Chapter 10

"MY DEAR MARTHA,--It is not in my nature to play a double part. I freely confess, my dear Martha, in reply to your lecture on a certain subject, that Mr Mowbray is not indifferent to me. I have long, I avow it, admired the many good qualities which we have all acknowledged him to possess--his gentlemanly bearing; his accomplishments; the elegance of his manners, and the noble generosity of his nature. These I have indeed, Martha, long admired. But what reason have you for supposing that your sister, with nothing to recommend her but some very homely advantage of person, can have made any impression on the heart of such a man as Mr Mowbray? Here, Martha, you are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have rather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter."--And here the fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference to our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in the oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters' correspondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative into its more direct and legitimate channel.

By the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part of the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid progress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace of mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the other, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been generated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray had not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any symptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and shrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this secret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards Rosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to attribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his intercourse with Rosy Adair--to the slight confusion that appeared in his countenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one besides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society--to the circumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without making it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr Mowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to indicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole constitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his new-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted up with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which he had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray was now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no longer the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more suitable to his natural temper and dispositions--a gay and cheerful man of the world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was.

This, however--referring to the attachment which had thus grown up between Rosy Adair and Mr Mowbray--was a state of matters which could not long remain in the position in which we have represented them; some result or conclusion was inevitable--and it arrived. Mr Mowbray gradually became more and more open in his communications with Miss Adair; gradually disclosed the state of his feelings with regard to her, and finally avowed his love. Miss Adair heard the delightful confession with an emotion she could not conceal; and, ingenuous in everything, in all she said and did, avowed that she loved in return.

"Then, my Rosina, my beloved Rosina," exclaimed Mr Mowbray, in a wild transport of joy--and throwing himself, in the excitation of the moment, at the feet of her whom he addressed--"allow me to mention this matter to your father, and to seek his consent to your making me the happiest of living men."

The liberty he thus sought with such grace and earnestness, was blushingly granted; not indeed, in express words, but with a silence equally intelligible and more eloquent than words.

In five minutes after, Mr Mowbray was closeted, and in earnest conversation with Mr Adair. He had already announced his attachment to his daughter, and had sought his consent to their union. Mr Adair had yet made no reply. The request was one of too serious a nature to be hastily or unreflectingly acquiesced in. At length--

"Weel, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, "I'll tell ye what it is: although I certainly haena a' the knowledge o' ye--that is, regarding yoursel and your affairs--that I maybe hae a richt to insist on haein before giein ye the haun o' my dochter--and this for a' the time that ye hae been under my roof--yet, as in that time--noo, I think, something owre twa year gane by--yer conduct has aye been that o' a gentleman, in a' respects--sober, discreet, and reglar; most exemplary, I maun say;--and, as I am satisfied that ye hae the means o' supportin a wife, in a decent way, no to say that there may be muckle owre either, I really think I can hae nae reasonable objections to gie ye Rosy after a'."

During this speech of the worthy yeoman's, there was on Mr Mowbray's countenance a smile of peculiar meaning; evidently one under which lay something amusing, mingled with the expression of satisfaction which Mr Adair's sanction to his marriage with Rosina had elicited.

Delighted with the success of his mission, Mr Mowbray now flew to the apartment in which he had left Miss Adair, and, enfolding her in his arms, in a transport of joy, informed her that he had obtained her father's consent to their union, and concluded by asking her to name the day which should make her his for ever. This, however, being rather too summary a proceeding, Rosina declined; and Mr Mowbray was obliged to be content with a promise of the matter being taken into consideration on an early day.

Leaving the lovers in discussion on these very agreeable points, and others connected therewith, we will follow Mr Adair on the errand on which he went, after Mr Mowbray had left him. This was to communicate to his wife the unexpected and important proposal which had just been made to him, and to which he had just acceded.

"Weel, guidwife, here's a queer business," said Mr Adair, on joining his thrifty helpmate, who was busy at the moment in scouring a set of milk dishes. "What do ye think? Mr Mowbray has just noo asked my consent to his marrying Rosy. Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae managed matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could see the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them."

"You see onything o' that kind!" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of the greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in _affaires de coeur_. "You see't, Robin! No--I dare say no. Although they were sitting under your very nose, wi' their arms aboot ithers' necks, I dinna believe ye wad see that there was onything in't. But, though ye didna see't, Robin, I saw't--and plainly enough, too--although I said naething about it. I saw, mony a day sin', that Mr Mowbray had a notion o' Rosy; and, if truth be tell't, I saw as weel that she had a notion o' him, and hae lang expected that it wad come to this."

"Weel, weel, guidwife, ye hae a glegger ee for thae things than I hae," replied Mr Adair. "But here's the end o' the matter noo."

"And hae ye gien your consent, Robin?"

"'Deed hae I; for I think he's an honest, decent lad; and, no to say he's rich maybe, fair aneuch aff, I think, as to worldly matters."

"As to that, I daresay, there's naething far amiss," replied Mrs Adair, "nor as regards his character either, maybe; but I'm no sure. I dinna ken, Robert, considerin a' things, if ye haena been a wee owre rash in giein your consent to this business. It's a serious affair. And, after a', we ken but little about the lad; although, I canna but say he seems to be a decent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy." Here the good woman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a second or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well calculated to excite.

"Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?" said Mr Adair, with a sort of good-natured impatience. "The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen in the end, nae doot."

"God grant it!" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the conversation dropped for the time.

We now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of his life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the day on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy Adair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was a letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:--

* * * * *

"DEAR NARESBY,--The appearance of this well-known hand--well known to you, my friend--will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem to you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long years since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much to say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Wansted--a pleasure which I hope to have in about three weeks hence--when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap, some new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea had ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the valleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that the sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run? Would you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to be true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay, as that I am to be--how can I come out with the word!--to be--to be married, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married--I repeat it slowly and solemnly--and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that ever the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true, Naresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess it; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your own eyes.

"So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I thought--nay, I swore, Naresby, as you know--that I would, that I could never love again. I thought that the treachery, the heartlessness of one, one smiling deceiver, had seared my heart, and rendered it callous to all the charms and blandishments of her sex. But I have been again deceived.

"I have not, however, this time, chosen the object of my affections from the class to which--I cannot pronounce her name--that fatal name--belonged; but from one which, however inferior in point of adventitious acquirement, far surpasses it--of this experience has convinced me--in all the better qualities of the heart.

"The woman to whom I am to be married--my Rosina Adair!--is the daughter of a humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But what in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when their place is supplied--as in the case of my betrothed--by a heart that knows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms that would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and fortune I do not want.

"Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I return again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any had, I would have told them they spoke untruly--that I had abjured the world, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray would not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others to account for and moralize on it."

* * * * *

Such, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby, during the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he also wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these, and to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain.

Having no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the intervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related and the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry forward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event. On that day--

"Rosy, my love," said Mr Mowbray, smiling, "I have a proposal to make to you."

"Indeed!--what is it, William?"

"Why, I'll tell you what it is," said the latter; "I wish to go on a visit to a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me."

"Oh, surely," replied Mrs Mowbray. "Is it far?"

"Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on it?"

"Surely--surely, William. Anywhere with you!"

"Thank you, my love," said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife.

"Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy," continued the former; "I wish your father and mother to accompany us."

"What! my father and mother too!" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise. "Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such a cavalcade of visiters?"

"Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express wish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded me."

"Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you thought of the expense? That will be rather serious."

"Oh, not in the least, my love," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "Not in the least serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter."

"Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To get him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely prevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily believe, although it were to make a lord of him."

"I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute," said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of the apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found.

"Leave hame for a week!" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known to him his wishes on this subject. "Impossible! my dear sir; impossible! Wholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a fauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek; the lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to bing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre. Impossible, my dear sir--impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye may get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, laughing jocosely; "and may keep her too, if ye like."

"Yes--yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of the manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason for pressing this point, and really will not be denied."

For a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray and his father-in-law; both being resolute--the one to carry his point, the other to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former finally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was ultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to promise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this promise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following day as that on which they should set out.

On the following day, accordingly--Mrs Adair's consent having, in the meantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her husband's--two chaises--unwonted sight--appeared at the door of West Mains House; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country town; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be occupied.

"I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae things," said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises that stood at the door. "I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life. Nasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist as in ane o' them."

Having expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr Adair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of Mr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed himself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were shut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the vehicles were in rapid motion.

On the forenoon of the second day after their departure--nothing, in the interval, having occurred worth relating--the party arrived at a certain noble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having drawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants in rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the doors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very marked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly in the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of very puzzling meaning.

On the party having got out of their chaises--"Is this your freen's house, Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him.

"It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray.

"My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then--that's clear. He has a rare sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord."

"The house is very respectable, certainly," said Mr Mowbray; "and, I think, you'll find the inside every way worthy of the out."

"I dinna doot it--I dinna doot it," replied Mr Adair. "But whar's your freen, himsel?"

"Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in." And, taking his wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted by the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no less overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was surrounded.

Having entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase, and ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All but Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken with the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this feeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father and mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued gazing around them in silent amazement and admiration.

When the party had seated themselves--"Shall I serve up some refreshment, sir?" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but with that perplexing smile on his face.

"Yes, John, do," said Mr Mowbray; "and as quick's you like; for we are all, I fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us--I speak for myself at any rate--not a little thirsty."

The servant bowed and retired. When he had done so--"'Od, sir, ye seem to be greatly at your ease here," said Mr Adair, who was not a little surprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner of his son-in-law in his friend's house, "You and your freen maun surely be unco intimate."

"Oh! we certainly are so," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "I can use any freedom here--the same as if I were in my own house."

"Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like," said Mr Adair. "But isna your freen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?"

"Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay--something of a particular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime, we'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so." And Mr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently.

A servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from Mr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation.

Mr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very unceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he thought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life; but he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this feeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same extent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene, was that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which his proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do everything he could think of to increase them.

By and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome one it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet appeared--Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself taking the foot--and proceeded to do justice to the good things before them. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray--who, to the now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and Mrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he had been in a common inn--desired all the attendants to retire. When they had done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet and, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife, bade her welcome to _her own house_!

"What!" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair.

"Eh!" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers.

"William," said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and endeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged again to sink.

"True, my friends," said Mr Mowbray; "all true. This, Mr Adair, is your daughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my love, to your own fireside!" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, "and long may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton House, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!"

Here, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would choose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of explanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief.

Mr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in love, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all its joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy scenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he kept to this resolution our story tells.

A HIGHLAND TRADITION.

On the summit of a bluff headland that projects into the Sound of Sky, there stand the grey ruins of an ancient castle, which was once the residence of a Highland chieftain of the name of M'Morrough--a man of fierce nature and desperate courage, but not without some traits of a generous disposition. When about middle age, M'Morrough married the daughter of a neighbouring chief--a lady of much sweetness of manner and gentleness of nature. On the part of the former, however, this connection was one in which love had little share: its chief purpose would have been attained by the birth of a male heir to the name and property of the feudal chieftain; and this was an event to which he looked anxiously forward.

When the accouchement of his lady arrived, M'Morrough retired to an upper apartment of the castle to await the result--having desired a trusty domestic to bring him instant intelligence when the child was born, whether it was a male or a female. The interval he employed in walking up and down the chamber in a fever of impatience. At length the door of the apartment opened, and Innes M'Phail entered. The chieftain turned quickly and fiercely round, glanced at the countenance of his messenger, and there read the disappointment of his hopes without a word being uttered.

"It is even so, then," roared out the infuriated chieftain. "It is a girl, Innes; a girl. My curses on her!"