confusion. The parental homily was too late--she was already the wife of
Charles Lawson.
Having thus begun our story in the middle, it is necessary that we go
back, and inform the reader, in a few words, that Andrew Weir was a
respectable farmer on the north side of the Tweed, and withal a decent
and devout Presbyterian, and an elder in the kirk. Charles Lawson's
parents were originally from Northumberland. They had known better days,
and, at the period we have alluded to, were struggling with a hard farm
in the neighbourhood of Andrew Weir's. Charles was not exactly what his
father-in-law had described him; and, were we to express his portrait in
a line, we should say, he had blue eyes and a broad brow, a goodly form
and open heart. The ringlets which parted on Elizabeth's forehead were
like the raven's wing, and loveliness, if not beauty, nestled around the
dimples on her cheeks. Their affection for each other began in
childhood, and grew with their years, till it became strong as their
existence.
A few weeks after Andrew Weir had delivered the advice we have quoted to
his daughter, Charles Lawson bade farewell to his parents, his wife, and
his country, and proceeded to India, where a relative of his mother's
had amassed a fortune, and who, while he refused to assist them in their
distress, had promised to make provision for their son. As we are not
writing a novel in three volumes, we shall not describe the scene of
their parting, and tell with what agony, with what tears, and with what
bitter words, Charles tore himself from his father, his mother, and his
yet unacknowledged wife. The imagination of the reader may supply the
blank. Hope urged him to go--necessity compelled him.
After his departure, Elizabeth drooped like an early lily beneath the
influence of a returning frost. There were whisperings among the matrons
and maidens of the neigbouring village. They who had formerly courted
her society began to shun it; and even the rude clown, who lately stood
abashed in her presence, approached her with indecent familiarity. The
fatal whisper first reached Andrew's ear at a meeting of the
kirk-session, of which he was a member. He returned home troubled in
spirit, a miserable and a humbled man, for his daughter had been his
pride. Poor Elizabeth confessed that she was married, and attempted to
prove what she affirmed. But this afforded no palliation of her offence
in the eyes of her rigid and offended father.
"Oh, what hae I been born to suffer ?" cried he, stamping his feet upon
the ground. "O, you Witch o' Endor!--you Jezebel!--you disgrace o' kith
and kin! Could naething--naething serve ye but breaking your puir auld
faither's heart? Get out o' my sicht!--get out o' my sicht!"
He remained silent for a few moments--the parent arose in his
heart--tears gathered in his eyes.
"But ye are still my bairn," he continued. "Oh, Betty, Betty, woman!
what hae ye brocht us to?"
Again he was silent, and again proceeded--
"But I forgie ye, Betty! Yes, if naebody else will, your faither will
forgie ye for your mother's sake, for ye are a' that I hae left o' her.
But we canna haud up our heads again in this pairt o' the
country--that's impossible. I've lang thocht o' gaun to America; and now
I'm driven till't."
He parted with his farm, and in the ensuing spring proceeded with his
daughter to Canada. We shall not enter upon his fortunes in the New
World--he was still broken in spirit; and, after twelve years'
residence, he was neither richer nor happier than when he left Scotland.
Elizabeth was now a mother, and the smiles of her young son seemed to
shorten the years of her exile; yet, ever as she returned his smile, the
thought of the husband of her youth flashed back on her remembrance, and
anguish and misery shot through her bosom as the eagle darteth on its
prey. Her heart was not broken; but it fell like a proud citadel,
burying the determined garrison.
Charles Lawson had not been in India many months, when a party of native
troops attacking the property of his relative, Charles, who had fallen
wounded amongst them, was carried by them in their retreat into the
interior of the country, where, for several years, he was cut off from
all intercourse or communication with his countrymen. On obtaining his
liberty, he found that his kinsman had been for some time dead, and had
left him his heir. His wife--his parents--doubt--anxiety--impatient
affection--trembling hope--all hastened his return. At length the white
cliffs of Albion appeared before him, like a fair cloud spread on the
unruffled bosom of the ocean; and in a few days more the green hills of
his childhood met his anxious eye.
It was the grey hour of a summer night as he again approached the roof
that sheltered his childhood. His horse as if conscious of supporting an
almost unconscious rider, stopped involuntarily at the threshold. He
trembled upon the saddle as a leaf that rustles in the wind. He raised
his hand to knock at the door, but again withdrew it. The inmates of the
house, aroused by the sound of a horse stopping at the door, came out to
inquire the cause. Charles gazed upon them for a moment--it was a look
of agony and disappointment--his heart gave one convulsive throb, and
the icy sweat burst from his temples.
"Does not--does not Mr Lawson live here?" he inquired, almost gasping
for words to convey the question.
"Mr Lawson! Na, na, sir," replied the senior of the group, "it's lang
since he gaed awa. Ye ken he gaed a' wrang, puir man, and he's no lived
here since the hard winter, for they didna come upon this parish."
"Did not come upon this parish!" exclaimed Charles; "heaven and earth!
what do you mean?"
"Mean! what wad I mean," answered the other, "but just that they were
removed to their ain parish! Is there ony disgrace in that?"
"Oh, my father!--my poor mother!" cried Charles, wildly.
"Mercy, sir!" rejoined the astonished farmer, "are ye Maister Charles?
Bairns! haste ye, tak the horse to the stable. Losh, Charles, man, and
how hae ye been? But ye dinna ken me, man; I'm your auld schulefellow,
Bob Graham, and this is my wife, Mysie Allan--ye mind o' Mysie! Haste
ye, Mysie lass, kill twa ducks, and the bairns and me will hool the
peas. Really, Charles, man, I'm sae glad to see ye!"
During this harangue, Charles, led by his warmhearted friend, had
entered the dwelling of his nativity; where Mr Graham again continued--
"Ye aiblins dinna ken that auld Andrew Weir was sae sair in the dorts
when ye gaed awa, that he set aff wi' Betty for America. But I hear they
are comin hame again this back end. The bairn will be a stout callant
noo, and faith ye maun marry Betty, for she was a mensefu lass."
Charles could only reply by exclaiming--
"America!--my wife!--my child!"
Having ascertained where he would find his parents, early on the
following morning he departed, and about five in the afternoon
approached the village where he had been told they resided. When near
the little burying-ground, he stopped to look upon the most melancholy
funeral procession he had ever witnessed. The humble coffin was scarce
coloured, and they who bore it seemed tired of their burden. Three or
four aged and poor-looking people walked behind it. Scarce was it
lowered into the grave, ere all departed save one, meanly clothed in
widow's weeds, and bent rather with the load of grief than of years. She
alone lingered, weeping over the hastily-covered grave.
"She seems poor," said Charles, "and if I cannot comfort her, I may at
least relieve her necessities;" and, fastening his horse to the gate, he
entered the churchyard.
She held an old handkerchief before her face, only removing it at
intervals to steal a hurried glance at the new-made grave.
"Good woman," said Charles, as he approached her, "your sorrows demand
my sympathy--could I assist you?"
"No! no!" replied the poor widow, without raising her face; "but I thank
you for your kindness. Can the grave give up its dead?"
"But why should you remain here?" said he, with emotion; "tell me, could
not I assist you?" And he placed a piece of money in her hand.
"No! no!" cried the widow, bitterly, and raising her head; "oh, that
Mary Lawson should have lived to be offered charity on her husband's
grave!"
"My mother! Gracious heaven, my mother!" exclaimed Charles, casting his
arms around her neck.
Shall we describe the scene that followed? We will not--we cannot. He
had seen his father laid in the dust, he had met his mother on his
father's grave----But we will not go on.
It was some weeks after this that he proceeded with his widowed mother
to his native village, to wait the return of Elizabeth. Nor had he to
wait; for, on the day previous to his return, Elizabeth, her son, and
her father, had arrived. Charles and his parent had reached Mr
Graham's--the honest farmer rushed to the door, and, hurrying both
towards the house, exclaimed--
"Now, see if you can find onybody that ye ken here!"
His Elizabeth--his wife--his son--were there to meet him; the next
moment she was upon his bosom, and her child clinging by her side, and
gazing on his face. He alternately held both to his heart--the mother
and her son. Andrew Weir took his hand--his mother wept with joy, and
blessed her children. Bob Graham and his Mysie were as happy as their
guests. Charles Lawson bought the farm which Andrew Weir had formerly
tenanted; and, our informant adds, they live on it still.
BON GAULTIER'S TALES.
MRS HUMPHREY GREENWOOD'S TEA-PARTY.
Mrs Humphrey Greenwood was a stirring, lively, good-natured sort of
person; had touched the meridian of her years; was mistress of a
comfortable income; and possessed, withal, the privileged vivacity of a
widow. Nobody gave nicer tea-parties than she; nobody managed to keep
such a number of eligible bachelors on her visiting-list, and
possessing, as she did, the nicest discrimination in drafting these in
among the young ladies under her patronage, what wonder if no
inconsiderable proportion of the matrimonial arrangements of her friends
deduced their origin from these dangerously-seductive sofas in her snug
little drawing-room?
It was in that snug little drawing-room that Mr Simon Silky first saw
the future Mrs Simon; it was on one of those dangerously-seductive sofas
that he found courage to put that question which procured him a better
half, and a comfortable settlement for life for Miss Jemima Linton.
Miss Jemima Linton was still in that fluctuating period, between girl
and womanhood, at which young ladies giggle a great deal, and seem to be
always in a flutter, when Mr Simon Silky first met her. She was fair in
complexion, with light hair and blue eyes; her face, in short, had all
the delicacy of a wax doll, and nearly as much expression. She could say
"yes, sir!" and "no, sir!" at the proper intervals in the course of a
_tete-a-tete_ conversation, and, when warmed a little into familiarity
and ease, could even hazard an observation with reference to the
weather, without changing colour above twice in the course of it. In a
word, she was one of those excessively bashful and retiring young
ladies, who always look as if they thought a man was going to make
violent love to them, and who, if your conversation happen to diverge
from the beaten track of the smallest of small talk, take fright, and
are off as fast as possible to whisper to some of their companions, "La!
what a strange man that is!"
This was the very kind of person for Mr Simon Silky, who was a bit of a
sentimentalist in his way. When he met Miss Jemima Linton, the fair
ideal on whom his fancy had often dwelt seemed to be realised. He came,
he saw, and was conquered.
On entering Mrs Greenwood's drawing-room, one evening that he had been
invited there to meet "a few friends in an easy way," having arrived
rather late, he found the party already assembled. The fire blazed
cheerfully out upon a bevy of tittering misses, who were seated on
either side of it, whispering to each other in a timid and confidential
tone, with here and there a young man amongst them making convulsive
efforts to render himself amusing, while two or three putty-faced
juniors, with very white shirt-collars, and very brightly-polished
pumps--who had been called in to stop gaps in quadrilles, and render
themselves otherwise useful--sat in the background, for the most part
two on a chair, and speculating how many of the cakes that glistened on
the table they might appropriate to themselves with any degree of
decency. Mrs Humphrey Greenwood, the presiding divinity of this motley
gathering, vulgarly yclept a "cookie-shine," was planted behind a
brightly-burnished brass urn of liberal dimension, that hissed loudly on
the table.
"Mr Simon," she exclaimed, advancing from her post of honour--" Mr Simon
Silky, I'm so glad to see you; I really thought you had been going to
desert us."
Our hero blustered out some inarticulate apology, to which his hostess
of course paid no attention, but hurried on into the work of
introduction.
"Mr Silky, Miss Silliman, Miss Gingerly, Miss Barbara Silliman, Miss
Eggemon, Miss Jemima Linton; I think you know all the rest. Mr
Scratcherd, you know Mr Silky." Mr Scratcherd grinned an assent. "Mr
Silky, Mr Slap'emup. You'll find a seat for yourself somewhere. Try if
some of the ladies will have pity, and take you in among them."
All this time, Mr Silky was engaged in distributing a comprehensive bow
to everybody about him--an ordeal which, in any circumstances, to a
nervous man like him, was no joke. But his agitation had the finishing
touch given it by Mrs Greenwood's facetious observation as to the ladies
_taking him_ IN _among them_. The blood rushed to his temples, and he
subsided into a vacant chair, with a remark, directed to nobody in
particular, as to how very warm the room was. Attention having been once
drawn to this interesting fact, it became the topic of conversation for
some five minutes, which gave Mr Simon Silky time to cool down, and to
look about him a little. In the course of his survey, his eyes alighted
on Miss Jemima Linton, who just at that moment happened to be
scrutinising his outward man. Their eyes met; a glance of quick
intelligence passed between them. The lady lowered hers, blushing up to
them as she did so; and the enraptured Simon muttered to himself, "What
charming confusion!" He felt a novel sensation gathering about his
heart. Could it be love? At first sight, too. Many deny it, but we say
that all genuine love is at first sight.
"He never loved, who loved not at first sight."
Mr Simon Silky was a reader of the Beauties of Shakspere. This line took
possession of his head, and he mused and looked, looked and mused, till
he was roused from his reverie by Mrs Greenwood calling upon him to
assist in handing round the "cups which cheer but not inebriate." He
started up, with a very vague notion of what he was to be about, and
grasping a tea-cup, which his hostess informed him was Miss Jemima
Linton's, in one hand, and a plate of cheesecakes in the other, he
stumbled up to the lady, and consigning the cakes to her outstretched
hand, held out the tea-cup to Miss Eggemon, who sat next, inquiring if
she would please to be helped to a little cake. Miss Eggemon tittered,
and exclaimed,
"Well, I never!"
"Gracious! the like of that, you know!" simpered Miss Silliman, burying
her face in Miss Eggemon's neck.
"How very absurd!" sneered Miss Gingerly, who was verging to
old-maidishness, and had a temper in which vinegar was the principal
ingredient.
"Bless me, Mr Silky! what _are_ you about?" cried Mrs Greenwood.
"Oh--why--yes--no--I see--beg pardon--dear me!" stammered poor Silky,
reddening like an enraged turkey-cock, as he handed Miss Linton the cup,
out of which the greater part of its contents had by this time been
shaken and seizing the dish of cakes with a sudden jerk, deposited
one-half of them in the lady's lap, and the other half on the carpet.
"Tell me, where is fancy bre_a_d?" said Mr Horatio Slap'emup, who was a
wit in his own small way, pointing to the cakes, which our hero was
endeavouring to bring together again from the different corners into
which they had wandered. A general laugh greeted him on every side as he
rose from his knees covered with confusion. He looked at the fair Jemima
as he did so. There was not the vestige of a smile on her face. "Good
kind soul! _she_ does not join in the vulgar mirth of these unfeeling
creatures!" thought the unhappy Silky. "She pities me, and pity is akin
to love." It did not strike him that there might be another reason for
her gravity. The spilled tea and greasy cheesecake had spoiled her white
muslin dress irremediably, for that night at least--a circumstance
calculated certainly to make any young lady melancholy enough; but this
never entered the brain of Mr Simon Silky. Happy man!
"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
With some difficulty he regained his chair, after stumbling over a
footstool, and crushing the tail of a King Charles cocker, that was
snorting on the hearthrug in all the offensiveness of canine obesity.
His distress was at its climax.
"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions,"
thought he, recurring once more to the Beauties of Shakspere. His ears
felt as if they had been newly scalded, and objects floated in hazy
confusion before his eyes. He commenced sipping his tea with desperate
energy, wishing for a moment that it had been so much prussic acid. The
patter of many voices sounded in his ears. They must be talking of him,
"for they laughed consumedly;" and that confounded Slap'emup was
obviously getting up a reputation for wit by cutting minute jokes at his
expense.
"You've been at the Exhibition, Mr Silky," said Mrs Greenwood, recalling
him from the state of mental imbecility into which he was fast sinking.
"The Exhibition, you said, ma'am! Yes, yes, certainly, the Exhibition.
Oh yes!" rejoined Mr Silky, struggling to concentrate his scattered
faculties.
"Well, what is your opinion about the portrait?" continued his hostess.
"Portrait, really--which of them--there's so many?"
"Why, Mr Silky, what _has_ come over you to-night? The ladies have been
like to pull each other to pieces, for the last five minutes, about the
portrait of an officer a little to the left of the door of the first
room; and, I declare, you have not heard a word that has been going.
Pretty doings, Mr Simon; and who, may I ask, is the happy lady that so
engrosses your thoughts?"
"Oh, Mrs. Greenwood!"
"Well, well, then, if it's a secret, I won't press it! But what is your
opinion of the portrait? Miss Barbara Silliman here maintains it is
beauty in the abstract."
"Oh he's quite a love of a man!" broke in Miss Barbara, in a rapture of
affectation; whereat Miss Gingerly appeared mightily shocked, and pursed
up her mouth till it looked like a parched apple.
"But Miss Linton, on the contrary, says she thinks it rather plain for a
military man. Now, we want your decision on this knotty point."
"Oh, why, really--a portrait of an officer, I think you said. Fair
complexion, flaxen ringlets, and light blue eyes--beautiful, indeed!
That is to say--I don't know; but"--and here poor Silky looked
hopelessly about for an idea--"upon the whole, I think I declare for
Miss Linton."
"Well, really, Mr Simon, that _is_ coming to the point. Jemima, my dear,
do you hear what Mr Silky says? Declares for you already! Upon my word,
a fair proposal!" said Mrs Greenwood, catching up the allusion, and
looking excessively matronly and significant.
"Fair complexion, flaxen ringlets, light blue eyes!" broke in Miss
Barbara Silliman, with that delicate spitefulness to which young ladies
are subject, when they suspect any of their rivals of having produced an
impression on one of the male creatures. "A pretty officer, indeed! It's
you, Miss Linton, that Mr Silky means. Quite a conquest, I declare."
Having said this for the benefit of the company, she murmured to
herself, "I wonder at the man's taste. A gawky minx!"
If Mr Silky felt uncomfortable before, he was now reduced to the lowest
pitch of personal misery. He tried to smile, as if he took the thing as
a good joke; but the contortions of his visage were galvanic. Everybody,
he was sure, was looking at him, and he stammered out some inarticulate
words, by way of extricating himself from his awkward position. What
they were he knew not; but they only seemed to have made matters worse;
for another titter ran round the circle, and showers of badinage
assailed him on every side. Mr Simon Silky began to speculate whether
sitting on the points of a score of red-hot toasting-forks could be
worse than his present torment.
He was pursuing this agreeable train of reflection, when the removal of
the table to a corner of the room, and a general commotion, occasioned
by the pushing back of sofas, and the laying away of chairs, made him
aware that dancing was about to commence. The men, as they always do on
these occasions, clustered together near the door, pulling on
gloves--such of them as had them--and talking very thick and fast about
nothing at all.
"Miss Gingerly, may I ask you to give the young folks a set of
quadrilles?" inquired Mrs Greenwood.
"Certainly--with a great deal of pleasure," coldly responded Miss
Gingerly, blowing her nose with the end of her pocket-handkerchief,
which she extracted partially from her black satin bag for the purpose,
and feeling particularly venomous at being cut out of the dance, and her
very, very faint chance of captivating a partner therein.
"Oh, thank you," said Miss Eggemon, laying her hands affectionately on
Miss Gingerly's wrists. "You play quadrilles so nicely." And then
turning to Miss Jemima Linton, Miss Eggemon whispered, confidentially,
"Such a player you never heard. Not three bars in time. How provoking
Mrs Greenwood should ask her to play. Just listen; did you ever hear the
like of that?"
Miss Gingerly had laid her black satin bag on the piano, drawn herself
up with all the frosty-faced dignity of waning maidenhood, and was
performing a prelude before commencing operations, which was chiefly
remarkable for its ingenious flights from key to key, and bewildering
accumulation of false concords.
"Gentlemen, find partners for yourselves," said the lively Mrs
Greenwood; and the gentlemen, after looking at one another, disentangled
themselves from the knot into which they were gathered, and, shuffling
up each to the lady that pleased his fancy, solicited the honour of her
hand. The couples had taken their places, and Miss Gingerly was dashing
away into the heart of the "Highland Laddie," when it was discovered
that there was still a couple awanting.
"Mr Silky, you dance?" said all the men at once to that gentleman, who
was sitting pensively in a corner.
"Oh, really!" replied Silky, smiling a sickly smile, and making vague
protestations of inability.
"Not dance!" said the vivacious Mr Slap'emup. "Fie on you!--oh, fie! And
Miss Linton looking at you there, like Eve on the eve of Paradise, as if
'She would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.'"