"Four, o'clock," cried the parson, looking at his watch; "half an hour
after dinner-time, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual,
because of the fine trout the squire sent us. Will you venture on what
our homely language calls 'pot-luck,' Doctor?"
Now Riccabocca was a professed philosopher, and valued himself on his
penetration into the motives of human conduct. And when the parson thus
invited him to pot-luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for
Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled "her
little tempers." And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge "little
tempers" in the presence of a third person not of the family, so Dr.
Riccabocca instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the
pot and the luck! Nevertheless--as he was fond of trout, and a much more
good-natured man than he ought to have been according to his principles--
he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his
spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the parson.
Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human
motives.
The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and
entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sat on watch
for their master, sprang towards him, barking; and the sound drew the
notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash
window which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I know that, in thy
secret heart, thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred
arcana of the domestic hearth betrayed by the author; thou art saying to
thyself, "A pretty way to conciliate 'little tempers' indeed, to add to
the offence of spoiling the fish the crime of bringing an unexpected
friend to eat it. Pot-luck, quotha, when the pot 's boiled over this
half hour!"
But, to thy utter shame and confusion, O reader! learn that both the
author and Parson Dale knew very well what they were about.
Dr. Riccabocca was the special favourite of Mrs. Dale, and the only
person in the whole county who never put her out, by dropping in. In
fact, strange though it may seem at first glance, Dr. Riccabocca had that
mysterious something about him, which we of his own sex can so little
comprehend, but which always propitiates the other. He owed this, in
part, to his own profound but hypocritical policy; for he looked upon
woman as the natural enemy to man, against whom it was necessary to be
always on the guard; whom it was prudent to disarm by every species of
fawning servility and abject complaisance. He owed it also, in part, to
the compassionate and heavenly nature of the angels whom his thoughts
thus villanously traduced--for women like one whom they can pity without
despising; and there was something in Signor Riccabocca's poverty, in his
loneliness, in his exile, whether voluntary or compelled, that excited
pity; while, despite his threadbare coat, the red umbrella, and the wild
hair, he had, especially when addressing ladies, that air of gentleman
and cavalier, which is or was more innate in an educated Italian, of
whatever rank, than perhaps in the highest aristocracy of any other
country in Europe. For, though I grant that nothing is more exquisite
than the politeness of your French marquis of the old regime, nothing
more frankly gracious than the cordial address of a high-bred English
gentleman, nothing more kindly prepossessing than the genial good-nature
of some patriarchal German, who will condescend to forget his sixteen
quarterings in the pleasure of doing you a favour,--yet these specimens
of the suavity of their several nations are rare; whereas blandness and
polish are common attributes with your Italian. They seem to have been
immemorially handed down to him, from ancestors emulating the urbanity of
Caesar, and refined by the grace of Horace.
"Dr. Riccabocca consents to dine with us," cried the parson, hastily.
"If Madame permit?" said the Italian, bowing over the hand extended to
him, which, however, he forbore to take, seeing it was already full of
the watch.
"I am only sorry that the trout must be quite spoiled," began Mrs. Dale,
plaintively.
"It is not the trout one thinks of when one dines with Mrs. Dale," said
the infamous dissimulator.
"But I see James coming to say that dinner is ready," observed the
parson.
"He said that three-quarters of an hour ago, Charles dear," retorted Mrs.
Dale, taking the arm of Dr. Riccabocca.