The young lady bowed without comprehending a syllable of the speech of the worthy host.
“Are you likely to be soon ordered abroad?” she said.
“We expect the route for Spain every day; and then huzza for a peerage or Westminster Abbey!”
“Ah! war is a fine game when it is played at a distance. Why can’t kings settle their disputes without having recourse to the sword?”
“I really can’t answer your question, but I think it must be out of a kind regard for the interest of younger brothers. A war is a capital provision for poor fellows like myself, who were born to no estate but that excessively large one which the Catechism calls the ‘estate of sin and misery.’ But come, I see from your face you are very romantic, and are going to say something sentimental—luckily his Grace is proposing a removal into the ball-room; may I beg the honour of your hand?”
“Aha, lad!” cried the laird, who had heard the last sentence; “are ye at that wark already—asking a leddy’s hand on sic short an acquaintance? But folk canna do’t ower sune.”
The bustle caused by the secession of those who preferred Terpsichore to Bacchus, lucidly prevented Miss Mowbray’s hearing the laird’s observation, and in a few minutes she found herself entering with heart and soul into the full enjoyment of a country dance.
Marriages, they say, are made in heaven. Charles Melville devoutly wished the laird’s efforts might be successful, and that one could be made on earth. She was indeed, as the laird expressed it, “a bonnie cratur to look at.” I never could describe a beauty in my life—so the loveliness of the English heiress must be left to the imagination. At all events, she was “the bright consummate flower of the whole wreath” which was then gathered together at Strath Lugas; and even Lady Clavers said that—
“Miss Mowbray’s very weel put on indeed, for sae young a lassie. Her hair’s something like our Anne’s—only I think Anne’s has a wee richer tinge o’ the golden.”
“Preserve us a’!” whispered the laird; “puir Anne’s hair is as red as a carrot.”