A BONE OF CONTENTION.
Ernest Ivraine was just beginning to look with no ordinary impatience
for an answer to his latest Indian despatch, when his father gave a sort
of finishing stroke to the unusual confidence he had, for a little time
previously, been reposing in his heir apparent, by sending that
melancholy individual to London to consult a lawyer concerning the
rights of him, Sir Ernest Claude Ivraine, in regard to a certain bridge,
situate upon a certain road, which road passed through one portion of
his domain of Paradise, and had been a thorn in the miser baronet’s
flesh, and a bone of contention betwixt him and four of his neighbours
for years; ever since, in fact, by virtue of the death of his uncle, the
last bad owner, he had succeeded to the swamps and poplars and house and
domains of Paradise.
For the individuals above referred to contended that it was a public
road which they traversed, no thanks to him or anybody else, whilst Sir
Ernest declared that it was merely because the matter was not worth the
expense of a lawsuit that he permitted them to drive or walk or ride
along it at all; but whether or not it had originally been public or
private, one thing the baronet knew, and his opponents were conscious
of, namely, that time and custom had taken from the former the power,
though not the will, to close it up; and that, accordingly, common
property it had to all intents and purposes become.
Great, therefore, was his rejoicing, when one winter night the torpid
river, growing strong for once, swept down a bridge which spanned the
road midway, leaving a gap that an extraordinarily well-mounted man
might, perhaps, have cleared, but which, to ordinary mortals, carts,
carriages, and gigs, presented an impassable barrier: the waters had
done what he, with wealth and sense and cunning, had been impotent to
effect, stopped the progress of his adversaries through his lands; and
the baronet, who required the road but little himself, laughed and
chuckled and rubbed his hands in a state of the utmost delight when
Ernest informed him of the accident, and added an account of how carts
and horsemen and pedestrians, when they got so far, had been compelled
to turn.
“I have them now,” said Sir Ernest, all the wrinkles in his face growing
more long and deep, as if to aid the expression of diabolical glee which
lighted up his eyes; “I have them now!” and though his son was possessed
of such discretion, and so little curiosity, as never to ask how his
father “had” them, yet time made Ernest Ivraine fully understand the
meaning of his worthy father’s speech.
Great were the deliberations which ensued after the breaking down of the
bridge in the little parish of Lorton, and in many another parish for
miles round: the road was so essential to many landed proprietors; the
amount of traffic along it was so great that the stopping of the mails
could scarcely have occasioned a greater public sensation than the
sweeping down of the three ancient arches: planks were thrown across, as
temporary substitutes for honest stone and lime; but a stream, which
occasionally laughs at key-stones and foundations, disdains timber, and
almost perpetually, during the course of that most severe winter,
intelligence was conveyed to Sir Ernest Ivraine, “that the bridge was
down again;” on receipt of which gratifying intelligence the baronet
laughed horribly, as he had nothing to pay for the tidings, and took
pleasure in the misfortunes of his neighbours; and we all know, and
firmly believe, that “those may laugh who win.”
Squires held solemn conclave as to “what was to be done,” over their
port and around their mahogany tables; farmers talked mournfully at
markets about “them ere seven miles” they had been forced to drive
round, in consequence of that “wexing voden bridge” having been carried
off again; a sort of aristocratic and democratic landlord and tenant
meeting was convened to discuss the matter, when one genteel landed
proprietor said Sir Ernest ought to rebuild the bridge; and an immensely
rich grazier said he “knowed the baronet wouldn’t do no such thing no
how;” and one of the auditors, a village blacksmith, remarked
confidentially to his friend, he thought “the old screw would see them
all sunk in it first.” There was much speaking and contradicting,
immense diversity of opinion, talking, arguing, some laughing; but at
length the assemblage came to one desperate conclusion, after three
hours bawling and listening, namely, to send a deputation to Sir Ernest
Ivraine, stating the fact of the said bridge having fallen, and the
inconvenience it occasioned, and requesting him accordingly to repair it
with all convenient speed; which “deputation,” in the person of Mr.
Medill, the baronet’s attorney, and the attorney of most of his
neighbours, waited on his client at Paradise, and communicated the
“fact” and conveyed the wish of the late meeting held at Lorton.
“Do they acknowledge the road to be private property?” demanded Sir
Ernest, when Mr. Medill had concluded.
That gentleman answered, he believed that was not a question which had
been taken into consideration.
“Well, then let it be taken into consideration, and then I will give my
reply,” responded the baronet. The result of which response was that for
one month he kept his enemies arguing and debating whether to admit his
rights or maintain their own; and the subject was only at length brought
to a conclusion by a speech of the baronet’s, to the effect that, “if
they acknowledged it to be a private road he would not rebuild the
bridge, and if they could prove it to be a public one they might do it
themselves.”
Then ensued a talk of _making_ the baronet yield; but Sir Ernest dared
them to do it: then came a hope that the county would repair the bridge;
but the question being one of merely local interest, the county declined
to interfere. So, at length, the squires and graziers came to the
melancholy conclusion that, if the business were to be accomplished at
all, it must be done by themselves; wherefore plans were drawn and
tenders advertised for, and tenders received, and meetings held, and
cost estimated, and designs proposed, and architects consulted.
“Let them build away,” said Sir Ernest; “the road don’t do me much harm,
only I like them to have to pay for the privilege:” which Christian
speech was occasioned by the recent purchase of some hundred acres of
land that could only be reached by crossing the bridge the baronet
intended his neighbours should build for him, unless, indeed, a _détour_
of several miles were made. The road, being a public one, increased if
anything the value of this, his last “bargain;” but the old man was too
prudent to say so to any one, excepting his son, to whom confiding a
secret was—as his father frequently affirmed—better than burying it, as
it might be dug out of the earth, but never out of Ernest. Wherefore the
only thing Mr. Medill could get from the miser, even in his most
communicative mood, was,
“I won’t give a penny towards it; they may think themselves very safe
that I do not serve them with notice not to build on my premises: they
had best not torment me, or I may give them trouble yet. Let them build
and be thankful.”
But, as few men care to lay out money in a great hurry, midsummer came,
with its bloom and its roses, and still the “bridge” was only on the
tapis, not over the river. The latter ran slowly and quietly on its
course, never dreaming, at that scorching season, of interfering with
the beams and planks and supports which it had swept away at regular
intervals during the previous winter; and the “select committee” of
landed and other proprietors, who had taken on their brains and pockets
the planning and building of the bridge, paused to reflect how their
object might be happily accomplished, and still their purses be rendered
none the lighter.
Two difficult points to be united; but what cannot time and thought
effect, and enough of both assuredly the Lincolnshire sages expended on
the subject. Autumn passed; there was no use beginning to build at that
period of the year, so they took a month or two longer to debate the
question, and when it would ever have been settled, or when the bridge
would ever have been commenced, is uncertain, had not fresh floods swept
the wooden substitute off to some unknown bourne, and left the farmers
lamenting.
They came in great force, and told the committee that a passage _must_
be permanently made for them the moment spring permitted workmen to
commence the undertaking; and, heaven having sent light to the
understandings of the gentlemen composing the committee, and earthly
agents having made that light still clearer, they all at once, to the
astonishment of everybody, and ecstasy of themselves, stumbled on and
printed a series of resolutions to the following effect:
“1st. That Mr. Jones’s tender should be accepted; 2nd. That they, the
four proprietors, would defray all expenses incurred about the business;
3rd. That they would consider themselves sole owners of the bridge; and
4th. That a gate should be erected, and a trifling toll exacted from the
owner of each vehicle passing over it.”
There was a something perfectly demoniacal in the fury that shook Sir
Ernest Ivraine when the above resolutions were repeated to him: he
stamped and swore with an intensity which alarmed even his sister,
though the storm moved Ernest no more than if it had been the sighing of
a summer breeze.
Have a toll on his property; charge his tenants for drawing their
produce over their confounded bridge; lessen his estate in value; make
money by taking it out of his pockets! He would teach them they were
miserably mistaken in their ideas; he would make them repent their
insolence to him—a set of beggarly speculators. No, he would not consult
Mr. Medill, or permit him to be sent for; he was good enough and clever
enough, and, for an attorney, might be honest enough; but he was Sir
Hugh Xifer’s solicitor, and he should not, at least not in this
instance, be his, because Sir Hugh (a paltry knight) he knew had held
long conversations with him on the subject. Ernest should go to London
and take the very best legal advice; and, if he had an inch of ground to
stand on—if there were half a straw to split in the business—if he had a
shadow of claim—he would give them (the whole committee, collectively
and individually) such a dose of law as should be remembered by their
great grandchildren, and teach all Lincolnshire to beware how an Ivraine
was tempted to bite; he would have his rights, and his son should travel
to London forthwith and ascertain them.
Whereupon Ernest, nothing loath, did proceed to the metropolis, armed
with a little money and papers and deeds and instruments innumerable;
and, immediately on his arrival there, one chill afternoon in January,
he went to the office of the gentlemen to whom his father had given him
a letter, directed in a hand as crabbed and contracted as the temper and
the soul of the miser, to Messrs. Scott and Smeek, solicitors, 18, Arras
Street, Belerma Square.
And, as one event worthy of note had taken place in the house of Mr.
John Merapie, situated in the above-named square, since last it was
mentioned in this story, it may perhaps be well, ere speaking of the
result of Ernest’s conference, whilst he enters the solicitor’s dingy
office, to walk from Arras Street, to number 12, Belerma Square, and see
what had happened there in the interim. It was just about the period
when the magnificent Lorton idea, which had so roused the ire of the
owner of Paradise, was struggling to maturity in the muddy brains of his
sworn enemy, Sir Hugh Xifer, that Mr. John Merapie entered his
drawing-room with a peculiarly ominous expression of countenance, very
different from his usual one of heavy good nature, which always conveyed
to the minds of those who beheld him the correct impression that his
business, whatever it might be, was perpetually “looking up.”
Mrs. Frazer never noticing anything, excepting perhaps a satin dress or
a fashionable bonnet, unless the same were specially pointed out unto
her, it would have been vain to expect her to observe the shadow resting
on her brother’s face; but Mina, from her quiet corner, saw it
immediately, and a vague anxiety crept over her mind as she did so.
“Are you not well, uncle?” she demanded, as he stood moodily
contemplating the fire.
He started at the question, and, hastily snatching up the poker,
commenced a savage assault on the coals, whilst he answered,
“Quite well; why did you ask?”
“Because I thought you looked ill,” she said.
“Ill!” exclaimed Mrs. Frazer; “oh! John is never ill. What strange
things you do say, Mina: you are always thinking something.”
“A deuced deal better than acting something, at any rate,” retorted the
merchant, turning with anything rather than an agreeable expression
towards his sister. “I wish from my soul, Eliza, _your_ favourite child
were one half so good as this,” and he pointed to Mina, who, growing
very pale at his words, arose and, laying a hand on his arm, said
earnestly,
“What _has_ Malcolm been doing, uncle?”
“What has he not been doing excepting his duty for the last two years?
that were nearer the mark! He has been disobeying orders and promoting
insubordination and spending a fortune and running in debt; he has been
acting as, one might conclude, the head-strong, over-indulged,
passionate son of an absurd foolish mother would, so well that he is
finally dismissed the navy;” and, as he concluded, Mr. Merapie fiercely
grasped the poker once again, whilst Mrs. Frazer sank back half fainting
in the easy chair which she usually occupied.
“What is the matter?” demanded Mr. Westwood, at this crisis entering the
room; and John Merapie, who had received letters containing the
unwelcome intelligence just as he quitted his office, answered,
“Only my nephew’s finishing performance,—bearding his officers, being
insolent to them, disobeying orders, giving anxiety and annoyance to all
his relatives, and, finally, casting himself adrift on the world without
a profession or a shilling.”
“Bad enough,” remarked Mr. Westwood, drily; “but not so bad, let us
hope, as it sounds. Poor Mrs. Frazer! the news has upset her. Let me
assist you, Mina,” he added; and, pretending not to notice her quiet,
“thank you—it is not necessary,” he sprinkled a little more water over
the lady’s face, and applied some perfumes to her forehead, as she
slowly opened her eyes and said,
“Ah! is it you? I think they told me something dreadful about Malcolm;
he is not dead, is he?”
“No, my dear madam, he is not; pray compose yourself,” answered Mr.
Westwood, whilst his partner muttered, in confidence, to the fire,
“Better that he were; what we shall do with him alive it is impossible
for me to tell.”
“But what has happened?” she inquired; “John said something, but I do
not exactly remember.”
“It is nothing,” replied Mr. Westwood; “your son has merely left the
navy, that is all.”
“He has been put out of it, Eliza, in plain English,” explained her
brother, too much incensed to be melted into pity, either by swooning or
fine feelings. “I have been expecting this for some time past, though I
never said anything to you, for I knew you were fond of him and had no
sense, and there was no use annoying you; but the money I have paid for
that boy, since I fitted him out for sea, would almost have given Mina a
fortune. I warned, threatened, implored, commanded, all to no purpose. I
suppose the fellow lighted his cigars with my letters; at all events,
the crash has come at last: he is finally dismissed the service, and you
will very shortly have the unutterable gratification of seeing him.”
“I never liked the idea of the sea,” faintly began his mother.
“Good heavens, madam!” interposed Mr. Merapie, “you never rested night
nor day till you got me to promise he should follow the bent of his and
your inclinations to their fullest extent. _I_ wanted him to enter my
office and wash his absurd Highland pride off with some sensible English
business habits; but you, whose connections, from time immemorial, were
common tradespeople, set your face against my proposition: if there be
one thing on earth I hate more than another, it’s folly. That is a
capital joke, to be sure! You never liked the idea of the sea, indeed!
Humbug!”
“I do so dislike the smell of pitch,” explained the lady; but whether
this observation had reference to the navy or to the classic locality
where her brother’s warehouse was situated, never accurately transpired,
Mr. Merapie asking no questions, but merely declaring, “There were worse
things in the world than pitch,” which vague assertion implied volumes,
as Mina felt.
“But what has he done?” inquired Mr. Westwood, in his most soothing
accents; “we must not judge him hastily or harshly, particularly when he
is not here to defend himself. What are the facts of the case?” and Mr.
Merapie’s partner flung himself back in the chair, to the end that he
might hear at his ease and at his leisure all the evidence which could
be adduced against Malcolm. But, as that young gentleman’s uncle was
much too angry to be able to tell anything connectedly, it may be as
well to give it in his nephew’s own words, for he subsequently narrated
the finishing exploit of his new career tolerably briefly, and, to do
him justice, perfectly truthfully to his sister when she asked him
concerning it.
“You see, Mina,” he said, “there is not one bit of use denying it; I did
go through a deal of money and I was very extravagant, and my uncle bore
all wonderfully, and came out with the needful like a lord; and, before
we set off on this last confounded Indian cruise, I resolved—indeed I
did—to turn over a new leaf, and be economical, and give up smoking, and
keep my temper when the officers were tyrannical, and, in brief, do what
England, my uncle, and you all expected me to do—my duty.
“Well, I turned over the leaf as I had intended; but, unhappily, it
proved worse even than its predecessor, for about ten lines or so from
the top, just when I was getting into easy reading, I found—as a kind of
marginal note—a pair of, what coloured eyes? grey, I believe; but
whatever they may have been, I never saw anything like them before, and
pray I never may again, for they, with one glance, effectually settled
my chances of naval prize money.
“I had never been ‘in love’ but the moment I saw them I said, like an
idiot as I was, ‘my hour is come.’ I’d have walked the plank cheerfully
for her; therefore you need not be surprised to hear it was solely on
her account I relinquished for ever my hope of a commission. At last,
there was to be a ball on shore (’twas at Calcutta the thing occurred, I
should inform you) to which I was invited, and to which she was going.
The captain, always off amusing himself, hated to see us stir out of the
vessel, and consequently I felt there was little use in asking his
permission; still, just for the form, I did ask it, and he in answer,
said ‘No,’ like an upstart sprig of mushroom nobility as he was.
“That ‘no’ I knew to be as unchangeable as if pronounced by the Medes
and Persians; so I betook myself to the ship’s side and looked sulkily
down at the dirty river, and thought about my father having been an
officer, and all our ancestors for generations having been exactly what
they should have been, and considered how they would have borne a point
blank refusal to a civil request from the great grandson of a pedlar;
and I reflected that, if any one of them could have risen from his
grave, he would have said, ‘Prove yourself worthy of your name and of
your birth place, and do what you wish as you wish, in spite of all the
captains in the English navy.’ Moreover, the eyes I told you of just now
arose before my imagination; and, to cut all my ruminations short, I
exclaimed, striking my clenched hand on the hardest object near me—it
tingled for an hour afterwards,—
“‘I _will_ go, let the arch-fiend himself try to prevent me.’
“But if all accounts of his Satanic majesty be true, he is rather fond
of luring thoughtless youths on to destruction by presenting means for
them to gratify their inclinations. I had a dim idea of swimming ashore
when it got a little dark, for the captain and some of the principal
officers were going to dine with one of the great magnates of the place,
and I knew I could elude the others; but, suddenly it occurred to me
that it would be easier and altogether more comfortable to go in the
boat with them, a feat I accomplished, thanks to the dusk, and a whole
lot of bags and packages of one kind and another, which were piled over
me by the sailors, who were, of course, unconscious that anybody lay
underneath these articles. Well, I never stirred till my captain was out
of sight; but, after he and the rest had departed, the men saw me
standing on the landing-place, at which they were not at all surprised,
as it was merely what they had witnessed twenty times before when I was
absent on leave; and it was agreed that, as the captain’s party was not
to return in the boat that night, I should; which arrangement quashing
all difficulties, I started off quite happy to the ball.”
She was there, and we danced and we talked, and I imagined she would
have gone to Kamtschatka with me, only I was mistaken, and all went
merry as a marriage bell; and, in a perfect ecstasy of delight, I at
length tore myself away, and, with her parting words ringing like music
in my ears, started off for the boat. Had I only gone straight to it, I
should have been in H.M.S. Sunflower till now; but, fate flinging across
my path some of the crew, countrymen of my own, sterling fellows to the
back bone, my evil genius whispered that, as they had done much for me,
it was incumbent on me to do some little for them.
“‘Are you ready, my lads?’ said I.
“‘Quite, sir,’ was the response.
“‘Should you feel inclined to drink my health, and that of my uncle, the
laird of Craigmayer?’
“When a Scotchman asked, how could Scotchmen refuse? in short, Mina, to
get quickly over a disagreeable story, I was so liberal that they got
tipsy, became unmanageable, quarrelled with the people of the house, and
turned the master out of doors.
“He raised a mob of the natives, who came howling like demons about the
place: meanwhile time pressed; it was needful for us to reach the ship
by some means, and every moment the crowd increased, the din became
greater.
“‘If I just had a gude thorn cudgel,’ said one of the sailors, ‘I would
na fear a reegiment o’ the tawny faced deevils.’
“‘Well’ I replied, ‘in default of the thorn, take a leg off that table,’
pointing to one which the next moment was in pieces; and thus splendidly
armed, out we sallied. To have heard the cowards so long as a door
separated us, you would have imagined murder, at the least, was what
they contemplated; but when I cried ‘We’ll make you remember the
Highlanders,’ and commenced, with the sailors, striking right and left,
they fled like chaff before the wind, yelling horribly.
“We walked quietly on to the boat, till a shrewd, cautious old fellow,
from Aberdeen, called out, ‘Dinna study the manners o’ rinnin’, but rin
like brownies, for here they come wi’ the chokadars, as they ca’ them,
and there’ll be English music the morn if they get a grip o’ us.’
“We did not ‘stand on the order of going,’ you may depend, Mina, but
showed them that night what Highland legs as well as Highland arms could
do: they ran, and we ran; it was a sort of second Canobie Lea affair,
only without horses; and, as we pulled off, we laughed back a defiance
to them over the waters: but I knew all was up with me; I felt it so
surely, that I hardened myself for the result, which, like all evil
events, was not very long of coming. First thing next morning, or rather
_that_ morning, off came a party to inquire which of the midshipmen and
sailors of the Sunflower had been concerned in the _fracas_; and, whilst
they were haranguing, a boat, which had been sent ashore for the
captain, hove in sight.
“The minute he appeared, my last hope of escape vanished; I could not
let the men suffer for what had been actually my folly, and so confessed
to having been on shore, though to this hour, I believe, he has only a
dim idea how I got there.
“I need not tell you all that followed. What he said to me, and what I
said to him, sounded a vast deal better at the time than it would do on
repetition. He was rude, and I—the officers thought—insolent: so, by way
of preventing my ever turning over a third leaf in the navy, and to get
rid of a very troublesome individual, they finally decided on dismissing
me the service; and so, Mina, to end all, here am I, whilst she of the
grey eyes married, four weeks afterwards, a commander of a battery, or
something of that sort, with whom heaven send she may live happily. And,
talking of these subjects, I’d be very glad, indeed, to know what that
low upstart fellow, Westwood, whom my uncle has thought fit to take into
partnership, means by calling you ‘Mina,’ and walking about this house
as if it were his own.”
“You remember, Malcolm, he used to call me so when I was a child.”
“Well, but you are not a child now, and I do not like it, Mina, and I do
not like him, and I do not intend to bear his confounded patronizing
airs any longer.”
“You had better, Malcolm,” she said.
“Better! and why, pray?” he demanded.
“Because,” she answered earnestly, “he can make my uncle believe
anything and do anything; and you know how disappointed he is about your
being dismissed, and——”
“Looks upon my breach of discipline quite as severely as if I had
murdered my superior officer, or stolen money from him, or committed
some other dreadful crime. Yes, I see all that; and how savagely he
glances at me, and how rarely he speaks a syllable directly to his
dutiful nephew when he can help it; but I am not one bit afraid of Uncle
John: he will come round in good time and do what is right and just, no
matter who tries to influence him. He will never cut us out, depend upon
that; and, if he die without a will, why, we are his nearest and only
relatives.”
“Dear Malcolm, he is not going to die,” said Mina, as if the suggestion
and the way it was made pained her.
“I am sure I hope not,” he responded; “for I will say this much for
Uncle John, that a kinder and better man never breathed; and that is
just what makes me feel so certain he will always give us a share of his
money whilst he lives, and when he dies—which, I trust, may not be till
we are grey-haired, Mina—he will bequeath it to us; and, because I know
his heart so well, I say I neither fear Westwood nor any man living, and
I shall, therefore, take an early opportunity of showing him that my
sister is not going to marry every promoted clerk who thinks fit to
imagine himself a suitable husband for her.”
“Malcolm, are not you very fond of me?”
“Yes, sister mine; but, as a consequence of that, I hope you are not
going to inform me you are very fond of him.”
“I dislike and despise him,” she answered; “but latterly, I have also
grown to fear him. What it may be, I do not know; but I am positive
there is something wrong somewhere: latterly, Mr. Westwood’s manner has
changed completely; he used to be polite, almost to servility, and
cautious and prudent to a degree; but now you would think he was master
of our destinies. Oh! Malcolm, take care that he be not really so.”
“What has put that idea into your mind?” he demanded.
“My own observation and——”
“Miss Caldera,” interposed Malcolm, “who wants to settle you as she does
every other girl in London, if she could; but she sha’n’t in this
instance, at any rate. I do not choose that you should marry this man,
and I am determined to bring affairs to a crisis by some means. Ever
since my uncle went to Holland, I, too, have noticed the change in Mr.
Westwood’s manner, from extraordinary civility to a sort of triumphant
insolence. There is no use asking my mother to make a stand against his
visits, for she likes them, and he amuses her; and, besides, she could
not understand: but, whenever Uncle John returns, I will have a stop put
to his partner’s assumptions. Before I entered the navy, I remember
thinking him a pleasant good-natured sort of fellow; but I declare to
you, Mina, upon my honour, I could have flung him out of the window
fifty times during the course of this last week with the greatest
pleasure.”
“You may do foolishly to quarrel with this man,” she said.
“Do you want to marry him?” he fiercely demanded; “because, if you wish
to disgrace yourself and your connections by wedding an upstart without
birth, or position, or anything, that alters the question.”
Almost for the first time in her life, Mina checked an angry reply,
which had nearly escaped her lips.
“Do not let us quarrel, Malcolm,” she said; “if you think I could care
for him, you are mistaken; but that, at present, is not the point at
issue: I feel we may do wrong to offend him, and you know you ought to
be doubly careful in your conduct now, as——”
“As I am in disgrace with the powers that be,” finished Malcolm, seeing
her hesitate; “thank you, Mina, for your amiable consideration.”
“As you are in disgrace,” she continued boldly, “you ought to be most
prudent; and it might be well for you, dear brother, to reflect, as I
have lately been doing, that, although my uncle is rich and generous and
half brother to our mother, and has brought us up and educated us,
still, when all is said, he is not bound to provide for us, and,
Malcolm, he may not do it.”
“And for these reasons it is extremely desirable for you to be
‘settled;’ and Mr. Alfred Westwood being the only eligible, or
ineligible, opening you and Miss Caldera can see at present, you want to
be polite to him yourself, and desire that I should be so too: is not
that it, Mina?”
Once again the angry blood mounted to her face, and she vehemently
asked,
“Did you ever see me polite to him, ever since I grew up, ever since I
was a child, ever since I began to comprehend his character and aims and
views and wishes? only speak the truth, it is all I ask.”
“Well, no,” Malcolm confessed; “but then, you see, politeness was never
considered your forte, and your manner has always been much the same to
him as to everybody else. If I did not know you were Captain Frazer’s
daughter and my sister, I confess I should be at a loss to determine the
exact nature of your feelings towards Mr. Westwood.”
“You are very unjust, Malcolm,” she cried.
“Well, perhaps I am,” he laughed; “but promise me one thing, and I will
doubt you no more. Do not be influenced by Miss Caldera or anybody else;
but, if this man ever asks you to marry him, will you say ‘No’ to him,
as you can and frequently do say it to other people, promptly and
decisively; let there be no mistake about the matter: what say you,
sister; will you promise?”
“Faithfully,” she answered; “and, on the other hand, will you be
cautious how you offend him; will you, at least, be civil till my uncle
returns home?”
“Agreed,” responded Malcolm; “and then I will talk the matter over with
him, for it shall never be said, never! that a sister of mine married a
man of no birth.”
Having delivered which decisive blow to the matrimonial projects of
Alfred Westwood, Esq., the _ci-devant_ midshipman, who had lately
acquired some wonderful and most erroneous ideas on the subject of his
own and his family’s importance, put on his hat and strode off to Regent
Street, wondering when he should be rich enough to subscribe to a club
and have horses and servants and be independent of everybody; for, in
the length and breadth of England, there was not a prouder, nor more
extravagant, nor more ridiculous young fellow than clever, thoughtless,
good-natured Malcolm Frazer, late of H. M. S. Sunflower, who had a
remarkably tenacious memory concerning his Highland ancestors, and an
equally remarkable facility for forgetting that his mother had been
simply the daughter of a business man, who made a deal of money—nobody
knew how—and spent it in the same manner, and left her nothing.