“And there is really a talk of Miss Mowbray of St Ronan's being married?” said the clergyman.
“Troth is there,” said the dame; “it's Trotting Nelly's news; and though she likes a drappie, I dinna think she would invent a lee or carry ane—at least to me, that am a gude customer.”
“This must be looked to,” said Mr. Cargill, as if speaking to himself.
“In troth, and so it should,” said Dame Dods; “it's a sin and a shame if they should employ the tinkling cymbal they ca' Chatterly, and sic a Presbyterian trumpet as yoursell in the land, Mr. Cargill; and if ye will take a fule's advice, ye winna let the multure be ta'en by your ain mill, Mr. Cargill.”
“True, true, good Mother Dods,” said the Nabob; “gloves and hatbands are things to be looked after, and Mr. Cargill had better go down to this cursed festivity with me, in order to see after his own interest.”
“I must speak with the young lady,” said the clergyman, still in a brown study.
“Right, right, my boy of black-letter,” said the Nabob; “with me you shall go, and we'll bring them to submission to mother-church, I warrant you—Why, the idea of being cheated in such a way, would scare a Santon out of his trance.—What dress will you wear?”
“My own, to be sure,” said the divine, starting from his reverie.
“True, thou art right again—they may want to knit the knot on the spot, and who would be married by a parson in masquerade?—We go to the entertainment though—it is a done thing.”