry your ears have served you so well—something there
“And now, Mr. Touchwood, we have no more to say to each other—good evening to you.”
He brushed past the old man, who in vain endeavoured to stop him, and, hurrying to the stable, demanded his horse. It was ready saddled, and waited his orders; but even the short time that was necessary to bring it to the door of the stable was exasperating to Mowbray's impatience. Not less exasperating was the constant interceding voice of Touchwood, who, in tones alternately plaintive and snappish, kept on a string of expostulations.
“Mr. Mowbray, only five words with you—Mr. Mowbray, you will repent this—Is this a night to ride in, Mr. Mowbray?—My stars, sir, if you would but have five minutes' patience!”
Curses, not loud but deep, muttered in the throat of the impatient laird, were the only reply, until his horse was brought out, when, staying no farther question, he sprung into the saddle. The poor horse paid for the delay, which could not be laid to his charge. Mowbray struck him hard with his spurs so soon as he was in his seat—the noble animal reared, bolted, and sprung forward like a deer, over stock and stone, the nearest road—and we are aware it was a rough one—to Shaws-Castle. There is a sort of instinct by which horses perceive the humour of their riders, and are furious and impetuous, or dull and sluggish, as if to correspond with it; and Mowbray's gallant steed seemed on this occasion to feel all the stings of his master's internal ferment, although not again urged with the spur. The ostler stood listening to the clash of the hoofs, succeeding each other in thick and close gallop, until they died away in the distant woodland.
“If St. Ronan's reach home this night, with his neck unbroken,” muttered the fellow, “the devil must have it in keeping.”
“Mercy on us!” said the traveller, “he rides like a Bedouin Arab! but in the desert there are neither trees to cross the road, nor cleughs, nor linns, nor floods, nor fords. Well, I must set to work myself, or this gear will get worse than even I can mend.—Here you, ostler, let me have your best pair of horses instantly to Shaws- Castle.”
“To Shaws-Castle, sir?” said the man, with some surprise.
“Yes—do you not know such a place?”
“In troth, sir, sae few company go there, except on the great ball day, that we have had time to forget the road to it—but St. Ronan's was here even now, sir.”
“Ay, what of that?—he has ridden on to get supper ready—so, turn out without loss of time.”
“At your pleasure, sir,” said the fellow, and called to the postilion accordingly.
CHAPTER XVI.
DEBATE.
Well was it that night for Mowbray, that he had always piqued himself on his horses, and that the animal on which he was then mounted was as sure-footed and sagacious as he was mettled and fiery. For those who observed next day the print of the hoofs on the broken and rugged track through which the creature had been driven at full speed by his furious master, might easily see, that in more than a dozen of places the horse and rider had been within a few inches of destruction. One bough of a gnarled and stunted oak-tree, which stretched across the road, seemed in particular to have opposed an almost fatal barrier to the horseman's career. In striking his head against this impediment, the force of the blow had been broken in some measure by a high-crowned hat, yet the violence of the shock was sufficient to shiver the branch to pieces. Fortunately, it was already decayed; but, even in that state, it was subject of astonishment to every one that no fatal damage had been sustained in so formidable an encounter. Mowbray himself was unconscious of the accident.
Scarcely aware that he had been riding at an unusual rate, scarce sensible that he had ridden faster perhaps than ever he followed the hounds, Mowbray alighted at his stable door, and flung the bridle to his groom, who held up his hands in astonishment when he beheld the condition of the favourite horse; but, concluding that his master must be intoxicated, he prudently forbore to make any observations.
