“Mr. and Miss Mowbray see company at Shaws-Castle on the twentieth current, at two o'clock—a
“See company? the more fools they,” he continued by way of comment. “See company?—choice phrases are ever commendable—and this piece of pasteboard is to intimate that one may go and meet all the fools of the parish, if they have a mind—in my time they asked the honour, or the pleasure, of a stranger's company. I suppose, by and by, we shall have in this country the ceremonial of a Bedouin's tent, where every ragged Hadgi, with his green turban, comes in slap without leave asked, and has his black paw among the rice, with no other apology than Salam Alicum.—‘Dresses in character—Dramatic picture’—what new tomfoolery can that be?—but it does not signify.—Doctor! I say Doctor!—but he is in the seventh heaven—I say, Mother Dods, you who know all the news—Is this the feast that was put off until Miss Mowbray should be better?”
“Troth is it, Maister Touchwood—they are no in the way of giving twa entertainments in one season—no very wise to gie ane maybe—but they ken best.”
“I say, Doctor, Doctor!—Bless his five wits, he is charging the Moslemah with stout King Richard—I say, Doctor, do you know any thing of these Mowbrays?”
“Nothing extremely particular,” answered Mr. Cargill, after a pause; “it is an ordinary tale of greatness, which blazes in one century, and is extinguished in the next. I think Camden says, that Thomas Mowbray, who was Grand-Marshal of England, succeeded to that high office, as well as to the Dukedom of Norfolk, as grandson of Roger Bigot, in 1301.”
“Pshaw, man, you are back into the 14th century—I mean these Mowbrays of St. Ronan's—now, don't fall asleep again until you have answered my question—and don't look so like a startled hare—I am speaking no treason.”
The clergyman floundered a moment, as is usual with an absent man who is recovering the train of his ideas, or a somnambulist when he is suddenly awakened, and then answered, still with hesitation,—
“Mowbray of St. Ronan's?—ha—eh—I know—that is—I did know the family.”
“Here they are going to give a masquerade, a
“I saw something of this a fortnight ago,” said Mr. Cargill; “indeed, I either had a ticket myself, or I saw such a one as that.”
“Are you sure you did not attend the party, Doctor?” said the Nabob.
“Who attend? I? you are jesting, Mr. Touchwood.”
“But are you quite positive?” demanded Mr. Touchwood, who had observed, to his infinite amusement, that the learned and abstracted scholar was so conscious of his own peculiarities, as never to be very sure on any such subject.
“Positive!” he repeated with embarrassment; “my memory is so wretched that I never like to be positive— but had I done any thing so far out of my usual way, I must have remembered it, one would think—and—I
“Neither could you, Doctor,” said the Nabob, laughing at the process by which his friend reasoned himself into confidence, “for it did not take place—it was adjourned, and this is the second invitation—there will be one for you, as you had a card to the former.—Come, Doctor, you must go—you and I will go together—I as an Imaum—I can say my Bismillah with any Hadgi of them all—You as a cardinal, or what you like best.”
“Who, I?—it is unbecoming my station, Mr. Touchwood,” said the clergyman—“a folly altogether inconsistent with my habits.”
“All the better—you shall change your habits.”
“You had better gang up and see them, Mr. Cargill,” said Mrs. Dods; “for it's maybe the last sight ye may see of Miss Mowbray—they say she is to be married and off to England ane of thae odd-come-shortlies, wi' some of the gowks about the Waal down-by.”
“Married!” said the clergyman; “it is impossible!”
“But where's the impossibility, Mr. Cargill, when ye see folk marry every day, and buckle them yoursell into the bargain?—Maybe ye think the puir lassie has a bee in her bannet; but ye ken yoursell if naebody but wise folk were to marry, the warld wad be ill peopled. I think it's the wise folk that keep single, like yoursell and me, Mr. Cargill.—Gude guide us!—are ye weel?—will ye taste a drap o' something?”
“Sniff at my ottar of roses,” said Mr. Touchwood; “the scent would revive the dead—why, what in the devil's name is the meaning of this?—you were quite well just now.”
“A sudden qualm,” said Mr. Cargill, recovering himself.
“Oh! Mr. Cargill,” said Dame Dods, “this comes of your lang fasts.”
“Right, dame,” subjoined Mr. Touchwood; “and of breaking them with sour milk and pease bannock—the least morsel of Christian food is rejected by stomach, just as a small gentleman refuses the visit of a creditable neighbour, lest he see the nakedness of the land—ha! ha!”
“And there is really a talk of Miss Mowbray of St Ronan's being married?” said the clergyman.
“Troth is there,” said the dame; “it's Trotting Nelly's news; and though she likes a drappie, I dinna think she would invent a lee or carry ane—at least to me, that am a gude customer.”
“This must be looked to,” said Mr. Cargill, as if speaking to himself.
“In troth, and so it should,” said Dame Dods; “it's a sin and a shame if they should employ the tinkling cymbal they ca' Chatterly, and sic a Presbyterian trumpet as yoursell in the land, Mr. Cargill; and if ye will take a fule's advice, ye winna let the multure be ta'en by your ain mill, Mr. Cargill.”
“True, true, good Mother Dods,” said the Nabob; “gloves and hatbands are things to be looked after, and Mr. Cargill had better go down to this cursed festivity with me, in order to see after his own interest.”
“I must speak with the young lady,” said the clergyman, still in a brown study.
“Right, right, my boy of black-letter,” said the Nabob; “with me you shall go, and we'll bring them to submission to mother-church, I warrant you—Why, the idea of being cheated in such a way, would scare a Santon out of his trance.—What dress will you wear?”
“My own, to be sure,” said the divine, starting from his reverie.
“True, thou art right again—they may want to knit the knot on the spot, and who would be married by a parson in masquerade?—We go to the entertainment though—it is a done thing.”
The clergyman assented, provided he should receive an invitation; and as that was found at the Manse, he had no excuse for retracting, even if he had seemed to desire one.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FORTUNE'S FROLICS.
Count Basset. We gentlemen, whose carriages run on the four aces, are apt to have a wheel out of order.
Our history must now look a little backwards; and although it is rather foreign to our natural style of composition, it must speak more in narrative, and less in dialogue, rather telling what happened, than its effects upon the actors. Our purpose, however, is only conditional, for we foresee temptations which may render it difficult for us exactly to keep it.
The arrival of the young Earl of Etherington at the salutiferous fountain of St. Ronan's had produced the strongest sensation; especially, as it was joined with the singular accident of the attempt upon his lordship's person, as he took a short cut through the woods on foot, at a distance from his equipage and servants. The gallantry with which he beat off the highwayman, was only equal to his generosity; for he declined making any researches after the poor devil, although his lordship had received a severe wound in the scuffle.
