Eustace arrived first, in high spirits, but with his cloaths torn, and his face bloody. Isabel was alarmed. "Nothing but a few scratches," answered he, "which I can cure with vinegar while you mend my coat. I will tell you how I got them presently; but do you unpack the books, while I take care of the poney. Stop a moment; there is something in the cart you must not meddle with." Isabel inquired what it was. "Women are so inquisitive," continued Eustace. "Well then, it is a lute; Constance's own lute, which she lost the night of the fire." Isabel inquired how he recovered it. "Fought for it," answered he; "I see you will not be easy, so I must tell you all about it."
"The people of Fourness were very glad to see me, calling me Mr. Random, and a great many more kind names; so we packed up the books, and they sent some cheese for my uncle, and apples for Constance." "And nothing for me?" said Isabel. "Pshaw," returned Eustace, "how you interrupt me; I believe the apples are for you. So I came driving back very merrily, and within a few miles of this village, I met a fellow carrying a box, which I could perceive held a lute. I had plenty of money, for the mountaineers would not let me spend it; so I thought if I can get this lute, Constance will like the new library as well as she did the old one, and I very civilly told the man I would buy it, and give him all he asked for it.—But in your life you never saw such a sharp bad visage as the fellow's, and he put himself into the most ridiculous posture, rolling his goggle eyes, and smiting his breast, and at last roared out, 'O vain youth, covet not musical devices, but tune thy heart to praise, and thy lips to spiritual songs.'—'Tune thy own lips to civility,' said I; 'and you shall too before you pass.' 'I can use the arm of flesh as well as the sword of the spirit,' said he; so to it we fell, and he scratched and pulled my hair, and tore my coat, just as you girls do, but I gave him enough to teach him good manners, and at last made him own he took the lute from my uncle's, the night of the fire, and that Squire Morgan was to have it. So I threw him a shilling just to mend his broken head, and have brought the lute to its own home again."
Isabel could not but rejoice that the affray ended in a victory, but expressed her fears that he might be accused of taking the spoil by violence. "Who stole it first?" said Eustace; "we may take our own wherever we find it. And to own the truth of my heart, I am glad of this opportunity of mortifying Squire Morgan, for if there is a person I hate in the world, it is he."
"There," said Isabel, "you are both indiscreet and ungrateful, for you know he and Sir William Waverly have promised to assist my uncle in his cause."
"I would not give a rush for the friendship of either," returned Eustace. "A good victory on the King's side is the only way of fixing Sir William, and as to Morgan, I know it is not love for my uncle brings him to the rectory. I see that fellow's heart; and I could scarce keep myself from pushing him out of the room, when he kissed Constance the other day, and called her his little wife; but she looked so distressed at the instant, that I thought I had better not seem to observe it."
"I have heard you call her little wife a hundred times," said Isabel, "and it never seems to affront her."
"One may take liberties with one's relations," replied Eustace, "but I tell you, young girls should never let men call them wife, especially such an old, ugly, foolish, fat, vulgar, round-head, as Morgan; and I had rather my uncle had no restitution, than owe any favour to him."
Anxious to draw her brother from a topic, on which he always was ungovernable, Isabel begged him to describe the present state of their mountain-residence. "Is our garden quite destroyed?" said she, "Are the primroses I planted on the south bank in blow?"—"I observed something more interesting," answered, he; "my mother's grave is kept quite neat by the villagers, and the roses we set there are twined all over it. Nay, Isabel, if you weep so, I cannot repeat to you the verses I made yesterday, just as I caught sight of our old cottage." Isabel promised to be composed, and Eustace proceeded—
The sun has roll'd round Skiddaw's breast
Of floating clouds a golden veil,