“Wh—ew!” whistled the lawyer, with a long prolongation of the note; “the thing is impossible.”
“It must be, Mick, for all that,” answered Mr. Mowbray, who knew by experience that impossible, when uttered by his accommodating friend in this tone, meant only, when interpreted, extremely difficult, and very expensive.
“Then it must be by Miss Clara selling her stock, now that ye speak of stock,” said Meiklewham; “I wonder ye didna think of this before.”
“I wish you had been dumb rather than that you had mentioned it now,” said Mowbray, starting, as if stung by an adder—“What, Clara's pittance!—the trifle my aunt left her for her own fanciful expenses—her own little private store, that she puts to so many good purposes—Poor Clara, that has so little!—And why not rather your own, Master Meiklewham, who call yourself the friend and servant of our family?”
“Ay, St. Ronan's,” answered Meiklewham, “that is a' very true—but service is nae inheritance; and as for friendship, it begins at hame, as wise folk have said lang before our time. And for that matter, I think they that are nearest sib should take maist risk. You are nearer and dearer to your sister, St. Ronan's, than you are to poor Saunders Meiklewham, that hasna sae muckle gentle blood as would supper up an hungry flea.”
“I will not do this,” said St. Ronan's, walking up and down with much agitation; for, selfish as he was, he loved his sister, and loved her the more on account of those peculiarities which rendered his protection indispensable to her comfortable existence—“I will not,” he said, “pillage her, come on't what will. I will rather go a volunteer to the continent, and die like a gentleman.”
He continued to pace the room in a moody silence, which began to disturb his companion, who had not been hitherto accustomed to see his patron take matters so deeply. At length he made an attempt to attract the attention of the silent and sullen ponderer.
“Mr. Mowbray”—no answer—“I was saying, St. Ronan's”—still no reply. “I have been thinking about this matter—and”——
“And what, sir?” said St. Ronan's, stopping short, and speaking in a stern tone of voice.
“And, to speak truth, I see little feasibility in the matter ony way; for if ye had the siller in your pocket to-day, it would be a' in the Earl of Etherington's the morn.”