“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, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no
means inclined to the credulous view of human nature. Indeed, he was in
the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of his
fellow-creatures. 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 sate on watch
for their master, sprung toward 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 offense 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 favorite of Mrs. Dale, and the only person
in the whole country 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 villainously
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 the 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 another country in Europe. For,
though I grant that nothing is more exquisite than the politeness of your
French marquis of the old _régime_—nothing more frankly gracious than the
cordial address of a highbred 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 favor—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 Cæsar, 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 forebore 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.