“What kind of a boor have you found this new proprietor of your old estate?” said the lady, as he entered. “Is he simple enough to sell, or wild enough to dissipate it by incurring debt?”
“He is either the most arch rogue or the greatest fool I ever met in my life,” replied Græme. “I intended to introduce myself after the first salutation; but the idiot began talking about Eyrymount as if he thought I were some one else, and said such things as entirely prevented me from making the declaration. His housekeeper is old Esther Maclean, whom he has retained; and she, who bears us no good feeling, has told him everything he requires to know to put him on his guard against us—that is, I mean, if he has wit enough to take advantage of it; for I doubt yet if he is not a born idiot. He talked about hunting conies, and building spinning-mills on the Well Burn, like a madman; yet, if he knew whom he was talking to, there was a sense in his madness which I do not much like.”
“Did you ask him if he would sell Outfieldhaugh?” inquired the lady.
“I did,” answered Græme; “and his answer was a question—‘Dinna ye think I should just be doing wi’t?’ What could you make of a person who could return such an answer to a plain question?”
“But you say he talked of hunting,” said the lady. “That is a very good way, as you well know, of getting into debt.”
“Yes, but it depends on the game,” replied Græme—“cony-hunting, with an old hairy terrier he calls Birsey, will not ruin him, even if he found any conies on Outfieldhaugh, which I defy him to do.”
“But the spirit of Nimrod,” replied the lady, “extends to every kind of game, whether real statutory game, conies, or pigeons. Give him a smack of reynard, and the despicable cony will soon be left to its burrow.”
“If he has wit enough to distinguish between a fox and a rabbit,” said Græme—“which, however, I doubt. Every effort must, no doubt, be tried. Outfieldhaugh must be got by force or stealth. It must be Dione’s dowry, when she is wedded to Benjamin Rice; and when he dies, as he must soon do, if one can have any faith in his gamboge-coloured skin, we shall have our patrimonial estate entire; and his large fortune to dash away with in successful competition with Sir James Featherstone of Cockairney, Sir George Beckett of Turf Hall, and all our sporting neighbours, who at present outstrip us in the race of pleasure, and excel us in the court of fashion. The question is—How is this to be accomplished? ‘He that dares well fares well,’ as the saying is; and I think we cannot do better than try to innoculate this piece of untenanted spiritless flesh with a little of the blood of Nimrod and Pollux. Hunting and horse-racing comprehend within themselves all sorts of expensive dissipation. If he joins our Soho Club, he will require money. I will lend it, if I should borrow it for that purpose; and I know the nature of an adjudication.”
“The project sounds well,” said the lady; “but I must see the cony-hunter myself, for women are better judges of men, than men are of their neighbours. I will give him a dinner, if you will give him a present of a hunter. We must blow the soap-bell before it flies and bursts.”
“If you are to make a belle of him, you must indeed prepare plenty of soap,” said Græme, smiling at the cleverness of a vile pun. “But, without a joke, he is a good-looking boor, were he washed. A cake of soap, with your invitation card, might be of some importance. It is the alpha of the education of a gentleman, and we must begin at the beginning.”