And so I took my leave.
The reader will gather from this conversation, which took place four days after the events detailed in last chapter, that I had effectually made my peace with Miss Bogle. For this arrangement Mary Muggerland took much more credit than I thought she was entitled to; however, it is of no use quarrelling with the well disposed, especially if they are females, as, in that case, you are sure to have the worst of it in the long run. I did not feel quite easy, however, regarding, the insinuations thrown out upon my unusually pallid appearance. The fact is, that the last week had rather been a fast one. The mess was remarkably pleasant, and all would have been quite right had we stopped there. But I had unfortunately yielded to the fascinations of Archy Chaffinch and some of the younger hands, who, being upon the loose, resolved to make the very most of it, and the consequence was, that, to the great scandal of Nelly, we kept highly untimeous hours. In fact, one night I made a slight mistake, which I have not yet, and may never hear, the last of, by walking, quite accidentally, into the house of my next-door neighbour—a grave and reverend signior—instead of my own, and abusing him like a pickpocket for his uncalled-for presence within the shade of my patrimonial lobby. It therefore followed that sometimes of a morning, after mounting Masaniello, I had a strong suspicion that a hive of bees had taken a fancy to settle upon my helmet—a compliment which might have been highly satisfactory to the infant Virgil, but was by no means suited to the nerves or taste of an adult Writer to the Signet.
Roper had been my guest at one of the late messes. His speech in returning thanks for the health of his regiment was one of the richest specimens of oratory I ever had the good fortune to hear, and ought to be embalmed for the benefit of an aspiring posterity. It ran somewhat thus—
“I assure you, sir, that the honour you have just conferred upon ours, is—yas—amply appweciated, I assure you, sir, by the wegular army. It gives us, sir—yas—the hiwest gwatification to be pwesent at the mess of such a loyal body as the South-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry. The distinguished services of that gallant corps, both at home and abwoad, are such as—yas—to demand the admiwation of their country, and—yas—in short, I feel compwetely overpowared. The bwoad banners of Bwitain floating over land and sea—chalk cliffs of old Albion, if I may be allowed the simile—wight hand of the service and left—wegulars and yeomanry—and the three corners of the world may come at once in arms, and be considewably shocked for their pains. Permit me again to expwess my extweme thanks for the honour you have done to ours.”
Now, on that evening, as I can conscientiously vouch, Roper contrived to deposit at least two bottles of claret beneath his belt. Any revelations, therefore, of what took place at our hospitable board, amounted to a gross breach of confidence, and were quite unpardonable; more especially when our relative situations with regard to the affections of Miss Bogle are considered. But Punic faith is the very least that one can expect from a rival.
On the review day, the whole regiment turned out under auspices of unusual smartness. We were to be inspected by a veteran officer of high rank and reputation, and, under those circumstances, we all thought ourselves bound in honour to support the credit of the corps. That was not remarkably difficult. You will hardly see anywhere a finer-looking set of fellows than the Mid-Lothian yeomanry, and our discipline, considering the short period of exercise, was really praiseworthy. In the words of our commanding-officer, he was justly proud of his recruits, and I can answer for it, that the recruits most cordially reciprocated the sentiment.
“Now, Anthony,” said Pounset, as we formed into line, “I shall really be obliged to you to make less clatter with that scabbard of yours when we charge. My mare is mad enough with the music, without having the additional impetus of supposing that a score of empty kettles are tied to her tail.”
“By jove, that’s a good one!” replied Anthony. “Here have you been bunging up my eyes and making attempts upon my ribs for the last week, and yet you expect me to have no other earthly consideration beyond your personal comfort! How the deuce am I to manage my scabbard when both hands are occupied?”
“Can’t you follow the example of Prince Charles, and throw it away?”
“Thank you for nothing! But, I say that sort of madness seems contagious. Here’s M’Whirter’s horse performing a fandango, which is far more curious than agreeable.”