Chapter 9

In a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring fire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he insisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so, brought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat, trousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet terminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an invitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a small table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had at hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy hastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the table covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a jolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the stranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the great disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly.

"Dear help me, man!--eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord, man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye may say ye hae made a bit supper o't."

Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be expressed.

Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's invitations to him to do so.

After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided movement--

"My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma' matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle."

Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant returned with the desiderated commodity--a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of about a gallon contents--which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll no ken what to think o' ye at a'."

The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table.

"Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor wyn--neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again. Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't."

The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his entertainer.

During all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single thing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he was--where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief expressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now, under more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first presented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited a handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and intelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled melancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering severely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the symptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the profound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it partook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful than otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these qualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable. Altogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly did it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he could possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired to bed, which he did--pleading fatigue as an excuse--at an early hour. The first ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night, which the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into consideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character and calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His habiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither good, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called respectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either a peer of the realm or an English bagman.

Finding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council next proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard to these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this conclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who, let us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several stolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the kitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more approved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark expressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and open forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have been told.

So far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding their guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such an out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor fishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was odd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to? These were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they put, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in hand himself on the subject.

"I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he seems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him a'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A', however, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's under our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll gie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't. It's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him." Having said this, Robert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his family knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment, Adair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his small clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same operation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried beneath the blankets; his "honest, sonsy, bawsint face," and red Kilmarnock night-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes more, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that worthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all earthly concerns.

On the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when that liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the preceding night--although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it arose--gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased with the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was equally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of his entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be but of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all probability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it was by no means the one that followed--an odd incident at once threw out all such calculation.

When breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the table--Adair, his family, and the stranger--had risen to their feet, the latter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be so good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair, although not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way into a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had breakfasted.

"Mr Adair," said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having previously secured the door, "I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness and hospitality you have shewn me."

"No the least, sir--no the least," replied the farmer, with a decree of respect in his manner with which his guest's air and bearing had unconsciously inspired him, he did not know how or wherefore--"No the least. I am aye glad to shew civility to them that seek the shelter o' my rufe; it's just a pleasure to me. Ye're not only heartily welcome, sir, to a' ye hae gotten, but to a week o't, an' ye like. I dinna think that I wad be the first to weary o't."

"Have you any objection to try?" said the stranger, with a gentle smile.

"None whatever," replied the hospitable yeoman.

"Well, Mr Adair," said the stranger, with more gravity of manner, "to convert jest into earnest, I have a proposal to make to you. I have been for some time looking out for such a quiet retirement as this is, and a family as respectable and agreeable as yours seems to me to be. Now, having found both of these things to my mind here, I will, if you have no objection, become a boarder with you, Mr Adair, paying you a hundred guineas a-year; and here," he said, drawing out a well-filled purse, and emptying its contents on the table--"here are fifty guineas in advance." And he told off from the heap that lay on the table, the sum he named, and thrust it towards his astonished host. "And let me add," went on the mysterious stranger, "that, if you agree to my proposal, and continue to put up as well together as I expect we shall, I will not limit my payment to the sum I have mentioned. What say you to this, Mr Adair?"

To _this_ Mr Adair could say nothing for some time. Not a word. He was lost in perplexity and amazement--a state of mental difficulty and embarrassment, which he made manifest by scratching his head, and looking, with a bewildered sort of smile, alternately at the gold and its late owner--first at the one, then at the other. At length--

"Well," he said, still scratching his head, "this is a queer sort o' business, an' a turn o' matters I didna look for ava; but I hae seen waur things come o' better beginnins. To tell ye a truth, sir," continued the perplexed yeoman, "I'm no oot o' the need o' the siller. But, if ye'll just stop a minute, if ye please, till I speak to the guidwife on the subject."

And, with this, Adair hurried out of the room; and, having done this, he hurried his wife into another, and told her of what had just taken place, concluding with a--"An', noo, guidwife, what do ye think we should do?"

"Tak the siller, to be sure," replied the latter. "He seems to me to be a decent, canny lad; and, at ony rate, we canna be far wrang wi' ae six months o' him, ony way, seein that he's payin the siller afore haun. That's the grand point, Rab."

"Feth, it's that, guidwife--nae doot o't," replied her husband. "Juist the pint o' pints. But whar'll ye put the lad?"

"Ou, tak ye nae fash about that, guidman. I'll manage that. Isna there the wee room up the stair, wi' a bed in't that micht sair the king himself--sheets as white as the driven snaw, and guid stripped druggit curtains just oot o' the mangle?"

"Weel, weel, guidwife, ony way ye like as to thae matters," replied Adair; "and I'll awa, in the meantime, and get haud o' the siller. There's gowd yonner for the liftin. Deil o' the like o't ever I saw." Saying this, he flung out of the apartment, and in the next minute was again in the presence of the mysterious stranger.

On his entering--"Well, Mr Adair," said the latter, "what does your good lady say to my becoming a boarder with her?"

"Feth, sir, she's very willin, and says ye may depend on her and her dochter doin everything in their power to make ye comfortable."

"Of that I have no doubt," said the stranger; "and now, then, that this matter is so far settled, take up your money, Mr Adair, and reckon on punctual payments for the future."

"No misdoubtin that, sir, at a'," said the latter, picking up the guineas, one after another, and chucking them into a small leathern purse which he had brought for the purpose. "No misdoubtin' at a', sir," he said. "I tak this to be guid earnest o' that."

The stranger, then, whoever he was, was now fairly domiciled in the house of Mr Adair. The name he gave himself was Mowbray; and by this name he was henceforth known.

For two years succeeding the period of which we have just been speaking, did Mr Mowbray continue an inmate of West Mains, without any single circumstance occurring to throw the smallest light on his history. At the end of this period, as little was known regarding him as on the day of his first arrival. On this subject he never communicated anything himself; and, as he was always punctual in his payments, and most exemplary in his general conduct, those with whom he resided did not feel themselves called upon, nor would it have been decorous, to make any further inquiry on the subject. Indeed although they had desired to do so, there was no way open to them by which to obtain such information.

During the period alluded to, Mr Mowbray spent the greater part of his time in reading; having, since his settlement at West Mains, opened a communication with a bookseller in the neighbouring country town of ----; and in walking about the country, visiting the more remarkable scenery, and other interesting objects in the neighbourhood.

During all this time, too, his habits were extremely retired; shunning, as much as he possibly could, all intercourse with those whom he accidentally met; and, even at home, mingling but little with the family with which he resided. Privacy and quietness, in short, seemed to be the great objects of his desire; and the members of Mr Adair's household, becoming aware of this, not only never needlessly intruded themselves on him, but studiously avoided involving him in conversation, which they observed was always annoying to him. He was thus allowed to go abroad and to return, and even to pass, when accidentally met by any members of the family, without any notice being taken of him, further, perhaps, than a slight nod of civility, which he usually returned without uttering a syllable.

From all this--his retired habits, deep-seated melancholy, and immoveable taciturnity--it was evident to Mr Adair and his family that their boarder was labouring under some grievous depression of mind; and in this opinion they were confirmed by various expressions of grief, not unaccompanied by others of contrition, which they had frequently overheard, accidentally, as they passed the door of his apartment on occasions--and these were frequent--when Mr Mowbray seemed more than usually depressed by the sorrow to which he was a prey.

With all this reserve and seclusion, however, there was nothing repulsive in Mr Mowbray's manners or habits. He was grave without being morose, taciturn without being churlish, and sought quietness and retirement himself, without any expression of impatience with, or sign of peevishness at, the stir and bustle around him.

As a matter of course, the history and character of Mr Mowbray excited, at least for a time, much speculation in the neighbourhood; and these speculations, as a matter of course, also, as we may venture to say, were not in general of the most charitable description. One of these held forth that he was a retired highwayman, who had sought a quiet corner in which to enjoy the fruits of his industry, and to avoid the impertinences of the law; another held that he was a murderer, who had fled from justice; another that he was a bankrupt, who had swindled his creditors; a fourth, that he was a forger, who had done business in that way to a vast extent.

As to the nature of the crime which Mr Mowbray had committed, it will be seen that there were various opinions; but that he had committed some enormous crimes of some sort or other, was a universal opinion--in this general sentiment all agreed.

Amongst other mysteries, was that involved in the query--where did he get his money? Where did it come from? He did not, indeed, seem to have the command of very extensive resources; but always to have enough to pay punctually and promptly everything he desired, and to settle all pecuniary claims upon him.

His remittances, it was also ascertained, came to him, from whatever quarter it might be, regularly twice a-year, per the English mail, which passed within a mile and a half of West Mains. The exact amount of these remittances, which were always in gold, and put up in a small, neat, tight parcel, was never exactly known; but was supposed, on pretty good grounds, to be, each, somewhere about a hundred and fifty guineas, one of which went to Mr Adair; for Mr Mowbray had, of his own accord, added fifty guineas per annum to the hundred which he had first promised. The other hundred and fifty was disposed of in various ways, or left to accumulate with their owner. Such, then, was the amount of information acquired regarding Mr Mowbray's pecuniary resources; and more, on this point, or any other regarding him, could not, by any means, be arrived at.

By the end of the period, however, which we have above named--namely, two years--public opinion had, we must observe, undergone a considerable modification in Mr Mowbray's favour. He had been gradually acquitted of his various crimes; and the worst that was now believed of him was, that he was a gentleman whom troubles, of some kind or other, had driven from the world.

This favourable change in public opinion regarding him was, in a great measure, if not, indeed, wholly owing to the regularity of his conduct, the gentleness of his manners, his generosity--for he was a liberal contributor to the relief of the necessitous poor in his vicinity--and to the rigid punctuality he observed in all his pecuniary transactions.

In the family in which he resided, where there were, of course, better opportunities for judging of his character, and estimating his good qualities, he came to be much beloved. Adair, as he often said himself, would "gae through fire and water to serve him;" for a more honourable, or "discreet" young gentleman, as he also frequently said, "didna breathe the breath o' existence."

On every other member of the family, the impression he made was equally favourable; and, on one of them, in particular, we might speak of it in yet stronger language. But of this anon.

The general conviction into which the family with which Mr Mowbray resided fell, regarding the personal history of that person, was, that he was a gentleman who possessed a moderate annuity from some fixed sum, and that some disgust with the world had driven him into his present retirement; and in this conviction they had now been so long and so completely settled, that they firmly believed in its truth, and never after dreamed of again agitating the question, even in the most distant manner.

Thus, then, stood matters at West Mains at the end of two years from the period at which our story opens. Hitherto, however, we have only exhibited what was passing above board. We will now give the reader a peep of certain little matters that were going on behind the scenes.

A short while previous to the time of which we now speak, Rosy's sister, Martha, had gone to Edinburgh to spend the winter with a near relative of her father; partly as a friendly visit, and partly for the purpose of perfecting herself in certain branches of female education. This separation was a painful one to the two sisters, for they were much attached to each other; but they determined to compensate it by maintaining a close and regular correspondence; and huge was the budget that each soon accumulated of the other's epistolary performances. Out of these budgets we will select a couple, which will give the reader a hint of some things of which, we daresay, he little dreamed. The first is from Martha to her sister, and is dated from Edinburgh.

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"MY DEAR ROSY," (runs this document,) "I received your kind letter by Mr Meiklewham, likewise the little jar of butter for Aunt, who says it is delicious, and that she would know it to be West Mains butter wherever she should have met with it.

"I am delighted to hear that you are all well, and that Mr Mowbray has got better of his slight indisposition. By the by, Rosy, I have observed that you are particularly guarded in all your communications about Mr M. When you speak of him you don't do so with your usual sprightliness of manner. Ah! Rosy, Rosy, I doubt--I doubt--I have long doubted, or rather, I have been long convinced--of _what_, say you blushing! _N'importe_--nothing at all. Do you believe me, Rosy?--No, you don't. Does Mr M. fix his fine expressive eyes on you as often and as intensely as he used to do? Eh, Rosy!--Now, there's something you can't deny.

"To be serious, Rosy, my dear sister, I have long been satisfied that you are loved by Mr Mowbray--deeply, sincerely, ardently loved. And, more, my dear Rosy, I am equally satisfied that Mr Mowbray is loved by _you_. I am certain of it. I have marked many symptoms of it, although I have never mentioned it to you before; and I do it now in order to induce you to unburden yourself of such feelings, as it may relieve you to discover to a sister who loves you tenderly and sincerely," &c, &c.

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Our next quotation is from Martha's budget; and we shall select the letter she received in reply to the one above given. It is dated West Mains, and proceeds thus:--

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