THE RECLUSE.

The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland, are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice positions—surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature. One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle, isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by its singular beauty.

About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year, the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter, with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit; nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord.

Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land, and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily pay. But this was all; there was no surplus—nothing to spare; and the less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more elegant accomplishments in female education.

In character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt, plain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He was, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of education, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at any rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind.

Such, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period to which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788.

It was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September of that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a young man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably dressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his arm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for admittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the person whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet. It was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He was thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet, the night was intensely cold.

"Can you, my good friend," said the stranger, in a tone and manner that bespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call him a gentleman—"Can you give me quarters for a night?" he said, on being confronted by Mr Adair. "I am an entire stranger in this part of the country, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have troubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation."

"A nicht's quarters, frien," replied Adair. "Oh, surely, ye'll get that, an' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like a half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the kitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't."

In a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring fire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he insisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so, brought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat, trousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet terminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an invitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a small table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had at hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy hastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the table covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a jolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the stranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the great disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly.

"Dear help me, man!—eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord, man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye may say ye hae made a bit supper o't."

Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be expressed.

Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's invitations to him to do so.

After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided movement—

"My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma' matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle."

Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant returned with the desiderated commodity—a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of about a gallon contents—which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll no ken what to think o' ye at a'."

The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table.

"Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor wyn—neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again. Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't."

The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his entertainer.

During all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single thing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he was—where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief expressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now, under more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first presented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited a handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and intelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled melancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering severely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the symptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the profound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it partook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful than otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these qualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable. Altogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly did it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he could possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired to bed, which he did—pleading fatigue as an excuse—at an early hour. The first ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night, which the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into consideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character and calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His habiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither good, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called respectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either a peer of the realm or an English bagman.

Finding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council next proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard to these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this conclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who, let us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several stolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the kitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more approved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark expressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and open forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have been told.

So far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding their guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such an out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor fishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was odd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to? These were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they put, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in hand himself on the subject.

"I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he seems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him a'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A', however, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's under our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll gie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't. It's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him." Having said this, Robert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his family knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment, Adair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his small clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same operation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried beneath the blankets; his "honest, sonsy, bawsint face," and red Kilmarnock night-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes more, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that worthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all earthly concerns.

On the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when that liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the preceding night—although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it arose—gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased with the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was equally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of his entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be but of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all probability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it was by no means the one that followed—an odd incident at once threw out all such calculation.

When breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the table—Adair, his family, and the stranger—had risen to their feet, the latter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be so good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair, although not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way into a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had breakfasted.

"Mr Adair," said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having previously secured the door, "I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness and hospitality you have shewn me."

"No the least, sir—no the least," replied the farmer, with a decree of 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 cœur. "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.

"The woman to whom I am to be married—my Rosina Adair!—is the daughter of a humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But what in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when their place is supplied—as in the case of my betrothed—by a heart that knows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms that would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and fortune I do not want.

"Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I return again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any had, I would have told them they spoke untruly—that I had abjured the world, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray would not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others to account for and moralize on it."

Such, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby, during the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he also wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these, and to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain.

Having no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the intervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related and the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry forward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event. On that day—

"Rosy, my love," said Mr Mowbray, smiling, "I have a proposal to make to you."

"Indeed!—what is it, William?"

"Why, I'll tell you what it is," said the latter; "I wish to go on a visit to a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me."

"Oh, surely," replied Mrs Mowbray. "Is it far?"

"Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on it?"

"Surely—surely, William. Anywhere with you!"

"Thank you, my love," said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife.

"Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy," continued the former; "I wish your father and mother to accompany us."

"What! my father and mother too!" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise. "Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such a cavalcade of visiters?"

"Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express wish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded me."

"Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you thought of the expense? That will be rather serious."

"Oh, not in the least, my love," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "Not in the least serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter."

"Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To get him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely prevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily believe, although it were to make a lord of him."

"I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute," said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of the apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found.

"Leave hame for a week!" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known to him his wishes on this subject. "Impossible! my dear sir; impossible! Wholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a fauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek; the lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to bing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre. Impossible, my dear sir—impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye may get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, laughing jocosely; "and may keep her too, if ye like."

"Yes—yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of the manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason for pressing this point, and really will not be denied."

For a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray and his father-in-law; both being resolute—the one to carry his point, the other to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former finally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was ultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to promise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this promise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following day as that on which they should set out.

On the following day, accordingly—Mrs Adair's consent having, in the meantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her husband's—two chaises—unwonted sight—appeared at the door of West Mains House; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country town; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be occupied.

"I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae things," said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises that stood at the door. "I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life. Nasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist as in ane o' them."

Having expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr Adair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of Mr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed himself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were shut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the vehicles were in rapid motion.

On the forenoon of the second day after their departure—nothing, in the interval, having occurred worth relating—the party arrived at a certain noble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having drawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants in rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the doors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very marked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly in the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of very puzzling meaning.

On the party having got out of their chaises—"Is this your freen's house, Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him.

"It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray.

"My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then—that's clear. He has a rare sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord."

"The house is very respectable, certainly," said Mr Mowbray; "and, I think, you'll find the inside every way worthy of the out."

"I dinna doot it—I dinna doot it," replied Mr Adair. "But whar's your freen, himsel?"

"Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in." And, taking his wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted by the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no less overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was surrounded.

Having entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase, and ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All but Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken with the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this feeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father and mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued gazing around them in silent amazement and admiration.

When the party had seated themselves—"Shall I serve up some refreshment, sir?" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but with that perplexing smile on his face.

"Yes, John, do," said Mr Mowbray; "and as quick's you like; for we are all, I fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us—I speak for myself at any rate—not a little thirsty."

The servant bowed and retired. When he had done so—"'Od, sir, ye seem to be greatly at your ease here," said Mr Adair, who was not a little surprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner of his son-in-law in his friend's house, "You and your freen maun surely be unco intimate."

"Oh! we certainly are so," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "I can use any freedom here—the same as if I were in my own house."

"Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like," said Mr Adair. "But isna your freen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?"

"Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay—something of a particular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime, we'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so." And Mr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently.

A servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from Mr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation.

Mr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very unceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he thought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life; but he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this feeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same extent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene, was that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which his proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do everything he could think of to increase them.

By and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome one it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet appeared—Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself taking the foot—and proceeded to do justice to the good things before them. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray—who, to the now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and Mrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he had been in a common inn—desired all the attendants to retire. When they had done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet and, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife, bade her welcome to her own house!

"What!" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair.

"Eh!" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers.

"William," said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and endeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged again to sink.

"True, my friends," said Mr Mowbray; "all true. This, Mr Adair, is your daughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my love, to your own fireside!" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, "and long may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton House, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!"

Here, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would choose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of explanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief.

Mr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in love, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all its joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy scenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he kept to this resolution our story tells.