"Four o'clock," cried the Parson, looking at his watch; "half-an-hour
after dinnertime, 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 in "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 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 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 Signer 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 any other
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 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 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
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 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.
* * * * *