The storm lasted for five days. How the plans of the laird with regard to the matrimonial comforts of his guests prospered, I have no intention of detailing. I believe, however, he was right in his predictions, and the minister was presented with eight several sets of tea-things within three months. Many a spinster at this moment looks back with regret to her absence from the snow-party of Strath Lugas, and dates all her misfortunes from that unhappy circumstance. On the fourth morning of their imprisonment the laird was presented with a letter from Charles Melville. In it he informed him that he dared not be absent longer, in case of his regiment being ordered abroad, and that he had taken his chance and set off on his homeward way in spite of the snow. It ended with thanks for all his kindness, and an affectionate farewell. When this was announced to the party they expressed great regret at his absence. It seemed to surprise them all. Mrs Carmichael was full of wonder on the occasion; but Miss Mowbray seemed totally unmoved by his departure. She was duller in spirits than before, and refused to dance; but in other respects the mirth was as uproarious, and the dancing as joyous, as ever;—and in a day the snow was sufficiently cleared away—the party by different conveyances broke up—and the laird was left alone, after a week of constant enjoyment.
Four years after the events I have related, a young man presented himself for the first time in the pump-room at Bath. The gossips of that busy city formed many conjectures as to who and what he could be. Some thought him a foreigner, some a man of consequence incog.; but all agreed that he was a soldier and an invalid. He seemed to be about six-and-twenty, and was evidently a perfect stranger. After he had stayed in the room a short time, and listened to the music, he went out into the street, and just as he made his exit by one door, the marvels of the old beldames who congregated under the orchestra were called into activity by the entrance, through the other, of a young lady leaning on the arm of an old one. Even so simple an incident as this is sufficient in a place like Bath to give rise to various rumours and conjectures. She was tall, fair, and very beautiful, but she also seemed in bad health, and to be perfectly unknown. Such an event had not occurred at the pump-room for ages before. Even the master of the ceremonies was at fault. “As near as he could guess, to the best of his conjecture, he believed he had never seen either the gentleman or the lady.”
While surmises of all kinds were going their rounds in this manner, the gentleman pursued his walk up Milsom Street. His pace was slow, and his strength did not seem equal even to so gentle an exertion. He leant for support upon his walking-stick, and heard, mingled with many coughs, a voice which he well knew, calling,—
“Chairlie—Chairlie Melville, I say! pull, ye deil’s buckie,—ugh—ugh!—sic a confounded conveyance for a Highland gentleman. Ah, Chairlie, lad,” said our old acquaintance the laird, who had now got up to where his friend was standing, “sad times for baith of us. Here am I sent here wi’ a cough that wad shake a kirk, ugh—ugh.—An’ the gout in baith my feet,—to be hurled about in a chair that gangs upon wheels,—ugh—ugh,—by a lazy English vagabond that winna understand a word that I say till him.—An’ you,” and here the old man looked up in the young soldier’s face—“Oh, Chairlie, Chairlie! is this what the wars hae brocht ye to?—ugh—ugh—yer verra mither wadna ken ye,—but come awa,—come awa to my lodgings in Pultney Street, and tell us a’ about what ye’ve been doin’,—ugh—ugh,—my fit, my fit,—pu’ awa’, ye ne’er-do-weel; turn about, and be hanged till ye,—do ye no ken the road to Pultney Street yet? Come awa, Chairlie, my man, dinna hurry.” And thus mingling his commands to his chairman, with complaints of the gout to his friend, the laird led the way to his lodgings.
Charlie’s story was soon told. He had shared in all the dangers and triumphs of the last three years of the war. He had been severely wounded at Waterloo, and had come to Bath with a debilitated frame and a major’s commission. But though he spoke of past transactions as gaily as he could, the quick eyes of the laird perceived there was some “secret sorrow” which weighed down his spirits.
“An’ did ye meet with nae love adventure in your travels? For ye maunna tell me a bit wound in the shouther would mak ye sae doun-hearted as ye are. Is there nae Spanish or French lassie that gies ye a sair heart? Tell it a’ to me, an’ if I can be of ony use in bringin’ it about, ye may depend I’ll do all in my power to help ye.”
“No,” replied Charles, smiling at the continued match-making propensities of his friend; “I shall scarcely require your services on that score. I never saw Frenchwoman or Spaniard that cost me a single sigh.” And here, as if by the force of the word itself, the young man sighed.
“Weel, it must be some English or Scotch lassie then; for it’s easy to be seen that somebody costs ye a sigh. I ance thocht you were in a fair way o’ winnin’ yon bonny cratur ye saved frae the spate o’ the Lugas; but ye gaed awa in such a hurry the plant hadna time to tak root.”
“She was too rich for the poor penniless subaltern to look to,” replied the young man, a deep glow coming over his face.
“Havers! havers! She wad hae given a’ her lands yon night for a foot o’ dry grund. An’ as ye won her, ye had the best right to wear her. And I’m muckle mista’en if the lassie didna think sae hersel.”