St. Ronan's Well

“There was something in it after all,” he said, “that he could not perfectly understand. Etherington, an used hand – d – d sharp – up to every thing, and yet he lost his money like a baby.”

“And what the matter how he loses it, so you win it like a man?” said his legal friend and adviser.

“Why, hang it, I cannot tell,” replied Mowbray – “were it not that I think he has scarce the impudence to propose such a thing to succeed, curse me but I should think he was coming the old soldier over me, and keeping up his game. – But no – he can scarce have the impudence to think of that. – I find, however, that he has done Wolverine – cleaned out poor Tom – though Tom wrote to me the precise contrary, yet the truth has since come out – Well, I shall avenge him, for I see his lordship is to be had as well as other folk.”

“Weel, Mr. Mowbray,” said the lawyer, in a tone of affected sympathy, “ye ken your own ways best – but the heavens will bless a moderate mind. I would not like to see you ruin this poor lad, funditus, that is to say, out and out. To lose some of the ready will do him no great harm, and maybe give him a lesson he may be the better of as long as he lives – but I wad not, as an honest man, wish you to go deeper – you should spare the lad, Mr. Mowbray.”

“Who spared me, Meiklewham?” said Mowbray, with a look and tone of deep emphasis – “No, no – he must go through the mill – money and money's worth. – His seat is called Oakendale – think of that, Mick – Oakendale! Oh, name of thrice happy augury! – Speak not of mercy, Mick – the squirrels of Oakendale must be dismounted, and learn to go a-foot. – What mercy can the wandering lord of Troy expect among the Greeks? – The Greeks! – I am a very Suliote – the bravest of Greeks.

‘I think not of pity, I think not of fear,

He neither must know who would serve the Vizier.’

And necessity, Mick,” he concluded, with a tone something altered, “necessity is as unrelenting a leader as any Vizier or Pacha, whom Scanderbeg ever fought with, or Byron has sung.”

Meiklewham echoed his patron's ejaculation with a sound betwixt a whine, a chuckle, and a groan; the first being designed to express his pretended pity for the destined victim; the second his sympathy with his patron's prospects of success; and the third being a whistle admonitory of the dangerous courses through which his object was to be pursued.

Suliote as he boasted himself, Mowbray had, soon after this conversation, some reason to admit that,

“When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.”

The light skirmishing betwixt the parties was ended, and the serious battle commenced with some caution on either side; each perhaps, desirous of being master of his opponent's system of tactics, before exposing his own. Piquet, the most beautiful game at which a man can make sacrifice of his fortune, was one with which Mowbray had, for his misfortune perhaps, been accounted, from an early age, a great proficient, and in which the Earl of Etherington, with less experience, proved no novice. They now played for such stakes as Mowbray's state of fortune rendered considerable to him, though his antagonist appeared not to regard the amount. And they played with various success; for, though Mowbray at times returned with a smile of confidence the enquiring looks of his friend Meiklewham, there were other occasions on which he seemed to evade them, as if his own had a sad confession to make in reply.

These alternations, though frequent, did not occupy, after all, many days; for Mowbray, a friend of all hours, spent much of his time in Lord Etherington's apartment, and these few days were days of battle. In the meantime, as his lordship was now sufficiently recovered to join the Party at Shaws-Castle, and Miss Mowbray's health being announced as restored, that proposal was renewed, with the addition of a dramatic entertainment, the nature of which we shall afterwards have occasion to explain. Cards were anew issued to all those who had been formerly included in the invitation, and of course to Mr. Touchwood, as formerly a resident at the Well, and now in the neighbourhood; it being previously agreed among the ladies, that a Nabob, though sometimes a dingy or damaged commodity, was not to be rashly or unnecessarily neglected. As to the parson, he had been asked, of course, as an old acquaintance of the Mowbray house, not to be left out when the friends of the family were invited on a great scale; but his habits were well known, and it was no more expected that he would leave his manse on such an occasion, than that the kirk should loosen itself from its foundations.

It was after these arrangements had been made, that the Laird of St. Ronan's suddenly entered Meiklewham's private apartment with looks of exultation. The worthy scribe turned his spectacled nose towards his patron, and holding in one hand the bunch of papers which he had been just perusing, and in the other the tape with which he was about to tie them up again, suspended that operation to await with open eyes and ears the communication of Mowbray.

“I have done him!” he said, exultingly, yet in a tone of voice lowered almost to a whisper; “capotted his lordship for this bout – doubled my capital, Mick, and something more. – Hush, don't interrupt me – we must think of Clara now – she must share the sunshine, should it prove but a blink before a storm. – You know, Mick, these two d – d women, Lady Penelope and the Binks, have settled that they will have something like a bal paré on this occasion, a sort of theatrical exhibition, and that those who like it shall be dressed in character. – I know their meaning – they think Clara has no dress fit for such foolery, and so they hope to eclipse her; Lady Pen, with her old-fashioned, ill-set diamonds, and my Lady Binks, with the new-fashioned finery which she swopt her character for. But Clara shan't borne down so, by – ! I got that affected slut, Lady Binks's maid, to tell me what her mistress had set her mind on, and she is to wear a Grecian habit, forsooth, like one of Will Allan's Eastern subjects. – But here's the rub – there is only one shawl for sale in Edinburgh that is worth showing off in, and that is at the Gallery of Fashion. – Now, Mick, my friend, that shawl must be had for Clara, with the other trankums of muslin and lace, and so forth, which you will find marked in the paper there. – Send instantly and secure it, for, as Lady Binks writes by to-morrow's post, your order can go by to-night's mail – There is a note for L.100.”

From a mechanical habit of never refusing any thing, Meiklewham readily took the note, but having looked at it through his spectacles, he continued to hold it in his hand as he remonstrated with his patron. – “This is a' very kindly meant, St. Ronan's – very kindly meant; and I wad be the last to say that Miss Clara does not merit respect and kindness at your hand; but I doubt mickle if she wad care a bodle for thae braw things. Ye ken yoursell, she seldom alters her fashions. Od, she thinks her riding-habit dress eneugh for ony company; and if you were ganging by good looks, so it is – if she had a thought mair colour, poor dear.”

“Well, well,” said Mowbray, impatiently, “let me alone to reconcile a woman and a fine dress.”

“To be sure, ye ken best,” said the writer; “but, after a', now, wad it no be better to lay by this hundred pound in Tam Turnpenny's, in case the young lady should want it afterhend, just for a sair foot?”

“You are a fool, Mick; what signifies healing a sore foot, when there will be a broken heart in the case? – No, no – get the things as I desire you – we will blaze them down for one day at least; perhaps it will be the beginning of a proper dash.”

“Weel, weel, I wish it may be so,” answered Meiklewham; “but this young Earl – hae ye found the weak point? – Can ye get a decerniture against him, with expenses? – that is the question.”

“I wish I could answer it,” said Mowbray, thoughtfully. – “Confound the fellow – he is a cut above me in rank and in society too – belongs to the great clubs, and is in with the Superlatives and Inaccessibles, and all that sort of folk. – My training has been a peg lower – but, hang it, there are better dogs bred in the kennel than in the parlour. I am up to him, I think – at least I will soon know, Mick, whether I am or no, and that is always one comfort. Never mind – do you execute my commission, and take care you name no names – I must save my little Abigail's reputation.”

They parted, Meiklewham to execute his patron's commission – his patron to bring to the test those hopes, the uncertainty of which he could not disguise from his own sagacity.

Trusting to the continuance of his run of luck, Mowbray resolved to bring affairs to a crisis that same evening. Every thing seemed in the outset to favour his purpose. They had dined together in Lord Etherington's apartments – his state of health interfered with the circulation of the bottle, and a drizzly autumnal evening rendered walking disagreeable, even had they gone no farther than the private stable where Lord Etherington's horses were kept, under the care of a groom of superior skill. Cards were naturally, almost necessarily, resorted to, as the only alternative for helping away the evening, and piquet was, as formerly, chosen for the game.

Lord Etherington seemed at first indolently careless and indifferent about his play, suffering advantages to escape him, of which, in a more attentive state of mind, he could not have failed to avail himself. Mowbray upbraided him with his inattention, and proposed a deeper stake, in order to interest him in the game. The young nobleman complied; and in the course of a few hands, the gamesters became both deeply engaged in watching and profiting by the changes of fortune. These were so many, so varied, and so unexpected, that the very souls of the players seemed at length centred in the event of the struggle; and, by dint of doubling stakes, the accumulated sum of a thousand pounds and upwards, upon each side, came to be staked in the issue of the game. – So large a risk included all those funds which Mowbray commanded by his sister's kindness, and nearly all his previous winnings, so to him the alternative was victory or ruin. He could not hide his agitation, however desirous to do so. He drank wine to supply himself with courage – he drank water to cool his agitation; and at length bent himself to play with as much care and attention as he felt himself enabled to command.

In the first part of the game their luck appeared tolerably equal, and the play of both befitting gamesters who had dared to place such a sum on the cast. But, as it drew towards a conclusion, fortune altogether deserted him who stood most in need of her favour, and Mowbray, with silent despair, saw his fate depend on a single trick, and that with every odds against him, for Lord Etherington was elder hand. But how can fortune's favour secure any one who is not true to himself? – By an infraction of the laws of the game, which could only have been expected from the veriest bungler that ever touched a card, Lord Etherington called a point without showing it, and, by the ordinary rule, Mowbray was entitled to count his own – and in the course of that and the next hand, gained the game and swept the stakes. Lord Etherington showed chagrin and displeasure, and seemed to think that the rigour of the game had been more insisted upon than in courtesy it ought to have been, when men were playing for so small a stake. Mowbray did not understand this logic. A thousand pounds, he said, were in his eyes no nutshells; the rules of piquet were insisted on by all but boys and women; and for his part, he had rather not play at all than not play the game.

“So it would seem, my dear Mowbray,” said the Earl; “for on my soul, I never saw so disconsolate a visage as thine during that unlucky game – it withdrew all my attention from my hand; and I may safely say, your rueful countenance has stood me in a thousand pounds. If I could transfer thy long visage to canvass, I should have both my revenge and my money; for a correct resemblance would be worth not a penny less than the original has cost me.”

“You are welcome to your jest, my lord,” said Mowbray, “it has been well paid for; and I will serve you in ten thousand at the same rate. What say you?” he proceeded, taking up and shuffling the cards, “will you do yourself more justice in another game? – Revenge, they say, is sweet.”

“I have no appetite for it this evening,” said the Earl, gravely; “if I had, Mowbray, you might come by the worse. I do not always call a point without showing it.”

“Your lordship is out of humour with yourself for a blunder that might happen to any man – it was as much my good luck as a good hand would have been, and so fortune be praised.”

“But what if with this Fortune had nought to do?” replied Lord Etherington. – “What if, sitting down with an honest fellow and a friend like yourself, Mowbray, a man should rather choose to lose his own money, which he could afford, than to win what it might distress his friend to part with?”

“Supposing a case so far out of supposition, my lord,” answered Mowbray, who felt the question ticklish – “for, with submission, the allegation is easily made, and is totally incapable of proof – I should say, no one had a right to think for me in such a particular, or to suppose that I played for a higher stake than was convenient.”

“And thus your friend, poor devil,” replied Lord Etherington, “would lose his money, and run the risk of a quarrel into the boot! – We will try it another way – Suppose this good-humoured and simple-minded gamester had a favour of the deepest import to ask of his friend, and judged it better to prefer his request to a winner than to a loser?”

“If this applies to me, my lord,” replied Mowbray, “it is necessary I should learn how I can oblige your lordship.”

“That is a word soon spoken, but so difficult to be recalled, that I am almost tempted to pause – but yet it must be said. – Mowbray, you have a sister.”

Mowbray started. – “I have indeed a sister, my lord; but I can conceive no case in which her name can enter with propriety into our present discussion.”

“Again in the menacing mood!” said Lord Etherington, in his former tone; “now, here is a pretty fellow – he would first cut my throat for having won a thousand pounds from me, and then for offering to make his sister a countess!”

“A countess, my lord?” said Mowbray; “you are but jesting – you have never even seen Clara Mowbray.”

“Perhaps not – but what then? – I may have seen her picture, as Puff says in the Critic, or fallen in love with her from rumour – or, to save farther suppositions, as I see they render you impatient, I may be satisfied with knowing that she is a beautiful and accomplished young lady, with a large fortune.”

“What fortune do you mean, my lord?” said Mowbray, recollecting with alarm some claims, which, according to Meiklewham's view of the subject, his sister might form upon his property. – “What estate? – there is nothing belongs to our family, save these lands of St. Ronan's, or what is left of them; and of these I am, my lord, an undoubted heir of entail in possession.”

“Be it so,” said the Earl, “for I have no claim on your mountain realms here, which are, doubtless, my views respect a much richer, though less romantic domain – a large manor, hight Nettlewood. House old, but standing in the midst of such glorious oaks – three thousand acres of land, arable, pasture, and woodland, exclusive of the two closes, occupied by Widow Hodge and Goodman Trampclod – manorial rights – mines and minerals – and the devil knows how many good things besides, all lying in the vale of Bever.”

– ‘renown'd of old
For knights, and squires, and barons bold;’

“And what has my sister to do with all this?” asked Mowbray, in great surprise.

“Nothing; but that it belongs to her when she becomes Countess of Etherington.”

“It is, then, your lordship's property already?”

“No, by Jove! nor can it, unless your sister honours me with her approbation of my suit,” replied the Earl.

“This is a sorer puzzle than one of Lady Penelope's charades, my lord,” said Mr. Mowbray; “I must call in the assistance of the Reverend Mr. Chatterly.”

“You shall not need,” said Lord Etherington; “I will give you the key, but listen to me with patience. – You know that we nobles of England, less jealous of our sixteen quarters than those on the continent, do not take scorn to line our decayed ermines with the little cloth of gold from the city; and my grandfather was lucky enough to get a wealthy wife, with a halting pedigree, – rather a singular circumstance, considering that her father was a countryman of yours. She had a brother, however, still more wealthy than herself, and who increased his fortune by continuing to carry on the trade which had first enriched his family. At length he summed up his books, washed his hands of commerce, and retired to Nettlewood, to become a gentleman; and here my much respected grand-uncle was seized with the rage of making himself a man of consequence. He tried what marrying a woman of family would do; but he soon found that whatever advantage his family might derive from his doing so, his own condition was but little illustrated. He next resolved to become a man of family himself. His father had left Scotland when very young, and bore, I blush to say, the vulgar name of Scrogie. This hapless dissyllable my uncle carried in person to the herald office in Scotland; but neither Lyon, nor Marchmont, nor Islay, nor Snadoun, neither herald nor pursuivant, would patronise Scrogie. – Scrogie! – there could nothing be made out of it – so that my worthy relative had recourse to the surer side of the house, and began to found his dignity on his mother's name of Mowbray. In this he was much more successful, and I believe some sly fellow stole for him a slip from your own family tree, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's, which, I daresay, you have never missed. At any rate, for his argent and or, he got a handsome piece of parchment, blazoned with a white lion for Mowbray, to be borne quarterly, with three stunted or scrog-bushes for Scrogie, and became thenceforth Mr. Scrogie Mowbray, or rather, as he subscribed himself, Reginald (his former Christian name was Ronald) S. Mowbray. He had a son who most undutifully laughed at all this, refused the honours of the high name of Mowbray, and insisted on retaining his father's original appellative of Scrogie, to the great annoyance of his said father's ears, and damage of his temper.”

“Why, faith, betwixt the two,” said Mowbray, “I own I should have preferred my own name, and I think the old gentleman's taste rather better than the young one's.”

“True; but both were wilful, absurd originals, with a happy obstinacy of temper, whether derived from Mowbray or Scrogie I know not, but which led them so often into opposition, that the offended father, Reginald S. Mowbray, turned his recusant son Scrogie fairly out of doors; and the fellow would have paid for his plebeian spirit with a vengeance, had he not found refuge with a surviving partner of the original Scrogie of all, who still carried on the lucrative branch of traffic by which the family had been first enriched. I mention these particulars to account, in so far as I can, for the singular predicament in which I now find myself placed.”