RENDERS A CHANGE OF ABODE NECESSARY.
Death and poverty—perpetual travellers, who seem to take pleasure in
dogging each other’s footsteps from house to house—had, as too
frequently proves the case, entered the abode of the Frazers almost
simultaneously.
The husband, having invested all his fortune—ten thousand pounds—in some
absurd speculation, which was, so he once affirmed, to give him “thirty
thousand for his daughter’s portion, and plenty more besides,” was so
overwhelmed at the first mention of a possibility of failure, that he
sunk under the violence of his grief and anxiety, never to rise again;
and the very day after his demise, letters from a mighty city brought
unto that lonely nook the intelligence that, not merely were “the thirty
thousand pounds not coming, but that the ten thousand had gone.”
It is sad when death enters any door, but it is sadder still when
poverty follows the ghastly visitor through the portal the latter has
left open behind him, bringing a double portion of sorrow into that home
where sorrow enough previously abode.
To weep by the corpse of a dearly-loved friend is bitter, we have all
felt; but to be, in addition, anxious concerning the vulgar matter of
daily bread, to have to consider, almost ere the funeral train be out of
sight, how life is to be supported, creditors satisfied, a shelter
provided, children fed, clothed, and educated, is a something so
repugnant to every feeling of human nature, that it rarely carries its
burden of sorrow bravely, but too frequently sits hopelessly down in its
despair and declares the attempt utterly useless, unless friends or
relatives will lighten the load with the magic touch of gold.
Mrs. Frazer never thought of making the attempt at all, however, whether
aided in her endeavour or not; she was one of the apparently most
amiable and really most helpless amongst the innumerable descendants of
Eve; she was grateful for money, if it were given cheerfully or
obtainable readily, and could spend it, as some of her sex can, without
a thought of whether she were making a good use of it or whether, when
it was exhausted, she would be able to obtain fresh supplies: so long as
gales from those blessed islands called, in our vulgar tongue, banker’s
coffers, filled the sails of her bark, the lady floated on happily,
tranquilly; she could ask for gold, receive it, smile sweetly in return
for it, change it away for things of doubtful value and still more
questionable utility,—but make it! A pilgrimage to the moon would have
sounded to her quite as possible a proposition as for her to do aught to
increase her income. And so nobody ever did suggest such an impossible
project unto her: she was perfectly prostrated by the death of her
husband and by the loss of his fortune, but she dimly reflected, “When I
was a child, my father provided for me; when I became a wife, my husband
did the same; and now I am a widow, somebody will give me all I
require?” and consolation and encouragement came with the idea into her
mind.
Had his creditors not taken the property of the late Captain Frazer into
their own hands, she would have entreated the laird of Craigmaver to
“put matters to rights for her;” as it was, the above procedure saved
him trouble and her trouble, and left both at liberty to quit Glenfiord,
a place which had now become unendurable to her, and proceed northwards,
accompanied by Mina and her son; for the widow unhesitatingly accepted
the offer of a temporary home at Craigmaver till her future plans were
matured,—till, in plainer words, she heard whether her rich bachelor
half-brother, Mr. Merapie, were going to “act a brother’s part towards
her and make Malcolm his heir and promise Mina a fortune.”
“Take the cottage near Craigmaver and have a comfortable little farm
yard, just sufficient to provide us with milk and butter and eggs for
our own use, and send Malcolm to school, and live with Mina here on
fifty pounds a year!” she exclaimed one day, about a month after her
arrival, in answer to the laird’s remonstrance against her journeying
south. “My dear uncle, you must be dreaming; why my father allowed me
more than that for dress alone when I was a girl, and your nephew,
Allan, though not very rich, had still what made us comfortable, five
hundred a year besides his half-pay and Glenfiord; it is all very well
to talk of people being contented and coming down to their situation;
and some, perhaps, can do it, but I was not brought up to come down to
my situation, and I could not and would not even dream of doing such a
thing. John will never let me want, I know; and Malcolm, poor child, has
set his heart on entering the navy, and how could he enter the navy
here; and I should perfectly die of _ennui_ amongst these savage hills
if I had no carriage and did not visit Edinburgh every winter. No, no;
my brother is right—we ought to go to London; it is my native place, you
know, and whenever Mina is better we shall set out.”
“I think,” suggested Mr. Frazer, “that you might live comfortably here;
your expenses would be very small; my people should attend to your
poultry and garden: the house is small, I admit, but still large enough
for you; I would be always near to assist or advise in any emergency:
and surely,” he added, with a smile, “our mountain air must be as pure,
and our Highland scenery is more beautiful than any you will meet with
south of the Tweed.”
“It is very kind of you, I am sure,” she said, “to propose all this; but
I have finally determined to accept John’s offer: there are such
advantages about London, everything to be had that you want, nothing to
do but pay for things and they are with you in five minutes. London
possesses everything that a rational being can desire, excepting
beautiful scenery, and you know I never cared for that.”
Which was perfectly true, for even in her youngest and most romantic
days, Mrs. Frazer would have preferred the present of “a duck” of a new
silk dress, to the sight of the loveliest view that eye ever rested on.
But if she liked the city streets, Mr. Frazer thought he knew a little
creature who would pine amongst them; so he said:
“Well, perhaps you are right, and I confess mine was not altogether an
unselfish proposition, for I desired to keep you all near me; but I wish
greatly that, at least for the present, you would leave Mina here: she
is so delicate, so susceptible, that I fear this sudden snapping of all
old ties may prove most injurious to her; the child will break her heart
in London, pent up in the house or else sent out for stated walks, after
the liberty to which she has been accustomed.”
“Her father permitted her to run wild,” returned the lady pettishly;
“she will be a deal the better for a little restraint; she is still
young enough to be brought into training. I really sometimes tremble to
think what a strange unmanageable creature my poor dear husband was
making her,—letting her do just as she pleased—run out without bonnet or
gloves, getting her complexion ruined and her hands the colour of
rosewood—work amongst clay and sand, and even soot—and talk to servants
and poor people till she acquired all their extraordinary notions. She
told me the other day, that she was very nearly as fond of Colin
Saunders as of you: now only think of her even saying such a thing!”
“Well, I have no doubt she only spoke the truth,” responded the old man;
then, after musing for a few minutes, he said, “And I suppose you will
send the little wild mountain sprite to some fashionable London school,
where she will have to learn all sorts of lessons, and be laced up in
stays, and have to wear tight shoes, and either say what she does not
think or else keep all her thoughts to herself; and instead of the
affectionate heart she now possesses, she will grow ashamed of caring
much of anything save herself and the fripperies and follies of fashion:
she must either change her nature or break her heart. My poor little
Mina! will you leave her with me?”
“If I had no other inducement for leaving this country,” said the widow
rather angrily, “Mina would be a sufficient motive to make me do so. The
child has been perfectly ruined, and in a town and amongst other young
people, I pray she may lose that eccentricity which now distinguishes
her. She has the strangest ideas and thoughts, and the most disagreeable
way of giving expression to them: one of her convictions at present is,
that no one excepting herself, you, and Colin is really grieved at her
father’s death.” And Mrs. Frazer applied her handkerchief to her eyes as
she recorded this crowning sin, and shed a few tears in a very proper
manner, while Mr. Frazer reflected that Mina was not very far wrong; for
so long as her son lived, his nephew’s widow cared very little if all
the rest of the world died; and, besides, the idea of leaving a country
and a people she had always disliked and of returning to the joys and
bustle of England’s metropolis, had tended not a little to banish her
sorrow and make her regard the demise of her husband, who had been, as
she thought, absurdly attached to his native land, not quite so great a
misfortune as she might otherwise have considered it. Her brother, Mr.
John Merapie, would give her a handsome house, servants, equipages,
everything, in fact, she wanted; for she knew he was enormously rich,
and resided, moreover, in that mighty Babylon where everything, save
peace of mind, is to be purchased for ready-money—cash on delivery.
“I do not say,” resumed Mr. Frazer, after an unsatisfactory pause, “that
I ever considered poor Allan’s system of education, or rather of
non-education, so far as my little Mina was concerned, peculiarly
fortunate or beneficial. If you will leave her with me, I intend to try
if it be not possible to make her less a child in some ways and more a
child in others; to eradicate many strange ideas which I admit she has
acquired, and to teach her those absolutely necessary things which her
indulgent father said ‘she was far too young to be teazed learning.’ In
one word, I would endeavour to improve and enlarge her mind, without
changing her heart; only let me keep her for one year, and if, at the
expiration of that period, you do not think her considerably altered for
the better, I will resign all right and title to her. Will you permit
her to stay?”
“My dear uncle,” said the lady impressively, “I would do any one thing
in the world to oblige you except this; I know perfectly well what
Mina’s faults are and why they are: so long as Allan lived, I could not
interfere, because he thought Mina could do no wrong, and considered her
very defects virtues; but now the case is different. I am quite
persuaded that so long as she even breathes the air of Scotland she will
remain unmanageable: I wish her to associate with other girls, to be
instructed in feminine accomplishments, to be drilled into the decorums
of refined English society, to acquire a certain _retenue_ of manner,
and, above all, to be removed from vulgar associates, who, I verily
believe, would soon teach her to speak broad Scotch and eat haggiss.”
“The latter accomplishment she has become perfect in without the
advantage of masters,” remarked Mr. Frazer, with a smile; “but to return
to my petition: leave her at Craigmaver for twelve months, and I promise
to preserve her from contact with the commonalty; her accent shall be
kept as pure as any accent out of England can be; and should you make
the same a _sine quâ non_, I think that I can ensure that she shall not
acquire any dreadful penchant for our national and, by consequence,
heathenish dishes: she cannot possibly learn any harm here; and, with
the blessing of Providence, I hope to be enabled to teach her some
good.”
“I am sure,” responded Mrs. Frazer, “it is uncommonly kind of you to
take such an interest about her; I do not understand why you should do
so—if it were Malcolm I could comprehend it better—and Mina never can
feel sufficiently grateful for all the trouble you wish to have on her
account: but indeed it cannot be; it would be a most impolitic
arrangement, to say nothing of the appearance to the world. My brother
is so very rich, that it would be imprudent not to make her dependent on
him, for he can afford to educate her regardless of expense. There are
no advantages in Scotland of any kind; in fact, no one can ever,
strictly speaking, be termed a “gentlewoman,” unless she has been at a
first-class London school. Five, I think, of the very happiest years of
my life were passed at the most expensive seminary in town; for my poor
dear father never regarded money when I was concerned. It would be
almost a sin to deprive Mina of opportunities for improvement such as I
enjoyed: and in the course of a few months she will grow to like London,
and be quite a changed being.”
Mr. Frazer had been silently contemplating the lady—who, reclining
gracefully on a very comfortable sofa, with a sort of widowed and
ladylike grief on her countenance, had in a very languid tone uttered
the above sentence—and the conclusion at which he speedily and
ungallantly arrived was, that if his nephew’s wife was the result of
five years’ fashionable training, on the whole the Glenfiord system
might be deemed preferable. For the old laird had never, even in her
loveliest and best days, entertained any especial affection for her whom
Allan Frazer—then a young subaltern, with an income barely sufficient
for his own support, and a fortune of just one thousand pounds, which he
settled on her—had wedded against the advice of his friends, and the
consent of hers, for love. There was much anger, then forgiveness, then
a handsome allowance from her father, who it was expected would leave
her a considerable sum at his demise; many congratulations from military
acquaintances on the happy termination of his matrimonial speculation; a
little active service, and then, Allan Frazer, a captain on half-pay,
falling, through the death of a relative, into possession of Glenfiord
and ten thousand pounds, retired, to his wife’s inexpressible chagrin,
from the bustle and excitement of town life, and made but one single
step from the gaieties of London, balls, picnics, country quarters, to
the utter desolation and solitary grandeur of Loch Lomond!
But circumstances had lately occurred which rendered her opposition of
the slenderest and most useless description. The love, born of fancy not
of reason, which had lighted in a moment in the young Scotchman’s
imagination, and been blown into something like an intense blaze by the
breath of opposition, died out when that opposition was withdrawn almost
as rapidly as it had kindled. Since time immemorial, ill-natured people
said “the Frazers had been considered more charming in their manners,
than constant in their attachments;” but whether this assertion were
correct or not, whether the fault lay in the nature of the husband or
the character of the wife, one thing is certain,—after a few years Allan
found himself frequently smiling, in a somewhat bitter manner, at the
idea of his ever having been absolutely “in love” with the graceful and
heartless Englishwoman—so much in love, indeed, as once to have
seriously contemplated the desirability of suicide when obstacles,
apparently insurmountable, appeared to bid defiance to their union.
Thus, even whilst her father lived, even whilst backed by money,
friends, position, Mrs. Frazer at length discovered that her influence
over her husband was of the very slightest description; and when, after
the demise of her father—who had in his generation been esteemed one of
the Babylonish merchant princes—it was discovered that he had died just
at the proper time, leaving behind precisely what covered his funeral
expenses, and no more,—Captain Frazer took, as some men will take in
such cases, a much higher tone than formerly with his refractory wife,
whose resistance to aught which he wished from the day when _her_
supplies were stopped, became of that nature which is generally called
passive.
He was always kind to her,—for if the Frazers did choose wives absurdly
and rashly, and repented them of their impetuosity, when repentance was
worse than a folly, they always did treat anything connected with them
of the feminine description, whether mother, sister, wife, or daughter,
kindly—after a fashion. If they could not give love, they gave what very
frequently does just as well, courtesy: they never quarrelled and
argued, but politely expressed their desires, and expected them to be
complied with instanter. They never said, “You must, madam;” but their
quiet “You will, my dear,” had to be obeyed perhaps even more rapidly
than a more peremptory command from less determined lips. In a word,
when all the money and influence and power lay in the hands of the
_ci-devant_ captain, he carried his wife captive to Scotland, and set
her down in a very beautiful cage, surrounded by everything for which
she did not care—scenery, sterling hearts, flowers, beauty, perfume,
solitude—and the only happy portions of her life during the ten years
she spent in the land of cakes and easterly winds were those brief
periods passed in the ancient town of Edinburgh, where Allan had no
objection to take her, and go himself, for three months out of every
dreary twelve. The world was good enough to remark what an extremely
united couple Captain Frazer and his English wife appeared; and, in
truth, externally they did “get on” charmingly, for he gave her, without
hesitation, a liberal supply of money; paid her bills, and never frowned
at their amount; had a _bijou_ of a phaeton, drawn by two Shetland
ponies, made for her especial behoof; and to sum all up into a lady’s
sentence, “was an _excellent_ husband.”
For if he were not devotedly attached to her, neither was she to him;
and he permitted her to indulge and spoil Malcolm to even a greater
extent than he, as Mrs. Frazer affirmed (though not in his hearing),
“ruined” Mina; and each allowed the other to pursue his and her own
separate path, without much hindrance or molestation: and if people be
not very fond of, and most tolerant towards the faults and foibles of,
one another, believe me the wider apart their paths are—even should
those paths be matrimonial ones—the better.
And thus matters progressed peaceably and pleasantly enough, till Mr.
Frazer’s death cut the Gordian knot (which men and women are perpetually
tying in haste with their tongues to the end that they may repent at
leisure in their hearts) for ever; when, as we have seen, the
disconsolate widow left Glenfiord, and repaired to Craigmaver,
preparatory to a still longer journey home to the land of her birth, her
affections, and her hopes.
After what has been advanced concerning the manners of _all_ the
individuals composing the Frazer clan, from the laird down to the
hundred and sixty-second cousin, towards that largest half of humanity
styled so emphatically by our polite and lively allies, “_le beau
sexe_,” you, most patient reader, will readily believe that Mr. Frazer
never permitted anything like the time occupied in the above somewhat
wearisome, but most necessary, digression to elapse between the
termination of his visitor’s remark and his rather melancholy reply
thereto.
“And so you will not comply with my request, and I must part with the
child who has been more unto me than many a daughter is unto many a
parent? Well, well, perhaps I was foolish to expect a different
decision, and I hope and trust and pray the step you are now taking may
prove for her ultimate good both here and hereafter; but there is a
presentiment on my mind—which, like the vision of the seer, oppresses my
soul, and makes me speak when, perhaps, I ought not to do so—that in
that far distant city where you propose taking her, and under
fashionable instructresses, my dear little Mina will either remain just
what she is, and become perfectly miserable, or else change so
completely as to render those who love her best upon earth wretched for
her sake. There are great materials in her character to bring forth
either evil or good, according to the seed which may be sown: but I
leave all with humble trust in the hands of Him who can guide her, there
or here, and keep her always in the straight path that leads so surely
unto heaven.”
Mrs. Frazer had raised an embroidered handkerchief to her face to
conceal a yawn during the progress of this speech, and at its conclusion
answered:
“As you most justly remark, there is a Providence which overrules the
destinies of individuals dwelling in London as well as at Craigmaver. I
prefer the former; and I have no doubt but that Mina will be very good
and happy there, and when you next see her, you will admit she is
greatly improved.” And as if she considered the discussion concluded,
and desired that it should be so, she arose, and taking her relative’s
arm, led him through one of the open windows of the drawing-room into
the garden beyond; and the old man, looking around at the mountains and
the firs and the distant valleys, sighed as he wondered how any one who
_could_ stay amongst such scenery would voluntarily choose to quit it.
The autumn had completely passed ere Mina, still very pale and weak, was
pronounced by a dreadful old Highland doctor—who took snuff and called
Mrs. Frazer “My leddy,” and talked to her in Scotch so harsh, that it
excruciated her refined Saxon ears—at all fit to travel: but cold and
dreary though November might be, the widow determined to depart
immediately,—“_Anything_,” as she impressively said to her English
lady’s-maid, “being preferable to a winter at Craigmaver.”
“And so, Mina darling, we have to say good-bye in real sorrowful
earnest,” said the laird to the child, a few minutes before the time of
parting actually arrived; “in real sorrowful earnest,” he repeated,
looking mournfully upon her.
“Going away, dear good old uncle,” she cried, putting her arms about his
neck, “to the great big toun as Colin calls it, which he says is the
‘head quarters o’ Satan;’ going away from everything—far away, where I
can’t see you: nobody to love Mina there.”
Mr. Frazer kissed a large tear from the quivering eyelids, as he
answered somewhat doubtfully,
“You have your mamma, Mina.”
“And my mamma has Malcolm, uncle,” she quickly responded; “but I am to
go with cousin Allan to say ‘good-bye’ to Colin—poor Colin:” and even as
she spoke, she took the hand of the old laird’s grandson, a stripling of
some seventeen years of age, and went forth with him, quietly and
tearfully, to bid her humble friend farewell.
“I’m going, Colin,” she said, stretching out both her little palms;
“good-bye.”
The gardener gazed dimly on her through a kind of film that, spite of
all his efforts at composure, would obscure his sight.
“Ye’re goin’ hundreds o’ miles awa’ frae us a’, Miss Mina,” he said, and
the words were uttered in a harsh hollow tone, “an’ we’ll never get a
sight o’ ye again, never!”
“Yes, yes, you will,” she rejoined; “I mean to come back to Craigmaver
when I’m a young lady, and live here always.”
“Ah! you will think differently, then, Mina,” said her cousin Allan;
“you will soon forget Scotland and Craigmaver and all of us: won’t she,
Colin?”
“I’d tak’ an oath, if the like were needed, that she winna forget even a
single daisy on the moors, Maister Allan,” returned the gardener
vehemently; “but wherever ye be, or whatever ye think o’, gude go wi’
ye, an’ God tak’ care o’ ye; I could na wish ye a better wish, Miss
Mina, if I talked for a year.”
“What shall I send you from London to remember me by, Colin?” she asked.
“When ye are writing to the laird or Maister Allan, for I believe ye can
write finely, Miss Mina, send me word ye are well, and sometimes ask
‘how is Colin?’ it is all I want; I need naething to remember my dear
old master’s child by—naething!”
“But you must have something for yourself, something you can look at and
think I sent you,” she persisted: “Oh! I know now; I’ll buy you an
English mull, which you can use on Sundays; and then, when I am going to
church in London, I’ll think you are carrying it to kirk with you at
Craigmaver; won’t that do, cousin Allan? I can’t stay any longer,
Colin,” she added, hearing her mother’s maid calling for her. “Good-bye!
I’ll never forget anybody here; and when I’m old, I’ll come back to
Craigmaver to see you all: indeed I will—good-bye!”
She was gone; the gardener gazed after her as she ran towards the house:
he stood as if turned into stone. In a few minutes the noise of carriage
wheels grating on the gravelled drive aroused him, and climbing hastily
a mound which commanded an extensive view of the southern road, he
watched the receding vehicle till it became a tiny speck in the
distance, and finally was lost altogether to view.
“For goodness gracious sake,” exclaimed the lady’s-maid, who occupied a
seat in the carriage opposite her mistress’s daughter; “for goodness
gracious sake, Miss Mina, whatever ’ave you been a doing to your ’air?”
“I just cut off two curls for my uncle and Allan, and don’t torment me
about it Haswell, because I had not time to take off my bonnet again and
get at the back ones; they will grow again, and if they won’t, I don’t
care:” by way of conclusion to which ’orribly naughty speech—as that
perfect lady’s-maid, Miss Haswell, styled it—Mina relapsed into another
paroxysm of grief, and wept and sobbed so that her mother became
satisfied she was about to have some kind of a fit; and acting upon that
impression ordered the driver to stop the carriage, as though such an
act were likely to produce the least good effect under such
circumstances. If the horses’ heads had been turned back the case might
have been a little different; but as Mrs. Frazer had not the slightest
idea of doing anything of the kind, and as scolding and remonstrances,
and even stopping, proved alike useless and unavailing, Mina was at
length permitted to cry in peace, which accordingly she did till she was
so perfectly exhausted that she could cry no more.
But other tears fell that day at Craigmaver, from the eyes of a
true-hearted, and—though he did yield to the weakness which men scoff
at—sensible Highlander, who wept, as he said, “sair,” to think that his
dead master’s child was going away so young and so unwillingly, “into
the world.”