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.
* * * * *
"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.
* * * * *
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:--
* * * * *
"MY DEAR MARTHA,--It is not in my nature to play a double part. I freely
confess, my dear Martha, in reply to your lecture on a certain subject,
that Mr Mowbray is not indifferent to me. I have long, I avow it, admired
the many good qualities which we have all acknowledged him to possess--his
gentlemanly bearing; his accomplishments; the elegance of his manners, and
the noble generosity of his nature. These I have indeed, Martha, long
admired. But what reason have you for supposing that your sister, with
nothing to recommend her but some very homely advantage of person, can have
made any impression on the heart of such a man as Mr Mowbray? Here, Martha,
you are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have
rather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter."--And here
the fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference
to our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in
the oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters'
correspondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative
into its more direct and legitimate channel.
By the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part
of the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid
progress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace
of mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the
other, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been
generated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray
had not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any
symptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and
shrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this
secret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards
Rosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to
attribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his
intercourse with Rosy Adair--to the slight confusion that appeared in his
countenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one
besides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society--to the
circumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without
making it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr
Mowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to
indicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole
constitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his
new-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted
up with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which
he had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray
was now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no
longer the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more
suitable to his natural temper and dispositions--a gay and cheerful man of
the world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was.
This, however--referring to the attachment which had thus grown up between
Rosy Adair and Mr Mowbray--was a state of matters which could not long
remain in the position in which we have represented them; some result or
conclusion was inevitable--and it arrived. Mr Mowbray gradually became more
and more open in his communications with Miss Adair; gradually disclosed
the state of his feelings with regard to her, and finally avowed his love.
Miss Adair heard the delightful confession with an emotion she could not
conceal; and, ingenuous in everything, in all she said and did, avowed that
she loved in return.
"Then, my Rosina, my beloved Rosina," exclaimed Mr Mowbray, in a wild
transport of joy--and throwing himself, in the excitation of the moment, at
the feet of her whom he addressed--"allow me to mention this matter to your
father, and to seek his consent to your making me the happiest of living
men."
The liberty he thus sought with such grace and earnestness, was blushingly
granted; not indeed, in express words, but with a silence equally
intelligible and more eloquent than words.
In five minutes after, Mr Mowbray was closeted, and in earnest conversation
with Mr Adair. He had already announced his attachment to his daughter, and
had sought his consent to their union. Mr Adair had yet made no reply. The
request was one of too serious a nature to be hastily or unreflectingly
acquiesced in. At length--
"Weel, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, "I'll tell ye what it is: although I
certainly haena a' the knowledge o' ye--that is, regarding yoursel and your
affairs--that I maybe hae a richt to insist on haein before giein ye the
haun o' my dochter--and this for a' the time that ye hae been under my
roof--yet, as in that time--noo, I think, something owre twa year gane
by--yer conduct has aye been that o' a gentleman, in a' respects--sober,
discreet, and reglar; most exemplary, I maun say;--and, as I am satisfied
that ye hae the means o' supportin a wife, in a decent way, no to say that
there may be muckle owre either, I really think I can hae nae reasonable
objections to gie ye Rosy after a'."
During this speech of the worthy yeoman's, there was on Mr Mowbray's
countenance a smile of peculiar meaning; evidently one under which lay
something amusing, mingled with the expression of satisfaction which Mr
Adair's sanction to his marriage with Rosina had elicited.
Delighted with the success of his mission, Mr Mowbray now flew to the
apartment in which he had left Miss Adair, and, enfolding her in his arms,
in a transport of joy, informed her that he had obtained her father's
consent to their union, and concluded by asking her to name the day which
should make her his for ever. This, however, being rather too summary a
proceeding, Rosina declined; and Mr Mowbray was obliged to be content with
a promise of the matter being taken into consideration on an early day.
Leaving the lovers in discussion on these very agreeable points, and others
connected therewith, we will follow Mr Adair on the errand on which he
went, after Mr Mowbray had left him. This was to communicate to his wife
the unexpected and important proposal which had just been made to him, and
to which he had just acceded.
"Weel, guidwife, here's a queer business," said Mr Adair, on joining his
thrifty helpmate, who was busy at the moment in scouring a set of milk
dishes. "What do ye think? Mr Mowbray has just noo asked my consent to his
marrying Rosy. Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae
managed matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could
see the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them."
"You see onything o' that kind!" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of
the greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in _affaires de
coeur_. "You see't, Robin! No--I dare say no. Although they were sitting
under your very nose, wi' their arms aboot ithers' necks, I dinna believe
ye wad see that there was onything in't. But, though ye didna see't, Robin,
I saw't--and plainly enough, too--although I said naething about it. I saw,
mony a day sin', that Mr Mowbray had a notion o' Rosy; and, if truth be
tell't, I saw as weel that she had a notion o' him, and hae lang expected
that it wad come to this."
"Weel, weel, guidwife, ye hae a glegger ee for thae things than I hae,"
replied Mr Adair. "But here's the end o' the matter noo."
"And hae ye gien your consent, Robin?"
"'Deed hae I; for I think he's an honest, decent lad; and, no to say he's
rich maybe, fair aneuch aff, I think, as to worldly matters."
"As to that, I daresay, there's naething far amiss," replied Mrs Adair,
"nor as regards his character either, maybe; but I'm no sure. I dinna ken,
Robert, considerin a' things, if ye haena been a wee owre rash in giein
your consent to this business. It's a serious affair. And, after a', we ken
but little about the lad; although, I canna but say he seems to be a
decent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy." Here the good
woman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a
second or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well
calculated to excite.
"Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?" said Mr Adair, with a sort of
good-natured impatience. "The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen
in the end, nae doot."
"God grant it!" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the
conversation dropped for the time.
We now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of
his life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the
day on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy
Adair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was
a letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:--
* * * * *
"DEAR NARESBY,--The appearance of this well-known hand--well known to you,
my friend--will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem
to you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long
years since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much
to say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you at Wansted--a pleasure which I hope to have in
about three weeks hence--when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap,
some new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea
had ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the
valleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that
the sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run?
Would you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to
be true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay,
as that I am to be--how can I come out with the word!--to be--to be
married, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married--I repeat it
slowly and solemnly--and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that
ever the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true,
Naresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess
it; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your
own eyes.
"So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I
thought--nay, I swore, Naresby, as you know--that I would, that I could
never love again. I thought that the treachery, the heartlessness of one,
one smiling deceiver, had seared my heart, and rendered it callous to all
the charms and blandishments of her sex. But I have been again deceived.
"I have not, however, this time, chosen the object of my affections from
the class to which--I cannot pronounce her name--that fatal name--belonged;
but from one which, however inferior in point of adventitious acquirement,
far surpasses it--of this experience has convinced me--in all the better
qualities of the heart.