There are few things more ludicrous, and at the same time more interesting, than the state of a young man in love, unless, perhaps, it be that of an old man in the same unfortunate situation. The warmth of the admiration, the blindness of the passion, and the fond sincerity of the enthusiasm, which gives grace and sentiment to the instinct, all awaken sympathy, and even inspire a degree of compassionate regard; but the extravagance of feeling beyond what any neutral person can sympathize with, the ostrich-like simplicity of the expedients resorted to in assignations, and that self-approved sagacity and prudence in concealing what everybody with half an eye can see, afford the most harmless and diverting spectacles of human absurdity. However, as we are desirous of conciliating the reverence of the young and fair, perhaps it may be as well to say nothing more on this head, but allow them to enjoy, in undisturbed faith, the amiable anticipation of that state of beatitude which Heaven, and all married personages, know is but a very very transient enchantment.
But we cannot, with any regard to the fidelity of circumstantial history, omit to relate what passed in young Walkinshaw’s bosom, after he parted from his cousin.—To render it in some degree picturesque, we might describe his appearance; but when we spoke of him as a handsome manly youth for his inches and his eild, we said perhaps as much as we could well say upon that head, unless we were to paint the colour and fashion of his clothes,—a task in which we have no particular relish;—and, therefore, we may just briefly mention that they were in the style of the sprucest clerks of Glasgow; and everybody knows, that if the bucks of the Trongate would only button their coats, they might pass for gentlemen of as good blood and breeding as the best in Bond Street. But, even though Walkinshaw had been in the practice of buttoning his,he was that night in no condition to think of it. His whole bosom was as a flaming furnace—raging as fiercely as those of the Muirkirk Iron Works that served to illuminate his path.
He felt as if he had been held in a state of degradation; and had been regarded as so destitute of all the honourable qualities of a young man, that he would not scruple to barter himself in the most sordid manner. His spirit then mounting on the exulting wings of youthful hope, bore him aloft into the cloudy and meteoric region of romance, and visions of fortune and glory almost too splendid for the aching sight of his fancy, presented themselves in a thousand smiling forms, beckoning him away from the smoky confines and fœtid airs of Glasgow, and pointing to some of the brightest and beaming bubbles that allure fantastic youth. But, in the midst of these glittering visions of triumphant adventure, ‘a change came o’er the spirit of his dream,’ and he beheld Ellen Frazer in the simple and tasteful attire in which she appeared so beautiful at Camrachle church. In the background of the sunny scene was a pretty poetical cottage, with a lamb tethered by the foot on the green, surrounded by a flock of snowy geese, enjoying their noontide siesta, and on the ground troops of cocks and hens, with several gabbling bandy-legged ducks; at the sight of which another change soon came o’er the spirit of his dream; and the elegant mansion that his uncle had made of the old house of Grippy, with all its lawns and plantations, and stately gate and porter’s lodge, together with an elegant carriage in the avenue, presented a most alluring picture.—But it, too, soon vanished; and in the next change, he beheld Robina converted into his wife, carping at all his little pranks and humours, and studious only of her own enjoyments, without having any consideration for those that might be his. Then all was instantly darkened; and after a terrible burst of whirlwinds, and thunder and lightning, the cloud again opened, and he saw in its phantasmagorial mirror a calm and summersunset, with his beautiful Ellen Frazer in the shape of a venerable matron, partaking of the temperate pleasures of an aged man, seated on a rustic seat, under a tree, on the brow of Camrachlebank, enjoying the beauties of the view, and talking of their children’s children; and in the visage of that aged man, he discovered a most respectable resemblance of himself.—So fine a close of a life, untroubled by any mischance, malady, or injustice, could not fail to produce the most satisfactory result. Accordingly, he decidedly resolved, that it should be his; and that, as he had previously determined, the connexion with his uncle should thenceforth be cut for ever.
By the time that imagination rather than reason had worked him into this decision, he arrived at Glasgow; and being resolved to carry his intention into immediate effect, instead of going to the house where he was boarded, at his uncle’s expense, he went to the Leddy’s, partly with the intention of remaining there, but chiefly to remonstrate with her for having spoken of his attachment to Ellen Frazer; having concluded, naturally enough, that it was from her his uncle had received the information.
On entering the parlour he found the old lady seated alone, in her elbow chair, at the fireside. A single slender candle stood at her elbow, on a small claw-foot table; and she was winding the yarn from a pirn, with a hand-reel, carefully counting the turns. Hearing the door open, she looked round, and seeing who it was,said,—
‘Is that thee, Jamie Walkinshaw?—six and thirty—where came ye frae—seven and thirty—at this time o’ night?—eight and thirty—sit ye down—nine and thirty—snuff the candle—forty.’
‘I’ll wait till ye’re done,’ said he, ‘as I wish to tell you something—for I have been out at Kittlestonheugh, where I had some words with my uncle.’
‘No possible!—nine and forty,’—replied the Leddy;—‘what hast been about?—fifty’——
‘He seems to regard me as if I had neither a will nor feelings, neither a head nor a heart.’
‘I hope ye hae baith—five and fifty—but hae ye been condumacious?—seven and—plague tak the laddie, I’m out in my count, and I’ll hae to begin the cut again; so I may set by the reel. What were you saying, Jamie, anent an outcast wi’ your uncle?’
‘He has used me exceedingly ill—ripping up the obligations he has laid me under, and taunting me with my poverty.’
‘And is’t no true that ye’re obligated to him, and that, but for the uncly duty he has fulfilled towards you, ye would this night hae been a bare lad?—gude kens an ye would na hae been as scant o’ cleeding as a salmon in the river.’
‘It may be so, but when it is considered that he got the family estate by a quirk of law, he could scarcely have done less than he did for my unfortunate father’s family. But I could have forgiven all that, had he not, in a way insulting to my feelings, intimated that he expected I would break with Ellen Frazer, and offer myself to Robina.’
‘And sure am I, Jamie,’ replied the Leddy, ‘that it will be lang before you can do better.’
‘My mind, however, is made up,’ said he; ‘and to-morrow morning I shall go to Camrachle, and tell my mother that I have resolved to leave Glasgow.—I will never again set my foot in the counting-house.’
‘Got ye ony drink, Jamie, in the gait hame, that ye’re in sic a wud humour for dancing “Auld Sir Simon the King”, on the road to Camrachle?—Man, an I had as brisk a bee in the bonnet, I would set aff at ance, cracking my fingers at the moon and seven stars as I gaed louping alang.—But, to speak the words of soberness, I’m glad ye hae discretion enough to tak a night’s rest first.’
‘Do not think so lightly of my determination—It is fixed—and, from the moment I quitted Kittlestonheugh, I resolved to be no longer under any obligation to my uncle—He considers me as a mere passive instrument for his own ends.’
‘Hech, sirs! man, but ye hae a great share o’sagacity,’ exclaimed the Leddy; ‘and because your uncle is fain that ye should marry his only dochter, and would, if ye did sae, leave you for dowry and tocher a braw estate and a bank o’ siller, ye think he has pookit you by the nose.’
‘No—not for that; but because he thinks so meanly of me, as to expect that, for mercenary considerations, I would bargain away both my feelings and my principles.’
‘Sure am I he would ne’er mint ony sic matter,’ replied the Leddy; ‘and if he wantit you to break wi’ yon galloping nymph o’ the Highland heather, and draw up wi’ that sweet primrose-creature, your cousin Beenie, wha is a lassie o’ sense and composity, and might be a match to majesty, it was a’ for your honour and exaltation.’
‘Don’t distress me any further with the subject,’ said he. ‘Will you have the goodness to let me stay here to-night? for, as I told you, there shall never now be any addition made to the obligations which have sunk me so low.’
‘’Deed, my lad, an ye gang on in that deleerit manner, I’ll no only gie you a bed, but send baith for a doctor and a gradawa, that your head may be shaved, and a’ proper remedies—outwardly and inwardly—gotten to bring you back to a right way o’ thinking. But to end a’ debates, ye’ll just pack up your ends and your awls and gang hame to Mrs. Spruil’s, for the tow’s to spin and the woo’s to card that ’ill be the sheets and blankets o’ your bed in this house the night—tak my word for’t.’
‘In that case, I will at once go to Camrachle. The night is fine, and the moon’s up.’
‘Awa wi’ you, and show how weel ye hae come to years o’ discretion, by singing as yegang,—
Scotsman ho! Scotsman lo!Where shall this poor Scotsman go?Send him east, send him west,Send him to the craw’s nest.’
Scotsman ho! Scotsman lo!Where shall this poor Scotsman go?Send him east, send him west,Send him to the craw’s nest.’
Notwithstanding the stern mood that Walkinshaw was in, this latter sally of his grandmother’s eccentric humour compelled him to laugh, and he said gaily, ‘But I shall be none the worse of a little supper before I set out. I hope you will not refuse me that?’
The old Lady, supposing that she had effectually brought him, as she said, round to himself, cheerfully acquiesced; but she was not a little disappointed, when, after some light and ludicrous conversation on general topics, he still so persisted either to remain in the house or to proceed to his mother’s, that she found herself obliged to order a bed to be prepared for him—at the same time she continued to express her confidence that he would be in a more docile humour next morning. ‘I hope,’ said she, ‘nevertheless, that the spirit of obedience will soople that stiff neck o’ thine, in the slumbers and watches of the night, or I ne’er would be consenting to countenance such outstrapulous rebellion.’
Walkinshaw passed a night of ‘restless ecstasy’. Sometimes he reflected on the proposition with all the coolness that the Laird himself could have desired; but still and anon the centripetal movement of the thoughts and feelings which generated this prudence was suddenly arrested before they had gravitated into anything like resolution, and then he was thrown as wild and as wide from the object of his uncle’s solicitude as ever.
In the calmer, perhaps it may therefore be said, in the wiser course of his reflections, Robina appeared to him a shrewd and sensible girl, with a competent share of personal beauty, and many other excellent household qualities, to make her a commendable wife. With her he would at once enter on the enjoyment of opulence, and with it independence; and, moreover, and above all, have it in his power to restore his mother and sister to that state in society, to which, by birth and original expectations, they considered themselves as havingsome claim. This was a pleasing and a proud thought; and not to indulge it at the expense of a little sacrifice of personal feeling, seemed to him selfish and unmanly. But then he would remember with what high-toned bravery of determination he had boasted to his uncle of his pure and unalterable affections; how contemptuously he had spoken of pecuniary inducements, and in what terms, too, he had told Robina herself, that she had nothing to hope from him. It was, therefore, impossible that he could present himself to either with any expression of regret for what had passed, without appearing, in the eyes of both, as equally weak and unworthy. But the very thought of finding that he could think of entertaining the proposition at all, was more acute and mortifying than even this; and he despised himself when he considered how Ellen Frazer would look upon him, if she knew he had been so base as, for a moment, to calculate the sordid advantages of preferring his cousin.
But what was to be done? To return to the counting-house, after his resolute declaration; to embark again in that indoor and tame drudgery which he ever hated, and which was rendered as vile as slavery, by the disclosures which had taken place, could not be. He would be baser than were he to sell himself to his uncle’s purposes, could he yield to such a suggestion.
To leave Glasgow was his only alternative; but how? and where to go? and where to obtain the means? were stinging questions that he could not answer; and then what was he to gain? To marry Robina was to sacrifice Ellen Frazer; to quit the country entailed the same consequence. Besides all that, in so doing he would add to the sorrows and the disappointments of his gentle-hearted and affectionate mother, who had built renewed hopes on his success under the auspices of his uncle, and who looked eagerly forward to the time when he should be so established in business as to bring his sister before the world in circumstances befitting his father’s child; for the hereditary pride of family was mingled with his sensibility;and even the beautiful and sprightly Ellen Frazer herself, perhaps, owed something of her superiority over Robina to the Highland pedigrees and heroic traditions which Mrs. Eadie delighted to relate of her ancestors.
While tossing on these troubled and conflicting tides of the mind, he happened to recollect, that a merchant, a schoolfellow of his father, and who, when he occasionally met him, always inquired, with more than common interest, for his mother and sister, had at that time a vessel bound for New York, where he intended to establish a store, and was in want of a clerk; and it occurred to him, that, perhaps, through that means, he might accomplish his wishes. This notion was as oil to his agitation, and hope restored soon brought sleep and soothing dreams to his pillow; but his slumbers were not of long duration, for before sunrise he awoke; and, in order to avoid the garrulous remonstrances of the Leddy, he rose and went to Camrachle for the purpose, as he persuaded himself, to consult his mother; but, for all that we have been able to understand, it was in reality only to communicate his determination. But these sort of self-delusions are very common to youths under age.
The morning air, as he issued from Glasgow, was cold and raw. Heavy blobs of water, the uncongenial distillations of the midnight fogs, hung so dully on the hoary hedges, that even Poesy would be guilty of downright extravagance, were she, on any occasion, to call such gross uncrystalline knobs of physic glass by any epithet implying dew. The road was not miry, but gluey, and reluctant, and wearisome to the tread. The smoke from the farm-houses rolled listlessly down the thatch, and lazily spread itself into a dingy azure haze, that lingered and lowered among the stacks of the farm-yards. The cows, instead of proceeding, with their ordinary sedate common sense, to the pastures, stood on the loans, looking east and west, and lowing to one another—no doubt concerning the state of the weather. The birds chirped peevishly, as they hoppedfrom bough to bough. The ducks walked in silence to their accustomed pools. The hens, creatures at all times of a sober temperament, condoled in actual sadness together under sheds and bushes; and chanticleer himself wore a paler crest than usual, and was so low in spirits, that he only once had heart enough to wind his bugle-horn. Nature was sullen—and the herd-boy drew his blanket-mantle closer round him, and snarlingly struck the calf as he grudgingly drove the herd afield. On the ground, at the door of the toll-bar house, lay a gill-stoup on its side, and near it, on a plate, an empty glass and a bit of bread, which showed that some earlier traveller had, in despite of the statute, but in consideration of the damp and unwholesome morning, obtained a dram from the gudewife’s ain bottle.
In consequence of these sympathetic circumstances, before Walkinshaw reached Camrachle, his heart was almost as heavy as his limbs were tired. His mother, when she saw him pass the parlour window, as he approached the door, was surprised at his appearance, and suffered something like a shock of fear when she perceived the dulness of his eye and the dejection of his features.
‘What has brought you here?’ was her first exclamation; ‘and what has happened?’
But, instead of replying, he walked in, and seated himself at the fireside, complaining of his cold and uncomfortable walk, and the heaviness of the road. His sister was preparing breakfast, and happening not to be in the room, his mother repeated her anxious inquiries with an accent of more earnest solicitude.
‘I fear,’ said Walkinshaw, ‘that I am only come to distress you;’ and he then briefly recapitulated what had passed between himself and his uncle respecting Robina. But a sentiment of tenderness for his mother’s anxieties, blended with a wish to save her from the disagreeable sensation with which he knew his determination to quit Glasgow would affect her, made him suppress the communication that he had come expressly to make.
Mrs. Walkinshaw had been too long accustomed to the occasional anticipations in which her brother-in-law had indulged on the subject, to be surprised at what had taken place on his part; and both from her own observations, and from the repugnance her son expressed, she had no doubt that his attachment to Ellen Frazer was the chief obstacle to the marriage. The considerations and reflections to which this conclusion naturally gave rise, held her for some time silent. The moment, however, that Walkinshaw, encouraged by the seeming slightness of her regret at his declamations against the match, proceeded to a fuller disclosure of his sentiments, and to intimate his resolution to go abroad, her maternal fears were startled, and she was plunged into the profoundest sorrow. But still during breakfast she said nothing—misfortune and disappointment had indeed so long subdued her gentle spirit into the most patient resignation, that, while her soul quivered in all its tenderest feelings, she seldom even sighed, but, with a pale cheek and a meek supplication, expressed only by a heavenward look of her mild and melancholy eyes, she seemed to say, ‘Alas! am I still doomed to suffer?’ That look was ever irresistible with her children: in their very childhood it brought them, with all their artless and innocent caresses, to her bosom; and, on this occasion, it so penetrated the very core of Walkinshaw’s heart, that he took her by the hand and burst into tears.
We are no casuists, and therefore cannot undertake to determine whether Jenny did right or wrong in marrying Auld Robin Gray for the sake of her poor father and mother; especially as it has been ever held by the most approved moralists, that there are principles to be abided by, even at the expense of great and incontrovertible duties. But of this we are quite certain, that there are few trials to which the generous heart can be subjected more severe than a contestbetween its duties and its affections—between the claims which others have upon the conduct of the man for their advantage, and the desires that he has himself to seek his own gratification. In this predicament stood young Walkinshaw; and at the moment when he took his mother by the hand, the claims of filial duty were undoubtedly preferred to the wishes of love.
‘I am,’ said he, ‘at your disposal, mother—do with me as you think fit.—When I resented the mean opinion that my uncle seemed to hold of me, I forgot you—I thought only of myself. My first duties, I now feel, are due to the world, and the highest of them to my family.—But I wish that I had never known Ellen Frazer.’
‘In that wish, my dear boy, you teach me what I ought myself to do.—No, James, I can never desire nor expect that my children will sacrifice themselves for me—for I regard it as no less than immolation when the heart revolts at the tasks which the hand performs. But my life has long been one continued sorrow; and it is natural that I should shrink at the approach of another and a darker cloud. I will not, however, ask you to remain with your uncle, nor even oppose your resolution to go abroad. But be not precipitate—consider the grief, the anxieties, and the humiliations, that both your father and I have endured, and think, were you united to Ellen Frazer, supposing her father and friends would consent to so unequal a match, what would be her fate were you cut early off, as your father was?—It is the thought of that—of what I myself, with you and for you, have borne, which weighs so grievously at this moment on my spirits.’
‘Do you wish me to return to Glasgow?’ said Walkinshaw with an anxious and agitated voice.
‘Not unless you feel yourself that you can do so without humiliation—for bitter, James, as my cup has been, and ill able as I am to wrestle with the blast, I will never counsel child of mine to do that which may lessen him in his own opinion. Heaven knows that there aremortifications ready enough in the world to humble us—we do not need to make any for ourselves—no, unless you can meet your uncle with a frank face and a free heart, do not return.’
‘I am sure, then, that I never can,’ replied Walkinshaw. ‘I feel as if he had insulted my nature, by venturing to express what he seems to think of me; and a man can forgive almost any injury but a mean opinion of him.’
‘But if you do not go to him, perhaps you will not find it difficult to obtain a situation in another counting-house?’
‘If I am not to return to his, I would rather at once leave the place—I never liked it, and I shall now like it less than ever. In a word, my intention is to go, if possible, to America.’
‘Go where you will, my blessing and tears is all, my dear boy, that I can give you.’
‘Then you approve of my wish to go to America?’
‘I do not object to it, James—It is a difficult thing for a mother to say that she approves of her son exposing himself to any hazard.’
‘What would you have said, could I have obtained a commission in the army and a war raging?’
‘Just what I say now—nor should I have felt more sorrow in seeing you go to a campaign than I shall feel when you leave me to encounter the yet to you untried perils of the world. Indeed, I may say, I should almost feel less, for in the army, with all its hazard, there is a certain degree of assurance, that a young man, if he lives, will be fashioned into an honourable character.’
‘I wish that there was a war,’ said Walkinshaw with such sincere simplicity, that even his mother could scarcely refrain from smiling.
The conversation was, at this juncture, interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Eadie, who immediately perceived that something particular had occurred to disturb the tranquillity of her friend, and, for a moment, she looked at Walkinshaw with an austere and majestic eye. His mother observed the severity of her aspect,and thought it as well at once to mention what had happened.
Mrs. Eadie listened to the recital of his uncle’s proposal, and his resolution to go abroad, with a degree of juridical serenity, that lent almost as much solemnity to her appearance as it derived dignity from her august form; and, when Mrs. Walkinshaw concluded, shesaid,—
‘We have foreseen all this—and I am only surprised that now, when it has come to pass, it should affect you so much. I dreamt, last night, Mrs. Walkinshaw, that you were dead, and laid out in your winding-sheet. I thought I was sitting beside the corpse, and that, though I was sorrowful, I was, nevertheless, strangely pleased. In that moment, my cousin, Glengael, came into the room, and he had a large ancient book, with brazen clasps on it, under his arm. That book he gave to Ellen Frazer, whom I then saw was also in the room, and she undid the brazen clasps, and opening it, showed her father a particular passage, which he read aloud, and, when he paused, I saw you rise, and, throwing aside the winding-sheet, you appeared richly dressed, with a cheerful countenance, and on your hands were wedding-gloves. It was to tell you this auspicious dream that I came here this morning, and I have no doubt it betokens some happy change in your fortunes, to come by the agency of Glengael. Therefore, give yourself no uneasiness about this difference between James and his uncle; for, you may rest assured, it will terminate in some great good to your family; but there will be a death first, that’s certain.’
Although Walkinshaw was familiar with the occasional gleams of the sibilline pretensions of Mrs. Eadie, and always treated them with reverence, he could not resist from smiling at the earnestness with which she delivered her prediction, saying, ‘But I do not see in what way the dream has anything to do with my case.’
‘You do not see,’ replied the Leddy sternly, ‘nor do I see; but it does not, therefore, follow, that there is no sympathy between them. The wheels of the worldwork in darkness, James, and it requires the sight of the seer to discern what is coming round, though the auguries of their index are visible to all eyes. But,’ and she turned to Mrs. Walkinshaw, ‘it strikes me, that, in the present state of your circumstances, I might write to my cousin. The possession of Glengael gives him weight with Government, and, perhaps, his influence might be of use to your son.’
This afforded a ray of hope to Walkinshaw, of which he had never entertained the slightest notion, and it also, in some degree, lightened the spirits of his mother. They both expressed their sense of her kindness; and James said gaily, that he had no doubt the omens of her dream would soon be verified; but she repliedsolemnly,—
‘No! though Glengael may be able, by his interest, to serve you, the agency of death can alone fulfil the vision; but, for the present, let us say no more on that head. I will write to-day to Mr. Frazer, and inquire in what way he can best assist all our wishes.’
In the meantime, the Leddy had been informed by her maid of Walkinshaw’s early departure for Camrachle; and, in consequence, as soon as she had breakfasted, a messenger was dispatched to the counting-house, to request that the Laird might be sent to her when he came to town; but this was unnecessary, for he had scarcely passed a more tranquil night than his nephew; and, before her messenger came back, he was in the parlour with Robina, whom he had brought with him in the carriage to spend the day with one of her friends. Why the young lady should have chosen so unpleasant a day for her visit, particularly as it was a volunteer, and had been, as she said, only concerted with herself after the conversation of the preceding evening, we must allow the sagacity of the reader to discover; but she appeared flurried, and put out of countenance, when her grandmother told her, that she expected Dirdumwhamle and Mrs. Milrookit to dinner, and ‘I think,’ said she, ‘Beenie, that ye ought to bide wi’ me to meet them, for I expect Walky’—so she styledWalkinshaw, their son; ‘and if ye’re no to get the ae cousin, I dinna see but ye might set your cap for the other.’
‘I trust and hope,’ exclaimed the Laird, ‘that she has more sense. Walkinshaw Milrookit has nothing.’
‘And what has Jamie Walkinshaw?’ said the Leddy. ‘’Deed, Geordie, though I canna but say ye’re baith pawky and auld farrant, it’s no to be controverted that ye hae gotten your father’s bee in the bonnet, anent ancestors and forbears, and nae gude can come out o’ ony sic havers. Beenie, my Leddy, ne’er fash your head wi’ your father’s dodrums; but, an ye can hook Walky’s heart wi’ the tail o’ your ee, ye’s no want my helping hand at the fishing.’
‘Mother,’ said George vehemently, ‘I am astonished that you can talk so lightly to the girl. I have my own reasons for being most decidedly averse to any such union. And though I do feel that James has used me ill, and that his headstrong conduct deserves my severest displeasure, I not only think it a duty to bring about a marriage between Robina and him, but will endeavour to act in it as such. Perhaps, had she been entirely free, I might have felt less interest in the business; but knowing, as I now do, that his coldness alone has prevented her from cherishing towards him a just and proper affection, I should be wanting in my obligations as a father, were I not to labour, by all expedient means, to promote the happiness of my child.’
During this speech the young lady appeared both out of countenance and inwardly amused, while her grandmother, placing her hands to her sides, looked at her with a queer and inquisitive eye, andsaid,—
‘It’s no possible, Beenie Walkinshaw, that thou’s sic a masquerading cutty as to hae beguilt baith thy father and me? But, if ever I had an e’e in my head, and could see wi’ that e’e, it’s as true as the deil’s in Dublin city, that I hae had a discernment o’ thy heart-hatred to Jamie Walkinshaw. But let your father rin to the woody as he will—they’re no to be born that ’illlive to see that I hae a judgement and an understanding o’ what’s what. Howsever, Geordie, what’s to be done wi’ that ne’er-do-well water-wag-tail that’s flown awa to its mother? Poor woman, she canna afford to gie’t drammock. Something maun be done, and wi’ your wis’ for a fresh clecking of the pedigrees o’ the Walkinshaws o’ Kittlestonheugh, that I hae been sae lang deaved and driven doited wi’; “for the space of forty years,” I may say, in the words of the Psalmist, “the race hae grieved me.” Ye canna do better than just tak a hurl in your chaise to Camrachle, and bring him in by the lug and horn, and nail him to the desk wi’ a pin to his nose.’
There was worse advice, the Laird thought, than this; and, after some further remarks to the same effect, he really did set off for Camrachle with the express intention of doing everything in his power to heal the breach, and to conciliate again the affection and gratitude of his nephew.
As soon as the carriage had left the door, the Leddy resumed the conversation with her granddaughter.
‘Noo, Beenie Walkinshaw,’ said she, ‘I maun put you to the straights o’ a question. Ye’ll no tell me, lassie, that ye hae na flung stoor in your father’s een, after the converse that we had thegither by oursels the other day; therefore and accordingly, I requeesht to know, what’s at the bottom o’ this black art and glamour that ye hae been guilty o’?—whatna scamp or hempy is’t that the cutty has been gallanting wi’, that she’s trying to cast the glaiks in a’ our een for?—Wha is’t?—I insist to know—for ye’ll ne’er gar me believe that there’s no a because for your jookery pawkrie.’
‘You said,’ replied Miss, half blushing, half laughing, ‘that you would lend a helping hand to me with Walkinshaw Milrookit.’
‘Eh! Megsty me! I’m sparrow-blasted!’ exclaimed the Leddy, throwing herself back in the chair, and lifting both her hands and eyes in wonderment.—‘But thou, Beenie Walkinshaw, is a soople fairy; and so a’ the time that thy father,—as blin’ as the silly blin’ bodie that his wife gart believe her gallant’s horse was a milch cow sent frae her minny,—was wising and wyling to bring about a matrimony, or, as I should ca’t, a matter-o’-money conjugality wi’ your cousin Jamie, hae ye been linking by the dyke-sides, out o’ sight, wi’ Walky Milrookit? Weel, that beats print! Whatna novelle gied you that lesson, lassie? Hech sirs! auld as I am, but I would like to read it. Howsever, Beenie, as the ae oe’s as sib to me as the ither, I’ll be as gude as my word; and when Dirdumwhamle and your aunty, wi’ your joe, are here the day, we’ll just lay our heads thegither for a purpose o’ marriage, and let your father play the Scotch measure or shantruse, wi’ the bellows and the shank o’ the besom, to some warlock wallop o’ his auld papistical and paternostering ancestors, that hae been—Gude preserve us!—for aught I ken to the contrary, suppin’ brimstone broth wi’ the deil lang afore the time o’ Adam and Eve. Methuselah himself, I verily believe, could be naething less than half a cousin to the nine hundred and ninety-ninth Walkinshaw o’ Kittlestonheugh. Howsever, Beenie, thou’s a—thou’s a—I’ll no say what—ye little dooble cutty, to keep me in the dark, when I could hae gi’en you and Walky sae muckle convenience for courting. But, for a’ that, I’ll no be devoid o’ grace, but act the part of a kind and affectionate grandmother, as it is well known I hae ay been to a’ my bairns’ childer; only I never thought to hae had a finger in the pye o’ a Clarissy Harlot wedding.’
‘But,’ said Robina, ‘what if my father should succeed in persuading James still to fall in with his wishes? My situation will be dreadful.’
‘’Deed, an that come to a possibility, I ken na what’s to be done,’ replied the Leddy; ‘for ye know it will behove me to tak my ain son, your father’s part; andas I was saying, Jamie Walkinshaw being as dear to me as Walky Milrookit, I can do no less than help you to him, which need be a matter of no diffeequalty, ’cause ye hae gart your father trow that ye’re out o’ the body for Jamie; so, as I said before, ye maun just conform.’
Miss looked aghast for a moment, and exclaimed, clasping her hands, at finding the total contempt with which her grandmother seemed to consider heraffections,—
‘Heaven protect me! I am ruined and undone!’
‘Na, if that’s the gait o’t, Beenie, I hae nothing to say, but to help to tak up the loupen-steek in your stocking wi’ as much brevity as is consistent wi’ perspicuity, as the minister o’ Port Glasgow says.’
‘What do you mean? to what do you allude?’ cried the young lady terrified.
‘Beenie Walkinshaw, I’ll be calm; I’ll no lose my composity. But it’s no to seek what I could say, ye Jerusalem concubine, to bring sic a crying sin into my family. O woman, woman! but ye’re a silly nymph, and the black stool o’ repentance is oure gude for you!’
Robina was so shocked and thunderstruck at the old lady’s imputations and kindling animadversions, that she actually gasped with horror.
‘But,’ continued her grandmother,—‘since it canna be helped noo, I maun just tell your father, as well as I can, and get the minister when we’re thegither in the afternoon, and declare an irregular marriage, which is a calamity that never happened on my side of the house.’
Unable any longer to control her agitation, Robina started from her seat, exclaiming, ‘Hear me, in mercy! spare such horrible—’
‘Spare!’ interrupted the Leddy, with the sharpest tone of her indignation,—‘An’ ye were my dochter as ye’re but my grand-dochter, I would spare you, ye Israelitish handmaid, and randy o’ Babylon. But pride ne’er leaves its master without a fa’—your father’s weel serv’t—he would tak nane o’ my advice in your education; but instead o’ sending you toa Christian school, got down frae Manchester, in England, a governess for miss, my leddy, wi’ gum-flowers on her head, and paint on her cheeks, and speaking in sic high English, that the Babel babble o’ Mull and Moydart was a perfection o’ sense when compar’t wi’t.’
‘Good heavens! how have you fallen into this strange mistake?’ said Robina, so much recovered, that she could scarcely refrain from laughing.
‘Beenie, Beenie! ye may ca’t a mistake; but I say it’s a shame and a sin. O sic a blot to come on the ’scutcheon of my old age; and wha will tell your poor weakly mother, that, since the hour o’ your luckless clecking, has ne’er had a day to do weel. Lang, lang has she been sitting on the brink o’ the grave, and this sore stroke will surely coup her in.’
‘How was it possible,’ at last exclaimed Robina, in full self-possession, ‘that you could put such an indelicate construction on anything that I have said?’
The Leddy had by this time melted into a flood of tears, and was searching for her handkerchief to wipe her eyes; but, surprised at the firmness with which she was addressed, she looked up as she leant forward, with one hand still in her pocket, and the other grasping the arm of the elbow chair in which she was seated.
‘Yes,’ continued Robina, ‘you have committed a great error; and though I am mortified to think you could for a moment entertain so unworthy an opinion of me, I can hardly keep from laughing at the mistake.’
But although the Leddy was undoubtedly highly pleased to learn that she had distressed herself without reason, still, for the sake of her own dignity, which she thought somehow compromised by what she had said, she seemed as if she could have wished there had been a little truth in the imputation; for shesaid,—
‘I’m blithe to hear you say sae, Beenie; but it was a very natural delusion on my part, for ye ken in thir novelle and play-actoring times nobody can tell what might happen. Howsever, I’m glad it’s no waur; butye maun alloo that it was a very suspectionable situation for you to be discovered colleaguing wi’ Walky Milrookit in sic a clandestine manner; and, therefore, I see that na better can be made o’t, but to bring a purpose o’ marriage to pass between you, as I was saying, without fashing your father about it till it’s by hand; when, after he has got his ramping and stamping over, he’ll come to himsel, and mak us a’ jocose.’
The conversation was continued with the same sort of consistency as far as the old lady was concerned, till Mrs. Milrookit and Dirdumwhamle, with their son, arrived.
Young Milrookit, as we have already intimated, was, in point of personal figure, not much inferior to James; and though he certainly was attached to his cousin, Robina, with unfeigned affection, he had still so much of the leaven of his father in him, that her prospective chance of succeeding to the estate of Kittlestonheugh had undoubtedly some influence in heightening the glow of his passion.
A marriage with her was as early and as ardently the chief object of his father’s ambition, as the union with his cousin Walkinshaw had been with her’s; and the hope of seeing it consummated made the old gentleman, instead of settling him in any town business, resolve to make him a farmer, that he might one day be qualified to undertake the management of the Kittlestonheugh estate. It is, therefore, unnecessary to mention, that, when Robina and her lover had retired, on being told by their grandmother they might ‘divert themselves in another room’, Dirdumwhamle engaged, with the most sympathetic alacrity, in the scheme, as he called it, to make the two affectionate young things happy. But what passed will be better told in a new chapter.
‘Indeed, Leddy,’ said the Laird of Dirdumwhamle, when she told him of the detection, as she called it, of Robina’s notion of his son—‘Blood ye ken’s thicker than water; and I have na been without a thought mysel that there was something by the common o’ cousinship atween them. But hearing, as we often a’ have done, of the great instancy that my gude-brother was in for a match tweesh her and James, I could na think of making mysel an interloper. But if it’s ordaint that she prefers Walky, I’m sure I can see nae harm in you and me giving the twa young things a bit canny shove onward in the road to a blithesome bridal.’
‘I am thinking,’ rejoined his wife, ‘that, perhaps, it might be as prudent and more friendly to wait the upshot o’ her father’s endeavours wi’ James,—for even although he should be worked into a compliancy, still there will be no marriage, and then Robina can avow her partiality for Walky.’
‘Meg,’ replied the Leddy, ‘ye speak as one of the foolish women—ye ken naething about it; your brother Geordie’s just his father’s ain gett, and winna be put off frae his intents by a’ the powers of law and government—let him ance get Jamie to conform, and he’ll soon thraw Beenie into an obedience, and what will then become o’ your Walky?—Na, na, Dirdumwhamle, heed her not, she lacketh understanding—it’s you and me, Laird, that maun work the wherry in this breeze—ye’re a man o’ experience in the ways o’ matrimony, having been, as we all know, thrice married,—and I am an aged woman, that has na travelled the world for sax-and-seventy years without hearing the toast o’ “Love and opportunity”. Now, have na we the love ready-made to our hands in the fond affection of Beenie and Walky?—and surely neither o’ us is in such a beggary o’ capacity, that we’re no able to conceit a time and place for an opportunity. Had it been, asI had at ae time this very day, a kind of a because to jealouse, I’ll no say what—it was my purpose to hae sent for a minister or a magistrate, and got an unregular marriage declared outright—though it would hae gi’en us a’ het hearts and red faces for liveries. Noo, Laird, ye’re a man o’ sagacity and judgement, dinna ye think, though we hae na just sic an exploit to break our hearts wi’ shame and tribulation, that we might ettle at something o’ the same sort?—and there can be no sin in’t, Meg; for is’t no commanded in Scripture to increase and multiply? and what we are wis’ing to bring about is a purpose o’ marriage, which is the natural way o’ plenishing the earth, and raising an increase o’ the children of men.’
Much and devoutly as the Laird of Dirdumwhamle wished for such a consummation, he was not quite prepared for proceedings of so sudden and hasty a character. And being a personage of some worldly prudence, eagerly as he longed for the match, he was averse to expose himself to any strictures for the part he might take in promoting it. Accordingly, instead of acquiescing at once in his mother-in-law’s suggestion, he said jocularly,
‘Hooly, hooly, Leddy; it may come vera weel off Walky and Robina’s hands to make a private marriage for themselves, poor young things, but it never will do for the like o’ you and me to mess or mell in the matter, by ony open countenancing o’ a ceremony. It’s vera true that I see nae objection to the match, and would think I did nae ill in the way o’ a quiet conneevance to help them on in their courtship, but things are no ripe for an affhand ploy.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say sae,’ interposed Mrs. Milrookit; ‘for really my mother seems fey about this connection; and nae gude can come o’ ony thing sae rashly devised. My brother would, in my opinion, have great cause to complain, were the gudeman to be art or part in ony such conspiracy.’
The Leddy never liked to have her judgement called in question; (indeed, what ladies do?) and still less bya person so much her inferior in point of understanding (so she herself thought) as her daughter.
‘My word, Meg,’ was her reply, ‘but t’ou has a stock o’ impudence, to haud up thy snout in that gait to the she that bore thee.—Am I one of these that hae, by reason of more strength, amaist attain’t to the age of fourscore, without learning the right frae the wrang o’ a’ moral conduct, as that delightful man, Dr. Pringle o’ Garnock, said in his sermon on the Fast Day, when he preached in the Wynd Kirk, that t’ou has the spirit o’ sedition, to tell me that I hae lost my solid judgement, when I’m labouring in the vineyard o’ thy family?—Dirdumwhamle, your wife there, she’s my dochter, and sorry am I to say’t, but it’s well known, and I dinna misdoot ye hae found it to your cost, that she is a most unreasonable, narrow, contracted woman, and wi’ a’ her ’conomical throughgality—her direction-books to mak grozette wine for deil-be-lickit, and her Katy Fisher’s cookery, whereby she would gar us trow she can mak fat kail o’ chucky stanes and an auld horse shoe—we a’ ken, and ye ken, Laird, warst o’ a’, that she flings away the peas, and maks her hotch-potch wi’ the shawps, or, as the auld bye-word says, tynes bottles gathering straes. So what need the like o’ you and me sit in council, and the Shanedrims of the people, wi’ ane o’ the stupidest bawkie birds that e’er the Maker o’t took the trouble to put the breath o’ life in? Fey, did ye say?—that’s a word o’ discretion to fling at the head o’ your aged parent. Howsever, it’s no worth my condescendence to lose my temper wi’ the like o’ her. But, Meg Walkinshaw, or Mrs. Milrookit, though ye be there afore your gudeman, the next time ye diminish my understanding, I’ll may be let ye ken what it is to blaspheme your mother, so tak heed lest ye fall. And now to wind up the thread o’ what we were discoursing anent—It’s my opinion, Dirdumwhamle, we should put no molestation in the way o’ that purpose o’ marriage. So, if ye dinna like to tell your son to gang for a minister, I’ll do it mysel; and the sooner it’s by hand and awa, as the sang sings, thesooner we’ll a’ be in a situation to covenant and ’gree again wi’ Beenie’s father.’
The Laird was delighted to see the haste and heartiness with which the Leddy was resolved to consummate the match; but hesaid,—
‘Do as ye like, Leddy—do as ye like; but I’ll no coom my fingers wi’ meddling in ony sic project. The wark be a’ your ain.’
‘Surely neither you nor that unreverent and misleart tumphy your wife, our Meg, would refuse to be present at the occasion?’
‘’Deed, Leddy, I’m unco sweert; I’ll no deny that,’ replied Dirdumwhamle.
‘If it is to take place this day, and in this house, gudeman, I’m sure it will be ill put on blateness, both on your part and mine, no to be present,’ said Mrs. Milrookit.
‘Noo, that’s a word o’ sense, Meg,’ cried her mother, exultingly; ‘that’s something like the sagacity o’ a Christian parent. Surely it would be a most Pagan-like thing, for the father and mother o’ the bridegroom to be in the house, to ken o’ what was going on, and, fidging fain, as ye baith are, for the comfort it’s to bring to us a’, to sit in another room wi’ a cloud on your brows, and your hands in a mournful posture. Awa, awa, Dirdumwhamle, wi’ the like o’ that; I hae nae brow o’ sic worldly hypocrisy. But we hae nae time to lose, for your gude-brother will soon be back frae Camrachle, and I would fain hae a’ o’er before he comes. Hech, sirs! but it will be a sport if we can get him to be present at the wedding-dinner, and he ken naething about it. So I’ll just send the lass at ance for Dr. De’ilfear; for it’s a great thing, ye ken, to get a bridal blessed wi’ the breath o’ a sound orthodox; and I’ll gae ben and tell Beenie and Walky, that they maun mak some sort o’ a preparation.’
‘But, when they are married, what’s to become o’ them?—where are they to bide?—and what hae they to live upon?’—said Mrs. Milrookit, anxiously.
‘Dinna ye fash your head, Meg,’ said her mother,‘about ony sic trivialities. They can stay wi’ me till after the reconciliation, when, nae doot, her father will alloo a genteel aliment; so we need na vex oursels about taking thought for to-morrow; sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. But ye hae bonny gooses and a’ manner o’ poultry at the Dirdumwhamle. So, as we’ll need something to keep the banes green, ye may just send us a tasting; na, for that matter, we’ll no cast out wi’ the like o’ a sooking grumphie; or, if ye were chancing to kill a sheep, a side o’ mutton’s worth house-room; and butter and eggs,—I’m no a novice, as the Renfrew Doctor said,—butter and eggs may dine a provice, wi’ the help o’ bread for kitchen.’
In concluding this speech, the Leddy, who had, in the meantime, risen, gave a joyous geck with her head, and swept triumphantly out of the room.
In the meantime, Kittlestonheugh, as, according to the Scottish fashion, we should denominate Squire Walkinshaw, had proceeded to Camrachle, where he arrived at his sister-in-law’s door just as Mrs. Eadie was taking her leave, with the intention of writing to her relation Mr. Frazer in behalf of James. As the carriage drove up, Mrs. Charles, on seeing it approach, begged her to stop; but, upon second thoughts, it was considered better that she should not remain, and also that she should defer her letter to Glengael until after the interview. She was accordingly at the door when the Laird alighted, who, being but slightly acquainted with her, only bowed, and was passing on without speaking into the house, when she arrested him by one of her keen and supreme looks, of which few could withstand the searching brightness.
‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said she, after eyeing him inquisitively for two or three seconds, ‘before you go to Mrs. Charles, I would speak with you.’
It would not be easy to explain the reason whichinduced Mrs. Eadie so suddenly to determine on interfering, especially after what had just passed; but still, as she did so, we are bound, without investigating her motives too curiously, to relate the sequel.
Mr. Walkinshaw bowed, thereby intimating his acquiescence; and she walked on towards the manse with slow steps and a majestic attitude, followed by the visitor in silence. But she had not advanced above four or five paces, when she turned round, and touching him emphatically on the arm,said,—
‘Let us not disturb the minister, but go into the churchyard; we can converse there—the dead are fit witnesses to what I have to say.’
Notwithstanding all his worldliness, there was something so striking in her august air, the impressive melancholy of her countenance, and the solemn Siddonian grandeur of her voice, that Kittlestonheugh was awed, and could only at the moment again intimate his acquiescence by a profound bow. She then proceeded with her wonted dignity towards the churchyard, and entering the stile which opened into it, she walked on to the south side of the church. The sun by this time had exhaled away the morning mists, and was shining brightly on the venerable edifice, and on the humble tombs and frail memorials erected nigh.
‘Here,’ said she, stopping when they had reached the small turfless space which the feet of the rustic Sabbath pilgrims had trodden bare in front of the southern door,—‘Here let us stop—the sun shines warmly here, and the church will shelter us from the cold north-east wind. Mr. Walkinshaw, I am glad that we have met, before you entered yon unhappy house. The inmates are not in circumstances to contend with adversity: your sister loves her children too well not to wish that her son may obtain the great advantages which your proposal to him holds out; and he has too kind and generous a heart, not to go far, and willingly to sacrifice much on her account. You have it therefore in your power to make a family, which has hitherto known little else but misfortune, miserable or happy.’
‘It cannot, I hope, madam,’ was his reply, ‘be thought of me, that I should not desire greatly to make them happy.—Since you are acquainted with what has taken place, you will do me the justice to admit, that I could do nothing more expressive of the regard I entertain for my nephew, and of the esteem in which I hold his mother, than by offering him my only child in marriage, and with such a dowry, too, as no one in his situation could almost presume to expect.’
Mrs. Eadie did not make any immediate answer, but again fixed her bright and penetrating eye for a few seconds so intensely on his countenance, that he turned aside from its irresistible ray.
‘What you say, sir, sounds well; but if, in seeking to confer that benefit, you mar for ever the happiness you wish to make, and know before that such must be the consequence, some other reason than either regard for your nephew, or esteem for his mother, must be the actuating spring that urges you to persevere.’
Firm of purpose, and fortified in resolution, as Kittlestonheugh was, something both in the tone and the substance of this speech made him thrill from head to foot.
‘What other motive than my affection can I have?’ said he.
‘Interest,’ replied Mrs. Eadie, with a look that withered him to the heart,—‘Interest; nothing else ever made a man force those to be unhappy whom he professed to love.’
‘I am sorry, madam, that you think so ill of me,’ was his reply, expressed coldly and haughtily.
‘I did not wish you to come here, that we should enter into any debate; but only to entreat that you will not press your wish for the marriage too urgently; because, out of the love and reverence which your nephew has for his mother, I fear he may be worked on to comply.’
‘Fear! Madam—I cannot understand your meaning.’
The glance that Mrs. Eadie darted at these words convinced him it was in vain to equivocate with her.
‘Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said she, after another long pause, and a keen and suspicious scrutiny of his face—‘it has always been reported, that some of my mother’s family possessed the gift of a discerning spirit. This morning, when I saw you alight from your carriage, I felt as if the mantle of my ancestors had fallen upon me. It is a hallowed and oracular inheritance; and, under its mysterious inspirations, I dare not disguise what I feel.—You have come to-day——’
‘Really, madam,’ interrupted the merchant testily, ‘I come for some better purpose than to listen to Highland stories about the second-sight. I must wish you good morning.’
In saying this, he turned round, and was moving to go away, when the lady, throwing back her shawl, magnificently raised her hand, and took hold of him by thearm—
‘Stop, Mr. Walkinshaw, this is a place of truth—There is no deceit in death and the grave—Life and the living may impose upon us; but here, where we stand, among the sincere—the dead—I tell you, and your heart, sir, knows that what I tell you is true, there is no affection—no love for your nephew—nor respect for his mother, in the undivulged motives of that seeming kindness with which you are, shall I say plainly, seeking their ruin?’
The impassioned gestures and the suppressed energy with which this was said, gave an awful and mysterious effect to expressions that were in themselves simple, in so much that the astonished man of the world regarded her, for some time, with a mingled sentiment of wonder and awe. At last he said, with asneer,—
‘Upon my word, Mrs. Eadie, the minister himself could hardly preach with more eloquence. It is a long time since I have been so lectured; and I should like to know by what authority I am so brought to book?’
The sarcastic tone in which this was said provoked the pride and Highland blood of the lady, who, stepping back, and raising her right arm with a towering grandeur, shook it over him as shesaid,—
‘I have no more to say;—the fate of the blood of Glengael is twined and twisted with the destiny of Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw’s family; but at your dying hour you will remember what I have said, and, trembling, think of this place—of these tombs, these doors that lead into the judgement-chamber of Heaven, and of yon sun, that is the eye of the Almighty’s chief sentinel over man.’
She then dropped her hand, and, walking slowly past him, went straight towards the manse, the door of which she had almost reached before he recovered himself from the amazement and apprehension with which he followed her with his eye. His feelings, however, he soon so far mastered in outward appearance, that he even assumed an air of ineffable contempt; but, nevertheless, an impression had been so stamped by her mystery and menace, that, in returning towards the dwelling of Mrs. Charles, he gradually fell into a moody state of thoughtfulness and abstraction.
Mrs. Charles Walkinshaw had been a good deal surprised by the abrupt manner in which Mrs. Eadie had intercepted her brother-in-law. Her son, not a little pleased of an opportunity to avoid his uncle, no sooner saw them pass the window than he made his escape from the house. Observing that they did not go to the manse, but turned off towards the churchyard, he hastened to take refuge with his old preceptor, the minister, possibly to see Ellen Frazer. The relation, however, of what passed in the manse does not fall within the scope of our narrative, particularly as it will be easily comprehended and understood by its effects. We have, therefore, only at present to mention, that Mrs. Charles, in the meantime, sat in wonder and expectation, observing to her daughter, a mild and unobtrusive girl, who seldom spoke many sentences at a time, that she thought of late Mrs. Eadie seemedunusually attentive to her Highland superstitions. ‘She has been, I think, not so well of late,—her nerves are evidently in a high state of excitement. It is much to be regretted that she is so indisposed at this time, when we stand so much in need of her advice.’
Mary replied that she had noticed with sorrow a very great change indeed in their friend,—and sheadded,—
‘Ellen says that she often walks out at night to the churchyard, and sits moaning over the graves of her children. It is strange after they have been so long dead, that her grief should have so unexpectedly broken out afresh. The minister, I am sure, is very uneasy—for I have noticed that he looks paler than he used to do, and with a degree of sadness that is really very affecting.’
While they were thus speaking Mr. Walkinshaw came in, and the first words he said, before taking a seat,were,—
‘Is the minister’s wife in her right mind? She seems to me a little touched. I could with difficulty preserve my gravity at her fantastical nonsense.’
Mrs. Charles, out of respect for her friend, did not choose to make any reply to this observation, so that her brother-in-law found himself obliged to revert to the business which had brought him to Camrachle.
‘I thought James was here,’ said he; ‘what has become of him?’
‘He has just stepped out.—I suspect he was not exactly prepared to meet you.’
‘He is hot and hasty,’ rejoined the uncle; ‘we had rather an unpleasant conversation last night. I hope, since he has had time to reflect on what I said, he sees things differently.’
‘I am grieved,’ replied Mrs. Charles with a sigh, ‘that anything should have arisen to mar the prospects that your kindness had opened to him. But young men will be headstrong; their feelings often run away with their judgement.’
‘But,’ said Kittlestonheugh, ‘I can forgive him. I never looked for any conduct in him different fromthat of others of his own age. Folly is the superfluous blossoms of youth: they drop off as the fruit forms. I hope he is not resolute in adhering to his declaration about leaving Glasgow.’
‘He seems at present quite resolved,’ replied his mother, with a deep and slow sigh, which told how heavily that determination lay upon her heart.
‘Perhaps, then,’ said his uncle, ‘it may just be as well to leave him to himself for a few days; and I had better say nothing more to him on the subject.’
‘I think,’ replied Mrs. Charles, timidly, as if afraid that she might offend,—‘it is needless at present to speak to him about Robina: he must have time to reflect.’—She would have added, ‘on the great advantages of the match to him;’ but knowing, as she did, the decided sentiments of her son, she paused in the unfinished sentence, and felt vexed with herself for having said so much.
‘But,’ inquired her brother-in-law, in some degree solaced by the manner in which she had expressed herself—‘But, surely, the boy will not be so ridiculous as to absent himself from the counting-house?’
‘He speaks of going abroad,’ was the soft and diffident answer.
‘Impossible! he has not the means.’
She then told him what he had been considering with respect to his father’s old acquaintance, who had the vessel going to America.
‘In that case,’ said his uncle, with an off-hand freedom that seemed much like generosity,—‘I must undertake the expense of his outfit. He will be none the worse of seeing a little of the world; and he will return to us in the course of a year or two a wiser and a better man.’
‘Your kindness, sir, is truly extraordinary, and I shall be most happy if he can be persuaded to avail himself of it; but his mind lies towards the army, and, if he could get a cadetcy to India, I am sure he would prefer it above all things.’
‘A cadetcy to India!’ exclaimed the astonisheduncle.—‘By what chance or interest could he hope for such an appointment?’
‘Mrs. Eadie’s cousin, who bought back her father’s estate, she says, has some Parliamentary interest, and she intends to write him to beg his good offices for James.’
Kittlestonheugh was thunderstruck:—this was a turn in the affair that he had never once imagined within the scope and range of possibility. ‘Do you think,’ said he, ‘that he had any view to this in his ungrateful insolence to me last night? If I thought so, every desire I had to serve him should be henceforth suppressed and extinguished.’
At this crisis the door was opened, and Mr. Eadie, the minister, came in, by which occurrence the conversation was interrupted, and the vehemence of Mr. Walkinshaw was allowed to subside during the interchange of the common reciprocities of the morning.
‘I am much grieved, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the worthy clergyman, after a short pause, ‘to hear of this unfortunate difference with your nephew. I hope the young man will soon come to a more considerate way of thinking.’
Mr. Walkinshaw thought Mr. Eadie a most sensible man, and could not but express his confidence, that, when the boy came to see how much all his best friends condemned his conduct, and were so solicitous for his compliance, he would repent his precipitation. ‘We must, however,’ said he, ‘give him time. His mother tells me that he has resolved to go to America. I shall do all in my power to assist his views in that direction, not doubting in the end to reap the happiest effects.’
‘But before taking any step in that scheme,’ said the minister, ‘he has resolved to wait the issue of a letter which I have left my wife writing to her relation—for he would prefer a military life to any other.’
‘From all that I can understand,’ replied the uncle, ‘Mr. Frazer, your friend, will not be slack in using his interests to get him to India; for he cannot but be aware of the penniless condition of my nephew, and must be glad to get him out of his daughter’s way.’
There was something in this that grated the heart of the mother, and jarred on the feelings of the minister.
‘No,’ said the latter; ‘on the contrary, the affection which Glengael bears to his daughter would act with him as a motive to lessen any obstacles that might oppose her happiness. Were Mrs. Eadie to say—but, for many reasons, she will not yet—that she believes her young friend is attached to Ellen, I am sure Mr. Frazer would exert himself, in every possible way, to advance his fortune.’
‘In that he would but do as I am doing,’ replied the merchant with a smile of self-gratulation; and he added briskly, addressing himself to his sister-in-law, ‘Will James accept favours from a stranger, with a view to promote a union with that stranger’s daughter, and yet scorn the kindness of his uncle?’
The distressed mother had an answer ready; but long dependence on her cool and wary brother-in-law, together with her natural gentleness, made her bury it in her heart. The minister, however, who owed him no similar obligations, and was of a more courageous nature, did more than supply what she would have said.
‘The cases, Mr. Walkinshaw, are not similar. The affection between your nephew and Ellen is mutual; but your favour is to get him to agree to a union at which his heart revolts.’
‘Revolts! you use strong language unnecessarily,’ was the indignant retort.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Walkinshaw,’ said the worthy presbyter, disturbed at the thought of being so unceremonious; ‘I am much interested in your nephew—I feel greatly for his present unhappy situation. I need not remind you that he has been to me, and with me, as my own son; and therefore you ought not to be surprised that I should take his part, particularly as, in so doing, I but defend the generous principles of a very noble youth.’
‘Well, well,’ exclaimed the Laird peevishly, ‘I need not at present trouble myself any further—I am as willing as ever to befriend him as I ought; but, fromthe humour he is in, it would serve no good purpose for me at present to interfere. I shall therefore return to Glasgow; and, when Mrs. Eadie receives her answer, his mother will have the goodness to let me know.’
With these words he hastily bade his sister-in-law good morning, and hurried into his carriage.
‘His conduct is very extraordinary,’ said the minister as he drove off. ‘There is something more than the mere regard and anxiety of an uncle in all this, especially when he knows that the proposed match is so obnoxious to his daughter. I cannot understand it; but come, Mrs. Walkinshaw, let us go over to the manse—James is to dine with me to-day, and we shall be the better of all being together; for Mrs. Eadie seems much out of spirits, and her health of late has not been good. Go, Mary, get your bonnet too, and come with us.’
So ended the pursuit to Camrachle; and we shall now beg the courteous reader to return with us to Glasgow, where we left the Leddy in high spirits, in the act of sending for the Reverend Dr. De’ilfear to marry her grandchildren.