COUSIN ALLAN.
Time, which hath a way of enlarging our circle of new acquaintances, and
of curtailing, by various painful methods, the number of those whom the
soul in its tenderness loves to call “old friends,” brought, ere she had
been quite a month at Craigmaver, a fresh individual under the notice of
Mina Frazer; one whom, in after life, amid all the cares and troubles
and difficulties of existence, she never forgot.
She—for this new friend, started up in the person of a most lovely and
accomplished woman—appeared somewhat after the sudden wayward fashion of
an apparition before the eyes of the old laird’s niece, whom Allan had
undertaken, as Mina told him, “for want of something better to do,” to
instruct in the manifold mysteries of sketching and shading, of
perspectives and foregrounds.
“There never was a quicker pupil,” so said the master.
“Nor a more patient master,” so said the pupil: and thus, as both,
perhaps, were pretty nearly correct, the work of tuition progressed
pleasantly and rapidly; for Mina had an object in view, and worked
diligently to accomplish it; and Allan, tired and sick of fine ladies as
he was, found himself wonderfully interested in the progress of one who
could be earnest about what he considered such an insignificant trifle
as the carrying back a few of her “own home views” to the country which
circumstances had compelled her to adopt, whether she would or not.
One morning, therefore, in that most unsatisfactory, half smiling, half
weeping month called April, Mina was busily engaged copying in pencil a
landscape Allan had laid before her, whilst he stood near, looking, if
the truth must be told, far oftener at his cousin than the drawing,—and
Malcolm, whom the household generally called indolent, lay stretched at
full length on a sofa, dreaming about his scarlet uniform, and the great
deeds he would perform at some indefinite future period,—when a sound of
horses’ hoofs trampling over the gravel caused Mina to look up from her
employment, and as she did so, the words, “How beautiful!” burst from
her lips; and springing from her seat, she darted to the window to
obtain a nearer view of the object which had attracted her attention.
“Oh! how beautiful!” she again exclaimed. “Allan, do come here and tell
me who it is.” But Allan, without pausing to reply, flung the portfolio,
landscape, half-finished drawing, pencils, and etceteras recklessly into
a corner, and darted out of the room, and down to the principal
entrance, where Mina soon beheld him assisting the new arrival to
dismount; and a few minutes afterwards she came gliding into the
drawing-room, accompanied by a fine military-looking man, and stood
before Mina a vision of feminine loveliness, such as she had never
previously conceived existed, save in the imagination of some great
master of the divine art of painting.
Yes! beautiful she was; beautiful as a dream, as the conception of a
poet, as the ideal of a visionary! If Mina had been born in another land
and educated in a different faith, she might almost have knelt at the
sight of this unexpected visitor, fancying she was a spirit from some
purer, happier, brighter world than ours,—save for the costume, that
assuredly savoured more of earth than heaven, and which proved at once
she was after all only a mortal, though certainly a very superior one;
but which, notwithstanding its sublunary character, set off every
personal gift she was possessed of to the very greatest advantage, and
that she knew perfectly well, wherefore she always wore it, whenever she
had even half an apology for doing so.
It was a riding-habit of the finest blue cloth, which, fitting closely
to her figure, displayed the shape of her shoulders, the slenderness of
her waist, and the gracefulness of her every movement. A small Highland
bonnet made of black velvet, from which depended a drooping feather,
secured by a silver thistle, contrasted well with the luxuriant golden
curls the lady permitted to fall loose and unregarded in rich masses
over her neck. Her eyes were large and of that most beautiful purple
sometimes to be noted in connection with light hair; her features were
small, regular, and perfect, as if they had been chiselled by the hand
of some great sculptor, but a brilliant colour gave life and animation
to the whole; whilst dark eyebrows and still darker lashes redeemed the
countenance from that charge of mawkish sameness, which is frequently
laid—whether justly or unjustly signifies little at present—to the
account of those of beauty’s daughters whom we call—to distinguish them
from their darker sisters—blondes.
But Cecilia Warmond had a far higher charm than any mere loveliness of
feature can confer; she had that which can make a gentlewoman out of the
coarsest and most unpromising materials, redeem the plainest face,
render elegant the meanest home,—the all-pervading, indescribable,
incomprehensible, all-powerful, instantly discernible charm of grace.
There was a something about the way she walked across a room, extended
her hand, accepted a kindness,—in the tone of her voice, in the sound of
her laugh, which would have proved irresistible had she been plain as
she was handsome, old as she was young.
The mere advent of one who had been, during the whole of the preceding
Edinburgh season, the centre of universal attraction, the theme of
general conversation, the courted, the admired, the flattered, was quite
sufficient to account for the way in which the guilty colour came and
went in Allan Frazer’s cheek, for the sudden embarrassment perceptible
in his usual half-careless, half-satirical, whole-fashionable manner.
Mina settled the business ere the ceremony of introduction had taken
place, in a peculiarly feminine mental sentence.
“He is in love with her;” and the time had been when that view of the
question would have proved especially happy and felicitous.
“My cousins, Mr. and Miss Frazer,” said Allan as the drawing-room door
closed upon the new comers. “Mina, Miss Warmond, General Warmond.”
“What a stiff formal introduction, O lord of the mountains,” broke in
the lady, whose rapid eye had scanned “the cousins” at a glance. “Miss
Frazer,” she continued, “I have heard about you ever since I came to
Scotland, and I have wished so much to know you, that when I heard you
were actually at Craigmaver, I could not resist the temptation, but,
setting that bugbear, called by those dreary individuals styled
fashionable people, strict etiquette, at defiance, I persuaded papa to
gallop over with me from Locholen, and, accordingly, here we have come
to ‘make friends’ with you.” And she stretched forth the smallest hand
in the world, encased in the most expensive and _recherché_ of riding
gloves, as she spoke, for Mina’s acceptance.
The girl knew now perfectly who she was, for if, since her arrival at
Craigmaver, the laird’s grandson had never once mentioned the name of
Warmond, she had heard it years previously, when Glenfiord passed away
into the hands of strangers, when she was told that a General Warmond,
who had wedded Miss Gordon of Locholen, was the purchaser of the place
which once had been her father’s, near to which, under the shadow of Ben
Lomond, within sound of the ripple of the lake, he slept his dreamless
sleep—unmindful of scenery, forgetful of sorrow—peacefully.
Yes, she knew her now. This, then, was the lady who resided in the home
that, but for a dreadful misfortune, had still been theirs. A choking
sensation oppressed Mina as those slender fingers clasped hers in
proffered friendship, a sort of darkness came before her eyes; for an
instant a gloom fell over the sunshine, and that faint sickness of the
heart which a great surprise, whether joyful or sorrowful, frequently
induces, caused her to see even the fair vision who spoke so sweetly and
kindly to her, dimly, as if she were beholding unreal objects in some
vague, half-mournful, half-pleasant dream.
It was but for a moment, however, this lasted, for then the full use of
her faculties returned, and Mina could both hear and see.
“And this is your other cousin,” said Miss Warmond, turning her fine
eyes on Malcolm’s handsome face, and speaking actually to him, though
her words seemed addressed to Allan; “this is your other cousin,” and,
with a slightly diffident air, she once again extended the white-gloved
hand to a member of the Frazer family; and the act, and the bright frank
smile which accompanied it, fairly “settled” the susceptible youth, and
caused him to forget all about “grey eyes” and a host of other coloured
orbs he had admired since them, and write in a private mental note book,
wherein he was always setting down and rubbing out facts relative to his
varying ideas of feminine beauty: Mem.—Purple eyes are the most lovely
and expressive in the world.
Poor Malcolm! he never saw a pretty face that he did not fall over head
and ears in love with the owner instanter: it was surely fortunate,
considering the alarming frequency of these attacks, that they did not
last long, for, if they had, the fit must inevitably have proved mortal.
That was a happy day to Mina, for the visitors remained for lunch, and
she and her new friend strolled away together through the gardens; and
then Miss Warmond talked in her soft, low, musical voice, so touchingly
about Glenfiord, that the tears she vainly tried to repress came at last
raining down Mina’s cheeks, and then Cecilia, who was her senior by some
years, kissed the weeping girl and told her how she had often mourned to
think of the child Allan said had almost broken her heart when removed
from amid the flowers and perfume and luxuriance of that wild romantic
home.
“Your name has always possessed a strange interest for me,” added Miss
Warmond; “therefore, now we have at last met, I hope we shall be real
friends.”
“If you will let me be fond of you,” said Mina impetuously, “I will love
you always; I never saw anybody so beautiful as you are in all my life
before; I never saw any one I thought I could like one half so well:”
and thus, on the spot, a friendship was formed, destined to last as long
as such absurd friendships ever do last, but not an instant longer.
There was something perfectly charming, the young girl thought, in Miss
Warmond’s manner towards her uncle; it was so respectful, so
deferential, yet, withal, so playful and captivating, that Mina did not
marvel to notice how completely the laird was fascinated by it.
“There was nobody in the world like Cecilia,” so the General evidently
thought, so Mr. Frazer felt convinced; and Mina and Malcolm endorsed
this opinion without further inquiry or the slightest hesitation.
For, if the sister had seen a few disagreeable and repelling women in
the course of her short passage across life’s ocean, she had never met
with a false one; so she accepted the friendship (which, if she had been
a little older or a little wiser, she would have known could not be
worth much, else it had never been so freely offered) with a frank,
trusting heart; knowing no deceit herself, the idea of it in another
never crossed her mind: besides, who, looking at Cecilia, could dream of
deceit? The surface mirror was apparently too clear and transparent to
induce a belief that the slightest dross _might_ perhaps be found lying
at the bottom of a heart which, seemingly guileless as a child’s, was
really so perfectly choked up with dangerous thoughts and black deceit
and jealous feelings, that truth had long since fled from the citadel in
disgust and taken up her abode in better, though possibly less inviting
looking, quarters.
Cecilia kindly took upon herself the task of teaching Mina the exact
meaning of the word “hypocrisy;” but, as it was long ere the girl
discovered her benevolent intention, she took her as she seemed, and
liked her accordingly. And Malcolm. Why, if any one had informed him
Miss Warmond was not quite so good as she seemed, he would have
answered, like a great, good-natured, foolish, overgrown boy, who
thought himself a man, as he was,
“Well, you see, I don’t mind that; if a woman be but pretty, I can
forgive her anything.”
So every one was satisfied that bright April day, save, perhaps, Allan
Frazer, and matters went smoothly, as they generally do, on the occasion
of tolerably short visits, when people are inclined to be mutually
pleased, and when one or two agreeable talkers and a proportionate
number of patient listeners are present: but at length General Warmond
declared they must positively go, and so Cecilia, after saying all sorts
of pretty things, tripped gracefully across the hall and down the steps,
and was obliging enough to permit Malcolm to help her to the saddle and
adjust the reins properly for her; after which she bade farewell to all
the Craigmaver gentlemen, and rode off down the avenue, not forgetting,
however, as she did so, to turn round and kiss her hand to Mina, who
stood watching her departure from one of the drawing-room windows.
The girl caught herself sighing when the Highland bonnet disappeared
altogether from sight; if she could but have known what sorrow the lady
who wore it was destined to cause her, she might have gone down on her
knees and prayed she should never more behold it: but Mina possessed not
the vision of a seer, and so, quite excited with the events of the day,
and delighted to think of the beautiful being, who, though so perfectly
fascinating, deigned to call her “friend,” she took possession of her
uncle’s arm, and walked in with him to dinner.
“I was not aware, Allan,” said old Mr. Frazer, after a long ominous
pause, which, contrary to custom, succeeded the withdrawal of the cloth,
“I was not aware, Allan, you had been over at Locholen, yesterday.”
“I happened to be in the neighbourhood, sir,” answered his grandson,
“and called to inquire how Mr. Gordon was.”
“And found General and Miss Warmond there,” added Mr. Frazer.
“Yes, they arrived the day previously, I believe,” responded Allan, who
was, to all intents and purposes, apparently so much engrossed in the
difficult operation of peeling an apple, that he could not raise his
eyes and look straight at his grandfather as he spoke.
Mr. Frazer impatiently cracked one or two nuts, and then said hurriedly,
“Would it not have been better, more _comme il faut_ altogether, for
Mina to have called on Miss Warmond? If I had known she was at
Locholen”——
“I told Miss Warmond,” interposed Allan, “that as Mina was not very
strong, and the distance between us was so great, I feared my cousin
would be unable to call until the weather was a little more settled; so
she very kindly said she would not stand on ceremony, but ride ten long
miles here, and ten equally long back again, to see her, as she has
done.”
There was a tone in Allan’s voice, and a look in his eyes as he uttered
the foregoing sentence, which Mina could not understand; it was not
precisely a sneer that disfigured his face, nor was it an expression of
pain; but it was a something so certainly very far from agreeable, that
the girl caught herself thinking.
“I must have been mistaken; he cannot be in love with her:” and yet, as
she was unable to reconcile his manner towards Miss Warmond with this
new version of an old subject, she determined to leave time to solve an
enigma she was getting tired of puzzling over, to wit, the heart of her
cousin Allan. But that very evening he so provoked her with silently
listening to all her enthusiastic observations respecting Miss Warmond,
and replying “never a word” to them, that she fairly forgot about “time”
altogether; and wishing to get to the bottom of the matter at once,
indignantly demanded,
“Allan, can you admire nothing?”
The young man looked earnestly away to the distant hills, scarcely
visible through the gathering twilight, and a sort of shadow, as if from
them, fell over his face as he did so; after a moment’s pause he
answered,
“The stern old mountains, and the bright, healthy, happy child; the pure
face of nature, and the honest face of man: everything on which our God
has set the stamp of grandeur, or of loveliness, or of goodness, I
admire.”
There was a solemnity in this reply, very different from the usual
careless indifference of his remarks; but still Mina remained
unsatisfied.
“Then do you not think Miss Warmond very beautiful?”
“I consider her the handsomest, the most accomplished, the most
fascinating heiress in Scotland,” he responded; “what induced you to
imagine, cousin Mina, I was blind to her perfections?”
“The way you have got of praising either not at all, or else against
your will,” replied his cousin: “I never fancied it possible for any
mere mortal to be so surpassingly lovely; I never even dreamt of such a
face before, and, at first, I fancied you thought her a sort of angel
too; but now, Allan, I cannot make you out exactly. I do not understand
you at all; I wish I could.”
“You need not, Mina,” he replied, smiling grimly; “the knowledge of
myself I have lately acquired has brought little happiness to me; it
could not give any to you. Suppose we let the matter rest there.”
“I have always felt just the same towards you as to Malcolm,” Mina
returned, not heeding the latter portion of the foregoing sentence; “and
I am sure, though you are so clever and so much changed in many ways,
you consider me quite as much your sister as ‘in the old days departed;’
and therefore I should like greatly to ask you one question—you won’t be
angry with me, will you? may I ask it?”
“Go on,” said Allan, gazing forth more fixedly than ever into the gloom.
“Are you really unhappy, or is it only a habit you have acquired of
talking as if you were? is there really any sorrow—any pressing sorrow I
mean—in your heart?”
“There is,” he briefly answered.
“And the cause, dear Allan, may I not know it?”
He paused for a moment, as if irresolute; then repressing the strong
inclination he felt to tell her all, he said,
“No, Mina, my own ‘little’ sister Mina, as I used to call you, you must
not ask me anything more about myself ever; you will be fond of me,
spite of my faults, and we will be great friends always, shall we not?”
He held out his hand as he spoke, as if to seal, with a good honest
pressure, the cousinly compact; then, gliding away to the piano, he
sung—more sweetly and mournfully than Mina had ever before heard him
sing—old laments and hymns and dirges that made the girl’s heart
sorrowful within her and caused Malcolm, who, having been out with the
laird, returned at this juncture, to declare Allan had mistaken his
vocation, for he was only fit for one of three callings, to wit, a
parson, a parish clerk, or an undertaker.
END OF VOLUME I.
LONDON:
Printed by SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15, Old Bailey.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.