CRAIGMAVER.
It was a strange feeling which oppressed the soul of Mina Ivraine, as
she looked once again, long, earnestly, sadly, away into the far
distance at Craigmaver, thrice beautiful Craigmaver; for the sun
streamed over the hills, and the mountains rose stern and solemn and
grand as ever, and the dark firs remained immovable in their old
positions, and the lake rippled, and the sound of distant waterfalls
came on her ear just as of yore. It seemed as if the birds were
carolling on the very twigs they had selected, as suitable
resting-places, from whence to thrill forth the notes of their
unequalled melodies, when she was a little child; the leaves danced in
the sunlight, as if autumn’s blasts were things unknown; the bracing air
fanned her pale wan cheek; the trees bent their branches, as she knew
they had always done; the wild flowers budded by the wayside; the sky
was blue and bright and clear, as she recollected seeing it one glorious
day, long, long ago: externally, all was the same; but, internally, all
was different at Craigmaver, at Glenfiord, in the heart of her who had
been Mina Frazer, who was now Mina Ivraine.
“And so, Mina, this is your native land,” said her husband, withdrawing
his gaze for a moment from the prospect which his large melancholy eyes
had drunk in, as if that panorama of beauty were a thing for which his
very soul had thirsted; “what a lovely land it is!” And once again his
glance wandered eagerly from point to point, from peak to peak, and then
settled on the plantations, in the midst of which Craigmaver nestled,
perched above the lake beneath the mountains. What a home it was! a home
to pine and sigh and sicken for, even in a palace!
But oh! how Mina longed to tell him that she had rather live with him
amongst the dreary Lincolnshire fens than with Cecilia in that bright,
glad spot: if he had uttered another sentence then, if he had turned his
face for a moment a second time towards her, she thought she could have
explained some part of her heart; have told him the reason she was not
“very glad” to see the Highlands again; have contrived to make him
understand how it was that, even whilst the memory of her childhood’s
home remained a thing stamped on her recollection for life, it had
ceased to be a possession to sigh for, a loss to mourn over;—that,
although she still loved Scotland and the Scotch, the heather, the
moors, and the perfume of the thyme, which the wild bee sucked on the
steep hill side, still she could live happily out of sight of them all.
She wished to say something about the lesson she had learned out of
life’s earnest volume of instructive solemn truths; but he was looking
at that prospect with a sort of dreamy enthusiasm in his face, which she
felt she could not damp with a single sentence of her own more sorrowful
admiration; and, ere he again thought of addressing her, a shadow was
flung across the road, and, the moment after, Cecilia Frazer drew rein
by the side of the carriage, and, springing from her saddle, flung her
arms around Mina’s neck and kissed and welcomed her home again, as if
she had been a dear and only sister, unseen for years, but remembered
always.
“And this is Mr. Ivraine, I presume,” she said, when she could spare a
second from the wife to notice the husband. “Mina, dear, introduce me;”
but, before Mina could comply with this completely unnecessary request,
Mrs. Frazer had extended her hand and was expressing her unqualified
delight at becoming personally acquainted with one of whom she had heard
so much, and whom she felt so excessively gratified to welcome to their
lonely Highland home. “It was so kind of you to come,” she added, with
one of her frankest and sweetest smiles, “so very kind.”
Ernest Ivraine looked full into the face of the beautiful woman, who
uttered these words in a voice so musical, in a tone so exquisitely
modulated, that it seemed as if they had not been spoken, but sung. The
baronet’s son had never mixed much in any society; he had been shut out
altogether from feminine association. In the London parks he might have
noticed some handsome aristocratic faces; in Lincolnshire he had once or
twice been introduced to country belles and noted beauties, or at least
beauties who passed current for such in a spot so far removed from
invidious metropolitan comparisons; but he had never before in his life
been brought into absolute close contact with a clever, fashionable,
perfectly lovely woman, who was determined to astonish the (to be)
English baronet, and to fascinate and teach him the exact meaning of
“flowers blooming in out-of-the-way places,” and make him remember one
he had seen at Craigmaver for many a long day.
He gazed, not rudely, though intently, at her, into the depths of the
large purple orbs, at the broad fair forehead, the child-like
complexion, so clear, so soft, so fresh; he noted the waves of her
unconfined hair, the chiselled perfection of her delicate features; he
beheld a combination of grace, beauty, refinement, and intellect, such
as had never crossed his sight before: and then, withdrawing his eyes,
he felt that, spite of all, he did not like the mistress of that
Highland mansion, the angel of that terrestrial Paradise.
Spite of her face, her voice, her smiles, her welcomes, the instinct of
his heart made him take a distaste to Allan Frazer’s accomplished wife;
and those instinctive likings and dislikings are frequently more to be
relied on than judgments formed after even long acquaintanceship; for
reason may be blinded and penetration deluded, and sense beguiled, and
watchfulness lulled to sleep; but that something which
“——Comes to tell us
All that glitters is not gold,”
never deceives, never, or, at least, not once in a thousand times.
Children and dogs, we are informed, are seldom astray in their first
impressions; they both—the embryo reasoning and reflecting beings and
the unreasoning and unreflecting animals—jump to their conclusions by
some inexplicable process, which, in the absence of a better and clearer
light, we denominate instinct; and, sometimes in later life, this same
instinct serves us wonderfully, and proves a safe and certain guiding
star to light us on to accurate conclusions at periods when the lamp of
reason is burning so low in the socket, or else glimmering so faintly
through a misty shade, that, if we went by her light, the true path
would very probably be lost sight of altogether.
In matters of liking and disliking, Ernest Ivraine remained through life
a perfect child; he felt drawn to some people, he was repelled by
others; not because of any fault or virtue he at once detected in them,
but because of an instinct that assured him there was good or evil to be
discovered in their natures: he took the entire affair on faith, and
loved and hated without analyzing the causes which produced these very
opposite effects. It was so,—that satisfied him; why it was so, he could
not tell—perhaps he did not care to trouble himself with inquiring.
And so, in the present case, he found, to borrow a couplet from Swaine
again,
“Smiles repel him,
Bright eyes turn his feelings cold:”
and, accordingly, even whilst he returned Cecilia’s greeting with
studied politeness, there was a constraint in his manner which caused
that attractive lady to turn away half provoked, as she mentally
exclaimed, “What a stick!”
But she was not a person to be disconcerted or rebuffed by a little
formality, so she insisted on their alighting and walking up the drive
with her, for they were now at the old-fashioned entrance gates; and she
gave her horse to the footman, who rode a few yards behind, and bade the
driver proceed to the house; and then, holding up her long riding habit
with one hand, she took Mina quite tenderly by the other, “to help her
along,” as she said—“the poor child looked so very weak and tired.”
She had laid herself out to be particularly agreeable to both; she told
Mr. Ivraine of the pleasure she anticipated in being his cicerone to the
most noted spots in the neighbourhood, spots noted either for their
beauty or the historical interest attached unto them; she seemed
perfectly enchanted at the unbounded admiration he expressed when the
view from the lawn first burst upon his sight; she was pleased and
gratified to lead them through beds of flowers, by banks of roses,
beside hedges of sweet-briar, myrtle, and lavender, under arches of
starry jasmine, into the drawing-room, which no more resembled the
drawing-room of former days than the garden resembled the quaint old
_parterre_ affair Mina remembered it when she was a child.
The stiff old-fashioned sofas were gone, the carved oaken chairs had
been re-modelled, paintings and mirrors filled up spaces which, till
their advent, had been dead blanks; ottomans, couches, and _fauteuils_
made the apartment appear a sort of luxurious haven of rest: everything
was covered in pale green silk, or rather with a material which seemed
to be like Irish tabinet, a judicious mixture of silk and worsted,
possessing the richness of the one, whilst retaining the firm stiffness
of the other. A statuette or two relieved the sombre antique appearance
of a rare ebony chiffonier; a beautiful piano, open, and with music
scattered over it; and a harp, that most graceful amongst musical
instruments, spoke of song and melody; a carpet, in which the foot sank
noiselessly;—this was the drawing-room at Craigmaver, and this was the
style in which Cecilia, since the old laird’s death, had furnished it.
Everything was done so well; there was such a tasteful blending of the
old and the new, of the sombre and the cheerful, of ancient relics and
modern improvements, of comfort and usefulness, refinement and ornament;
such an absence of display, such a fitness and purpose in each chair and
table and cushion and footstool, such a style and fashion and novelty
about the arrangement and decoration and carelessness and fastidiousness
of the apartment,—that Ernest Ivraine felt, for the instant, as if he
had stepped into fairyland. No, no! he had never, anywhere, seen
anything to compare with this, which Cecilia, in her light pleasant way,
called her “sanctum.”
“I am so glad you like it,” she said, in answer to a remark from Mina as
to the changes her taste had effected; “you see some people have a fancy
for fitting up little odd nooks in out-of-the-way corners of the house,
in magnificent style, and calling them boudoirs, and retiring there to
be comfortable, leaving large miserable drawing-rooms for their guests,
where no one ever would dream of staying a moment longer than strict
etiquette demanded; but I said, ‘I will make my reception hall my
boudoir, and then my visitors will remain longer with me; I will not
keep the only snug spot in the mansion for my own especial benefit and
that of a select and favoured clique;’ so we got upholsterers to work,
and, after their departure, I exerted the little taste I possessed to
remove the formal look they bequeathed it: they did their part, I
performed mine, and I am so glad you like the result of our united
efforts. I had quite set my heart upon its pleasing you; but I will show
you something far more valuable and precious in my eyes,” she added,
speaking in a different tone; “you won’t mind, darling, will you, coming
to see my child, my little boy?”
There was a tender sympathy in her tone which, touching the softest part
in Mina’s heart, caused her, on the instant, to forget the annoyances of
other days, and brought her feelings at once into unison with those of
her cousin’s wife. The two girls might have first agreed and then
quarrelled; the gay young matron and the sorrowful orphan might have
misunderstood one another; but it seemed to her impossible for two
mothers not to be linked together,—to remain unfriendly, resentful,
unforgiving: and just as Mina, with a sort of swelling in her bosom, was
attempting some connected answer to Cecilia’s observation, the door was
pushed open by little hands, and a child of about two or three years old
came running in.
It appeared as if the tread of those tiny feet passed over Mina’s heart
and crushed a kind of virtue out of it; and when, after glancing slyly
at the strangers, the boy buried his face in the folds of his mother’s
habit, the unbidden tears started into Mrs. Ivraine’s eyes, and she
caught Cecilia’s first born in her arms and kissed him over and over
again, without once remembering, as she did so, that she had formerly
regarded the bright being who called him “son” as the unkindest enemy,
the most implacable foe, she ever encountered.
“Who you?” demanded the little fellow, who, having been a “company
child” and accustomed to living in public ever since he was taken to the
font, had retained nothing of timidity, save its first attractive
semblance; “who you?” and he passed his chubby hand over the pale cheek,
and then glanced curiously at his mother, as if marvelling that any
person could be so very different from her as was the new comer.
“Cousin Mina,” answered Cecilia for her, “whom you are to love very
much, and never teaze nor torment, and to show all your pretty toys to;
and this,” she added, seeing the boy’s gaze turning to the baronet’s
son, “this is your cousin Mina’s husband; make a nice bow to him now;”
and, at the well-known order, the child made a very grave salute, with a
sort of half solemn, half mock dignity, which brought only a faint
glimmering smile over Mr. Ivraine’s face.
“What a stick he is!” once again soliloquized the lady of Craigmaver,
for the words, “And this is your cousin Ernest,” had well nigh escaped
her lips a few minutes previously; but, looking at that dark melancholy
countenance, she felt that, even for her, to make such a speech would be
impossible; and, as she was determined not formally to talk of him as
Mr. Ivraine, she had pointed him out to her child’s notice as Mina’s
husband. The Englishman piqued and provoked her; his unimpressible _sang
froid_ was not to be tolerated; his very admiration of their Highland
scenery and indifference to her Lowland witchery was a source of
irritation to her. Women and children,—he did not appear to think either
matters of any great importance worth being interested in, or taking
much notice of. Cecilia vowed she would discover his vulnerable point,
if he had one; she would rouse him by some means, make him smile or
frown, be pleased or angry, ere very long: she had an intuitive feeling
that he was not completely overwhelmed by her grace and loveliness,—so
much the more reason he should be made to remember her. Yes, she would
try, and, with Cecilia, to try was generally to succeed.
“I am so delighted,” she said, “that you came today, so that we may have
a little time together, free from those ‘necessary nuisances,’ general
visitors,—Goths and Vandals, who come down in hordes to lay waste the
comfort and pleasure of a domestic circle. Some regular ‘company people’
are to be here early next week, but till then I have managed that we
shall be entirely free, free to go and look at caves and cataracts,
ruins, castles, and mountains, Mr. Ivraine: you must be charmed with our
Highland scenery; I think there is none like it anywhere.”
And then she led Mina off to see the apartments she had prepared for
her, and came down afterwards to dinner, looking so beautiful in a pink
French muslin, that her cousin really thought she got handsomer as she
grew older; and she discharged the part, both of host and hostess, so
well, made her guests feel at once so completely at home, devoted
herself so unceasingly to their amusement, and appeared to forget
herself so entirely, that Mina could have imagined her the most amiable
being in the world, save for one or two little memories which would
persist in recurring to her recollection.
Driving, walking, riding, sitting quietly by the open windows, or
thrilling forth gushes of melody which seemed scarcely to have been
poured out by mortal lips—gliding over the waters, standing on the
lawns, making all sorts of fuss about Mina’s health, insisting on her
taking precautions without end, and persisting in forcing her to try
remedies without number,—she positively appeared to forget that such an
individual as Cecilia Frazer existed, and made herself, in some style,
over to her visitors, transferred, as it were, all right and title in
the lady of Craigmaver to Mr. and Mrs. Ivraine, for their exclusive use
and benefit during the period they remained in the Highlands. Whatever
they desired to do, she felt delighted with. Sometimes Ernest grew
ashamed of the instinctive aversion he entertained for her, and
attributed it to not having seen much of fashionable society, and,
consequently, feeling somewhat disconcerted with the ease of Cecilia’s
manners, the cleverness of Cecilia’s conversation, and the style and
grace and indescribable air of _ton_ that surrounded Allan Frazer’s wife
as with a vapour.
And, besides this, the contrast between that beautiful house and his
home affected him painfully; he began to think Mina would have been
happier amongst those who seemed so fond of her than amidst swamps and
fens and the people with whom she was forced to dwell. Cecilia treated
her so exactly like a much loved sister, that he never doubted the
sincerity of her affection, and grew graver and more thoughtful day by
day.
Mrs. Frazer could not comprehend him at all, and a very bitter feeling
of dislike was consequently awakened in her feminine heart towards the
only man she had ever met who seemed perfectly indifferent to her
manifold attractions; who, whilst always polite and courteous to a
degree, still evidently remained uninterested in anything, save scenery
and his own agreeable thoughts, whatever they might be. Cecilia found
Mr. Ivraine an unfathomable mystery. The “company people” came and went,
but still no perceptible difference came over him: she tried for an
entire fortnight to find out what he cared for, or whether he cared for
anything; to detect what could please or anger him; to discover his
vulnerable point, for she felt satisfied he had one: at the end of which
period she got tired and provoked, and, besides, grew weary of “being
fond” of Mina, and was just beginning to wish her visitors, who tied her
to Craigmaver, at the antipodes, when relief and succour appeared;
relief and succour,—yea, verily—in the person of Mr. Alfred Westwood.