Whether it was that the combatants had expended all the present pugnacity of their natures in the contest which had just been brought to a close, or that the soft tones of Mrs Drumwhussle's voice had suddenly allayed their ire, we know not; but certain it is, that the faces of both the lawyers exhibited, all at once, and at the same instant, a trait of amiable relaxation, indicative of a return of friendly feeling, together with something like a sense of regret, and perhaps shame for what had passed. It was then, under this change of sentiment, that Skimclean replied, laughingly, to his wife—
"Weel, weel, gudewife, if the laird here's willin, we'll close the record, an' let byganes be byganes."
"Wi' a' my heart," said the former; "for it's a case that'll no stan law. Sae we'll just revise the condescendence, an' tak better care for time to come. This wark's no accordin to law."
"Neither law, nor reason, nor sense," said Mrs Drumwhussle, who was a rattling, but good-natured, motherly sort of woman. "Ye're jist a pair o' auld fules—that's what ye are. Noo, laird," she continued, as she turned round to that worthy—who presented rather an odd spectacle; his person exhibiting, at this moment, a strange combination of ludicrous points—extreme tallness, extreme thinness, extreme drunkenness, extreme snuffiness, if we may use the expression, and a countenance marked and mangled in a manner that was absolutely hideous to look upon, although the application of a little simple water would have shown that the said countenance was not, after all, very seriously damaged—"noo, laird," said Mrs Drumwhussle, laying her hand kindly on the shoulder of her husband's guest, "ye'll jist stap awa hame, like a guid honest man as ye are, an' you an' the gudeman 'll meet the morn, whan ye're baith yersels, an' ye'll baith be as guid freens as ever—maybe a hantle better; for I've kent folk that never could understan ane anither till they had a guid fecht."
To the general tone of this mediatory interference, neither Skimclean nor the laird offered any objection. Nay, as we have already shown, it met with their decided approbation; but there was one clause in it, as they themselves would have called it, which both peremptorily resented. This was the insinuation that they were tipsy.
"Revise that part o' the condescendence, Mrs Drumwhussle," said the laird, in allusion to the said insinuation. "I could discuss a point o' law as weel as ever I did in my life. I'm as soun's a bell, woman."
"A' ticht an' richt, laird. We're baith that," said Skimclean, staggering towards his guest. "For my pairt, I never was better in my life. Never mair correck. Jenny, ye're wrang—clean wrang, I'm perfectly compous."
"Aweel, it's perfectly possible," replied the latter, laughing; "but I canna be far wrang in advising the laird here to stap his wa's hame, an' you, Davie, to slip to yer bed."
"Ou, no, no, ye're no wrang there," said both the lawyers together; and in evident satisfaction with the circumstance of Mr Drumwhussle's having deserted the charge of inebriety, and founding upon other grounds—"ye're no wrang there," repeated the laird; "for it's gettin late, an' my road's nane o' the straughtest."
Having been provided with his hat and stick, and an old tartan cloak, which was his constant companion in all his wanderings, the laird now commenced his retreat out of the house, and had gained the outer door, when his host shouted after him—