“It is odd with what torture I write this letter, I feel inclined, nevertheless, to protract the operation, just as if my doing so could put off the catastrophe which has so long embittered my life. But–it must he told, and it shall be told briefly.
“My wife, though no longer young, was still eminently handsome, and–let me say thus far in my own justification–she was fond of being thought so–I am repeating what I said before–In a word, of her virtue I never entertained a doubt; but, pushed by the artful suggestions of Archer, I thought she cared little for my peace of mind, and that the young fellow, Brown, paid his attentions in my despite, and in defiance of me. He perhaps considered me, on his part, as an oppressive aristocratic man, who made my rank in society, and in the army, the means of galling those whom circumstances placed beneath me. And if he discovered my silly jealousy, he probably considered the fretting me in that sore point of my character, as one means of avenging the petty indignities to which I had it in my power to subject him. Yet an acute friend of mine gave a more harmless, or at least a less offensive, construction to his attentions, which he conceived to be meant for my daughter Julia, though immediately addressed to propitiate the influence of her mother. This could have been no very flattering or pleasing enterprise on the part of an obscure and nameless young man; but I should not have been offended at this folly, as I was at the higher degree of presumption I suspected. Offended, however, I was, and in a mortal degree.
“A very slight spark will kindle a flame where everything lies open to catch it. I have absolutely forgot the proximate cause of quarrel, but it was some trifle which occurred at the card-table, which occasioned high words and a challenge. We met in the morning beyond the walls and esplanade of the fortress which I then commanded, on the frontiers of the settlement. This was arranged for Brown’s safety, had he escaped. I almost wish he had, though at my own expense but he fell by the first fire. We strove to assist him but some of these Loolies, a species of native banditti who were always on the watch for prey, poured in upon us. Archer and I gained our horses with difficulty, and cut our way through them after a hard conflict, in the course of which he received some desperate wounds. To complete the misfortunes of this miserable day, my wife, who suspected the design with which I left the fortress, had ordered her palanquin to follow me, and was alarmed and almost made prisoner by another troop of these plunderers. She was quickly released by a party of our cavalry; but I cannot disguise from myself, that the incidents of this fatal morning gave a severe shock to health already delicate. The confession of Archer, who thought himself dying, that he had invented some circumstances, and, for his purposes, put the worst construction upon others, and the full explanation and exchange of forgiveness with me which this produced, could not check the progress of her disorder. She died within about eight months after this incident, bequeathing me only the girl, of whom Mrs. Mervyn is so good as to undertake the temporary charge. Julia was also extremely ill; so much so, that I was induced to throw up my command and return to Europe, where her native air, time, and the novelty of the scenes around her, have contributed to dissipate her dejection, and restore her health.
“Now that you know my story, you will no longer ask me the reason of my melancholy, but permit me to brood upon it as I may. There is, surely, in the above narrative, enough to embitter, though not to poison, the chalice, which the fortune and fame you so often mention had prepared to regale my years of retirement.
“I could add circumstances which our old tutor would have quoted as instances of day fatality,–you would laugh were I to mention such particulars, especially as you know I put no faith in them. Yet, since I have come to the very house from which I now write, I have learned a singular coincidence, which, if I find it truly established by tolerable evidence, will serve us hereafter for subject of curious discussion. But I will spare you at present, as I expect a person to speak about a purchase of property now open in this part of the country. It is a place to which I have a foolish partiality, and I hope my purchasing may be convenient to those who are parting with it, as there is a plan for buying it under the value. My respectful compliments to Mrs. Mervyn, and I will trust you, though you boast to be so lively a young gentleman, to kiss Julia for me.–
“Adieu, dear Mervyn.–
Mr. Mac-Morlan now entered the room. The well-known character of Colonel Mannering at once disposed this gentleman, who was a man of intelligence and probity, to be open and confidential. He explained the advantages and disadvantages of the property. “It was settled,” he said, “the greater part of it at least, upon heirs-male, and the purchaser would have the privilege of retaining in his hands a large proportion of the price, in case of the reappearance, within a certain limited term, of the child who had disappeared.”
“To what purpose, then, force forward a sale?” said Mannering.
Mac-Morlan smiled. “Ostensibly,” he answered, “to substitute the interest of money, instead of the ill-paid and precarious rents of an unimproved estate; but chiefly, it was believed, to suit the wishes and views of a certain intended purchaser, who had become a principal creditor, and forced himself into the management of the affairs by means best known to himself, and who, it was thought, would find it very convenient to purchase the estate without paying down the price.”
Mannering consulted with Mr. Mac-Morlan upon the steps for thwarting this unprincipled attempt. They then conversed long on the singular disappearance of Harry Bertram upon his fifth birthday, verifying thus the random prediction of Mannering, of which, however, it will readily be supposed he made no beast. Mr. Mac-Morlan was not himself in office when that incident took place; but he was well acquainted with all the circumstances, and promised that our hero should have them detailed by the Sheriff-depute himself, if, as he proposed, he should become a settler in that part of Scotland. With this assurance they parted, well satisfied with each other, and with the evening’s conference.
On the Sunday following, Colonel Mannering attended the parish church with great decorum. None of the Ellangowan family were present; and it was understood that the old Laird was rather worse than better. Jock Jabos, once more despatched for him, returned once more without his errand; but, on the following day, Miss Bertram hoped he might be removed.
CHAPTER XIII.
They told me, by the sentence of the law, They had commission to seize all thy fortune.– Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face, Lording it o’er a pile of massy plate, Tumbled into a heap for public sale;–There was another, making villainous jests At thy undoing; but had tacit possession Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments. –OTWAY.
Early next morning, Mannering mounted his horse, and, accompanied by his servant, took the road to Ellangowan. He had no need to inquire the way. A sale in the country is a place of public resort and amusement, and people of various descriptions streamed to it from all quarters.
After a pleasant ride of about an hour, the old towers of the ruin presented themselves in the landscape. The thoughts, with what different feelings he had lost sight of them so many years before, thronged upon the mind of the traveller. The landscape was the same; but how changed the feelings, hopes, and views, of the spectator! Then, life and love were new, and all the prospect was gilded by their rays. And now, disappointed in affection, sated with fame, and what the world calls success, his mind goaded by bitter and repentant recollection, his best hope was to find a retirement in which he might nurse the melancholy that was to accompany him to his grave. “Yet why should an individual mourn over the instability of his hopes, and the vanity of his prospects? The ancient chiefs, who erected these enormous and massive towers ‘to be the fortress of their race and the seat of their power’, could they have dreamed the day was to come, when the last of their descendants should be expelled, a ruined wanderer, from his possessions! But Nature’s bounties are unaltered. The sun will shine as fair on these ruins, whether the property of a stranger, or of a sordid and obscure trickster of the abused law, as when the banners of the founder first waved upon their battlements.”
These reflections brought Mannering to the door of the house, which was that day open to all. He entered among others, who traversed the apartments, some to select articles for purchase, others to gratify their curiosity. There is something melancholy in such a scene, even under the most favourable circumstances. The confused state of the furniture, displaced for the convenience of being easily viewed and carried off by the purchasers, is disagreeable to the eye. Those articles which, properly and decently arranged, look creditable and handsome, have then a paltry and wretched appearance; and the apartments, stripped of all that render them commodious and comfortable, have an aspect of ruin and dilapidation. It is disgusting also, to see the scenes of domestic society and seclusion thrown open to the gaze of the curious and the vulgar; to hear their coarse speculations and brutal jests upon the fashions and furniture to which they are unaccustomed,–a frolicsome humour much cherished by, the whisky which in Scotland is always put in circulation on such occasions. All these are ordinary effects of such a scene as Ellangowan now presented; but the moral feeling, that, in this case, they indicated the total ruin of an ancient and honourable family, gave them treble weight and poignancy.
It was some time before Colonel Mannering could find any one disposed to answer his reiterated questions concerning Ellangowan himself. At length, an old maid-servant, who held her apron to her eyes as she spoke, told him, “the Laird was something better, and they hoped he would be able to leave the house that day. Miss Lucy expected the chaise every moment, and, as the day was fine for the time o’ year, they had carried him in his easy-chair up to the green before the auld castle, to be out of the way of this unco spectacle.” Hither Colonel Mannering went in quest of him, and soon came in sight of the little group, which consisted of four persons. The ascent was steep, so that he had time to reconnoitre them as he advanced, and to consider in what mode he should make his address.
Mr. Bertram, paralytic, and almost incapable of moving, occupied his easy-chair, attired in his night-cap, and a loose camlet coat, his feet wrapped in blankets. Behind him, with his hands crossed on the cane upon which he rested, stood Dominie Sampson, whom Mannering recognised at once. Time had made no change upon him, unless that his black coat seemed more brown, and his gaunt cheeks more lank, than when Mannering last saw him. On one side of the old man was a sylph-like form–a young woman of about seventeen, whom the Colonel accounted to be his daughter. She was looking, from time to time, anxiously towards the avenue, as if expecting the post-chaise; and between whiles busied herself in adjusting the blankets, so as to protect her father from the cold, and in answering inquiries, which he seemed to make with a captious and querulous manner. She did not trust herself to look towards the Place, although the hum of the assembled crowd must have drawn her attention in that direction. The fourth person of the group was a handsome and genteel young man, who seemed to share Miss Bertram’s anxiety, and her solicitude to soothe and accommodate her parent.
This young man was the first who observed Colonel Mannering, and immediately stepped forward to meet him, as if politely to prevent his drawing nearer to the distressed group. Mannering instantly paused and explained. “He was,” he said, “a stranger, to whom Mr. Bertram had formerly shown kindness and hospitality; he would not have intruded himself upon him at a period of distress, did it not seem to be in some degree a moment also of desertion; he wished merely to offer such services as might be in his power to Mr. Bertram and the young lady.”
He then paused at a little distance from the chair. His old acquaintance gazed at him with lack-lustre eye, that intimated no tokens of recognition–the Dominie seemed too deeply sunk in distress even to observe his presence. The young man spoke aside with Miss Bertram, who advanced timidly, and thanked Colonel Mannering for his goodness; “but,” she said, the tears gushing fast into her eyes–“her father, she feared, was not so much himself as to be able to remember him.”
She then retreated towards the chair, accompanied by the Colonel.–“Father,” she said, “this is Mr. Mannering, an old friend, come to inquire after you.”
“He’s very heartily welcome,” said the old man, raising himself in his chair, and attempting a gesture of courtesy, while a gleam of hospitable satisfaction seemed to pass over his faded features; “but, Lucy, my dear, let us go down to the house; you should not keep the gentleman here in the cold.–Dominie, take the key of the wine-cooler. Mr. a–a–the gentleman will surely take something after his ride.”
Mannering was unspeakably affected by the contrast which his recollection made between this reception and that with which he had been greeted by the same individual when they last met. He could not restrain his tears, and his evident emotion at once attained him the confidence of the friendless young lady.
“Alas!” she said, “this is distressing even to a stranger; but it may be better for my poor father to be in this way, than if he knew and could feel all.”
A servant in livery now came up the path, and spoke in an undertone to the young gentleman–“Mr. Charles, my lady’s wanting you yonder sadly, to bid for her for the black ebony cabinet; and Lady Jean Devorgoil is wi’ her an’ a’–ye maun come away directly.”
“Tell them ye could not find me, Tom; or, stay,–say I am looking at the horses.”
“No, no, no,” said Lucy Bertram earnestly; “if you would not add to the misery of this miserable moment, go to the company directly.–This gentleman, I am sure, will see us to the carriage.”
“Unquestionably, madam,” said Mannering; “your young friend may rely on my attention.”
“Farewell, then,” said young Hazlewood, and whispered a word in her ear–then ran down the steep hastily, as if not trusting his resolution at a slower pace.
“Where’s Charles Hazlewood running?” said the invalid, who apparently was accustomed to his presence and attentions; “where’s Charles Hazlewood running?–what takes him away now?”
“He’ll return in a little while,” said Lucy gently.
The sound of voices was now heard from the ruins. The reader may remember there was a communication between the castle and the beach, up which the speakers had ascended.
“Yes, there’s plenty of shells and sea-ware for manure, as you observe–and if one inclined to build a new house, which might indeed be necessary, there’s a great deal of good hewn stone about this old dungeon for the devil here–“
“Good God!” said Miss Bertram hastily to Sampson, “’tis that wretch Glossin’s voice!–if my father sees him, it will kill him outright!”
Sampson wheeled perpendicularly round, and moved with long strides to confront the attorney, as he issued from beneath the portal arch of the ruin. “Avoid ye!” he said–“I avoid ye! wouldst thou kill and take possession?”
“Come, come, Master Dominie Sampson,” answered Glossin insolently, “if ye cannot preach in the pulpit, we’ll have no preaching here. We go by the law, my good friend; we leave the gospel to you.”
The very mention of this man’s name had been of late a subject of the most violent irritation to the unfortunate patient. The sound of his voice now produced an instantaneous effect. Mr. Bertram started up without assistance, and turned round towards him; the ghastliness of his features forming a strange contrast with the violence of his exclamations.–“Out of my sight, ye viper!–ye frozen viper, that I warmed till ye stung me!–Art thou not afraid that the walls of my father’s dwelling should fall and crush thee limb and bone?–Are ye not afraid the very lintels of the door of Ellangowan castle should break open and swallow you up?–Were ye not friendless,–houseless,–penniless,–when I took ye by the hand–and are Ye not expelling me–me, and that innocent girl– friendless, houseless, and penniless, from the house that has sheltered us and ours for a thousand years?”
Had Glossin been alone, he would probably have slunk off; but the consciousness that a stranger was present, besides the person who came with him (a sort of land-surveyor), determined him to resort to impudence. The task, however, was almost too hard, even for his effrontery–“Sir–Sir–Mr. Bertram–Sir, you should not blame me, but your own imprudence, Sir–“
The indignation of Mannering was mounting very high. “Sir,” he said to Glossin, “without entering into the merits of this controversy, I must inform you, that you have chosen a very improper place, time, and presence for it. And you will oblige me by withdrawing without more words.”
Glossin, being a tall, strong, muscular man, was not unwilling rather to turn upon a stranger whom he hoped to bully, than maintain his wretched cause against his injured patron:–“I do not know who you are, sir,” he said, “and I shall permit no man to use such d-d freedom with me.”
Mannering was naturally hot-tempered–his eyes flashed a dark light–he compressed his nether lip so closely that the blood sprung, and approaching Glossin–“Look you, sir,” he said, “that you do not know me is of little consequence. I know you; and, if you do not instantly descend that bank, without uttering a single syllable, by the Heaven that is above us, you shall make but one step from the top to the bottom!”
The commanding tone of rightful anger silenced at once the ferocity of the bully. He hesitated, turned on his heel, and, muttering something between his teeth about unwillingness to alarm the lady, relieved them of his hateful company.
Mrs. Mac-Candlish’s postilion, who had come up in time to hear what passed, said aloud, “If he had stuck by the way, I would have lent him a heezie, [* Kick] the dirty scoundrel, as willingly as ever I pitched a boddle.” [* A small copper coin]
He then stepped forward to announce that his horses were in readiness for the invalid and his daughter.
But they were no longer necessary. The debilitated frame of Mr. Bertram was exhausted by this last effort of indignant anger, and when he sunk again upon his chair, he expired almost without a struggle or groan. So little alteration did the extinction of the vital spark make upon his external appearance, that the screams of his daughter, when she saw his eye fix and felt his pulse stop, first announced his death to the spectators.
CHAPTER XIV.
The bell strikes one.–We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn
sound.– YOUNG.
The moral which the poet has rather quaintly deduced from the necessary mode of measuring time, may he well applied to our feelings respecting that portion of it which constitutes human life. We observe the aged, the infirm, and those engaged in occupations of immediate hazard, trembling as it were upon the very brink of non-existence, but we derive no lesson from the precariousness of their tenure until it has altogether failed. Then, for a moment at least,
Our hopes and fears
Start up alarm’d, and o’er life’s narrow verge Look down–On what? –a fathomless abyss, A dark eternity,–how surely ours!–
The crowd of assembled gazers and idlers at Ellangowan had followed the views of amusement, or what they called business, which brought them there, with little regard to the feelings of those who were suffering–upon that occasion. Few, indeed, knew anything of the family. The father, betwixt seclusion, misfortune, and imbecility, had drifted, as it were, for many years out of the notice of his contemporaries-the daughter had never been known to them. But when the general murmur announced that the unfortunate Mr. Bertram had broken his heart in the effort to leave the mansion of his forefathers, there poured forth a torrent of sympathy, like the waters from the rock when stricken by the wand of the, prophet. The ancient descent and unblemished integrity of the family were respectfully remembered; above all, the sacred veneration due to misfortune, which in Scotland seldom demands its tribute in vain, then claimed and received it.
Mr. Mac-Morlan hastily announced, that he would suspend all further proceedings in the sale of the estate and other property, and relinquish the possession of the premises to the young lady, until she could consult with her friends, and provide for the burial of her father.
Glossin had cowered for a few minutes under the general expression of sympathy, till, hardened by observing that no appearance of popular indignation was directed his way, he had the audacity to require that the sale should proceed.
“I will take it upon my own authority to adjourn it,” said the Sheriff-substitute,” and will be responsible for the consequences. I will also give due notice when it is again to go forward. It is for the benefit of all concerned that the lands should bring the highest price the state of the market will admit, and this is surely no time to expect it–I will take the responsibility upon myself.”
Glossin left the room, and the house too, with secrecy and despatch; and it was probably well for him he did so, since our friend Jock Jabos was already haranguing a numerous tribe of barelegged boys on the propriety of pelting him off the estate.
Some of the rooms were hastily put in order for the reception of the young lady, and of her father’s dead body. Mannering now found his further interference would be unnecessary, and might be misconstrued. He observed, too, that several families connected with that of Ellangowan, and who indeed derived their principal claim of gentility from the alliance, were now disposed to pay to their trees of genealogy a tribute, which the adversity of their supposed relatives had been inadequate to call forth; and that the honour of superintending the funeral rites of the dead Godfrey Bertram (as in the memorable case of Homer’s birthplace) was likely to be debated by seven gentlemen of rank and fortune, none of whom had offered him an asylum while living. He therefore resolved, as his presence was altogether useless, to make a short tour of a fortnight, at the end of which period the adjourned sale of the estate of Ellangowan was to proceed.
But before he departed, he solicited an interview with the Dominie. The poor man appeared, on being informed a gentleman wanted to speak to him, with some expression of surprise in his gaunt features, to which recent sorrow had given an expression yet more grisly. He made two or three profound reverences to Mannering, and then, standing erect, patiently waited an explanation of his commands.
“You are probably at a loss to guess, Mr. Sampson,” said Mannering, “what a stranger may have to say to you?”
“Unless it were to request, that I would undertake to train up some youth in polite letters, and humane learning–but I cannot–I cannot–I have yet a task to perform.”
“No, Mr. Sampson, my wishes are not so ambitious. I have no son, and my only daughter, I presume, you would not consider as a fit pupil.”
“Of a surety, no,” replied the simple-minded Sampson. “Nathless, it was I who did educate Miss Lucy in all useful learning,–albeit it was the housekeeper who did teach her those unprofitable exercises of hemming and shaping.”
“Well, sir,” replied Mannering, “it is of Miss Lucy I meant to speak–you have, I presume, no recollection of me?”
Sampson, always sufficiently absent in mind, neither remembered the astrologer of past years, nor even the stranger who had taken his patron’s part against Glossin, so much had his friend’s sudden death embroiled his ideas.
“Well, that does not signify,” pursued the Colonel; “I am an old acquaintance of the late Mr. Bertram, able and willing to assist his daughter in her present circumstances. Besides, I have thoughts of making this purchase, and I should wish things kept in order about the place; will you have the goodness to apply this small sum in the usual family expenses?”–He put into the Dominie’s hand a purse containing some gold.
“Pro-di-gi-ous!” exclaimed Dominie Sampson. “But if your honour would tarry–“
“Impossible, sir–impossible,” said Mannering, making his escape from him.
“Pro-di-gi-ous!” again exclaimed Sampson, following to the head of the, stairs, still holding out the purse. “But as touching this coined money–” Mannering escaped downstairs as fast as possible.
“Pro-di-gi-ous!” exclaimed Dominie Sampson, yet the third time, now standing at the front door. “But as touching this specie–“
But Mannering was now on horseback, and out of hearing. The Dominie, who had never, either in his own right, or as trustee for another, been possessed of a quarter part of this sum, though it was not above twenty guineas, “took counsel,” as he expressed himself, “how he should demean himself with respect unto the fine gold thus left in his charge.” Fortunately he found a disinterested adviser in Mac-Morlan, who pointed out the most proper means of disposing of it for contributing to Miss Bertram’s convenience, being no doubt the purpose to which it was destined by the bestower.
Many of the neighbouring gentry were now sincerely eager in pressing offers of hospitality and kindness upon Miss Bertram. But she felt a natural reluctance to enter any family, for the first time, as an object rather of benevolence than hospitality, and determined to wait the opinion and advice of her father’s nearest female relation, Mrs. Margaret Bertram of Singleside, an old unmarried lady, to whom she wrote an account of her present distressful Situation.
The funeral of the late Mr. Bertram was performed with decent privacy, and the unfortunate young lady was now to consider herself as but the temporary tenant of the house in which she had been born, and where her patience and soothing attentions had so long “rocked the cradle of declining age.” Her communication with Mr. Mac-Morlan encouraged her to hope that she would not be suddenly or unkindly deprived of this asylum; but fortune had ordered otherwise.
For two days before the appointed day for the sale of the lands and estate of Ellangowan, Mac-Morlan daily expected the appearance of Colonel Mannering, or at least a letter containing powers to act for him. But none such arrived. Mr. Mac-Morlan waked early in the morning,–walked over to the Post-office,–there were no letters for him. He endeavoured to persuade himself that he should see Colonel Mannering to breakfast, and ordered his wife to place her best china, and prepare herself accordingly. But the preparations were in vain. “Could I have foreseen this,” he said, “I would have travelled Scotland over, but I would have found some one to bid against Glossin.”–Alas! such reflections were all too late. The appointed hour arrived; and the parties met in the Masons’ Lodge at Kippletringan, being the place fixed for the adjourned sale. Mac-Morlan spent as much time in preliminaries as decency would permit, and read over the articles of sale as slowly as if he–had been reading his own death-warrant. He turned his eye every time the door of the room opened, with hopes which grew fainter and fainter. He listened to every noise in the street of the village, and endeavoured to distinguish in it the sound of hoofs or wheels. It was all in vain. A bright idea then occurred, that Colonel Mannering might have employed some other person in the transaction–he would not have wasted a moment’s thought upon the want of confidence in himself, which such a manoeuvre would have evinced. But this hope also was groundless. After a solemn pause, Mr. Glossin offered the upset price for the lands and barony of Ellangowan. No reply was made, and no competitor appeared; so, after a lapse of the usual interval by the running of a sand-glass, upon the intended purchaser entering the proper sureties, Mr. Mac-Morlan was obliged, in technical terms, to “find and declare the sale lawfully completed, and to prefer the said Gilbert Glossin as the purchaser of the said lands and estate.” The honest writer refused to partake of a splendid entertainment with which Gilbert Glossin, Esquire, now of Ellangowan, treated the rest of the company, and returned home in huge bitterness of spirit, which he vented in complaints against the fickleness and caprice of these Indian nabobs, who never knew what they would be at for ten days together. Fortune generously determined to take the blame upon herself, and cut off even this vent of Mac-Morlan’s resentment.
An express arrived about six o’clock at night, “very particularly drunk,” the maidservant said, with a packet from Colonel Mannering, dated four days back, at a town about a hundred miles’ distance from Kippletringan, containing full powers to Mr. Mac-Morlan, or any one whom he might employ, to make the intended purchase, and stating, that some family business of consequence called the Colonel himself to Westmoreland, where a letter would find him, addressed to the care of Arthur Mervyn, Esq., of Mervyn Hall.
Mac-Morlan, in the transports of his wrath, flung the power of attorney at the head of the innocent maid-servant, and was only forcibly withheld from horsewhipping the rascally messenger, by whose sloth and drunkenness the disappointment had taken place.
CHAPTER XV.
My gold is gone, my money is spent, My land now take it unto thee. Give me thy gold, good John o’ Scales, And thine for aye my land shall be. Then John he did him to record draw, And John he caste him a gods-pennie; But for every pounde that John agreed, The land, I wis, was well worth three.
Heir of Linne.
The Galwegian John o’ the Scales was a more clever fellow than his prototype. He contrived to make himself heir of Lione without the disagreeable ceremony of “telling down the good red gold.” Miss Bertram no sooner heard this painful, and of late unexpected intelligence, than she proceeded in the preparations she had already made for leaving the mansion-house immediately. Mr. Mac-Morlan assisted her in these arrangements, and pressed upon her so kindly the hospitality and protection of his roof, until she should receive an answer from her cousin’ or be enabled to adopt some settled plan of life, that she felt there would be unkindness in refusing an invitation urged with such earnestness. Mrs. Mac-Morlan was a lady-like person, and well qualified by birth and manners to receive the visit, and to make her house agreeable to Miss Bertram. A home, therefore, and an hospitable reception, were secured to her, and she went on, with better heart, to pay the wages and receive the adieus of the few domestics of her father’s family.
Where there are estimable qualities or, either side, this task is always affecting–the present circumstances rendered it doubly so. All received their due, and even a trifle more, and with thanks and good wishes, to which some added tears, took farewell of their young mistress. There remained in the parlour only Mr. Mac-Morlan, who came to attend his guest to his house, Dominie Sampson, and Miss Bertram. “And now,” said the poor girl, “I must bid farewell to one of my oldest and kindest friends.–God bless you, Mr. Sampson, and requite to you all the kindness of your instructions to your poor pupil, and your friendship to him that is gone–I hope I shall often hear from you.” She slid into his hand a paper containing some pieces of gold, and rose, as if to leave the room.
Dominie Sampson also rose; but it was to stand aghast with utter astonishment. The idea of parting from Miss Lucy, go where she might, had never once occurred to the simplicity of his understanding.–He laid the money on the table. “It is certainly inadequate,” said Mac-Morlan, mistaking his meaning, “but the circumstances–“
Mr. Sampson waved his hand impatiently.–“It is not the lucre–it is not the lucre–but that I, that have ate of her father’s loaf, and drank of his cup, for twenty years and more–to think that I am going to leave her–and to leave her in distress and dolour–No, Miss Lucy, you need never think it! You would not consent to put forth your father’s poor dog, and would you use me waur than a messan? No, Miss Lucy Bertram, while I live I will not separate from you. I’ll be no burden–I have thought how to prevent that. But, as Ruth said unto Naomi, ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to depart from thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and where thou dwellest I will dwell; thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death do part thee and me.’ “
During this speech, the longest ever Dominie Sampson was known to utter, the affectionate creature’s eyes streamed with tears, and neither Lucy nor Mac-Morlan could refrain from sympathising with this unexpected burst of feeling and attachment. “Mr. Sampson,” said Mac-Morlan, after having had recourse to his snuff-box and handkerchief alternately, “my house is large enough, and if you will accept of a bed there, while Miss Bertram honours us with her residence, I shall think myself very happy, and my roof much favoured by receiving a man of your worth and fidelity.” And then, with a delicacy which was meant to remove any objection on Miss Bertram’s part to bringing with her this unexpected satellite, he added, “My business requires my frequently having occasion for a better accountant than any of my present clerks, and I should be glad to have recourse to your assistance in that way now and then.”
“Of a surety, of a surety,” said Sampson eagerly; “I understand book-keeping by double entry and the Italian method.”
Our postilion had thrust himself into the room to announce his chaise and horses; he tarried, unobserved, during this extraordinary scene, and assured Mrs. Mac-Candlish it was the most moving thing he ever saw; “the death of the gray mare, puir hizzie, was naething till’t.” This trifling circumstance afterwards had consequences of greater moment to the Dominie.
The visitors were hospitably welcomed by Mrs. Mac-Morlan, to whom, as well as to others, her Husband intimated that he had engaged . Dominie Sampson’s assistance to disentangle some perplexed accounts; during which occupation he would, for convenience’ sake, reside with the family. Mr. MacMorlan’s knowledge of the world induced him to put this colour upon the matter, aware, that however honourable the fidelity of the Dominie’s attachment might be, both to his own heart and to the family of Ellangowan, his exterior ill qualified him to be a “squire of dames,” and rendered him, upon the whole, rather a ridiculous appendage to a beautiful young woman of seventeen.
Dominie Sampson achieved with great zeal such tasks as Mr. Mac-Morlan chose to intrust him with; but it was speedily observed that at a certain hour after breakfast he regularly disappeared, and returned again about dinner-time. The evening he occupied in the labour of the office. On Saturday, he appeared before Mac-Morlan with a look of great triumph, and laid on the table two pieces of gold. “What is this for, Dominie?” said Mac-Morlan.
“First to indemnify you of your charges in my behalf, worthy sir–and the balance for the use of Miss Lucy Bertram.”
“But, Mr. Sampson, your labour in the office much more than recompenses me–I am your debtor, my good friend.”
“Then be it all,” said the Dominie, waving his hand, “for Miss Lucy Bertram’s behoof.”
“Well, but, Dominie, this money–“
“It is honestly come by, Mr. Mac-Morlan; it is the bountiful reward of a young gentleman, to whom I am teaching the tongues; reading with him three hours daily–“
A few more questions extracted from the Dominie that this liberal pupil was young Hazlewood, and that he met his preceptor daily at the house of Mrs. Mac-Candlish, whose proclamation of Sampson’s disinterested attachment to the young lady had procured him this indefatigable and bounteous scholar.
Mac-Morlan was much struck with what he heard.
Dominie Sampson was doubtless a very good scholar, and an excellent man, and the classics were unquestionably very well worth reading; yet that a young man of twenty should ride seven miles and back again each day in the week, to hold this sort of tete-a-tete of three hours, was a zeal for literature to which he was not prepared to give entire credit. Little art was necessary to sift the Dominie, for the honest man’s head never admitted any but the most direct and simple ideas. “Does Miss Bertram know how your time is engaged, my good friend?”
“Surely not as yet–Mr. Charles recommended it should be concealed from her, lest she should scruple to accept of the small assistance arising from it; but,” he added, “it would not be possible to conceal it long, since Mr. Charles proposed taking his lessons occasionally in this house.”
“Oh, he does!” said Mac-Morlan Yes, yes, I can understand that better.–And pray, Mr. Sampson, are these three hours entirely spent in construing and translating?”
“Doubtless, no–we have also colloquial intercourse to sweeten study–neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.”
The querist proceeded to elicit from this Galloway Phoebus what their discourse chiefly turned upon.
“Upon our past meetings at Ellangowan–and, truly, I think very often we discourse concerning Miss Lucy–for Mr. Charles Hazlewood, in that particular, resembleth me, Mr. Mac-Morlan. When I begin to speak of her I never know when to stop–and, as I say (jocularly), she cheats us out of half our lessons.”
“Oh ho!” thought Mr. Mac-Morlan, “sits the wind in that quarter? I’ve heard something like this before.”
He then began to consider what conduct was safest for his protege, and even for himself; for the senior Mr. Hazlewood was powerful, wealthy, ambitious, and vindictive, and looked for both fortune and title in any connection which his son might form. At length, having the highest opinion of his guest’s good sense and penetration, he determined to take an opportunity, when they should happen to be alone, to communicate the matter to her as a simple piece of intelligence. He did so in as natural a manner as he could;–“I wish you joy of your friend Mr. Sampson’s good fortune, Miss Bertram; he has got a pupil who pays him two guineas for twelve lessons of Greek and Latin.”
“Indeed!–I am equally happy and surprised–who can be so liberal?–is Colonel Mannering returned?”
“No, no, not Colonel Mannering; but what do you think of your acquaintance, Mr. Charles Hazlewood?–He talks of taking his lessons here–I wish we may have accommodation for him.”
Lucy blushed deeply. “For Heaven’s sake, no, Mr. Mac-Morlan–do not let that be–Charles Hazlewood has had enough of mischief about that already.”
“About the classics, my dear young lady?” wilfully seeming to misunderstand her;–“most young gentlemen have so at one period or another, sure enough, but his present studies are voluntary.”
Miss Bertram let the conversation drop, and her host made no effort to renew it, as she seemed to pause upon the intelligence in order to form some internal resolution.
The next day Miss Bertram took an opportunity of conversing with Mr. Sampson. Expressing in the kindest manner her grateful thanks for his disinterested attachment, and her joy that he had get such a provision, she hinted to him that his present mode of superintending Charles Hazlewood’s studios must be so inconvenient to his pupil, that, while that engagement lasted, he had better consent to a temporary separation, and reside either with his scholar, or as near him as might be. Sampson refused, as indeed she had expected, to listen a moment to this proposition–he would not quit her to be made preceptor to the Prince of Wales. “But I see,” he added, “you are too proud to share my pittance; and, peradventure, I grow wearisome unto you.”
“No, indeed–you were my father’s ancient, almost his only friend–I am not proud–God knows, I have no reason to be so–you shall do what you judge best in other matters; but oblige me by telling Mr. Charles Hazlewood, that you had some conversation with me concerning his studies, and that I was of opinion that his carrying them on in this house was altogether impracticable, and not to be thought of.”
Dominie Sampson left her presence altogether crestfallen, and, as he shut the door, could not help muttering the “varium et mutabile” of Virgil. Next day he appeared with a very rueful visage, and tendered Miss Bertram a letter.–“Mr. Hazlewood,” he said, “was to discontinue his lessons, though he had generously made up the pecuniary loss.–But how will he make up the loss to himself of the knowledge he might have acquired under my instruction? Even in that one article of writing, he was an hour before he could write that brief note, and destroyed many scrolls, four quills, and some good white paper–I would have taught him in three weeks a firm, current, clear, and legible hand–he should have been a calligrapher–but God’s will be done.”–
The letter contained but a few lines, deeply regretting and murmuring against Miss Bertram’s cruelty, who not only refused to see him, but to permit him in the most indirect manner to hear of her health and contribute to her service. But it concluded with assurances that her severity was vain, and that nothing could shake the attachment of Charles Hazlewood.
Under the active patronage of Mrs. Mac-Candlish, Sampson picked up some other scholars–very different indeed from Charles Hazlewood in rank–and whose lessons were proportionally unproductive. Still, however, he gained something, and it was the glory of his heart to carry it to Mr. Mac-Morlan weekly, a slight peculium only subtracted, to supply his snuff-box and tobacco-pouch.
And here we must leave Kippletringan to look after our hero, lest our readers should fear they are to lose sight of him for another quarter of a century.
CHAPTER XVI.
Our Polly is a sad slut, nor heeds what we have taught her; I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter; For when she’s drest with care and cost, all tempting, fine and gay, As men should serve a cucumber, she flings herself away. Beggar’s Opera.
After the death of Mr. Bertram, Mannering had set out upon a short tour, proposing to return to the neighbourhood of Ellangowan before the sale of that property should take place. He went, accordingly,’ to Edinburgh and elsewhere, and it was ill his return towards the south-western district of Scotland,–in which our scene lies, that, at a post-town about a hundred miles from Kippletringan, to which he had requested his friend, Mr. Mervyn, to address his letters, he received one from that gentleman, which contained rather unpleasing intelligence. We have assumed already the privilege of acting a secretis to this gentleman, and therefore shall present,–the reader with an extract from this epistle.
“I beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for the pain I have given you, in, forcing you to open wounds so festering as those your letter referred to. I have always heard, though erroneously perhaps, that the attentions of Mr. Brown were intended for Miss Mannering. But, however that were, it could not be supposed that in your situation his boldness should escape notice and chastisement. Wise men say, that we resign to civil society our natural rights of self-defence, only on condition that the ordinances of law should protect us. Where the price cannot be paid, the resignation becomes void. For instance, no one supposes that I am not entitled to defend my purse and person against a highwayman, as much as if I were a wild Indian, who owns neither law nor magistracy. The question of resistance, or submission, must be determined by my means and situation. But, if, armed and equal in force, I submit to injustice and violence from any man, high or low, I presume it will hardly be attributed to religious or moral feeling in me, or in any one but a Quaker. An aggression on my honour seems to me much the same. The insult, however trifling in itself, is one of much deeper consequence to all views in life than any wrong which can be inflicted by a depredator or the highway, and to redress the injured party is much less in the power of public jurisprudence, or rather it is entirely beyond its reach. If any man chooses to rob Arthur Mervyn of the contents of his purse, supposing the said Arthur has not means of defence, or the skill and courage to use them, the assizes at Lancaster or Carlisle will do him justice by tucking up the robber:-Yet who will say I am bound to wait for this justice, and submit to being plundered in the first instance, if I have myself the means and spirit to protect my own property? But if an affront is offered to me, submission under which is to tarnish my character for ever with men of honour, ant for which the twelve judges of England, with the Chancellor to boot, can afford me no redress, by what rule of law or reason am I to be deterred from protecting what ought to be, and is, so infinitely dearer to every man of honour than his whole fortune? Of the religious views of the matter I shall say nothing, until I end a reverend divine who shall condemn self-defence in the article of life and property. If its propriety in that case be generally admitted, I suppose little distinction can be drawn between defence of person and goods, and protection of reputation. That the latter is liable to be assailed by persons of a different rank in life, untainted perhaps in morals, and fair in character, cannot affect my legal right of self-defence. I may be sorry that circumstances have engaged me in personal strife with such an individual; but I should feel the same sorrow for a generous enemy who fell under my sword in a national quarrel. I shall leave the question with the casuists, however; only observing, that what I have written will not avail either the professed duellist, or him who is the aggressor in a dispute of honour. I only presume to exculpate him who is dragged into the field by such an offence, as, submitted to in patience, would forfeit for ever his rank and estimation in society.
“I am sorry you have thoughts of settling in Scotland, and yet glad that you will still be at no immeasurable distance, and that the latitude is all in our favour. To move to Westmoreland from Devonshire might make an East Indian shudder; but to come to us from Galloway or Dumfriesshire, is a step, though a short one, nearer the sun. Besides, if, as I suspect, the estate in view be connected with the old haunted castle in which you played the astrologer in your northern tour some twenty years since, I have heard you too often describe the scene with comic unction, to hope you will be deterred from making the purchase. I trust, however, the hospitable gossiping Laird has not run himself upon the shallows, and that his chaplain, whom you so often made us laugh at, is still in rerum natura.
“And here, dear Mannering, I wish I could stop, for I have incredible pain in felling the rest of my story; although I am sure I can warn you against any intentional impropriety on the part of my temporary ward, Julia Mannering. But I must still earn my college nickname of Downright Dunstable. In one word, then, here is the matter.
“Your daughter has much of the romantic turn of your disposition, with a little of that love of admiration which all pretty women share less or more. She will besides, apparently, be your heiress; a trifling circumstance to those who view Julia with my eyes, but a prevailing bait to the specious, artful, and worthless. You know how I have jested with her about her soft melancholy, and lonely walks at morning before any one is up, and in the moonlight when all should be gone to bed, or set down to cards, which is the same thing. The incident which follows may not be beyond the bounds of a joke, but I had rather the jest upon it came from you than me.
“Two or three times during the last fortnight, I heard, at a late hour in the night, or very early in the morning, a flageolet play the little Hindu tune to which your daughter is so partial. I thought for some time that some tuneful domestic, whose taste for music was laid under constraint during the day, chose that silent hour to imitate the strains which he had caught up by the ear during his attendance in the drawing-room. But last night I sat late in. my study, which is immediately under Miss Mannering’s apartment, and to my surprise, I not only heard the flageolet distinctly, but satisfied myself that it came from the lake under the window. Curious to know who serenaded us at that unusual hour, I stole softly to the window of my apartment. But there were other watchers than me. You may remember, Miss Mannering preferred that apartment on account of a balcony which opened from her window upon the lake. Well, sir, I heard the sash of her window thrown up, the shutters opened, and her own voice in conversation with some person who answered from below. This is not ‘Much ado about nothing’; I could not be mistaken in her voice, and such tones, so soft, so insinuating–and, to say the truth, the accents from below were in passion’s tenderise cadence too–but of the sense I can say nothing. I raised the sash of my own window that I might hear something more than the mere murmur of this Spanish rendezvous, but, though I used every precaution, the noise alarmed the speakers; down slid the young lady’s casement, and the shutters were barred in an instant. The dash of a pair or oars in the water announced the retreat of the male person of the dialogue. Indeed, I saw his boat, which he rowed with great swiftness and dexterity, fly across the lake like a twelve-oared barge. Next morning I examined some of my domestics, as if by accident. and I found the gamekeeper, when making his rounds, had twice seen that boat beneath the house, with a single person, and had heard the flageolet. I did not care to press any further questions, for fear of implicating Julia in the opinions of those of whom they might be asked. Next morning, at breakfast, I dropped a casual hint about the serenade of the evening before, and I promise you Miss Mannering looked red and pale alternately. I immediately gave the circumstance such a turn as might lead her to suppose that my observation was merely casual. I have since caused a watch-light to be burnt in my library, and have left the shutters open, to deter the approach of our nocturnal guest; and I have stated the severity of approaching winter, and the rawness of the fogs, as an objection to solitary walks. Miss Mannering acquiesced with a passiveness which is no part of her character, and which, to tell you the plain truth, is a feature about the business which I like least of all. Julia has too much of her own dear papa’s disposition to be curbed in any of her humours, were there not some little lurking consciousness that it may be as prudent to avoid debate.
“Now my story is told, and you will judge what you ought to do. I have not mentioned the matter to my good woman, who, a faithful secretary to her sex’s foibles, would certainly remonstrate against your being made acquainted with these particulars, and might, instead, take it into her head to exercise her own eloquence on Miss Mannering; a faculty, which, however powerful when directed against me, its legitimate object, might, I fear, do more harm than good in the case supposed. Perhaps even you yourself will find it most prudent to act without remonstrating, or appearing to be aware of this little anecdote. Julia is very like a certain friend of mine; she has a quick and lively imagination, and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life. She is a charming girl, however, as generous and spirited as she is lovely. I paid her the kiss you sent her with all my heart, and she rapped my fingers for my reward with all hers. Pray return as soon as you can. Meantime, rely upon the care of, yours faithfully,
“Arthur Mervyn.
“P.S.–You will naturally wish to know if I have the least guess concerning the person of the serenader. In truth, I have none. There is no young gentleman of these parts, who might be in rank or fortune a match for Miss Julia, that I think at all likely to play such a character. . . But on the other side of the lake, nearly opposite to Mervyn Hall, is a d-d cake-house, the resort of walking gentlemen of all descriptions, poets, players, painters, musicians, who come to rave, and recite, and madden, about this picturesque land of ours. It is paying some penalty for its beauties, that they are the means of drawing this swarm of coxcombs together. But were Julia my daughter, it is one of those sort of fellows that I should fear on her account. She is generous and romantic, and writes six sheets a week to a female correspondent; and it’s a sad thing to lack a subject in such a case, either for exercise of the feelings or of the pen. Adieu, once more. Were I to treat this matter more seriously than I have done, I should do injustice to your feelings; were I altogether to overlook it, I should discredit my own.”
The consequence of this letter was, that, having first despatched the faithless messenger with the necessary powers to Mr. Mac-Morlan for purchasing the estate of Ellangowan, Colonel Mannering turned his horse’s head in a more southerly direction, and neither “stinted nor staid” until he arrived at the mansion of his friend Mr. Mervyn, upon the banks of one of the lakes of Westmoreland.
CHAPTER XVII.
Heaven first, in its mercy, taught mortals their letters, For ladies in limbo, and lovers in fetters, Or some author, who, placing his persons before ye, Ungallantly leaves them to write their own story. Pope, imitated.
When Mannering returned to England, his first object had been to place his daughter in a seminary for female education, of established character. Not, however, finding her progress in the accomplishments which he wished her to acquire so rapid as his impatience expected, he had withdrawn Miss Mannering from the school at the end of the first quarter. So she had only time to form an eternal friendship with Miss Matilda Marchmont, a young lady about her own age, which was nearly eighteen. To her faithful eye were addressed those formidable quires which issued forth from Mervyn Hall, on the wings of the post, while Miss Mannering was a guest there. The perusal of a few short extracts from these may be necessary to render our story intelligible.
First Extract
“Alas! my dearest Matilda, what a tale is mine to tell! Misfortune from the cradle has set her seal upon your unhappy friend. That we should be severed for so slight a cause–an ungrammatical phrase in my Italian exercise, and three false notes in one of Paesiello’s sonatas! But it is a part of my father’s character, of whom it is impossible to say, whether I love, admire, or fear him the most. His success in life and in war-his habit of making every obstacle yield before the energy of his exertions, even where they seemed insurmountable-all these have given a hasty and peremptory cast to his character, which can neither endure contradiction, nor make allowance for deficiencies. Then he is himself so very accomplished. Do you know there was a murmur half confirmed too by some mysterious words which, dropped from my poor mother, that he possesses other sciences, now lost to the world, which enable the possessor to summon up before him the dark and shadowy forms of future events! Does not the very idea of such a power, or even of the high talent and commanding intellect which the world may mistake for it,–does it not, dear Matilda, throw a mysterious grandeur about its possessor? You will call this romantic: but consider I was born in the land of talisman and spell, and my childhood lulled by tales which you can only enjoy through the gauzy frippery of a French translation. O Matilda, I wish you could have seen the dusky visages of my Indian attendants, bending in earnest devotion round the magic narrative, that flowed, half poetry, half prose, from the lips of the tale-teller! No wonder that European fiction sounds cold and meagre, after the wonderful effects which I have seen the romances of the East produce upon their hearers.”
Second Extract.
“You are possessed, my dear Matilda, of my bosom-secret, in those sentiments with which I regard Brown. I will not say his memory. I am convinced he lives, and is faithful. His addresses to me were countenanced by my deceased parent; imprudently countenanced perhaps, considering the prejudices of my father, in favour of birth and rank. But I, then almost a girl, could not be expected surely to be wiser than her, under whose charge nature had placed me. My father, constantly engaged in military duty, I saw but at rare intervals, and was taught to look up to him with more awe than confidence. Would to Heaven it had been otherwise! It might have been better for us all at this day!”
Third Extract.
“You ask me why I do not make known to my father that Brown yet lives, at least that he survived the wound he received in that unhappy duel; and had written to my mother, expressing his entire convalescence, and his hope of speedily escaping from captivity. A soldier, that ‘in the trade of war has oft slain men,’ feels probably no uneasiness at reflecting upon the supposed catastrophe, which almost turned me into stone. And should I show him that letter, does it not follow, that Brown, alive and maintaining with pertinacity the pretensions to the affections of your poor friend, for which my father formerly sought his life would be a more formidable disturber of Colonel Mannering’s peace of mind than in his supposed grave? If he escapes from the hands of these marauders, I am convinced he will soon be in England, and it will be then time to consider how his existence is to be disclosed to my father–But if, alas! my earnest and confident hope should betray me, what would it avail to tear open a mystery fraught with so many painful recollections?–My dear mother had such dread of its being known, that I think she even suffered my father to suspect that Brown’s attentions were directed towards herself, rather than permit him to discover their real object; and, oh, Matilda, whatever respect I owe to the memory of a deceased parent, let me do justice to a living one. I cannot but condemn the dubious policy which she adopted, as unjust to my father, and highly perilous to herself and me.–But peace be with her ashes! her actions were guided by the heart rather than the head; and shall her daughter, who inherits all her weakness, be the first to withdraw the veil from her defects?”
Fourth Extract
“Mervyn Hall.
“If India be the land of magic, this my dearest Matilda, is the country of romance. The scenery is such as nature brings together in her sublimest moods;–sounding cataracts-hills which rear their scathed heads to the sky-lakes, that, winding up the shadowy valleys, lead at every turn to yet more romantic recesses-rocks which catch the clouds of heaven. All the wildness of Salvator here, and there the fairy scenes of Claude. I am happy too, in finding at least one object upon which my father can share my enthusiasm. An admirer of nature, both as an artist and a poet, I have experienced the utmost pleasure from the observations by which he explains the character and the effect of these brilliant specimens of her power. I wish he would settle in this enchanting land’ But his views lie still farther north, and he is at present absent on a tour in Scotland, looking, I believe, for some purchase of land which may suit him as a residence. He is partial, from early recollections, to that country. So, my dearest Matilda, I must be yet farther removed from you before I am established in a home–And oh how delighted shall I be when I can say, Come, Matilda, and be the guest of your faithful Julia!
“I am at present the inmate of Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, old friends of my father. The latter is precisely a good sort of woman;–ladylike and housewifely, but, for accomplishments or fancy–good lack, my dearest Matilda, your friend might as well seek sympathy from Mrs. Teach’em,–you see I have not forgot school nicknames. Mervyn is a different–quite a different being from my father; yet he amuses and endures me. He is fat and good-natured, gifted with strong shrewd sense, and some powers of humour; but having been handsome, I suppose, in his youth, has still some pretension to be a beau garcon, as well as an enthusiastic agriculturist. I delight to make him scramble to the tops of eminences and to the foot of waterfalls, and am obliged in turn to admire his turnips, his lucerne, and his timothy grass.–He thinks me, I fancy, a simple romantic Miss, with some–(the word will he out) beauty, and some good nature; and I hold that the gentleman has good taste for the female outside, and do not expect he should comprehend my sentiments further. So he rallies, hands, and hobbles (for the dear creature has got the gout too), and tells old stories of high life of which he has seen a great deal; and I listen, and smile, and look as pretty, as pleasant, and as simple as I can, and we do very well. But, alas! my dearest Matilda, how would time pass away, even in this paradise of romance, tenanted as it is by a pair assorting so ill with the scenes around them, were it not for your fidelity in replying to my uninteresting details? Pray do not fail to write three times a week at least–you can be at no loss what to say.”
Fifth Extract.
“How shall I communicate what I have now to tell!–My hand and Heart still flutter so much, that the task of writing is almost impossible!–Did I not say that he lived? did I not say I would not despair? How could you suggest, my dear Matilda, that my feelings, considering I had parted from him so young, rather arose from the warmth of my imagination than of my heart?–Oh! I was sure that they were genuine, deceitful as the dictates of our bosom so frequently are.–But to my tale–let it be, my friend, the most sacred, as it is the most sincere, pledge of our friendship.
“Our hours here are early–earlier than my heart, with its load of care, can compose itself to rest. I, therefore, usually take a book for an hour or two after retiring to my own room, which I think I have told you opens to a small balcony, looking down upon that beautiful lake, of which I attempted to give you a slight sketch. Mervyn Hall, being partly an ancient building–, and constructed with a view to defence, is situated an the verge of the lake. A stone dropped from the projecting balcony plunges into water deep enough to float a skiff. I had left my window partly unbarred, that, before I went to bed, I might, according to my custom, look out and see the moonlight shining upon the lake. I was deeply engaged with that beautiful scene in the Merchant of Venice, where two lovers, describing the stillness of a summer night, enhance on each other its charms, and was lost in the associations of story and of feeling which it awakens, when I heard upon the lake the sound of a flageolet. I have told you it was Brown’s favourite instrument. Who could touch it in a night which, though still and serene, was too cold, and too late in the year, to invite forth any wanderer for more pleasure? I drew yet nearer the window, and hearkened with breathless attention–the sounds paused a space, were then resumed–paused again–and again reached my ear, ever coming nearer and nearer. At length, I distinguished plainly that little Hindu air which you called my favourite–I have told you by whom it was taught me–the instrument, the tones, were his own!–was it earthly music, or notes passing on the wind, to warn me of his death?
“It was some time ere I could summon courage to step on the balcony–nothing could have emboldened me to do so but the strong conviction of my mind, that he was still alive, and that we should again meet–but that conviction did embolden me, and I ventured, though with a throbbing heart. There was a small skiff with a single person–O Matilda, it was himself!–I knew his appearance after so long an absence, and through the shadow of the night, as perfectly as if we had parted yesterday, and met again in the broad sunshine! He guided his boat under the balcony, and spoke to me; I hardly knew what he said, or what I replied. Indeed, I could scarcely speak for weeping, but they were joyful tears. We were disturbed by the barking of a dog at some distance, and parted, but not before he had conjured me to prepare to. meet him at the same place and hour this evening.
“But where and to what is all this tending?–Can I answer this question? I cannot.–Heaven, that saved him from death, and delivered him from captivity; that saved my father too, from shedding the blood of one who would not have blemished a hair of his head, that Heaven must guide me out of this labyrinth. Enough for lane the firm resolution, that Matilda shall not blush for her friend, my father for his daughter, nor my lover for her on whom he has fixed his affection.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
Talk with a man out of a window!–a proper saying.– Much Ado About Nothing.
WE must proceed with our extracts from Miss Mannering’s letters, which throw light upon natural good sense, principle, and feelings, blemished by an imperfect education, and the folly of a misjudging mother, who called her husband in her heart a tyrant until she feared him as such, and read romances until she became so enamoured of the complicated intrigues which they contain, as to assume the management of a little family novel of her own, and constitute her daughter, a girl of sixteen, the principal heroine. She delighted in petty mystery, and intrigue, and secrets, and yet trembled at the indignation which these paltry manoeuvres excited in her husband’s mind. Thus she frequently entered upon a scheme merely for pleasure, or perhaps for the love of contradiction, plunged deeper into it than she was aware, endeavoured to extricate herself by new arts, or to cover her error by dissimulation, became involved in meshes of her own weaving, and was forced to carry on, for fear of discovery, machinations which she had at first resorted to in mere wantonness.
Fortunately the young man whom she so imprudently introduced into her intimate society, and encouraged to look up to her daughter, had a fund of principle and honest pride, which rendered him a safer intimate than Mrs. Mannering ought to have dared to hope or expect. The obscurity of his birth could alone he objected to him; in every other respect,
With prospects bright upon the world he came, Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame; Men watched the way his lofty mind would take, And all foretold the progress he would make.
But it could not be expected that he should resist the snare which Mrs. Mannering’s imprudence threw in his way, or avoid becoming attached to a young lady, whose beauty and manners might have justified his passion, even in scenes where these are more generally met with, than in a remote fortress in our Indian settlements. The scenes which followed have been partly detailed in Mannering’s letter to Mr. Mervyn; and to expand what is there stated into further explanation, would be to abuse the patience of our readers. We shall, therefore, proceed with our promised extracts from Miss Mannering’s letters to her friend.
Sixth Extract.
I have seen him again, Matilda–seen him twice. I have used every argument to convince him that this secret intercourse is dangerous to us both–I even pressed him to pursue his views of fortune without further regard to me, and to consider my peace of mind as sufficiently secured by the knowledge that he had not fallen under my father’s sword. He answers–but how can I detail all he has to answer? he claims those hopes as his due which my mother permitted him to entertain, and would persuade me to the madness of a union without my father’s sanction. But to this, Matilda, I will not be persuaded. I have resisted, I have subdued, the rebellious feelings which arose to aid his plea; yet how to extricate myself from this unhappy labyrinth, in which fate and folly have entangled us both!
“I have thought, upon it, Matilda, till my head is almost giddy–nor can I conceive a better plan than to make a full confession to my father. He deserves it, for his kindness is unceasing; and I think I have observed in his character, since I have studied it more nearly, that his harsher feelings are chiefly excited where he suspects deceit or imposition; and in that respect, perhaps, his character was formerly misunderstood by one who was dear to him. He has, too, a tinge of romance in his disposition; and I have seen the narrative of a generous action, a trait of heroism, or virtuous self-denial, extract tears from him, which refused to flow at a tale of mere distress. But then, Brown urges, that he is personally hostile to him–And the obscurity of his birth–that would be indeed a stumbling-block. O Matilda, I hope none of your ancestors ever fought at Poictiers or Agincourt! If it were not for the veneration which my father attaches to the memory of old Sir Miles Mannering, I should make out my explanation with half the tremor which must now attend it.”
Seventh Extract.
“I have this instant received your letter–your most welcome letter!–Thanks, my dearest friend, for your sympathy and your counsels–I can only repay them with unbounded confidence.
“You ask me, what Brown is by origin, that his descent should be so displeasing to my father. His story is shortly told. He is of Scottish extraction, but, being left an orphan, his education was undertaken by a family of relations, settled in Holland. He was bred to commerce, and sent very early to one of our settlements in the East, where his guardian had a correspondent. But this correspondent was dead when he arrived in India, and he had no other resource than to offer himself as a clerk to a counting-house. The breaking out of the war, and the straits to which we were at first reduced, threw the army open to all young men who were disposed to embrace that mode of life; and Brown, whose genius had a strong military tendency, was the first to leave what might have been the road to wealth, and to choose that of fame. The rest of his history is well known to you; but conceive the irritation of my father, who despises commerce (though, by the way, the best part of his property was made in that honourable profession by my great-uncle), and has a particular antipathy to the Dutch; think with what ear he would be likely to receive proposals for his only child from Vanbeest Brown, educated for charity by the house of Vanbeest and Vanbruggen! O Matilda, it will never do–nay, so childish am I, I hardly can help sympathising with his aristocratic feelings. Mrs. Vanbeest Brown! The name has little to recommend it, to be sure.–What children we are!”
EIGHTH EXTRACT.
“It is all over now, Matilda!–I shall never have courage to tell my father–nay, most deeply do I fear he has already learned my secret from another quarter, which will entirely remove the grace of my communication, and ruin whatever gleam of hope I had ventured to connect with it. Yesternight, Brown came as usual, and his flageolet on the lake announced his approach. We had agreed, that he should continue to use this signal. These romantic lakes attract numerous visitors, who indulge their enthusiasm in visiting the scenery at all hours, and we hoped, that–if Brown were noticed from the house, he might pass for one of those admirers of nature, who was giving vent to his feelings through the medium of music. The sounds might also be my apology, should I be observed on the balcony. But last night, while I was eagerly enforcing my plan of a full confession to my father, which he as earnestly deprecated, we heard the window of Mr. Mervyn’s library, which is under my room, open softly. I signed to Brown to make his retreat, and immediately re-entered, with some faint hopes that our interview had not been observed.
“But, alas! Matilda, these hopes vanished the instant I beheld Mr. Mervyn’s countenance at breakfast the next morning. He looked so provokingly intelligent and confidential, that, had I dared, I could have been more angry than ever I was in my life; but I must be on good behaviour, and my walks are now limited within his farm precincts, where the good gentleman can amble along by my side without inconvenience. I have detected him once or twice attempting to sound my thoughts, and watch the expression of my countenance. He has talked of the flageolet more than once; and has, at different times, made eulogiums upon the watchfulness and ferocity of his dogs, and the regularity with which the keeper makes his rounds with a loaded fowling-piece. He mentioned even man-traps and spring-guns. I should be loath to affront my father’s old friend in his own house; but I do long to show him that I am my father’s daughter, a fact of which Mr. Mervyn will certainly be convinced, if ever I trust my voice and temper with a reply to these indirect hints. Of one thing I am certain–I am grateful to him on that account–he has not told Mrs. Mervyn. Lord help me, I should have had such lectures about the dangers of love and the night air on the lake, the risk arising from colds and fortune-hunters, the comfort and convenience of sack-whey and closed windows!–I cannot help trifling, Matilda, though my heart is sad enough What Brown will do I cannot guess. I presume however, the fear of detection prevents his resuming his nocturnal visits. He lodges at an inn on the opposite shore of the lake, under the name, he tells me, of Dawson–he has a bad choice in names, that be allowed. He has not left the army, I believe, but he says nothing of his present views.
“To complete my anxiety, my father is returned suddenly, and in high displeasure. Our good hostess, as I learned from a bustling conversation between her housekeeper and her, had no expectation of seeing him for a week; but I rather suspect his arrival was no surprise to his friend Mr. Mervyn. His manner to me was singularly cold and constrained–sufficiently so to have damped all the courage with which I once resolved to throw myself on his generosity. He lays the blame of his being discomposed and out of humour to the loss of a purchase in the south-west of Scotland, on which he had set his heart; but I do not suspect his equanimity of being so easily thrown off its balance. His first excursion was with Mr. Mervyn’s barge across the lake, to the inn I have mentioned. You may imagine the agony with which I waited his return–Had he recognised Brown, who can guess the consequence! He returned, however, apparently without having made any discovery. I understand, that in consequence of his late disappointment, he means now to hire a house in the neighbourhood of this same Ellangowan, of which I am doomed to hear so much–he seems to think it probable that the estate for which he wishes may soon be again in the market. I will not send away this letter until I hear more distinctly what are his intentions.”
“I have now had an interview with my father, as confidential as, I presume, he means to allow me. He requested me today, after breakfast, to walk with him into the library; my knees, Matilda, shook under me, and it is no exaggeration to say, I could scarce follow him into the room. I feared I knew not what–From my childhood I had seen all around him tremble at his frown. He motioned me to seat myself, and I never obeyed a command so readily, for, in truth, I could hardly stand. He himself continued to walk up and down the room. You have seen my father, and noticed, I recollect, the remarkably expressive cast of his features. His eyes are naturally rather light in colour, but agitation or anger gives them a darker and more fiery glance; he has a custom also of drawing in his lips, when much moved, which implies a combat between native ardour of temper and the habitual power of self-command. This was the first time we had been alone since his return from Scotland, and, as he betrayed these tokens of agitation, I had little doubt that he was about to enter upon the subject I most dreaded.
“To my unutterable relief, I found I was mistaken, and that whatever he knew of Mr. Mervyn’s suspicions or discoveries, he did not intend to converse with me on the topic. Coward as I was, I was inexpressibly relieved, though if he had really investigated the reports which may have come to his ear, the reality could have been nothing to what his suspicions might have conceived. But, though my spirits rose high at my unexpected escape, I had hot courage myself to provoke the discussion, and remained silent to receive his commands.
“‘Julia,’ he said, ‘my agent writes me from Scotland, that he has been able to hire a house for me, decently furnished, and with the necessary accommodation for my family–it is within three miles of that I had designed to purchase–‘ Then he made a pause, and seemed to expect an answer.
“‘Whatever place of residence suits you, sir, must be perfectly agreeable to me.’
“‘Umph!–I do not propose, however, Julia, that you shall reside quite alone in this house during the winter.’
“Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, thought I to myself.–‘Whatever company is agreeable to you, sir,’ I answered aloud.
“‘Oh, there is a little too much of this universal spirit of submission; an excellent disposition in action, but your constantly repeating the jargon of it, puts me in mind of the eternal salaams of our black dependants in the East. In short, Julia, I know you have a relish for society, and I intend to invite a young person, the daughter of a deceased friend, to spend a few months with us. ‘
“‘Not a governess, for the love of Heaven, papa!’ exclaimed poor I, my fears at that moment totally getting the better of my prudence.
“‘No, not a governess, Miss Mannering,’ replied the Colonel, somewhat sternly, ‘but a young lady from whose excellent example, bred as she has been in the school of adversity, I trust you may learn the art to govern yourself. ‘
“To answer this was trenching upon too dangerous ground, so there was a pause.
“‘Is the young lady a Scotchwoman, papa?’
“‘Yes’–dryly enough.
“‘Has she much of the accent, sir?’
“‘Much of the devil!’ answered my father hastily; ‘do you think I care about a’s and aa’s, and i’s and ee’s?–I tell you, Julia, I am serious in the matter. You have a genius for friendship, that is, for running up intimacies which you call such’–(was not this very harshly said, Matilda?)–‘Now I wish to give you an opportunity at least to make one deserving friend, and therefore I have resolved that this young lady shall be a member of my family for some months, and I expect you will pay to her that attention which is due to misfortune and virtue.’
“‘Certainly, sir.–Is my future friend red-haired?’
“He gave me one of his stern glances; you will say, perhaps, I deserved it; but I think the deuce prompts me with teasing questions on some occasions.
“‘She is as superior to you, my love, in personal appearance, as in prudence and affection for her friends.’
“‘Lord, papa, do you think that superiority a recommendation ?–Well, sir, but I see you are going to take all this too seriously; whatever the young lady may be, I am sure, being recommended by you, she shall have no reason to complain of my want of attention.–(After a pause)–Has she any attendant? because you know I must provide for her proper accommodation, if she is without one.’
“‘N-no-no-not properly an attendant–the chaplain who lived with her father is a very good sort of man, and I believe I shall make room for him in the house.’
“‘Chaplain, papa? Lord bless us!’
“‘Yes, Miss Mannering, chaplain; is there anything very new in that word ? Had we not a chaplain at the Residence, when we were in India?’
“‘Yes, papa, but you were a commandant then.’
“‘So I will be now, Miss Mannering–in my own family at least.’
“‘Certainly, sir–but will he read us the Church of England service?’
“The apparent simplicity with which I asked this question got the better of his gravity. ‘Come, Julia,’ he said, ‘you are a sad girl, but I gain nothing by scolding you.–Of these two strangers, the young lady is one whom you cannot fail, I think, to love–the person whom, for want of a better term, I called chaplain, is a very worthy, and somewhat ridiculous personage, who will never find out you laugh at him, if you don’t laugh very loud indeed.’
“‘Dear papa, I am delighted with that part of his character. — But pray, is the house we are going to as pleasantly situated as this?’
“‘Not perhaps as much to your taste–there is no lake under the windows, and you will be under the necessity of having all your music within doors.’
“This last coup de main ended the keen encounter of our wits, for you may believe, Matilda, it quelled all my courage to reply.
“Yet my spirits, as perhaps will appear too manifest from this dialogue, have risen insensibly, and, as it were, in spite of myself. Brown alive, and free, and in England! Embarrassment and anxiety I can and must endure. We leave this in two days for our new residence. I shall not fail to let you know what I think of these Scotch inmates, whom I have but too much reason to believe my father means to quarter in his house as a brace of honourable spies; a sort of female Rozencrantz and reverend Guildenstern, one in tartan petticoats, the other in a cassock. What a contrast to the society I would willingly have secured to myself! I shall write instantly on my arriving at our new place of abode, and acquaint my dearest Matilda with the further fates of–her
“Julia Mannering.”
CHAPTER XIX.
Which sloping hills around enclose, Where many a beech and brown oak grows, Beneath whose dark and branching bowers, Its tides a far-fam’d river pours, By nature’s beauties taught to please, Sweet Tusculan of rural ease!– Warton.
Woodbourne, the habitation which Mannering, by Mr. Mac-Morlan’s mediation, had hired for a season, was a large comfortable mansion, snugly situated beneath a hill covered with wood, which shrouded the house upon the north and east; the front looked upon a little lawn bordered by a grove of old trees; beyond were some arable fields, extending down to the river, which was seen from the windows of the house. A tolerable, though old-fashioned garden, a well-stocked dovecot, and the possession of any quantity of ground which the convenience of the family might require, rendered the place in every respect suitable, as the advertisements have it, “for the accommodation of a genteel family.”
Here, then, Mannering resolved, for some time at least, to set up the staff of his rest. Though an East-Indian, he was not partial to an ostentatious display of wealth. In fact, he was too proud a man to be a vain one. He resolved, therefore, to place himself upon the footing of a country gentleman of easy fortune, without assuming, or permitting, his household to assume, any of the faste which then was considered as characteristic of a nabob.
He had still his eye upon the purchase of Ellangowan, which Mac-Morlan conceived Mr. Glossin would be compelled to part with, as some of the creditors disputed his title to retain so large a part of the purchase-money in his own hands, and his power to pay it was much questioned. In that case MacMorlan was assured he would readily give up his bargain, if ‘tempted with something above the price which he had stipulated to pay. It may seem strange,–that Mannering was so much attached to a spot which he had only seen once, and that for a short time, in early life. But the circumstances which passed there had laid a strong hold on his imagination. There seemed to be a fate which conjoined the remarkable passages of his own family history with those of the inhabitants of Ellangowan, and he felt a mysterious desire to call the terrace his own, from which he had read in the book of heaven a fortune strangely accomplished in the person of the infant Heir of that family, and corresponding so closely with one which had been strikingly fulfilled in his own. Besides, when once this thought had got possession of his imagination, he could not, without great reluctance, brook the, idea of his plan being defeated, and by a fellow like Glossin. So pride came to the aid of fancy, and both combined to fortify his resolution to buy the estate if possible.
Let us do Mannering justice. A desire to serve the distressed had also its share in determining him. He had considered the advantage which Julia might receive from the company of Lucy Bertram, whose genuine prudence and good sense could so surely be relied upon. This idea had become much stronger since Mac-Morlan had confided to him, under the solemn seal of secrecy, the whole of her conduct towards young Hazlewood. To propose to her to become an inmate in his family, if distant from the scenes of her youth and the few whom she called friends, would have been less delicate; but at Woodbourne she might without difficulty be induced to become the visitor of a season, without being depressed into the situation of an humble companion. Lucy Bertram, with some hesitation, accepted the invitation to reside a few weeks with Miss Mannering. She felt too well, that however the Colonel’s delicacy might disguise the truth, his principal motive was a generous desire to afford her his countenance and protection, which his high connections, and higher character, were likely to render influential in the neighbourhood.
About the same time the orphan girl received a letter from Mrs. Bertram, the relation to whom she had written, as cold and comfortless as could well be imagined. It enclosed, indeed, a small sum of money, but strongly recommended economy, and that Miss Bertram should board herself in some quiet family, either at Kippletringan or in the neighbourhood, assuring her, that though her own income was very scanty, she would not see her kinswoman want.
Miss Bertram shed some natural tears over this cold-hearted epistle; for in her mother’s time, this good lady. had been a guest at Ellangowan for nearly three years, and it was only upon succeeding to a property of about 400L a-year that she had, taken farewell of that hospitable mansion, which, otherwise, might have had the honour of sheltering her until the death of its owner. Lucy was strongly inclined to return the paltry donation, which, after some struggles with avarice, pride had extorted from the old lady. But on consideration, she contented herself with writing, that she accepted it as a loan, which she hoped in a short time to repay, and consulted her relative upon the invitation she had received from Colonel and Miss Mannering. This time the answer came in course of post, so fearful was Mrs. Bertram, that some frivolous delicacy, or nonsense, as she termed it, might induce her cousin to reject such a promising offer, and thereby at the same time to leave herself still a burden upon her relations. Lucy, therefore, had no alternative, unless she preferred continuing a burden upon the worthy Mac-Morlans, who were too liberal to be rich. Those kinsfolk who formerly requested the favour of her company, had of late either silently, or with expressions of resentment that she should have preferred Mac-Morlan’s invitation to theirs, gradually withdrawn their notice.
The fate of Dominie Sampson would have been deplorable had it depended upon any one except Mannering, who was an admirer of originality, for a separation from Lucy Bertram would have certainly broken his heart. Mac-Morlan had given a full account of his proceedings towards the daughter of his patron. The answer was a request from Mannering to know, whether the Dominie still possessed that admirable virtue of taciturnity by which he was so notably distinguished at Ellangowan. Mac-Morlan replied in the affirmative. “Let Mr. Sampson know,” said the Colonel’s next letter, “that I shall want his assistance to catalogue and put in order the library of my uncle, the bishop, which I have ordered to be sent down by sea. I shall also want him to copy and arrange some papers. Fix his salary at what you think befitting. Let the poor man be properly dressed, and accompany his young lady to Woodbourne.”
Honest Mac-Morlan received this mandate with great joy, but pondered much upon executing that part of it which related to newly attiring the worthy Dominie. He looked at him with a scrutinising eye, and it was but too plain that his present garments were daily waxing more deplorable. To give him money, and bid him go and furnish himself, would be only giving him the means of making himself ridiculous; for when such a rare event arrived to Mr. Sampson as the purchase of new garments, the additions which he made to his wardrobe, by the guidance of his own taste, usually brought all the boys of the village after him for many days. On the other hand, to bring a tailor to measure him, and send home his clothes, as for a schoolboy, would probably give offence. At length Mac-Morlan resolved to consult Miss Bertram, and request her interference. She assured him, that though she could not pretend to superintend a gentleman’s wardrobe, nothing was more easy than to arrange the Dominie’s.
“At Ellangowan,” she said, “whenever my poor father thought any part of the Dominie’s dress wanted renewal, a servant was directed to enter his room by night, for he sleeps as fast as a dormouse, carry off the old vestment, and leave the new one; nor could anyone observe that the Dominie exhibited the least consciousness of the change put upon him on such occasions.”
Mac-Morlan, in conformity with Miss Bertram’s advice, procured a skilful artist, who, on looking at the Dominie attentively, undertook to make for him two suits of clothes, one black, and one raven-gray, and even engaged that they should fit him–as well at least (so the tailor qualified his enterprise), as a man of such an out-of-the-way build could be fitted by merely human needles and shears. When this fashioner had accomplished his task, and the dresses were brought home, Mac-Morlan, judiciously resolving to accomplish his purpose by degrees, withdrew that evening an important part of his dress, and substituted the new article of raiment in its stead. Perceiving that this passed totally without notice, he next ventured on the waistcoat, and lastly on the coat. When fully metamorphosed, and arrayed for the first time in his life in a decent dress, they did observe, that the Dominie seemed to have some indistinct and embarrassing consciousness that a change had taken place on his outward man. Whenever they observed this dubious expression gather upon his countenance, accompanied with a glance, that fixed now upon the sleeve of his coat, now upon the knees of his breeches, where he probably missed some antique patching and darning, which, being executed with blue thread upon a black ground, had somewhat the effect of embroidery, they always took care to turn his attention into some other channel, until his garments, “by the aid of use, cleaved to their mould.” The only remark he was ever known to make on the subject was, that “the air of a town like Kippletringan, seemed favourable unto wearing apparel, for he thought his coat looked almost as new as the first day he put it on, which was when he went to stand trial for his licence as a preacher.”
When the Dominie first heard the liberal proposal of Colonel Mannering, he turned a jealous and doubtful glance towards Miss Bertram, as if he suspected that the project involved their separation, but when Mr Mac-Morlan hastened to explain that she would be a guest at Woodbourne for some time, he rubbed his huge hands together, and burst into a portentous sort of chuckle, like that of the Afrite in the tale of the Caliph Vathek. After this unusual explosion of satisfaction, he remained quite passive in all the rest of the transaction.
It had been settled that Mr. and Mrs. Mac-Morlan should take possession of the house a few days before Mannering’s arrival, both to put everything in perfect order, and to make the transference of Miss Bertram’s residence from their family to his as easy and delicate as possible. Accordingly, in the beginning of the month of December, the party were settled at Woodbourne.
CHAPTER XX.
A gigantic genius, fit to grapple with whole libraries. BOSWELL’s Life of Johnson.
THE appointed day arrived, when the Colonel and Miss Mannering were expected at Woodbourne. The hour was fast approaching, and the little circle within doors had each their separate subjects of anxiety. Mac-Morlan naturally desired to attach to himself the patronage and countenance of a person of Mannering’s wealth and consequence. He was aware, from his knowledge of mankind, that Mannering, though generous and benevolent, had the foible of expecting and exacting a minute compliance with his directions. He was therefore racking his recollection to discover if everything had been arranged to meet the Colonel’s wishes and instructional and, under this uncertainty of mind, he traversed the house more than once from the garret to the stables. Mrs. Mac-Morlan revolved in a lesser orbit, comprehending the dining-parlour, housekeeper’s room, and kitchen. She was only
afraid that the dinner might be spoiled, to the . discredit of her housewifely accomplishments. Even the usual passiveness of the Dominie was so far disturbed, that he twice went to the window, which looked out upon the avenue, and twice exclaimed, “Why tarry the wheels of their chariot?” Lucy, the most quiet of the expectants, had her own melancholy thoughts. She was now about to be consigned to the charge, almost to the benevolence, of strangers, with whose character, though hitherto very amiably displayed, she was but imperfectly acquainted. The moments, therefore, of suspense passed anxiously and heavily.
At length the trampling of horses and the sound of wheels were heard. The servants, who had already arrived, drew up in the hall to receive their master and mistress, with an importance and empressement, which, to Lucy, who had never been accustomed to society, or witnessed what is called the manners of the great, had something alarming. Mac-Morlan went to she door to receive the master and mistress of the family, and in a few moments they were in the drawing-room.
Mannering, who had travelled as usual on horseback, entered with his daughter hanging upon his arm. She was of the middle size, or rather less, but formed with much elegance; piercing dark eyes, and jet-black hair of great length, corresponded with the vivacity and intelligence of features, in which were blended a little haughtiness, and a little bashfulness, a great deal of shrewdness, and some power of humorous sarcasm. “I shall not like her,” was the result of Lucy Bertram’s first glance; “and yet I rather think I shall,” was the thought excited by the second.
Miss Mannering was furred and mantled up to the throat against the severity of the weather; the Colonel in his military greatcoat. He bowed to Mrs. Mac-Morlan, whom his daughter also acknowledged with a fashionable curtsey, not dropped so low as at all to incommode her person. The Colonel then led his daughter up to Miss Bertram, and, taking the hand of the latter, with an air of great kindness, and almost paternal affection, he said, “Julia, this is the young lady whom I hope our good friends have prevailed on to honour our house with a long visit. I shall be much gratified indeed if you can render Woodbourne as pleasant to Miss Bertram, as Ellangowan was to me when I first came as a wanderer into this country.”
The young lady curtsied acquiescence, and took her new friend’s hand. Mannering now turned his eye upon the Dominie, who had made bows since his entrance into the room, sprawling out his leg, and bending his back like an automaton, which continues to repeat the same movement until the motion is stopt by the artist. “My good friend, Mr. Sampson,”–said Mannering, introducing him to his daughter, and darting at the same time a reproving glance at the damsel, notwithstanding he had himself some disposition to join her too obvious inclination to risibility–“This gentleman, Julia, is to put my books in order when they arrive, and I expect to derive great advantage from his extensive learning.”
“I am sure we are obliged to the gentleman, papa; and, to borrow a ministerial mode of giving thanks, I shall never forget the extraordinary countenance he has been pleased to show us.–But, Miss Bertram,” continued she hastily, for her father’s brows began to darken, “we have travelled a good way,–will you permit me to retire before dinner?”
This intimation dispersed all the company, save the Dominie, who, having no idea of dressing but when he was to rise, or of undressing but when he meant to go to bed, remained by himself, chewing the cud of a mathematical demonstration, until the company again assembled in the drawing-room, and from thence adjourned to the dining-parlour.
When the day was concluded, Mannering took an opportunity, to hold a minute’s conversation with his daughter in private.
“How do you like your guests, Julia?”
“Oh, Miss Bertram of all things–but this is a most original parson–why, dear sir, no human being will be able to look at him without laughing.”
“While he is under my roof, Julia, every one must learn to do so.”
“Lord, papa, the very footmen could not keep their gravity!”
“Then let them strip off my livery,” said the Colonel,–“and oath at their leisure. Mr. Sampson is a man whom I esteem for his simplicity and benevolence of character.”
“Oh, I am convinced of his generosity too,” said this lively lady; “he cannot lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth without bestowing a share on everything round.”
“Julia, you are incorrigible;–but remember, I expect your mirth on this subject to be under such restraint, that it shall neither offend this worthy man’s feelings nor those of Miss Bertram, who may be more apt to feel upon his account than he on his own. And so good-night, my dear; and recollect, that though Mr. Sampson has certainly not sacrificed to the graces, there are many things in this world more truly deserving of ridicule than either awkwardness of manners or simplicity of character.”
In a day or two Mr. and Mrs. Mac-Morlan left Woodbourne, after taking an affectionate farewell of their late guest. The household were now settled in their new quarters. The young ladies followed their studies and amusements together. Colonel Mannering was agreeably surprised to find that Miss Bertram was well skilled in French and Italian, thanks to the assiduity of Dominie Sampson, whose labour had silently made him acquainted with most modern as well as ancient languages. Of music she knew little or nothing, but her new friend undertook to give her lessons; in exchange for which, she was to learn from Lucy the habit of walking, and the art of riding, and the courage necessary to defy the season. Mannering was careful to substitute for their amusement in the evening such. books as might convey some solid instruction with entertainment, and as he read aloud with great skill and taste, the winter nights passed pleasantly away.
Society was quickly formed where there were so many inducements. Most of the families of the neighbourhood visited Colonel Mannering, and he was soon able to select from among them such as best suited his taste and habits. Charles Hazlewood held a distinguished place in his favour, and was a frequent visitor, not without the consent and approbation of his parents; for there was no knowing, they thought, what assiduous attention might product, and the beautiful Miss Mannering, of high family, with an Indian fortune, was a prize worth looking after. Dazzled with such a prospect, they never considered the risk which had once been some object of their apprehension, that his boyish and inconsiderate fancy might form an attachment to the penniless Lucy Bertram, who had nothing on earth to recommend her, but a pretty face, good birth, and a most amiable disposition. Mannering was more prudent. He considered himself acting as Miss Bertram’s guardian, and, while he did not think it incumbent upon him altogether to check her intercourse with a young gentleman for whom, excepting in wealth, she was a match in every respect, he laid it under such insensible restraints as might prevent any engagement or eclaircissement taking place until the young man should have seen a little more of life and of the world, and have attained that age when he might be considered as entitled to judge for himself in the matter in which his happiness was chiefly interested.
While these matters engaged the attention of the other members of the Woodbourne family, Dominie Sampson was occupied, body and soul, in the arrangement of the late bishop’s library, which had been sent from Liverpool by sea, and conveyed by thirty or forty carts from the seaport at which it was landed. Sampson’s joy at beholding the ponderous contents of these chests arranged upon the floor of the large apartment, from whence he was to transfer them to the shelves, baffles all description. He grinned like an ogre, swung his arms like the sails of a windmill, shouted “Prodigious” till the roof rung to his raptures. “He had never,” he said, “seen so many books together, except in the College Library; “and now his dignity and delight in being superintendent of the collection, raised him, in his own opinion, almost to the rank of the academical librarian, whom he had always regarded as the greatest and happiest man on earth. Neither were his transports diminished upon a hasty examination of the contents of these volumes. Some, indeed, of belles lettres, poems, plays, or memoirs, he tossed indignantly aside, with the implied censure of “psha,” or “frivolous”; but the greater and bulkier part of the collection bore a very different character. The deceased prelate, a divine of the old and deeply-learned cast, had loaded his shelves with volumes which displayed the antique and venerable attributes so happily described by a modern poet.
That weight of wood, with leathern coat o’erlaid, Those ample clasps of solid metal made, The close-press’d leaves unoped for many an age, The dull red edging of the well-filled page, On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll’d, Where yet the title stands in tarnish’d gold.
Books of theology and controversial divinity, commentaries, and polyglots, sets of the fathers, and sermons, which might each furnish forth ten brief discourses of modern date, books of science, ancient and modern, classical authors in their best and rarest forms; such formed the late bishop’s venerable library, and over such the eye of Dominie Sampson gloated with rapture. He entered them in the catalogue in his best running hand, forming each letter with the accuracy of a lover writing a valentine, and placed each individually on the destined shelf with all the reverence which I have seen a lady pay to a jar of old china. With all this zeal his labours advanced slowly. He often opened a volume when halfway up the library steps, fell upon some interesting passage, and, without shifting his inconvenient posture, continued immersed in the fascinating perusal until the servant pulled him by the skirts to assure him that dinner waited.
How happily the days
Of Thalaba went by!
And, having thus left the principal characters of our ,tale in a situation which, being sufficiently comfortable to themselves, is, of course, utterly uninteresting to the reader, we take up the history of a person who has as yet only been named, and who has all the interest that uncertainty and misfortune can give.
CHAPTER XXI.
What say’st thou, Wise One?–that all-powerful Love Can fortune’s strong impediments remove; Nor is it strange that worth should wed to worth, The pride of genius with the pride of birth. Crabbe.