BROTHER AND SISTER.
Nothing more undemonstrative can possibly be conceived than the meeting
betwixt Mr. John Merapie and his sister, Mrs. Frazer. With even less
appearance of his ever having done such a thing in his life before, than
that which characterized his salutation to Mina, the merchant, having a
vague idea that such things were usual upon similar occasions, and
inwardly mourning that they were so, gravely kissed his sister; having
accomplished which feat, to his immense relief, he drew a chair beside
her sofa and inquired, “If she felt better.”
“Still very much fatigued,” was the response, “I did not get to sleep
last night until long after you returned home, thinking about how very
miserable you must have been.”
The merchant started, and enquired somewhat nervously what she meant.
“Oh! living all alone in this dreary house, and having no one to look
after your wants excepting that dreadful old woman (John, I cannot
pretend to tolerate her), and being buried in this out of the way place;
and having no lady’s taste to furnish your house properly for you.”
“I am sorry,” returned her brother with a smile, “you have so
unnecessarily sacrificed your night’s rest to my concerns: I have, like
most other people, had my share of trials, but certainly never dreamed
of classing my house, furniture, and servant amongst them. I expect, of
course, that now we have actually got you here, this place will look a
little more like home: I trust you and yours will be happy, Eliza; they
appear remarkably fine children.”
“Oh! Malcolm is the very best, cleverest, dearest boy that ever existed;
but as for Mina——”
“Why what is wrong about Mina,” demanded the merchant, finding that a
dead blank was intended to express volumes in the child’s disfavor;
“what is wrong about Mina?”
“Everything,” responded the lady, “mind, manners, ideas, appearance,
everything.”
“Excepting her excessive pallor, and the extraordinary way in which she
has cropped her hair on one side, I see nothing greatly amiss with her
appearance,” he returned; “and Malcolm tells me the latter was done in
great haste, before leaving Craigmaver, that she might give the curls to
her uncle and cousin: and as for the paleness, we both know the cause of
that, Eliza.”
“Yes, but it seems so unnatural in a child to keep pining and crying,
for months, when we were all doing what we could for her; she is far too
old-fashioned; her father perfectly spoiled her, she never cared for the
things other children do, never enjoyed herself like them, and her
sorrow more resembles that of some strange-tempered old woman, than a
little girl’s transient trouble. I do not comprehend her; I never
could.”
“But surely Eliza,” exclaimed her brother sternly, “you, who are her
father’s widow, do not mean to blame Mina for weeping so bitterly for
him?”
“Not if she would have done it like a child,” retorted the lady angrily,
“but she did not. After I had worn myself to a perfect skeleton, nursing
her through the low fever which detained us so long in Scotland, the
first thing she said, when consciousness returned was, “Where is my dear
papa? I had rather have him than anybody else in the world—where is he?”
and when I told her “she must lie very quiet and not ask for him as he
could not come to her any more, but that I would stay near her if she
chose;” she said, “Oh! I remember now; but I care for nobody except
him,” and began crying and sobbing so violently that she brought on a
relapse, which had almost proved fatal.
Mr. Merapie answered not, but gazed earnestly at her who uttered the
above sentence. Worn to a skeleton she was not, either by grief or
watching—that fact was self-evident, and the small place Mina occupied
in her heart was no less apparent. “Poor little creature,” mentally
exclaimed the merchant, recalling the pale, thoughtful face to memory;
and, albeit by no means given to feel much concern about the sentiments
and trials of his neighbours in general and the sentiments and trials of
children in particular, on the present occasion something marvellously
like compassion came swelling up in his bosom on behalf of the fragile
girl, whose mother loved her so very little.
After a pause, devoted to useless expectation of an answer of some kind
from her brother’s lips, Mrs. Frazer proceeded.
“But why talk of Mina? she will improve now she is away from those
horrid Highland mountains and vulgar Scotch people, and thrown more
amongst children and associates of her own rank in life! I know she
will, I wanted to speak to you of our future plans.”
“I thought,” remarked Mr. Merapie, “they were quite settled,—that you
were to reside with me.”
“Of course,” returned his sister, coloring a little, “but I presume you
do not propose continuing to live in Belerma Square.”
“And why not?” demanded Mr. Merapie.
“Why not?” she echoed; “it is so dreadfully unfashionable.”
“And, my dear Eliza, of what earthly consequence is fashion either to
you or to me; will it support, clothe, educate your children? Can it
contribute one iota to our happiness? Fashion is a word which has
destroyed more domestic peace, wasted more fortunes, made more homes
desolate, and finally, caused less real joy to mortals, than any other
in our language; it is a perfect humbug.”
“But you don’t mean to say,” began Mrs. Frazer, her astonishment
mastering for once her indolence, and inducing her to speak not merely
rapidly, but loudly; “but you don’t mean to say you brought me from
Craigmaver to _live_ here?”
“I had certainly no intention of bringing you from Craigmaver to _die_
here,” responded her brother somewhat pettishly; “but, if such be your
desire, pray consult your own inclinations on the subject; I have no
wish to fetter them in anyway:” and Mr. Merapie, having delivered
himself of this obliging permission, arose, and taking up a sort of
vantage position on the hearth rug, prepared himself to “go through” the
remainder of the interview with what patience he might.
Mrs. Frazer, upon hearing the above reply, burst into a passion of
tears, and buried her head in the sofa pillow: “It would have been well
for her had she died at the same time as her poor dear Allan, and been
laid in the quiet grave with him; she was wretched—she was miserable—she
had expected different treatment from her brother; but all men were
alike—heartless—unfeeling—selfish. Still the laird of Craigmaver would
never have so wantonly lacerated her heart. _He_ offered her a beautiful
house, and servants, and everything; but she had said, she would go to
her brother, and this was the result of it: to be brought to a low,
horrid locality, into a dingy dirty house, the very name and sight of
which had, in addition to the fatigue of their hurried journey, made her
own maid so ill, that she was unable to rise and attend to her mistress;
who consequently was thrown, for even sugarless supplies of coffee, upon
the mercies of one of the most hideous and dreadful amongst old women:
brought to a place like this, and when, after having patiently borne
all, she suggested the propriety of seeking another home, she was
cruelly told, ‘that if she could not live there, she might die.’”
From that species of dais whence the gentlemen of England love to
deliver the law unto their wives and children, the merchant gazed,—first
at the dull November sky, then at his sister, finally around the room.
Calmly as he might have waited for the termination of an April shower,
no portion of which was falling upon his head, did he watch till Mrs.
Frazer’s indignant feelings should have subsided, or at least till there
should come a lull; and, when the sobs became less frequent, and the
lamentations and reproaches grew neither so doleful nor vehement, in a
voice of quiet decision he said—
“I never thought Eliza, you were especially overburdened with sense, and
now I am sure of it. It is one of those things, indeed, which no lapse
of time, or change of place, or afflictions, or teaching, can implant in
the character of any individual, and therefore I was intensely foolish
to expect you to have acquired it with the lapse of years and a great
misfortune. Had I not understood from your letters that you most
earnestly desired to leave Scotland, I never should have dreamed of
asking you here: but now, as you are here; as the only home I can offer
you does not appear to satisfy you; as you cannot come down to your
position; and as you will not understand that I, though rich, and
willing and anxious to render you and yours happy, am neither a
millionaire, nor your over indulgent father, the next best thing I can
think of is, to allow you an income of—say one hundred pounds per annum,
and pay for the education of your children at some good school. If you
consider an arrangement of this kind would prove more conducive to your
comfort and well-being than our present one, I am willing to pay over
the first instalment to-morrow: I like people to be happy in their way,
providing that way does not throw me altogether out of mine.”
Here was a come down! a miserable awakening from dreams of Berkeley
Square, endless upholsterer’s bills, amber-colored curtains, luxurious
furniture, a carriage, possibly, servants certainly, money _ad libitum_;
and an awful reality of an alternative offered between Belerma Square
and shabby genteel lodgings, and a ridiculous income of one hundred per
annum;—twenty-five pounds per quarter, not quite two per week.
“I could not think of such a proposition,” began the bewildered lady;
but John Merapie, cutting it short with an emphatic “You had better
reflect upon it,” left her to her own meditations.
Unsatisfactory enough they assuredly proved, but time and hope poured,
as they generally do, a sort of balm into her cup of bitterness; and, by
almost imperceptible degrees, the lady arrived at the pleasant
conclusion that men are not invulnerable. Even Achilles, of whom she
remembered once to have heard something, had one susceptible spot: and,
if Achilles, why not John Merapie.
Perhaps she had been too abrupt; had not flattered him sufficiently, had
seemed to desire too much. She would appear to give in,—would actually
do so for the present; and probably in time he might be led to adopt her
views and agree to her wishes. At all events, leave his house, quarrel
with him, lose the chance of his making Malcolm his heir, she would not;
in brief, ere two hours had elapsed, Mrs. Frazer had once again arrived
at the conclusion that she could induce her brother to do anything, if
she only took the proper plan with—and managed him.
But, unhappily, to quote Moore’s simile, “hope” proved in this instance,
as it generally does, “like the bird in the story,” and accordingly
lured the lady, with its brilliant plumage, on into perfect labyrinth of
imagination, from whence, when rudely told she was on the wrong path,
she had to flounder back to the safe, though uninviting, ground of fact,
with what celerity she might. She had formed her ideas of the lords of
the creation in general from her minute juvenile observation of her
worthy papa, who was so excessively kind and sensible that, if she only
cried long enough for anything, she got it: she considered it was their
duty to make money as they could, and give it unhesitatingly to women,
to spend as they liked. Captain Frazer had been in her former opinion, a
sort of tyrannical, obstinate wonder, an exception to every rule, unlike
any other man in the world; but ere long Mr. John Merapie taught her
there was another being in creation, besides Allan Frazer, who not
merely liked to have his own way, but would have it: upon whom tears had
less effect than on sticks and stones; whom flattery could not reach, or
persuasion turn, or anger move, or vague feminine hints and threats
intimidate.
“He and Allan might have been brothers,” she frequently sighed, “they
are so alike;” and in some points, perhaps, they did resemble each
other; only, where the English merchant said plumply, fairly, and
straightforwardly, “I will not, so there is no use in wasting further
tears or arguments upon the matter,” the Scotch officer had been wont to
remark—“Of course, my dear, it grieves me to see you weep, but as your
wishes are impracticable, it is not in my power to comply with them.”
The one frequently implied a refusal—the other always gave it point
blank; the real point of resemblance between the two, was a perfectly
genuine, sincere, and settled resolution never, under any circumstances,
to say “Yes” to any proposition to which they had ever felt inclined to
answer “No.” And as John Merapie would as soon have dreamt of putting
his hand into the fire, as of making himself and his sister fashionable
West End people; as all he cared for in life, was to get through it
quietly, and to invite a few steady-going city men, with bald heads and
grey whiskers, at certain intervals to eat roast beef and drink port
wine with him, which invitation they had not the smallest objection to
accept and to reciprocate; as Belerma Square suited him as well, or
better, for a residence, than any other place in London; and, as in
brief, he had firmly resolved not to leave it; his widowed sister soon
discovered, that she was but wasting time in seeking to melt adamant:
wherefore, with many sighs and groans, she swallowed her disappointment,
and scattered her visions to the four winds of heaven, with what
complacence was possible under the circumstances; and moved about the
house with the air and manner of a suffering saint, who, if not too good
for this world, was a million times too genteel and ladylike for the
society and locality into which she was thrown: and her brother went in
an omnibus every morning, away into mysterious regions, lying on the
Tower side of London Bridge, regions commanding water and street and
warehouse views, where he made any amount of money; and whence he
returned each evening, at about six o’clock, once again viâ omnibus to
the Square, in which his sister was “buried alive”—to borrow one of her
own figurative expressions—and where he owned three houses, two of
which, to his no small chagrin, lacked tenants.
Thus Mrs. Frazer was conquered; she had to submit,—there was no
alternative for it; and thus, so far as she was concerned, he triumphed:
but ere long, the worthy merchant discovered there was nothing on earth
so difficult to tame or manage as a child, and that of all children,
Mina was the hardest to deal with; insomuch as that, no matter what she
did, he found it impossible to be seriously angry with her, in addition
to which, Mina’s will being considerably stronger than her uncle’s,
whenever his inclinations and hers chanced to clash, he invariably had
to give up, after having held out just long enough to teach the little
girl her power.
And as it chanced that, upon the very first time of her being sent,
not to a select seminary, as her mother had planned, before quitting
the Highlands, should be the case, but to a somewhat large
day-school,—chosen by Mr. Merapie, perhaps for no better motive than
because the principal thereof wore calico dresses, and persisted, for
a reason known to herself and a few intimate friends, in teaching her
pupils solely useful things, or rather, things which she called
useful, but which were not actually so. Mina, when asked by her
_gouvernante_ a very absurd question, that might puzzle wiser heads
than her’s to answer, viz: “Which is the finest country in the world?”
replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “Scotland;” and in spite of
explanation, entreaty, threats, and punishment, adhered so obstinately
to her text, adding thereto, first, that her uncle was the best man in
it, and secondly, that London was the worst place in the universe, and
that she hated it, and wished she might go back to Craigmaver—that she
did; that the superintendent, who had a perfect horror of Scotland and
the Scotch, and dreaded, moreover, the effect such an example might
have on the other pupils, requested her assistant, Miss Caldera, to
put on her bonnet, take Miss Frazer home, and report the matter to the
authorities in that quarter. Upon receipt of which order, Miss
Caldera, one of the most patient amongst teachers, sorrowfully holding
the little rebel by the hand, set forth upon a mission that she had
much rather have left unaccomplished.
There had been a hope of pardon held out to Mina, if at any stage of her
journey towards Belerma Square, she repented, and would return meekly
into the school-room, and say to the superintendent, in the presence of
all the children, “England is the finest country in the world, and I am
very sorry ma’am, and hope you will forgive me for being so naughty;”
but, at the bare suggestion, the concentrated Highland blood of the
whole Frazer clan rushed indignantly into the child’s cheeks, and she
said so many evil things about England and the English, all of which, I
regret to add, she had heard from the lips of Colin Saunders, that the
schoolmistress, in very horror, banged the hall door behind the
refractory importation from the “Land of the Leal,” as she might have
closed the gates of Paradise upon a hardened, hopeless, sinner.
“Are not you sorry, dear?” asked Miss Caldera, after they had proceeded
in silence for some distance.
“No, I am not,” was the prompt reply; “I’d say it again, if she asked me
again, and if she didn’t I’d think it.”
“What will your dear mamma say to you?” enquired the lady.
“Nothing,” responded Mina.
“Why, won’t she be angry?” demanded Miss Caldera, rapidly jumping to the
conclusion that, if she would not, the mystery of her daughter’s
stubbornness explained itself; “won’t she be angry?”
“Perhaps she may, indeed I’m sure she will, but I don’t care,” replied
her charge valiantly.
“Not care about your mamma being angry? oh! fie!” said the governess,
becoming more mystified than ever; in answer to which she received a
determined “No,” into which Mina somehow contrived to fling a tone,
implying that the anger of the whole world signified very little unto
her.
There was a pause, and then Miss Caldera, in a soothing voice, began:
“Now should you not like to come back with me like a good little girl,
and—”
“No, I shouldn’t;” interrupted Mina, “and what’s more, I wouldn’t; I’ll
never go back to school again as long as I live, for that ugly old woman
struck me, and I never was struck by anybody in my life before; papa
never allowed me to be struck—oh! I wish my own dear papa was here
now.”—Whether the mention of his name carried her away from the place
where she stood, or whether a sudden rush of old griefs caused her to
forget she was in a veritable London street, one thing is
indisputable—that, at the conclusion of the above sentence, she burst
into such a perfect agony of tears, that Miss Caldera, utterly shocked
and confounded, stood mutely regarding her, whilst Mina sobbed and cried
to her heart’s content.
“What is the matter?” demanded one of two gentlemen, who chanced to be
passing; “is the child hurt?”
“Only naughty, I fear,” responded Miss Caldera, against which assertion,
Mina forthwith entered an indignant protest.
“I am not, but I want my papa, and he’s dead; and I wanted to stay in
Scotland and they would not let me.”
“Good gracious! why it is Mina Frazer, Mr. Merapie’s niece,” exclaimed
the companion of him who had first spoken; upon making which discovery,
Mr. Alfred Westwood, for he it was, turned and walked with Miss Caldera
and her charge, to the door of his principal’s house in the “Square;”
and, having thus obtained full particulars, he took an opportunity of
recounting the whole history to Mr. Merapie, ere that gentleman returned
home, and heard a rather exaggerated report thereof from the lips of his
sister.
“What shall I do with her, poor little thing?” asked Mr. Merapie of his
clerk, who had latterly become, in some sort, his confidential adviser;
“she is more trouble to me than the whole of my business. I never felt
so sorry for, and anxious about, a human being before. I wish from my
soul her mother had left her at Craigmaver, as old Mr. Frazer wanted her
to do. From their cradles to their graves women are sources of perpetual
annoyance.”
Mr. Westwood laughed, and so, in spite of his perplexity, did Mr.
Merapie, but the next moment added,
“Aye! but indeed the matter is beyond a jest, for there is no one at
home fit to manage her, and Mrs. Frazer will not let her go to Scotland;
and, if she have determined not to return to school, why, I cannot make
her, that is all.”
“I can manage her; she does whatever I ask her,” remarked Mr. Westwood.
“Indeed!” ejaculated the merchant, fixing a glance of incredulous wonder
on the speaker; “and how the deuce do you proceed? it would be a secret
worth knowing.”
“Why you see,” returned his _employé_, “I let her talk as much as she
likes about ‘home,’ as she calls that heathenish Highland place, and
never contradict her, no matter what she says; and tell her I have been
in Scotland myself: all of which makes her so wonderfully tractable,
that if I say, ‘Will you not do so and so for me?’ she answers, ‘Yes,’
instanter.”
“Oh! that’s it, is it?” remarked Mr. Merapie with a dissatisfied air, as
if he were as far off his end as ever, “but does not she bore you to
death; she would talk for hours about that confounded Glenfiord, and an
old Calvinistic gardener who has inducted her into some wonderful
theological mysteries; do you not get very tired of her? I feel fond
enough of the child, and am, moreover, her uncle,—but still _I_ do,
often.”
“Frank, at all events,” thought the clerk; then answered aloud, “No; I
never weary of anything when I have any object, no matter how trifling,
in view; and, besides, you know I am fond of children, which you, sir, I
believe, are not.”
“No, no, I am fond of nothing but business. I understand how to keep
books and make money tolerably well; but as for ever comprehending human
nature, and more especially that portion of it called woman’s nature, I
give up the study as hopeless.”
“I was not aware you had ever commenced it,” said Mr. Westwood simply,
whereupon Mr. Merapie quickly demanded,
“But what am I to do with this niece of mine? That is the present
question; for back to school I think she would scarcely go for her
father, even if he were now alive, and there is no use asking her mother
anything about it.”
“Mrs. Frazer wishes her to go to a fashionable boarding-school, does she
not?” enquired Mr. Westwood.
“Yes,” responded his principal, “but I have resolved she shall not go.”
“Well, then, the only other plan I can suggest is, that you have a
visiting governess for her; a person like this Miss Caldera, for
instance: an amiable sensible woman might make almost what she chose of
your niece. That lady told me, to-day, she felt sure much might be done
with her.”
Which simple plan never having previously entered the brain of the
worthy but puzzled merchant, he caught at it instantly, and cordially
thanking Mr. Westwood for his suggestion, informed him he was the most
useful fellow in the world, and that he really did not know what he
should do without him. In reply to which, Mr. Westwood smiled in his
blandest manner, mentally adding thereto the words, “I believe you.”
And Mr. Westwood took an early opportunity of informing Mrs. Frazer how
he had spoken to Mr. Merapie concerning sending her daughter to a
boarding-school, to which idea he found him so decidedly opposed, that
merely as a _pis aller_ he had suggested the propriety of having some
sort of governess for her.
“Of course, my dear madam,” he continued in an impressive manner,
“nothing short of an aristocratical school could render her _all_ you
wish, but (you understand me, I am speaking in strict confidence to
you,) my excellent principal—as worthy and kind-hearted a man as ever
existed—has some peculiarities (we are all a little eccentric, you
know), and his aversion to what you and I should call genteel, agreeable
society is so insurmountable, that I found it perfectly useless to
contend further. The plan proposed is, at all events, better than having
her thrown among common acquaintances, as she would have been at that
day-school, where she made her first appearance and her final exit
within the space of about three hours or so: was that not it?”
Mrs. Frazer believed he was correct, and assured him she considered he
was one of the kindest, truest, most sensible of friends; but that, as
regarded her brother, he was hopeless; and, in reference to Mina, the
least said the better; it was a painful topic: for years she had proved
the greatest trial ever experienced by mortal;—and Mrs. Frazer wept, and
Mr. Westwood condoled and consoled; and the relict of Captain Frazer
considered he was a most agreeable person, and hoped her brother would
soon take him into partnership: and perhaps, in course of time, if he
had promised her a house at the West End and a carriage, she might have
done so too. But whatever Mr. Westwood’s views might be, they certainly
appeared anti-matrimonial: all he apparently desired was to keep on good
terms with every member of his principal’s family, from the head
thereof, John Merapie, to wit, down to little Mina,—Mrs. Frazer and
Malcolm of course inclusive.