 27 It is no diminution, but a recommendation of human nature, that in some instances passion gets the better of reason, and all that we can think is impotent against half of what we feel. Spectator Life is a mingled yarn, few of its afflictions, but are accompanied with some alleviation, none of its blessings that do not bring some alloy. Like most other events that long have formed the object of yearning and almost hopeless wishes, and on which have been built the fairest structure of human felicity, the arrival of the young heir of Glenfern produced a less extraordinary degree of happiness than had been anticipated. The melancholy event which had marked the first ceremonial of his life had cast its gloom alike on all nearly connected with him, and when time had dispelled the clouds of recent mourning, and restored the mourners to their habitual train of thought and action, some wad of the novelty which had given him such lively interest in the hearts of the sisters had subsided. The distressing conviction, too, more and more, forced itself upon them, that their advice and assistance were likely to be wholly overlooked in the nurture of the infant mind and management of the thriving frame of their little nephew. Their active energies, therefore, driven back to the accustomed channels after many murmurs and severe struggles, again revolved in the same sphere as before. True, they sighed and mourned for a time, but soon found occupation congenial to their nature in the little departments of life, dressing crepe, reviving black silk, converting narrow hymns into broad hymns, and in short, who so busy, who so important, as the ladies of Glenfern. As Madame Distale, or to something, says, they fulfilled their destinies. Their walk lay amongst threads and pickles, their sphere extended from the garret to the pantry, and often as they sought to diverge from it, their instinct always led them to return to it as the tract in which they were destined to move. There are creatures of the same sort in the male part of the creation, but it is foreign to my purpose to describe them at present. Neither are the trifling and insignificant of either sex to be treated with contempt, or looked upon as useless by those whom God has gifted with higher powers. In the arrangements of an all-wise providence there is nothing created in vain. Every link of the vast chain that embraces creation helps to hold together the various relations of life, and all is beautiful of gradation, from the human vegetable to the glorious archangel. If patient hope, if unexalting joy and chastened anticipation, sanctifying a mother's love, could have secured her happiness, Mrs. Douglas would have found in the smiles of her infant all the comfort her virtue deserved. But she still had to drink of that cup of sweet and bitter, which must bathe the lips of all who breathe the breath of life. While the instinct of a parent's love warmed her heart, as she pressed her infant to her bosom, the sadness of affectionate and rational solicitudes stifled every sentiment of pleasure as she gazed on the altered and drooping form of her adopted daughter. Of the child who had already repaid the cares that had been lavished on her, and in whom she decried the promise of a plenteous harvest from the good seed she had sown. Though Mary had been healthy in childhood, her constitution was naturally delicate, and she had laterally outgrown her strength. The shock she had sustained by her grandfather's death, thus operating on a weakened frame, had produced in effect apparently most alarming, and the effort she made to exert herself only served to exhaust her. She felt all the watchful solicitude, the tender anxieties of her aunt, and bitterly reproached herself with not better repaying these exertions for her happiness. A thousand times she tried to analyze and extirpate the saddening impression that weighed upon her heart. It is not sorrow, reason she with herself, that thus oppresses me, for though I reverenced my grandfather, yet the loss of his society has scarcely been felt by me. It cannot be fear, the fear of death, for my soul is not so abject as to confine its desires to this sublunary scene. What then is this mysterious dread that has taken possession of me? Why do I suffer my mind to suggest to me images of horror, instead of visions of bliss? Why can I not, as formerly, picture to myself the beauty and the brightness of a soul casting off mortality? Why must the convulsed grasp, the stifled groan, the glaring eye, forever come betwixt heaven and me? Alas! Mary was unskilled to answer. Hers was the season for feeling, not for reasoning. She knew not that hers was the struggle of imagination striving to maintain its ascendancy over reality. She had heard and read, and thought and talked of death, but it was of death in its fairest form, in its softest transition, and the veil had been abruptly torn from her eyes. The gloomy pass had suddenly disclosed itself before her, not strewn with flowers, but shrouded in horrors. Like all persons of sensibility, Mary had a disposition to view everything in a bow ideal. Whether that is a boon most fraught with good or ill, it were difficult to ascertain. While the delusion lasts, it is productive of pleasure to its possessor, but, oh, the thousand aches that heart is destined to endure which clings to the stability and relies on the permanency of earthly happiness. But the youthful heart must ever remain a stranger to this saddening truth. Experience only can convince us that happiness is not a plant of this world, and that, though many an eye hath beheld its blossoms, no mortal hand hath ever gathered its fruits. This, then, was Mary's first lesson in what is called the knowledge of life, as opposed to the bow ideal of a young and ardent imagination in love with life and luxuriating in its own happiness. And upon such a mind it could not fail of producing a powerful impression. The anguished Mrs. Douglas experienced as she witnessed the changing color, lifeless step, and forced smile of her darling elf was not mitigated by the good sense or sympathy of those around her. While Mary had prospered under her management, in the consciousness that she was fulfilling her duty to the best of her abilities she could listen with placid cheerfulness to the broken hints of disapprobation or forced good wishes for the success of her newfangled schemes that were leveled at her by the sisters. But now, when her cares seemed defeated, it was an additional thorn in her heart to have to endure the commonplace wisdom and self-gradulations of the almost exalting aunts. Not that they had the slightest intention of wounding the feelings of their niece, whom they really loved, but the temptation was irresistible of proving that they had been in the right and she in the wrong, especially as no such acknowledgment had yet been extorted from her. It is nonsense to ascribe Mary's dwining to her grandfather's death, said Miss Jackie. We were all nearer to him in propinquity than she was, and none of our healths have suffered. Then there's his own daughters, added Miss Grizzie, who of course must have felt a great deal more than anybody else. There can be no doubt of that. Such sensible creatures as them must feel a great deal, but yet you see how they have got up their spirits. I'm sure it's wonderful. It shows their sense and the effects of education, said Miss Jackie. Girls that sup their porridge will always cut a good figure. Quoth Nicky. With their fine feelings I'm sure we have all reason to be thankful that they have been blessed with such hearty stomachs, observed Miss Grizzie, if they had been delicate like poor Mary's. I'm sure I declare I don't know what we would have done, for certainly they were all most dreadfully affected at their excellent father's death, which was quite natural poor things. I'm sure there's no pacifying poor baby, and even yet neither Belin or Betsy can bear to be left alone in a dark room. Tibbie has to sleep with them still every night, and a lighted candle, too, which is much to their credit. And yet I'm sure it's not with reading. I'm certain indeed—I think there's no doubt of it—that reading does young people much harm. It puts things into their heads that never would have been there but for books. I declare, I think reading's a very dangerous thing. I'm certain all Mary's bad health is entirely owing to reading. You know, we always thought she read a great deal too much for her good. Much depends upon the choice of books, said Jackie, with an error of the most profound wisdom. Fordyce's sermons and the history of Scotland are two of the very few books I would put into the hands of a young woman. Our girls have read little else, casting a look at Mrs. Douglas, who was calmly pursuing her work in the midst of this shower of darts all leveled at her. To be sure, returned grizzy, it is a thousand pities that Mary has been allowed to go on so long. Not I'm sure that any of us mean to reflect upon you, my dear Mrs. Douglas, for, of course, it was all owing to your ignorance and inexperience. And that, you know, you could not help. For it is not your fault. Nobody can blame you. I'm certain you would have done what is right if you had only known better, but of course we must all know better than you, because you know we are all a great deal older, and especially Lady MacLachlan, who has the greatest experience in the diseases of old men especially, and infants. Indeed it has been the study of her life almost. For you know, Porser Samson is never well. And I dare say if Mary had taken some of her nice worm lozenges, which certainly cured Duncan McNabb's wife's daughter's little girl of the jaundice, and used that valuable growing embrocation, which we are all sensible made baby great deal fatter, I dare say there would have been nothing to matter with her today. Mary has been too much accustomed to spend both her time and money amongst vital vagrants, said Nicky. Many of both subjoined Jackie with an air of humility. I confess I have ever been accustomed to consider his virtues. These handsome respectable new bonnets, looking from Mrs. Douglas, that our girls got just before their poor father's death, were entirely the fruits of their own savings. And I declare, said Grizzie, who did not excel in innuendos, I declare for my part, although at the same time, my dear niece, I am certain you are far from intending it, I really think it's very disrespectful to Sir Samson and Lady McLaughlin and anybody, and especially such near neighbors, to give more in charity than they do, for you may be sure they give as much as they think proper, and they must be the best judges and can afford to give what they please. For Sir Samson could buy and sell all of us a hundred times over if he liked. It's long since the Lock Marley estate was called Seven Thousand a Year, and besides that, there's the Birkendale property, and the Glen Mavis estate, and I'm sure I can't tell you all what, but there's no doubt he's a man of immense fortune. While it was known, and frequently was it discussed, the iniquity of Mary being allowed to waste her time and squander her money amongst the poor, instead of being taught the practical virtues of making her own gowns, and of hoarding up her pocket money for some selfish gratification. In colloquies such as these, day after day passed on without any visible improvement taking place in her health. Only one remedy suggested itself to Mrs. Douglas, and that was to remove her to the south of England for the winter. Milder air and change of scene she had no doubt would prove efficacious, and her opinion was confirmed by that of the celebrated doctor, who, having been summoned to the Laird of Petalchass, had paid a visit at Glenfern on Pasant. How so desirable an event was to be accomplished was the difficulty. By the death of his father, a variety of business, and an extent of farming had devolved upon Mr. Douglas, which obliged him to fix his residence at Glenfern, and rendered it impossible for him to be long absent from it. Mrs. Douglas had engaged in the duties of a nurse to her little boy, and to take him or leave him was equally out of the question. In this dilemma the only resource that offered was that of sending Mary for a few months to her mother. True it was a painful necessity. For Mrs. Douglas seldom heard from her sister-in-law, and when she did, her letters were short and cold. She sometimes desired a kiss to her, Mrs. Douglas's, little girl, and once, in an extraordinary fit of good humour, had actually sent a locket with her hair in a letter by post, for which Mrs. Douglas had to pay something more than the value of the present. This was all that Mary knew of her mother, and the rest of her family were still greater strangers to her. Her father remained in a distant station in India, and was seldom heard of. Her brother was gone to sea, and though she had written repeatedly to her sister, her letters remained unnoticed. Under these circumstances there was something revolting in the idea of obtruding Mary upon the notice of her relations, and trusting to their kindness even for a few months. Yet her health, perhaps her life, was at stake, and Mrs. Douglas felt she had scarcely a right to hesitate. Mary has perhaps been too long an alien from her own family, said she to herself. This will be a means of her becoming acquainted with them, and of introducing her to that sphere in which she is probably destined to walk. Under her uncle's roof she will surely be safe, and in the society of her mother and sister she cannot be unhappy. New scenes will give stimulus to her mind, the necessity of exertion will brace the languid faculties of her soul, and in a few short months, I trust, will restore her to me such an even superior to what she was. Why then should I hesitate to do what my conscience tells me ought to be done? Alas, it is because I selfishly shrink from the pain of separation, and am unwilling to relinquish even for a season, one of the many blessings heaven has bestowed upon me. And Mrs. Douglas, noble and disinterested as ever, rose superior to the weakness that she felt was besetting her. Mary listened to her communication with a throbbing heart, and eyes suffused with tears. To part from her aunt was agony, but to behold her mother, she to whom she owed her existence, to embrace a sister, too, and one for whom she felt all those mysterious yearnings which twins are said to entertain towards each other, o there was rapture in the thought. And Mary's buoyant heart fluctuated between the extremes of anguish and delight. The venerable sisters received the intelligence with much surprise. They did not know very well what to say about it. There was much to be said, both for and against it. Lady MacLachlan had a high opinion of English air, but then they had heard the morals of the people were not so good, and there were a great many dissipated young men in England. Though to be sure there was no denying but the mineral waters were excellent, and in short it ended in Miss Grizzie sitting down to concoct an epistle to Lady MacLachlan. In Miss Jackie's beginning to draw up a coat of instructions for a young woman upon her entrance into life, and Miss Nicky hoping that if Mary did go, she would take care not to bring back any extravagant English notions with her. The younger set debated amongst themselves how many of them would be invited to accompany Mary to England, and from thence fell to disputing the possession of a brown-haired trunk, with a flourish D and brass letters on the top. Miss Douglas, with repressed feelings, said about offering the sacrifice she had planned, and in a letter to Lady Juliana, descriptive of her daughter's situation, she sought to excite her tenderness without creating alarm. How far she succeeded will be seen hereafter. In the meantime we must take a retrospective glance at the last seventeen years of her ladyship's life. CHAPTER XXVIII Her only labour was to kill the time, and labour dire it is, and weary woe. Years had rolled on amidst heartless pleasures and joyless amusements, but Lady Juliana was made neither the wiser nor the better by added years and increased experience. Time had, in vain, turned his glass before eyes still dazzled with the gaudy allurements of the world, for she took no note of time, but as the thing that was to take her to the opera and the park, and that sometimes hurried her excessively, and sometimes bored her to death, at length she was compelled to abandon her chase after happiness, in the only sphere where she believed it was to be found. Lord Cortland's declining health unfitted him for the dissipation of a London life, and by the advice of his physician he resolved upon retiring to a country seat which he possessed in the vicinity of Bath. Lady Juliana was in despair at the thoughts of this sudden wrench from what she termed life, but she had no resource. For though her good-natured husband gave her the whole of General Cameron's allowance, that scarcely served to keep her in clothes, and though her brother was perfectly willing that she and her children should occupy apartments in his house, yet he would have been equally acquiescent had she proposed to remove from it. Lady Juliana had a sort of instinctive knowledge of this, which prevented her from breaking out into open remonstrance. She therefore contented herself with being more than usually peevish and irascible to her servants and children, and talking to her friends of the prodigious sacrifice she was about to make for her brother and his family, as if it had been the cutting off of a hand or the plucking out of an eye. To have heard her, anyone unaccustomed to the hyperbole of fashionable language, would have deemed Botany Bay the nearest possible point of destination, parting from her fashionable acquaintances was tearing herself from all she loved, quitting London was bidding a due to the world. Of course there could be no society where she was going, but still she would do her duty. She would not desert dear Frederick and his poor children. In short, no martyr was ever led to the stake with half the notions of heroism and self-devotion as those with which Lady Juliana stepped into the barouche that was to conduct her to Beech Park. In the society of piping bullfinches, pink canaries, grey parrots, goldfish, green squirrels, Italian greyhounds and French poodles, she sought a refuge from despair. But even these varied charms after a while failed to please. The bullfinches grew hoarse. The canaries turned brown. The parrots became stupid. The goldfish would not eat. The squirrels were cross, the dogs fought. Even a shell grotto that was constructing fell down, and by the time the aviary and conservatory were filled they had lost their interest. The children were the next subjects for her ladyship's ennui to discharge itself upon. Lord Courtland had a son some years older and a daughter nearly of the same age as her own. It suddenly occurred to her that they must be educated and that she would educate the girls herself. As the first step she engaged two governesses, French and Italian. Modern treatises on the subject of education were ordered from London, looked at, admired, and arranged on gilded shelves and sofa tables. And could their contents have exhaled with the odours of their rush of leather bindings? Lady Julianna's dressing room would have been what Sir Joshua Reynolds says every seminary of learning is, an atmosphere of floating knowledge. But amidst this splendid display of human lore, the book found no place. She had heard of the Bible, however, and even knew it was a book appointed to be read in churches and given to poor people along with rumford soup and flannel shirts. But as the rule of life, as the book that alone could make wise unto salvation, this Christian parent was ignorant as the hot and taut or Hindu. Three days beheld the rise, progress, and decline of Lady Julianna's whole system of education. And it would have been well for the children had the trust been delegated to those better qualified to discharge it. But neither of the preceptresses was better skilled in the only true knowledge. Signora Cicciana was a bigoted Catholic whose faith hung upon her beads, and Madame Grignon was an esprit forte who had no faith in anything but lay placer. But the Signora's singing was heavenly, and Madame's dancing was divine. And what lacked there more? So passed the first years of being's training for immortality. The children insensibly ceased to be children, and Lady Julianna would have beheld the increasing height and beauty of her daughter with extreme disapprobation had not that beauty by awakening her ambition, also excited her affection, if the term affection could be applied to that heterogeneous mass of feelings and propincities that shape had none distinguishable. Lady Julianna had fallen into an error very common with wiser heads than hers, that of mistaking the effect for the cause. She looked no farther than to her union with Henry Douglas for the foundation of all her unhappiness. It never once occurred to her that her marriage was only the consequence of something previously wrong. She saw not the headstrong passions that had impelled her to please herself no matter at what price. She thought not of the want of principle, she blushed not at the want of delicacy, that had led her to deceive a parent and elope with a man to whose character she was a total stranger. She therefore considered herself as having fallen a victim to love, and could she only save her daughter from a similar error, she might yet, by her means, retrieve her fallen fortune. To implant principles of religion and virtue in her mind was not within the compass of her own, but she could scoff at every pure and generous affection, she could ridicule every disinterested attachment, and she could expatiate on the never-fading joys that attend on wealth and titles, jewels and equipages. And all this she did in the belief that she was acting the part of a most wise and tender parent, the seed thus carefully sown, promised to bring forth an abundant harvest. At eighteen Adelaide Douglas was as heartless and ambitious as she was beautiful and accomplished, but the surface was covered with flowers, and who would have thought of analyzing the soil? It sometimes happens that the very means used with success in the formation of one character produce a totally opposite effect upon another. The mind of Lady Emily Lendor had undergone exactly the same process in its formation as that of her cousin, yet in all things they differed. Whether it were the independence of high birth, or the pride of a mind conscious of its own powers, she had hitherto resisted the sophistry of her governesses and the solicisms of her aunt. But her notions of right and wrong were too crude to influence the general tenor of her life, or to operate as restraints upon a naturally high spirit and impetuous temper. Not all the united efforts of her perceptresses had been able to form a manner for their pupil, nor could their authority restrain her from saying what she thought, and doing what she pleased. And in spite of both precept and example, Lady Emily remained as unsupportably natural and sincere as she was beautiful and pecan. At six years old she had declared her intention of marrying her cousin Edward Douglas, and at eighteen her words were little less equivocal. Edward Cortland, who never disturbed himself about anything, was rather diverted with this juvenile attachment, and Lady Juliana, who cared little for her son, and still less for her niece, only wondered how people could be such fools as to think of marrying for love after she had told them how miserable it would make them. CHAPTER XXIX Unthought of frailties cheat us in the wise. The fool lies hid in inconsistencies. POPPE Such were the female members of the family to whom Mary was about to be introduced. In her mother's heart she had no place, for of her absent husband and neglected daughter she seldom thought, and their letters were scarcely read and rarely answered. Even good Miss Grizzie's elaborate epistle, in which were curiously entwined the death of her brother and the birth and christening of her grand-nephew in a truly Gordian manner, remained disentangled. Had her ladyship only read to the middle of the seventh page she would have learned the indisposition of her daughter, with the various opinions thereupon. But poor Miss Grizzie's labors were in vain, for her letter remains a dead letter to this day. Mrs. Douglas was therefore the first to convey the unwelcome intelligence and to suggest to the mind of the mother that her alienated daughter still retained some claims upon her care and affection. And although this was done with all the tenderness and delicacy of a gentle and enlightened mind, it called forth the most bitter indignation from Lady Juliana. She almost raved at what she termed the base ingratitude and hypocrisy of her sister-in-law. After the sacrifice she had made in giving up her child to her when she had none of her own, it was a pretty return to send her back only to die. But she saw through it. She did not believe a word of the girl's silliness. That was a trick to get rid of her. Now they had a child of their own they had no use for hers. But she was not to be made a fool of in such a way, and by such people, et cetera, et cetera. If Mrs. Douglas is so vile a woman, said the provoking Lady Emily, the sooner my cousin is taken from her the better. You don't understand these things, Emily," returned her aunt impatiently. What things? The trouble and annoyance it will occasion me to take charge of the girl at this time. Why at this time more than any other? Absurd, my dear, how can you ask so foolish a question? Don't you know that you and Adelaide are both to bring out this winner? And how can I possibly do you justice with a dying girl upon my hands? I thought you suspected it was all a trick, continued the persecuting Lady Emily. So I do. I haven't the least doubt of it. The whole story is the most improbable stuff I ever heard. Then you will have less trouble than you expect. But I hate to be made a dupe of, and imposed upon, by low cunning. If Mrs. Douglas had told me candidly she wished me to take the girl, I would have thought nothing of it. But I can't bear to be treated like a fool. I don't see anything at all unbecoming in Mrs. Douglas's treatment. Then what can I do with a girl who has been educated in Scotland? She must be vulgar. All Scotch women are so. They have red hands and rough voices. They yawn and blow their noses, and talk and laugh loud, and do a thousand shocking things. Then to hear the Scotch brogue, oh heavens, I should expire every time she opened her mouth. Perhaps my sister may not speak so very broad, kindly suggested Adelaide in her sweetest accent. You are very good, my love, to think so. But nobody can live in that odious country without being infected with its patois. I really thought I should have caught it myself. And Mr. Douglas, no longer Henry, became quite gross in his language after living amongst his relations. This is really too bad, cried Lady Emily indignantly. If a person speaks sense and truth, what does it signify how it is spoken? And whether your ladyship chooses to receive your daughter here or not, I shall at any rate invite my cousin to my father's house. And snatching up a pen, she instantly began a letter to marry. Lady Juliana was highly incensed at this freedom of her niece, but she was a little afraid of her, and therefore, after some sharp altercation, and with infinite violence done to her feelings, she was prevailed upon to write a decently civil sort of letter to Mrs. Douglas, consenting to receive her daughter for a few months, firmly resolving in her own mind to conceal her from all eyes and ears while she remained, and to return her to her scotch relations early in the summer. This worthy resolution formed, she became more serene, and awaited the arrival of her daughter with as much firmness as could reasonably have been expected. CHAPTER XXXIII. And for unfelt imaginations they often feel a world of restless cares. SHAKESPEAR. Little weaned the good ladies of Glenfern, the ungracious reception their protege was likely to experience from her mother, for in spite of the defects of her education, Mary was a general favorite in the family, and however they might solace themselves by depreciating her to Mrs. Douglas, to the world in general, and their young female acquaintances in particular, she was upheld as an epitome of every perfection above and below the sun. Had it been possible for them to conceive that Mary could have been received with anything short of rapture, Lady Juliana's letter might in some measure have opened the eyes of their understanding, but to the guileless sisters it seemed everything that was proper. Sorry for the necessity Mrs. Douglas felt under of parting with her adopted daughter was prettily expressed, had no doubt it was merely a slight nervous affection, was kind and soothing, and the assurance, more than once repeated, that her friends might rely upon her being returned to them in the course of a very few months, showed a great deal of feeling and consideration. But as their minds never maintained a just equilibrium long upon any subject, but like falsely adjusted scales were ever hovering and vibrating at either extreme, so they could not rest satisfied in the belief that Mary was to be happy. There must be something to counteract that stilling sentiment, and that was the apprehension that Mary would be spoiled. This for the present was the pendulum of their imaginations. I declare, Mary, my sisters and I could get no sleep last night for thinking of you, said Miss Grizzly. We are all certain that Lady Juliana especially, but indeed all your English relations, will think so much of you, from not knowing you you know, which will be quite natural. I'm sure that my sisters and I have taken it into our heads, but I hope it won't be the case, as you have a great deal of good sense of your own, that they will quite turn your head. Mary's head is on her shoulders to little purpose, followed up Miss Jackie, if she can't stand being made of when she goes amongst strangers, and she ought to know by this time that a mother's partiality is no proof of a child's merit. You hear that, Mary? Rejoined Miss Grizzly. So I'm sure I hope you won't mind a word that your mother says to you, I mean about yourself, for of course you know she can't be such a good judge of you as us, who have known you all your life. As to other things, I dare say she is very well informed about the country and politics, and these sort of things. I'm certain Lady Juliana knows a great deal. And I hope, Mary, you will take care and not get into the dodlin' handless ways of the English women, said Miss Nicky. I wouldn't give a pin for an English woman. And I hope you will never look at an Englishman, Mary, said Miss Grizzly, with equal earnestness. Take my word for it. They are a very dissipated, unprincipled set. They all drink in game and keep racehorses. And many of them, I'm told, even keep play-actresses. So you may think what it would be for all of us if you were to marry any of them, and tears stream from the good spinster's eyes at the bare supposition of such a calamity. Don't be afraid, my dear aunt, said Mary, with a kind caress. I shall come back to you, your own Highland Mary. No Englishman with his round face and trimmed meadows shall ever captivate me. Heath covered hills and high cheekbones are the charms that must win my heart. I'm delighted to hear you say so, my dear Mary, said the literal-minded Grizzly. Certainly nothing can be prettier than the heather when it's in flower. And there is something very manly—nobody can dispute that—in high cheekbones. And besides, to tell you a secret, Lady MacLachlan has a husband in her eye for you. We none of us can conceive who it is, but of course he must be suitable in every respect, for you know Lady MacLachlan has had three husbands herself, so of course she must be an excellent judge of a good husband. Or a bad one, said Mary, which is the same thing. Warning is as good as example. Mrs. Douglas's ideas and those of her aunt did not coincide upon this occasion more than upon most others. In her sister-in-law's letter, she flattered herself she saw only fashionable indifference, and she fondly hoped that would soon give way to a tenderer sentiment as her daughter became known to her. At any rate it was proper that Mary should make the trial, and whatever way it ended, it must be for her advantage. Mary has already lived too long in these mountain solitudes, she thought. Her ideas will become romantic, and her taste fastidious. If it is dangerous to be too early initiated into the ways of the world, it is perhaps equally so to live too long secluded from it. Should she make herself a place in the heart of her mother and sister, it will be so much happiness gained, and should it prove otherwise it will be a lesson learnt. A hard one indeed. But hard are the lessons we all learn in the school of life. Yet Mrs. Douglas's fortitude almost failed her as the period of separation approached. It had been arranged by Lady Emily that a carriage and servant should meet Mary at Edinburgh, where there Mr. Douglas was to convey her. The cruel moment came, and mother, sister, relations, friends, all the bright visions which Mary's sanguine spirit had conjured up to soften the parting pang, all were absorbed in one agonizing feeling, one overwhelming thought. Oh, who that for the first time has parted from the parent whose tenderness and love were entwined with our earliest recollections, whose sympathy had soothed our infant sufferings, whose fondness had brightened our infant felicity, who that has a heart but must have felt it sink beneath the anguish of a first farewell. Yet bitterer still must be the feelings of the parent upon committing the cherished object of her cares and affections to the stormy ocean of life. When experience points to the gathering cloud and rising surge which soon may assail their defenseless child, what can support the mother's heart but trust in him whose eye slumbereth not, and whose power extendeth over all? It was this pious hope, this holy confidence, that enabled this more than mother to part from her adopted child with a resignation which no earthly motive could have imparted to her mind. It seems almost profanation to mingle with her elevated feelings, the coarse yet simple sorrows of the aunts, old and young, as they clung around the nearly lifeless merry, each tendering the parting gift they had kept as a solace for the last. Poor Miss Grizzie was more than usually incoherent, as she displayed, a nice new umbrella that could be turned into a nice walking stick, or anything, an addressing box, with a little of everything in it, and, with a fresh burst of tears, merry was directed where she would not find eye ointment, and where she was not to look for sticking plaster. Miss Jackie was more composed as she presented a flaming copy of Fordyce's sermons to young women, with a few suitable observations, but Miss Nicky could scarcely find voice to tell that the housewife she now tendered had once been Lady Grinigals, and that it contained white-chapel needles of every size and number. The younger ladies had clubbed for the purchase of a large locket in which was enshrined a lock from each subscriber, tastefully arranged by the jeweler in the form of a wheat sheaf upon a blue ground. Even Old Donald had his offering, and as he stood tottering at the Shea's door, he contrived to get a bit snish and moll, laid on Mary's lap, with a God bless her bonny face and may she ne'er want a good snish. The carriage drove off, and for a while Mary's eyes were closed in despair. CHAPTER 31 Farewell to the mountains, I covered with snow, Farewell to the strads and green valleys below, Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-roaring floods. SCOTCH SONG Happily in the moral world as in the material one, the warring elements have their prescribed bounds, and the flood of grief decreases when it can swell no higher. But it is only by retrospection we can bring ourselves to believe in this obvious truth. The young and untried heart hugs itself in the bitterness of its emotions, and takes pride in believing that its anguish can end but with its existence, and it is not till time hath almost steeped our senses and forgetfulness that we discover the mutability of all human passions. But Mary left it not to the slow hand of time to subdue in some measure the grief that swelled her heart. Had she given way to selfishness, she would have sought the free indulgence of her sorrow as the only mitigation of it. But she felt also for her uncle. He was depressed at parting with his wife and child, and he was taking a long and dreary journey entirely upon her account. Could she therefore be so selfish as to add to his uneasiness by a display of her sufferings? No, she would strive to conceal it from his observation, though to overcome it was impossible. Her feelings must ever remain the same, but she would confine them to her own breast. And she began to converse with and even strove to amuse her kind-hearted companion. Ever and anon indeed a rush of tender recollections came across her mind, and the soft voice and the bland countenance of her maternal friend seemed for a moment present to her senses, and then the dreariness and desolation that succeeded as the delusion vanished, and all with stillness and vacuity. Even self-reproach shot its piercing sting into her ingenuous heart, levities on which, in her usual gaiety of spirit, she had never bestowed a thought, now appeared to her as crimes of the deepest dye. She thought how often she had slighted the counsels and neglected the wishes of her gentle monetress, how she had wearied of her good old aunts, their cracked voices and the everlasting tick-a-tick of their knitting needles, how coarse and vulgar she had sometimes deemed the younger ones, how she had mimicked Lady McLaughlin and caricatures her Sampson, and even poor dear old Donald, said she as she summed up the catalogue of her crimes, could not escape my insolence in ill nature. How clever I thought it to sing, hot away from me, Donald, and how effectedly I shuddered at everything he touched, and this niche and mole was bedewed with tears of affectionate contrition, but every painful sentiment was for a while suspended in admiration of the magnificent scenery that was spread around them. Though summer had fled, and few even of autumn's graces remained, yet over the august features of mountain scenery the seasons have little control. Their charms depend not upon richness of verdure, or luxurience of foliage, or any of the mere prettinesses of nature, but whether wrapped in snow, or veiled in mist, or glowing in sunshine, their lonely grandeur remains the same, and the same feelings fill and elevate the soul in contemplating these mighty works of an almighty hand. The eye is never weary in watching the thousand varieties of light and shade as they flit over the mountain and gleam upon the lake, and the ear is satisfied with the awful stillness of nature in her solitude. Others besides Mary seem to have taken a fanciful pleasure in combining the ideas of the mental and elemental world, for in the dreary dwelling where they were destined to pass the night she found inscribed the following lines. The busy winds warm at the waving boughs, and darkly rolls the heaving surge to land. Among the flying clouds the moonbeam glows, with colors foreign to its softness bland. Here one dark shadow melts in gloom profound the towering alps the guardians of the lake. There one bright gleam sheds silver light around, and shows the threatening strife that tempests wake. Thus or my mind a busy memory plays that shakes the feelings to their inmost core. Thus beams the light of hope's fallacious ray when simple confidence can trust no more. So one dark shadow shrouds each bygone hour. So one bright gleam the coming tempest shows. That tells of sorrows, which though past, still lower, and this reveals the approach of future woes. While Mary was trying to decipher these somewhat mystic lines, her uncle was carrying on a colloquy in Gaelic with their hostess. The consequences of the consultation were not of the choice's description, consisting of braxy mutton, raw potatoes, wet bannocks, hard cheese, and whiskey. Very differently would the travellers have fared had the good Nicky's intentions been fulfilled. She had prepared with her own hands a morphal pie, and potted notes head, besides a profusion of what she termed trifles, just for Mary, poor thing, to divert herself with upon the road. But alas, in the anguish of separation the covered basket had been forgot, and the labour of Miss Nicky's hands fell to be consumed by the family, though Miss Grizzie protested, with tears in her eyes, that it went to her heart like a knife to eat poor Mary's puffs and snaps. Change of air and variety of scene failed not to produce the happiest effects upon Mary's language frame and drooping spirits. Her cheek already glowed with health, and was sometimes dimpled with smiles. She still wept, indeed, as she thought of those she had left. But often, while the tear trembled in her eye, its course was arrested by wonder or admiration or delight, for every object had its charms for her. Her cultivated taste and unsophisticated mind could decry beauty in the form of a hill, and grandeur in the foam of the wave, and elegance in the weeping birch as it dipped its now almost leafless boughs in the mountain stream. These simple pleasures, unknown alike to the sordid mind and the vitiated taste, are ever exquisitely enjoyed by the refined yet unsophisticated child of nature. During their progress through the Highlands, the travelers were hospitably entertained at the mansions of the country gentlemen, where old-fashioned courtesy and modern comfort combined to cheer the stranger guest. But upon coming out, as it is significantly expressed by the natives of these mountain regions, these, entering the low country, they found they had only made a change of difficulties. In the Highlands they were always sure that wherever there was a house, that house would be to them a home. But on a fair day in the little town of Qi, they found themselves in the midst of houses and surrounded by people, yet unable to procure, rest, or shelter. At the only end the place afforded, they were informed, the horses were both out, and the Lajun ah tain up and mar too, while the driver asserted what indeed was apparent, that its beasts were nay fit to gang the length of their tae farer, nor for the king himself. At this moment a stout, florid, good-humored-looking man passed, whistling Roy's wife with all his heart, and just as Mr. Douglas was stepping out of the carriage to try what could be done, the same person evidently attracted by curiosity, repast, changing his tune to theirs called Kale and Albertine. He started at the sight of Mr. Douglas, then eagerly grasping his hand. Ah, Archie Douglas, is this you? exclaimed he with a loud laugh and hearty shake. What, you haven't forgot your old school fellow Bob Gaffa! A mutual recognition now took place, and much pleasure was manifested on both sides at this unexpected recontour. No time was allowed to explain their embarrassments, for Mr. Gaffa had already tipped the postboy the wink, which he seemed easily to comprehend, and forcing Mr. Douglas to resume his seat in the carriage, he jumped in himself. Now for Half End and Mrs. Gaffa! Ha, ha, ha! This will be a surprise upon her. She thinks I'm in my barn all this time. Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Douglas here began to express his astonishment at his friend's precipitation, and his apprehensions as to the trouble they might occasion Mrs. Gaffa. But bursts of laughter and broken expressions of delight were the only replies he could procure from his friend. After jolting over half a mile a very bad road, the carriage stopped at a mean, vulgar-looking mansion with dirty windows, ruinous, thatched offices, and broken fences. Such was the picture of still life. That of animated nature was not less picturesque. Cows bellowed, and cart-horses naid and pigs grunted, and geese gaveled and ducks quacked, and cocks and hens flapped and fluttered promiscuously as they mingled in a sort of yard divided from the house by a low dyke, possessing the accommodation of a crazy gate which was bestowed by a parcel of bare-legged boys. What are you about, you confounded rascals? Called Mr. Gaffa to them. Nothing, answered one. We're just taking a heise on the yet, answered another. I'll heise ye, ye scoundrels, exclaim the incensed Mr. Gaffa as he burst from the carriage, and snatching the driver's whip from his hand, flew after the more nimble-footed culprits. Finding his efforts to overtake them in vain, he turned to the door of his mansion, where stood his guests waiting to be ushered in. He opened the door himself, and led the way to a parlor which was quite of a piece with the exterior of the dwelling. A dim, dusty table stood in the middle of the floor, heaped with a variety of heterogeneous articles of dress, and exceeding dirty volume of a novel they open amongst them. The floor was littered with shapings of flannel, and shreds of gauzes, ribbons, etc. The fire was almost out, and the hearth was covered with ashes. After insisting upon his guests being seated, Mr. Gaffa walked into the door of the apartment, and hallowed out, Mrs. Gaffa, ho! May, my dear! I say, Mrs. Gaffa! A low, croaking, quarrelless voice was now heard in reply. For heaven's sake, Mr. Gaffa, make less noise! For God's sake, have mercy on the walls of your house, if you've none on my poor head! And thereupon entered Mrs. Gaffa a cap in one hand, which she appeared to have been tying on, a smelling bottle in the other. She possessed a considerable share of insipid and somewhat faded beauty, but disguised by a tawdry, trumpery style of dress, and rendered almost disgusting by the air of affectation, folly, and peevishness that overspread her whole person and apartment. She testified the utmost surprise and coldness at sight of her guests, and as she entered, Mr. Gaffa rushed out, having decried something passing in the yard that called for his interposition. Mr. Douglas was therefore under the necessity of introducing himself and Mary to their ungracious hostess, briefly stating the circumstances that had led them to be her guests, and dwelling with much warmth on the kindness and hospitality of her husband, and having relieved them from their embarrassment, a gracious smile, or what was intended as such, beamed over Mrs. Gaffa's face at the first mention of their names. Excuse me, Mr. Douglas, had she, making a profound reverence to him and another to Mary, while she waved her hand for them to be seated. Excuse me, Miss Douglas, but situated as I am, I find it necessary to be very distant to Mr. Gaffa's friends sometimes. He is a thoughtless man, Mr. Douglas, a very thoughtless man. He makes a perfect inn of his house. He never lies out of the town, trying who he can pick up and bring home with him. It is seldom I am so fortunate as to see such guests as Mr. and Miss Douglas of Glenfern Castle in my house, with an elegant bow to each, which of course was duly returned. But Mr. Gaffa would have shown more consideration, both for you and me, had he apprised me of the honour of your visit, instead of bringing you here in this ill-bred, unceremonious manner. As for me, I am too well accustomed to him to be heard at these things now. He has kept me in hot water, I may say, since the day I married him. In spite of the conciliatory manner in which this agreeable address was made, Mr. Douglas felt considerably disconcerted, and again renewed his apologies, adding something about hopes of being able to proceed. Make no apologies, my dear sir, said the lady, with what she deemed a most bewitching manner. It affords me the greatest pleasure to see any of your family under my roof. I meant no reflection on you. It is entirely Mr. Gaffa that is to blame in not having apprised me of the honour of this visit that I might not have been caught in this dishevel. But I was really so engaged by my studies, pointing to the dirty novel, that I was quite unconscious of the lapse of time. The guest felt more and more at a loss what to say. But the lady was at none. Seeing Mr. Douglas still standing with his hat in his hand, and as I directed towards the door, she resumed her discourse. Pray, be seated, Mr. Douglas. I beg you will sit off the door. Miss Douglas, I entreat you will walk into the fire. I hope you will consider yourself as quite at home. Another elegant bend to each. I only regret that Mr. Galfa's folly and ill breeding should have brought you into this disagreeable situation, Mr. Douglas. He is a well-meaning man, Mr. Douglas, and a good hearted man. But he is very deficient in other respects, Mr. Douglas. Mr. Douglas, happy to find anything to which he could assent, warmly joined in the eulogium on the excellence of his friend's heart. It did not appear, however, to give the satisfaction he expected. The lady resumed with a sigh. Nobody can know Mr. Galfa's heart better than I do, Mr. Douglas. It is a good one. But it is far from being an elegant one. It is one in which I find no congeniality of sentiment with my own. Indeed, Mr. Galfa is no companion for me, nor I for him, Mr. Douglas. He is never happy in my society, and I really believe he would rather sit down with the tinklers on the roadside as spend a day in my company. A deep sigh followed, but its pathos was drowned in the obstiferous ha-ha-ha of her joyous helpmate as he bounced into the room wiping his forehead. Why may, my dear, what have you been today? Things have been all going to the deuce. Why didn't you hinder these boys from sweeten the gate off its hinges, and me hinder the boys from sweeten the gate, Mr. Galfa? Do I look as if I was capable of hindering boys from sweeten gates, Mr. Douglas? Well, my dear, you ought to look after your pigs a little better. That jade black jest has trod a parcel of them to death, ha-ha-ha. And, me, look after pigs, Mr. Galfa? I am really astonished at you. Again interrupted the lady, turning pale with vexation. Then, with an affected giggle, appealing to Mary, I leave you to judge, Miss Douglas, if I look like a person made for running after pigs. Indeed, thought Mary. You don't look like as if you could do anything half so useful. Well, never mind the pigs, my dear. Only don't give us any of them for dinner, ha-ha-ha. And, May, when will you let us have it? Me, let you have it, Mr. Galfa. I'm sure I don't hinder you from having it when you please, only you know I prefer late hours myself. I was always accustomed to them in my poor father's lifetime. He never dined before four o'clock, and I seldom knew what it was to be in my bed before twelve o'clock at night, Miss Douglas, till I married Mr. Galfa. Mary tried to look sorrowful, to hide the smile that was dimpling her cheek. Come, let us have something to eat in the meantime, my dear. I'm sure you may eat the house, if you please, for me, Mr. Galfa. What would you take, Miss Douglas? But pull the bell. Softly, Mr. Galfa, you do everything so violently. A dirty maid-servant with bare feet, answered the summons. Where's Tom? demanded the lady, well knowing that Tom was a far off at some of the farm operations. I can't know where he is. He'll be either at the patates, or the horses, by his warrant. If you want him, bring some glasses, said her mistress, with an air of great dignity. Mr. Galfa, you must see about the wine yourself, since you have sent Tom out of the way. Mr. Galfa and his handmaid were soon heard in an adjoining closet, the one wondering where the screw was, the other was separating for a knife to cut the bread. While the mistress of this well-regulated mansion sought to divert her guest's attention from what was passing, by entertaining them with complaints of Mr. Galfa's noise and her maid's insolence, till the parties appeared to speak for themselves. After being refreshed with some very bad wine and old baked bread, the gentleman set off on a survey of the farm, and the ladies repaired to their toilets. Mary's simple dress was quickly adjusted, and upon descending she found her uncle alone in what Mrs. Galfa had shown to her as the drawing-room. He guessed her curiosity to know something of her hosts, and therefore briefly informed her that Mrs. Galfa was the daughter of a trader in some manufacturing town who had lived in opulence and died in solvent. During his life his daughter had eloped with Bob Galfa, then a gay lieutenant in a marching regiment, who had been esteemed a very lucky fellow in getting the pretty Miss Croker, with the prospect of ten thousand pounds. None thought more highly of her husband's good fortune than the lady herself, and though her fortune never was realized, she gave herself all the heirs of having been the making of his. At this time Mr. Galfa was a reduced lieutenant living upon a small paternal property which he pretended to farm. But the habits of a military life joined to a naturally social disposition were rather inimical to the pursuits of agriculture, and most of his time was spent in loitering about the village of G, where he generally continued either to pick up a guest or procure a dinner. Mrs. Galfa despised her husband, had weak nerves and headaches, was above managing her house, read novels, died ribbons, and altered her gowns according to every pattern she could see or hear of. Such were Mr. and Mrs. Galfa, one of the many ill-assorted couples in this world, joined, not matched. A sensible man would have curbed her folly and peevishness. A good-tempered woman would have made his home comfortable and rendered him more domestic. The dinner was such as might have been expected from the previous specimens, bad of its kind, cold, ill-dressed, and slovenly sat down. But Mrs. Galfa seemed satisfied with herself and it. This is very fine mutton, Mr. Douglas, and not underdone to most people's tastes, and this fowl I have no doubt will eat well, Miss Douglas, though it is not so white as some I have seen. The fowl, my dear, looks as if it had been the great-grandmother of this sheep. Ha, ha, ha! For heaven's sake, Mr. Galfa, make less noise or my head will split in a thousand pieces, putting her hands to it as if to hold the frail tenement together. This was always her refuge, when at a loss for a reply. A very ill concocted pudding, next called forth her approbation. This pudding should be good, for it is the same I used to be so partial to in my poor father's lifetime, when I was used to every delicacy, Miss Douglas, that money could purchase. But you thought me the greatest delicacy of all, my dear. Ha, ha, ha! For you left all your other delicacies for me. Ha, ha, ha! What do you say to that, May? Ha, ha, ha! May's reply consisted in putting her hands to her head with an air of inexpressible vexation, and finding all her endeavours to be elegant, frustrated by the overpowering vulgarity of her husband, she remained silent during the remainder of the repast, solacing herself with complacent glances at her yellow silk gown, and adjusting the gold chains and necklaces that adorned her bosom. Poor Mary was doomed to a tete-a-tete with her during the whole evening, for Mr. Galfa was too happy with his friend and without his wife, to quit the dining-room till a late hour, and then he was so much exhilarated, that she could almost have joined Mrs. Galfa in her exclamation of, for heaven's sake, Mr. Galfa, have mercy on my head. The night, however, like all other nights, had a close, and Mrs. Galfa, having once more enjoyed the felicity of finding herself in company at twelve o'clock at night, at length withdrew, and having apologized and hoped and feared for another hour in Mary's apartment, she finally left her to the blessings of solitude and repose. As Mr. Douglas was desirous of reaching Edinburgh the following day, he had, in spite of the urgent remonstrances of his friendly host and the eloquent importunities of his lady, ordered the carriage at an early hour, and Mary was too eager to quit Halfon to keep it waiting. Mr. Galfa was in readiness to hand her in, but fortunately Mrs. Galfa's head did not permit of her rising. With much the same hearty laugh that had welcomed their meeting, Anna Galfa now saluted the departure of his friend, and as he went whistling over his gate, he ruminated sweet and bitter thoughts as to the destinies of the day, whether he should solace himself with a good dinner and the company of Bailey Mary at the crosskeys in G, or put up with cold mutton and may at home. Volume 1 by Susan Edmundstone-Farrier Chapter 33 Adina, Scotia's darling seat. All hail thy palaces and towers, where once beneath the monarch's feet set legislation sovereign powers. Burns. All Mary's sensations of admiration were faint compared to those she experienced as she viewed the Scottish metropolis. It was associated in her mind with all the local preposessions to which youth and enthusiasm loved to give a local habitation and a name, and visions of older times floated or her mind as she gazed on its rocky battlements and traversed the lonely arcades of its deserted palace. And this was once a gay court that she, as she listened to the dreary echo of her own footsteps, and this very ground on which I now stand, was trod by the hapless Mary Stuart. Her eye beheld the same objects that mine now rests upon. Her hand has touched the draperies I now hold in mine. These frail memorials remain, but what remains of Scotland's queen but a blighted name? Even the bloodstained chamber possessed a nameless charm for Mary's vivid imagination. She had not entirely escaped the superstitions of the country in which she had lived, and she readily yielded her ascent to the assurations of her guide as to its being the bona fide blood of David Ritcio, which for nearly three hundred years had resisted all human efforts to a face. My credulity is so harmless, said she in answer to her uncle's attempt to laugh her out of her belief, that I surely may be permitted to indulge it especially since I confess I feel a sort of indescribable pleasure in it. You take pleasure in the sight of blood, exclaimed Mr. Douglas in astonishment. You, who turned pale at sight of a cut finger, and shudder at a leg of mutton with juice in it? Oh, mere modern vulgar blood is very shocking, answered Mary with a smile, but observe how this is mellowed by time into a tent that could not offend the most fastidious fine lady. Besides, added she in a graver tone, I own. I love to believe in things supernatural. It seems to connect us more with another world than when everything is seen to proceed in the mere ordinary course of nature as it is called. I cannot bear to imagine a dreary chasm betwixt the inhabitants of this world and beings of a higher sphere. I love to fancy myself surrounded by. I wish to heaven you would remember you are surrounded by rational beings, and not fall into such rhapsodies, said her uncle, glancing at a party who stood near them, jesting upon all the objects which Mary had been regarding with so much veneration. But come, you have been long enough here. Let us try whether a breeze on the Carlton Hill will not dispel these cobwebs from your brain. The day, though cold, was clear and sunny, and the lovely spectacle before them shone forth in all its gay magnificence. The blue waters lay calm and motionless, the opposite shores glowed in a thousand varied tents of wood and plain, rock and mountain, cultured field and purple moor. Beneath the old town reared its dark brow, and the new one stretched its golden lines, while all around the varied charms of nature lay scattered in that profusion which nature's hand alone can bestow. Oh, this is exquisite, exclaimed Mary after a long pause, in which she had been riveted in admiration of the scene before her. And you're in the right, my dear uncle. The ideas which are inspired by the contemplation of such a spectacle as this are far, oh, how far, superior to those excited by the mere works of art. There I can at best think but of the inferior agents of providence. Here the soul rises from nature up to nature's god. Upon my soul you will be taken for a Methodist, Mary, if you talk in this manner, said Mr. Douglas, with some marks of disquiet as he turned round at the salutation of a fat elderly gentleman whom he presently recognized as Bailey Broadfoot. The first salutations over, Mr. Douglas's fears of Mary having been overheard, recurred, and he felt anxious to remove any unfavorable impression with regard to his own principles, at least, from the mind of the enlightened magistrate. Your fine views here have set my niece absolutely raving, said he with a smile, but I tell her it's only in romantic minds that fine scenery inspires romantic ideas. I dare say many of the worthy inhabitants of Edinburgh walk here with no other idea than that of sharpening their appetites for dinner. New doubt, said the Bailey. It's a most capital place for that. Would it know for that? I can nay muckle use it would be of. You speak from experience of its virtues in that respect, I suppose, said Mr. Douglas gravely. Indeed, has to that I cannot complain. At times, to be sure, I am troubled with a little kind of a squeamishness after a public entertainments, but three rounds o' the hill sets all to rights. Then observing Mary's eyes exploring as he supposed the town of Leith, you see that prospect to nay advantage today, miss, said he. If the glass houses had been working, it would have looked as well again. You have nay glass houses in the Highlands. No, no. The Bailey had a share in the concern, and the volcanic clouds of smoke that issued from thence were far more interesting subjects of speculation to him than all the eruptions of Vesuvius or Etna. But there was nothing to charm the lingering view to day, and he therefore proposed they're taking a look at Bridewell, which, next to the smoke from the glass houses, he reckoned the object most worthy of notice. It was indeed deserving of the praises bestowed upon it, and Mary was giving her whole attention to the details of it when she was suddenly startled by hearing her own name wailed in piteous accents from one of the lower cells. And upon turning round, she discovered in the prisoner the son of one of the tenants of Glenfern. Duncan Mefrey had been always looked upon as a very honest lad in the Highlands, but he had left home to push his fortune as a peddler, and the temptations of the low country having proved too much for his virtue, poor Duncan is now expatiating his offense, endurance vile. I shall have a pretty account of you to carry to Glenfern, said Mr. Douglas regarding the culprit with his sternest look. Oh deed, sir, it's no my fault, answered Duncan, blubbering bitterly. But there's nay freedom at on this country. Lord and I war out o' it. Un kind of caw their head thereon in it, for you kind of lift the book o'er print. But there are all upon ye, and a fresh burst of sorrow ensued. Finding the peccadilla was of a venial nature, Mr. Douglas besought the Bailey to use his interest to procure the enfranchisement of this his vassal, which Mr. Broadfoot happy to oblige a good customer promise should be obtained on the following day. And Duncan's emotions being rather clamorous, the party found it necessary to withdraw. And no, said the Bailey as they emerged from his place of dull endurance, will you step up to the monument and take a rest in some refreshment? Rest in refreshment in a monument, exclaimed Mr. Douglas. Excuse me, my good friend, but we are not inclined to bait there yet a while. The Bailey did not comprehend the joke, and he proceeded in his own drawing humdrum accent to assure them that the monument was a most convenient place. It was erected in honor of Lord Nelson's memory, said he, and is let off to a pastry cook and confectioner, where you can always find some trifles to treat the ladies, such as pies and custards and berries, and these sort of things. But we passed an order in the consul that there should be nothing of a spiritist nature introduced, or if one's spirits got admittance, there's no saying what might happen. This was a fact which none of the party were disposed to dispute, and the Bailey, triumphing in his dominion over the spirits, shuffled on before to do the honors of this place, appropriated at one and the same time to the mains of a hero and the making of mince pies. The regale was admirable, and Mary could not help thinking times were improved, and that it was a better thing to eat tarts in Lord Nelson's monument, and to have been poisoned in Julius Caesar's. Marriage volume one by Susan Edmund Stonefarrier, chapter 34. Having a tongue as rough as a cat, and biting like an adder, and all the reproofs are direct scoldings, their common intercourse is open contimally. Jeremy Taylor. Though last, not least of nature's works, I must now introduce you to a friend of mine, said Mr. Douglas, as the Bailey having made his bow, they bent their steps towards the Castle Hill. Mrs. Violet McShake is an aunt of my mother's, whom you must often have heard of, and the last remaining branch of the noble race of Guernacal. I am afraid she is rather a formidable person then, said Mary. Her uncle hesitated, no, not formidable, only rather particular, as all old people are. But she is very good hearted. I understand. In other words, she is very disagreeable. All ill-tempered people I observe have the character of being good-hearted, or else all good people are ill-tempered. I can't tell which. It is more than reputation with her, said Mr. Douglas somewhat angrily, for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman as I experienced when the boy at college. Many a crown piece and half guinea I used to get from her. Many a scold to be sure went along with them, but that I dare say I deserved. Besides, she is very rich, and I am her reputed heir. Therefore, gratitude and self-interest combine to render her extremely amiable in my estimation. They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs. McShake resided, and having rung, the door was at length most deliberately opened by an ancient, sour-visaged, long-wasted female, who ushered them into an apartment, the coup d'oeil of which struck a chill to Mary's heart. It was a good-sized room, with a bare sufficiency of small-legged dining tables, and lank haircloth chairs ranged in high order around the walls. Although the season was advanced, and the air piercing cold, the great stood smiling in all the charms of polished steel, and the mistress of the mansion was seated by the side of it in an armchair, still in its summer position. She appeared to have no other occupation than what her own meditations afforded, for a single glance suffice to show that not a vestige of book or work was harbored there. She was a tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time's iron hands scarcely bent, as she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping, snuffy nose, a long-turned-up chin, small, quick, gray eyes, and her face projected far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd, restless curiosity. She wore a mode, not a la mode, bonnet, and cardinal of the same, a pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms. As soon as she recognized Mr. Douglas, she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, padded him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction, and, in short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentle women of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an impromptu than an habitual feeling. For as the surprise were off, her vestige resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited. And what thought of C. N. Yee inow said she, in a quick, gabbling voice, what brought you to the tune? Are you come to spend our honest feathers, Siller, or his will called in his grave, poor man? Mr. Douglas explained that it was upon account of his niece's health. Health, repeated she with a sardonic smile. It would make an owl laugh to hear the work that's made about young folk's health nowadays. I wonder what you're made of? Grasping Mary's arm in her great bony hand, a wean poor feckless windelstress. I'm on my way to England for your health. Setch ye up! I wonder what came of the lasses in my time that would to bide at home. And will go ye, I should like to ken. Siller leave to see ninety-six like me. Health, hee hee! Mary, glad of a pretense, to indulge the mirth the old lady's manner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh. Take off your bonnet, Baron, and let me see your face. Who can tell what like ye are, that snulo thing on your head? Then after taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed aside her police. Well, it's a mercy. I see ye hey nether the red heed, nor the muckl coats of the Douglas's. I ken nay whether your father had them or no. I nare set in on him, neither him nor his bra lady thought it worth their while to spear after me. But I was at nylos by all accounts. You have not asked after any of your glen fern friends, said Mr. Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic cord. Time enough. Will ye let me draw my breath, man? Folk cannot say aw thing at once, and ye put to hey an English wife too. A scotch lass would nay ser ye, and ye're wean, he's Warren. It's one of the world's wonders. It's been an con long a common, he he. He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow, said Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father's death. And was fought was that. I nare heard tell the like of it, to hey the Baron Crescent and his grandfather Diane, but folk are nether born, nor Crescent, nor do they water thee as they used to do. Aw things changed. You must indeed have witnessed many changes, observed Mr. Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature. Changes? We are the what. I sometimes wonder if it's the same world, and if it's my end head that's upon my shoulders. But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements, said Mary, in a tone of diffidence. Improvements, turning sharply round upon her. What can ye about improvements, Bern? A Bonnie improvement, or in snow, to see tiliers and splatters live in where I mine jukes and urls. And that great glower and new tune there, pointing out of her windows, where I used to sit and look out at Bonnie green parks, and see the coals melt, and the bits of bernies roan in tumbling, and the lassies tramp in in their tubs. What see I know, but stone and lime, and store and dirt, and idle chills, and dink-dote madams, Pranson. Improvements, indeed. Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more. Mr. Douglas, who was more olfay to the prejudices of old age, and who was always amused with her bitter remarks when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some observation on the prevailing manners. Manners repeated she with a contemptuous laugh. What kind manners knew for I den a kin? Look in gangs bang in till their neighbors' hosts and bang out it, as it were a chained house. And as for the master, O' it, he is no ose muckle value, as the flunky o' hind his chair. In my grandfather's time, as I hailed him tell, like a maestro a family, had his own sight in his own hosts eye, and sat we as hat on his hay before the best of the land, and had his own dish, and was I helped first, and kept up his authority as a man should do. Parents were parents then, berns dared not say up their gaps before them then, as they do know, they ne'er presumed to say their haids were their own in they days. Wife and servants, retainers and children, all trembled at they presence with their haid. Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady's harangue, but after having duly wiped her nose with their colored handkerchief, and shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon her cardinal, she resumed. And no word or any of your sisters going to get husbands yet, they tell me there but coarse lasses, and what'll take ill, far, torcherless queen when there's a wealth of bonny faces and long purses in the market, he he. Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary, and eyes warren, you'll be looking for an English sweetheart too, that'll be what's taken ye away to England. On the contrary, said Mr. Douglas, seeing Mary was too much frightened to answer for herself. On the contrary, Mary declares she will never marry any but a true Highlander, one who wears the dirk and plaid, and has the second sight, and the nuptials are to be celebrated with all the pomp of feudal times, with bagpipes and bonfires, and gathering of clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of whisky, and will-a-what, and she's in the right there, interrupted Mrs. McShake, with more complacency than she had yet shown. They may call them what they like, but there's nay weddens, no. What's the better of them but in keepers and chase-drivers? I would nay count myself married in the hidlands way they gang about it, no. I dare say you remember these things done in a very different style, said Mr. Douglas. I didn't mind them, won the war at the best, but I heard my mother tell what a bonny ploy was at her wedding. What can I tell ye how many was at it? Mar nor the room would haud, ye may be sure. For every relation and friend of both sides were there, as well they should, and all in full dress. The ladies in their hoops round them, and some of them had set up all night to have their haids dressed, where they had now the pocket-like taps ye had now, looking with contempt at Mary's Grecian contour. And the bride's gown was all showed o'er with favor, from the top-tone to the tail, and all round the neck, and about the sleeves, and as soon as the ceremony was o'er, he'll conrand with her, and rugged and rave at her for the favors, till they hardly left the clothes upon her back. Then they did not run away as they do now, but six and redio them sat down to look ran dinner, and there was a ball at night, and all night till Sabbath came round, and then the bride and the bridegroom dressed in their wedding suits, and all their friends and theirs with their favors on their breasts walked in procession to the Kirk. And wasn't that something like a wedding? It was worthwhile to be married those days, he he. The wedding seems to have been admirably conducted, said Mr Douglas, with much solemnity. The christening, I presume, would be the next distinguished event in the family. Truth, Archie, and you should keep your thumb upon christenins as long as you live. Yours was a Bonnie christenin, or in snow. I had heard of many things, but a Baron christened when its grandfather was in the dead straw. I never heard tello before. Then observing the indignation that spread over Mr Douglas's face, she quickly resumed. And so you think the christenin was the nice ploy? Ha hee nah, the cryin was a ploy. For the ladies did not keep themselves up then as they do know, but the day after the Baron was born the ladies set up in her bed. We are a fan until her hand. And all her friends earn and stood round her and drank her health in the Baron's. Then at the lady's recovery there was a grand suppergain that they called the cummerfrails, and there was a great pyramid of hens at the top of the table, and another pyramid of ducks at the foot, and a muckle stoopful apocid in the middle, and all kinds of sweeties dune the sights. And as soon as Ilkan had eaten their fill, they all flew till the sweeties, and fought and strove and wrestled for them. Ladies and gentlemen and all, for the brag was what could pocket most, and whilst they would have the cloth off the table, and all thing in the middle of the floor, and the chairs upside dune. Ooh, what a good diversion, Iswaran, was it the cummerfrails? Then when they had drank the stoop dry, that ended the ploy. As for the cursinine, that was I, Warat, should be, in the house of God, and all the kith and kin, by, in full dress, and a band of maiden-crimors, all in white, and a bony sight it was, as I've heard my mither tell. Mr. Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady's reminiscences, availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to rise and take leave. Ooh, what's taken you away, Archie, and Sitka hurry? Sit down there, laying her hand upon his arm, and rest ye, and take a glass of wine and a bit of bread. Or maybe, turning to Mary, you would rather hay a draperoth to warm ye. What gargy luck, Sibley, Baron. I'm sure it's no cold. But you're just like the laved. You're gone guiltin' about the streets half naked, and then you must sit in a burstle yourselves before the fire at home. She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and opening a press took out wine and a plateful of various shaped articles of bread which she handed to Mary. Hey, Baron, take a cookie. Take it up. What are you afraid for? A little no-bychie. Here's to ye, Glenfern, and your wife and your ween. Poor Teed. It's no had a very chancey outset. Well, await. The wine being drunk and the cookies discussed. Mr. Douglas made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain. Can't you sit still, a weenman? And let me spear after me, old friends at Glenfern. Oh, scrizy and jacky and nicky. I workin' away at the pills and the drugs. Hee-hee. I ne'er swallowed a pill, nor guide a doit for drugs all my days. Unsee on any of them will run a race with me when they're ne'er five score. Mr. Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty graciously received, and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his Aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a row-buck and brace of more game. Can your row-bucks nay better than your last to twill? It's no worth the sendin'. Poor dry, fishingless dirt. No worth the chowing. Well, await. Have a grudge my teeth on it. Your mere foul was not that ill, but they're no worth the carrion. They're done cheap in the market, you know. So it's nay great compliment. Gin yet brought me a leg of good mutton, or a collar saw-mot. There would have been some sense in it. But sure, on all the folk that'll ne'er hurry yourself with your presence. It's but the pickle-prother they cost you. An eye's warren you're thinkin' male-a-urain diversion, then o' my stomach, when you're at the shootin' of them, poor beasts. Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities leveled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before. But to this attack upon his game, he was not proof. His color rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips as he strode indignantly towards the door. His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him and breaking into a discordant laugh as she padded him on the back. So I see you're just the old man, Archie. I ready to take the strums, and you didn't get a thing, your ain't why. Money a time I had to flee she out lo the dorts when you was a callant. Div you mind who you was affronted because I set you down to a cold pigeon pie in a tanker at Tiffany, a night to your fowl whores before some ladies, he he he. Will await. Your wife, Mon, hey, here I endures to manage ye, for you're a comestery child, Archie. Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry. Come, come, sit ye down on there till I speak to this baron, said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bed chamber, which for the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then, pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer out of which she took a pair of diamond earrings. Hey, Baron, said she, as she stuffed them into Mary's hand, they belonged to your father's grandmother. She was a good woman and had four and twenty sons and daughters, and I wish you never were fortune than just a hey as money. But mind ye, with a shake of her bony finger, they mon be scots. Again, I thought you would marry only pock wooden, fire head wide ye gotten from me. No, hold your tongue, and dana dive me with thanks, almost pushing her into the parlor again. And then you're gone away in the morn. I'll see no maria, no, so fair you will. But Archie, you mon, come and take your breakfast with me. I have muckled to say to you, but your mon will be so hard upon my baps as ye used to be, with a facetious grin to her mollified favorite as they shook hands and parted. Well, how do you like Mrs. McShake Mary, asked her uncle as they walked home? That is a cruel question, Uncle, answered she with a smile. My gratitude and my taste are at such variance, displaying her splendid gift, that I know not how to reconcile them. That is always the case with those whom Mrs. McShake has obliged, returned Mr. Douglas. She does many liberal things, been in so ungracious a manner that people are never sure whether they are obliged or insulted by her. But the way in which she receives kindness is still worse. Could anything equal her impertinence about my robuck? Faith, I've got a good mind never to enter her door again. Mary could scarcely preserve her gravity at her uncle's indignation, which seems so disproportioned to the cause. But to turn the current of his ideas, she remarked that he had certainly been at pains to select two admirable specimens of her countrywomen for her. I don't think I shall soon forget either Mrs. Galfa or Mrs. McShake, said she, laughing. I hope you won't carry away the impression that these two Lusus Natura specimens of Scotch women, said her uncle. The former indeed is rather a sort of weed that infests every soil. The latter, to be sure, is an indigenous plant. By question, if she would have arrived at such perfection in a more cultivated field or genial climb, she was born at a time when Scotland was very different from what it is now. Female education was little attended to, even in families of the highest rank. Consequently, the ladies of those days possess a raciness in their manners and ideas that we should vainly seek for in this age of cultivation and refinement. Had your time permitted, you could have seen much good society here, superior, perhaps, to what is to be found anywhere else as far as mental cultivation is concerned. But you will have leisure for that when you return. Mary acquiesced with a sigh. Return was to her still a melancholy sounding word. It reminded her of all she had left of the anguish of separation, the dreariness of absence, and all these painful feelings were renewed in their utmost bitterness when the time approached for her to bid adieu to her uncle. Lord Courtland's carriage and two respectable-looking servants awaited her, and the following morning she commenced her journey in all the agony of a heart that fondly clings to its native home. End of Volume 1. End of Marriage, Volume 1 by Susan Edmund Stone Ferrier, recording by Patty Cunningham.