[CHAPTER VII.]
Unus, et alter, sed idem.
Gentle Reader, hitherto thou hast been addressed by us in the plural number, now, for the first and last time, thou wilt not surely grudge that the author should for once in propria persona address thee.
I confess that I am in the habit of looking upon the division of a story into chapters, as similar to the subdivision of a journey into miles: by the aggregate of the one the length of the story is ascertained, by the aggregate of the other the distance of the journey is distinctly known. Nor does the similarity terminate here; the heading or motto of each chapter points out to the reader what kind of "entertainment" he may expect, just as a sign hung out at the door of an inn indicates; and in the same way too the milestone points out to the wearied traveller the proximities to his inn, as the "carte du jour" apprises him of the dinner with which he may be regaled. The heading of the chapter also tells whether it is by land or by sea the reader is to travel; the heading of a milestone whether by mountain, moor, morass, valley, town, or city, the traveller has to steer. These said chapters were, no doubt, a truly commendable invention, which give a kind of carte du pays, as they show and point out to the reader how the land lies, in the same manner that those communicative milestones and signposts point out to the traveller the distance of town from town. Both in their way are extremely useful indeed, combining the utile with the dulci. But it is imagined that both reader and traveller little take into account that it was not without some toil and labour these respective accommodations were completed for their use and convenience. After this sage remark, be it known, gentle reader, that this story now rapidly draws to a close, and that the next mile (to carry on the simile) thy journey will end. The best indeed that the case would admit of has been done for thy "entertainment," and it is hoped that, thy journey concluded, thou shalt have found the roads to have been not wholly intolerable, the fare not indifferent, and the journey not wholly unprofitable!
Now, resuming the plural, we will venture to say, that "if it be true that good wine needs no bush, it is true that a good play needs no epilogue." However, whether, and in what degree, this may be applicable to us, oh, courteous reader, is not for us, but for thee, to determine and adjudge in the chapter which succeeds.
From this long digression it is time to resume our eventful story. The consternation occasioned by the sudden and unaccountable departure of Sir David Bruce from Tyrconnel Castle, can better be imagined than told.
The duke arose at an early hour, as he was wont, and took his constitutional walk before breakfast. Upon his return it was with no small astonishment he heard that Sir David Bruce had departed at deep midnight, and on horseback, not having taken with him a travelling carriage, nor luggage, save a small valise, as preparatory to a journey. He immediately communicated it, with as much due precaution as the time would admit of, to the duchess, who had now entered the breakfast parlour.
Her Grace turned pale, and seemed nigh fainting. As soon as she could recover from her surprise and trepidation, she said: "All, my dear, is not well, I fear; I will go up and question Adelaide."
Here, as the duchess had gone out of one door, the Reverend chaplain, Doctor M'Kenzie, entered at another. The chaplain wished his Grace good morrow, and spoke of the weather, expatiating upon the beauties of Nature.