In the foregoing chapter we were led, by our regard for the simple affections and harmless character of the second Laird, to overstep a period of several years. We must now, in consequence, return, and resume the narrative from the time that Walter retired from the company; but, without entering too minutely into the other occurrences of the day, we may be allowed to observe, in the sage words of the Leddy, that the party enjoyed themselves with as much insipidity as is commonly found at the formal feasts of near relations.
Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw, put on her guard by the conjectures of the minister of Camrachle, soon perceived an evident partiality on the part of her brother-in-law towards her son, and that he took particular pains to make the boy attentive to Robina, as his daughter was called. Indeed, the design of George was so obvious, and the whole proceedings of the day so peculiarly marked, that even the Leddy could not but observe them.
‘I’m thinking,’ said she, ‘that the seeds of a matrimony are sown among us this day, for Geordie’s a far-before looking soothsayer, and a Chaldee excellence like his father; and a bodie does na need an e’e in the neck to discern that he’s just wising and wiling for a purpose of marriage hereafter between Jamie and Beenie. Gude speed the wark! for really we hae had but little luck among us since the spirit o’ disinheritance got the upper hand; and it would be a great comfort if a’ sorescould be salved and healed in the fulness of time, when the weans can be married according to law.’
‘I do assure you, mother,’ replied her dutiful son, ‘that nothing would give me greater pleasure; and I hope, that, by the frequent renewal of these little cordial and friendly meetings, we may help forward so desirable an event.’
‘But,’ replied the old Leddy piously, ‘marriages are made in Heaven; and, unless there has been a booking among the angels above, a’ that can be done by man below, even to the crying, for the third and last time, in the kirk, will be only a thrashing the water and a raising of bells. Howsever, the prayers of the righteous availeth much; and we should a’ endeavour, by our walk and conversation, to compass a work so meet for repentance until it’s brought to a come-to-pass. So I hope, Bell Fatherlans, that ye’ll up and be doing in this good work, watching and praying, like those who stand on the tower of Siloam looking towards Lebanon.’
‘I think,’ said Mrs. Charles smiling, ‘that you are looking far forward. The children are still but mere weans, and many a day must pass over their green heads before such a project ought even to be thought of.’
‘It’s weel kent, Bell,’ replied her mother-in-law, ‘that ye were ne’er a queen of Sheba, either for wisdom or forethought; but I hae heard my friend that’s awa—your worthy father, Geordie—often say, that as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined, which is a fine sentiment, and should teach us to set about our undertakings with a knowledge of better things than of silver and gold, in order that we may be enabled to work the work o’ Providence.’
But just as the Leddy was thus expatiating away in high solemnity, a dreadful cry arose among the pre-ordained lovers. The children had quarrelled; and, notwithstanding all the admonitions which they had received to be kind to one another, Miss Robina had given James a slap on the face, which he repaid with such instantaneous energy, that, during the remainder of the visit, they were never properly reconciled.
Other causes were also in operation destined to frustrate the long-forecasting prudence of her father. Mr. and Mrs. Eadie, on their arrival at Edinburgh, took up their abode with her relation Mr. Frazer, the intending purchaser of Glengael; and they had not been many days in his house, till they came to the determination to adopt Ellen, his eldest daughter, who was then about the age of James. Accordingly, after having promoted the object of their journey, when they returned to the manse of Camrachle, they were allowed to take Ellen with them; and the intimacy which arose among the children in the progress of time ripened into love between her and James. For although his uncle, in the prosecution of his own purpose, often invited the boy to spend several days together with his cousin at Kittlestonheugh, and did everything in his power during those visits to inspire the children with a mutual affection, their distaste for each other seemed only to increase.
Robina was sly and demure, observant, quiet, and spiteful. Ellen, on the contrary, was full of buoyancy and glee, playful and generous, qualities which assimilated much more with the dispositions of James than those of his cousin, so that, long before her beauty had awakened passion, she was to him a more interesting and delightful companion.
The amusements, also, at Camrachle, were more propitious to the growth of affection than those at Kittlestonheugh, where every thing was methodized into system, and where, if the expression may be allowed, the genius of design and purpose controlled and repressed nature. The lawn was preserved in a state of neatness too trim for the gambols of childhood; and the walks were too winding for the straight-forward impulses of its freedom and joy. At Camrachle the fields were open, and their expanse unbounded. The sun, James often thought, shone brighter there than at Kittlestonheugh; the birds sang sweeter in the wild broom than in his uncle’s shrubbery, and the moonlight glittered like gladness in the burns; but on the wide water of the Clyde it was always dull and silent.
There are few situations more congenial to the diffusion of tenderness and sensibility—the elements of affection—than the sunny hills and clear waters of a rural neighbourhood, and few of all the beautiful scenes of Scotland excel the environs of Camrachle. The village stands on the slope of a gentle swelling ground, and consists of a single row of scattered thatched cottages, behind which a considerable stream carries its tributary waters to the Cart. On the east end stands the little church, in the centre of a small cemetery, and close to it the modest mansion of the minister. The house which Mrs. Walkinshaw occupied was a slated cottage near the manse. It was erected by a native of the village, who had made a moderate competency as a tradesman in Glasgow; and, both in point of external appearance and internal accommodation, it was much superior to any other of the same magnitude in the parish. A few ash-trees rose among the gardens, and several of them were tufted with the nests of magpies, the birds belonging to which had been so long in the practice of resorting there, that they were familiar to all the children of the village.
But the chief beauty in the situation of Camrachle is a picturesque and extensive bank, shaggy with hazel, along the foot of which runs the stream already mentioned. The green and gowany brow of this romantic terrace commands a wide and splendid view of all the champaign district of Renfrewshire. And it was often observed, by the oldest inhabitants, that whenever any of the natives of the clachan had been long absent, the first spot they visited on their return was the crown of this bank, where they had spent the sunny days of their childhood. Here the young Walkinshaws and Ellen Frazer also instinctively resorted, and their regard for each other was not only ever after endeared by the remembrance of their early pastimes there, but associated with delightful recollections of glorious summer sunshine, the fresh green mornings of spring, and the golden evenings of autumn.
As James approached his fourteenth year, his uncle, still with a view to a union with Robina, proposed, that, when Mr. Eadie thought his education sufficient for the mercantile profession, he should be sent to his counting-house. But the early habits and the tenor of the lessons he had received were not calculated to ensure success to James as a merchant. He was robust, handsome, and adventurous, fond of active pursuits, and had imbibed, from the Highland spirit of Mrs. Eadie, a tinge of romance and enthusiasm. The bias of his character, the visions of his reveries, and the cast of his figure and physiognomy, were decidedly military. But the field of heroic enterprise was then vacant,—the American war was over, and all Europe slumbered in repose, unconscious of the hurricane that was then gathering; and thus, without any consideration of his own inclinations and instincts, James, like many of those who afterwards distinguished themselves in the great conflict, acceded to the proposal.
He had not, however, been above three or four years settled in Glasgow when his natural distaste for sedentary and regular business began to make him dislike the place; and his repugnance was heightened almost to disgust by the discovery of his uncle’s sordid views with respect to him; nor, on the part of his cousin, was the design better relished; for, independent of an early and ungracious antipathy, she had placed her affections on another object; and more than once complained to the old Leddy of her father’s tyranny in so openly urging on a union that would render her miserable, especially, as she said, when her cousin’s attachment to Ellen Frazer was so unequivocal. But Leddy Grippy had set her mind on the match as strongly as her son; and, in consequence, neither felt nor showed any sympathy for Robina.
‘Never fash your head,’ she said to her one day, when the young lady was soliciting her mediation,—‘Neverfash your head, Beenie, my dear, about Jamie’s calf-love of yon daffodil; but be an obedient child, and walk in the paths of pleasantness that ye’re ordain’t to, both by me and your father; for we hae had oure lang a divided family; and it’s full time we were brought to a cordial understanding with one another.’
‘But,’ replied the disconsolate damsel, ‘even though he had no precious attachment, I’ll ne’er consent to marry him, for really I can never fancy him.’
‘And what for can ye no fancy him?’ cried the Leddy—‘I would like to ken that? But, to be plain wi’ you, Beenie, it’s a shame to hear a weel educated miss like you, brought up wi’ a Christian principle, speaking about fancying young men. Sic a thing was never alloo’t nor heard tell o’ in my day and generation. But that comes o’ your ganging to see Douglas tragedy, at that kirk o’ Satan in Dunlop Street; where, as I am most creditably informed, the play-actors court ane another afore a’ the folk.’
‘I am sure you have yourself experienced,’ replied Robina, ‘what it is to entertain a true affection, and to know that our wishes and inclinations are not under our own control.—How would you have liked had your father forced you to marry a man against your will?’
‘Lassie, lassie!’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘if ye live to be a grandmother like me, ye’ll ken the right sense o’ a lawful and tender affection. But there’s no sincerity noo like the auld sincerity, when me and your honest grandfather, that was in mine, and is noo in Abraham’s bosom, came thegither—we had no foistring and parleyvooing, like your novelle turtle-doves—but discoursed in a sober and wise-like manner anent the cost and charge o’ a family; and the upshot was a visibility of solid cordiality and kindness, very different, Beenie, my dear, frae the puff-paste love o’ your Clarissy Harlots.’
‘Ah! but your affection was mutual from the beginning—you were not perhaps devoted to another?’
‘Gude guide us, Beenie Walkinshaw! are ye devoted to another?—Damon and Phillis, pastorauling at hideand seek wi’ their sheep, was the height o’ discretion, compared wi’ sic curdooing. My lass, I’ll let no grass grow beneath my feet, till I hae gi’en your father notice o’ this loup-the-window, and hey cockalorum-like love.’
‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the young lady; ‘you will never surely be so rash as to betray me?’
‘Wha is’t wi’—But I need na speer; for I’ll be none surprised to hear that it’s a play-actor, or a soldier officer, or some other clandestine poetical.’
Miss possessed more shrewdness than her grandmother gave her credit for, and perceiving the turn and tendency of their conversation, she exerted all her address to remove the impression which she had thus produced, by affecting to laugh,saying,—
‘What has made you suppose that I have formed any improper attachment? I was only anxious that you should speak to my father, and try to persuade him that I can never be happy with my cousin.’
‘How can I persuade him o’ ony sic havers? or how can ye hope that I would if it was in my power—when ye know what a comfort it will be to us a’, to see such a prudent purpose o’ marriage brought to perfection?—Na, na, Beenie, ye’re an instrument in the hands o’ Providence to bring aboot a great blessing to your family; and I would be as daft as your uncle Watty, when he gaed out to shoot the flees, were I to set mysel an adversary to such a righteous ordinance—so you maun just mak up your mind to conform. My word, but ye’re weel an to be married in your teens—I was past thirty before man speer’t my price.’
‘But,’ said Robina, ‘you forget that James himself has not yet consented—I am sure he is devoted to Ellen Frazer—and that he will never consent.’
‘Weel, I declare if e’er I heard the like of sic upsetting.—I won’er what business either you or him hae to consenting or non-consenting.—Is’t no the pleasure o’ your parentage that ye’re to be married, and will ye dare to commit the sin of disobedient children? Beenie Walkinshaw, had I said sic a word to my father,who was a man o’ past-ordinar sense, weel do I ken what I would hae gotten—I only just ance in a’ my life, in a mistak, gied him a contradiction, and he declared that, had I been a son as I was but a dochter, he would hae grippit me by the cuff o’ the neck and the back o’ the breeks, and shuttled me through the window. But the end o’ the world is drawing near, and corruption’s working daily to a head; a’ modesty and maidenhood has departed frae womankind, and the sons of men are workers of iniquity—priests o’ Baal, and transgressors every one—a’, therefore, my leddy, that I hae to say to you is a word o’ wisdom, and they ca’t conform—Beenie, conform—and obey the fifth commandment.’
Robina was, however, in no degree changed by her grandmother’s exhortations and animadversions; on the contrary, she was determined to take her own way, which is a rule that we would recommend to all young ladies, as productive of the happiest consequences in cases of the tender passion. But scarcely had she left the house, till Leddy Grippy, reflecting on what had passed, was not quite at ease in her mind, with respect to the sentimental insinuation of being devoted to another. For, although, in the subsequent conversation, the dexterity and address of the young lady considerably weakened the impression which it had at first made, still enough remained to make her suspect it really contained more than was intended to have been conveyed. But, to avoid unnecessary disturbance, she resolved to give her son a hint to observe the motions of his daughter, while, at the same time, she also determined to ascertain how far there was any ground to suppose that from the attachment of James to Ellen Frazer, there was reason to apprehend that he might likewise be as much averse to the projected marriage as Robina. And with this view she sent for him that evening—but what passed will furnish matter for another chapter.
The Leddy was seated at her tea-table when young Walkinshaw arrived, and, as on all occasions when she had any intention in her head, she wore an aspect pregnant with importance. She was now an old woman, and had so long survived the sorrows of her widowhood, that even the weeds were thrown aside, and she had resumed her former dresses, unchanged from the fashion in which they were originally made. Her appearance, in consequence, was at once aged and ancient.
‘Come your ways, Jamie,’ said she, ‘and draw in a chair and sit down; but, afore doing sae, tell the lass to bring ben the treck-pot,’—which he accordingly did; and as soon as the treck-pot, alias teapot, was on the board, she opened her trenches.
‘Jamie,’ she began, ‘your uncle George has a great notion of you, and has done muckle for your mother, giving her, o’ his own free will, a handsome ’nuity; by the which she has brought you, and Mary your sister, up wi’ great credit and confort. I would therefore fain hope, that, in the way o’ gratitude, there will be no slackness on your part.’
James assured her that he had a very strong sense of his uncle’s kindness; and that, to the best of his ability, he would exert himself to afford him every satisfaction; but that Glasgow was not a place which he much liked, and that he would rather go abroad, and push his fortune elsewhere, than continue confined to the counting-house.
‘There’s baith sense and sadness, Jamie, in what ye say,’ replied the Leddy; ‘but I won’er what ye would do abroad, when there’s sic a bein beild biggit for you at home. Ye ken, by course o’ nature, that your uncle’s ordaint to die, and that he has only his ae dochter Beenie, your cousin, to inherit the braw conquest o’ your worthy grandfather—the whilk, but for some mistak o’ law, and the sudden o’ercome o’death amang us, would hae been yours by right o’ birth. So that it’s in a manner pointed out to you by the forefinger o’ Providence to marry Beenie.’
James was less surprised at this suggestion than the old lady expected, and said, with a degree of coolness that she was not preparedfor,—
‘I dare say what you speak of would not be disagreeable to my uncle, for several times he has himself intimated as much, but it is an event that can never take place.’
‘And what for no? I’m sure Beenie’s fortune will be a better bargain than a landless lad like you can hope for at ony other hand.’
‘True, but I’ll never marry for money.’
‘And what will ye marry for, then?’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘Tak my word o’ experience for’t, my man,—a warm downseat’s o’ far mair consequence in matrimony than the silly low o’ love; and think what a bonny business your father and mother made o’ their gentle-shepherding. But, Jamie, what’s the reason ye’ll no tak Beenie?—there maun surely be some because for sic unnaturality?’
‘Why,’ said he laughing, ‘I think it’s time enough for me yet to be dreaming o’ marrying.’
‘That’s no a satisfaction to my question; but there’s ae thing I would fain gie you warning o’, and that’s, if ye’ll no marry Beenie, I dinna think ye can hae ony farther to look, in the way o’ patronage, frae your uncle.’
‘Then,’ said James indignantly, ‘if his kindness is only given on such a condition as that, I ought not to receive it an hour longer.’
‘Here’s a tap o’ tow!’ exclaimed the Leddy. ‘Aff and awa wi’ you to your mother at Camrachle, and gallant about the braes and dyke-sides wi’ that lang windlestrae-legget tawpie, Nell Frizel—She’s the because o’ your rebellion. ’Deed ye may think shame o’t, Jamie; for it’s a’ enough to bring disgrace on a’ manner o’ affection to hear what I hae heard about you and her.’
‘What have you heard?’ cried he, burning with wrath and indignation.
‘The callan’s gaun aff at the head, to look at me as if his e’en were pistols—How dare ye, sir?—But it’s no worth my while to lose my temper wi’ a creature that doesna ken the homage and honour due to his aged grandmother. Howsever, I’ll be as plain as I’m pleasant wi’ you, my man; and if there’s no an end soon put to your pastoraulity wi’ yon Highland heron, and a sedate and dutiful compliancy vouchsafed to your benefactor, uncle George, there will be news in the land or lang.’
‘You really place the motives of my uncle’s conduct towards me in a strange light, and you forget that Robina is perhaps as strongly averse to the connection as I am.’
‘So she would fain try to gar me true,’ replied the Leddy; ‘the whilk is a most mystical thing; but, poor lassie, I needna be surprised at it, when she jealouses that your affections are set on a loup-the-dyke Jenny Cameron like Nell Frizel. Howsever, Jamie, no to make a confabble about the matter, there can be no doubt if ye’ll sing “We’ll gang nae mair to yon toun,” wi’ your back to the manse o’ Camrachle, that Beenie, who is a most sweet-tempered and obedient fine lassie, will soon be wrought into a spirit of conformity wi’ her father’s will and my wishes.’
‘I cannot but say,’ replied Walkinshaw, ‘that you consider affection as very pliant. Nor do I know why you take such liberties with Miss Frazer; who, in every respect, is infinitely superior to Robina.’
‘Her superior!’ cried the Leddy; ‘but love’s blin’ as well as fey, or ye would as soon think o’ likening a yird tead to a patrick or a turtle-dove, as Nell Frizel to Beenie Walkinshaw. Eh man! Jamie, but ye hae a poor taste; and I may say, as the auld sang sings, “Will ye compare a docken till a tansie?” I would na touch her wi’ the tangs.’
‘But you know,’ said Walkinshaw, laughing at the excess of her contempt, ‘that there is no accounting for tastes.’
‘The craw thinks it’s ain bird the whitest,’ replied the Leddy; ‘but, for a’ that, it’s as black as the back o’ the bress; and, therefore, I would advise you to believe me, that Nell Frizel is just as ill-far’t a creature as e’er came out the Maker’s hand. I hae lived threescore and fifteen years in the world, and surely, in the course o’ nature, should ken by this time what beauty is and ought to be.’
How far the Leddy might have proceeded with her argument is impossible to say; for it was suddenly interrupted by her grandson bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter, which had the effect of instantly checking her eloquence, and turning the course of her ideas and animadversions into another channel. In the course, however, of a few minutes, she returned to the charge, but with no better success; and Walkinshaw left her, half resolved to come to some explanation on the subject with his uncle. It happened, however, that this discussion, which we have just related, took place on a Saturday night; and the weather next day being bright and beautiful, instead of going to his uncle’s at Kittlestonheugh, as he commonly did on Sunday, from the time he had been placed in the counting-house, he rose early, and walked to Camrachle, where he arrived to breakfast, and afterwards accompanied his mother and sister to church.
The conversation with the old Leddy was still ringing in his ears, and her strictures on the beauty and person of Ellen Frazer seemed so irresistibly ridiculous, when he beheld her tall and elegant figure advancing to the minister’s pew, that he could with difficulty preserve the decorum requisite to the sanctity of the place. Indeed, the effect was so strong, that Ellen herself noticed it; insomuch, that, when they met after sermon in the church-yard, she could not refrain from asking what had tickled him. Simple as the question was, and easy as the explanation might have been, he found himself, at the moment, embarrassed, and at a loss to answer her. Perhaps, had they been by themselves, this would not have happened; but Mrs. Eadie,and his mother and sister, were present. In the evening, however, when he accompanied Mary and her to a walk, along the brow of the hazel bank, which overlooked the village, he took an opportunity of telling her what had passed, and of expressing his determination to ascertain how far his uncle was seriously bent on wishing him to marry Robina; protesting, at the same time, that it was a union which could never be—intermingled with a thousand little tender demonstrations, infinitely more delightful to the ears of Ellen than it is possible to make them to our readers. Indeed, Nature plainly shows, that the conversations of lovers are not fit for the public, by the care which she takes to tell the gentle parties, that they must speak in whispers, and choose retired spots and shady bowers, and other sequestered poetical places, for their conferences.
The conversations between the Leddy and her grandchildren were not of a kind to keep with her. On Monday morning she sent for her son, and, without explaining to him what had passed, cunningly began to express her doubts if ever a match would take place between James and Robina; recommending that the design should be given up, and an attempt made to conciliate a union between his daughter and her cousin Dirdumwhamle’s son, by which, as she observed, the gear would still be kept in the family.
George, however, had many reasons against the match, not only with respect to the entail, but in consideration of Dirdumwhamle having six sons by his first marriage, and four by his second, all of whom stood between his nephew and the succession to his estate. It is, therefore, almost unnecessary to say, that he had a stronger repugnance to his mother’s suggestion than if she had proposed a stranger rather than their relation.
‘But,’ said he, ‘what reason have you to doubt thatJames and Robina are not likely to gratify our hopes and wishes? He is a very well-behaved lad; and though his heart does not appear to lie much to the business of the counting-house, still he is so desirous, apparently, to give satisfaction, that I have no doubt in time he will acquire steadiness and mercantile habits.’
‘It would na be easy to say,’ replied the Leddy, ‘a’ the whys and wherefores that I hae for my suspection. But, ye ken, if the twa hae na a right true love and kindness for ane anither, it will be a doure job to make them happy in the way o’ matrimonial felicity; and, to be plain wi’ you, Geordie, I would be nane surprised if something had kittled between Jamie and a Highland lassie, ane Nell Frizel, that bides wi’ the new-light minister o’ Camrachle.’
The Laird had incidentally heard of Ellen, and once or twice, when he happened to visit his sister-in-law, he had seen her, and was struck with her beauty. But it had never occurred to him that there was any attachment between her and his nephew. The moment, however, that the Leddy mentioned her name, he acknowledged to himself its probability.
‘But do you really think,’ said he anxiously, ‘that there is anything of the sort between her and him?’
‘Frae a’ that I can hear, learn, and understand,’ replied the Leddy, ‘though it may na be probable-like, yet I fear it’s oure true; for when he gangs to see his mother, and it’s ay wi’ him as wi’ the saints,—“O mother dear Jerusalem, when shall I come to thee?”—I am most creditably informed that the twa do nothing but sauly forth hand in hand to walk in the green valleys, singing, “Low down in the broom,” and “Pu’ing lilies both fresh and gay,”—which is as sure a symptom o’ something very like love, as the hen’s cackle is o’ a new-laid egg.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said the Laird, ‘I should have no great apprehensions, especially when he comes to understand how much it is his interest to prefer Robina.’
‘That’s a’ true, Geordie; but I hae a misdoot that a’s no right and sound wi’ her mair than wi’ him; andwhen we reflek how the mim maidens nowadays hae delivered themselves up to the little-gude in the shape and glamour o’ novelles and Thomson’sSeasons, we need be nane surprised to fin’ Miss as headstrong in her obdooracy as the lovely young Lavinia that your sister Meg learnt to ’cite at the boarding-school.’
‘It is not likely, however,’ said the Laird, ‘that she has yet fixed her affections on any one; and a very little attention on the part of James would soon overcome any prejudice that she may happen to have formed against him,—for now, when you bring the matter to mind, I do recollect that I have more than once observed a degree of petulance and repugnance on her part.’
‘Then I mak no doot,’ exclaimed the old lady, ‘that she is in a begoted state to another, and it wou’d be wise to watch her. But, first and foremost, you should sift Jamie’s tender passion—that’s the novelle name for calf-love; and if it’s within the compass o’ a possibility, get the swine driven through’t, or it may work us a’ muckle dule, as his father’s moonlight marriage did to your ain, worthy man!—That was indeed a sair warning to us a’, and is the because to this day o’ a’ the penance o’ vexation and tribulation that me and you, Geordie, are sae obligated to dree.’
The admonition was not lost; on the contrary, George, who was a decisive man of business, at once resolved to ascertain whether there were indeed any reasonable grounds for his mother’s suspicions. For this purpose, on returning to the counting-house, he requested Walkinshaw to come in the evening to Kittlestonheugh, as he had something particular to say. The look and tone with which the communication was made convinced James that he could not be mistaken with respect to the topic intended, which, he conjectured, was connected with the conversation he had himself held with the Leddy on the preceding Saturday evening; and it was the more agreeable to him, as he was anxious to be relieved from the doubts which began to trouble him regarding the views and motives of hisuncle’s partiality. For, after parting from Ellen, he had, in the course of his walk back to Glasgow, worked himself up into a determination to quit the place, if any hope of the suggested marriage with Robina was the tenure by which he held her father’s favour. His mind, in consequence, as he went to Kittlestonheugh in the evening, was occupied with many plans and schemes—the vague and aimless projects which fill the imagination of youth, when borne forward either by hopes or apprehensions. Indeed, the event contemplated, though it was still contingent on the spirit with which his uncle might receive his refusal, he yet, with the common precipitancy of youth, anticipated as settled, and his reflections were accordingly framed and modified by that conclusion. To leave Glasgow was determined; but where to go, and what to do, were points not so easily arranged; and ever and anon the image of Ellen Frazer rose in all the radiance of her beauty, like the angel to Balaam, and stood between him and his purpose.
The doubts, the fears, and the fondness, which alternately predominated in his bosom, received a secret and sympathetic energy from the appearance and state of external nature. The weather was cloudy but not lowering—a strong tempest seemed, however, to be raging at a distance; and several times he paused and looked back at the enormous masses of dark and troubled vapour, which were drifting along the whole sweep of the northern horizon, from Ben Lomond to the Ochils, as if some awful burning was laying waste the world beyond them; while a long and splendid stream of hazy sunshine, from behind the Cowal mountains, brightened the rugged summits of Dumbuck, and, spreading its golden fires over Dumbarton moor, gilded the brow of Dumgoin, and lighted up the magnificent vista which opens between them of the dark and distant Grampians.
The appearance of the city was also in harmony with the general sublimity of the evening. Her smoky canopy was lowered almost to a covering—a mist fromthe river hovered along her skirts and scattered buildings, but here and there some lofty edifice stood proudly eminent, and the pinnacles of the steeples glittering like spear-points through the cloud, suggested to the fancy strange and solemn images of heavenly guardians, stationed to oppose the adversaries of man.
A scene so wild, so calm, and yet so troubled and darkened, would, at any time, have heightened the enthusiasm of young Walkinshaw, but the state of his feelings made him more than ordinarily susceptible to the eloquence of its various lights and shadows. The uncertainty which wavered in the prospects of his future life, found a mystical reflex in the swift and stormy wrack of the carry, that some unfelt wind was silently urging along the distant horizon. The still and stationary objects around—the protected city and the everlasting hills, seemed to bear an assurance, that, however obscured the complexion of his fortunes might at that moment be, there was still something within himself that ought not to suffer any change, from the evanescent circumstances of another’s frown or favour. This confidence in himself, felt perhaps for the first time that evening, gave a degree of vigour and decision to the determination which he had formed; and by the time he had reached the porch of his uncle’s mansion, his step was firm, his emotions regulated, and a full and manly self-possession had succeeded to the fluctuating feelings with which he left Glasgow, in so much that even his countenance seemed to have received some new impress, and to have lost the softness of youth, and taken more decidedly the cast and characteristics of manhood.
Walkinshaw found his uncle alone, who, after some slight inquiries, relative to unimportant matters of business, said tohim,—
‘I have been desirous to see you, because I am anxious to make some family arrangements, to which, though I do not anticipate any objection on your part, as they will be highly advantageous to your interests, it is still proper that we should clearly understand each other respecting. It is unnecessary to inform you, that, by the disinheritance of your father, I came to the family estate, which, in the common course of nature, might have been yours—and you are quite aware, that, from the time it became necessary to cognosce your uncle, I have uniformly done more for your mother’s family than could be claimed or was expected of me.’
‘I am sensible of all that, sir,’ replied Walkinshaw, ‘and I hope there is nothing which you can reasonably expect me to do, that I shall not feel pleasure in performing.’
His uncle was not quite satisfied with this; the firmness with which it was uttered, and the self-reservation which it implied—were not propitious to his wishes, but heresumed,—
‘In the course of a short time, you will naturally be looking to me for some establishment in business, and certainly if you conduct yourself as you have hitherto done, it is but right that I should do something for you—much, however, will depend, as to the extent of what I may do, on the disposition with which you fall in with my views. Now, what I wish particularly to say to you is, that having but one child, and my circumstances enabling me to retire from the active management of the house, it is in my power to resign a considerable share in your favour—and this it is my wish to do in the course of two or three years; if’—and he paused, looking his nephew steadily in the face.
‘I trust,’ said Walkinshaw, ‘it can be coupled withno condition that will prevent me from availing myself of your great liberality.’
His uncle was still more damped by this than by the former observation, and he repliedpeevishly,—
‘I think, young man, considering your destitute circumstances, you might be a little more grateful for my friendship. It is but a cold return to suppose I would subject you to any condition that you would not gladly agree to.’
This, though hastily conceived, was not so sharply expressed as to have occasioned any particular sensation; but the train of Walkinshaw’s reflections, with his suspicion of the object for which he was that evening invited to the country, made him feel it acutely, and his blood mounted at the allusion to his poverty. Still, without petulance, but in an emphatic manner, hereplied,—
‘I have considered your friendship always as disinterested, and as such I have felt and cherished the sense of gratitude which it naturally inspired; but I frankly confess, that, had I any reason to believe it was less so than I hope it is, I doubt I should be unable to feel exactly as I have hitherto felt.’
‘And in the name of goodness!’ exclaimed his uncle, at once surprised and apprehensive; ‘what reason have you to suppose that I was not actuated by my regard for you as my nephew?’
‘I have never had any, nor have I said so,’ replied Walkinshaw; ‘but you seem to suspect that I may not be so agreeable to some purpose you intend as the obligations you have laid me under, perhaps, entitle you to expect.’
‘The purpose I intend,’ said the uncle, ‘is the strongest proof that I can give you of my affection. It is nothing less than founded on a hope that you will so demean yourself, as to give me the pleasure, in due time, of calling you by a dearer name than nephew.’
Notwithstanding all the preparations which Walkinshaw had made to hear the proposal with firmness, it overcame him like a thunder-clap—and he sat sometime looking quickly from side to side, and unable to answer.
‘You do not speak,’ said his uncle, and he added, softly and inquisitively, ‘Is there any cause to make you averse to Robina?—I trust I may say to you, as a young man of discretion and good sense, that there is no green and foolish affection which ought for a moment to weigh with you against the advantages of a marriage with your cousin—Were there nothing else held out to you, the very circumstance of regaining so easily the patrimony, which your father had so inconsiderately forfeited, should of itself be sufficient. But, besides that, on the day you are married to Robina, it is my fixed intent to resign the greatest part of my concern in the house to you, thereby placing you at once in opulence.’
While he was thus earnestly speaking, Walkinshaw recovered his self-possession; and being averse to give a disagreeable answer, he said, that he could not but duly estimate, to the fullest extent, all the advantages which the connexion would insure; ‘But,’ said he, ‘have you spoken to Robina herself?’
‘No,’ replied his uncle, with a smile of satisfaction, anticipating from the question something like a disposition to acquiesce in his views. ‘No; I leave that to you—that’s your part. You now know my wishes; and I trust and hope you are sensible that few proposals could be made to you so likely to promote your best interests.’
Walkinshaw saw the difficulties of his situation. He could no longer equivocate with them. It was impossible, he felt, to say that he would speak on the subject to Robina, without being guilty of duplicity towards his uncle. Besides this, he conceived it would sully the honour and purity of his affection for Ellen Frazer to allow himself to seek any declaration of refusal from Robina, however certain of receiving it. His uncle saw his perplexity, andsaid,—
‘This proposal seems to have very much disconcerted you—but I will be plain; for, in a matter onwhich my heart is so much set, it is prudent to be candid. I do not merely suspect, but have some reason to believe, that you have formed a schoolboy attachment to Mrs. Eadie’s young friend. Now, without any other remark on the subject, I will only say, that, though Miss Frazer is a very fine girl, and of a most respectable family, there is nothing in the circumstances of her situation compared with those of your cousin, that would make any man of sense hesitate between them.’
So thought Walkinshaw; for, in his opinion, the man of sense would at once prefer Ellen.
‘However,’ continued his uncle,—‘I will not at present press this matter further. I have opened my mind to you, and I make no doubt, that you will soon see the wisdom and propriety of acceding to my wishes.’
Walkinshaw thought he would be acting unworthy of himself if he allowed his uncle to entertain any hope of his compliance; and, accordingly, he said, with some degree of agitation, but not so much as materially to affect the force with which he expressedhimself,—
‘I will not deny that your information with respect to Miss Frazer is correct; and the state of our sentiments renders it impossible that I should for a moment suffer you to expect I can ever look on Robina but as my cousin.’
‘Well, well, James,’ interrupted his uncle,—‘I know all that; and I calculated on hearing as much, and even more; but take time to reflect on what I have proposed; and I shall be perfectly content to see the result in your actions. So, let us go to your aunt’s room, and take tea with her and Robina.’
‘Impossible!—never!’ exclaimed Walkinshaw, rising;—‘I cannot allow you for a moment longer to continue in so fallacious an expectation. My mind is made up; my decision was formed before I came here; and no earthly consideration will induce me to forgo an affection that has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength.’
His uncle laughed, and rubbed his hands, exceedingly amused at this rhapsody, and said, with the most provokingcoolness,—
‘I shall not increase your flame by stirring the fire—you are still but a youth—and it is very natural that you should have a love fit—all, therefore, that I mean to say at present is, take time—consider—reflect on the fortune you may obtain, and contrast it with the penury and dependence to which your father and mother exposed themselves by the rash indulgence of an inconsiderate attachment.’
‘Sir,’ exclaimed Walkinshaw, fervently, ‘I was prepared for the proposal you have made, and my determination with respect to it was formed and settled before I came here.’
‘Indeed!’ said his uncle coldly; ‘and pray what is it?’
‘To quit Glasgow; to forgo all the pecuniary advantages that I may derive from my connexion with you—if’—and he made a full stop and looked his uncle severely in the face,—‘if,’ he resumed, ‘your kindness was dictated with a view to this proposal.’
A short silence ensued, in which Walkinshaw still kept his eye brightly and keenly fixed on his uncle’s face; but the Laird was too much a man of the world not to be able to endure this scrutiny.
‘You are a strange fellow,’ he at last said, with a smile, that he intended should be conciliatory; ‘but as I was prepared for a few heroics I can forgive you.’
‘Forgive!’ cried the hot and indignant youth; ‘what have I done to deserve such an insult? I thought your kindness merited my gratitude. I felt towards you as a man should feel towards a great benefactor; but now it would almost seem that you have in all your kindness but pursued some sinister purpose. Why am I selected to be your instrument? Why are my feelings and affections to be sacrificed on your sordid altars?’
He found his passion betraying him into irrational extravagance, and, torn by the conflict within him,he covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
‘This is absolute folly, James,’ said his uncle soberly.
‘It is not folly,’ was again his impassioned answer. ‘My words may be foolish, but my feelings are at this moment wise. I cannot for ten times all your fortune, told a hundred times, endure to think I may be induced to barter my heart. It may be that I am ungrateful; if so, as I can never feel otherwise upon the subject than I do, send me away, as unworthy longer to share your favour; but worthy I shall nevertheless be of something still better.’
‘Young man, you will be more reasonable to-morrow,’ said his uncle, contemptuously, and immediately left the room. Walkinshaw at the same moment also took his hat, and, rushing towards the door, quitted the house; but in turning suddenly round the corner, he ran against Robina, who, having some idea of the object of his visit, had been listening at the window to their conversation.
The agitation in which Walkinshaw was at the moment when he encountered Robina, prevented him from being surprised at meeting her, and also from suspecting the cause which had taken her to that particular place so late in the evening. The young lady was more cool and collected, as we believe young ladies always are on such occasions, and she was the first who spoke.
‘Where are you running so fast?’ said she. ‘I thought you would have stayed tea. Will you not go back with me? My mother expects you.’
‘Your father does not,’ replied Walkinshaw tersely; ‘and I wish it had been my fortune never to have set my foot within his door.’
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Miss Robina, as artfully asif she had known nothing, nor overheard every word which had passed. ‘What has happened? I hope nothing has occurred to occasion any quarrel between you. Do think, James, how prejudicial it must be to your interests to quarrel with my father.’
‘Curse that eternal word “interests”!’ was the unceremonious answer. ‘Your father seems to think that human beings have nothing but interests; that the heart keeps a ledger, and values everything in pounds sterling. Our best affections, our dearest feelings, are with him only as tare, that should pass for nothing in the weight of moral obligations.’
‘But stop,’ said Robina, ‘don’t be in such a hurry; tell me what all this means—what has affections and dear feelings to do with your counting-house affairs?—I thought you and he never spoke of anything but rum puncheons and sugar cargoes.’
‘He is incapable of knowing the value of anything less tangible and vendible!’ exclaimed her cousin—‘but I have done with both him and you.’
‘Me!’ cried Miss Robina, with an accent of the most innocent admiration, that any sly and shrewd miss of eighteen could possibly assume.—‘Me! what have I to do with your hopes and your affections, and your tangible and vendible commodities?’
‘I beg your pardon, I meant no offence to you, Robina—I am overborne by my feelings,’ said Walkinshaw; ‘and if you knew what has passed, you would sympathize with me.’
‘But as I do not,’ replied the young lady coolly, ‘you must allow me to say that your behaviour appears to me very extravagant—surely nothing has passed between you and my father that I may not know?’
This was said in a manner that instantly recalled Walkinshaw to his senses. The deep and cunning character of his cousin he had often before remarked—with, we may say plainly, aversion—and he detected at once in the hollow and sonorous affectation of sympathy with which her voice was tuned, particularly in the latter clause of the sentence, the insincerity andhypocrisy of her conduct.—He did not, however, suspect that she had been playing the eavesdropper; and, therefore, still tempered with moderation his expression of the sentiments she was so ingeniously leading him on to declare.
‘No,’ said he, calmly, ‘nothing has passed between your father and me that you may not know, but it will come more properly from him, for it concerns you, and in a manner that I can never take interest or part in.’
‘Concerns me! concerns me!’ exclaimed the actress; ‘it is impossible that anything of mine could occasion a misunderstanding between you.’
‘But it has,’ said Walkinshaw; ‘and to deal with you, Robina, as you ought to be dealt with, for affecting to be so ignorant of your father’s long-evident wishes and intents—he has actually declared that he is most anxious we should be married.’
‘I can see no harm in that,’ said she, adding dryly, ‘provided it is not to one another.’
‘But it is to one another,’ said Walkinshaw, unguardedly, and in the simplicity of earnestness, which Miss perceiving, instantly with the adroitness of her sex turned to account—saying with well-feigneddiffidence,—
‘I do not see why that should be so distressing to you.’
‘No!’ replied he. ‘But the thing can never be, and it is of no use for us to talk of it—so good night.’
‘Stay,’ cried Robina,—‘what you have told me deserves consideration.—Surely I have given you no reason to suppose that in a matter so important, I may not find it my interest to comply with my father’s wishes.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Walkinshaw, raising his clenched hands in a transport to the skies.
‘Why are you so vehement?’ said Robina.
‘Because,’ replied he solemnly, ‘interest seems the everlasting consideration of our family—interest disinherited my father—interest made my uncle Walter consign my mother to poverty—interest proved thepoor repentant wretch insane—interest claims the extinction of all I hold most precious in life—and interest would make me baser than the most sordid of all our sordid race.’
‘Then I am to understand you dislike me so much, that you have refused to accede to my father’s wishes for our mutual happiness?’
‘For our mutual misery, I have refused to accede,’ was the abrupt reply—‘and if you had not some motive for appearing to feel otherwise—which motive I neither can penetrate nor desire to know, you would be as resolute in your objection to the bargain as I am—match I cannot call it, for it proceeds in a total oblivion of all that can endear or ennoble such a permanent connexion.’
Miss was conscious of the truth of this observation, and with all her innate address, it threw her off her guard, and shesaid,—
‘Why do you suppose that I am so insensible? My father may intend what he pleases, but my consent must be obtained before he can complete his intentions.’ She had, however, scarcely said so much, when she perceived she was losing the vantage-ground that she had so dexterously occupied, and she turned briskly round and added, ‘But, James, why should we fall out about this?—there is time enough before us to consider the subject dispassionately—my father cannot mean that the marriage should take place immediately.’
‘Robina, you are your father’s daughter, and the heiress of his nature as well as of his estate—no such marriage ever can or shall take place; nor do you wish it should—but I am going too far—it is enough that I declare my affections irrevocably engaged, and that I will never listen to a second proposition on that subject, which has to-night driven me wild. I have quitted your father—I intend it for ever—I will never return to his office. All that I built on my connexion with him is now thrown down—perhaps with it my happiness is also lost—but no matter, I cannot be a dealer in such bargaining as I have heard to-night. I amthankful to Providence that gave me a heart to feel better, and friends who taught me to think more nobly. However, I waste my breath and spirits idly; my resolution is fixed, and when I say Good night, I mean Farewell.’
With these words he hurried away, and, after walking a short time on the lawn, Robina returned into the house; and going up to her mother’s apartment, where her father was sitting, she appeared as unconcerned and unconscious of the two preceding conversations, as if she had neither been a listener to the one, nor an actress in the other.
On entering the room, she perceived that her father had been mentioning to her mother something of what had passed between himself and her cousin; but it was her interest, on account of the direction which her affections had taken, to appear ignorant of many things, and studiously to avoid any topic with her father that might lead him to suspect her bent; for she had often observed, that few individuals could be proposed to him as a match for her that he entertained so strong a prejudice against; although really, in point of appearance, relationship, and behaviour, it could hardly be said that the object of her preference was much inferior to her romantic cousin. The sources and motives of that prejudice she was, however, regardless of discovering. She considered it in fact as an unreasonable and unaccountable antipathy, and was only anxious for the removal of any cause that might impede the consummation she devoutly wished. Glad, therefore, to be so fully mistress of Walkinshaw’s sentiments as she had that night made herself, she thought, by a judicious management of her knowledge, she might overcome her father’s prejudice;—and the address and dexterity with which she tried this we shall attempt to describe in the following chapter.
‘I thought,’ said she, after seating herself at the tea-table, ‘that my cousin would have stopped to-night; but I understand he has gone away.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied her father, ‘had you requested him, he might have stayed!’
‘I don’t think he would for me,’ was her answer.—‘He does not appear particularly satisfied when I attempt to interfere with any of his proceedings.’
‘Then you do sometimes attempt to interfere?’ said her father, somewhat surprised at the observation, and not suspecting that she had heard one word of what had passed, every syllable of which was carefully stored in the treasury of her bosom.
The young lady perceived that she was proceeding a little too quickly, and drew in her horns.
‘All,’ said she, ‘that I meant to remark was, that he is not very tractable, which I regret;’ and she contrived to give a sigh.
‘Why should you regret it so particularly?’ inquired her father, a little struck at the peculiar accent with which she had expressed herself.
‘I cannot tell,’ was her adroit reply; and then she added, in a brisker tone,—‘But I wonder what business I have to trouble myself about him?’
For some time her father made no return to this; but, pushing back his chair from the tea-table till he had reached the chimney-corner, he leant his elbow on the mantelpiece, and appeared for several minutes in a state of profound abstraction. In the meantime, Mrs. Walkinshaw had continued the conversation with her daughter, observing to her that she did, indeed, think her cousin must be a very headstrong lad; for he had spoken that night to her father in such a manner as had not only astonished but distressed him. ‘However,’ said she,—‘he is still a mere boy; and, I doubt not, will, before long is past, think better of what his uncle has been telling him.’
‘I am extremely sorry,’ replied Robina, with the very voice of the most artless sympathy, though, perhaps, a little more accentuated than simplicity would have employed—‘I am very sorry, indeed, that any difference has arisen between him and my father. I am sure I have always heard him spoken of as an amiable and very deserving young man. I trust it is of no particular consequence.’
‘It is of the utmost consequence,’ interposed her father; ‘and it is of more to you than to any other besides.’
‘To me, Sir! how is that possible?—What have I to do with him, or he with me? I am sure, except in being more deficient in his civilities than those of most of my acquaintance, I have had no occasion to remark anything particular in his behaviour or conduct towards me.’
‘I know it—I know it,’ exclaimed her father; ‘and therein lies the source of all my anxiety.’
‘I fear that I do not rightly understand you,’ said the cunning girl.
‘Nor do I almost wish that you ever should; but, nevertheless, my heart is so intent on the business, that I think, were you to second my endeavours, the scheme might be accomplished.’
‘The scheme?—What scheme?’ replied the most unaffected Robina.
‘In a word, child,’ said her father, ‘how would you like James as a husband?’
‘How can I tell?’ was her simple answer. ‘He has never given me any reason to think on the subject.’
‘You cannot, however, but long have seen that it was with me a favourite object?’
‘I confess it;—and, perhaps, I have myself,’ she said, with a second sigh—‘thought more of it than I ought to have done; but I have never had any encouragement from him.’
‘How unhappy am I,’ thought her father to himself—‘The poor thing is as much disposed to the match as my heart could hope for.—Surely, surely, by a littleaddress and perseverance, the romantic boy may be brought to reason and to reflect;’ and he then said to her—‘My dear Robina, you have been the subject of my conversation with James this evening; but I am grieved to say, that his sentiments, at present, are neither favourable to your wishes nor to mine.—He seems enchanted by Mrs. Eadie’s relation, and talked so much nonsense on the subject that we almost quarrelled.’
‘I shall never accept of a divided heart,’ said the young lady despondingly; ‘and I entreat, my dear father, that you will never take another step in the business; for, as long as I can recollect, he has viewed me with eyes of aversion—and in all that time he has been the playmate, and the lover, perhaps, of Ellen Frazer.—Again I implore you to abandon every idea of promoting a union between him and me: It can never take place on his part but from the most sordid considerations of interest; nor on mine without feeling that I have been but as a bale bargained for.’
Her father listened with attention to what she said—it appeared reasonable—it was spirited; but there was something, nevertheless, in it which did not quite satisfy his mind, though the sense was clear and complete.
‘Of course,’ he replied, guardedly; ‘I should never require you to bestow your hand where you had not already given your affections; but it does not follow that because the headstrong boy is at this time taken up with Miss Frazer, that he is always to remain of the same mind. On the contrary, Robina, were you to exert a little address, I am sure you would soon draw him from that unfortunate attachment.’
‘What woman,’ said she, with an air of supreme dignity, ‘would submit to pilfer the betrothed affections of any man? No, sir, I cannot do that—nor ought I; and pardon me when I use the expression, nor will I. Had my cousin made himself more agreeable to me, I do not say that such would have been my sentiments; but having seen nothing in his behaviour that can lead me to hope from him anything but the same constancy in his dislike which I have ever experienced,I should think myself base, indeed, were I to allow you to expect that I may alter my opinion.’
Nothing further passed at that time; for to leave the impression which she intended to produce as strong as possible, she immediately rose and left the room. Her father soon after also quitted his seat, and after taking two or three turns across the floor, went to his own apartment.
‘I am the most unfortunate of men,’ said he to himself, ‘and my poor Robina is no less frustrated in her affections. I cannot, however, believe that the boy is so entirely destitute of prudence as not to think of what I have told him. I must give him time. Old heads do not grow on young shoulders. But it never occurred to me that Robina was attached to him; on the contrary, I have always thought that the distaste was stronger on her part than on his. But it is of no use to vex myself on the subject. Let me rest satisfied to-night with having ascertained that at least on Robina’s part there is no objection to the match. My endeavours hereafter must be directed to detach James from the girl Frazer. It will, however, be no easy task, for he is ardent and enthusiastic, and she has undoubtedly many of those graces which readiest find favour in a young man’s eye.’
He then hastily rose, and hurriedly paced the room.
‘Why am I cursed,’ he exclaimed, ‘with this joyless and barren fate? Were Robina a son, all my anxieties would be hushed; but with her my interest in the estate of my ancestors terminates. Her mother, however, may yet’—and he paused. ‘It is very weak,’ he added in a moment after, ‘to indulge in these reflections. I have a plain task before me, and instead of speculating on hopes and chances, I ought to set earnestly about it, and leave no stone unturned till I have performed it thoroughly.’
With this he composed his mind for the remainder of the evening, and when he again joined Robina and her mother, the conversation by all parties was studiously directed to indifferent topics.