“Yes—no—I—I think I have seen him,” said Lord Etherington. “But how came the lady to make the parson her father-confessor?—they have no auricular confession in the Kirk—it must have been with the purpose of marriage, I presume—let us hope that it took place—perhaps it really was so—did he, Cargill—the minister, I mean—say any thing of such a matter?”
“Not a word—not a word—I see where you are, my lord; you would put a good face on't.—
‘They call'd it marriage, by that specious name
To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.’
Queen Dido for that. How the clergyman came into the secret I cannot tell—he is a very close man. But I know he will not hear of Miss Mowbray being married to any one, unquestionably because he knows that, in doing so, she would introduce disgrace into some honest family—and, truly, I am much of his mind, my lord.”
“Perhaps Mr. Cargill may know the lady is privately married already,” said the Earl; “I think that is the more natural inference, begging your ladyship's pardon for presuming to differ in opinion.”
Lady Penelope seemed determined not to take this view of the case.
“No, no—no, I tell you,” she replied; “she cannot be married, for if she were married, how could the poor wretch say that she was ruined?—You know there is a difference betwixt ruin and marriage.”
“Some people are said to have found them synonymous, Lady Penelope,” answered the Earl.
“You are smart on me, my lord; but still, in common parlance, when we say a woman is ruined, we mean quite the contrary of her being married—it is impossible for me to be more explicit upon such a topic, my lord.”
“I defer to your ladyship's better judgment,” said Lord Etherington. “I only entreat you to observe a little caution in this business—I will make the strictest enquiries of this woman, and acquaint you with the result; and I hope, out of regard to the respectable family of St. Ronan's, your ladyship will be in no hurry to intimate any thing to Miss Mowbray's prejudice.”