“But Lady Juliana, sir, has never been accustomed–“
“Let her serve an apprenticeship to your aunts; she couldna be in a better school.”
“But her education, sir, has been so different from what would be required in that station,” resumed her husband, choking with vexation, at the idea of his beauteous high-born bride being doomed to the drudgery of household cares.
“Edication! what has her edication been, to mak’ her different frae other women? If a woman can nurse her bairns, mak’ their claes, and manage her hoose, what mair need she do? If she can playa tune on the spinnet, and dance a reel, and play a rubber at whist–nae doot these are accomplishments, but they’re soon learnt. Edication! pooh!–I’ll be bound Leddy Jully Anie wull mak’ as gude a figure by-and-by as the best edicated woman in the country.”
“But she dislikes the country, and–“
“She’ll soon come to like it. Wait a wee till she has a wheen bairns, an’ a hoose o’ her ain, an’ I’ll be bound she’ll be happy as the day’s lang.”
“But the climate does not agree with her,” continued the tender husband, almost driven to extremities by the persevering simplicity of his father.
“Stay a wee till she gets to Clackandow! There’s no a finer, freer-aired situation in a’ Scotland. The air’s sharpish, to be sure, but fine and bracing; and you have a braw peat-moss at your back to keep you warm.”
Finding it in vain to attempt _insinuating_ his objections to a pastoral life, poor Henry was at length reduced to the necessity of coming to the point with the old gentleman, and telling him plainly that it was not at all suited to his inclinations, or Lady Juliana’s rank and beauty.
Vain would be the attempt to paint the fiery wrath and indignation of the ancient Highlander as the naked truth stood revealed before him:–that his son despised the occupation of his fathers, even the feeding of sheep and the breeding of black cattle; and that his high-born spouse was above fulfilling those duties which he had ever considered the chief end for which woman was created. He swore, stamped, screamed, and even skipped with rage, and, in short, went through all the evolutions as usually performed by testy old gentlemen on first discovering that they have disobedient sons and undutiful daughters. Henry, who, though uncommonly good-tempered, inherited a portion of his father’s warmth, became at length irritated at the invectives that were so liberally bestowed on him, and replied in language less respectful than the old Laird was accustomed to hear; and the altercation became so violent that they parted in mutual anger; Henry returning to his wife’s apartment in a state of the greatest disquietude he had ever known. To her childish complaints, and tiresome complaints, he no longer vouchsafed to reply, but paced the chamber with a disordered mien, in sullen silence; till at length, distracted by her reproaches, and disgusted with her selfishness, he rushed from the apartment and quitted the house.
CHAPTER XIII.
“Never talk to me; I will weep.”
_As You Like It._
TWICE had the dinner bell been loudly sounded by old Donald, and the family of Glenfern were all assembled, yet their fashionable guests had not appeared. Impatient of delay, Miss Jacky hastened to ascertain the cause. Presently she returned in the utmost perturbation, and announced that Lady Juliana was in bed in a high fever, and Henry nowhere to be found. The whole eight rushed upstairs to ascertain the fact, leaving the old gentleman much discomposed at this unseasonable delay.
Some time elapsed ere they again returned, which they did with lengthened faces, and in extreme perturbation. They had found their noble niece, according to Miss Jacky’s report, in bed-according to Miss Grizzy’s opinion, in a brain fever; as she no sooner perceived them enter, than she covered her head with the bedclothes, and continued screaming for them to be gone, till they had actually quitted the apartment.”
“And what proves beyond a doubt that our sweet niece is not herself,” continued poor Miss Grizzy, in a lamentable tone, “is that we appeared to her in every form but our own! She sometimes took us for cats; then thought we were ghosts haunting her; and, in short, it is impossible to tell all the things she called us; and she screams so for Harry to come and take her away that I am sure–I declare–I don’t know what’s come over her!”
Mrs. Douglas could scarce suppress a smile at the simplicity of the good spinsters. Her husband and she had gone out immediately after breakfast to pay a visit a few miles off, and did not return till near the dinner hour. They were therefore ignorant of all that had been acted during their absence; but as she suspected something was amiss, she requested the rest of the company would proceed to dinner, and leave her to ascertain the nature of Lady Juliana’s disorder.
“Don’t come near me!” shrieked her Ladyship, on hearing the door open. “Send Harry to take me away; I don’t want anybody but Harry!”–and a torrent of tears, sobs, and exclamations followed.
“My dear Lady Juliana,” said Mrs. Douglas, softly approaching the bed, “compose yourself; and if my presence is disagreeable to you I shall immediately withdraw.”
“Oh, is it you?” cried her sister-in-law, uncovering her face at the sound of her voice. “I thought it had been these frightful old women come to torment me; and I shall die–I know I shall–if ever I look at them again. But I don’t dislike _you;_ so you may stay if you choose, though I don’t want anybody but Harry to come and take me away.”
A fresh fit of sobbing here impeded her utterance; and Mrs. Douglas, compassionating her distress, while she despised her folly, seated herself by the bedside, and taking her hand, in the sweetest tone of complacency attempted to soothe her into composure.
“The only way in which you can be less miserable,” said Mrs. Douglas in a soothing tone, “is to support your present situation with patience, which you may do by looking forward to brighter prospects. It is _possible_ that your stay here may be short; and it is _certain_ that it is in your own power to render your life more agreeable by endeavouring to accommodate yourself to the peculiarities of your husband’s family. No doubt they are often tiresome and ridiculous; but they are always kind and well-meaning.”
“You may say what you please, but I think them all odious creatures; and I won’t live here with patience; and I shan’t be agreeable to them; and all the talking in the world won’t make me less miserable. If you were me, you would be just the same; but you have never been in London–that’s the reason.”
“Pardon me,” replied her sister-in-law, “I spent many years of my life there.”
“You lived in London!” repeated Lady Juliana in astonishment. “And how, then, can you contrive to exist here?”
“I not only contrive to exist, but to be extremely contented with existence,” said Mrs. Douglas, with a smile. Then assuming a more serious air, “I possess health, peace of mind, and the affections of a worthy husband; and I should be very undeserving of these blessings were I to give way to useless regrets or indulge in impious repinings because my happiness might once have been more perfect, and still admits of improvement.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Lady Juliana, with a peevish yawn. “Who did you live with in London?”
“With my aunt, Lady Audley.”
“With Lady Audley!” repeated her sister-in-law in accents of astonishment. “Why, I have heard of her; she lived quite in the world; and gave balls and assemblies; so that’s the reason you are not so disagreeable as the rest of them. Why did you not remain with her, or marry an Englishman? But I suppose, like me, you didn’t know what Scotland was!”
Happy to have excited an interest, even through the medium of childish curiosity, in the bosom of her fashionable relative, Mrs. Douglas briefly related such circumstances of her past life as she judged proper to communicate; but as she sought rather to amuse than instruct by her simple narrative, we shall allow her to pursue her charitable intentions, while we do more justice to her character by introducing her regularly to the acquaintance of our readers.
History of Mrs. Douglas.
“The selfish heart deserves the pang it feels; More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts, And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.”
–YOUNG.
MRS. DOUGLAS was, on the maternal side, related to an English family. Her mother had died in giving birth to her; and her father, shortly after, falling in the service of his country, she had been consigned in infancy to the care of her aunt. Lady Audley had taken charge of her, on condition that she should never be claimed by her Scottish relations, for whom that lady entertained as much aversion as contempt. A latent feeling of affection for her departed sister, and a large portion of family pride, had prompted her wish of becoming the protectress of her orphan niece; and, possessed of a high sense of rectitude and honour, she fulfilled the duty thus voluntarily imposed in a manner that secured the unshaken gratitude of the virtuous Alicia.
Lady Audley was a character more esteemed and feared than loved, even by those with whom she was most intimate. Firm, upright, and rigid, she exacted from others those inflexible virtues which in herself she found no obstacle to performing. Neglecting these softer attractions which shed their benign influence over the commerce of social life, she was content to enjoy the extorted esteem of her associates; for friends she had none. She sought in the world for objects to fill up the void which her heart could not supply. She loved _eclat,_ and had succeeded in creating herself an existence of importance in the circles of high life, which she considered more as due to her consequence than essential to her enjoyment. She had early in life been left a widow, with the sole tutelage and management of an only son, whose large estate she regulated with the most admirable prudence and judgment.
Alicia Malcolm was put under the care of her aunt at two years of age. A governess had been procured for her, whose character was such as not to impair the promising dispositions of her pupil. Alicia was gifted by nature with a warm affectionate heart, and a calm imagination attempered its influence. Her governess, a woman of a strong understanding and enlarged mind, early instilled into her a deep and strong sense of religion; and to it she owed the support which had safely guided her through the most trying vicissitudes.
When at the age of seventeen Alicia Malcolm was produced in the world. She was a rational, cheerful, and sweet-tempered girl, with a finely formed person, and a countenance in which was so clearly painted the sunshine of her breast, that it attracted the _bienveillance_ even of those who had not taste or judgment to define the charm. Her open natural manner, blending the frankness of the Scotch with the polished reserve of the English woman, her total exemption from vanity, calculated alike to please others and maintain her own cheerfulness undimmed by a single cloud.
Lady Audley felt for her niece a sentiment which she mistook for affection; her self-approbation was gratified at the contemplation of a being who owed every advantage to her, and whom she had rescued from the coarseness and vulgarity which she deemed inseparable from the manners of every Scotchwoman. If Lady Audley really loved any human being it was her son. In him were centred her dearest interests; on his aggrandisement and future importance hung her most sanguine hopes. She had acted contrary to the advice of her male relations, and followed her own judgment, by giving her son a private education. He was brought up under her own eye by a tutor of deep erudition, but who was totally unfitted for forming the mind, and compensating for those advantages which may be derived from a public education. The circumstances of his education, however, combined rather to stifle the exposure than to destroy the existence of some very dangerous qualities that seemed inherent in Sir Edmund’s nature. He was ardent, impetuous, and passionate, though these propensities were cloaked by a reserve, partly natural, and partly arising from of his mother and tutor.
His was not the effervescence of character which bursts forth on every trivial occasion; but when any powerful cause awakened the slumbering inmates, of his breast, they blazed with an uncontrolled fury that defied all opposition, and overleaped all bounds of reason and decorum.
Experience often shows us that minds formed of the most opposite attributes more forcibly attract each other than those which appear cast in the same mould. The source of this fascination is difficult to trace; it possesses not reason for its basis, yet it is perhaps the more tyrannical in its influence from that very cause. The weakness of our natures occasionally makes us feel a potent charm in “errors of a noble mind.”
Sir Edmund Audley and Alicia Malcolm proved examples of this observation. The affection of childhood had so gradually ripened into a warmer sentiment, that neither was conscious of the nature of that sentiment till after it had attained strength to cast a material influence on their after lives. The familiarity of near relatives associating constantly together produced a warm sentiment of affection, cemented by similarity of pursuits, and enlivened by diversity of character; while the perfect tranquillity of their lives afforded no event that could withdraw the veil of ignorance from their eyes.
Could a woman of Lady Audley’s discernment, it may be asked, place two young persons in such a situation, and doubt the consequences? Those who are no longer young are liable to forget that love is a plant of early growth, and that the individuals that they have but a short time before beheld placing their supreme felicity on a rattle and a go-cart can so soon be actuated by the strongest passions of the human breast.
Sir Edmund completed his nineteenth year, and Alicia entered her eighteenth, when this happy state of unconscious security was destroyed by a circumstance which rent the veil from her eyes, and disclosed his sentiments in all their energy and warmth. This circumstance was no other than a proposal of marriage to Alicia from a gentleman of large fortune and brilliant connexions who resided in their neighbourhood. His character was as little calculated as his appearance to engage the affections of a young woman of delicacy and good sense. But he was a man of consequence; heir to an earldom; member for the county; and Lady Audley, rejoicing at what she termed Alicia’s good fortune, determined that she should become his wife.
With mild firmness she rejected the honour intended her; but it was with difficulty that Lady Audley’s mind could adopt or understand the idea of an opposition to her wishes. She could not seriously embrace the conviction that Alicia was determined to disobey her; and in order to bring her to a right understanding she underwent a system of persecution that tended naturally to increase the antipathy her suitor had inspired. Lady Audley, with the indiscriminating zeal of prejudiced and overbearing persons, strove to recommend him to her niece br all those attributes which were of value in her own eyes; making allowance for a certain degree of in decision in her niece, but never admitting a doubt that in due time her will should be obeyed, as it had always hitherto been.
At this juncture Sir Edmund came down to the country, and was struck by the altered looks and pensive manners of his once cheerful cousin. About a week after his arrival he found Alicia one morning in tears, after a long conversation with Lady Audley. Sir Edmund tenderly soothed her, and entreated to be made acquainted with the cause of her distress. She was so habituated to impart every thought to her cousin, the intimacy and sympathy of their souls were so entire, that she would not have concealed the late occurrence from him had she not been withheld by the natural timidity and delicacy a young woman feels in making her own conquests the subject of conversation. But now so pathetically and irresistibly persuaded by Sir Edmund, and sensible that every distress of hers wounded his heart, Alicia candidly related to him the pursuit of her disagreeable suitor, and the importunities of Lady Audley in his favour. Every word she had spoken had more and, more dispelled the mist that had so long hung over Sir Edmund’s inclinations. At the first mention of a suitor, he had felt that to be hers was a happiness that comprised all others; and that the idea of losing her made the whole of existence appear a frightful blank. These feelings were no sooner known to himself than spontaneously poured into her delighted ears; while she felt that every sentiment met a kindred one in her breast. Alicia sought not a moment to disguise those feelings, which she now, for the first time, became aware of; they were known to the object of her innocent affection as soon as to herself, and both were convinced that, though not conscious before of the nature of their sentiments, love had long been mistaken for friendship in their hearts.
But this state of blissful serenity did not last long. On the evening of the following day Lady Audley sent for her to her dressing-room. On entering, Alicia was panic-struck at her aunt’s pale countenance, fiery eyes, and frame convulsed with passion. With difficulty Lady Audley, struggling for calmness, demanded an instant and decided reply to the proposals of Mr. Compton, the gentleman who had solicited her hand. Alicia entreated her aunt to waive the subject, as she found it impossible ever to consent to such a union.
Scarcely was her answer uttered when Lady Audley’s anger burst forth uncontrollably. She accused her niece of the vilest ingratitude in having seduced her son from the obedience he owed his mother; of having plotted to ally her base Scotch blood to the noble blood of the Audleys; and, having exhausted every opprobrious epithet, she was forced to stop from want of breath to proceed. As Alicia listened to the cruel, unfounded reproaches of her aunt, her spirit rose under the unmerited ill-usage, but her conscience absolved her from all intention of injuring or deceiving a human being; and she calmly waited till Lady Audley’s anger should have exhausted itself, and then entreated to know what part of her conduct had excited her aunt’s displeasure.
Lady Audley’s reply was diffuse and intemperate. Alicia gathered from it that her rage had its source in a declaration her son had made to her of his affection for his cousin, and his resolution of marrying her as soon as he was of age; which open avowal of his sentiments had followed Lady Audley’s injunctions to him to forward the suit of Mr. Compton.
That her son, for whom she had in view one of the first matches in the kingdom, should dare to choose for himself; and, above all, to choose one whom she considered as much his inferior in birth as she was in fortune, was a circumstance quite insupportable to her feelings.
Of the existence of love Lady Audley had little conception; and she attributed her son’s conduct to wilful disobedience and obstinacy. In proportion as she had hitherto found him complying and gentle, her wrath had kindled at his present firmness and inflexibility. So bitter were her reflections on his conduct, so severe her animadversions on the being he loved, that Sir Edmund, fired with resentment, expressed his resolution of acting according to the dictates of his own will; and expressed his contempt for her authority in terms the most unequivocal. Lady Audley, ignorant of the arts of persuasion, by every word she uttered more and more widened the breach her imperiousness had occasioned, until Sir Edmund, feeling himself no longer master of his temper, announced his intention of leaving the house, to allow his mother time to reconcile herself to the inevitable misfortune of beholding him the husband of Alicia Malcolm.
He instantly ordered his horses and departed, leaving the following letter for his cousin:–
“I have been compelled by motives of prudence, of which you are the sole object, to depart without seeing you. My absence became necessary from the unexpected conduct of Lady Audley, which has led me so near to forgetting that she was my mother, that I dare not remain, and subject myself to excesses of temper which I might afterwards repent. Two years must elapse before I can become legally my own master, and should Lady Audley so far depart from the dictates of cool judgment as still to oppose what she knows to be inevitable, I fear that we cannot meet till then. My heart is well known to you; therefore I need not enlarge on the pain I feel at this unlooked-for separation. At the same time, I am cheered with the prospect of the unspeakable happiness that awaits me-the possession of your hand; and the confidence I feel in your constancy is in proportion to the certainty I experience in my own; I cannot, therefore, fear that any of the means which may be put in practice to disunite us will have more effect on you than on me.
“Looking forward to the moment that shall make you mine for ever, I remain with steady confidence: and unspeakable affection, your
“EDMUND AUDLEY.”
With a trembling frame Alicia handed the note to Lady Audley, and begged leave to retire for a short time; expressing her willingness to reply at another moment to any question her aunt might choose to put to her with regard to her engagement with Sir Edmund.
In the solitude of her own chamber Alicia gave way to those feelings of wretchedness which she had with difficulty stifled in the presence of Lady Audley, and bitterly wept over the extinction of her bright and newly-formed visions of felicity. To yield to unmerited ill-usage, or to crouch beneath imperious and self-arrogated power, was not in the nature of Alicia; and had Lady Audley been a stranger to her, the path of duty would have been less intricate. However much her own pride might have been wounded by entering into a family which considered her as an intruding beggar, never would she have consented to sacrifice the virtuous inclinations of the man she loved to the will of an arrogant and imperious mother. But alas! the case was far different. The recent ill-treatment she had experienced from Lady Audley could not efface from her noble mind the recollection of benefits conferred from the earliest period of her life, and of unvarying attention to her welfare. To her aunt she owed all but existence; she had wholly supported her; bestowed on her the most liberal education; and from Lady Audley sprang every pleasure she had hitherto enjoyed.
Had she been brought up by her paternal relations, she would in all probability never have beheld her cousin; and the mother and son might have lived in uninterrupted concord. Could she be the person to inflict on Lady Audley the severest disappointment she could experience? The thought was too dreadful to bear; and, knowing that procrastination could but increase her misery, no sooner had she felt convinced of the true nature of her duty than she made a steady resolution to perform and to adhere to it. Lady Audley had _vowed that while she had life she could never give her consent and approbation to her son’s marriage;_ and Alicia was too well acquainted with her disposition to have the faintest expectation that she would relent. But to remain any longer under her protection was impossible; and she resolved to anticipate any proposal of that sort from her protectress.
When Lady Audley’s passion had somewhat cooled, she again sent for Alicia. She began by repeating her _eternal enmity_ to the marriage in a manner impressive to the greatest degree, and still more decisive in its form by the cool collectedness of her manner. She then desired to hear what Alicia had to say in exculpation of her conduct.
The profound sorrow which filled the heart of Alicia left no room for timidity or indecision. She answered her without hesitation and embarrassment, and asserted her innocence of all deceit in such a manner as to leave no doubt at least of honourable proceeding. In a few impressive words she proved herself sensible of the benefits her aunt had through life conferred upon her; and, while she openly professed to think herself, in the present instance, deeply wronged, she declared her determination of never uniting herself to her cousin without Lady Audley’s permission, which she felt convinced was unattainable.
She then proceeded to ask where she should deem it most advisable for her to reside in future.
Happy to find her wishes thus prevented, the unfeeling aunt expressed her satisfaction at Alicia’s good sense and discretion; represented, in what she thought glowing colours, the unheard-of presumption it would have been in her to take advantage of Sir Edmund’s momentary infatuation; and then launched out into details of her ambitious views for him in a matrimonial alliance–views which she affected now to consider without obstacle.
Alicia interrupted the painful and unfeeling harangue. It was neither, she said, for Sir Edmund’s advantage nor to gratify his mother’s pride, but to perform the dictates of her own conscience, that she had resigned him; she even ventured to declare that the sharpest pang which that resignation had cost her was the firm conviction that it would inflict upon him a deep and lasting sorrow.
Lady Audley, convinced that moderate measures would be most likely to ensure a continuation of Alicia’s obedience, expressed herself grieved at the necessity of parting with her, and pleased that she should have the good sense to perceive the propriety of such a separation.
Sir Duncan Malcolm, the grandfather of Alicia, had, in the few communications that had passed between Lady Audley and him, always expressed a wish to see his granddaughter before he died. Her ladyship’s antipathy to Scotland was such that she would have deemed it absolute contamination for her niece to have entered the country; and she had therefore always eluded the request.
It was now, of all plans, the most eligible; and she graciously offered to convey her niece as far as Edinburgh. The journey was immediately settled; and before Alicia left her aunt’s presence a promise was exacted with unfeeling tenacity, and given with melancholy firmness, never to unite herself to Sir Edmund unsanctioned by his mother.
Alas! how imperfect is human wisdom! Even in seeking to do right how many are the errors we commit! Alicia judged wrong in thus sacrificing the happiness of Sir Edmund to the pride and injustice of his mother; but her error was that of a noble, self-denying spirit, entitled to respect, even though it cannot claim approbation. The honourable open conduct of her niece had so far gained upon Lady Audley that she did not object to her writing to Sir Edmund,
“DEAR SIR EDMUND–A painful line of conduct is pointed out to me by duty; yet of all the regrets I feel not one is so poignant as the consciousness of that which you will feel at learning that I have forever resigned the claims you so lately gave me to your heart and hand. It was not weakness–it could not be inconstancy–that produced the painful sacrifice of a distinction still more gratifying to my heart than flattering to my pride.
“Need I remind you that to your mother I owe every benefit in life? Nothing can release me from the tribute of gratitude which would be ill repaid by braving her authority and despising her will. Should I give her reason to regret the hour she received me under her roof, to repent of every benefit she has hitherto bestowed on me; should I draw down a mother’s displeasure, what reasonable hopes could we entertain of solid peace through life? I am not in a situation which entitles me to question the justice of Lady Audley’s will; and that will has pronounced that I shall never be Sir Edmund’s wife.
“Your first impulse may perhaps be to accuse me of coldness and ingratitude in quitting the place and country you inhabit, and resigning you back to yourself, without personally taking leave of you; but I trust that you will, on reflection, absolve me from the charge.
“Could I
have had any grounds to suppose that a personal interview would be productive of comfort to you, I would have joyfully supported the sufferings it would have inflicted on myself. But question your own heart as to the use you would have made of such a meeting; bear in mind that Lady Audley has my solemn promise never to be yours–a promise not lightly given; then imagine what must have been an interview between us under such circumstances.
“In proof of an affection which I can have no reason to doubt, I conjure you to listen to the last request I shall ever make to my dear cousin. Give me the heartfelt satisfaction to know that my departure has put an end to those disagreements between mother and son of which I have been the innocent cause.
“You have no reason to blame Lady Audley for this last step of mine. I have not been intimidated–threats, believe me, never would have extorted from me a promise to renounce you, had not Virtue herself dictated the sacrifice; and my reward will spring from the conviction that, as far as my judgment could discern, I have acted right.
“Forget, I entreat you, this inauspicious passion. Resolve, like me, to resign yourself, without murmuring, to what is now past recall; and, instead of indulging melancholy, regain, by a timely exertion of mind and body, that serenity which is the portion of those who have obeyed the dictates of rectitude.
“Farewell, Sir Edmund. May every happiness attend your future life! While I strive to forget my ill-fated affection, the still stronger feelings of gratitude and esteem for you can never fade from the heart of
“ALICIA MALCOLM.”
To say that no tears were shed during the composition of this letter would be to overstrain fortitude beyond natural bounds. With difficulty Alicia checked the effusions of her pen. She wished to have said much more, and to have soothed the agony of renunciation by painting with warmth her tenderness and her regret; but reason urged that, in exciting his feelings and displaying her own, she would defeat the chief purpose of her letter. She hastily closed and directed it, with a feeling almost akin to despair.
The necessary arrangements for the journey having been hastily made, the ladies set out two days after Sir Edmund had so hastily quitted them. The uncomplaining Alicia buried her woes in her own bosom; and neither murmurs on the one hand, nor reproaches on the other, were heard.
At the end of four days the travellers entered Scotland; and when they stopped for the night, Alicia, fatigued and dispirited, retired immediately to her apartment.
She had been there but a few minutes when the chambermaid knocked at the door, and informed her that she was wanted below.
Supposing that Lady Audley had sent for her, she followed the girl without observing that she was conducted in an opposite direction; when, upon entering an apartment, what was her astonishment at finding herself, not in the presence of Lady Audley, but in the arms of Sir Edmund! In the utmost agitation, she sought to disengage herself from his almost frantic embrace; while he poured forth a torrent of rapturous exclamations, and swore that no human power should ever divide them again.
“I have followed your steps, dearest Alicia, from the moment I received your letter. We are now in Scotland-in this blessed land of liberty. Everything is arranged; the clergyman is now in waiting; and in five minutes you shall be my own beyond the power of fate to sever us.”
Too much agitated to reply, Alicia wept in silence; and in the delight of once more beholding him she had thought never more to behold, forgot, for a moment, the duty she had imposed upon herself. But the native energy of her character returned. She raised her head, and attempted to withdraw from the encircling arms of her cousin.
“Never until you have vowed to be mine! The clergyman–the carriage–everything is in readiness. Speak but the word, dearest.” And he knelt at her feet.
At this juncture the door opened, and, pale with rage, her eyes flashing fire, Lady Audley stood before them. A dreadful scene now ensued. Sir Edmund disdained to enter into any justification of his conduct, or even to reply to the invectives of his mother, but lavished the most tender assiduities on Alicia; who, overcome more by the conflicts of her own heart than with alarm at Lady Audley’s violence, sat the pale and silent image of consternation.
Baffled by her son’s indignant disregard, Lady Audley turned all her fury on her niece; and, in the most opprobrious terms that rage could invent, upbraided her with deceit and treachery–accusing her of making her pretended submission instrumental to the more speedy accomplishment of her marriage. Too much incensed to reply, Sir Edmund seized his cousin’s hand, and was leading her from the room.
“Go, then–go, marry her; but first hear me swear, solemnly swear”– and she raised her hand and eyes to heaven–“that my malediction shall be your portion! Speak but the word, and no power shall make me withhold it!”
“Dear Edmund!” exclaimed Alicia, distractedly, “never ought I to have allowed time for the terrifying words that have fallen from Lady Audley’s lips; never for me shall your mother’s malediction fall on you. Farewell for ever!” and, with the strength of desperation, she rushed past him, and quitted the room. Sir Edmund madly followed, but in vain. Alicia’s feelings were too highly wrought at that moment to be touched even by the man she loved; and, without an additional pang, she saw him throw himself into the carriage which he had destined for so different a purpose, and quit for ever the woman he adored.
It may easily be conceived of how painful a nature must have been the future intercourse betwixt Lady Audley and her niece. The former seemed to regard her victim with that haughty distance which the unrelenting oppressor never fails to entertain towards the object of his tyranny; while even the gentle Alicia, on her part, shrank, with ill-concealed abhorrence, from the presence of that being whose stern decree had blasted all the fairest blossoms of her happiness.
Alicia was received with affection by her grandfather; and she laboured to drive away the heavy despondency which pressed on her spirits by studying his taste and humours, and striving to contribute to his comfort and amusement.
Sir Duncan had chosen the time of Alicia’s arrival to transact some business; and instead of returning immediately to the Highlands, he determined to remain some weeks in Edinburgh for her amusement.
But, little attractive as dissipation had been, it was now absolutely repugnant to Alicia. She loathed the idea of mixing in scenes of amusement with a heart incapable of joy, a spirit indifferent to every object that surrounded her; and in solitude alone she expected gradually to regain her peace of mind.
In the amusements of the gay season of Edinburgh, Alicia expected to find all the vanity, emptiness, and frivolity of London dissipation, without its varied brilliancy and elegant luxury; yet, so much was it the habit of her mind to look to the fairest side of things, and to extract some advantage from every situation in which she was placed, that pensive and thoughtful as was her disposition, the discriminating only perceived her deep dejection, while all admired her benevolence of manner and unaffected desire to please.
By degrees Alicia found that in some points she had been inaccurate in her idea of the style of living of those who form the best society of Edinburgh. The circle is so confined that its members are almost universally known to each other; and those various gradations of gentility, from the city’s snug party to the duchess’s most crowded assembly, all totally distinct and separate, which are to be met with in London, have no prototype in Edinburgh. There the ranks and fortunes being more on an equality, no one is able greatly to exceed his neighbour in luxury and extravagance. Great magnificence, and the consequent gratification produced by the envy of others being out of the question, the object for which a reunion of individuals was originally invented becomes less of a secondary consideration. Private parties for the actual purpose of society and conversation are frequent, and answer the destined end; and in the societies of professed amusement are to be met the learned, the studious, and the rational; not presented as shows to the company by the host and hostess, but professedly seeking their own gratification.
Still the lack of beauty, fashion, and elegance disappoint the stranger accustomed to their brilliant combination in a London world. But Alicia had long since sickened in the metropolis at the frivolity of beauty, the heartlessness of fashion, and the insipidity of elegance; and it was a relief to her to turn to the variety of character she found beneath the cloak of simple, eccentric, and sometimes coarse manners.
We are never long so totally abstracted by our own feelings as to be unconscious of the attempts of others to please us. In Alicia, to be conscious of it and to be grateful was the same movement. Yet she was sensible that so many persons could not in that short period have become seriously interested in her. The observation did not escape her how much an English stranger is looked up to for fashion and taste in Edinburgh, though possessing little merit save that of being English; yet she felt gratified and thankful for the kindness and attention that greeted her appearance on all sides.
Amongst the many who expressed goodwill towards Alicia there were a few whose kindness and real affection failed not to meet with a return from her; and others whose rich and varied powers of mind for the first time afforded her a true specimen of the exalting enjoyment produced by a communion of intellect. She felt the powers of her understanding enlarge in proportion; and, with this mental activity, she sought to solace the languor of her heart and save it from the listlessness of despair.
Alicia had been about six weeks in Edinburgh when she received a letter from Lady Audley. No allusions were made to the past; she wrote upon general topics, in the cold manner that might be used to a common acquaintance; and slightly named her son as having set out upon a tour to the Continent.
Alicia’s heart was heavy as she read the heartless letter of the woman whose cruelty ad not been able to eradicate wholly from her breast he strong durable affection of early habit.
Sir Duncan and Alicia spent two months in Edinburgh, at the end of which time they went to his country seat in—shire. The adjacent country was picturesque; and Sir Duncan’s residence, though bearing marks of the absence of taste and comfort in its arrangements, possessed much natural beauty.
Two years of tranquil seclusion had passed over her head when her dormant feeling were all aroused by a letter from Sir Edmund. It informed her that he was now of age; that his affection remained unalterable; that he was newly arrived from abroad; and that, notwithstanding the death-blow she had given to his hopes, he could not refrain, on returning to his native land, from assuring her that he was resolved never to pay his addresses to any other woman. He concluded by declaring his intent on of presenting himself at once to Sir Duncan, and soliciting his permission to claim her hand: when all scruples relating to Lady Audley must, from her change of abode, be at an end.
Alicia read the letter with grateful affection and poignant regret. Again she shed he bitter tears of disappointment, at the hard task of refusing for a second time so noble and affectionate a heart. But conscience whispered that to hold a passive line of conduct would be, in some measure, to deceive Lady Audley’s expectations; and she felt, with exquisite anguish, that she had no means to put a final stop to Sir Edmund’s pursuits, and to her own trials, but by bestowing her hand on another. The first dawning of this idea was accompanied by the most violent burst of anguish; but, far from driving away the painful subject, she strove to render it less appalling by dwelling upon it, and labouring to reconcile herself to what seemed her only plan of conduct. She acknowledged to herself that, to remain still single, a prey to Sir Edmund’s importunities and the continual temptations of her own heart, was, for the sake of present indulgence, submitting to a fiery ordeal, from which she could not escape unblamable without the most repeated and agonising conflicts.
Three months still remained for her of peace and liberty, after which Sir Duncan would go to Edinburgh. There she would be sure of meeting with the loved companion of her youthful days; and the lurking weakness of her own breast would then be seconded by the passionate eloquence of the being she most loved and admired upon earth.
She wrote to him, repeating her former arguments; declaring that she could never feel herself absolved from the promise she had given Lady Audley but by that lady herself, and imploring him to abandon a pursuit which would be productive only of lasting pain to both.
Her arguments, her representations, all failed in their effect on Sir Edmund’s impetuous character. His answer was short and decided; the purport of it, that he should see her in Edinburgh the moment she arrived there.
“My fate then is fixed,” thought Alicia, as she read this letter; “I must finish the sacrifice.”
The more severe had been the struggle between love and victorious duty, the more firmly was she determined to maintain this dear-bought victory.
Alicia’s resolution of marrying was now decided, and the opportunity was not wanting. She had become acquainted, during the preceding winter in Edinburgh, with Major Douglas, eldest son of Mr. Douglas of Glenfern. He had then paid her the most marked attention; and, since her return to the country, had been a frequent visitor at Sir Duncan’s. At length he avowed his partiality, which was heard by Sir Duncan with pleasure, by Alicia with dread and submission. Yet she felt less repugnance towards him than to any other of her suitors. He was pleasing in his person; quiet and simple in his manners; and his character stood high for integrity, good temper, and plain sense. The sequel requires little further detail. Alicia Malcolm became the wife of Archibald Douglas.
An eternal constancy is a thing so rare to be met with, that persons who desire that sort of reputation strive to obtain it by nourishing the ideas that recall the passion, even though guilt and sorrow should go hand in hand with it. But Alicia, far from piquing herself in the lovelorn pensiveness she might have assumed, had she yielded to the impulse of her feelings, diligently strove not only to make up her mind to the lot which had devolved to her, but to bring it to such a frame of cheerfulness as should enable her to contribute to her husband’s happiness.
When the soul is no longer buffeted by the storms of hope or fear, when all is fixed unchangeably for life, sorrow for the past will never long prey on a pious and well-regulated mind. If Alicia lost the buoyant spirit of youth, the bright and quick play of fancy, yet a placid contentment crowned her days; and at the end of two years she would have been astonished had anyone marked her as an object of compassion.
She scarcely ever heard from Lady Audley; and in the few letters her aunt had favoured her with, she gave favourable, though vague accounts of her son. Alicia did not court a more unreserved communication, and had long since taught herself to hope that he was now happy. Soon after their marriage Major Douglas quitted the army, upon succeeding to a small estate on the banks of Lochmarlie by the death of an uncle; and there, in the calm seclusion of domestic life, Mrs. Douglas found that peace which might have been denied her amid gayer scenes.
CHAPTER XIV.
And joyous was the scene in early summer.”
MADOC.
ON Henry’s return from his solitary ramble Mrs. Douglas learnt from him the cause of the misunderstanding that had taken place; and judging that, in the present state of affairs, a temporary separation might be of use to both parties, as they were now about to return home she proposed to her husband to invite his brother and Lady Juliana to follow and spend a few weeks with them at Lochmarlie Cottage.
The invitation was eagerly accepted; for though Lady Juliana did not anticipate any positive pleasure from the change, still she thought that every place must be more agreeable than her present abode, especially as she stipulated for the utter exclusion of the aunts from the party. To atone for this mortification Miss Becky was invited to fill the vacant seat in the carriage; and, accordingly, with a cargo of strong shoes, greatcoats, and a large work-bag well stuffed with white-seam, she took her place at the appointed hour.
The day they had chosen for their expedition was one that “sent a summer feeling to the heart.”
The air was soft and genial; not a cloud stained the bright azure of the heavens; and the sun shone out in all his splendour, shedding life and beauty even over all the desolate heath-clad hills of Glenfern. But, after they had journeyed a few miles, suddenly emerging from the valley, a scene of matchless beauty burst at once upon the eye. Before them lay the dark-blue waters of Lochmarlie, reflecting, as in a mirror, every surrounding object, and bearing on its placid transparent bosom a fleet of herring-boats, the drapery of whose black suspended nets contrasted with picturesque effect the white sails of the larger vessels, which were vainly spread to catch a breeze. All around, rocks, meadows, woods, and hills, mingled in wild and lovely irregularity.
On a projecting point of land stood a little fishing village, its white cottages reflected in the glassy waters that almost surrounded it. On the opposite side of the lake, or rather estuary, embosomed in wood, rose the lofty turrets of Lochmarlie Castle; while here and there, perched on some mountain’s brow, were to be seen the shepherd’s lonely hut, and the heath-covered summer shealing.
Not a breath was stirring, not a sound was heard save the rushing of a waterfall, the tinkling of some silver rivulet, or the calm rippling of the tranquil lake; now and then, at intervals, the fisherman’s Gaelic ditty chanted, as he lay stretched on the sand in some sunny nook; or the shrill distant sound of childish glee. How delicious to the feeling heart to behold so fair a scene of unsophisticated Nature, and to listen to her voice alone, breathing the accents of innocence and joy!
But none of the party who now gazed on it had minds capable of being touched with the emotions it was calculated to inspire.
Henry, indeed, was rapturous in his expressions of admiration; but he concluded his panegyrics by wondering his brother did not keep a cutter, and resolving to pass a night on board one of the herring boats, that he might eat the fish in perfection.
Lady Juliana thought it might be very pretty, if, instead of those frightful rocks and shabby cottages, there could be villas, and gardens, and lawns, and conservatories, and summer-houses, and statues.
Miss Becky observed, if it was hers, she would cut down the woods, and level the hills, and have races.
The road wound along the sides of the lake, sometimes overhung with banks of natural wood, which, though scarcely budding, grew so thick as to exclude the prospect; in other places surmounted by large masses of rock, festooned with ivy, and embroidered by mosses of a thousand hues that glittered under the little mountain streamlets. Two miles farther on stood the simple mansion of Mr. Douglas. It was situated in a wild sequestered nook, formed by a little bay at the farther end of the lake. On three sides it was surrounded by wooded hills that offered a complete shelter from every nipping blast. To the south the lawn, sprinkled with trees and shrubs, sloped gradually down to the water.
At the door they were met by Mrs. Douglas, who welcomed them with the most affectionate cordiality, and conducted them into the house through a little circular hall, filled with flowering shrubs and foreign plants.
“How delightful!” exclaimed Lady Juliana, as she stopped to inhale the rich fragrance. “Moss roses! I do delight in them,” twisting off a rich cluster of flowers and buds in token of her affection; “and I quite doat upon heliotrope,” gathering a handful of flowers as she spoke. Then extending her hand towards a most luxuriant Cape jessamine–
“I must really petition you to spare this, my favourite child,” said her sister-in-law, as she gently withheld her arm; “and, to tell you the truth, dear Lady Juliana, you have already infringed the rules of my little conservatory, which admit only of the gratification of two senses–seeing and smelling.”
“What! don’t you like your flowers to be gathered?” exclaimed Lady Juliana in a tone of surprise and disappointment; “I don’t know any other use they’re of. What quantities I used to have from Papa’s hothouses!”
Mrs. Douglas made no reply; but conducted her to the drawing-room, where her chagrin was dispelled by the appearance of comfort and even elegance that it bore. “Now, this is really what I like,” cried she, throwing herself on one of the couches; “a large fire, open windows, quantities of roses, comfortable Ottomans, and pictures; only what a pity you haven’t a larger mirror.”
Mrs. Douglas now rang for refreshments, and apologised for the absence of her husband, who, she said, was so much interested in his ploughing that he seldom made his appearance till sent for.
Henry then proposed that they should all go out and surprise his brother; and though walking in the country formed no part of Lady Juliana’s amusements, yet, as Mrs. Douglas assured her the walks were perfectly dry, and her husband was so pressing, she consented. The way lay through a shrubbery, by the side of a brawling brook, whose banks retained all the wildness of unadorned nature. Moss and ivy and fern clothed the ground; and under the banks the young primroses and violets began to raise their heads; while the red wintry berry still hung thick on the hollies.
“This is really very pleasant,” said Henry, stopping to contemplate a view of the lake through the branches of a weeping birch; “the sound of the stream, and the singing of the birds, and all those wild flowers make it appear as if it was summer in this spot; and only look, Julia, how pretty that wherry looks lying at anchor.” Then whispering to her, “What would you think of such a desert as this, with the man of your heart?”
Lady Juliana made no reply but by complaining of the heat of the sun, the hardness of the gravel, and the damp from the water.
Henry, who now began to look upon the condition of a Highland farmer with more complacency than formerly, was confirmed in his favourable sentiments at sight of his brother, following the primitive occupation of the plough, his fine face glowing with health, and lighted up with good humour and happiness. He hastily advanced towards the party, and shaking his brother and sister-in-law most warmly by the hand, expressed, with all the warmth of a good heart, the pleasure he had in receiving them at his house. Then observing Lady Juliana’s languid air, and imputing to fatigue of body what, in fact, was the consequence of mental vacuity, he proposed returning home by a shorter road than that by which they had come. Henry was again in raptures at the new beauties this walk presented, and at the high order and neatness in which the grounds were kept.
“This must be a very expensive place of yours, though,” said he, addressing his sister-in-law; “there is so much garden and shrubbery, and such a number of rustic bridges, bowers, and so forth: it must require half a dozen men to keep it in any order.”
“Such an establishment would very ill accord with our moderate means,” replied she; “we do not pretend to one regular gardener; and had our little embellishments been productive of much expense, or tending solely to my gratification, I should never have suggested them. When we first took possession of this spot it was a perfect wilderness, with a dirty farm-house on it; nothing but mud about the doors; nothing but wood and briers and brambles beyond it; and the village presented a still more melancholy scene of rank luxuriance, in its swarms of dirty idle girls and mischievous boys. I have generally found that wherever an evil exists the remedy is not far off; and in this case it was strikingly obvious. It was only engaging these ill-directed children by trifling rewards to apply their lively energies in improving instead of destroying the works of nature, as had formerly been their zealous practice. In a short time the change on the moral as well as the vegetable part of creation became very perceptible: the children grew industrious and peaceable; and instead of destroying trees, robbing nests, and worrying cats, the bigger boys, under Douglas’s direction, constructed these wooden bridges and seats, or cut out and gravelled the little winding paths that we had previously marked out. The task of keeping everything n order is now easy, as you may believe, when I tell you the whole of our pleasure-grounds, as you are pleased to term them, receive no other attention than what is bestowed by children under twelve years of age. And now, having, I hope, acquitted myself of the charge of extravagance, I ought to beg Lady Juliana’s pardon for this long, and, I fear, tiresome detail.”
Having now reached the house, Mrs. Douglas conducted her guest to the apartment prepared for her, while the brothers pursued their walk.
As long as novelty retained its power, and the comparison between Glenfern and Lochmarlie was fresh in remembrance, Lady Juliana, charmed with everything, was in high good-humour.
But as the horrors of the one were forgotten, and the comforts of the other became familiar, the demon of ennui again took possession of her vacant mind, and she relapsed into all her capricious humours and childish impertinences. The harpsichord, which, on her first arrival, she had pronounced to be excellent, was now declared quite shocking; so much out of tune that there was no possibility of playing upon it. The small collection of well-chosen novels she soon exhausted, and then they became the “stupidest books she had ever read;” the smell of the heliotrope now gave her the headache; the sight of the lake made her sea-sick.
Mrs. Douglas heard all these civilities in silence, and much more “in sorrow than in anger.” In the wayward inclinations, variable temper, and wretched inanity of this poor victim of indulgence, she beheld the sad fruits of a fashionable education; and thought with humility that, under similar circumstances, such might have been her own character.
“Oh, what an awful responsibility do those parents incur,” she would mentally exclaim, “who thus neglect or corrupt the noble deposit of an immortal soul! And who, alas! can tell where the mischief may end? This unfortunate will herself become a mother; yet wholly ignorant of the duties, incapable of the self-denial of that sacred office, she will bring into the world creatures to whom she can only transmit her errors and her weaknesses!”
These reflections at times deeply affected the generous heart and truly Christian spirit of Mrs. Douglas; and she sought, by every means in her power, to restrain those faults which she knew it would be vain to attempt eradicating.
To diversify the routine of days which grew more and more tedious to Lady Juliana, the weather being remarkably fine, many little excursions were made to the nearest country seats; which, though they did not afford her any actual pleasure, answered the purpose of consuming a considerable portion of her time.
Several weeks passed away, during which little inclination was shown on the part of the guests to quit their present residence, when Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were summoned to attend the sick-bed of Sir Duncan Malcolm; and though they pressed their guests to remain during their absence, yet Henry felt it would be highly offensive to his father were they to do so, and therefore resolved immediately to return to Glenfern.
CHAPTER XV.
“They steeked doors,’ they steeked yetts, Close to the cheek and chin;
They steeked them a’ but a little wicket, And Lammikin crap in.
“Now quhere’s the lady of this castle?”
_Old Ballad._
THE party were received with the loudest acclamations of joy by the good old ladies; and even the Laird seemed to have forgotten that his son had refused to breed black cattle, and that his daughter-in-law was above the management of her household.
The usual salutations were scarcely over when Miss Grizzy, flying to her little writing-box, pulled out a letter, and, with an air of importance, having enjoined silence, she read as follows:–
“LOCMARLIE CASTLE, _March_ 27,17–.
“DEAR CHILD-Sir Sampson’s stomach has been as bad as it could well be, but not so bad as your roads. He was shook to a jelly. My petticoat will never do. Mrs. M’Hall has had a girl. I wonder what makes people have girls; they never come to good. Boys may go to the mischief, and be good for something–if girls go, they’re good for nothing I know of. I never saw such roads. I suppose Glenfern means to bury you all in the highway; there are holes enough to make you graves, and stones big enough for coffins. You must all come and spend Tuesday here–not all, but some of you–you, dear child, and your brother, and a sister, and your pretty niece, and handsome nephew–I love handsome people. Miss M’Kraken has bounced away with her father’s footman–I hope he will clean his knives on her. Come early, and come dressed, to your loving friend,
“ISABELLA MACLAUGHLAN.”
The letter ended, a volley of applause ensued, which at length gave place to consultation. “Of course we all go–at least as many as the carriage will hold: we have no engagements, and there can be no objections.”
Lady Juliana had already frowned a contemptuous refusal, but in due time it was changed to a sullen assent, at the pressing entreaties of her husband, to whom any place was now preferable to home. In truth, the mention of a party had more weight with her than either her husband’s wishes or her aunts’ remonstrances; and they had assured her that she should meet with a large assemblage of the very first company at Lochmarlie Castle.
The day appointed for the important visit arrived; and it was arranged that two of the elder ladies and one of the young ones should accompany Lady Juliana in her barouche, which Henry was to drive.
At peep of dawn the ladies were astir, and at eight o’clock breakfast was hurried over that they might begin the preparations necessary for appearing with dignity at the shrine of this their patron saint. At eleven they reappeared in all the majesty of sweeping silk trains and well-powdered toupees. In outward show Miss Becky was not less elaborate; the united strength and skill of her three aunts and four sisters had evidently been exerted in forcing her hair into every position but that for which nature had intended it; curls stood on end around her forehead, and tresses were dragged up from the roots, and formed into a club on the crown; her arms had been strapped back till her elbows met, by means of a pink ribbon of no ordinary strength or doubtful hue.
Three hours were past in all the anguish of full-dressed impatience; an anguish in which every female breast must be ready to sympathise. But Lady Juliana sympathised in no one’s distresses but her own, and the difference of waiting in high dress or in deshabille was a distinction to her inconceivable. But those to whom _to be dressed _is an event will readily enter into the feelings of the ladies in question as they sat, walked, wondered, exclaimed, opened windows, wrung their hands, adjusted their dress, etc. etc., during the three tedious hours they were doomed to wait the appearance of their niece.
Two o’clock came, and with it Lady Juliana, as if purposely to testify her contempt, in a loose morning dress and mob cap. The sisters looked blank with disappointment; for having made themselves mistresses of the contents of her ladyship’s wardrobe, they had settled amongst themselves that the most suitable dress for the occasion would be black velvet, and accordingly many hints had been given the preceding evening on the virtues of black velvet gowns. They were warm, and not too warm; they were dressy, and not too dressy; Lady Maclaughlan was a great admirer of black velvet gowns; she had one herself with long sleeves, and that buttoned behind; black velvet gowns were very much wore; they knew several ladies who had them; and they were certain there would be nothing else wore amongst the matrons at Lady Maclaughlan’s, etc. etc.
Time was, however, too precious to be given either to remonstrance or lamentation. Miss Jacky could only give an angry look, and Miss Grizzy a sorrowful one, as they hurried away to the carriage, uttering exclamations of despair at the lateness of the hour, and the impossibility that anybody could have time to dress after getting to Lochmarlie Castle.
The consequence of the delay was that it was dark by the time they reached the place of destination. The carriage drove up to the grand entrance; but neither lights nor servants greeted their arrival; and no answer was returned to the ringing of the bell.
“We had best get out and try the back. This is most alarming, I declare!” cried Miss Grizzy.
“It is quite incomprehensible!” observed Miss Jacky. “We had best get out and try the back door.”
The party alighted, and another attack being made upon the rear, it met with better success; for a little boy now presented himself at a narrow opening of the door, and in a strong Highland accent demanded “wha ta war seekin’?”
“Lady Maclaughlan, to be sure, Colin,” was the reply.
“Weel, weel,” still refusing admittance; “but te leddie’s no to be spoken wi’ to-night.”
“Not to be spoken with!” exclaimed Miss Grizzy, almost sinking to the ground with apprehension. “Good gracious I–I hope I–I declare I–Sir Sampson!—-“
“OO ay, hur may see Lochmarlie hursel.” Then opening the door, he led the way, and ushered them into the presence of Sir Sampson, who was reclining in an easy chair, arrayed in a _robe de chambre_ and nightcap. The opening of the door seemed to have broken his slumber; for, gazing around with a look of stupefaction, he demanded in a sleepy peevish tone, “Who was there?”
“Bless me, Sir Sampson!” exclaimed both spinsters at once, darting forward and seizing a hand; “bless me, don’t you know us? And here is our niece, Lady Juliana.”
“My Lady Juliana Douglas!” cried he, with a shriek of horror, sinking again upon his cushions. “I am betrayed–I–Where is my Lady Maclaughlan?–Where is Philistine?– Where is–the devil! This is not to be borne! My Lady Juliana Douglas, the Earl of Courtland’s daughter, to be introduced to Lochmarlie Castle in so vile a manner, and myself surprised in so indecorous a situation!” And, his lips quivering with passion, he rang the bell.
The summons was answered by the same attendant that had acted as gentleman usher.
“‘Where are all my people?” demanded his incensed master.
“Hurs aw awa tull ta Sandy More’s.”
“Where is my Lady?”
“Hurs i’ ta teach tap.” [1]
[1] House top.
“‘Where is Murdoch?”
“Hur’s helpin’ ta leddie i’ ta teach tap.”
“Oh, we’ll all go upstairs, and see what Lady Maclaughlan and Philistine are about in the laboratory,” said Miss Grizzy. “So pray, just go on with your nap, Sir Sampson; we shall find the way–don’t stir;” and taking Lady Juliana by the hand, away tripped the spinsters in search of their friend. “I cannot conceive the meaning of all this,” whispered Miss Grizzy to her sister as they went along. “Something must be wrong; but I said nothing to dear Sir Sampson, his nerves are so easily agitated. But what can be the meaning of all this? I declare it’s quite a mystery.”
After ascending several long dark stairs, and following divers windings and turnings, the party at length reached the door of the _sanctum sanctorum,_ and having gently tapped, the voice of the priestess was heard in no very encouraging accents, demanding “Who was there?”
“It’s only us,” replied her trembling friend.
“Only us? humph! I wonder what fool is called _only us!_ Open the door, Philistine, and see what _only us_ wants.”
The door was opened and the party entered. The day was closing in, but by the faint twilight that mingled with the gleams from a smoky smouldering fire, Lady Maclaughlan was dimly discernible, as she stood upon the hearth, watching the contents of an enormous kettle that emitted both steam and odour. She regarded the invaders with her usual marble aspect, and without moving either joint or muscle as they drew near.
“I declare–I don’t think you know us, Lady Maclaughlan,” said Miss Grizzy in a tone of affected vivacity, with which she strove to conceal her agitation.
“Know you!” repeated her friend–“humph! Who you are, I know very well; but what brings you here, I do _not_ know. Do you know yourselves?”
“I declare—I can’t conceive—-” began Miss Grizzy; but her trepidation arrested her speech, and her sister therefore proceeded–
“Your ladyship’s declaration is no less astonishing than incomprehensible. We have waited upon you by your own express invitation on the day appointed by yourself; and we have been received in a manner, I must say, we did not expect, considering this is the first visit of our niece Lady Juliana Douglas.”
“I’ll tell you what, girls,” replied their friend, as she still stood with her back to the fire, and her hands behind her; “I’ll tell you what,–you are not yourselves–you are all lost–quite mad–that’s all–humph!”
“If that’s the case, we cannot be fit company for your ladyship,” retorted Miss Jacky warmly; “and therefore the best thing we can do is to return the way we came. Come, Lady Juliana–come, sister.”
“I declare, Jacky, the impetuosity of your temper is–I really cannot stand it–” and the gentle Grizzy gave way to a flood of tears.
“You used to be rational, intelligent creatures,” resumed her ladyship; “but what has come over you, I don’t know. You come tumbling in here at the middle of the night–and at the top of the house nobody knows how–when I never was thinking of you; and because I don’t tell a parcel of lies, and pretend I expected you, you are for flying off again –humph! Is this the behaviour of women in their senses? But since you are here, you may as well sit down and say what brought you. Get down, Gil Blas–go along, Tom Jones,” addressing two huge cats, who occupied a three-cornered leather chair by the fireside, and who relinquished it with much reluctance.
“How do you do, pretty creature?” kissing Lady Juliana, as she seated her in this eat’s cradle. “Now, girls, sit down, and tell what brought you here to-day–humph!”
“Can your Ladyship ask such a question, after having formally invited us?” demanded the wrathful Jacky.
“I’ll tell you what, girls; you were just as much invited by me to dine here to-day as you were appointed to sup with the Grand Seignior–humph!”
“What day of the week does your Ladyship call this?”
“I call it Tuesday; but I suppose the Glenfern calendar calls it Thursday: Thursday was the day I invited you to come.”
“I’m sure–I’m thankful we’re got to the bottom of it at last,” cried Miss Grizzy; “I read it, because I’m sure you wrote it, Tuesday.”
“How could you be such a fool, my love, as to read it any such thing? Even if it had been written Tuesday, you might have had the sense to know it meant Thursday. When did you know me invite anybody for a Tuesday?”
“I declare it’s very true; I certainly ought to have known better. I am quite confounded at my own stupidity; for, as you observe, even though you had said Tuesday, I might have known that you must have meant Thursday.”
“Well, well, no more about it. Since you are here you must stay here, and you must have something to eat, I suppose. Sir Sampson and I have dined two hours ago; but you shall have your dinner for all that. I must shut shop for this day, it seems, and leave my resuscitating tincture all in the deadthraw–Methusalem pills quite in their infancy. But there’s no help for it. Since you are here you must stay here, and you must be fed and lodged; so get along, girls, get along. Here, Gil Blas–come, Tom Jones.” And, preceded by her cats, and followed by her guests, she led the way to the parlour.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Point de milieu: l’hymen et ses liens Sont les plus grands ou des maux ou des biens.”
_L’ Enfant Prodigue._
ON returning to the parlour they found Sir Sampson had, by means of the indefatigable Philistine, been transported into a suit of regimentals and well-powdered peruke, which had in some measure restored him to his usual complacency. Henry, who had gone in quest of some person to take charge of the horses, now entered; and shortly after a tray of provisions was brought, which the half-famished party eagerly attacked, regardless of their hostess’s admonitions to eat sparingly, as nothing was so dangerous as eating heartily when people were hungry.
The repast being at length concluded, Lady Maclaughlan led her guests into the saloon. They passed through an antechamber, which seemed, by the faint light of the lamp, to contain nothing but piles on piles of china, and entered the room of state.
The eye at first wandered in uncertain obscurity; and the guests cautiously proceeded over a bare oaken floor, whose dark polished surface seemed to emulate a mirror, through an apartment of formidable extent.
The walls were hung with rich but grotesque tapestry. The ceiling, by its height and massy carving, bespoke the age of the apartment; but the beauty of the design was lost in the gloom.
A Turkey carpet was placed in the middle of the floor; and on the middle of the carpet stood the card table, at which two footmen, hastily summoned from the revels at Sandy More’s, were placing chairs and cards; seemingly eager to display themselves, as if to prove that they were always at their posts.
Cards were a matter of course with Sir Sampson and his lady; but as whist was the only game they ever played, a difficulty arose as to the means of providing amusement for the younger part of the company.
“I have plenty of books for you, my loves,” said Lady Maclaughlan; and, taking one of the candles, she made a journey to the other end of the room, and entered a small turret, from which her voice was heard issuing most audibly, “All the books that should ever have been published are here. Read these, and you need read no more: all the world’s in these books–humph! Here’s the Bible, great and small, with apocrypha and concordance! Here’s Floyer’s Medicina Gerocomica, or the Galenic Art of Preserving Old Men’s Health;–Love’s Art of Surveying and Measuring Land;–Transactions of the Highland Society;–Glass’s Cookery;–Flavel’s Fountain of Life Opened;–Fencing Familiarised;–Observations on the Use of Bath Waters;–Cure for Soul Sores;–De Blondt’s Military Memoirs;–MacGhie’s Book-keeping;–Mead on Pestilence;–Astenthology, or the Art of Preserving Feeble Life!”
As she enumerated the contents of her library, she paused at the end of each title, in hopes of hearing the book called for; but she was allowed to proceed without interruption to the end of her catalogue.
“Why, what would you have, children?” cried she in one of her sternest accents. “I don’t know! Do you know yourselves? Here are two novels, the only ones worth any Christian’s reading.”
Henry gladly accepted the first volumes of Gil Bias and Clarissa Harlowe; and, giving the latter to Lady Juliana, began the other himself. Miss Becky was settled with her hands across; and, the whist party being arranged, a solemn silence ensued.
Lady Juliana turned over a few pages of her own book, then begged Henry would exchange with her; but both were in so different a style from the French and German school she had been accustomed to, that they were soon relinquished in disappointment and disgust.
On the table, which had been placed by the fire for her accommodation, lay an English newspaper; and to that she had recourse, as a last effort at amusement. But, alas! even the dulness of Clarissa Harlowe was delight compared to the anguish with which this fatal paper was fraught, in the shape of the following paragraph, which presented itself to the unfortunate fair one’s eye:–
“Yesterday was married, by special license, at the house of Mrs. D—, his Grace the Duke of L—, to the beautiful and accomplished Miss D—. His Royal Highness the Duke of —- was gracious enough to act as father to the bride upon this occasion, and was present in person, as were their Royal Highnesses the Dukes of —, and of —. The bride looked most bewitchingly lovely, in a simple robe of the finest Mechlin lace, with a superb veil of the same costly material, which hung down to her feet. She wore a set of pearls estimated at thirty thousand pounds, whose chaste elegance corresponded with the rest of the dress. Immediately after the ceremony they partook of a sumptuous collation, and the happy pair setoff in a chariot and four, attended by six outriders, and two coaches and four.
“After spending the honeymoon at his Grace’s unique villa on the Thames, their Graces will receive company at their splendid mansion in Portman Square. The wedding paraphernalia is said to have cost ten thousand pounds; and her Grace’s jewel-box is estimated at little less than half a million.”
Wretched as Lady Juliana had long felt herself to be, her former state of mind was positive happiness compared to what she now endured. Envy, regret, self-reproach, and resentment, all struggled in the breast of the self-devoted beauty, while the paper dropped from her hand, and she cast a fearful glance around, as if to ascertain the reality of her fate. The dreadful certainty smote her with a sense of wretchedness too acute to be suppressed; and, darting a look of horror at her unconscious husband, she threw herself back in her chair, while the scalding tears of envy, anger, and repentance fell from her eyes.
Accustomed as Henry now was to these ebullitions of _feeling_ from his beauteous partner, he was not yet so indifferent as to behold them unmoved; and he sought to soothe her by the kindest expressions and most tender epithets. These indeed had long since ceased to charm away the lady’s ill-humour, but they sometimes succeeded in mollifying it. But now their only effect seemed to be increasing the irritation, as she turned from all her husband’s inquiries, and impatiently withdrew her hands from his.
Astonished at a conduct so incomprehensible, Douglas earnestly besought an explanation.
“There!” cried she, at length, pushing the paper towards him, “see there what I might have been but for you; and then compare it with what you have made me!”
Confounded by this reproach, Henry eagerly snatched up the paper, and his eye instantly fell on the fatal paragraph–the poisoned dart that struck the death-blow to all that now remained to him of happiness–the fond idea that, even amidst childish folly and capricious estrangement, still in the main he was beloved! With a quivering lip, and cheek blanched with mortification and indignant contempt, he laid down the paper; and without casting a look upon, or uttering a word to, his once _adored and adoring Juliana,_ quitted the apartment in all that bitterness of spirit which a generous nature must feel when it first discovers the fallacy of a cherished affection. Henry had indeed ceased to regard his wife with the ardour of romantic passion; nor had the solid feelings of affectionate esteem supplied its place; but he loved her still, because he believed himself the engrossing object of her tenderness; and in that blest delusion he had hitherto found palliatives for her folly and consolation for all his own distresses.
To indifference he might for a time have remained insensible; because, though his feelings were strong, his perceptions were not acute. But the veil of illusion was now rudely withdrawn. He beheld himself detested where he imagined himself adored; and the anguish of disappointed affection was heightened by the stings of wounded pride and deluded self-love.
CHAPTER XVII.
“What’s done, cannot be undone; to bed, to bed, to bed!”
_Exit Lady Macbeth._
THE distance at which the whist party had placed themselves, and the deep interest in which their senses were involved while the fate of the odd trick was pending, had rendered them insensible to the scene that was acting at the other extremity of the apartment. The task of administering succour to the afflicted fair one therefore devolved upon Miss Becky, whose sympathetic powers never had been called into action before. Slowly approaching the wretched Lady Juliana as she lay back in her chair, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks, she tendered her a smelling-bottle, to which her own nose, and the noses of her sisters, were wont to be applied whenever, as they choicely expressed it, they wanted a “fine smell.” But upon this trying occasion she went still farther. She unscrewed the stopper, unfolded a cotton handkerchief, upon which she poured a few drops of lavender water, and offered it to her ladyship, deeming that the most elegant and efficient manner in which she could afford relief. But the well-meant offering was silently waved off; and poor Miss Becky, having done all that the light of reason suggested to her, retreated to her seat, wondering what it was her fine sister-in-law would be at.
By the time the rubber was ended her ladyship’s fears of Lady Maclaughlan had enabled her to conquer her feelings so far that they had now sunk into a state of sullen dejection, which the good aunts eagerly interpreted into the fatigue of the journey, Miss Grizzy declaring that although the drive was most delightful–nobody could deny that–and they all enjoyed it excessively, as indeed everybody must who had eyes in their head; yet she must own, at the same time, that she really felt as if all her bones were broke.
A general rising therefore took place at an early hour, and Lady Juliana, attended by all the females of the party, was ushered into the chamber of state, which was fitted up in a style acknowledged to be truly magnificent, by all who had ever enjoyed the honour of being permitted to gaze on its white velvet bed curtains, surmounted by the family arms, and gracefully tucked up by hands _sinister-couped _at the wrists, etc. But lest my fashionable readers should be of a different opinion, I shall refrain from giving an inventory of the various articles with which this favoured chamber was furnished. Misses Grizzy and Jacky occupied the green room which had been fitted up at Sir Sampson’s birth. The curtains hung at a respectful distance from the ground; the chimney-piece was far beyond the reach even of the majestic Jacky’s arm; and the painted tiffany toilet was covered with a shoal of little tortoise-shell boxes of all shapes and sizes. A grim visage, scowling from under a Highland bonnet, graced by a single black feather, hung on high. Miss Grizzy placed herself before it, and, holding up the candle, contemplated it for about the nine hundredth time, with an awe bordering almost on adoration.
“Certainly Sir Eneas must have been a most wonderful man–nobody can deny that; and there can be no question but he had the second-sight to the greatest degree–indeed, I never heard it disputed; many of his prophecies, indeed, seem to have been quite incomprehensible; but that is so much the more extraordinary; you know–for instance, the one with regard to our family,” lowering her voice; “for my part I declare I never could comprehend it; and yet there must be something in it, too; but how any branch from the Glenfern tree–of course, you know, that can only mean the family tree–should help to prop Lochmarlie’s walls, is what I can’t conceive. If Sir Sampson had a son, to be sure, some of the girls–for you know it can’t be any of us; at least I declare for my own part–I’m sure even if any thing which I trust, in goodness, there is not the least chance of, should ever happen to dear Lady Maclaughlan, and Sir Sampson should take it into his head–which, of course, is a thing not to be thought about–and indeed I’m quite convinced it would be very much out of respect to dear Lady Maclaughlan, a friendship for us, if such a thing was ever into his head.”
Here the tender Grizzy got so involved in her own ideas as to the possibility of Lady Maclaughlan’s death, and the propriety of Sir Sampson’s proposals, together with the fulfilling of Sir Eneas the seer’s prophecy, that there is no saying how far she strayed in her self-created labyrinth. Such as choose to follow her may. For our part, we prefer accompanying the youthful Becky to her chamber, whither she was also attended by the lady of the mansion. Becky’s destiny for the night lay at the top of one of those little straggling wooden stairs common in old houses, which creaked in all directions. The bed was placed in a recess dark as Erebus, and betwixt the bed and the wall, was a depth profound, which Becky’s eye dared not attempt to penetrate.
“You will find everything right here, child,” said Lady Maclaughlan; “and if anything should be wrong you must think it right. I never suffer anything to be wrong here–humph!” Becky, emboldened by despair, cast a look towards the recess; and in a faint voice ventured to inquire, “Is there no fear that Tom Jones or Gil Blas may be in that place behind the bed?”
“And if they should,” answered her hostess in her most appalling tone, “what is that to you? Are you a mouse, that you are afraid they will eat you? Yes, I suppose you are. You are perhaps the princess in the fairy tale, who was a woman by day and a mouse by night. I believe you are bewitched! So I wish your mouseship a good night.” And she descended the creaking stair, singing,
“Mrs. Mouse, are you within?”
till even her stentorian voice was lost in distance. Poor Becky’s heart died with the retreating sounds, and only revived to beat time with the worm in the wood. Long and eerie was the night, as she gave herself up to all the horrors of a superstitious mind–ghosts, gray, black, and white, flitted around her couch; cats, half human, held her throat; the deathwatch ticked in her ears. At length the light of morning shed its brightening influence on the dim opaque of her understanding; and when all things stood disclosed in light, she shut her eyes and oped her mouth in all the blissfulness of security. The light of day was indeed favourable for displaying to advantage the beauties of Lochmarlie Castle, which owed more to nature than art. It was beautifully situated on a smooth green bank, that rose somewhat abruptly from the lake, and commanded a view, which, if not extensive, was yet full of variety and grandeur.
Its venerable turrets reared themselves above the trees which seemed coeval with them; and the vast magnificence of its wide-spreading lawns and extensive forests seemed to appertain to some feudal prince’s lofty domain. But in vain were creation’s charms spread before Lady Juliana’s eyes. Woods and mountains and lakes and rivers were odious things; and her heart panted for dusty squares and suffocating drawing-rooms.
Something was said of departing by the sisters when the party met at breakfast; but this was immediately negatived in the most decided manner by their hostess.
“Since you have taken your own time to come, my dears, you must take mine to go. Thursday was the day I invited you for, or at least wanted you for, so you must stay Thursday, and go away on Friday, and my blessing go with you–humph!”
The sisters, charmed with what they termed the hospitality and friendship of this invitation, delightedly agreed to remain; and as things were at least conducted in better style there than at Glenfern, uncomfortable as it was, Lady Juliana found herself somewhat nearer home there than at the family chateau. Lady Maclaughlan, who _could _be commonly civil in her own house, was at some pains to amuse her guest by showing her collection of china and cabinet of gems, both of which were remarkably fine. There was also a library, and a gallery, containing some good pictures, and, what Lady Juliana prized still more, a billiard table. Thursday, the destined day, at length arrived, and a large party assembled to dinner. Lady Juliana, as she half reclined on a sofa, surveyed the company with a supercilious stare, and without deigning to take any part in the general conversation that went on. It was enough that they spoke with a peculiar accent–everything they said must be barbarous; but she was pleased once more to eat off plate, and to find herself in rooms which, though grotesque and comfortless, yet wore an air of state, and whose vastness enabled her to keep aloof from those with whom she never willingly came in contact. It was therefore with regret she saw the day of her departure arrive, and found herself once more an unwilling inmate of her only asylum; particularly as her situation now required comforts and indulgences which it was there impossible to procure.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“No mother’s care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: * * * * *
Mother, miscall’d, farewell!”
Savage.
THE happy period, so long and anxiously anticipated by the ladies of Glenfern, at length arrived and Lady Juliana presented to the house of Douglas–not, alas! the ardently-desired heir to its ancient consequence, but twin-daughters, who could only be regarded as additional burdens on its poverty.
The old gentleman’s disappointment was excessive; and, as he paced up and down the parlour, with his hands in his pockets, he muttered, “Twa lasses! I ne’er heard tell o’ the like o’t. I wonder whar their tochers are to come frae?”
Miss Grizzy, in great perturbation, declared it certainly was a great pity it had so happened, but these things couldn’t be helped; she was sure Lady Maclaughlan would be greatly surprised.
Miss Jacky saw no cause for regret, and promised herself an endless source of delight in forming the minds and training the ideas of her infant nieces.
Miss Nicky wondered how they were to be nursed. She was afraid Lady Juliana would not be able for both, and wet-nurses had such stomachs!
Henry, meanwhile, whose love had all revived in anxiety for the safety, and anguish for the sufferings of his youthful partner, had hastened to her apartment, and, kneeling by her side, he pressed her hands to his lips with feelings of the deepest emotion.
“Dearer–a thousand times dearer to me than ever,” whispered he, as he fondly embraced her, “and those sweet pledges of our love!”
“Ah, don’t mention them,” interrupted his lady in a languid tone. “How very provoking! I hate girls so–and two of them–oh!” and she sighed deeply. Her husband sighed too; but from a different cause. The nurse now appeared, and approached with her helpless charges; and both parents, for the first time looked on their own offspring.
“What nice little creatures!” said the delighted father, as, taking them in his arms, he imprinted the first kiss on the innocent faces of his daughters, and then held them to their mother; who, turning from them with disgust, exclaimed, “How can you kiss them, Harry? They are so ugly, and they squall so! Oh do, for heaven’s sake, take them away! And see, there is poor Psyche quite wretched at being so long away from me. Pray, put her on the bed.”
“She will grow fond of her babies by-and-by,” said poor Henry to himself, as he quitted the apartment, with feelings very different from those with which he entered it.
At the pressing solicitations of her husband, the fashionable mother was prevailed upon to attempt nursing one of her poor starving infants; but the first trial proved also the last, as she declared nothing upon earth should ever induce her to perform so odious an office; and as Henry’s entreaties and her aunts’ remonstrances served alike to irritate and agitate her, the contest was, by the advice of her medical attendant, completely given up. A wet-nurse was therefore procured; but as she refused to undertake both children, and the old gentleman would not hear of having two such encumbrances in his family, it was settled, to the unspeakable delight of the maiden sisters, that the youngest should be entrusted entirely to their management, and brought up by hand.
The consequence was such as might have been foreseen. The child, who was naturally weak and delicate at its birth, daily lost a portion of its little strength, while its continued cries declared the intensity of its sufferings, though they produced no other effect on its unfeeling mother than her having it removed to a more distant apartment, as she could not endure to hear the cross little thing scream so for nothing. On the other hand, the more favoured twin, who was from its birth a remarkably strong lively infant, and met with all justice from its nurse, throve apace, and was pronounced by her to be the very picture of the _bonnie leddie, its mamma,_ and then, with all the low cunning of her kind, she would launch forth into panegyrics of its beauty, and prophecies of the great dignities and honours that would one day be showered upon it; until, by her fawning and flattery, she succeeded in exciting a degree of interest, which nature had not secured for it in the mother’s breast.
Things were in this situation when, at the end of three weeks, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas arrived to offer their congratulations on the birth of the twins. Lady Juliana received her sister-in-law in her apartment, which she had not yet quitted, and replied to her congratulations only by querulous complaints and childish murmurs.
“I am sure you are very happy in not having children,” continued she, as the cries of the little sufferer reached her ear; “I hope to goodness I shall never have any more. I wonder if anybody ever had twin daughters before, and I, too, who hate girls so!”
Mrs Douglas, disgusted with her unfeeling folly, knew not what to reply, and a pause ensued; but afresh burst of cries from the unfortunate baby again called forth its mother’s indignation.
“I wish to goodness that child was gagged,” cried she, holding her hands to her ears. “It has done nothing but scream since the hour it was born, and it makes me quite sick to hear it.”
“Poor little dear!” said Mrs. Douglas compassionately, “it appears to suffer a great deal.”
“Suffer!” repeated her sister-in-law; “what can it suffer? I am sure it meets with a great deal attention than any person in the house. These three old women do nothing but feed it from morning to night, with everything they can think of, and make such a fuss about it!”
“I suspect, my dear sister, you would be very sorry for yourself,” said Mrs. Douglas, with a smile, “were you to endure the same treatment as your poor baby; stuffed with improper food and loathsome drugs, and bandied about from one person to another.”
“You may say what you please,” retorted Lady Juliana pettishly; “but I know it’s nothing but ill temper: nurse says so too; and it is so ugly with constantly crying that I cannot bear to look at it;” and she turned away her head as Miss Jacky entered red with the little culprit in her arms, which she was vainly endeavouring to _talk _into silence, while she dandled it in the most awkward _maiden-like_ manner imaginable.
“Good heavens! what a fright!” exclaimed the tender parent, as her child was held up to her. “Why, it is much less than when it was born, an its skin is as yellow as saffron, and it squints! Only look what a difference,” as the nurse advanced and ostentatiously displayed her charge, who had just waked out of a long sleep; its checks flushed with heat; its skin completely filled up; and its large eyes rolling under its already dark eyelashes.
“The bonny wean’s just her mamma’s pickter,” drawled out the nurse, “but the wee missy’s uncolike her aunties.”
“Take her away,” cried Lady Juliana in a tone of despair; “I wish I could send her out of my hearing altogether, for her noise will be the death of me.”
“Alas! what would I give to hear the blessed sound of a living child!” exclaimed Mrs. Douglas, taking the infant in her arms. “And how great would be my happiness could I call the poor rejected one mine!”
“I’m sure you are welcome to my share of the little plague,” said her sister-in-law, with a laugh, “if you can prevail upon Harry to give up his.”
“I would give up a great deal could my poor child find a mother,” replied her husband, who just then entered.
“My dear brother!” cried Mrs. Douglas, her eyes beaming with delight, “do you then confirm Lady Juliana’s kind promise? Indeed I will be a mother to your dear baby, and love her as if she were my own; and in a month–oh! in much less time–you shall see her as stout as her sister.”
Henry sighed, as he thought, “‘Why has not my poor babe such a mother of its own?” Then thanking his sister-in-law for her generous intentions, he reminded her that she must consult her husband, as few men liked to be troubled with any children but their own.
“You are in the right,” said Mrs. Douglas, blushing at the impetuosity of feeling which had made her forget for an instant the deference due to her band; “I shall instantly ask his permission, and he is so indulgent to all my wishes that I have little doubt of obtaining his consent;” and, with the child in her arms, she hastened to her husband, and made known her request.
Mr. Douglas received the proposal with considerable coolness; wondering what his wife could see in such an ugly squalling thing to plague herself about it. If it had been a boy, old enough to speak and run about, there might be some amusement in it; but he could not see the use of a squalling sickly infant–and a girl too!
His wife sighed deeply, and the tears stole down her cheeks as she looked on the wan visage and closed eyes of the little sufferer. “God help the, poor baby?” said she mournfully; “you are rejected on all hands, but your misery will soon be at a end;” and she was slowly leaving the room with her helpless charge when her husband, touched at the sight of her distress, though the feeling that caused it he did not comprehend, called to her, “I am sure, Alicia, if you really wish to take charge of the infant I have no objections; only I think you will find it la great plague, and the mother is such a fool”
“Worse than a fool,” said Mrs. Douglas indignantly, “for she hates and abjures this her poor unoffending babe”
“Does she so?” cried Mr. Douglas, every kindling feeling roused within him at the idea of his blood being hated and abjured; “then, hang me! if she shall have any child of Harry’s to hate as long as I have a house to shelter it and a sixpence to bestow upon it,” taking the infant in his arms, and kindly kissing it.
Mrs. Douglas smiled through her tears as she embraced her husband, and praised his goodness and generosity; then, full of exultation and delight, she flew to impart the success of her mission to the parents of her _protegee._
Great was the surprise of the maiden nurses at finding they were to be bereft of their little charge.
“I declare, I think the child is doing as well as possible,” said Miss Grizzy. “To be sure it does yammer constantly–that can’t be denied; and it is uncommonly small–nobody can dispute that. At the same time, I am sure, I can’t tell what makes it cry, for I’ve given it two colic powders every day, and a tea-spoonful of Lady Maclaughlan’s carminative every three hours.”
“And I’ve done nothing but make water-gruel and chop rusks for it,” quoth Miss Nicky, “and yet it is never satisfied; I wonder what it would be at.”
“I know perfectly well what it would be at,” said Miss Jacky, with an air of importance. “All this crying and screaming is for nothing else but a nurse; but it ought not to be indulged. There is no end of indulging the desires, and ’tis amazing how cunning children are, and how soon they know how to take advantage of people’s weakness,” glancing an eye of fire at Mrs. Douglas. “Were that my child, I would feed her on bread and water before I would humour her fancies. A pretty lesson, indeed! if she’s to have her own way before she’s a month old.”
Mrs. Douglas knew that it was in vain to attempt arguing with her aunts. She therefore allowed them to wonder and declaim over their sucking pots, colic powders, and other instruments of torture, while she sent to the wife of one of her tenants who had lately lain-in, and who wished for the situation of nurse, appointing her to be at Lochmarlie the following day. Having made her arrangements, and collected the scanty portion of clothing Mrs. Nurse chose to allow, Mrs. Douglas repaired to her sister-in-law’s apartment, with her little charge in her arms. She found her still in bed, and surrounded with her favourites.
“So you really are going to torment yourself with that little screech-owl?” said she. “Well, I must say it’s very good of you; but I am afraid you will soon tire of her. Children are such plagues! Are they not, my darling?” added she, kissing her pug.
“You will not say so when you have seen my little girl a month hence,” said Mrs. Douglas, trying to conceal her disgust for Henry’s sake, who had just then entered the room. “She has promised me never to cry any more; so give her a kiss, and let us be gone.”
The high-bred mother slightly touched the cheek of her sleeping babe, extended her finger to her sister-in-law, and carelessly bidding them good-bye, returned to her pillow and her pugs.
Henry accompanied Mrs. Douglas to the carriage, and before they parted he promised his brother to ride over to Lochmarlie in a few days. He said nothing of his child, but his glistening eye and the warm pressure of his hand spoke volumes to the kind heart of his brother, who assured him that Alicia would be very good to his little girl, and that he was sure she would get quite well when she got a nurse. The carriage drove off, and Henry, with a heavy spirit, returned to the house to listen to his father’s lectures, his aunts’ ejaculations, and his wife’s murmurs.
CHAPTER XIX.
“We may boldly spend upon the hope of what Is to come in.”
_Henry IV_.
THE birth of twin daughters awakened the young father to a still stronger sense of the total dependence and extreme helplessness of his condition. Yet how to remedy it he knew not. To accept of his father’s proposal was out of the question, and it was equally impossible for him, were he ever so inclined, to remain much longer a burden on the narrow income of the Laird of Glenfern. One alternative only remained, which was to address the friend and patron of his youth, General Cameron; and to him he therefore wrote, describing all the misery of his situation, and imploring his forgiveness and assistance. “The old General’s passion must have cooled by this time,” thought he to himself, as he sealed the letter, “and as he has often overlooked former scrapes, I think, after all, he will help me out of this greatest one of all.”
For once Henry was not mistaken. He received an answer to his letter, in which the General, after execrating his folly in marrying a lady of quality, swearing at the birth of his twin daughters, and giving him some wholesome counsel as to his future mode of life, concluded by informing him that he had got him reinstated in his former rank in the army; that he should settle seven hundred per annum on him till he saw how matters were conducted, and, in the meantime, enclosed a draught for four hundred pounds, to open the campaign.
Though this was not, according to Henry’s notions, “coming down handsomely,” still it was better than not coming down at all, and with a mixture of delight and disappointment he flew to communicate the tidings to Lady Juliana.
“Seven hundred pounds a year!” exclaimed she, in raptures: “Heavens! what a quantity of money! why, we shall be quite rich, and I shall have such a beautiful house, and such pretty carriages, and give such parties, and buy so many fine things. Oh dear, how happy I shall be!”
“You know little of money, Julia, if you think seven hundred pounds will do all that,” replied her husband gravely. “I hardly think we can afford a house in town; but we may have a pretty cottage at Richmond or Twickenham, and I can keep a curricle, and drive you about, you know; and we may give famous good dinners.”
A dispute here ensued; her ladyship hated cottages and curricles and good dinners as much as her husband despised fancy balls, opera boxes, and chariots.
The fact was that the one knew very nearly as much of the real value of money as the other, and Henry’s _sober_ scheme was just as practicable as his wife’s extravagant one.
Brought up in the luxurious profusion of great house; accustomed to issue her orders and have them obeyed, Lady Juliana, at the time she married, was in the most blissful state of ignorance respecting the value of pounds, shillings, and pence. Her maid took care to have her wardrobe supplied with all things needful, and when she wanted a new dress or a fashionable jewel, it was only driving to Madame D.’s, or Mr. Y.’s, and desiring the article to be sent to herself, while the bill went to her papa.
From never seeing money in its own vulgar form, Lady Juliana had learned to consider it as a mere nominal thing; while, on the other hand, her husband, from seeing too much of it, had formed almost equally erroneous ideas of its powers. By the mistake kindness of General Cameron he had been indulged in all the fashionable follies of the day, and allowed to use his patron’s ample fortune as if it had already been his own; nor was it until he found himself a prisoner at Glenfern from want of money that he had ever attached the smallest importance to it. In short, both the husband and wife had been accustomed to look upon it in the same light as the air they breathed. They knew it essential to life, and concluded that it would come some way or other; either from the east or west, north or south. As for the vulgar concerns of meat and drink, servants’ wages, taxes, and so forth, they never found a place in the calculations of either. Birthday dresses, fetes, operas, equipages, and state liveries whirled in rapid succession through Lady Juliana’s brain, while clubs, curricles, horses, and claret, took possession of her husband’s mind.
However much they differed in the proposed modes of showing off in London, both agreed perfectly in the necessity of going there, and Henry therefore hastened to inform his father of the change in his circumstances, and apprise him of his intention of immediately joining his regiment, the —- Guards.
“Seven hunder pound a year!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “Seven hunder pound! O’ what can ye mak’ o’ a’ that siller? Ye’ll surely lay by the half o’t to tocher your bairns. Seven hunder pound a year for doing naething!”
Miss Jacky was afraid, unless they got some person of sense (which would not be an easy matter) to take the management of it, it would perhaps be found little enough in the long-run.
Miss Grlzzy declared it was a very handsome income, nobody could dispute that; at the same time, everybody must allow that the money could not have been better bestowed.
Miss Nicky observed “there was a great deal of good eating and drinking in seven hundred a year, if people knew how to manage it.”
All was bustle and preparation throughout Glenfern Castle, and the young ladies’ good-natured activity and muscular powers were again in requisition to collect the wardrobe, and pack the trunks, imperial, etc., of their noble sister.
Glenfern remarked “that fules war fond o’ flitting, for they seemed glad to leave the good quarters they were in.”
Miss Grizzy declared there was a great excuse for their being glad, poor things! young people were always so fond of a change; at the same time, nobody could deny but that it would have been quite natural for them to feel sorry too.
Miss Jacky was astonished how any person’s mind could be so callous as to think of leaving Glenfern without emotion.
Miss Nicky wondered what was to become of the christening cake she had ordered from Perth; it might be as old as the hills before there would be another child born amongst them.
The Misses were ready to weep at the disappointment of the dreaming-bread.
In the midst of all this agitation, mental and bodily, the long-looked-for moment arrived. The carriage drove round ready packed and loaded, and, absolutely screaming with delight, Lady Juliana sprang into it. As she nodded and kissed her hand to the assembled group, she impatiently called to Henry to follow. His adieus were, however, not quite so tonish as those of his high-bred lady, for he went duly and severally through all the evolutions of kissing, embracing, shaking of hands, and promises to write; then taking his station by the side of the nurse and child–the rest of the carriage being completely filled by the favourites–he bade a long farewell to his paternal halls and the land of his birth.