Cain's brand! that is no fact of the far past, no legend of the Middle
Ages, for are there not Cains among us; white-faced, haggard-featured
Cains to the last? Men who began with a little injury, and did not dream
that their gripe would close in deadly persecution? Cains who slew the
spirit, and through the spirit murdered the body? Cains unintentionally,
whom all men free from the stain of blood, and to whom in the Jewish
economy the gates of the Cities of Refuge would have stood wide open,
yet who are never again light of thought and light of heart? On their
heads the grey is soon sprinkled, and in the chamber of their hearts is
drawn a ghastly picture, whose freshness fades, but whose distinct
characters are never obliterated.
Of this class of men, of hot passions, with rash advisers, who meditated
wrong, but not the last wrong, victims of a narrow, imperious code of
honour, only to-day expunged from military and social etiquette, was the
Laird of the Ewes. Many of us may have seen such another--a tall, lithe
figure, rather bent, and very white-headed for his age, with a wistful
eye; but otherwise a most composed, intelligent, courteous gentleman of
a laird's degree. Take any old friend aside, and he will tell, with
respectful sympathy, that the quiet, sensible, well-bred Laird, has
suffered agonies in the course of his life, though too wise and modest a
man to hold up his heart for daws to peck at, and you will believe him.
Look narrowly at the well-preserved, well-veiled exterior, and you will
be able to detect, through the nicely adjusted folds, or even when it is
brightened by smiles, how remorse has sharpened the flesh, and grief
hollowed it, and long abiding regret shaded it.
Twenty years before this time, Crawfurd of the Ewes, more accomplished
than many of the lairds, his contemporaries, and possessed of the sly
humour on which Scotchmen pride themselves, had been induced to write a
set of lampoons against a political opponent of his special chief. He
was young then, and probably had his literary vanity; at least he
executed his task to the satisfaction of his side of the question; and
without being particularly broad and offensive, or perhaps very fine in
their edge, his caricatures excited shouts of laughter in the parish,
and in the neighbouring town.
But he laughs best who laughs last. A brother laird, blind with fury,
and having more of the old border man in him than the Laird of the Ewes,
took to his natural arms, and dispatched Mr. Crawfurd a challenge to
fight him on the Corn-Cockle Moor. No refusal was possible then, none
except for a man of rare principle, nerve, and temper. The Laird of the
Ewes had no pretensions to mighty gifts; so he walked out with his
second one autumn morning when his reapers were flourishing their
sickles, met his foe, and though without the skill to defend himself, he
shot his man right through the head. He was tried and acquitted. He was
the challenged, not the challenger; he might have given the provocation,
but no blame was suffered to attach to him. His antagonist, with a
foreboding of his fate, or by way of clearing his conscience, as the
knights used to confess of a morning before combat, had exonerated
Mr. Crawfurd before he came upon the ground. The Court was strongly
in his favour, and he was sent back to his family and property without
anything more severe than commiseration; but that could never reach his
deep sore.
How was this gentle, nervous, humorous Laird to look out upon the world,
from which he had sent the soul of a companion who had never even harmed
him? The widow, whom he had admired as a gay young matron, dwelt not a
mile from him in her darkened dwelling; the fatherless boy would
constantly cross the path of his well-protected, well-cared-for
children. How bear the thousand little memories--the trifling dates,
acts, words, pricking him with anguish? They say the man grew sick at
the mere sight of the corn-cockle, which, though not plentiful on other
moors, chanced to abound on this uncultivated tract, and bestowed on it
its name; and he shivered as with an ague fit, morning after morning,
when the clock struck the hour at which he had left his house. He did in
some measure overcome this weakness, for he was a man of ordinary
courage and extraordinary reserve, but it is possible that he endured
the worst of his punishment when he made no sign.
The Laird was a man of delicate organism, crushed by a blow from which
he could not recover. Had he lived a hundred years earlier, or been a
soldier on active service, or a student walking the hospitals, he might
have been more hardened to bloodshed. Had his fate been different, he
might have borne the brunt of the offence as well as his betters; but
the very crime which he was least calculated to commit and survive
encountered him in the colours he had worn before the eventful day.
Yet there was nothing romantic about Crawfurd of the Ewes, or about
the details of his deed, with one singular exception, and this was
connected with his daughter Joanna. The rest of the family were
commonplace, prosperous young people, honest enough hearts, but too
shallow to be affected by the father's misfortune. The father's sour
grapes had not set these children's teeth on edge. Joanna--Jack, or
Joe, as they called her in sport--whom they all, without any idea of
selfishness or injustice, associated with the Laird, as one member of
the family is occasionally chosen to bear the burdens of the
others,--Joanna was papa's right hand, papa's secretary, steward,
housekeeper, nurse. It had always been so; Joanna had been set aside
to the office, and no one thought of depriving her of it, any more
than she dreamt of resigning it.
Joanna was the child born immediately after the duel, and on the waxen
brow of the baby was a crimson stain, slight but significant, which two
fingers might have covered. Was this the token of retribution--the
threat of vengeance? The gossips' tongues wagged busily. Some said it
was Cain's brand, "the iniquity of the fathers visited on the children;"
others alleged more charitably that it ought to prove a sign in the
Laird's favour, to have the symbol of his guilt transferred to a
scape-goat--the brow of a child. However, the gossips need not have
hidden the child's face so sedulously for the first few days from the
mother. Mrs. Crawfurd took the matter quite peaceably, and was relieved
that no worse misfortune had befallen her or her offspring. "Poor little
dear!" it was sad that she should carry such a trace; but she daresayed
she would outgrow it, or she must wear flat curls--it was a pity that
they had gone quite out of fashion. It was the father who kissed the
mark passionately, and carried the child oftenest in his arms, and let
her sit longest on his knee; and so she became his darling, and learnt
all his ways, and could suit herself to his fancies, and soothe his
pains, from very youthful years. The public recognised this peculiar
property of her father in Joanna, and identified her with the sorrowful
period of his history. She was pointed out in connexion with the
story--the tragedy of the county,--and she knew instinctively that there
would be a whispered reference to her whenever it was told in society.
The Crawfurds had a cousin visiting them--an English cousin, Polly
Musgrave--from the luxury and comparative gaiety of her rich,
childless aunt's house in York. Polly was a well-endowed orphan, had
no near family ties, and had been educated in the worldly wisdom and
epicurean philosophy of a fashionable girls' school. She had come to
spend a few weeks, and get acquainted with her Scotch country cousins.
Polly had not found her heart, but it was to the credit of her sense
and good-nature that she made the very best of a sojourn that had
threatened to be a bore to her. She dazzled the girls, she romped with
the boys, she entered with the greatest glee into rural occupations,
rode on the roughest pony, saw sunset and sunrise from Barnbougle, and
threatened to learn to milk cows and cut corn. She brought
inconceivable motion and sparkle into the rather stagnant country
house, and she was the greatest possible contrast to Joanna Crawfurd.
Joanna was a natural curiosity to Polly, and the study amused her,
just as she made use of every other variety and novelty, down to the
poultry-yard and kitchen-garden at the Ewes.
The girls were out on the moor, in the drowsy heat of a summer day,
grouped idly and prettily into such a cluster as girls will fall into
without effort. Susan, the beauty--there is always a beauty among
several girls--in languid propriety, with her nice hair, and her
scrupulously falling collar and sleeves, and her blush of a knot of
ribbon; Lilias, the strong-minded, active person, sewing busily at
charity work, of which all estimable households have now their share;
Constantia, the half-grown girl, lying in an awkward lump among the hay,
intently reading her last novel, and superlatively scorning the society
of her grown-up relatives; Joanna, sitting thoughtfully, stroking old
Gyp, the ragged terrier, that invariably ran after either Joanna or her
father; and Polly, who had been riding with Oliver, standing with her
tucked-up habit, picturesque hat and feathers, smart little gentleman's
riding-gloves and whip, and very _espiègle_ face--a face surrounded by
waves of silky black hair, with a clear pale skin, and good eyes and
teeth, which Polly always declared were her fortune in the way of good
looks; but her snub nose was neither of a vulgar nor coarse tendency--it
was a very lively, coquettish, handsomely cut, irresistible cock nose.
If these girls on the moor had been tried in the fire heated seven
times, it would not have been to the strong-minded, broad-chested,
dark-browed Lilias that they would have clung. They would have come
crouching in their extremity and taken hold of the skirt of round, soft,
white Joanna, with the little notable stain on her temple.
Polly was detailing her adventures and repeating her news with a relish
that was appetizing.
"We went as far as Lammerhaugh, when Oliver remembered that he had a
commission for your father at Westcotes, just when my love, Punch, was
broken off his trot, and promised to canter, and the morning was so
fresh then--a jewel of a morning. It was provoking; I wanted Noll to
continue absent in mind, or prove disobedient, or something, but you
good folks are so conscientious."
"Duty first, and then pleasure," said Lilias emphatically.
"That was a Sunday-school speech, Lilias, and spoken out of school; you
ought to pay a forfeit; fine her, Susie."
"Aren't you hot, Polly?" asked Susan, without troubling herself to take
up the jest.
"Not a bit--no more than you are; I'm up to a great deal yet; I'll go to
the offices and gather the eggs. No, I am warm though, and I don't want
to be blowsy to-night; I think I'll go into the house to the bath-room,
and have a great icy splash of a shower-bath."
"You'll hurt your health, Polly, for ever bathing at odd hours, as you
do," remonstrated Joanna.
"All nonsense, my dear; I always do what is pleasantest, and it agrees
with me perfectly. In winter, I do toast my toes; and you know I eat
half-a-dozen peaches and plums at a time like a South Sea Islander,
only I believe they feast on cocoa-nut and breadfruit; don't they,
Conny? You are the scholar; you know you have your geography at your
finger-ends yet."
"Oh, don't tease me, Polly!" protested Conny impatiently.
"Dear Jack, hand me a sprig of broom to stick in Conny's ear," persisted
Polly in a loud whisper.
Constantia shook her head furiously, as if she were already horribly
tickled, and that at the climax of her plot.
"Never mind, Conny, I'll protect you. What a shame, Polly, to spoil her
pleasure!" cried Joanna indignantly.
"I beg your pardon, Donna Quixotina."
"I wonder you girls can waste your time in this foolish manner,"
lectured Lilias, with an air of superiority; "you are none of you better
than another, always pursuing amusement."
"What a story, Lilias!" put in Polly undauntedly; "you know I sew yard
upon yard of muslin-work, and embroider ells of French merino, and
task myself to get done within a given time. Aunt Powis says I make
myself a slave."
"Because you like it," declared Lilias disdainfully; "you happen to be a
clever sewer, and you are fond of having your fingers busy and
astonishing everybody--besides, you admire embroidery in muslin and
cloth; and even your pocket-money--what with gowns and bonnets, tickets
to oratorios and concerts, and promenades, and 'the kid shoes and
perfumery,' which are papa's old-fashioned summing up of our expenses,
bouquets and fresh gloves would be nearer the truth--won't always meet
the claims upon your gold and silver showers; and Susan," added Lilias,
not to be cheated out of her diatribe, and starting with new alacrity,
"practising attitudes and looking at her hands; and Conny reading her
trashy romances."
"It is not a romance, Lilias," complained Conny piteously; "it is a tale
of real life."
"It is all the same," maintained the inexorable Lilias; "one of the most
aggravating novels I ever read was a simple story."
"Oh, Lilias, do lend it to me!" begged Polly; "I'm not literary, but it
is delightful to be intensely interested until the very hair rises on
the crown of one's head."
"I don't know that you would like it," put in Joanna; "it is not one of
the modern novels, and it has only one dismal catastrophe; it is the
fine old novel by Mrs. Inchbald."
"Then I don't want it; I don't care for old things, since I have not a
palate for old wines or an eye for old pictures. I hate the musty,
buckram ghosts of our fathers."
"Oh! but Mrs. Inchbald never raised ghosts, Polly; she manoeuvred
stately, passionate men and women of her own day."
"The wiser woman she. But they would be ghosts to me, Jack, unless they
were in the costume of the present day; there is not an inch of me given
to history."
"And you, Joanna," concluded Lilias, quite determined to breast every
interruption and finish her peroration, "you have listened, and smiled,
and frowned, and dreamt for an hour."
"I was waiting in case papa should want me," apologized Joanna,
rather humbly.
"That need not have hindered you from hemming round the skirt of
this frock."
"Oh, Lilias! I am sorry for you, girl," cried Polly. "You're in a
diseased frame of mind; you are in a fidget of work; you don't know the
enjoyment of idleness, the luxury of laziness. You'll spoil your
complexion; your hair will grow grey; no man will dare to trifle with
such a notable woman!"
"I don't care!" exclaimed Lilias bluntly and magnanimously. "I don't
want to be trifled with; I don't value men's admiration."
"Now! Now!! Now!!! Now!!!!" protested Polly; "I don't value men's
admiration either, of course, but I like partners, and I would not be
fond of being branded as a strong-minded female, a would-be Lady
Bountiful, a woman going a-tracking; that's what men say of girls who
don't care to be trifled with. But, Lilias, are you quite sure you don't
believe in any of the good old stories--the 'goody' stories I would call
them if I were a man--of the amiable girl who went abroad in the old
pelisse, and who was wedded to the enthusiastic baronet? My dears, you
must have observed they were abominably untrue; the baronet, weak and
false, always, since the world began, marries the saucy, spendthrift
girl, who is prodigal in rich stuffs, and bright colours, and becoming
fits, and neat boots and shoes--who thinks him worth listening to, and
laughing with, and thinking about--the fool."
"Really, Polly, you are too bad," cried both Susan and Lilias at once;
their stock-in-trade exhausted, and not knowing very well what they
meant, or what they should suggest further if this sentence were not
answer enough.
"Now, I believe Joanna does not credit the goody stories, or does not
care for them, rather; but we are not all heroines, we cannot all afford
an equal indifference."
Joanna coloured until the red stain became undistinguishable, and even
Polly felt conscious that her allusion was too flippant for the cause.
"So you see, Lilias," she continued quickly, "I'm not the least ashamed
of having been caught fast asleep in my room before dinner the other
rainy day. I always curl myself up and go to sleep when I've got nothing
better to do, and I count the capacity a precious gift; besides, I will
let you into a secret worth your heads: it improves your looks immensely
after you've been gadding about for a number of days, and horribly
dissipated in dancing of nights at Christmas, or in the oratorio week,
or if you are in a town when the circuit is sitting--not present as a
prisoner, Conny."
"Polly!" blazed out Constantia, who, on the plea of the needle-like
sharpness and single-heartedness which sometimes distinguishes her
fifteen years, was permitted to be more plain-spoken and ruder than her
sisters; "I hate to hear you telling of doing everything you like with
such enjoyment. I think, if you had been a man, you would have been an
abominable fellow, and you are only harmless because you are a girl."