“I think I have heard of Mr. Chatterly,” said Tyrrel.
“Ye'll be thinking o' the sermon he has printed,” said the angry dame, “where he compares their nasty puddle of a Well yonder to the pool of Bethseda, like a foul-mouthed, fleeching, feather-headed fule as he is! He should hae kend that the place got a' its fame in the times of black Popery; and though they pat it in St. Ronan's name, I'll never believe for one that the honest man had ony hand in it; for I hae been tell'd by ane that suld ken, that he was nae Roman, but only a Cuddie, or Culdee,10 or such like. – But will ye not take anither dish of tea, Maister Francie? and a wee bit of the diet-loaf, raised wi' my ain fresh butter, Maister Francie? and no wi' greasy kitchen-fee, like the seedcake down at the confectioner's yonder, that has as mony dead flees as carvy in it. Set him up for a confectioner! – Wi' a penniworth of rye-meal, and anither of tryacle, and twa or three carvy-seeds, I will make better confections than ever cam out of his oven.”
“I have no doubt of that, Mrs. Dods,” said the guest; “and I only wish to know how these new comers were able to establish themselves against a house of such good reputation and old standing as yours? – It was the virtues of the mineral, I dare say; but how came the waters to recover a character all at once, mistress?”
“I dinna ken, sir – they used to be thought good for naething, but here and there for a puir body's bairn, that had gotten the cruells,11 and could not afford a penniworth of salts. But my Leddy Penelope Penfeather had fa'an ill, it's like, as nae other body ever fell ill, and sae she was to be cured some gate naebody was ever cured, which was naething mair than was reasonable – and my leddy, ye ken, has wit at wull, and has a' the wise folk out from Edinburgh at her house at Windywa's yonder, which it is her leddyship's wull and pleasure to call Air-castle – and they have a' their different turns, and some can clink verses, wi' their tale, as weel as Rob Burns or Allan Ramsay – and some rin up hill and down dale, knapping the chucky stanes to pieces wi' hammers, like sae mony road-makers run daft – they say it is to see how the warld was made! – and some that play on all manner of ten-stringed instruments – and a wheen sketching souls, that ye may see perched like craws on every craig in the country, e'en working at your ain trade, Maister Francie; forby men that had been in foreign parts, or said they had been there, whilk is a' ane, ye ken; and maybe twa or three draggletailed misses, that wear my Leddy Penelope's follies when she has dune wi' them, as her queans of maids wear her second-hand claithes. So, after her leddyship's happy recovery, as they ca'd it, down cam the hail tribe of wild-geese, and settled by the Well, to dine thereout on the bare grund, like a wheen tinklers; and they had sangs, and tunes, and healths, nae doubt, in praise of the fountain, as they ca'd the Well, and of Leddy Penelope Penfeather; and, lastly, they behoved a' to take a solemn bumper of the spring, which, as I'm tauld, made unco havoc amang them or they wan hame; and this they ca'd picknick, and a plague to them! And sae the jig was begun after her leddyship's pipe, and mony a mad measure has been danced sin' syne; for down cam masons and murgeon-makers, and preachers and player-folk, and Episcopalians and Methodists, and fools and fiddlers, and Papists and pie-bakers, and doctors and drugsters; by the shop-folk, that sell trash and trumpery at three prices – and so up got the bonny new Well, and down fell the honest auld town of Saint Ronan's, where blithe decent folk had been heartsome eneugh for mony a day before ony o' them were born, or ony sic vapouring fancies kittled in their cracked brains.”
“What said your landlord, the Laird of Saint Ronan's, to all this?” said Tyrrel.
“Is't my landlord ye are asking after, Maister Francie? – the Laird of Saint Ronan's is nae landlord of mine, and I think ye might hae minded that. – Na, na, thanks be to Praise! Meg Dods is baith landlord and landleddy. Ill eneugh to keep the doors open as it is, let be facing Whitsunday and Martinmas – an auld leather pock there is, Maister Francie, in ane of worthy Maister Bindloose the sheriff-clerk's pigeon-holes, in his dowcot of a closet in the burgh; and therein is baith charter and sasine, and special service to boot; and that will be chapter and verse, speer when ye list.”
“I had quite forgotten,” said Tyrrel, “that the inn was your own; though I remember you were a considerable landed proprietor.”
“Maybe I am,” replied Meg, “maybe I am not: and if I be, what for no? – But as to what the Laird, whose grandfather was my father's landlord, said to the new doings yonder – he just jumped at the ready penny, like a cock at a grosert, and feu'd the bonny holm beside the Well, that they ca'd the Saint-Well-holm, that was like the best land in his aught, to be carved, and biggit, and howkit up, just at the pleasure of Jock Ashler the stane-mason, that ca's himsell an arkiteck – there's nae living for new words in this new warld neither, and that is another vex to auld folk such as me. – It's a shame o' the young Laird, to let his auld patrimony gang the gate it's like to gang, and my heart is sair to see't, though it has but little cause to care what comes of him or his.”
“Is it the same Mr. Mowbray,” said Mr. Tyrrel, “who still holds the estate? – the old gentleman, you know, whom I had some dispute with” —
“About hunting moorfowl upon the Spring-well-head muirs?” said Meg. “Ah, lad! honest Mr. Bindloose brought you neatly off there – Na, it's no that honest man, but his son John Mowbray – the t'other has slept down-by in Saint Ronan's Kirk for these six or seven years.”
“Did he leave,” asked Tyrrel, with something of a faltering voice, “no other child than the present Laird?”
“No other son,” said Meg; “and there's e'en eneugh, unless he could have left a better ane.”
“He died then,” said Tyrrel, “excepting this son, without children?”
“By your leave, no,” said Meg; “there is the lassie Miss Clara, that keeps house for the Laird, if it can be ca'd keeping house, for he is almost aye down at the Well yonder – so a sma' kitchen serves them at the Shaws.”
“Miss Clara will have but a dull time of it there during her brother's absence?” said the stranger.
“Out no! – he has her aften jinketing about, and back and forward, wi' a' the fine flichtering fools that come yonder; and clapping palms wi' them, and linking at their dances and daffings. I wuss nae ill come o't, but it's a shame her father's daughter should keep company wi' a' that scauff and raff of physic-students, and writers' prentices, and bagmen, and siclike trash as are down at the Well yonder.”
“You are severe, Mrs. Dods,” replied the guest. “No doubt Miss Clara's conduct deserves all sort of freedom.”
“I am saying naething against her conduct,” said the dame; “and there's nae ground to say onything that I ken of – But I wad hae like draw to like, Maister Francie. I never quarrelled the ball that the gentry used to hae at my bit house a gude wheen years bygane – when they came, the auld folk in their coaches, wi' lang-tailed black horses, and a wheen galliard gallants on their hunting horses, and mony a decent leddy behind her ain goodman, and mony a bonny smirking lassie on her pownie, and wha sae happy as they – And what for no? And then there was the farmers' ball, wi' the tight lads of yeomen with the bran new blues and the buckskins – These were decent meetings – but then they were a' ae man's bairns that were at them, ilk ane kend ilk other – they danced farmers wi' farmers' daughters, at the tane, and gentles wi' gentle blood, at the t'other, unless maybe when some of the gentlemen of the Killnakelty Club would gie me a round of the floor mysell, in the way of daffing and fun, and me no able to flyte on them for laughing – I am sure I never grudged these innocent pleasures, although it has cost me maybe a week's redding up, before I got the better of the confusion.”
“But, dame,” said Tyrrel, “this ceremonial would be a little hard upon strangers like myself, for how were we to find partners in these family parties of yours?”
“Never you fash your thumb about that, Maister Francie,” returned the landlady, with