CHAP. II.LETTERXXXIV.From the same to the same.Believeme, my dear friend, the slight indisposition which that Chit Alien has magnified into a dangerous fever, was shorter in duration than the alarm she so incautiously produced at Heathcot. It is true that, in order to please Lady Maclairn and to satisfy my nurse, I submitted to the penance of keeping my bed for two days and have for some days since, been pent up in my own apartment. It does youth and vigour no harm, to have from time to time such gentle lessons as the one I have been taught, of the fallacy and fragility of life; but with the cordials of kindness and attention which I have received, the only remaining doubt is whether I shall think of it to any purpose. Sir Murdoch, my first physician at present, or rather my only one, is accused of being like too many of his medical brethren, unwilling to pronounce the patient well, from his relish of his fee. But this is pure malice; and a scandal fabricated by Mrs. Heartley, out of revenge; because he preferred sharing with me a new book, to dining with her; alleging also, that as she had allured my nurse from her charge, it behoved him to watch me. You will do wisely, my dear Lucy, to consider the danger of this tremendous fever, during which Mrs. Allen leaves me to amuse herself. But these romantic girls! they so dearly love the pathetic, that they are never to be trusted with a plain tale. Now I, being a mere matter of fact correspondent; and who, in two lines, had I been permitted, would have told you that I had got a severe cold; now as frankly avow, that I have had a fever-fit, to the full aspatheticas any which Allen’s imagination pictured to you. But as it happens to be one of that sort which is contagious, I beg you to be prepared for a quick pulse, and an aching head, on perusing the enclosed narration. I have paid the tribute; and have calmed my spirits, by writing to my Horace. Adieu,pour le présent.(In Continuation)When Mrs. Allen left me, for her walk and her day’s holiday, Sir Murdoch took his seat opposite to me. I was making some artificial flowers for Lady Maclairn’s vases. The baronet was amused by seeing me, as he said “rival Flora;” and we chatted some little time over the work. At length his silence to a question of mine diverted my attention from my employment, and looking at him, I found he was fallen into one of his absent fits, and as usual, had his eyes fixed on me, with that expression of sadness so peculiarly touching. “Come, my good friend,” said I with cheerfulness, “do not suppose I shall permit you to be idle; either take up the book, or wind this skain of silk for me.” He smiled and took the silk. “Take heed you do not entangle it,” said I, assisting for a moment in the operation, “it is wofully ruffled.” “It resembles more closely,” replied he calmly, and proceeding cautiously in his task, “the web of my thoughts which you interrupted.” But I had found the clue, that had made all smooth within, and with patience I shall succeed inthisbusiness.“I was thinking, my dear Miss Cowley,” continued he, “when you called me to order, of those means which Providence employs for its gracious purposes of mercy and deliverance, to beings like ourselves, who in the imperfect state in which we are placed, with all the reason of which so many boast, neither can provide for our own good, nor prevent a future evil: I was tracing the chain of events which in their consequences were appointed to heal my wounded mind, and with these considerations, entered the sense of my own short-sightedness, and opposition to the intended remedy; my repugnance to Mr. Flamall’s offers of placing you here; the dread of seeing you; and the painful struggles I had in conquering my aversion to the journey to town. As these circumstances arose to my memory, I experienced the truth and vexation they had caused me; and I doubt not my countenance indicated to you that I was disturbed. But what will you think when I tell you, that the first view of you was to me accompanied with an anguish of soul unutterable, and which it makes me faint even to think of? Yet, my dear Miss Cowley, you were the angel of mercy sent to heal me, you spoke, you smiled, I heard your voice, the storm of conflicting sorrows was hushed, my soul was entranced in bliss; for I imagined that I saw before me my sainted Matilda. This lady was my early love, my affianced wife, the pride, the glory of my race! the object with which my life, my honour, and my affection were inseparably connected! Listen to me,” added he with solemnity, observing that I was disturbed, “your influence over me has not been effected by your attractive beauty: neither your understanding, your native cheerfulness, nor your tender compassion, would have reached my torpid heart and extinguished sensations. It was your resemblance to his portrait, Miss Cowley, that burst asunder the chains which had weighed me down, and that spoke peace to my harassed spirit.” He drew from his bosom the miniature picture of a young lady; and presenting it to me added, that his wife had been surprised by my striking likeness to it. The painting was enamelled and highly finished; and the face was, to speak frankly, lovely. “I am disqualified for a judge,” said I, examining it; “were it less beautiful, I might allow my vanity indulgence, and honestly confess, that, I think it does resemble a miniature of me, drawn when last I was in London, for a friend; but this lady was a much fairer woman than I am.” “Not as she appeared when I knew her,” answered he, replacing the picture; “health and exercise had given such tints to her complexion as no colours I could employ were able to reach. How many times have I had reason to regret the attainment which gave to my aching eyes this faint memorial of her charms! Every time I surveyed this picture was a moment placed to the account of misery, till I saw you: but now it is my consolation to compare its features with yours. I know what you think, but in pity to my infirmity suffer me to enjoy the delusion, which lulls me to repose. You have no parents living. Let me call youdaughter. Such, had heaven permitted our union, would have been Matilda’s child; such, the image of herself, might she have bequeathed me, had”—He could not proceed; but bursting into tears he covered his face. “Call me by any title that pleases you,” said I; “none that you will give me can express more reverence and esteem than I have for you. But to render your daughter happy, you must be less susceptible to impressions so unfriendly to your health and comforts.” “They have ceased to be afflictive,” answered he; “for I can now say with Job, ‘My sorrows came in upon me as a wide breaking in of waters; in the desolation they rolled themselves upon me; but my deliverer was at my right hand to save me.’ His arm of mercy has been stretched out for me also, and ‘I will praise him whilst I have my being.’ But let me tellmy childherfather’sstory,” added he pensively smiling.—“Another time,” replied I, “will be better for us both.” “Do you think so?” answered he with a sigh, “then it shall be so; but I should like you to know the man before you, and whom you permit to call youdaughter. It would relieve my mind to give you a portion of its burden.” I could not refuse this appeal, and he proceeded.HISTORY OF THE MACLAIRN FAMILY.“My father,” said Sir Murdoch, “was one of those men who could not abandon their unfortunate monarch in the year 1715, and he was one also of that faithful band who saw their own ruin in the fall of the Stuart line.“He fled to France, after every hope was lost, and there he entered into a regiment chiefly composed of men like himself, and whose loyalty and courage have well recompensed the country which then sheltered and fed them. With the rank of captain, and an unsullied name, he soon after married a young lady, whose fortune was similar to his own. Her father was major in the same corps; but unable to bear the reverse of fortune, or borne down by the fatigues he had encountered in the royal cause, he died, and left his daughter to a Maclairn”—Sir Murdoch rose, and paced the room—“I was the only fruit of this marriage,” resumed he; “my mother I do not remember, for I was only three years old when my father lost this prop of his earthly comforts; but he taught me to revere her name.“During the contest for dominion, to which I have already alluded, my uncle, Sir Alexander Maclairn, had with more prudence thanhonour, according to the opinion of the adherents to the unhappy Charles, remained for a time inactive, and at length declared himself openly the friend of the established government; but neither his zeal nor his services were further recompensed than by leaving him to the peaceable enjoyment of the wreck of the once prosperous fortune of his ancestors; namely, a castle falling to decay, and the remnant of the estate burdened with a heavy mortgage.“Time had given stability to the British monarch; and my uncle, desirous of seeing a brother whom he loved and secretly reverenced, employed such means as were necessary to restore my father to his native rocks with security. This intelligence was communicated to him, when I had just reached my nineteenth year, and Sir Alexander, with every argument that affection could suggest, finished his intreaties by reminding my father of his age and infirmities; and the duty they were mutually bound to perform before death closed their eyes. ‘All that remains of our name,’ added he, ‘is in our children. My Matilda shall never lose the title of Maclairn; from her cradle she has been taught to love her cousin, and to your Murdoch do I look for a renovation of that race which it is your duty to perpetuate. Remember that these children are the last hope of an ancient and honourable house, which even in the obscurity of a sunken fortune will retain its place in the annals of true glory; for its sons were brave and its daughters virtuous.’ He blessed Providence for its interposition, which had opened his eyes to the folly and madness which the prince’s adherents had fallen into, in their attempts to reinstate the proscribed Stuarts; ‘and I now bless heaven,’ added he, ‘that by my moderation I have preserved an asylum for you and a home for our children.’“My father, disgusted with a foreign service, and languishing to behold his native country, eagerly embraced my uncle’s offers. He had long before this event determined that my path in life should not be that of a soldier, and he had with extreme caution repressed in me his own military spirit. I was educated by a Scotchman who had once been a minister of that Master whose religion ispeace; my leisure hours were filled up by studies of retired ease and tranquillity; and painting and music were familiar to me.“We were received by my uncle with unaffected joy; and welcomed by a few faithful adherents to our family with those genuine demonstrations of good will and attachment so congenial to the noble and uncorrupted Highlanders. On beholding my cousin Matilda, I blushed as deeply from the consciousness of what had passed in my mind in relation to her, as from surprise on beholding this ‘rustic’ cousin embellished with all the graces of youth, beauty, and artless manners; and when with ingenuous simplicity she offered me her glowing cheek, her eyes beaming with joy and kindness, I felt that I was unworthy of her goodness. A few months were given to the domestic comforts of my uncle and father, and apparently for the purpose of rivetting my chains. My assiduities met with no check; and ‘our children’ was the common epithet my uncle employed in speaking of us. A more explicit avowal of his wishes followed; and in this conversation Sir Alexander candidly acknowledged that he was under pecuniary difficulties, and unable to establish me in life without some exertions on my part. My father, without knowing the pressure of his brother’s difficulties in their full extent, not only saw the expediency, but the utility of my being employed, and he sent me to Aberdeen to study the civil law. During a year, which was thus passed without profit to me but as it led me to a further knowledge of the mathematics, my uncle had gained on my father to listen to his darling project as well as my own; and being offered for me an ensigncy in a regiment destined for Minorca, he gained his point, and I escaped from a pursuit I detested, that of the law. An additional debt was cheerfully incurred on the Maclairn’s impoverished acres. My separation from Matilda was softened to me by her father’s last words: ‘Have ever before you this recompense,’ said he, placing at the same time Matilda’s hand in mine; ‘she will be always aMaclairn. Do you so conduct yourself as to return to us worthy of the name.’ You will imagine, that my martial spirit was sunk when I received her embrace, and my poor father’s blessing: I will not be tedious. During my three years’ station at Minorca, I rose to the rank of lieutenant, and lost my father. From that period the cloud of adversity became more portentous. I was frustrated in my expectations of returning home, and receiving the reward I had so arduously strove to merit. But my uncle’s ambition had been roused by the partiality of my friends, and he contrived to promote me at the expence of my happiness. I exchanged my post and regiment for one at Gibraltar, in which I ranked as captain. This disappointment of my hopes deeply affected my spirits, and Matilda had apparently shared with me in this trial of our patience. Her letters were more tender than cheerful, and she commonly finished by reminding me of her determined faith and unutterable affection. Gracious God! my trust in thy power was not more solid than my faith in Matilda’s truth!“In the last letter she wrote me, and which is engraven on my memory, she finishedthus:—‘It soothes my depressed spirits, to call thee my wedded lord, and to sign myself thy wife. Are we not one, my Maclairn, in the sight of that Being who has witnessed our vows of truth, of honourable love? Are we not one, though seas and lands part us? Yes, and though worlds should interpose to divide us, we shall meet and be united as kindred spirits, asone, in the blessed state of perfect happiness, of permanent felicity. There at least will thy Matilda meet thee, and there will her Maclairn be comforted for his present disappointments.’“Alas! Miss Cowley, the cloud had burst on my devoted head at the very moment I was unconsciously weeping over this letter, as the precious proof of my security; though it was also as painful a proof of the state of Matilda’s spirits. The indolence and pusillanimity of Sir Alexander Maclairn had always been leading traits in his character; these, with other circumstances, had placed him in the power ofa man, who hated him, merely because his grandfather had served Sir Alexander’s in a menial station. Industry had made this man’s successors wealthy; and my uncle had, in his difficulties, applied to their more fortunate heir than himself, for money so repeatedly, that he was little more than the ostensible proprietor of his inheritance. His wary and greedy creditor had changed his tone; and frequent hints of the necessity of foreclosing the mortgage, unless my uncle could be more punctual in paying his stipulated interest, were, from time to time, thrown out with increasing seriousness and harshness. In a dilemma of this kind, the laird of Maclairn Castle received a visit from his importunate neighbour, who introduced with much ceremony his only child, a young man, who had lived chiefly in the South with a rich tradesman, his uncle. Hospitality, as much as policy, induced my uncle to welcome the stranger; and the young man repeated his visit. The sight of my beauteous Matilda effected more; he became enamoured, and made his father his confidant. Secure of the estate, he now aspired to the daughter ofa Maclairn, and without loss of time he proposed an alliance, which at once, as he observed, would settle all accounts between himself and Sir Alexander; his son not desiring a shilling with his daughter; and he added, that he would cancel every mortgage and bond on the day of their marriage. The weak old man listened to this infamous proposal; and Matilda received her father’s commands to be favourable to her generous suitor. I will not detail to you the persecutions which resulted from her firm refusal. The lover’s father, irritated by herobstinacy, as he termed herfortitude, gave Sir Alexander to understand that he saw through the collusion, and that his daughter was taught her part by himself, in order to evade a connexion which his pride could not brook. Menaces followed; and he quitted the house, swearing that Sir Alexander should be roofless in a month. Intimidated by a threat which he well knew this man could effect, he became desperate in the means of avoiding it. The day of marriage was fixed, and Matilda was summoned from her prison chamber, to hear her fate from her father. She expostulated; he was deaf: she reminded him of his engagements with me; he sternly answered that she should not be a beggar; nor would he live to want bread; and bade her begone. ‘Bless me before I go,’ said she, meekly kneeling, ‘send to me repose with a father’s love.’ The wretched parent, a stranger to the calmness of despair when at its climax, and viewing her tearless eye and collected features through the medium of his own wishes, raised her with transports of joy from her suppliant posture, and pouring out his fervent benedictions on her, he advised her to return to her apartment and compose her mind for the reception of her future husband and his father, who would, in the evening, convince her of the value they set on the alliance. She replied that she preferred a walk in the garden, and withdrew.”—Sir Murdoch paused; he fixed his eyes on my face; they seemed covered with a dreadful film; he breathed short, and trembled as in an ague fit.—“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed I, terrified, “let me give you something; you are ill.”—He heard me not.—“Yes,” said he, with a suppressed and tremulous voice, “she withdrew! and whither?—to the arms of mercy! Yes, she withdrew from opposition, from cruelty, to the bosom of her Redeemer! There was none to succour! none to help! When discovered, her vermilion cheek was pale! her eyes were closed! her beautiful tresses were mixed with the dank and filthy weeds of the stagnated pool! But her pure and unsullied soul had escaped pollution!”“My dear Sir Murdoch,” said I, “you distress me; for pity’s sake, say no more. Let me call Lady Maclairn, indeed you grieve me, I cannot bear it.” “Then how should I?” answered he; “yet I have survived her!”—He wiped away the tears which relieved him, and with more composure added, “be not alarmed, I am myself, and patient. My uncle,” continued he, “lived only three weeks after this event. The destined bridegroom left the Highlands, and soon after died in his passage to the West Indies. His father was, I believe, consoled by adding Maclairn Castle and its impoverished demesnes to his possessions. I had, on quitting Scotland, taken with me as a domestic, my Matilda’s foster brother. His sister, something older than himself, had been her favourite attendant; and the poor girl in the hour of this distress committed to Wallace the care of preparing me for this intelligence; advising him to chuse one of my friends for an office which she foresaw he would be unequal to. It appeared that the angel had preconcerted her design, before she attended her father’s summons; she had affixed to my picture a scrap of paper, and placed them in Jenny’s prayer book. This precious evidence of her love and truth was inclosed in Jenny’s letter to her brother; and contained these words: ‘I die, a Maclairn; and Maclairn’s affianced, faithful Matilda.’ The poor fellow, unable to stand the shock himself, rushed from the house with this fatal letter in his hand; and under such perturbation of mind that he had neither taken his hat, nor perceived that this slip of paper had escaped him. He sought my most intimate friend; and with agonies of grief implored his aid. In this interval of time, I, finding the summons of my bell unanswered, repaired to the room which Wallace occupied, and finding on his table the implements of writing, which I wanted, I sat down to write a card. Judging that he was not far remote, from seeing his hat; I moved it for my convenience. The note appeared! I will spare you, my child. Let it suffice, my friend and Wallace found me senseless. A raging fever succeeded. To this were opposed the cares of my friends, and a constitution never abused; but I was reduced to the state of an idiot; and as such, unconsciously embarked for England with my faithful Wallace, as unfit for the service, and from the hopes entertained of the change of climate and sea-air. He conducted me to his father’s cottage; it was rich in nothing but fidelity and humanity; but in these, great Giver of all good! how liberal had been thy donation! Here the wretched Maclairn was received; and recovered his strength of body, and the faculty of knowing his misery. I sold my commission, paid my debts; and without a thought beyond my Matilda’s grave, I laboured with my hosts for the bread we shared. Wallace, with patient love and unexampled attachment, had watched over mydespair, myfeebleness, my nowsettled melancholy. At length, he hazarded to speak of the recent rupture with our American colonies, and with a soldier’s spirit he infused into my heart the wish of dying like one. I had still two or three hundred pounds left, and determined in my design, and apparently governed by his arguments to shake off the indolence which was destroying my life and my honour, I took the road he pointed out. On reaching London, Wallace soon established his claims to favour; and he embarked for America as serjeant with the first troops destined to subdue the malcontents of that country. My friends, advised me to wait for the result of their efforts in my favour, not thinking that I could with propriety serve in a subordinate rank to the one I had filled and quitted without disgrace. I consented; and took up my temporary residence in a lodging at Kensington-gravel-pits.”
LETTERXXXIV.
From the same to the same.
Believeme, my dear friend, the slight indisposition which that Chit Alien has magnified into a dangerous fever, was shorter in duration than the alarm she so incautiously produced at Heathcot. It is true that, in order to please Lady Maclairn and to satisfy my nurse, I submitted to the penance of keeping my bed for two days and have for some days since, been pent up in my own apartment. It does youth and vigour no harm, to have from time to time such gentle lessons as the one I have been taught, of the fallacy and fragility of life; but with the cordials of kindness and attention which I have received, the only remaining doubt is whether I shall think of it to any purpose. Sir Murdoch, my first physician at present, or rather my only one, is accused of being like too many of his medical brethren, unwilling to pronounce the patient well, from his relish of his fee. But this is pure malice; and a scandal fabricated by Mrs. Heartley, out of revenge; because he preferred sharing with me a new book, to dining with her; alleging also, that as she had allured my nurse from her charge, it behoved him to watch me. You will do wisely, my dear Lucy, to consider the danger of this tremendous fever, during which Mrs. Allen leaves me to amuse herself. But these romantic girls! they so dearly love the pathetic, that they are never to be trusted with a plain tale. Now I, being a mere matter of fact correspondent; and who, in two lines, had I been permitted, would have told you that I had got a severe cold; now as frankly avow, that I have had a fever-fit, to the full aspatheticas any which Allen’s imagination pictured to you. But as it happens to be one of that sort which is contagious, I beg you to be prepared for a quick pulse, and an aching head, on perusing the enclosed narration. I have paid the tribute; and have calmed my spirits, by writing to my Horace. Adieu,pour le présent.
(In Continuation)
When Mrs. Allen left me, for her walk and her day’s holiday, Sir Murdoch took his seat opposite to me. I was making some artificial flowers for Lady Maclairn’s vases. The baronet was amused by seeing me, as he said “rival Flora;” and we chatted some little time over the work. At length his silence to a question of mine diverted my attention from my employment, and looking at him, I found he was fallen into one of his absent fits, and as usual, had his eyes fixed on me, with that expression of sadness so peculiarly touching. “Come, my good friend,” said I with cheerfulness, “do not suppose I shall permit you to be idle; either take up the book, or wind this skain of silk for me.” He smiled and took the silk. “Take heed you do not entangle it,” said I, assisting for a moment in the operation, “it is wofully ruffled.” “It resembles more closely,” replied he calmly, and proceeding cautiously in his task, “the web of my thoughts which you interrupted.” But I had found the clue, that had made all smooth within, and with patience I shall succeed inthisbusiness.
“I was thinking, my dear Miss Cowley,” continued he, “when you called me to order, of those means which Providence employs for its gracious purposes of mercy and deliverance, to beings like ourselves, who in the imperfect state in which we are placed, with all the reason of which so many boast, neither can provide for our own good, nor prevent a future evil: I was tracing the chain of events which in their consequences were appointed to heal my wounded mind, and with these considerations, entered the sense of my own short-sightedness, and opposition to the intended remedy; my repugnance to Mr. Flamall’s offers of placing you here; the dread of seeing you; and the painful struggles I had in conquering my aversion to the journey to town. As these circumstances arose to my memory, I experienced the truth and vexation they had caused me; and I doubt not my countenance indicated to you that I was disturbed. But what will you think when I tell you, that the first view of you was to me accompanied with an anguish of soul unutterable, and which it makes me faint even to think of? Yet, my dear Miss Cowley, you were the angel of mercy sent to heal me, you spoke, you smiled, I heard your voice, the storm of conflicting sorrows was hushed, my soul was entranced in bliss; for I imagined that I saw before me my sainted Matilda. This lady was my early love, my affianced wife, the pride, the glory of my race! the object with which my life, my honour, and my affection were inseparably connected! Listen to me,” added he with solemnity, observing that I was disturbed, “your influence over me has not been effected by your attractive beauty: neither your understanding, your native cheerfulness, nor your tender compassion, would have reached my torpid heart and extinguished sensations. It was your resemblance to his portrait, Miss Cowley, that burst asunder the chains which had weighed me down, and that spoke peace to my harassed spirit.” He drew from his bosom the miniature picture of a young lady; and presenting it to me added, that his wife had been surprised by my striking likeness to it. The painting was enamelled and highly finished; and the face was, to speak frankly, lovely. “I am disqualified for a judge,” said I, examining it; “were it less beautiful, I might allow my vanity indulgence, and honestly confess, that, I think it does resemble a miniature of me, drawn when last I was in London, for a friend; but this lady was a much fairer woman than I am.” “Not as she appeared when I knew her,” answered he, replacing the picture; “health and exercise had given such tints to her complexion as no colours I could employ were able to reach. How many times have I had reason to regret the attainment which gave to my aching eyes this faint memorial of her charms! Every time I surveyed this picture was a moment placed to the account of misery, till I saw you: but now it is my consolation to compare its features with yours. I know what you think, but in pity to my infirmity suffer me to enjoy the delusion, which lulls me to repose. You have no parents living. Let me call youdaughter. Such, had heaven permitted our union, would have been Matilda’s child; such, the image of herself, might she have bequeathed me, had”—He could not proceed; but bursting into tears he covered his face. “Call me by any title that pleases you,” said I; “none that you will give me can express more reverence and esteem than I have for you. But to render your daughter happy, you must be less susceptible to impressions so unfriendly to your health and comforts.” “They have ceased to be afflictive,” answered he; “for I can now say with Job, ‘My sorrows came in upon me as a wide breaking in of waters; in the desolation they rolled themselves upon me; but my deliverer was at my right hand to save me.’ His arm of mercy has been stretched out for me also, and ‘I will praise him whilst I have my being.’ But let me tellmy childherfather’sstory,” added he pensively smiling.—“Another time,” replied I, “will be better for us both.” “Do you think so?” answered he with a sigh, “then it shall be so; but I should like you to know the man before you, and whom you permit to call youdaughter. It would relieve my mind to give you a portion of its burden.” I could not refuse this appeal, and he proceeded.
“My father,” said Sir Murdoch, “was one of those men who could not abandon their unfortunate monarch in the year 1715, and he was one also of that faithful band who saw their own ruin in the fall of the Stuart line.
“He fled to France, after every hope was lost, and there he entered into a regiment chiefly composed of men like himself, and whose loyalty and courage have well recompensed the country which then sheltered and fed them. With the rank of captain, and an unsullied name, he soon after married a young lady, whose fortune was similar to his own. Her father was major in the same corps; but unable to bear the reverse of fortune, or borne down by the fatigues he had encountered in the royal cause, he died, and left his daughter to a Maclairn”—Sir Murdoch rose, and paced the room—“I was the only fruit of this marriage,” resumed he; “my mother I do not remember, for I was only three years old when my father lost this prop of his earthly comforts; but he taught me to revere her name.
“During the contest for dominion, to which I have already alluded, my uncle, Sir Alexander Maclairn, had with more prudence thanhonour, according to the opinion of the adherents to the unhappy Charles, remained for a time inactive, and at length declared himself openly the friend of the established government; but neither his zeal nor his services were further recompensed than by leaving him to the peaceable enjoyment of the wreck of the once prosperous fortune of his ancestors; namely, a castle falling to decay, and the remnant of the estate burdened with a heavy mortgage.
“Time had given stability to the British monarch; and my uncle, desirous of seeing a brother whom he loved and secretly reverenced, employed such means as were necessary to restore my father to his native rocks with security. This intelligence was communicated to him, when I had just reached my nineteenth year, and Sir Alexander, with every argument that affection could suggest, finished his intreaties by reminding my father of his age and infirmities; and the duty they were mutually bound to perform before death closed their eyes. ‘All that remains of our name,’ added he, ‘is in our children. My Matilda shall never lose the title of Maclairn; from her cradle she has been taught to love her cousin, and to your Murdoch do I look for a renovation of that race which it is your duty to perpetuate. Remember that these children are the last hope of an ancient and honourable house, which even in the obscurity of a sunken fortune will retain its place in the annals of true glory; for its sons were brave and its daughters virtuous.’ He blessed Providence for its interposition, which had opened his eyes to the folly and madness which the prince’s adherents had fallen into, in their attempts to reinstate the proscribed Stuarts; ‘and I now bless heaven,’ added he, ‘that by my moderation I have preserved an asylum for you and a home for our children.’
“My father, disgusted with a foreign service, and languishing to behold his native country, eagerly embraced my uncle’s offers. He had long before this event determined that my path in life should not be that of a soldier, and he had with extreme caution repressed in me his own military spirit. I was educated by a Scotchman who had once been a minister of that Master whose religion ispeace; my leisure hours were filled up by studies of retired ease and tranquillity; and painting and music were familiar to me.
“We were received by my uncle with unaffected joy; and welcomed by a few faithful adherents to our family with those genuine demonstrations of good will and attachment so congenial to the noble and uncorrupted Highlanders. On beholding my cousin Matilda, I blushed as deeply from the consciousness of what had passed in my mind in relation to her, as from surprise on beholding this ‘rustic’ cousin embellished with all the graces of youth, beauty, and artless manners; and when with ingenuous simplicity she offered me her glowing cheek, her eyes beaming with joy and kindness, I felt that I was unworthy of her goodness. A few months were given to the domestic comforts of my uncle and father, and apparently for the purpose of rivetting my chains. My assiduities met with no check; and ‘our children’ was the common epithet my uncle employed in speaking of us. A more explicit avowal of his wishes followed; and in this conversation Sir Alexander candidly acknowledged that he was under pecuniary difficulties, and unable to establish me in life without some exertions on my part. My father, without knowing the pressure of his brother’s difficulties in their full extent, not only saw the expediency, but the utility of my being employed, and he sent me to Aberdeen to study the civil law. During a year, which was thus passed without profit to me but as it led me to a further knowledge of the mathematics, my uncle had gained on my father to listen to his darling project as well as my own; and being offered for me an ensigncy in a regiment destined for Minorca, he gained his point, and I escaped from a pursuit I detested, that of the law. An additional debt was cheerfully incurred on the Maclairn’s impoverished acres. My separation from Matilda was softened to me by her father’s last words: ‘Have ever before you this recompense,’ said he, placing at the same time Matilda’s hand in mine; ‘she will be always aMaclairn. Do you so conduct yourself as to return to us worthy of the name.’ You will imagine, that my martial spirit was sunk when I received her embrace, and my poor father’s blessing: I will not be tedious. During my three years’ station at Minorca, I rose to the rank of lieutenant, and lost my father. From that period the cloud of adversity became more portentous. I was frustrated in my expectations of returning home, and receiving the reward I had so arduously strove to merit. But my uncle’s ambition had been roused by the partiality of my friends, and he contrived to promote me at the expence of my happiness. I exchanged my post and regiment for one at Gibraltar, in which I ranked as captain. This disappointment of my hopes deeply affected my spirits, and Matilda had apparently shared with me in this trial of our patience. Her letters were more tender than cheerful, and she commonly finished by reminding me of her determined faith and unutterable affection. Gracious God! my trust in thy power was not more solid than my faith in Matilda’s truth!
“In the last letter she wrote me, and which is engraven on my memory, she finishedthus:—‘It soothes my depressed spirits, to call thee my wedded lord, and to sign myself thy wife. Are we not one, my Maclairn, in the sight of that Being who has witnessed our vows of truth, of honourable love? Are we not one, though seas and lands part us? Yes, and though worlds should interpose to divide us, we shall meet and be united as kindred spirits, asone, in the blessed state of perfect happiness, of permanent felicity. There at least will thy Matilda meet thee, and there will her Maclairn be comforted for his present disappointments.’
“Alas! Miss Cowley, the cloud had burst on my devoted head at the very moment I was unconsciously weeping over this letter, as the precious proof of my security; though it was also as painful a proof of the state of Matilda’s spirits. The indolence and pusillanimity of Sir Alexander Maclairn had always been leading traits in his character; these, with other circumstances, had placed him in the power ofa man, who hated him, merely because his grandfather had served Sir Alexander’s in a menial station. Industry had made this man’s successors wealthy; and my uncle had, in his difficulties, applied to their more fortunate heir than himself, for money so repeatedly, that he was little more than the ostensible proprietor of his inheritance. His wary and greedy creditor had changed his tone; and frequent hints of the necessity of foreclosing the mortgage, unless my uncle could be more punctual in paying his stipulated interest, were, from time to time, thrown out with increasing seriousness and harshness. In a dilemma of this kind, the laird of Maclairn Castle received a visit from his importunate neighbour, who introduced with much ceremony his only child, a young man, who had lived chiefly in the South with a rich tradesman, his uncle. Hospitality, as much as policy, induced my uncle to welcome the stranger; and the young man repeated his visit. The sight of my beauteous Matilda effected more; he became enamoured, and made his father his confidant. Secure of the estate, he now aspired to the daughter ofa Maclairn, and without loss of time he proposed an alliance, which at once, as he observed, would settle all accounts between himself and Sir Alexander; his son not desiring a shilling with his daughter; and he added, that he would cancel every mortgage and bond on the day of their marriage. The weak old man listened to this infamous proposal; and Matilda received her father’s commands to be favourable to her generous suitor. I will not detail to you the persecutions which resulted from her firm refusal. The lover’s father, irritated by herobstinacy, as he termed herfortitude, gave Sir Alexander to understand that he saw through the collusion, and that his daughter was taught her part by himself, in order to evade a connexion which his pride could not brook. Menaces followed; and he quitted the house, swearing that Sir Alexander should be roofless in a month. Intimidated by a threat which he well knew this man could effect, he became desperate in the means of avoiding it. The day of marriage was fixed, and Matilda was summoned from her prison chamber, to hear her fate from her father. She expostulated; he was deaf: she reminded him of his engagements with me; he sternly answered that she should not be a beggar; nor would he live to want bread; and bade her begone. ‘Bless me before I go,’ said she, meekly kneeling, ‘send to me repose with a father’s love.’ The wretched parent, a stranger to the calmness of despair when at its climax, and viewing her tearless eye and collected features through the medium of his own wishes, raised her with transports of joy from her suppliant posture, and pouring out his fervent benedictions on her, he advised her to return to her apartment and compose her mind for the reception of her future husband and his father, who would, in the evening, convince her of the value they set on the alliance. She replied that she preferred a walk in the garden, and withdrew.”—Sir Murdoch paused; he fixed his eyes on my face; they seemed covered with a dreadful film; he breathed short, and trembled as in an ague fit.—“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed I, terrified, “let me give you something; you are ill.”—He heard me not.—“Yes,” said he, with a suppressed and tremulous voice, “she withdrew! and whither?—to the arms of mercy! Yes, she withdrew from opposition, from cruelty, to the bosom of her Redeemer! There was none to succour! none to help! When discovered, her vermilion cheek was pale! her eyes were closed! her beautiful tresses were mixed with the dank and filthy weeds of the stagnated pool! But her pure and unsullied soul had escaped pollution!”
“My dear Sir Murdoch,” said I, “you distress me; for pity’s sake, say no more. Let me call Lady Maclairn, indeed you grieve me, I cannot bear it.” “Then how should I?” answered he; “yet I have survived her!”—He wiped away the tears which relieved him, and with more composure added, “be not alarmed, I am myself, and patient. My uncle,” continued he, “lived only three weeks after this event. The destined bridegroom left the Highlands, and soon after died in his passage to the West Indies. His father was, I believe, consoled by adding Maclairn Castle and its impoverished demesnes to his possessions. I had, on quitting Scotland, taken with me as a domestic, my Matilda’s foster brother. His sister, something older than himself, had been her favourite attendant; and the poor girl in the hour of this distress committed to Wallace the care of preparing me for this intelligence; advising him to chuse one of my friends for an office which she foresaw he would be unequal to. It appeared that the angel had preconcerted her design, before she attended her father’s summons; she had affixed to my picture a scrap of paper, and placed them in Jenny’s prayer book. This precious evidence of her love and truth was inclosed in Jenny’s letter to her brother; and contained these words: ‘I die, a Maclairn; and Maclairn’s affianced, faithful Matilda.’ The poor fellow, unable to stand the shock himself, rushed from the house with this fatal letter in his hand; and under such perturbation of mind that he had neither taken his hat, nor perceived that this slip of paper had escaped him. He sought my most intimate friend; and with agonies of grief implored his aid. In this interval of time, I, finding the summons of my bell unanswered, repaired to the room which Wallace occupied, and finding on his table the implements of writing, which I wanted, I sat down to write a card. Judging that he was not far remote, from seeing his hat; I moved it for my convenience. The note appeared! I will spare you, my child. Let it suffice, my friend and Wallace found me senseless. A raging fever succeeded. To this were opposed the cares of my friends, and a constitution never abused; but I was reduced to the state of an idiot; and as such, unconsciously embarked for England with my faithful Wallace, as unfit for the service, and from the hopes entertained of the change of climate and sea-air. He conducted me to his father’s cottage; it was rich in nothing but fidelity and humanity; but in these, great Giver of all good! how liberal had been thy donation! Here the wretched Maclairn was received; and recovered his strength of body, and the faculty of knowing his misery. I sold my commission, paid my debts; and without a thought beyond my Matilda’s grave, I laboured with my hosts for the bread we shared. Wallace, with patient love and unexampled attachment, had watched over mydespair, myfeebleness, my nowsettled melancholy. At length, he hazarded to speak of the recent rupture with our American colonies, and with a soldier’s spirit he infused into my heart the wish of dying like one. I had still two or three hundred pounds left, and determined in my design, and apparently governed by his arguments to shake off the indolence which was destroying my life and my honour, I took the road he pointed out. On reaching London, Wallace soon established his claims to favour; and he embarked for America as serjeant with the first troops destined to subdue the malcontents of that country. My friends, advised me to wait for the result of their efforts in my favour, not thinking that I could with propriety serve in a subordinate rank to the one I had filled and quitted without disgrace. I consented; and took up my temporary residence in a lodging at Kensington-gravel-pits.”