Conclusion.

Here come we to our close — for that which follows

Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery.

Steep crags and headlong linns may court the pencil,

Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures;

But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor,

In its long track of sterile desolation?

Old Play.

When Mowbray crossed the brook, as we have already detailed, his mind was in that wayward and uncertain state, which seeks something whereon to vent the self-engendered rage with which it labours, like a volcano before eruption. On a sudden, a shot or two, followed by loud voices and laughter reminded him he had promised, at that hour, and in that sequestered place, to decide a bet respecting pistol-shooting, to which the titular Lord Etherington, Jekyl, and Captain MacTurk, to whom such a pastime was peculiarly congenial, were parties as well as himself. The prospect this recollection afforded him, of vengeance on the man whom he regarded as the author of his sister’s wrongs, was, in the present state of his mind, too tempting to be relinquished; and, setting spurs to his horse, he rushed through the copse to the little glade, where he found the other parties, who, despairing of his arrival, had already begun their amusement. A jubilee shout was set up as he approached.

“Here comes Mowbray, dripping, by Cot, like a watering-pan,” said Captain MacTurk.

“I fear him not,” said Etherington, (we may as well still call him so,) “he has ridden too fast to have steady nerves.”

“We shall soon see that, my Lord Etherington, or rather Mr. Valentine Bulmer,” said Mowbray, springing from his horse, and throwing the bridle over the bough of a tree.

“What does this mean, Mr. Mowbray?” said Etherington, drawing himself up, while Jekyl and Captain MacTurk looked at each other in surprise.

“It means, sir, that you are a rascal and impostor,” replied Mowbray, “who have assumed a name to which you have no right.”

“That, Mr. Mowbray, is an insult I cannot carry farther than this spot,” said Etherington.

“If you had been willing to do so, you should have carried with it something still harder to be borne,” answered Mowbray.

“Enough, enough, my good sir; no use in spurring a willing horse. — Jekyl, you will have the kindness to stand by me in this matter?”

“Certainly, my lord,” said Jekyl.

“And, as there seems to be no chance of taking up the matter amicably,” said the pacific Captain MacTurk, “I will be most happy, so help me, to assist my worthy friend, Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan’s, with my countenance and advice. — Very goot chance that we were here with the necessary weapons, since it would have been an unpleasant thing to have such an affair long upon the stomach, any more than to settle it without witnesses.”

“I would fain know first,” said Jekyl, “what all this sudden heat has arisen about.”

“About nothing,” said Etherington, “except a mare’s nest of Mr. Mowbray’s discovering. He always knew his sister played the madwoman, and he has now heard a report, I suppose, that she has likewise in her time played the —— fool.”

“O, crimini!” cried Captain MacTurk, “my good Captain, let us pe loading and measuring out — for, by my soul, if these sweetmeats be passing between them, it is only the twa ends of a hankercher than can serve the turn — Cot tamn!”

With such friendly intentions, the ground was hastily meted out. Each was well known as an excellent shot; and the Captain offered a bet to Jekyl of a mutchkin of Glenlivat, that both would fall by the first fire. The event showed that he was nearly right; for the ball of Lord Etherington grazed Mowbray’s temple, at the very second of time when Mowbray’s pierced his heart. He sprung a yard from the ground, and fell down a dead man. Mowbray stood fixed like a pillar of stone, his arm dropped to his side, his hand still clenched on the weapon of death, reeking at the touch-hole and muzzle. Jekyl ran to raise and support his friend, and Captain MacTurk, having adjusted his spectacles, stooped on one knee to look him in the face. “We should have had Dr. Quackleben here,” he said, wiping his glasses, and returning them to the shagreen case, “though it would have been only for form’s sake — for he is as dead as a toor-nail, poor boy. — But come, Mowbray, my bairn,” he said, taking him by the arm, “we must be ganging our ain gait, you and me, before waur comes of it. — I have a bit powney here, and you have your horse till we get to Marchthorn. — Captain Jekyl, I wish you a good morning. Will you have my umbrella back to the inn, for I surmeese it is going to rain?”

Mowbray had not ridden a hundred yards with his guide and companion, when he drew his bridle, and refused to proceed a step farther, till he had learned what was become of Clara. The Captain began to find he had a very untractable pupil to manage, when, while they were arguing together, Touchwood drove past in his hack chaise. As soon as he r............