[1] Reprinted from the Temple Bar Magazine for February 1874.
By SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER,
Author of 'Marriage,' 'Inheritance,' and 'Destiny.'
I HAVE never kept either note-book or journal, and as my memory is not a
retentive one I have allowed much to escape which I should now vainly
attempt to recall. Some things must, however, have made a vivid and
durable impression on my mind, as fragments remain, after the lapse of
years, far more distinct than occurrences of much more recent date;
such, amongst others, are my recollections of my visits to Ashestiel and
Abbotsford.
The first took place in the autumn of 1811, in consequence of repeated
and pressing invitations from Mr. Scott to my father, in which I was
included. Nothing could be kinder than our welcome, or more gratifying
than the attentions we received during our stay; but the weather was too
broken and stormy to admit of our enjoying any of the pleasant
excursions our more weather-proof host had intended for us.
My father and I could therefore only take short drives with Mrs. Scott,
while the bard (about one o'clock:) mounted his pony, and accompanied by
Mr. Terry the comedian, his own son Walter, and our young relative
George Kinloch, sallied forth for a long morning's ride in spite of wind
and rain. In the evening Mr. Terry commonly read some scenes from a play,
to which Mr. Scott listened with delight, though every word must have
been quite familiar to him, as he occasionally took a part in the
dialogue impromptu; at other times he recited old and awesome ballads
from memory, the very names of which I have forgot. The night preceding
our departure had blown a perfect hurricane; we were to leave
immediately after breakfast, and while the carriage was preparing Mr.
Scott stepped to a writing-table and wrote a few hurried lines in the
course of a very few minutes; these he put into my hand as he led me to
the carriage; they were in allusion to the storm, coupled with a
friendly adieu, and are to be found in my autograph album.
"The mountain winds are up, and proud
O'er heath and hill careering loud;
The groaning forest to its power
Yields all that formed our summer bower.
The summons wakes the anxious swain,
Whose tardy shocks still load the plain,
And bids the sleepless merchant weep,
Whose richer hazard loads the deep.
For me the blast, or low or high,
Blows nought of wealth or poverty;
It can but whirl in whimsies vain
The windmill of a restless brain,
And bid me tell in slipshod verse
What honest prose might best rehearse;
How much we forest-dwellers grieve
Our valued friends our cot should leave,
Unseen each beauty that we boast,
The little wonders of our coast,
That still the pile of Melrose gray,
For you must rise in minstrel's lay,
And Yarrow's birk immortal long
For yon but bloom in rural song.
Yet Hope, who still in present sorrow
Whispers the promise of to-morrow,
Tells us of future days to come,
When you shall glad our rustic home;
When this wild whirlwind shall be still,
And summer sleep on glen and hill,
And Tweed, unvexed by storm, shall guide
In silvery maze his stately tide,
Doubling in mirror every rank
Of oak and alder on his bank;
And our kind guests such welcome prove
As most we wish to those we love." [1]
_Ashestiel, _October 13, 1811.
[1] Lines written by Walter Scott while the carriage was waiting
to convey my father and me from Ashestiel.—S. E. F.
The invitation had been often repeated, but my dear father's increasing
infirmities made him averse to leave home, and when, in compliance with
Sir Walter's urgent request, I visited Abbotsford in the autumn of 1829,
I went alone. I was met at the outer gate by Sir Walter, who welcomed me
in the kindest manner and most flattering terms; indeed, nothing could
surpass the courtesy of his address on such occasions. On our way to the
house he stopped and called his two little grandchildren, Walter and
Charlotte Lockhart, who were chasing each other like butterflies among
the flowers—the boy was quite a Cupid, though not an alfresco one;
for he wore a Tartan cloak, whose sundry extras fluttered in the breeze
as he ran to obey the summons, and gave occasion to his grandfather to
present him to me as "Major Waddell;" [1] the pretty little
fairy-looking girl he next introduced as "Whipperstowrie," and then
(aware of my love for fairy lore) he related the tale, in his own
inimitable manner, as he walked slowly and stopped frequently in our
approach to the house. As soon as I could look round I was struck with
the singular and picturesque appearance of the mansion and its
environs. Yet I must own there was more of strangeness than of
admiration in my feelings; too many objects seemed crowded together in a
small space, and there was a "felt want" of breadth and repose for the
eye. On entering the house I was however charmed with the rich
imposing beauty of the hall, and admired the handsome antique appearance
of the dining-room with its interesting pictures. After luncheon Sir
Walter was at pains to point them out to my notice, and related the
histories of each and all; he then conducted me through the apartments,
and showed me so much, and told me so many anecdotes illustrative of the
various objects of interest and curiosity they contained, that I retain
a very confused and imperfect recollection of what I saw and heard. It
was a strong proof of his good-nature that in showing the many works of
art and relics of antiquity he had continued to accumulate and arrange
with so much taste and skill, he should have been at such pains to point
out the merits and relate the history of most of them to one so
incapable of appreciating their value. But he never allowed one to feel
their own deficiencies, for he never appeared to be aware of them
himself.
[1] One of Miss Ferrier's characters in her novel of The Inheritance.
It was in the quiet of a small domestic circle I had again an
opportunity of enjoying the society of Sir Walter Scott, and of
witnessing, during the ten days I remained, the unbroken serenity of his
temper, the unflagging cheerfulness of his spirits, and the unceasing
courtesy of his manners. I had been promised a quiet time, else I should
not have gone; and indeed the state of the family was a sufficient
guarantee against all festivities. Mrs. Lockhart was confined to bed
by severe indisposition, while Mr. Lockhart was detained in London
by the alarming illness of their eldest boy, and both Captain Scott and
his brother were absent. The party, therefore, consisted only of Sir
Walter and Miss Scott, Miss Macdonald Buchanan (who was almost one of
the family), and myself. Being the only stranger, I consequently came in
for a larger share of my amiable host's time and attention than I should
otherwise have been entitled to expect. Many a pleasant tale and amusing
anecdote I might have had to relate had I written down half of what I
daily heard; but I had always an invincible repugnance to playing the
reporter and taking down people's words under their own roof. Every day
Sir Walter was ready by one o'clock to accompany us either in driving or
walking, often in both, and in either there was the same inexhaustible
flow of legendary lore, romantic incident, apt quotation, curious or
diverting story; and sometimes old ballads were recited, commemorative
of some of the localities through which he passed. Those who had seen
him only amidst the ordinary avocations of life, or even doing the
honours of his own table, could scarcely have conceived the fire and
animation of his countenance at such times, when his eyes seemed
literally to kindle, and even (as some one has remarked) to change their
colour and become a sort of deep sapphire blue; but, perhaps, from being
close to him and in the open air, I was more struck with this
peculiarity than those whose better sight enabled them to mark his
varying expression at other times. Yet I must confess this was an
enthusiasm I found as little infectious as that of his antiquarianism.
On the contrary, I often wished his noble faculties had been exercised
on loftier themes than those which seemed to stir his very soul.
The evenings were passed either in Mrs. Lockhart's bedroom or in
chatting quietly by the fireside below, but wherever we were he was
always the same kind, unostentatious, amusing, and amusable companion.
The day before I was to depart Sir David Wilkie and his sister arrived,
and the Fergussons and one or two friends were invited to meet him. Mrs.
Lockhart was so desirous of meeting this old friend and distinguished
person, that, though unable to put her foot to the ground, she caused
herself to be dressed and carried down to the drawing-room while the
company were at dinner. Great was her father's surprise and delight on
his entrance to find her seated (looking well and in high spirits) with
her harp before her, ready to sing his favourite ballads. This raised
his spirits above their usual quiet pitch, and towards the end of the
evening he proposed to wind up the whole by all present standing in a
circle with hands joined, singing,
"Weel may we a' be!
Ill may we never see!"
Mrs. Lockhart was, of course, unable to join the festive band. Sir David
Wilkie was languid and dispirited from bad health, and my feelings were
not such as to enable me to join in what seemed to me little else than a
mockery of human life; but rather than "displace the mirth," I tried,
but could not long remain a passive spectator; the glee seemed forced
and unnatural. It touched no sympathetic chord; it only jarred the
feelings; it was the last attempt at gaiety I witnessed within the walls
of Abbotsford.
Although I had intended to confine my slight reminiscence of Sir Walter
Scott to the time I had passed with him under his own roof in the
country, yet I cannot refrain from noticing the great kindness I
received from him during the following winter in town.
I had, when at Abbotsford in the autumn, spoken to him for the first
time of my authorship and of the work on which I was then engaged. He
entered into the subject with much warmth and earnestness, shook his
head at hearing how matters had hitherto been transacted, and said
unless I could make a better bargain in this instance I must leave to
him the disposal of Destiny. I did so, and from the much more liberal
terms he made with Mr. Cadell I felt, when too late, I had acted
unwisely in not having sooner consulted him or some one versant in these
matters. But secrecy at that time was all I was anxious about, and so
I paid the penalty of trusting entirely to the good faith of the
publishers.
I saw Sir Walter frequently during the winter, and occasionally dined
en famille with Miss Scott and him, or with one or two friends, as I
did not go into parties, neither indeed did he give any, but on account
of the state of his affairs lived as retiredly as he possibly could.
In the month of February he sustained a paralytic shock; as soon as I
heard of this I went to Miss Scott, from whom I learned the particulars.
She had seen her father in his study a short time before, apparently in
his usual health. She had returned to the drawing room when Sir Walter
opened the door, came in, but stood looking at her with a most peculiar
and dreadful expression of countenance. It immediately struck her he
had come to communicate some very distressing intelligence, and she
exclaimed, "Oh, papa! Is Johnnie gone?" He made no reply, but still
continued standing still and regarding her with the same fearful
expression. She then cried, "Oh, papa! speak! Tell me, is it Sophia
herself?" Still he remained immovable. Almost frantic, she then
screamed, "It is Walter! it is Walter! I know it is." Upon which Sir
Walter fell senseless on the floor. Medical assistance was speedily
procured. After being bled he recovered his speech, and his first words
were, "It was very strange! very horrible." He afterwards told her he
had all at once felt very queer, and as if unable to articulate; he then
went upstairs in hopes of getting rid of the sensation by movement; but
it would not do, he felt perfectly tongue-tied, or rather chained,
till overcome by witnessing her distress. This took place, I think, on
the 15th, and on the 18th I was invited to dine with him, and found him
without any trace of illness, but as cheerful and animated as usual.
Not being very correct as to dates, I should scarcely have ventured to
name the day had not a trifling circumstance served to mark it. After
dinner he proposed that instead of going to the drawing-room we should
remain with him and have tea in the dining room. In the interval the
post letters were brought, and amongst others there was one from a
sister of Sir Thomas Lawrence (Mrs. Bloxam), enclosing a letter of her
brother's, having heard that Sir Walter had expressed a wish to have
some memorial of him, "rather of his pencil than his pen," said he, as
he handed the letter to me, who, as a collector of autographs, would
probably value them more than he did; and on referring to Mrs. Bloxam's
letter I find the Edinburgh post-mark February the 18th.
I received repeated invitations to Abbotsford, and had fixed to go on
the 17th of April, when, the day before, Mrs. Skene called upon me with
the sad tidings of another paralytic stroke, which not only put a stop
to my visit for the present, but rendered it very doubtful whether I
should ever see him again. But the worst fears of his friends were not
yet to be realised.
Early in May the invitation was renewed in a note from himself, which I
availed myself of, too well assured it was a privilege I should enjoy
for the last time. On reaching Abbotsford I found some morning visitors
(Mr. and Mrs. James, etc.) in the drawing-room, but as soon as they were
gone Sir Walter sent for me to his study. I found him seated in his
armchair, but with his habitual politeness he insisted upon rising to
receive me, though he did so with such extreme difficulty I would gladly
have dispensed with this mark of courtesy. His welcome was not less
cordial than usual, but he spoke in a slow and somewhat indistinct
manner, and as I sat close by him I could perceive but too plainly the
change which had taken place since we last met. His figure was unwieldy,
not so much from increased bulk as from diminished life and energy; his
face was swollen and puffy, his complexion mottled and discoloured, his
eyes heavy and dim; his head had been shaved, and he wore a small black
silk cap, which was extremely unbecoming. Altogether, the change was no
less striking than painful to behold. The impression, however, soon wore
off (on finding, as I believed), that his mind was unimpaired and his
warm kindly feelings unchanged.
There was no company, and the dinner party consisted of Mr. and Mrs.
Lockhart, Miss Scott, and myself. Sir Walter did not join us till the
dessert, when he entered, assisted by his servant, and took his place at
the foot of the table. His grandchildren were then brought in, and his
favourite, Johnnie Lockhart, was seated by his side. I must have forgot
most things before I can cease to recall that most striking and
impressive spectacle, each day repeated, as it seemed, with deepening
gloom. The first transient glow of cheerfulness which had welcomed my
arrival had passed away, and been succeeded by an air of languor and
dejection which sank to deepest sadness when his eye rested for a moment
on his once darling grandson, the child of so much pride and promise,
now, alas! how changed. It was most touching to look upon one whose
morning of life had been so bright and beautiful and, still in the sunny
days of childhood, transformed into an image of decrepitude and decay.
The fair blooming cheek and finely chiselled features were now shrunk
and stiffened into the wan and rigid inflexibility of old age; while the
black bandages which swathed the little pale sad countenance, gave
additional gloom and harshness to the profound melancholy which clouded
its most intellectual expression. Disease and death were stamped upon
the grandsire and the boy as they sat side by side with averted eyes,
each as if in the bitterness of his own heart refusing to comfort or be
comforted. The two who had been wont to regard each other so fondly and
so proudly, now seemed averse to hold communion together, while their
appearance and style of dress, the black cap of the one and the black
bandages of the other, denoted a sympathy in suffering if in nothing
else. The picture would have been a most affecting and impressive one
viewed under any circumstances, but was rendered doubly so by the
contrast which everywhere presented itself.
The month was May, but the weather had all the warmth of summer with the
freshness and sweetness of spring. The windows of the dining-room were
open to admit the soft balmy air which "came and went like the warbling
of music," but whose reviving influence seemed unfelt by the sufferers.
The trees, and shrubs, and flowers were putting forth their tender
leaves and fragrant blossoms as if to charm his senses who used to
watch their progress with almost paternal interest, and the little birds
were singing in sweet chorus as if to cheer him who was wont to listen
to their evening song with such placid delight. All around were the dear
familiar objects which had hitherto ministered to his enjoyment, but
now, alas! miserable comforters were they all! It was impossible to look
upon such a picture without beholding in it the realisation of those
solemn and affecting passages of Holy Writ which speak to us of the
ephemeral nature of all earthly pleasures and of the mournful
insignificance of human life, even in its most palmy state, when its
views and actions, its hopes and desires, are confined to this sublunary
sphere: "Whence then cometh any wisdom, and where is the place of
understanding?" "Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man glory in his
wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich
man glory in his riches: but let him that glorieth glory in this, that
he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord."
"Love!—A word by superstition thought a God; by use turned to an
humour; by self-will made a flattering madness."
Alexander and Campaspe.
"COME hither, child," said the old Earl of Courtland to his daughter,
as, in obedience to his summons, she entered his study; "come hither, I
say; I wish to have some serious conversation with you: so dismiss your
dogs, shut the door, and sit down here."
"Lady Juliana rang for the footman to take Venus; bade Pluto be quiet,
like a darling, under the sofa; and, taking Cupid in her arms, assured
his Lordship he need fear no disturbance from the sweet creatures, and
that she would be all attention to his commands—kissing her cherished
pug as she spoke.
"You are now, I think, seventeen, Juliana," said his Lordship in a
solemn important tone.
"And a half, papa."
"It is therefore time you should be thinking of establishing yourself in
the world. Have you ever turned your thoughts that way?"
Lady Juliana cast down her beautiful eyes, and was silent.
"As I can give you no fortune," continued the Earl, swelling with
ill-suppressed importance, as he proceeded, "you have perhaps no great
pretensions to a very brilliant establishment."
"Oh! none in the world, papa," eagerly interrupted Lady Juliana; "a mere
competence with the man of my heart."
"The man of a fiddlestick!" exclaimed Lord Courtland in a fury; "what
the devil have you to do with a heart, I should like to know? There's no
talking to a young woman now about marriage, but she is all in a blaze
about hearts, and darts, and—and—But hark ye, child, I'll suffer no
daughter of mine to play the fool with her heart, indeed! She shall
marry for the purpose for which matrimony was ordained amongst people of
birth—that is, for the aggrandisement of her family, the extending of
their political influence—for becoming, in short, the depository of
their mutual interest. These are the only purposes for which persons of
rank ever think of marriage. And pray, what has your heart to say to
that?"
"Nothing, papa," replied Lady Juliana in a faint dejected tone of voice.
"Have done, Cupid!" addressing her favourite, who was amusing himself
in pulling and tearing the beautiful lace veil that partly shaded the
head of his fair mistress.
"I thought not," resumed the Earl in a triumphant tone—"I thought not,
indeed." And as this victory over his daughter put him in unusual good
humour, he condescended to sport a little with her curiosity.
"And pray, can this wonderful wise heart of yours inform you who it is
you are going to obtain for a husband?"
Had Lady Juliana dared to utter the wishes of that heart she would have
been at no loss for a reply; but she saw the necessity of dissimulation;
and after naming such of her admirers as were most indifferent to her,
she declared herself quite at a loss, and begged her father to put an
end to her suspense.
"Now, what would you think of the Duke of L—-?" asked the Earl in a
voice of half-smothered exultation and delight.
"The Duke of L——-!" repeated Lady Juliana, with a scream of horror and
surprise; "surely, papa, you cannot be serious? Why, he's red-haired and
squints, and he's as old as you."
"If he were as old as the devil, and as ugly too," interrupted the
enraged Earl, "he should be your husband: and may I perish if you shall
have any other!"
The youthful beauty burst into tears, while her father traversed the
apartment with an inflamed and wrathful visage.
"If it had been anybody but that odious Duke," sobbed the lovely
Juliana.
"If it had been anybody but that odious Duke!" repeated the Earl,
mimicking her, "they should not have had you. It has been my sole study,
ever since I saw your brother settled, to bring about this alliance;
and, when this is accomplished, my utmost ambition will be satisfied. So
no more whining—the affair is settled; and all that remains for you to
do is to study to make yourself agreeable to his Grace, and to sign the
settlements. No such mighty sacrifice, me thinks, when repaid with a
ducal coronet, the most splendid jewels, the finest equipages, and the
largest jointure of any woman in England."
Lady Juliana raised her head, and wiped her eyes. Lord Courtland
perceived the effect his eloquence had produced upon the childish fancy
of his daughter, and continued to expatiate upon the splendid joys that
awaited her in a union with a nobleman of the Duke's rank and fortune;
till at length, dazzled, if not convinced, she declared herself
"satisfied that it was her duty to marry whoever papa pleased; but—"
and a sigh escaped her as she contrasted her noble suitor with her
handsome lover: "but if I should marry him, papa, I am sure I shall
never be able to love him."
The Earl smiled at her childish simplicity as he assured her that was
not at all necessary; that love was now entirely confined to the
canaille; that it was very well for ploughmen and dairymaids to marry
for love; but for a young woman of rank to think of such a thing was
plebeian in the extreme!
Lady Juliana did not entirely subscribe to the arguments of her father;
but the gay and glorious vision that floated in her brain stifled for a
while the pleadings of her heart; and with a sparkling eye and an
elastic step she hastened to prepare for the reception of the Duke.
For a few weeks the delusion lasted. Lady Juliana was flattered with the
homage she received as a future Duchess; she was delighted with the
éclat that attended her, and charmed with the daily presents
showered upon her by her noble suitor.
"Well, really, Favolle," said she to her maid, one day, as she clasped
on her beautiful arm a resplendent bracelet, "it must be owned the Duke
has a most exquisite taste in trinkets; don't you think so? And, do you
know, I don't think him so very—very ugly. When we are married I mean
to make him get a Brutus, cork his eyebrows, and have a set of teeth."
But just then the smiling eyes, curling hair, and finely formed person
of a certain captivating Scotsman rose to view in her mind's eye; and,
with a peevish "pshaw!" she threw the bauble aside.
Educated for the sole purpose of forming a brilliant establishment, of
catching the eye, and captivating the senses, the cultivation of her
mind or the correction of her temper had formed no part of the system by
which that aim was to be accomplished. Under the auspices of a
fashionable mother and an obsequious governess the froward petulance of
childhood, fostered and strengthened by indulgence and submission, had
gradually ripened into that selfishness and caprice which now, in youth,
formed the prominent features of her character. The Earl was too much
engrossed by affairs of importance to pay much attention to anything so
perfectly insignificant as the mind of his daughter. Her person he had
predetermined should be entirely at his disposal, and therefore
contemplated with delight the uncommon beauty which already
distinguished it; not with the fond partiality of parental love, but
with the heartless satisfaction of a crafty politician.
The mind of Lady Juliana was consequently the sport of every passion
that by turns assailed it. Now swayed by ambition, and now softened by
love, the struggle was violent, but it was short. A few days before the
one which was to seal her fate she granted an interview to her lover,
who, young, thoughtless, and enamoured as herself, easily succeeded in
persuading her to elope with him to Scotland. There, at the altar of
Vulcan, the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Courtland gave her hand to
her handsome but penniless lover; and there vowed to immolate every
ambitious desire, every sentiment of vanity and high-born pride. Yet a
sigh arose as she looked on the filthy hut, sooty priest, and ragged
witnesses; and thought of the special license, splendid saloon, and
bridal pomp that would have attended her union with the Duke. But the
rapturous expressions which burst from the impassioned Douglas made her
forget the gaudy pleasures of pomp and fashion. Amid the sylvan scenes
of the neighbouring lakes the lovers sought a shelter; and, mutually
charmed with each other, time flew for a while on downy pinions.
At the end of two months, however, the enamoured husband began to
suspect that the lips of his "angel Julia" could utter very silly
things; while the fond bride, on her part, discovered that though her
"adored Henry's" figure was symmetry itself, yet it certainly was
deficient in a certain air—a je ne sais quoi—that marks the man of
fashion.
"How I wish I had my pretty Cupid here," said her Ladyship, with a sigh,
one day as she lolled on a sofa: "he had so many pretty tricks, he would
have helped to amuse us, and make the time pass; for really this place
grows very stupid and tiresome; don't you think so, love?"
"Most confoundedly so, my darling," replied her husband, yawning
sympathetically as he spoke.
"Then suppose I make one more attempt to soften papa, and be received
into favour again?"
"With all my heart."
"Shall I say I'm very sorry for what I have done?" asked her Ladyship,
with a sigh. "You know I did not say that in my first letter."
"Ay, do; and, if it will serve any purpose, you may say that I am no
less so."
In a few days the letter was returned, in a blank cover; and, by the
same post, Douglas saw himself superseded in the Gazette, being absent
without leave!
There now remained but one course to pursue; and that was to seek refuge
at his father's, in the Highlands of Scotland. At the first mention of
it Lady Juliana was transported with joy, and begged that a letter might
be instantly despatched, containing the offer of a visit: she had heard
the Duchess of M. declare nothing could be so delightful as the style of
living in Scotland: the people were so frank and gay, and the manners so
easy and engaging—oh! it was delightful! And then Lady Jane G. and Lady
Mary L., and a thousand other lords and ladies she knew, were all so
charmed with the country, and all so sorry to leave it. Then dear
Henry's family must be so charming: an old castle, too, was her delight;
she would feel quite at home while wandering through its long galleries;
and she quite loved old pictures, and armour, and tapestry; and then her
thoughts reverted to her father's magnificent mansion in D—-shire.
At length an answer arrived, containing a cordial invitation from the
old Laird to spend the winter with them at Glenfern Castle.
All impatience to quit the scenes of their short lived felicity, they
bade a hasty adieu to the now fading beauties of Windermere; and, full
of hope and expectation, eagerly turned towards the bleak hills of
Scotland. They stopped for a short time at Edinburgh, to provide
themselves with a carriage, and some other necessaries. There, too, she
fortunately met with an English Abigail and footman, who, for double
wages, were prevailed upon to attend her to the Highlands; which, with
the addition of two dogs, a tame squirrel, and mackaw, completed the
establishment.
"What transport to retrace our early plays,
Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied;
The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze
Of the wild brooks." THOMSON.
MANY were the dreary muirs and rugged mountains her Ladyship had to
encounter in her progress to Glenfern Castle; and, but for the hope of
the new world that awaited her beyond those formidable barriers, her
delicate frame and still more sensitive feelings must have sunk beneath
the horrors of such a journey. But she remembered the Duchess had said
the inns and roads were execrable; and the face of the country, as well
as the lower orders of people, frightful; but what signified those
things? There were balls, and sailing parties, and rowing matches, and
shooting parties, and fishing parties, and parties of every description;
and the certainty of being recompensed by the festivities of Glenfern
Castle, reconciled her to the ruggedness of the approach.
Douglas had left his paternal home and native hills when only eight
years of age. A rich relation of his mother's happening to visit them at
that time, took a fancy to the boy; and, under promise of making him his
heir, had prevailed on his parents to part with him. At a proper age he
was placed in the Guards, and had continued to maintain himself in the
favor of his benefactor until his imprudent marriage, which had
irritated this old bachelor so much that he instantly disinherited him,
and refused to listen to any terms of reconciliation. The impressions
which the scenes of his infancy had left upon the mind of the young
Scotsman, it may easily be supposed, were of a pleasing description. He
expatiated to his Juliana on the wild but august scenery that surrounded
his father's castle, and associated with the idea the boyish
exploits, which though faintly remembered, still served to endear them
to his heart. He spoke of the time when he used to make one of a
numerous party on the lake, and, when tired of sailing on its glassy
surface to the sound of soft music, they would land at some lovely spot;
and, after partaking of their banquet beneath a spreading tree, conclude
the day by a dance on the grass.
Lady Juliana would exclaim, "How delightful! I doat upon picnics and
dancing! —àpropos, Henry, there will surely be a ball to
welcome our arrival?"
The conversation was interrupted; for just at that moment they had
gained the summit of a very high hill, and the post-boy, stopping to
give his horses breath, turned round to the carriage, pointing at the
same time, with a significant gesture, to a tall thin gray house,
something resembling a tower, that stood in the vale beneath. A small
sullen-looking lake was in front, on whose banks grew neither tree nor
shrub. Behind rose a chain of rugged cloud-capped hills, on the
declivities of which were some faint attempts at young plantations; and
the only level ground consisted of a few dingy turnip fields, enclosed
with stone walls, or dykes, as the post-boy called them. It was now
November; the day was raw and cold; and a thick drizzling rain was
beginning to fall. A dreary stillness reigned all around, broken only at
intervals by the screams of the sea-fowl that hovered over the lake, on
whose dark and troubled waters was dimly descried a little boat, plied
by one solitary being.
"What a scene!" at length Lady Juliana exclaimed, shuddering as she
spoke. "Good God, what a scene! How I pity the unhappy wretches who are
doomed to dwell in such a place! and yonder hideous grim house—it makes
me sick to look at it. For Heaven's sake, bid him drive on." Another
significant look from the driver made the colour mount to Douglas's
cheek, as he stammered out, "Surely it can't be; yet somehow I don't
know. Pray, my lad," setting down one of the glasses, and addressing the
post-boy, "what is the name of that house?"
"Hoose!" repeated the driver; "ca' ye thon a hoose? Thon's gude Glenfern
Castle."
Lady Juliana, not understanding a word he said, sat silently wondering
at her husband's curiosity respecting such a wretched-looking place.
"Impossible! you must be mistaken, my lad: why, what's become of all the
fine wood that used to surround it?"
"Gin you mean a wheen auld firs, there's some of them to the fore yet,"
pointing to two or three tall, bare, scathed Scotch firs, that scarcely
bent their stubborn heads to the wind, that now began to howl around
them.
"I insist upon it that you are mistaken; you must have wandered from
the right road," cried the now alarmed Douglas in a loud voice, which
vainly attempted to conceal his agitation.
"We'll shune see that," replied the phlegmatic Scot, who, having
rested his horses and affixed a drag to the wheel, was about to proceed,
when Lady Juliana, who now began to have some vague suspicion of the
truth, called to him to stop, and, almost breathless with alarm,
inquired of her husband the meaning of what had passed.
He tried to force a smile, as he said, "It seems our journey is nearly
ended; that fellow persists in asserting that that is Glenfern, though I
can scarcely think it. If it is, it is strangely altered since I left it
twelve years ago."
For a moment Lady Juliana was too much alarmed to make a reply; pale and
speechless, she sank back in the carriage; but the motion of it, as it
began to proceed, roused her to a sense of her situation, and she burst
into tears and exclamations.
The driver, who attributed it all to fears at descending the hill,
assured her she need na be the least feared, for there were na twa
cannier beasts atween that and Johnny Groat's hoose; and that they wad
ha'e her at the castle door in a crack, gin they were ance down the
brae."
Douglas's attempts to soothe his high-born bride were not more
successful than those of the driver: in vain he made use of every
endearing epithet and tender expression, and recalled the time when she
used to declare that she could dwell with him in a desert; her only
replies were bitter reproaches and upbraidings for his treachery and
deceit, mingled with floods of tears, and interrupted by hysterical
sobs. Provoked at her folly, yet softened by her extreme distress,
Douglas was in the utmost state of perplexity—now ready to give way to
a paroxysm of rage; then yielding to the natural goodness of his heart,
he sought to soothe her into composure; and, at length, with much
difficulty succeeded in changing her passionate indignation into silent
dejection.
That no fresh objects of horror or disgust might appear to disturb this
calm, the blinds were pulled down, and in this state they reached
Glenfern Castle. But there the friendly veil was necessarily withdrawn,
and the first object that presented itself to the highbred Englishwoman
was an old man clad in a short tartan coat and striped woollen
night-cap, with blear eyes and shaking hands, who vainly strove to open
the carriage door.
Douglas soon extricated himself, and assisted his lady to alight; then
accosting the venerable domestic as "Old Donald," asked him if he
recollected him.
"Weel that, weel that, Maister Hairy, and ye're welcome hame; and ye tu,
bonny sir" [1] (addressing Lady Juliana, who was calling to her
footman to follow her with the mackaw); then, tottering before them, he
led the way, while her Ladyship followed, leaning on her husband, her
squirrel on her other arm, preceded by her dogs, barking with all their
might, and attended by the mackaw, screaming with all his strength; and
in this state was the Lady Juliana ushered into the drawing-room of
Glenfern Castle!
[1] The Highlanders use this term of respect indifferently to
both sexes.
"What can be worse,
Than to dwell here!"
Paradise Lost.
IT was a long, narrow, low-roofed room, with a number of small windows,
that admitted feeble lights in every possible direction. The scanty
furniture bore every appearance of having been constructed at the same
time as the edifice; and the friendship thus early formed still seemed
to subsist, as the high-backed worked chairs adhered most pertinaciously
to the gray walls, on which hung, in narrow black frames, some of the
venerable ancestors of the Douglas family. A fire, which appeared to
have been newly kindled, was beginning to burn, but, previous to showing
itself in flame, had chosen to vent itself in smoke, with which
the room was completely filled, and the open windows seemed to produce
no other effect than that of admitting the rain and wind.
At the entrance of the stranger a flock of females rushed forward to meet
them. Douglas good humouredly submitted to be hugged by three long-chinned
spinsters, whom he recognised as his aunts; and warmly saluted five awkward
purple girls he guessed to be his sisters; while Lady Julian stood the image
of despair, and, scarcely conscious, admitted in silence the civilities of
her new relations; till, at length, sinking into a chair, she endeavoured
to conceal her agitation by calling to the dogs and caressing her mackaw.
The Laird, who had been hastily summoned from his farming operations,
now entered. He was a good looking old man, with something the air of a
gentleman, in spite of the inelegance of his dress, his rough manner,
and provincial accent. After warmly welcoming his son, he advanced to
his beautiful daughter-in-law, and, taking her in his arms, bestowed a
loud and hearty kiss on each cheek; then, observing the paleness of her
complexion, and the tears that swam in her eyes, "What! not frightened
for our Hieland hills, my leddy? Come, cheer up—trust me, ye'll find as
warm hearts among them as ony ye ha'e left in your fine English
policies"—shaking her delicate fingers in his hard muscular gripe as
he spoke.
The tears, which had with difficulty been hitherto suppressed, now burst
in torrents from the eyes of the high-bred beauty, as she leant her
cheek against the back of a chair, and gave way to the anguish which
mocked control.
To the loud, anxious inquiries, and oppressive kindness of her homely
relatives, she made no reply; but, stretching out her hands to her
husband sobbed,
"Take, oh, take me from this place!"
Mortified, ashamed, and provoked, at a behavior so childish and absurd,
Douglas could only stammer out something about Lady Juliana having been
frightened and fatigued; and, requesting to be shown to their apartment,
he supported her almost lifeless to it, while his aunts followed, all
three prescribing different remedies in a breath.
"For heaven's sake, take them from me!" faintly articulated Lady
Juliana, as she shrank from the many hands that were alternately applied
to her pulse and forehead.
After repeated entreaties and plausible excuses from Douglas, his aunts
at length consented to withdraw, and he then exerted all the rhetoric he
was master of to reconcile his bride to the situation love and necessity
had thrown her into. But in vain he employed reasoning, caresses, and
threats; the only answers he could extort were tears and entreaties to
be taken from a place where she declared she felt it impossible to
exist.
"If you wish my death, Harry," said she, in a voice almost inarticulate
from excess of weeping, "oh! kill me quickly, and do not leave me to
linger out my days, and perish at last with misery here."
"For heaven's sake, tell me what you would have me do," said her
husband, softened to pity by her extreme distress, "and I swear that in
everything possible I will comply with your wishes."
"Oh, fly then, stop the horses, and let us return immediately. Do run,
dearest Harry, or they will be gone; and we shall never get away from
this odious place."
"Where would you go?" asked he, with affected calmness.
"Oh, anywhere; no matter where, so as we do but get away from hence: we
can be at no loss."
"None in the world," interrupted Douglas, with a bitter smile, "as long
as there is a prison to receive us. See," continued he, throwing a few
shillings down on the table, "there is every sixpence I possess in the
world, so help me heaven!"
Lady Juliana stood aghast.
At that instant the English Abigail burst into the room, and in a voice
choking with passion, she requested her discharge, that she might return
with the driver who had brought them there.
"A pretty way of travelling, to be sure, it will be," continued she, "to
go bumping behind a dirty chaise-driver; but better to be shook to a
jelly altogether than stay amongst such a set of Oaten-toads." [1]
[1] Hottentots.
"What do you mean?" inquired Douglas, as soon as the voluble Abigail
allowed him an opportunity of asking.
"Why, my meaning, sir, is to leave this here place immediately; not that
I have any objections either to my Lady or you, sir; but, to be sure, it
was a sad day for me that I engaged myself to her Ladyship. Little did I
think that a lady of distinction would coming to such a poor pitiful
place as this. I am sure I thought I should ha' swooned when I was
showed the hole where I was to sleep."
At the bare idea of this indignity to her person the fury of the
incensed fair one blazed forth with such strength as to choke her
utterance.
Amazement had hitherto kept Lady Juliana silent; for to such scenes she
was a stranger. Born in an elevated rank, reared in state, accustomed to
the most obsequious attention, and never approached but with the respect
due rather to a divinity than to a mortal, the strain of vulgar
insolence that now assailed her was no less new to her ears than
shocking to her feelings. With a voice and look that awed the woman in
to obedience, she commanded her to quit her presence for ever; and then,
no longer able to suppress the motions of insulted pride, wounded
vanity, and indignant disappointment, she gave way to a violent fit of
hysterics.
In the utmost perplexity the unfortunate husband by turns cursed the
hour that had given him such a wife; now tried to soothe her into
composure; but at length, seriously alarmed at the increasing attack, he
called loudly for assistance.
In a moment the three aunts and the five sisters all rushed together
into the room, full of wonder, exclamation, and inquiry. Many were the
remedies that were tried and the experiments that were suggested; and at
length the violence of passion exhausted itself, and a faint sob or deep
sigh succeeded the hysteric scream.
Douglas now attempted to account for the behaviour of his noble spouse
by ascribing it to the fatigue she had lately undergone, joined to
distress of mind at her father's unrelenting severity towards her.
"Oh, the amiable creature!" interrupted the unsuspecting spinsters,
almost stifling her with their caresses as they spoke: "Welcome, a
thousand times welcome, to Glenfern Castle," said Miss Jacky, who was
esteemed by much the most sensible woman, as well as the greatest orator
in the whole parish; "nothing shall be wanting, dearest Lady Juliana, to
compensate for a parent's rigour, and make you happy and comfortable.
Consider this as your future home! My sisters and myself will be as
mothers to you; and see these charming young creatures," dragging
forward two tall frightened girls, with sandy hair and great purple
arms; "thank Providence for having blest you with such sisters!" "Don't,
speak too much, Jacky, to our dear niece at present," said Miss Grizzy;
"I think one of Lady Maclaughlan's composing draughts would be the best
thing for her."
"Composing draughts at this time of day!" cried Miss Nicky; "I
should think a little good broth a much wiser thing. There are some
excellent family broth making below, and I'll desire Tibby to bring a
few."
"Will you take a little soup, love?" asked Douglas. His lady assented;
and Miss Nicky vanished, but quickly re-entered, followed by Tibby,
carrying a huge bowl of coarse broth, swimming with leeks, greens, and
grease. Lady Juliana attempted to taste it; but her delicate palate
revolted at the homely fare; and she gave up the attempt, in spite of
Miss Nicky's earnest entreaties to take a few more of these excellent
family broth.
"I should think," said Henry, as he vainly attempted to stir it round,
"that a little wine would be more to the purpose than this stuff."
The aunts looked at each other; and, withdrawing to a corner, a
whispering consultation took place, in which Lady Maclaughlan's opinion,
"birch, balm, currant, heating, cooling, running risks," etc. etc.,
transpired. At length the question was carried; and some tolerable
sherry and a piece of very substantial shortbread were produced.
It was now voted by Miss Jacky, and carried nem. con. that her Ladyship
ought to take a little repose till the hour of dinner.
"And don't trouble to dress," continued the considerate aunt, "for we
are not very dressy here; and we are to be quite a charming family
party, nobody but ourselves; and," turning to her nephew, "your brother
and his wife. She is a most superior woman, though she has rather too
many of her English prejudices yet to be all we could wish; but I have
no doubt, when she has lived a little longer amongst us, she will just
become one of ourselves."
"I forget who she was," said Douglas.
"A grand-daughter of Sir Duncan Malcolm's, a very old family of the
————- blood, and nearly allied to the present Earl. And here they
come," exclaimed she, on hearing the sound of a carriage; and all rushed
out to receive them.
"Let us have a glimpse of this scion from a noble stock," said Lady
Juliana, mimicking the accent of the poor spinsters, as she rose and ran
to the window.
"Good heavens, Henry! do come and behold this equipage;" and she
laughed with childish glee as she pointed to a plain, old-fashioned
whisky, with a large top. A tall handsome young man now alighted, and
lifted out a female figure, so enveloped in a cloak that eyes less
penetrating than Lady Juliana's could not, at a single glance, have
discovered her to be a "frightful quiz."
"Only conceive the effect of this dashing equipage in Bond Street!"
continued she, redoubling her mirth at the bright idea; then suddenly
stopping, and sighing—
"Ah, my pretty vis-à-vis! I remember the first time I saw you,
Henry, I was in it at a review;" and she sighed still deeper.
"True; I was then aid-de-camp to your handsome lover, the Duke of
L—————."
"Perhaps I might think him handsome now. People's tastes alter according
to circumstances."
"Yours must have undergone a wonderful revolution, if you can find
charms in a hunchback of fifty three."
"He is not a hunchback," returned her Ladyship warmly; "only a little
high shouldered; but at any rate he has the most beautiful place and the
finest house in England."
Douglas saw the storm gathering on the brow of his capricious wife, and
clasping her in his arms, "Are you indeed so changed, my Julia, that you
have forgot the time when you used to declare you would prefer a desert
with your Henry to a throne with another."
"No, certainly, not changed; but—I—I did not very well know then
what a desert was; or, at least, I had formed rather a different idea of
it."
"What was your idea of a desert?" said her husband, laughing. "Do tell
me, love."
"Oh! I had fancied it a beautiful place, full of roses and myrtles, and
smooth green turf, and murmuring rivulets, and, though very retired, not
absolutely out of the world; where one could occasionally see one's
friends, and give dejeunés et fêtes champêtres."
"Well, perhaps the time may come, Juliana, when we may realise your
Elysian deserts; but at present, you know, I am wholly dependent on my
father. I hope to prevail on him to do something for me; and that our
stay here will be short; as, you may be sure, the moment I can, I will
take you hence. I am sensible it is not a situation for you; but for my
sake, dearest Juliana, bear with it for a while, without betraying your
disgust. Will you do this, darling?" and he kissed away the sullen tear
that hung on her cheek.
"You know, love, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you,"
replied she, as she played with her squirrel; "and as you promise our
stay shall be short, if I don't die of the horrors I shall certainly try
to make the agreeable. Oh! my cherub!" flying to her pug, who came
barking into the room "where have you been, and where's my darling
Psyche, and sweet mackaw? Do, Harry, go and see after the darlings."
"I must go and see my brother and his wife first. Will you come, love?"
"Oh, not now; I don't feel equal to the encounter; besides, I must dress.
But what shall I do? Since that vile woman's gone I can't dress myself.
I never did such a thing in my life, and I am sure it's impossible that
I can," almost weeping at the hardships she was doomed to experience in
making her own toilet.
"Shall I be your Abigail?" asked her husband, smiling at the distress;
"me thinks it would be no difficult task to deck my Julia."
"Dear Harry, will you really dress me? Oh! That will be delightful! I
shall die with laughing at your awkwardness;" and her beautiful eyes
sparkled with childish delight at the idea.
"In the meantime," said Douglas, "I'll send someone to unpack your
things; and after I have shook hands with Archie, and been introduced to
my new sister, I shall enter on my office."
"Now do, pray, make haste; for I die to see your great hands tying
strings and sticking pins."
Delighted with her gaiety and good humour, he left her caressing her
favourites; and finding rather a scarcity of female attendance, he
despatched two of his sisters to assist his helpless beauty in her
arrangements.
And ever against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs."
L'Allegro.
WHEN Douglas returned he found the floor strewed with dresses of every
description, his sisters on their knees before a great trunk they were
busied in unpacking, and his Lady in her wrapper, with her hair about
her ears, still amusing herself with her pets.
"See how good your sisters are," said she, pointing to the poor girls,
whose inflamed faces bore testimony to their labours. "I declare I am
quite sorry to see them take so much trouble," yawning as she leant back
in her chair; "is it not quite shocking, Tommy? 'kissing her squirrel.'
Oh! pray, Henry, do tell me what I am to put on; for I protest I don't
know. Favolle always used to choose for me; and so did that odious
Martin, for she had an exquisite taste."
"Not so exquisite as your own, I am sure; so for once choose for
yourself," replied the good-humoured husband; "and pray make haste, for
my father waits dinner."
Betwixt scolding, laughing, and blundering, the dress was at length
completed; and Lady Juliana, in all the pomp of dress and pride of
beauty, descended, leaning on her husband's arm.
On entering the drawing-room, which was now in a more comfortable
state, Douglas led her to a lady who was sitting by the fire: and,
placing her hand within that of the stranger, "Juliana, my love," said
he, "this is a sister whom you have not yet seen, a with whom I am sure
you will gladly make acquaintance."
The stranger received her noble sister with graceful ease; and, with a
sweet smile and pleasing accent, expressed herself happy in the
introduction. Lady Juliana was surprised and somewhat disconcerted. She
had arranged her plans, and made up her mind to be condescending; she
had resolved to enchant by her sweetness, dazzle by her brilliancy, and
overpower by her affability. But there was a simple dignity in the air
and address of the lady, before which even high-bred affectation sank
abashed. Before she found a reply to the courteous yet respectful
salutation of her sister-in-law Douglas introduced his brother; and the
old gentleman, impatient at any farther delay, taking Lady Juliana by
the hand, pulled, rather than led her into the dining-room.
Even Lady Juliana contrived to make a meal of the roast mutton and
moorfowl; for the Laird piqued himself on the breed of his sheep, and
his son was to good a sportsman to allow his friends to want for game.
"I think my darling Tommy would relish this grouse very much," observed
Lady Juliana, as she secured the last remaining wing for her favourite."
Bring him here!" turning to the tall, dashing lackey who stood behind
her chair, and whose handsome livery and well-dressed hair formed a
striking contrast to old Donald's tartan jacket and bob-wig.
"Come hither, my sweetest cherubs," extending her arms towards the
charming trio, as they entered, barking, and chattering, and flying to
their mistress. A scene of noise and nonsense ensued.
Douglas remained silent, mortified and provoked at the weakness of his
wife, which not even the silver tones of her voice or the elegance of
her manners could longer conceal from him. But still there was a charm
in her very folly, to the eye of love, which had not yet wholly lost its
power.
After the table was cleared, observing that he was still silent and
abstracted, Lady Juliana turned to her husband, and, laying her hand on
his shoulder, "You are not well, love!" said she, looking up in his
face, and shaking back the redundant ringlets that shaded her own.
"Perfectly so," replied her husband, with a sigh.
"What? Dull? Then I must sing to enliven you."
And, leaning her head on his shoulder, she warbled a verse of the
beautiful little Venetian air, La Biondina in Gondoletta. Then
suddenly stopping, and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Douglas, "I beg pardon,
perhaps you don't like music; perhaps my singing's a bore."
"You pay us a bad compliment in saying so," said her sister-in-law,
smiling; "and the only atonement you can make for such an injurious
doubt is to proceed."
"Does anybody sing here?" asked she, without noticing this request. "Do,
somebody, sing me a song."
"Oh! we all sing, and dance too," said one, of the old young ladies;
"and after tea we will show you some of our Scotch steps; but in the
meantime Mrs. Douglas will favour us with her song."
Mrs. Douglas assented good-humouredly, though aware that it would be
rather a nice point to please all parties in the choice of a song. The
Laird reckoned all foreign music—i.e. everything that was not
Scotch—an outrage upon his ears; and Mrs. Douglas had too much taste to
murder Scotch songs with her English accent. She therefore compromised
the matter as well as she could by selecting a Highland ditty clothed in
her own native tongue; and sang with much pathos and simplicity the
lamented Leyden's "Fall of Macgregor:"
"In the vale of Glenorehy the night breeze was sighing
O'er the tomb where the ancient Macgregors are lying;
Green are their graves by their soft murmuring river,
But the name of Macgregor has perished for ever.
"On a red stream of light, by his gray mountains glancing,
Soon I beheld a dim spirit advancing;
Slow o'er the heath of the dead was its motion,
Like the shadow of mist o'er the foam of the ocean.
"Like the sound of a stream through the still evening dying,—
Stranger! who treads where Macgregor is lying?
Darest thou to walk, unappall'd and firm-hearted,
'Mid the shadowy steps of the mighty departed?
"See! round thee the caves of the dead are disclosing
The shades that have long been in silence reposing;
Thro' their forms dimly twinkles the moon-beam descending,
As upon thee their red eyes of wrath they are bending.
"Our gray stones of fame though the heath-blossom cover,
Round the fields of our battles our spirits still hover;
Where we oft saw the streams running red from the mountains;
But dark are our forms by our blue native fountains.
"For our fame melts away like the foam of the river,
Like the last yellow leaves on the oak-boughs that shiver:
The name is unknown of our fathers so gallant;
And our blood beats no more in the breasts of the valiant.
"The hunter of red deer now ceases to number
The lonely gray stones on the field of our slumber.—
Fly, stranger! and let not thine eye be reverted.
Why should'st thou see that our fame is departed?"
"Pray, do you play on the harp," asked the volatile lady, scarcely
waiting till the first stanza was ended; "and, apropos, have you a
good harp here?"
"We've a very sweet spinnet," said Miss Jacky, "which, in my opinion, is
a far superior instrument: and Bella will give us a tune upon it. Bella,
my dear, let Lady Juliana hear how well you can play."
Bella, blushing like a peony rose, retired to a corner of the room,
where stood the spinnet; and with great, heavy, trembling hands, began
to belabour the unfortunate instrument, while the aunts beat time, and
encouraged her to proceed with exclamations of admiration and applause.
"You have done very well, Bella," said Mrs. Douglas, seeing her
preparing to execute another piece, and pitying the poor girl, as well
as her auditors. Then whispering Miss Jacky that Lady Juliana looked
fatigued, they arose to quit the room.
"Give me your arm, love, to the drawing-room," said her Ladyship
languidly. "And now, pray, don't be long away," continued she, as he
placed her on the sofa, and returned to the gentlemen.
"You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admired disorder."
Macbeth.
THE interval, which seemed of endless duration to the hapless Lady
Juliana, was passed by the aunts in giving sage counsel as to the course
of life to be pursued by married ladies. Worsted stockings and quilted
petticoats were insisted upon as indispensable articles of dress; while
it was plainly insinuated that it was utterly impossible any child could
be healthy whose mother had not confined her wishes to barley broth and
oatmeal porridge.
"Only look at thae young lambs," said Miss Grizzy, pointing to the five
great girls; "see what pickters of health they are! I'm sure I hope, my
dear niece, your children will be just the same—only boys, for we are
sadly in want of boys. It's melancholy to think we have not a boy among
us, and that a fine auntient race like ours should be dying away for
want of male heirs." And the tears streamed down the cheeks of the good
spinster as she spoke.
The entrance of the gentlemen put a stop to the conversation.
Flying to her husband, Lady Juliana began to whisper, in very audible
tones, her inquires, whether he had yet got any money—when they were to
go away, etc. etc.
"Does your Ladyship choose any tea?" asked Miss Nicky, as she
disseminated the little cups of coarse black liquid.
"Tea! oh no, I never drink tea. I'll take some coffee though; and Psyche
doats on a dish of tea." And she tendered the beverage that had been
intended for herself to her favourite.
"Here's no coffee," said Douglas, surveying the tea-table; "but I will
ring for some," as he pulled the bell.
Old Donald answered the summons.
"Where's the coffee?" demanded Miss Nicky.
"The coffee!" repeated the Highlander; "troth, Miss Nicky, an' it's been
clean forgot."
"Well, but you can get it yet?" said Douglas.
"'Deed, Maister Harry, the night's owre far gane for't noo; for the
fire's a' ta'en up, ye see," reckoning with his fingers, as he
proceeded; "there's parritch makin' for oor supper; and there's patatees
boiling for the beasts; and—"
"I'll see about it myself," said Miss Nicky, leaving the room, with old
Donald at her back, muttering all the way.
The old Laird, all this while, had been enjoying his evening nap; but,
that now ended, and the tea equipage being dismissed, starting up, he
asked what they were about, that the dancing was not begun.
"Come, my Leddy, we'll set the example," snapping his fingers, and
singing in a hoarse voice,
"The mouse is a merry beastie,
And the moudiwort wants the een;
But folk sail ne'er get wit,
Sae merry as we twa ha'e been.'
"But whar's the girlies?" cried he. "Ho! Belle, Becky, Betty, Baby,
Beeny—to your posts!"
The young ladies, eager for the delights of music and dancing, now
entered, followed by Coil, the piper, dressed in the native garb, with
cheeks seemingly ready blown for the occasion. After a little strutting
and puffing, the pipes were fairly set a going in Coil's most spirited
manner. But vain would be the attempt to describe Lady Juliana's horror
and amazement at the hideous sounds that for the first time assailed her
ear. Tearing herself from the grasp of the old gentleman, who was just
setting off in the reel, she flew shrieking to her husband, and threw
herself trembling into his arms, while he called loudly to the self
delighted Coil to stop.
"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the whole family,
gathering round.
"Matter!" repeated Douglas furiously; "you have frightened Lady Juliana
to death with your infernal music. What did you mean," turning fiercely
to the astonished piper, "by blowing that confounded bladder?"
Poor Coil gaped with astonishment; for never before had his performance
on the bagpipe been heard but with admiration and applause.
"A bonny bargain, indeed, that canna stand the pipes," said the old
gentleman, as he went puffing up and down the room. "She's no the wife
for a Heelandman. Confoonded blather, indeed! By my faith, ye're no
blate!"
"I declare it's the most distressing thing I ever met with," sighed Miss
Grizzy. "I wonder whether it could be the sight or the sound of the
bagpipe that frightened our dear niece. I wish to goodness Lady
Maclaughlan was here!"
"It's impossible the bagpipe could frighten anybody," said Miss Jacky,
in a high key; "nobody with common sense could be frightened at a
bagpipe."
Mrs. Douglas here mildly interposed, and soothed down the offended pride
of the Highlanders by attributing Lady Juliana's agitation entirely to
surprise. The word operated like a charm; all were ready to admit that
it was a surprising thing when heard for the first time. Miss Jacky
remarked that we are all liable to be surprised; and the still more
sapient Grizzy said that, indeed, it was most surprising the effect that
surprise had upon some people. For her own part, she could not deny but
that she was very often frightened when she was surprised.
Douglas, meanwhile, was employed in soothing the terrors, real or
affected, of his delicate bride, who declared herself so exhausted with
the fatigue she had undergone, and the sufferings she had endured, that
she must retire for the night. Henry, eager to escape from the questions
and remarks of his family, gladly availed himself of the same excuse;
and, to the infinite mortification of both aunts and nieces, the ball
was broken up.
"What choice to choose for delicacy best."
Milton
OF what nature were the remarks passed in the parlour upon the new
married couple has not reached the writer of these memoirs with as much
exactness as the foregoing circumstances; but they may in part be
imagined from the sketch already given of the characters which formed
the Glenfern party. The conciliatory indulgence of Mrs. Douglas, when
aided by the good-natured Miss Grizzy, doubtless had a favourable effect
on the irritated pride but short-lived acrimony of the old gentleman.
Certain it is that, before the evening concluded, they appeared all
restored to harmony, and retired to their respective chambers in hopes
of beholding a more propitious morrow.
Who has not perused sonnets, odes, and speeches in praise of that balmy
blessing sleep; from the divine effusions of Shakespeare down to the
drowsy notes of newspaper poets?
Yet cannot too much be said in its commendation. Sweet is its influence
on the careworn eyes to tears accustomed. In its arms the statesman
forgets his harassed thoughts; the weary and the poor are blessed with
its charms; and conscience—even conscience—is sometimes soothed into
silence, while the sufferer sleeps. But nowhere, perhaps, is its
influence more happily felt than in the heart oppressed by the harassing
accumulation of petty ills; like a troop of locusts, making up by their
number and their stings what they want in magnitude.
Mortified pride in discovering the fallacy of our own judgment; to be
ashamed of what we love, yet still to love, are feelings most
unpleasant; and though they assume not the dignity of deep distress, yet
philosophy has scarce any power to soothe their worrying, incessant
annoyance. Douglas was glad to forget himself in sleep. He had thought a
vast deal that day, and of unpleasant subjects, more than the whole of
his foregoing life would have produced. If he did not curse the fair
object of his imprudence, he at least cursed his own folly and himself;
and these were his last waking thoughts.
But Douglas could not repose as long as the seven sleepers, and, in
consequence of having retired sooner to bed than he was accustomed to
do, he waked at an early hour in the morning.
The wonderful activity which people sometimes feel when they have little
to do with their bodies, and less with their minds, caused him to rise
hastily and dress, hoping to pick up a new set of ideas by virtue of his
locomotive powers.
On descending to the dining-parlour he found his father seated at the
window, carefully perusing a pamphlet written to illustrate the
principle, Let nothing be lost, and containing many sage and erudite
directions for the composition and dimensions of that ornament to a
gentleman's farmyard, and a cottager's front door, ycleped, in the
language of the country, a midden—with the signification of which we
would not, for the world, shock the more refined feelings of our
southern readers.
Many were the inquiries about dear Lady Juliana; hoped she had rested
well; hoped the found the bed comfortable, etc. etc. These inquiries
were interrupted by the Laird, who requested is son to take a turn with
him while breakfast was getting ready, that they might talk over past
events and new plans; that he might see the new planting on the hill; the
draining of the great moss; with other agricultural concerns which we
shall omit, not having the same power of commanding attention for our
readers as the Laird had from his hearers.
After repeated summonses and many inquiries from the impatient party
already assembled the breakfast table, Lady Juliana made her appearance,
accompanied by her favourites, whom no persuasions of her husband could
prevail upon her to leave behind.
As she entered the room her olfactory nerves were smote with gales,
not of "Araby the blest," but of old cheese and herrings, with which the
hospitable board was amply provided.
The ladies having severally exchanged the salutations of the morning,
Miss Nicky commenced the operation of pouring out tea, while the Laird
laid a large piece of herring on her Ladyship's plate.
"Good heavens! what am I to do with this?" exclaimed she. "Do take it
away, or I shall faint!"
"Brother, brother!" cried Miss Grizzy in a tone of alarm, "I beg you
won't place any unpleasant object before the eyes of our dear niece. I
declare! Pray, was it the sight or the smell of the beast [1] that
shocked you so much, my dear Lady Juliana? I'm sure I wish to goodness
Lady Maclaughlan was come!"
[1] In Scotland everything that flies and swims ranks in the bestial tribe.
Mr. Douglas, or the Major, as he was styled, immediately rose and pulled
the bell.
"Desire my gig to be got ready directly!" said he.
The aunts drew up stiffly, and looked at each other without speaking;
but the old gentleman expressed his surprise that his son should think
of leaving them so soon.
"May we inquire the reason of this sudden resolution?" at length said
Miss Jacky in a tone of stifled indignation.
"Certainly, if you are disposed to hear it; it is because I find that
there is company expected."
The three ladies turned up their hands and eyes in speechless horror.
"Is it that virtuous woman Lady Maclaughlan you would shun, nephew?"
demanded Miss Jacky.
"It is that insufferable woman I would shun," replied her nephew, with a
heightened colour and a violence very unusual with him.
The good Miss Grizzy drew out her pocket-handkerchief, while Mrs.
Douglas vainly endeavoured to silence her husband, and avert the rising
storm.
"Dear Douglas!" whispered his wife in a tone of reproach.
"Oh, pray let him go on," said Miss Jacky, almost choking under the
effort she made to appear calm. "Let him go on. Lady Maclaughlan's
character, luckily, is far above the reach of calumny; nothing that Mr.
Archibald Douglas can say will have power to change our opinions, or, I
hope, to prejudice his brother and Lady Juliana against this most
exemplary, virtuous woman—a woman of family—of fortune—of talents—of
accomplishments; a woman of unblemished reputation—of the strictest
morals, sweetest temper, charming heart, delightful spirits, so
charitable—every year gives fifty flannel petticoats to the old people
of the parish—-"
"Then such a wife as she is!" sobbed out Miss Grizzy. "She has
invented I don't know how many different medicines for Sir Sampson's
complaint, and makes a point of his taking some of them every day; but
for her I'm sure he would have been in his grave long ago."
"She's doing all she can to send him there, as she has done many a poor
wretch already, with her infernal compositions."
Here Miss Grizzy sank back in her chair, overcome with horror; and Miss
Nicky let fall the teapot, the scalding contents of which discharged
themselves upon the unfortunate Psyche, whose yells, mingling with the
screams of its fair mistress, for a while drowned even Miss Jacky's
oratory.
"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Lady Juliana, as she bent over her
favourite. "Do send for a surgeon; pray, Henry, fly! Do fetch one
directly, or she will die; and it would quite kill me to lose my
darling. Do run, dearest Harry!"
"My dear Julia, how can you be so absurd? There's no surgeon within
twenty miles of this."
"No surgeon within twenty miles!" exclaimed she, starting up. "How
could you bring me to such a place? Good God! those dear creatures may
die—I may die myself—before I can get any assistance!"
"Don't be alarmed, my dearest niece," said the good Miss Grizzy; "we are
all doctors here. I understand something of physic myself; and our
friend Lady Maclaughlan, who, I daresay, will be here presently, is
perfect mistress of every disease of the human frame."
"Clap a cauld potatae to the brute's tae," cried the old
Laird gruffly.
"I've a box of her scald ointment that will cure it in a minute."
"If it don't cure, it will kill," said Mr. Douglas, with a smile.
"Brother," said Miss Jacky, rising with dignity from her chair, and
waving her hand as she spoke-"brother, I appeal to you to protect the
character of this most amiable, respectable matron from the insults and
calumny your son thinks proper to load it with. Sir Sampson Maclaughlan
is your friend, and it therefore becomes your duty to defend his wife."
"Troth, but I'll hae aneugh to do if I am to stand up for a' my friends'
wives," said the old gentleman. "But, however, Archie, you are to blame:
Leddy Maclaughlan is a very decent woman—at least, as far as I
ken—though she is a little free in the gab; and out of respect to my
auld friend Sir Sampson, it is my desire that you should remain here to
receive him, and that you trait baith him and his Lady discreetly."
This was said in too serious a tone to be disputed, and his son was
obliged to submit.
The ointment meanwhile having been applied to Psyche's paw, peace
was restored, and breakfast, recommenced.
"I declare our dear niece has not tasted a morsel," observed Miss Nicky.
"Bless me, here's charming barley meal scones," cried one, thrusting a
plateful of them before her. "Here's tempting pease bannocks,"
interposed another, "and oat cakes. I'm sure your Ladyship never saw
such cakes."
"I can't eat any of those things," said their delicate niece, with an
air of disgust. "I should like some muffin and chocolate."
"You forget you are not in London, my love," said her husband
reproachfully.
"No indeed, I do not forget it. Well then, give me some toast," with an
air of languid condescension.
"Unfortunately, we happen be quite out of loaf bread at present," said
Miss Nicky; "but we've sent to Drymsine for some. They bake excellent
bread at Drymsine."
"Is there nothing within the bounds of possibility you would fancy,
Julia?" asked Douglas. "Do think, love."
"I think I should like some grouse, or a beefsteak, if it was very
nicely done," returned her Ladyship in a languishing tone.
"Beef-steak!" repeated Miss Grizzy.
"Beef-steak!" responded Miss Jacky.
"Beef-steak!" reverberated Miss Nicky.
After much deliberation and consultation amongst the three spinsters, it
was at length unanimously carried that the Lady's whim should be
indulged.
"Only think, sisters," observed Miss Grizzy in an undertone, "what
reflections we should have to make upon ourselves if the child was to
resemble a moorfowl!"
"Or have a face like a raw beef-steak!" said Miss Nicky.
These arguments were unanswerable; and a smoking steak and plump
moor-fowl were quickly produced, of which Lady Juliana partook in
company with her four-footed favourites.
"When winter soaks the fields, and female feet—
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
Or ford the rivulets—are best at home."
The Task
THE meal being at length concluded, Glenfern desired Henry to attend him
on a walk, as he wished to have a little more private conversation with
him. Lady Juliana was beginning a remonstrance against the cruelty of
taking Harry away from her, when her husband whispering her that he
hoped to make something of the old gentleman, and that he should soon be
back, she suffered him to depart in silence.
Old Donald having at length succeeded in clearing the table of its
heterogeneous banquet, it was quickly covered with the young ladies'
work.
Miss Nicky withdrew to her household affairs. Miss Jacky sat with one
eye upon Lady Juliana, the other upon her five nieces. Miss Grizzy
seated herself by her Ladyship, holding a spread letter of Lady
Maclaughlan's before her as a screen.
While the young ladies busily plied their needles, the elder ones left
no means untried to entertain their listless niece, whose only replies
were exclamations of weariness, or expressions of affection bestowed
upon her favourites.
At length even Miss Jacky's sense and Miss Grizzy's good nature were at
fault; when a ray of sunshine darting into the room suggested the idea
of a walk. The proposal was made, and assented to by her Ladyship, in
the twofold hope of meeting her husband and pleasing her dogs, whose
whining and scratching had for some time testified their desire of a
change. The ladies therefore separated to prepare for their sortie,
after many recommendations from the aunts to be sure to hap [1] well;
but, as if distrusting her powers in that way, they speedily equipped
themselves, and repaired to her chamber, arrayed cap a' pie in the
walking costume of Glenfern Castle. And, indeed, it must be owned their
style of dress was infinitely more judicious than that of their
fashionable niece; and it was not surprising that they, in their shrunk
duffle greatcoats, vast poke-bonnets, red worsted neckcloths, and
pattens, should gaze with horror at her lace cap, lilac satin pelisse,
and silk shoes. Ruin to the whole race of Glenfern, present and future,
seemed inevitable from such a display of extravagance and imprudence.
Having surmounted the first shock, Miss Jacky made a violent effort to
subdue her rising wrath; and, with a sort of convulsive smile, addressed
Lady Juliana: "Your Ladyship, I perceive, is not of the opinion of our
inimitable bard, who, in his charming poem, 'The Seasons,' says' Beauty
needs not the foreign aid of ornament; but is, when unadorned, adorned
the most.' That is a truth that ought to be impressed on every young
woman's mind."
[1] Wrap.
Lady Juliana only stared. She was as little accustomed to be advised as
she was to hear Thomson's "Seasons" quoted.
"I declare that's all quite true," said the more temporising Grizzy;
"and certainly our girls are not in the least taken up about their
dress, poor things! which is a great comfort. At the same time, I'm sure
it's no wonder your Ladyship should be taken up about yours, for
certainly that pelisse is most beautiful. Nobody can deny that; and I
daresay it is the very newest fashion. At the same time, I'm just afraid
that it's rather too delicate, and that it might perhaps get a little
dirty on our roads; for although, in general, our roads are quite
remarkable for being always dry, which is a great comfort in the
country, yet you know the very best roads of course must be wet
sometimes. And there's a very bad step just at the door almost, which
Glenfern has been always speaking about getting mended. But, to be sure,
he has so many things to think about that it's no wonder he forgets
sometimes; but I daresay he will get it done very soon now."
The prospect of the road being mended produced no better effect than the
quotation from Thomson's "Seasons." It was now Miss Nicky's turn.
"I'm afraid your Ladyship will frighten our stirks and stots with your
finery. I assure you they are not accustomed to see such fine figures;
and"—putting her hand out at the window—"I think it's spitting
already." [1]
[1] A common expression in Scotland to signify slight rain.
All three now joined in the chorus, beseeching Lady Juliana to put on
something warmer and more wiselike.
"I positively have nothing," cried she, wearied with their
importunities, "and I shan't get any winter things now till I return to
town. My roquelaire does very well for the carriage."
The acknowledgment at the beginning of this speech was enough. All three
instantly disappeared like the genii of Aladin's lamp, and, like that
same person, presently returned, loaded with what, in their eyes, were
precious as the gold of Arabia. One displayed a hard worsted shawl, with
a flower-pot at each corner; another held up a tartan cloak, with a
hood; and a third thrust forward a dark cloth Joseph, lined with
flannel; while one and all showered down a variety of old bonnets, fur
tippets, hair soles, clogs, pattens, and endless et ceteras. Lady
Juliana shrank with disgust from these "delightful haps," and resisted
all attempts to have them forced upon her, declaring, in a manner which
showed her determined to have her own way, that she would either go out
as she was or not go out at all. The aunts were therefore obliged to
submit, and the party proceeded to what was termed the high road, though
a stranger would have sought in vain for its pretensions to that
title. Far as the eye could reach—and that was far enough—not a single
vehicle could be descried on it, though its deep ruts showed that it was
well frequented by carts. The scenery might have had charms for Ossian,
but it had none for Lady Juliana, who would rather have been entangled
in a string of Bond Street equipages than traversing "the lonely heath,
with the stream murmuring hoarsely, the old trees groaning in the wind,
the troubled lake," and the still more troubled sisters. As may be
supposed, she very soon grew weary of the walk. The bleak wind pierced
her to the soul; her silk slippers and lace flounces became
undistinguishable masses of mud; her dogs chased the sheep, and were, in
their turn, pursued by the "nowts," as the ladies termed the steers. One
sister expatiated on the great blessing of having a peat moss at their
door; another was at pains to point out the purposed site of a set of
new offices; and the third lamented that her Ladyship had not on thicker
shoes, that she might have gone and seen the garden. More than ever
disgusted and wretched, the hapless Lady Juliana returned to the house
to fret away the time till her husband's return.
"On se rend insupportable dans la société par des
défauts légers, mais qui se font sentir à tout
moment."—VOLTAIRE.
THE family of Glenfern have already said so much for themselves that it
seems as if little remained to be told by their biographer. Mrs. Douglas
was the only member of the community who was at all conscious of the
unfortunate association of characters and habits that had just taken
place. She was a stranger to Lady Juliana; but she was interested by her
youth, beauty, and elegance, and felt for the sacrifice she had made—a
sacrifice so much greater than it was possible she ever could have
conceived or anticipated. She could in some degree enter into the nature
of her feelings towards the old ladies; for she too had felt how
disagreeable people might contrive to render themselves without being
guilty of any particular fault, and how much more difficult it is to
bear with the weaknesses than the vices of our neighbours. Had these
ladies' failings been greater in a moral point of view, it might not
have been so arduous a task to put up with them. But to love such a set
of little, trifling, tormenting foibles, all dignified with the name of
virtues, required, from her elegant mind, an exertion of its highest
principles—a continual remembrance of that difficult Christian precept,
"to bear with one another." A person of less sense than Mrs. Douglas
would have endeavoured to open the eyes of their understandings on what
appeared to be the folly and narrow mindedness of their ways; but she
refrained from the attempt, not from want of benevolent exertion, but
from an innate conviction that their foibles all originated in what was
now incurable, viz. the natural weakness of their minds, together with
their ignorance of the world and the illiberality and prejudices of a
vulgar education. "These poor women," reasoned the charitable
Mrs. Douglas, "are perhaps, after all, better characters in the sight of
God than I am. He who has endowed us all as His wisdom has seen fit, and
has placed me amongst them, oh, may He teach me to remember that we are
all His children, and enable me to bear with their faults, while I study
to correct my own."
Thus did this amiable woman contrive not only to live in peace, but,
without sacrificing her own liberal ideas, to be actually beloved by
those amongst whom her lot had been cast, however dissimilar to herself.
But for that Christian spirit (in which must ever be included a liberal
mind and gentle temper), she must have felt towards her connexions a
still stronger repugnance than was even manifested by Lady Juliana; for
Lady Juliana's superiority over them was merely that of refined habits
and elegant manners; whereas Mrs. Douglas's was the superiority of a
noble and highly-gifted mind, which could hold no intercourse with
theirs except by stooping to the level of their low capacities. But,
that the merit of her conduct may be duly appreciated, I shall endeavour
to give a slight sketch of the female dramatis personae of Glenfern
Castle.
Miss Jacky, the senior of the trio, was what is reckoned a very sensible
woman—which generally means, a very disagreeable, obstinate, illiberal
director of all men, women, and children—a sort of superintendent of
all actions, time, and place—with unquestioned authority to arraign,
judge, and condemn upon the statutes of her own supposed sense. Most
country parishes have their sensible woman, who lays down the law on all
affairs, spiritual and temporal. Miss Jacky stood unrivalled as the
sensible woman of Glenfern. She had attained this eminence partly from
having a little more understanding than her sisters, but principally
from her dictatorial manner, and the pompous decisive tone in which she
delivered the most commonplace truths. At home her supremacy in all
matters of sense was perfectly established; and thence the infection,
like other superstitions, had spread over the whole neighbourhood. As
sensible woman she regulated the family, which she took care to let
everybody see; she was conductor of her nieces' education, which she
took care to let everybody hear; she was a sort of postmistress
general—a detector of all abuses and impositions; and deemed it her
prerogative to be consulted about all the useful and useless things
which everybody else could have done as well. She was liberal of her
advice to the poor, always enforcing upon them the iniquity of idleness,
but doing nothing for them in the way of employment—strict economy
being one of the many points in which she was particularly sensible. The
consequence was, while she was lecturing half the poor women in the
parish for their idleness, the bread was kept out of their mouths by the
incessant carding of wool and knitting of stockings, and spinning, and
reeling, and winding, and pirning, that went on amongst the ladies
themselves. And, by-the-bye, Miss Jacky is not the only sensible woman
who thinks she is acting a meritorious part when she converts what ought
to be the portion of the poor into the employment of the affluent.
In short, Miss Jacky was all over sense. A skilful physiognomist would,
at a single glance, have detected the sensible woman, in the erect head,
the compressed lips, square elbows, and firm judicious step. Even her
very garments seemed to partake of the prevailing character of their
mistress: her ruff always looked more sensible than any other body's;
her shawl sat most sensibly on her shoulders; her walking shoes were
acknowledged to be very sensible; and she drew on her gloves with an air
of sense, as if the one arm had been Seneca, the other Socrates. From
what has been said it may easily be inferred that Miss Jacky was in fact
anything but a sensible woman; as indeed no woman can be who bears such
visible outward marks of what is in reality the most quiet and
unostentatious of all good qualities. But there is a spurious sense,
which passes equally well with the multitude; it is easily assumed, and
still more easily maintained; common truths and a grave dictatorial air
being all that is necessary for its support.
Miss Grizzy's character will not admit of so long a commentary as that
of her sister. She was merely distinguishable from nothing by her simple
good nature, the inextricable entanglement of her thoughts, her love of
letter-writing, and her friendship with Lady Maclaughlan. Miss Nicky had
about as much sense as Miss Jacky; but, as no kingdom can maintain two
kings, so no family can admit of two sensible women; and Nicky was
therefore obliged to confine hers to the narrowest possible channels of
housekeeping, mantua-making, etc., and to sit down for life (or at least
till Miss Jacky should be married) with the dubious character of "not
wanting for sense either." With all these little peccadilloes the
sisters possessed some good properties. They were well-meaning,
kind-hearted, and, upon the whole, good-tempered they loved one another,
revered their brother, doated upon their nephews and nieces, took a
lively interest in the poorest of their poor cousins, a hundred degrees
removed, and had a firm conviction of the perfectibility of human
nature, as exemplified in the persons of all their own friends. "Even
their failings leaned to virtue's side;" for whatever they did was with
the intention of doing good, though the means they made use of generally
produced an opposite effect. But there are so many Miss Douglases in the
world that doubtless everyone of my readers is as well acquainted with
them as I am myself. I shall therefore leave them to finish the picture
according to their ideas, while I return to the parlour, where the
worthy spinsters are seated in expectation of the arrival of their
friend.
"Though both
Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed—
For contemplation he, and valour formed;
For softness she, and sweet attractive grace."
MILTON.
"WHAT can have come over Lady Maclaughlan?" said Miss Grizzy, as she
sat at the window in a dejected attitude.
"I think I hear a carriage at last," cried Miss Jacky, turning up her
ears. "Wisht! let us listen."
"It's only the wind," sighed Miss Grizzy.
"It's the cart with the bread," said Miss Nicky.
"It's Lady Maclaughlan, I assure you," pronounced Miss Jacky.
The heavy rumble of a ponderous vehicle now proclaimed the approach of
the expected visitor; which pleasing anticipation was soon changed into
blissful certainty by the approach of a high-roofed, square bottomed,
pea-green chariot, drawn by two long-tailed white horses, and followed
by a lackey in the Highland garb. Out of this equipage issued a figure,
clothed in a light-coloured, large-flowered chintz raiment, carefully
drawn through the pocket-holes, either for its own preservation, or the
more disinterested purpose of displaying a dark short stuff petticoat,
which, with the same liberality, afforded ample scope for the survey of
a pair of worsted stockings and black leather shoes, something
resembling buckets. A faded red cloth jacket, which bore evident marks
of having been severed from its native skirts, now acted in the capacity
of a spencer. On the head rose a stupendous fabric, in the form of a
cap, on the summit of which was placed a black beaver hat, tied
à la poissarde. A small black satin muff in one hand, and a
gold-headed walking-stick in the other, completed the dress and
decoration of this personage.
The lackey, meanwhile, advanced to the carriage; and, putting in both
his hands, as if to catch so something, he pulled forth a small bundle,
enveloped in a military cloak, the contents of which would have baffled
conjecture, but for the large cocked hat and little booted leg which
protruded at opposite extremities.
A loud but slow and well-modulated voice now resounded through the
narrow stone passage that conducted to the drawing-room.
"Bring him in—bring him in, Philistine! I always call my man
Philistine, because he has Sampson in his hands. Set him down there,"
pointing to an easy chair, as the group now entered, headed by Lady
Maclaughlan.
"Well, girls!" addressing the venerable spinsters, as they severally
exchanged a tender salute; "so you're all alive, I see;—humph!"
"Dear Lady Maclaughlan, allow me to introduce our beloved niece, Lady
Juliana Douglas," said Miss Grizzy, leading her up, and bridling as she
spoke with ill-suppressed exultation.
"So—you're very pretty—yes, you are very pretty!" kissing the
forehead, cheeks, and chin of the youthful beauty between every pause.
Then, holding her at arm's length, she surveyed her from head to foot,
with elevated brows, and a broad fixed stare.
"Pray sit down, Lady Maclaughlan," cried her three friends all at once,
each tendering a chair.
"Sit down!" repeated she; "why, what should I sit down for? I choose to
stand—I don't like to sit—I never sit at home—do I, Sir Sampson?"
turning to the little warrior, who, having been seized with a violent
fit of coughing on his entrance, had now sunk back, seemingly quite
exhausted, while the Philistine was endeavouring to disencumber him of
his military accoutrements.
"How very distressing Sir Sampson's cough is!" said the sympathising
Miss Grizzy.
"Distressing, child! No—it's not the least distressing. How can a thing
be distressing that does no harm? He's much the better of it—it's the
only exercise he gets."
"Oh! well, indeed, if that's the case, it would be a thousand pities to
stop it," replied the accommodating spinster.
"No, it wouldn't be the least pity to stop it!" returned Lady
Maclaughlan, in her loud authoritative tone; "because, though it's not
distressing, it's very disagreeable. But it cannot be stopped—you might
as well talk of stopping the wind—it is a cradle cough."
"My dear Lady Maclaughlan!" screamed Sir Sampson in a shrill pipe, as he
made an effort to raise himself, and rescue his cough from this
aspersion; "how can you persist in saying so, when I have told you so
often it proceeds entirely from a cold caught a few years ago, when I
attended his Majesty at——-" Here a violent relapse carried the
conclusion of the sentence along with it.
"Let him alone-don't meddle with him," called his lady to the assiduous
nymphs who were bustling around him; "leave him to Philistine; he's in
very good hands when he is in Philistine's." Then resting her chin upon
the head of her stick, she resumed her scrutiny of Lady Juliana.
"You really are a pretty creature! You've got a very handsome nose,
and your mouth's very well, but I don't like your eyes; they're too
large and too light; they're saucer eyes, and I don't like saucer eyes.
Why ha'nt you black eyes? You're not a bit like your father—I knew
him very well. Your mother was an heiress; your father married her for
her money, and she married him to be a Countess; and so that's the
history of their marriage-humph."
This well-bred harangue was delivered in an unvarying tone, and with
unmoved muscles; for though the lady seldom failed of calling forth some
conspicuous emotion, either of shame, mirth, or anger, on the
countenances of her hearers, she had never been known to betray any
correspondent feelings on her own; yet her features were finely formed,
marked, and expressive; and, in spite of her ridiculous dress and
eccentric manners, an air of dignity was diffused over her whole person,
that screened her from the ridicule to which she must otherwise have
been exposed. Amazement at the uncouth garb and singular address of Lady
Maclaughlan was seldom unmixed with terror at the stern imperious manner
that accompanied all her actions. Such were the feelings of Lady Juliana
as she remained subjected to her rude gaze and impertinent remarks.
"My Lady?" squeaked Sir Sampson from forth his easy chair.
"My love?" interrogated his lady as she leant upon her stick.
"I want to be introduced to my Lady Juliana Douglas; so give me your
hand," attempting, at the same time, to emerge from the huge leathern
receptacle into which he had been plunged by the care of the kind
sisters.
"Oh, pray sit still, dear Sir Sampson," cried they as usual all at once;
"our sweet niece will come to you, don't take the trouble to rise; pray
don't," each putting a hand on this man of might, as he was half risen,
and pushing him down.
"Ay, come here, my dear," said Lady Maclaughlan; "you're abler to walk
to Sir Sampson than he to you," pulling Lady Juliana in front of the
easy chair; "there—that's her; you see she is very pretty."
"Zounds, what is the meaning of all this?" screamed the enraged baronet.
"My Lady Juliana Douglas, I am shocked beyond expression at this freedom
of my lady's. I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons; pray be seated.
I'm shocked; I am ready to faint at the impropriety of this
introduction, so contrary to all rules of etiquette. How _could _you
behave in such a manner, my Lady Maclaughlan?"
"Why, you know, my dear, your legs may be very good legs, but they can't
walk," replied she, with her usual sang froid.
"My Lady Maclaughlan, you perfectly confound me," stuttering with rage.
"My lady Juliana Douglas, see here," stretching out a meagre shank, to
which not even the military boot and large spur could give a respectable
appearance: "You see that leg strong and straight," stroking it down—;
"now, behold the fate of war!" dragging forward the other, which was
shrunk and shrivelled to almost one half its original dimensions. "These
legs were once the same; but I repine not—I sacrificed it in a noble
cause: to that leg my Sovereign owes his life!"
"Well, I declare, I had no idea; I thought always it had been
rheumatism," burst from the lips of the astonished spinsters, as they
crowded round the illustrious limb, and regarded it with looks of
veneration.
"Humph!" emphatically uttered his lady.
"The story's a simple one, ladies, and soon told: I happened to be
attending his Majesty at a review; I was then aid-de-camp to Lord ——-.
His horse took fright, I—I—I,"—here, in spite of all the efforts that
could be made to suppress it, the royal _cough _burst forth with a
violence that threatened to silence its brave owner for ever.
"It's very strange you will talk, my love," said his sympathising lady,
as she supported him; "talking never did, nor never will agree with you;
it's very strange what pleasure people take in talking—humph!"
"Is there anything dear Sir Sampson could take?" asked Miss Grizzy.
"Could take? I don't know what you mean by could take. He couldn't
take the moon, if you meant hat; but he must take what I give him; so
call Philistine; he knows where my cough tincture is."
"Oh, we have plenty of it in this press," said Miss Grizzy, flying
to a cupboard, and, drawing forth a bottle, she poured out a bumper,
and presented it to Sir Sampson.
"I'm poisoned!" gasped he feebly; "that's not my lady's cough-tincture."
"Not cough-tincture!" repeated the horror-struck doctress, as for the
first time she examined the label; "Oh! I declare, neither it is—it's
my own stomach lotion. Bless me, what will be done?" and she wrung her
hands in despair. "Oh, Murdoch," flying to the Philistine, as he
entered with the real cough-tincture, "I've given Sir Sampson a dose of
my own stomach lotion by mistake, and I am terrified for the
consequences!"
"Oo, but hur need na be feared, hur will no be a hair the war o't; for
hurs wad na tak' the feesick that the leddie ordered hur yestreen."
"Well, I declare things are wisely ordered," observed Miss Grizzy; "in
that case it may do dear Sir Sampson a great deal of good."
Just as this pleasing idea was suggested, Douglas and his father
entered, and the ceremony of presenting her nephew to her friend was
performed by Miss Grizzy in her most conciliating manner.
"Dear Lady Maclaughlan, this is our nephew Henry, who, I know, has the
highest veneration for Sir Sampson and you. Henry, I assure you, Lady
Maclaughlan takes the greatest interest in everything that concerns Lady
Juliana and you."
"Humph!" rejoined her ladyship, as she surveyed him from head to foot.
"So your wife fell in love with you, it seems; well, the more fool she;
I never knew any good come of love marriages."
Douglas coloured, while he affected to laugh at this extraordinary
address, and withdrawing himself from her scrutiny, resumed his station
by the side of his Juliana.
"Now, girls, I must go to my toilet; which of you am I to have for my
handmaid?"
"Oh, we'll all go," eagerly exclaimed the three nymphs; "our dear niece
will excuse us for a little; young people are never at a loss to amuse
one another."
"Venus and the Graces, by Jove!" exclaimed Sir Sampson, bowing with an
air of gallantry; "and now I must go and adonise a little myself."
The company then separated to perform the important offices of the
toilet.
"Nature here
Wanton'd as in her prime, and played at will
Her virgin fancies."
MILTON.
THE gentlemen were already assembled round the drawing-room fire,
impatiently waiting the hour of dinner, when Lady Maclaughlan and her
three friends entered. The masculine habiliments of the morning had been
exchanged for a more feminine costume. She was now arrayed in a
pompadour satin négligée, and petticoat trimmed with Brussels lace. A
high starched handkerchief formed a complete breast work, on which, amid
a large bouquet of truly artificial roses, reposed a miniature of Sir
Sampson, à la militaire. A small fly cap of antique lace was scarcely
perceptible on the summit of a stupendous frizzled toupee, hemmed in on
each side by large curls. The muff and stick had been relinquished for a
large fan, something resembling an Indian screen, which she waved to and
fro in one hand, while a vast brocaded workbag was suspended from the
other.
"So, Major Douglas, your servant," said she, in answer to the
constrained formal bow with which he saluted her on her entrance. "Why,
it's so long since I've seen you that you may be a grandfather for ought
I know."
The poor awkward Misses at that moment came sneaking into the room:
"As for you, girls, you'll never be grandmothers; you'll never be
married, unless to wild men of the woods. I suppose you'd like that; it
would save you the trouble of combing your hair, and tying your shoes,
for then you could go without clothes altogether—humph! You'd be much
better without clothes than to put them on as you do," seizing upon the
luckless Miss Baby, as she endeavoured to steal behind backs.
And here, in justice to the lady, it must be owned that, for once,
she had some grounds for animadversion in the dress and appearance of
the Misses Douglas.
They had stayed out, running races and riding on a pony, until near the
dinner hour; and, dreading their father's displeasure should they be too
late, they had, with the utmost haste, exchanged their thick morning
dresses for thin muslin gowns, made by a mantua-maker of the
neighbourhood in the extreme of a two-year-old fashion, when waists
were not.
But as dame Nature had been particularly lavish in the length of theirs,
and the stay-maker had, according to their aunt's direction, given them
full measure of their new dark stays, there existed a visible breach
between the waists of their gowns and the bands of their petticoats,
which they had vainly sought to adjust by a meeting. Their hair had been
curled, but not combed, and dark gloves had been hastily drawn on to
hide red arms.
"I suppose," continued the stern Lady Maclaughlan, as she twirled her
victim round and round; "I suppose you think yourself vastly smart and
well dressed. Yes, you are very neat, very neat indeed; one would
suppose Ben Jonson had you in his eye when he composed that song." Then
in a voice like thunder, she chanted forth—
"Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,
Such sweet neglect more taketh me."
Miss Grizzy was in the utmost perplexity between her inclination to urge
something in extenuation for the poor girls, and her fear of dissenting
from Lady Maclaughlan, or rather of not immediately agreeing with her;
she therefore steered, as usual, the middle course, and kept saying,
"Well, children, really what Lady Maclaughlan says is all very true; at
the same time"—turning to her friend—"I declare it's not much to be
wondered at; young people are so thoughtless, poor lambs!"
"What's aw this wark aboo?" said the old gentleman angrily; "the girlies
are weel eneugh; I see naething the matter wi' them; they're no dresse
like auld queens or stage-actresses;" and he glance his eye from Lady
Maclaughlan to his elegant daughter-in-law, who just then entered,
hanging, according to custom, on her husband, and preceded by Cupid.
Mrs Douglas followed, and the sound of the dinner bell put a stop to the
dispute.
"Come, my leddie, we'll see how the dinner's dressed," said the Laird,
as he seized Lady Maclaughlan by the tip of the finger, and holding it
up aloft, they marched into the dining room.
"Permit me, my Lady Juliana Douglas," said the little Baronet, with much
difficulty hobbling towards her, and attempting to take her hand. "Come,
Harry, love; here, Cupid," cried she; and without noticing the enraged
Sir Sampson, she passed on, humming a tune, and leaning upon her
husband.
"Astonishing! perfectly astonishing!" exclaimed the Baronet; "how a
young woman of Lady Juliana's rank and fashion should be guilty of such
a solecism in good breeding."
"She is very young," said Mrs. Douglas, smiling, as he limped along with
her, "and you must make allowances for her; but, indeed, I think her
beauty must ever be a sufficient excuse for any little errors she may
commit with a person of such taste and gallantry as Sir Sampson
Maclaughlan."
The little Baronet smiled, pressed the hand he held; and, soothed by the
well-timed compliment, he seated himself next to Lady Juliana with some
complacency. As she insisted on having her husband on the other side of
her, Mr. Douglas was condemned to take his station by the hated Lady
Maclaughlan, who, for the first time observing Mrs. Douglas, called to
her—
"Come here, my love; I haven't seen you these hundred years;" then
seizing her face between her hands, she saluted her in the usual style.
"There," at length releasing Mrs Douglas from her gripe—"there's for
you! I love you very much; you're neither a fool nor a hoyden; you're a
fine intelligent being."
Having carefully rolled up and deposited her gloves in her pocket, she
pulled out a pin-cushion, and calling Miss Bella, desired her to pin her
napkin over her shoulders; which done, she began to devour her soup in
silence.
Peace was, however, of short duration. Old Donald, in removing a dish
of whipt cream, unfortunately overturned one upon Lady Maclaughlan's
pompadour satin petticoat—the only part of her dress that was
unprotected.
"Do you see what you have done, you old Donald, you?" cried she, seizing
the culprit by the sleeve; "why, you've got St. Vitus's dance. A fit
hand to carry whipt cream, to be sure! Why, I could as well carry a
custard on the point of a bayonet—humph!"
"Dear me, Donald, how could you be so senseless?" cried Miss Jacky.
"Preserve me, Donald, I thought you had more sense!"
squeaked Miss Nicky.
"I am sure, Donald, that was na like you!" said Miss Grizzy, as the
friends all flocked around the petticoat, each suggesting a different
remedy.
"It's all of you, girls, that his has happened. Why can't you have a
larger tablecloth upon your table! And that old man has the palsy. Why
don't you electrify him?' in a tone admirably calculated to have that
effect.
"I declare, it's all very true," observed Miss Grizzy; "the tablecloth
is very small, and Donald certainly does shake, that cannot be
denied;" but, lowering her voice, "he is so obstinate, we really don't
know what to do with him. My sisters and I attempted to use the
flesh-brush with him."
"Oh, and an excellent thing it is; I make Philistine rub Sir Sampson
every morning and night. If it was not for that and his cough, nobody
would know whether he were dead or alive; I don't believe he would know
himself—humph!"
Sir Sampson's lemon face assumed an orange hue as he overheard this
domestic detail; but not daring to contradict the facts, he prudently
turned a deaf ear to them, and attempted to carryon a flirtation with
Lady Juliana through the medium of Cupid, whom he had coaxed upon his
knee.
Dinner being at length ended, toasts succeeded: and each of the ladies
having given her favourite laird, the signal of retreat was given, and a
general movement took place.
Lady Juliana, throwing herself upon a sofa with her pugs, called Mrs.
Douglas to her. "Do sit down here and talk with me," yawned she.
Her sister-in-law, with great good-humour, fetched her work, and seated
herself by the spoilt child.
"What strange thing is that you are making?" asked she, as Mrs. Douglas
pulled out her knitting.
"It's a child's stocking," replied her sister-in-law.
"A child's stocking! Oh, by-the-bye, have you a great many children?"
"I have none," answered Mrs. Douglas, with a half-stifled sigh.
"None at all?" repeated Lady Juliana, with surprise "then, why do you
make children's stockings?"
"I make them for those whose parents cannot afford to purchase them."
"La! what poor wretches they must be, that can't afford to buy
stockings," rejoined Lady Juliana, with a yawn. "It's monstrous good of
you to make them, to be sure; but it must be a shocking bore! and such a
trouble!" and another long yawn succeeded.
"Not half such a bore to me as to sit idle," returned Mrs. Douglas, with
a smile, "nor near so much trouble as you undergo with your favourites."
Lady Juliana made no reply, but turning from her sister-in-law, soon
was, or affected to be, sound a sleep, from which she was only roused by
the entrance of the gentlemen. "A rubber or a reel, my Leddie?" asked the
Laird, going up to his daughter-in-law.
"Julia, love," said her husband, "my father asks you if you choose
cards or dancing."
"There's nobody to dance with," said she, casting a languid glance
around; "I'll play at cards."
"Not whist, surely!" said Henry.
"Whist! Oh, heavens, no."
"Weel, weel, you youngsters will get a roundgame; come, my Leddy
Maclaughlan, Grizzy, Mrs. Douglas, hey for the odd trick and the
honours!"
"What would your Ladyship choose to play at?' asked Miss Jacky,
advancing with a pack of cards in one hand, and a box of counters in the
other.
"Oh, anything; I like 100 very well, or quadrille, or—1 really don't
care what."
The Misses, who had gathered round, and were standing gaping in joyful
expectation of Pope Joan, or a pool at commerce, here exchanged
sorrowful glances.
"I am afraid the young people don't play these games," replied Miss
Jacky; "but we've counters enough," shaking her little box, "for Pope
Joan, and we all know that."
"Pope Joan! I never heard of such a game," replied Lady Juliana.
"Oh, we can soon learn you," said Miss Nicky, who having spread the
green cloth on the tea-table, now advanced to join the consultation.
"I hate to be taught," said Lady Juliana, with a yawn; "besides, I am
sure it must be something very stupid."
"Ask if she plays commerce," whispered Miss Bella to Miss Baby.
The question was put, but with no better success, and the young ladies'
faces again bespoke their disappointment, which their brother observing,
he good-naturedly declared his perfect knowledge of commerce; "and I must
insist upon teaching you, Juliana," gently dragging her to the table.
"What's the pool to be?" asked one of the young ladies.
"I'm sure I don't know," said the aunts, looking to each other.
"I suppose we must make it sixpence," said Miss Jacky, after a
whispering consultation with her sister.
"In that case we can afford nothing to the best hand," observed Miss
Nicky.
"And we ought to have five lives and grace," added one of the nieces.
These points having been conceded, the preliminaries were at length
settled. The cards were slowly doled out by Miss Jacky; and Lady
Juliana was carefully instructed in the rules of the game, and strongly
recommended always to try for a sequence, or pairs, etc. "And if you
win," rejoined Miss Nicky, shaking the snuffer-stand in which were
deposited the sixpences, "you get all this."
As may be conjectured, Lady Juliana's patience could not survive more
than one life; she had no notion of playing for sixpences, and could not
be at the trouble to attend to any instructions; she therefore quickly
retired in disgust, leaving the aunts and nieces to struggle for the
glorious prize. "My dear child, you played that last stroke like a
perfect natural," cried Lady Maclaughlan to Miss Grizzy, as the rubber
ended, they arose from the table.
"Indeed, I declare, I daresay I did," replied her friend in a
deprecating tone.
"Daresay you did! I know you did-humph! I knew the ace lay with you; I
knew that as well as if I had seen it. I suppose you have eyes—but I
don't know; if you have, didn't you see Glenfern turn up the king, and
yet you returned his lead—returned our adversary's lead in the face of
his king. I've been telling you these twenty years not to return your
adversary's lead; nothing can be more despicable; nothing can be a
greater proof of imbecility of mind—humph!" Then, seating herself, she
began to exercise her fan with considerable activity. "This has been the
most disagreeable day I ever spent in this house, girls. I don't know
what's come over you, but you are all wrong; my petticoat's ruined; my
pockets picked at cards. It won't do, girls; it won't do—humph!"
"I am sure I can't understand it," said Miss Grizzy in a rueful
accent; "there really appears to have been some fatality."
"Fatality!—humph! I wish you would give everything its right name.
What do you mean by fatality?"
"I declare—I am sure—I—I really don't know," stammered the
unfortunate Grizzy.
"Do you mean that the spilling of the custard was the work of an angel?"
demanded her unrelenting friend.
"Oh, certainly not."
"Or that it was the devil tempted you to throw away your ace there? I
suppose there's a fatality in our going to supper just now," continued
she, as her deep-toned voice resounded through the passage that
conducted to the dining-room; "and I suppose it will be called a
fatality if that old Fate," pointing to Donald, "scalds me to death with
that mess of porridge he's going to put on the table—humph!"
No such fatality, however, occurred; and the rest of the evening passed
off in as much harmony as could be expected from the very heterogeneous
parts of which the society was formed.
The family group had already assembled round the breakfast-table, with
the exception of Lady Juliana, who chose to take that meal in bed; but,
contrary to her usual custom, no Lady Maclaughlan had yet made her
appearance.
"The scones will be like leather," said Miss Grizzy, as she wrapped
another napkin round them.
"The eggs will be like snowballs," cried Miss Jacky, popping them into
the slop-basin.
"The tea will be like brandy," observed Miss Nicky, as she poured more
water to the three teaspoonfuls she had infused.
"I wish we saw our breakfast," said the Laird, as he finished the
newspapers, and deposited his spectacles in his pocket.
At that moment the door opened, and the person in question entered in
her travelling dress, followed by Sir Sampson, Philistine bringing up
the rear with a large green bag and a little band-box.
"I hope your bed was warm and comfortable. I hope you rested well. I
hope Sir Sampson's quite well!" immediately burst as if from a thousand
voices, while the sisters officiously fluttered round their friend.
"I rested very ill; my bed was very uncomfortable; and Sir Sampson's as
sick as a cat—humph!"
Three disconsolate "Bless me's!" here burst forth.
"Perhaps your bed was too hard?" said Miss Grizzy.
"Or too soft?" suggested Miss Jacky.
"Or too hot?" added Miss Nicky.
"It was neither too hard, nor too soft, nor too hot, nor too cold,"
thundered the Lady, as she seated herself at the table; "but it was all
of them."
"I declare, that's most distressing," said Miss Grizzy, in a tone of
sorrowful amazement. "Was your head high enough, dear Lady Maclaughlan?"
"Perhaps it was too high," said Miss Jacky.
"I know nothing more disagreeable than a high head," remarked Miss
Nicky.
"Except a fool's head—humph!"
The sound of a carriage here set all ears on full stretch, and presently
the well-known pea-green drew up.
"Dear me! Bless me! Goodness me!" shrieked the three ladies at once.
"Surely, Lady Maclaughlan, you can't—you don't—you won't; this must be
a mistake."
"There's no mistake in the matter, girls," replied their friend, with
her accustomed sang froid. "I'm going home; so I ordered the carriage;
that's all—humph!"
"Going home!" faintly murmured the disconsolate spinsters.
"What! I suppose you think I ought to stay here and have another
petticoat spoiled; or lose another half-crown at cards; or have the
finishing stroke put to Sir Sampson—humph!"
"Oh! Lady Maclaughlan!" was three times uttered in reproachful
accents.
"I don't know what else I should stay for; you are not yourselves,
girls; you've all turned topsy-turvy. I've visited here these twenty
years, and I never saw things in the state they are now—humph!"
"I declare it's very true," sighed Miss Grizzy; "we certainly are a
little in confusion, that can't be denied."
"Denied! Why, can you deny that my petticoat's ruined?" Can you deny
that my pocket was picked of half-a-crown for nothing? Can you deny that
Sir Sampson has been half-poisoned? And—-"
"My Lady Maclaughlan," interrupted the enraged husband, "I—I—I am
surprised—I am shocked! Zounds, my Lady, I won't suffer this! I cannot
stand it;" and pushing his tea-cup away, he arose, and limped to the
window. Philistine here entered to inform his mistress that "awthing was
ready." "Steady, boys, steady! I always am ready," responded the Lady in
a tone adapted to the song. "Now I am ready; say nothing, girls—you
know my rules. Here, Philistine, wrap up Sir Sampson, and put him in.
Get along, my love. Good-bye, girls; and I hope you will all be restored
to your right senses soon."
"Oh, Lady Maclaughlan!" whined the weeping Grizzy, as she embraced her
friend, who, somewhat melted at the signs of her distress, bawled out
from the carriage, as the door was shut, "Well, God bless you, girls, and
make you what you have been; and come to Lochmarlie Castle soon, and
bring your wits along with you."
The carriage then drove off, and the three disconsolate sisters returned
to the parlour to hold a cabinet council as to the causes of the late
disasters.