At that moment a murmur of surprise took place in the apartment, which was just entered by Miss Mowbray, leaning on her brother's arm. The cause of this murmur will be best understood, by narrating what had passed betwixt the brother and sister.
CHAPTER III.
EXPOSTULATION
Seek not the feast in these irreverent robes;
Go to my chamber – put on clothes of mine.
The Taming of the Shrew.
It was with a mixture of anxiety, vexation, and resentment, that Mowbray, just when he had handed Lady Penelope into the apartment where the tables were covered, observed that his sister was absent, and that Lady Binks was hanging on the arm of Lord Etherington, to whose rank it would properly have fallen to escort the lady of the house. An anxious and hasty glance cast through the room, ascertained that she was absent, nor could the ladies present give any account of her after she had quitted the gardens, except that Lady Penelope had spoken a few words with her in her own apartment, immediately after the scenic entertainment was concluded.
Thither Mowbray hurried, complaining aloud of his sister's laziness in dressing, but internally hoping that the delay was occasioned by nothing of a more important character.
He hastened up stairs, entered her sitting-room without ceremony, and knocking at the door of her dressing-room, begged her to make haste.
“Here is the whole company impatient,” he said, assuming a tone of pleasantry; “and Sir Bingo Binks exclaiming for your presence, that he may be let loose on the cold meat.”
“Paddock calls,” said Clara from within; “anon – anon!”
“Nay, it is no jest, Clara,” continued her brother; “for here is Lady Penelope miauling like a starved cat!”
“I come – I come, greymalkin,” answered Clara, in the same vein as before, and entered the parlour as she spoke, her finery entirely thrown aside, and dressed in the riding-habit which was her usual and favourite attire.
Her brother was both surprised and offended. “On my soul,” he said, “Clara, this is behaving very ill. I indulge you in every freak upon ordinary occasions, but you might surely on this day, of all others, have condescended to appear something like my sister, and a gentlewoman receiving company in her own house.”
“Why, dearest John,” said Clara, “so that the guests have enough to eat and drink, I cannot conceive why I should concern myself about their finery, or they trouble themselves about my plain clothes.”
“Come, come, Clara, this will not do,” answered Mowbray; “you must positively go back into your dressing-room, and huddle your things on as fast as you can. You cannot go down to the company dressed as you are.”
“I certainly can, and I certainly will, John – I have made a fool of myself once this morning to oblige you, and for the rest of the day I am determined to appear in my own dress; that is, in one which shows I neither belong to the world, nor wish to have any thing to do with its fashions.”
“By my soul, Clara, I will make you repent this!” said Mowbray, with more violence than he usually exhibited where his sister was concerned.
“You cannot, dear John,” she coolly replied, “unless by beating me; and that I think you would repent of yourself.”
“I do not know but what it were the best way of managing you,” said Mowbray, muttering between his teeth; but, commanding his violence, he only said aloud, “I am sure, from long experience, Clara, that your obstinacy will at the long run beat my anger. Do let us compound the point for once – keep your old habit, since you are so fond of making a sight of yourself, and only throw the shawl round your shoulders – it has been exceedingly admired, and every woman in the house longs to see it closer – they can hardly believe it genuine.”
“Do be a man, Mowbray,” answered his sister; “meddle with your horse-sheets, and leave shawls alone.”
“Do you be a woman, Clara, and think a little on them, when custom and decency render it necessary. – Nay, is it possible! – Will you not stir – not oblige me in such a trifle as this?”
“I would indeed if I could,” said Clara; “but since you must know the truth – do not be angry – I have not the shawl. I have given it away – given it up, perhaps I should say, to the rightful owner. – She has promised me something or other in exchange for it, however. I have given it to Lady Penelope.”
“Yes,” answered Mowbray, “some of the work of her own fair hands, I suppose, or a couple of her ladyship's drawings, made up into fire-screens. – On my word – on my soul, this is too bad! – It is using me too ill, Clara – far too ill. If the thing had been of no value, my giving it to you should have fixed some upon it. – Good-even to you; we will do as well as we can without you.”
“Nay, but, my dear John – stay but a moment,” said Clara, taking his arm as he sullenly turned towards the door; “there are but two of us on the earth – do not let us quarrel about a trumpery shawl.”
“Trumpery!” said Mowbray; “It cost fifty guineas, by G – , which I can but ill spare – trumpery!”
“O, never think of the cost,” said Clara; “it was your gift, and that should, I own, have been enough to have made me keep to my death's day the poorest rag of it. But really Lady Penelope looked so very miserable, and twisted her poor face into so many odd expressions of anger and chagrin, that I resigned it to her, and agreed to say she had lent it to me for the performance. I believe she was afraid that I would change my mind, or that you would resume it as a seignorial waif; for, after she had walked a few turns with it wrapped around her, merely by way of taking possession, she dispatched it by a special messenger to her apartment at the Well.”
“She may go to the devil,” said Mowbray, “for a greedy unconscionable jade, who has varnished over a selfish, spiteful heart, that is as hard as a flint, with a fine glossing of taste and sensibility!”
“Nay, but, John,” replied his sister, “she really had something to complain of in the present case. The shawl had been bespoken on her account, or very nearly so – she showed me the tradesman's letter – only some agent of yours had come in between with the ready money, which no tradesman can resist. – Ah, John! I suspect half of your anger is owing to the failure of a plan to mortify poor Lady Pen, and that she has more to complain of than you have. – Come, come, you have had the advantage of her in the first display of this fatal piece of finery, if wearing it on my poor shoulders can be called a display – e'en make her welcome to the rest for peace's sake, and let us go down to these good folks, and you shall see how pretty and civil I shall behave.”
Mowbray, a spoiled child, and with all the petted habits of indulgence, was exceedingly fretted at the issue of the scheme which he had formed for mortifying Lady Penelope; but he saw at once the necessity of saying nothing more to his sister on the subject. Vengeance he privately muttered against Lady Pen, whom he termed an absolute harpy in blue-stockings; unjustly forgetting, that in the very important affair at issue, he himself had been the first to interfere with and defeat her ladyship's designs on the garment in question.
“But I will blow her,” he said, “I will blow her ladyship's conduct in the business! She shall not outwit a poor whimsical girl like Clara, without hearing it on more sides than one.”
With this Christian and gentlemanlike feeling towards Lady Penelope, he escorted his sister into the eating-room, and led her to her proper place at the head of the table. It was the negligence displayed in her dress, which occasioned the murmur of surprise that greeted Clara on her entrance. Mowbray, as he placed his sister in her chair, made her general apology for her late appearance, and her riding-habit. “Some fairies,” he supposed, “Puck, or such like tricksy goblin, had been in her wardrobe, and carried off whatever was fit for wearing.”
There were answers from every quarter – that it would have been too much to expect Miss Mowbray to dress for their amusement a second time – that nothing she chose to wear could misbecome Miss Mowbray – that she had set like the sun, in her splendid scenic dress, and now rose like the full moon in her ordinary attire, (this flight was by the Reverend Mr. Chatterly,) – and that “Miss Mowbray being at hame, had an unco gude right to please hersell;” which last piece of politeness, being at least as much to the purpose as any that had preceded it, was the contribution of honest Mrs. Blower; and was replied to by Miss Mowbray with a particular and most gracious bow.
Mrs. Blower ought to have rested her colloquial fame, as Dr. Johnson would have said, upon a compliment so evidently acceptable, but no one knows where to stop. She thrust her broad, good-natured, delighted countenance forward, and sending her voice from the bottom to the top of the table, like her umquhile husband when calling to his mate during a breeze, wondered “why Miss Clara Moubrie didna wear that grand shawl she had on at the play-making, and her just sitting upon the wind of a door. Nae doubt it was for fear of the soup, and the butter-boats, and the like; – but she had three shawls, which she really fand was ane ower mony – if Miss Moubrie wad like to wear ane o' them – it was but imitashion, to be sure – but it wad keep her shouthers as warm as if it were real Indian, and if it were dirtied it was the less matter.”
“Much obliged, Mrs. Blower,” said Mowbray unable to resist the temptation which this speech offered; “but my sister is not yet of quality sufficient, to entitle her to rob her friends of their shawls.”
Lady Penelope coloured to the eyes, and bitter was the retort that arose to her tongue; but she suppressed it, and nodding to Miss Mowbray in the most friendly way in the world, yet with a very particular expression, she only said, “So you have told your brother of the little transaction which we have had this morning? —Tu me lo pagherai– I give you fair warning, take care none of your secrets come into my keeping – that's all.”
Upon what mere trifles do the important events of human life sometimes depend! If Lady Penelope had given way to her first movements of resentment, the probable issue would have been some such half-comic half-serious skirmish, as her ladyship and Mr. Mowbray had often amused the company withal. But revenge which is suppressed and deferred, is always most to be dreaded; and to the effects of the deliberate resentment which Lady Penelope cherished upon this trifling occasion, must be traced the events which our history has to record. Secretly did she determine to return the shawl, which she had entertained hopes of making her own upon very reasonable terms; and as secretly did she resolve to be revenged both upon brother and sister, conceiving herself already possessed, to a certain degree, of a clew to some part of their family history, which might serve for a foundation on which to raise her projected battery. The ancient offences and emulation of importance of the Laird of St. Ronan's, and the superiority which had been given to Clara in the exhibition of the day, combined with the immediate cause of resentment; and it only remained for her to consider how her revenge should be most signally accomplished.
Whilst such thoughts were passing through Lady Penelope's mind, Mowbray was searching with his eyes for the Earl of Etherington, judging that it might be proper, in the course of the entertainment, or before the guests had separated, to make him formally acquainted with his sister, as a preface to the more intimate connexion which must, in prosecution of the plan agreed upon, take place betwixt them. Greatly to his surprise, the young Earl was no where visible, and the place which he had occupied by the side of Lady Binks had been quietly appropriated by Winterblossom, as the best and softest chair in the room, and nearest to the head of the table, where the choicest of the entertainment is usually arranged. This honest gentleman, after a few insipid compliments to her ladyship upon her performance as Queen of the Amazons, had betaken himself to the much more interesting occupation of ogling the dishes, through the glass which hung suspended at his neck by a gold chain of Maltese workmanship. After looking and wondering for a few seconds, Mowbray addressed himself to the old beau-garçon, and asked him what had become of Etherington.
“Retreated,” said Winterblossom, “and left but his compliments to you behind him – a complaint, I think, in his wounded arm. – Upon my word, that soup has a most appetizing flavour! – Lady Penelope, shall I have the honour to help you? – no! – nor you, Lady Binks? – you are too cruel! – I must comfort myself, like a heathen priest of old, by eating the sacrifice which the deities have scorned to accept of.”
Here he helped himself to the plate of soup which he had in vain offered to the ladies, and transferred the further duty of dispensing it to Mr. Chatterly; “it is your profession, sir, to propitiate the divinities – ahem!”
“I did not think Lord Etherington would have left us so soon,” said Mowbray; “but we must do the best we can without his countenance.”
So saying, he assumed his place at the bottom of the table, and did his best to support the character of a hospitable and joyous landlord, while on her part, with much natural grace, and delicacy of attention calculated to set every body at their ease, his sister presided at the upper end of the board. But the vanishing of Lord Etherington in a manner so sudden and unaccountable – the obvious ill-humour of Lady Penelope – and the steady, though passive, sullenness of Lady Binks, spread among the company a gloom like that produced by an autumnal mist upon a pleasing landscape. The women were low-spirited, dull, nay, peevish, they did not well know why; and the men could not be joyous, though the ready resource of old hock and champagne made some of them talkative. – Lady Penelope broke up the party by well-feigned apprehension of the difficulties, nay, dangers, of returning by so rough a road. Lady Binks begged a seat with her ladyship, as Sir Bingo, she said, judging from his devotion to the green flask, was likely to need their carriage home. From the moment of their departure, it became bad tone to remain behind; and all, as in a retreating army, were eager to be foremost, excepting MacTurk and a few stanch topers, who, unused to meet with such good cheer every day of their lives, prudently determined to make the most of the opportunity.
We will not dwell on the difficulties attending the transportation of a large company by few carriages, though the delay and disputes thereby occasioned were of course more intolerable than in the morning, for the parties had no longer the hopes of a happy day before them, as a bribe to submit to temporary inconvenience. The impatience of many was so great, that, though the evening was raw, they chose to go on foot rather than await the dull routine of the returning carriages; and as they retired they agreed, with one consent, to throw the blame of whatever inconvenience they might sustain on their host and hostess, who had invited so large a party before getting a shorter and better road made between the Well and Shaws-Castle.
“It would have been so easy to repair the path by the Buck-stane!”
And this was all the thanks which Mr. Mowbray received for an entertainment which had cost him so much trouble and expense, and had been looked forward to by the good society at the Well with such impatient expectation.
“It was an unco pleasant show,” said the good-natured Mrs. Blower, “only it was a pity it was sae tediousome; and there was surely an awfu' waste of gauze and muslin.”
But so well had Dr. Quackleben improved his numerous opportunities, that the good lady was much reconciled to affairs in general, by the prospect of coughs, rheumatisms, and other maladies acquired upon the occasion, which were likely to afford that learned gentleman, in whose prosperity she much interested herself, a very profitable harvest.
Mowbray, somewhat addicted to the service of Bacchus, did not find himself freed, by the secession of so large a proportion of the company, from the service of the jolly god, although, upon the present occasion, he could well have dispensed with his orgies. Neither the song, nor the pun, nor the jest, had any power to kindle his heavy spirit, mortified as he was by the event of his party being so different from the brilliant consummation which he had anticipated. The guests, stanch boon companions, suffered not, however, their party to flag for want of the landlord's participation, but continued to drink bottle after bottle, with as little regard for Mr. Mowbray's grave looks, as if they had been carousing at the Mowbray Arms, instead of the Mowbray mansion-house. Midnight at length released him, when, with an unsteady step, he sought his own apartment; cursing himself and his companions, consigning his own person with all dispatch to his bed, and bequeathing those of the company to as many mosses and quagmires, as could be found betwixt Shaws-Castle and St. Ronan's Well.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PROPOSAL
Oh! you would be a vestal maid, I warrant,
The bride of Heaven – Come – we may shake your purpose;
For here I bring in hand a jolly suitor
Hath ta'en degrees in the seven sciences
That ladies love best – He is young and noble,
Handsome and valiant, gay, and rich, and liberal.
The Nun.
The morning after a debauch is usually one of reflection, even to the most determined boon companion; and, in the retrospect of the preceding day, the young Laird of St. Ronan's saw nothing very consolatory, unless that the excess was not, in the present case, of his own seeking, but had arisen out of the necessary duties of a landlord, or what were considered as such by his companions.
But it was not so much his dizzy recollections of the late carouse which haunted him on awakening, as the inexplicability which seemed to shroud the purposes and conduct of his new ally, the Earl of Etherington.
That young nobleman had seen Miss Mowbray, had declared his high satisfaction, had warmly and voluntarily renewed the proposal which he had made ere she was yet known to him – and yet, far from seeking an opportunity to be introduced to her, he had even left the party abruptly, in order to avoid the necessary intercourse which must there have taken place between them. His lordship's flirtation with Lady Binks had not escaped the attention of the sagacious Mowbray – her ladyship also had been in a hurry to leave Shaws-Castle; and Mowbray promised to himself to discover the nature of this connexion through Mrs. Gingham, her ladyship's attendant, or otherwise; vowing deeply at the same time, that no peer in the realm should make an affectation of addressing Miss Mowbray a cloak for another and more secret intrigue. But his doubts on this subject were in great measure removed by the arrival of one of Lord Etherington's grooms with the following letter: —
“My Dear Mowbray, – You would naturally be surprised at my escape from the table yesterday before you returned to it, or your lovely sister had graced it with her presence. I must confess my folly; and I may do so the more boldly, for, as the footing on which I first opened this treaty was not a very romantic one, you will scarce suspect me of wishing to render it such. But I did in reality feel, during the whole of yesterday, a reluctance which I cannot express, to be presented to the lady on whose favour the happiness of my future life is to depend, upon such a public occasion, and in the presence of so promiscuous a company. I had my mask, indeed, to wear while in the promenade, but, of course, that was to be laid aside at table, and, consequently, I must have gone through the ceremony of introduction; a most interesting moment, which I was desirous to defer till a fitter season. I trust you will permit me to call upon you at Shaws-Castle this morning, in the hope – the anxious hope – of being allowed to pay my duty to Miss Mowbray, and apologize for not waiting upon her yesterday. I expect your answer with the utmost impatience, being always yours, &c. &c. &c.
“Etherington.”
“This,” said St. Ronan's to himself, as he folded the letter deliberately, after having twice read it over, “seems all fair and above board; I could not wish any thing more explicit; and, moreover, it puts into black and white, as old Mick would say, what only rested before on our private conversation. An especial cure for the headache, such a billet as this in a morning.”
So saying, he sat him down and wrote an answer, expressing the pleasure he should have in seeing his lordship as soon as he thought proper. He watched even the departure of the groom, and beheld him gallop off, with the speed of one who knows that his quick return was expected by an impatient master.
Mowbray remained for a few minutes by himself, and reflected with delight upon the probable consequences of this match; – the advancement of his sister – and, above all, the various advantages which must necessarily accrue to himself, by so close an alliance with one whom he had good reason to think deep in the secret, and capable of rendering him the most material assistance in his speculations on the turf and in the sporting world. He then sent a servant to let Miss Mowbray know that he intended to breakfast with her.
“I suppose, John,” said Clara, as her brother entered the apartment, “you are glad of a weaker cup this morning than those you were drinking last night – you were carousing till after the first cock.”
“Yes,” said Mowbray, “that sandbed, old MacTurk, upon whom whole hogsheads make no impression, did make a bad boy of me – but the day is over, and they will scarce catch me in such another scrape. – What did you think of the masks?”
“Supported as well,” said Clara, “as such folk support the disguise of gentlemen and ladies during life; and that is, with a great deal of bustle, and very little propriety.”
“I saw only one good mask there, and that was a Spaniard,” said her brother.
“O, I saw him too,” answered Clara; “but he wore his visor on. An old Indian merchant, or some such thing, seemed to me a better character – the Spaniard did nothing but stalk about and twangle his guitar, for the amusement of my Lady Binks, as I think.”
“He is a very clever fellow, though, that same Spaniard,” rejoined Mowbray – “Can you guess who he is?”
“No, indeed; nor shall I take the trouble of trying. To set to guessing about it, were as bad as seeing the whole mummery over again.”
“Well,” replied her brother, “you will allow one thing at least – Bottom was well acted – you cannot deny that.”
“Yes,” replied Clara, “that worthy really deserved to wear his ass's head to the end of the chapter – but what of him?”
“Only conceive that he should be the very same person with that handsome Spaniard,” replied Mowbray.
“Then there is one fool fewer than I thought there was,” replied Clara, with the greatest indifference.
Her brother bit his lip.
“Clara,” he said, “I believe you are an excellent good girl, and clever to boot, but pray do not set up for wit and oddity; there is nothing in life so intolerable as pretending to think differently from other people. – That gentleman was the Earl of Etherington.”
This annunciation, though made in what was meant to be an imposing tone, had no impression on Clara.
“I hope he plays the peer better than the Fidalgo,” she replied, carelessly.
“Yes,” answered Mowbray, “he is one of the handsomest men of the time, and decidedly fashionable – you will like him much when you see him in private.”
“It is of little consequence whether I do or no,” answered Clara.
“You mistake the matter,” said Mowbray, gravely; “it may be of considerable consequence.”
“Indeed!” said Clara, with a smile; “I must suppose myself, then, too important a person not to make my approbation necessary to one of your first-rates? He cannot pretend to pass muster at St. Ronan's without it? – Well, I will depute my authority to Lady Binks, and she shall pass your new recruits instead of me.”
“This is all nonsense, Clara,” said Mowbray. “Lord Etherington calls here this very morning, and wishes to be made known to you. I expect you will receive him as a particular friend of mine.”
“With all my heart – so you will engage, after this visit, to keep him down with your other particular friends at the Well – you know it is a bargain that you bring neither buck nor pointer into my parlour – the one worries my cat, and the other my temper.”
“You mistake me entirely, Clara – this is a very different visitor from any I have ever introduced to you – I expect to see him often here, and I hope you and he will be better friends than you think of. I have more reasons for wishing this, than I have now time to tell you.”
Clara remained silent for an instant, then looked at her brother with an anxious and scrutinizing glance, as if she wished to penetrate into his inmost purpose.
“If I thought,” – she said, after a minute's consideration, and with an altered and disturbed tone; “but no – I will not think that Heaven intends me such a blow – least of all, that it should come from your hands.” She walked hastily to the window, and threw it open – then shut it again, and returned to her seat, saying, with a constrained smile, “May Heaven forgive you, brother, but you frightened me heartily.”
“I did not mean to do so, Clara,” said Mowbray, who saw the necessity of soothing her; “I only alluded in joke to those chances that are never out of other girls' heads, though you never seem to calculate on them.”
“I wish you, my dear John,” said Clara, struggling to regain entire composure, “I wish you would profit by my example, and give up the science of chance also – it will not avail you.”
“How d'ye know that? – I'll show you the contrary, you silly wench,” answered Mowbray – “Here is a banker's bill, payable to your own order, for the cash you lent me, and something over – don't let old Mick have the fingering, but let Bindloose manage it for you – he is the honester man between two d – d knaves.”
“Will not you, brother, send it to the man Bindloose yourself?”
“No, – no,” replied Mowbray – “he might confuse it with some of my transactions, and so you forfeit your stake.”
“Well, I am glad you are able to pay me, for I want to buy Campbell's new work.”
“I wish you joy of your purchase – but don't scratch me for not caring about it – I know as little of books as you of the long odds. And come now, be serious, and tell me if you will be a good girl – lay aside your whims, and receive this English young nobleman like a lady as you are?”
“That were easy,” said Clara – “but – but – Pray, ask no more of me than just to see him. – Say to him at once, I am a poor creature in body, in mind, in spirits, in temper, in understanding – above all, say that I can receive him only once.”
“I shall say no such thing,” said Mowbray, bluntly; “it is good to be plain with you at once – I thought of putting off this discussion – but since it must come, the sooner it is over the better. – You are to understand, Clara Mowbray, that Lord Etherington has a particular view in this visit, and that his view has my full sanction and approbation.”
“I thought so,” said Clara, in the same altered tone of voice in which she had before spoken; “my mind foreboded this last of misfortunes! – But, Mowbray, you have no child before you – I neither will nor can see this nobleman.”
“How!” exclaimed Mowbray, fiercely; “do you dare return me so peremptory an answer? – Think better of it, for, if we differ, you will find you will have the worst of the game.”
“Rely upon it,” she continued, with more vehemence, “I will see him nor no man upon the footing you mention – my resolution is taken, and threats and entreaties will prove equally unavailing.”
“Upon my word, madam,” said Mowbray, “you have, for a modest and retired young lady, plucked up a goodly spirit of your own! – But you shall find mine equals it. If you do not agree to see my friend Lord Etherington, ay, and to receive him with the politeness due to the consideration I entertain for him, by Heaven! Clara, I will no longer regard you as my father's daughter. Think what you are giving up – the affection and protection of a brother – and for what? – merely for an idle point of etiquette. – You cannot, I suppose, even in the workings of your romantic brain, imagine that the days of Clarissa Harlowe and Harriet Byron are come back again, when women were married by main force? and it is monstrous vanity in you to suppose that Lord Etherington, since he has honoured you with any thoughts at all, will not be satisfied with a proper and civil refusal – You are no such prize, methinks, that the days of romance are to come back for you.”
“I care not what days they are,” said Clara – “I tell you I will not see Lord Etherington, or any one else, upon such preliminaries as you have stated – I cannot – I will not – and I ought not. – Had you meant me to receive him, which can be a matter of no consequence whatever, you should have left him on the footing of an ordinary visitor – as it is, I will not see him.”
“You shall see and hear him both,” said Mowbray; “you shall find me as obstinate as you are – as willing to forget I am a brother, as you to forget that you have one.”
“It is time, then,” replied Clara, “that this house, once our father's, should no longer hold us both. I can provide for myself, and may God bless you!”
“You take it coolly, madam,” said her brother, walking through the apartment with much anxiety both of look and gesture.
“I do,” she answered, “for it is what I have often foreseen – Yes, brother, I have often foreseen that you would make your sister the subject of your plots and schemes, so soon as other stakes failed you. That hour is come, and I am, as you see, prepared to meet it.”
“And where may you propose to retire to?” said Mowbray. “I think that I, your only relation and natural guardian, have a right to know that – my honour and that of my family is concerned.”