would have thrown Orpheus into fits. It was then discovered that the
damp had reduced the piano nearly a whole tone below pitch, and Mr
Blewitt's flute could not be brought down to a level with it by any
contrivance. The musicians, however, were not to be baulked in their
purpose for this, and they agreed to proceed with the flute some half
a tone higher than the other instruments. But there was a world of
preliminary work yet to be gone through; tables had to be adjusted,
and books had to be built upon music stands. But the tables would
not stand conveniently, and the books would fall, and then all the
work of adjustment and library architecture had to be gone over
again. At last these matters were put to rights, and after a few
more indefinite vagaries by Messrs Blewitt, Harrower and Fogle, the
junto made a dash into the heart of one of Haydn's quartettes. The
piano kept steadily moving through the piece. Miss Fanny knew her
work, and she did it. The others did not know theirs, and they _did
for_ it. After a few faint squeaks at the beginning, Mr Blewitt's
flute dropped out of hearing altogether, and, just as everybody had
set it down as defunct, it began to give token of its existence by a
wail or two rising through the storm of sounds with which the
performance closed, and then made up its leeway by continuing to
vapour away for some time after the rest had finished.
"Bless my heart, are you done?" cried Mr Blewitt, breaking off in the
middle of a solo, which he found himself performing to his own
astonishment.
Mr Harrower and Mr Fogle threw up their eyes with an intensity of
contempt that defies description. To be sure, neither of them had
kept either time or tune all the way through. Mr Harrower's
violoncello had growled and groaned, at intervals, in a manner truly
pitiable; and Mr Fogle's bow had done nothing but dance and leap, in
a perpetual staccato from the first bar to the last, to the entire
confusion of both melody and concord. But they had both managed to
be in at the death, and were therefore entitled to sneer at the
unhappy flutist. Mr Eugene Lilylipz, who had annoyed Miss Fanny
throughout the performance, by invariably turning over the leaf at
the wrong place, now broke into a volley of raptures, of which the
words "Devaine" and "Chawming," were among the principal symbols. A
buzz of approbation ran round the room, warm in proportion to the
relief which the cessation of the Dutch concert afforded. Mr
Harrower and his coadjutors grew communicative, and vented an
infinite quantity of the jargon of dilettanteism upon each other, and
upon those about them. They soon got into a discussion upon the
merits of different composers, whose names served them to bandy to
and fro in the battledore and shuttlecock of conversation. Beethoven
was cried up to the seventh heaven by Mr Harrower for his grandeur
and sublimity, and all that sort of thing.
"There is a Miltonic greatness about the man!" he exclaimed, throwing
his eyes to the ceiling, in the contemplation of a visionary demigod.
"A vastness, a massiveness, an incomprehensible--eh, eh?--ah, I can't
exactly tell what, that places him far above all other writers."
"Every man to his taste," insinuated Mr Blewitt; "but I certainly
like what I can understand best. Now I don't understand Beethoven;
but I _can_ understand Mozart, or Weber, or Haydn."
"It is very well if you do!" retorted the violoncellist, reflecting
probably on the recent specimen Mr Blewitt had given of his powers.
"It is more than everybody does, I can tell you."
"Od, gentlemen, but it's grand music onyhow, and exceeding justice
you have done it, if I may speak my mind. But ye ken I'm no great
shakes of a judge."
This was the opinion volunteered by Mr Cheesham, who saw the
musicians were giving symptoms of that tendency to discord for which
they are proverbial, and threw out a sop to their vanity, which at
once restored them to order. As he said himself, Mr Cheesham was no
great judge of music, nor, indeed, of any of the fine arts. He had
read little, and thought less; and yet, since he had become
independent of the world, he was fond of assuming an air of
knowledge, that was exceedingly amusing. There was nothing, for
instance, that he liked better to be talking about than history; and,
nevertheless, that Hannibal was killed at the battle of Drumclog, and
Julius Cæsar beheaded by Henry the Eight, were facts which he would
probably have had no hesitation in admitting, upon any reasonable
representation.
By this time, Mr Stukeley had joined the party, and was going his
rounds, chatting, laughing, quizzing, and prosing, according to the
different characters of the people whom he talked with. When he
reached Mr Cheesham, he found him in earnest conversation with Mr
Lilylipz regarding the ruins of Tinglebury, an abbey not far from
Potterwell, of which the architecture was pronounced by Mr Lilylipz
to be "_suttinly_ transcendent beyond anything. It is of that pure
Græco-Gothic, which was brought over by William the Conqueror, and
went out with the Saxons."
Stukeley encouraged the conversation, drawing out the presumptuous
ignorance of Mr Lilylipz and the rusty nomeanings of the parent
Cheesham into strong relief.
"Gentlemen, excuse me for breaking up your _tête-à-tête_. Have you
got upon 'Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses?'" said Miss
Emily, joining the trio. "Mr Lilylipz, your friend tells me you
sing. Will you break the dulness, and favour us?"
"Oh, I never do sing; and besides, I am suffering from hoarseness."
"Come, come," replied Miss Emily, "none of these excuses, or we shall
expect to find a very Braham, at least."
"Now, _re_ally," remonstrated Mr Lilylipz.
"Oh, never mind his nonsense, Miss Cheesham," exclaimed Mr Blowze,
from the other side of the room. "Lilylipz sings an uncommonly good
song when he likes. Give us 'the Rose of Cashmere,' or 'She wore a
wreath of Roses.' Come away, now--no humbug!"
"Oh, that will be delightful!--pray, do sing!" were the exclamations
of a dozen voices at least. "Mr Lilylipz' song!" shouted the elderly
gentlemen of the party; and, forthwith, an awful stillness reigned
throughout the apartment. Upon this, Mr Lilylipz blew his nose,
coughed thrice, and, throwing himself back in his chair, riveted his
eyes, with the utmost intensity, upon a corner of the ceiling. Every
one held back his breath in expectation, and the interesting young
man opened upon the assemblage with a ballad all about an Araby maid,
to whom a Christian knight was submitting proposals of elopement,
which the lady appeared to be by no means averse to, for each stanza
ended with the refrain, "Away, away, away!" signifying that the
parties meant to be off somewhere as fast as possible. Mr Lilylipz
had just concluded verse the first, and the "Away, away, away!" had
powerfully excited the imagination of the young ladies present, when
the door opened, and the clinking of crystal ware announced the
inopportune entrance of a maidservant, bearing a trayful of glasses
filled with that vile imbroglio of hot water and sugar, coloured with
wine, which passes in genteel circles by the name of negus. All eyes
turned towards the door, and Mrs Cheesham exclaimed, "Sally, be
quiet!" but Mr Eugene was too much enrapt by his own performance to
feel the disturbance, and he tore away through verse the second with
kindling enthusiasm. "Away, away, away!" sang the vocalist, when a
crash and a scream arrested his progress. The servant maid had
dropped the tray, and the glasses were rolling to and fro upon the
floor in a confusion of fragments, while the delinquent, Sally,
shrieking at the top of her voice, was making her way out at the door
with all the speed she was mistress of.
"What can that be?" cried one. "The careless slut!" screamed
another. "Such thoughtlessness!" suggested a third. "What the deuce
could the woman mean?" asked a fourth. "It's the last night she sets
foot in my house!" exclaimed Mrs Cheesham, thrown off her dignity by
the sudden shock.
"Bless me, you look unwell!" said Mr Cheesham to Mr Lilylipz, who had
turned deadly pale, and was altogether looking excessively unhappy.
"Oh, it is nothing. Only a constitutional nervousness. The start,
the surprise, that sort of thing, you know; but it will go off in a
moment. I shall just take a turn in the air for a little, and I'll
be quite better."
The ladies were engaged in the contemplation of the wreck at the
other end of the room, and Mr Lilylipz, accompanied by his friend,
stepped out at one of the drawing-room windows, which opened out upon
the lawn. Frank Preston looked after them, and saw them in the
moonlight, passing down the banks of the river among the trees,
apparently engaged in earnest conversation.
"What do you think of this business, eh?" said Stukeley, rousing him
from a reverie by a tap upon the shoulder. "Queerish a little, isn't
it?"
"Queerish not a little, I think; and blow me if I don't get to the
bottom of it, or a devil's in it. That girl knows something of Mr
Eugene, I'll be sworn. We must get out of her what it is."
"Oh, no doubt she does. It wasn't the song that threw her off,
although it was certainly vile enough for anything; it was himself;
that is as clear as day. Let us off, hunt out the wench, and get the
secret from her."
They left the room by the open window, and passing round the house to
the servants' entrance, walked into the kitchen, where they found
Sally labouring under strong excitement, as she narrated the incident
which had led to her precipitate retreat from the drawing-room.
"To think of seeing him here; the base deceitful wretch! Cocked up
in the drawing-room, forsooth, as if that were a place for him or the
likes of him. Set him up, indeed--a pretty story. But I know'd as
how he'd never come to no good!"
"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Stukeley.
"Who is he, sir!--who should he be but Tom Newlands, the son of Dame
Newlands of our village."
"Oh, you must certainly be mistaken."
"Never a bit mistaken am I, sir. I have too good reason for
remembering him, the wretch! Oh, if I had him here, I wouldn't give
it him, I wouldn't? I'd sarve him out, the deludin' scoundrel. But
he never was good for nothing since he went into the haberdashery
line."
"A haberdasher, is he? Capital!--capital! The man of fashion, eh,
Frank?"
"The young man of _distingue_ appearance!"
"And who's his friend, Sally?"
"What! the other chap? Oh, I don't know anything about him, except
that he's one of them man millinery fellows; and a precious bad lot
they are, I know."
"Glorious!--glorious!" cried Stukeley, crying with delight, as he
walked out of the place with his friend. "Here's a discovery for
some folks, isn't it? The brilliant alliance, the high family, _et
cetera, et cetera_, all dwindled into a measurer of tapes. Aren't
you proud of having had such a rival?"
"Oh, come, don't be too hard upon me on that point. Mum, here we are
at the drawing-room again. Not a word of what we have heard. If
these scamps have made themselves scarce, as I think they have, good
and well. But if they venture to show face here again, I shall
certainly feel it to be my duty to pull their noses, and eject them
from the premises by a summary process."
"Oh, never fear, they will not put you to the trouble. They are off
for good and all, or I am no prophet."
Stukeley was right. The evening passed on, and the friends returned
not. Infinite were the surmises which their absence occasioned, but
the general conclusion was, that the interesting Mr Lilylipz had
found himself worse, and had retired to his inn for the night, along
with his faithful Achates. Morning came, but the friends did not
make their appearance at the pumproom as usual. They were not at
their inn; they were not in Potterwell. Whither they had wended, no
one knew; but, like the characters in the ballad, which had been so
oddly broken off, they were "away, away, away." They had come like
shadows, and like shadows they had departed.
Some months afterwards, Mrs Cheesham and her daughter Emily entered
one of the extensive drapery warehouses of Edinburgh, to invest a
portion o' their capital in the purchase of _mousseline de laine_.
They had seen an advertisement which intimated that no lady ought, in
justice to herself, to buy a dress of this description without first
inspecting that company's stock of the article. They were determined
to do themselves justice, and they went accordingly.
"Eugene," said the superintendent of the place, "show these ladies
that parcel of goods. A very superior article, indeed." Eugene!
Eugene! the ladies had good reason to remember the name; and what was
their surprise, on looking round, to see the exquisite of Potterwell
bending under a load of dress pieces! If their surprise was great,
infinitely greater was his dismay. His knees shook; his eyes grew
dim; his head giddy. His hands lost their power, and, dropping the
bundle, the unhappy Eugene stumbled over it in a manner painfully
ignoble. Mrs and Miss Cheesham turned to quit the shop, when there,
behind them, stood the dashing Adolph. "The enemy!" he exclaimed,
and, ducking dexterously under the counter, disappeared among sundry
bales that were piled beyond it. The lesson was not lost. Mrs
Cheesham had had quite enough of quality-hunting to satisfy her; and
Miss Emily found out that it was desirable to be wise as well as
witty, and gave her hand to Frank Preston, who forgave her temporary
apostacy, not only because it had been smartly punished by the
result, but for the sake of the many estimable qualities which Miss
Cheesham really possessed. Miss Fanny still roams, "in maiden
meditation, fancy free;" but she cannot do so long, or there is no
skill in man. At all events, when she does want a husband, she will
not go in search of him to COUNTRY QUARTERS.
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.
BY ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.
On the western skirts of the Torwood--famous in Scottish story for
its association with the names of Wallace and Bruce--there stood, in
the middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior
appearance for the period.
This house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of
the name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in
the neighbourhood.
Henderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in
tolerably easy circumstances.
The night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the
year 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of
the Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the
storm; and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were
rendered visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses
by the flashing lightning.
The night, too, was pitch-dark; and to add to its dismal character, a
heavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth,
and beat with violence on all opposing objects.
"A terrible night this, goodwife," said Henderson to his helpmate, as
he double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a
candle to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation.
"I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north
may not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just
as they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of
Flodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster
was at hand."
"But I have heard you say, goodman," replied David Henderson's
better-half, who--the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a
bar into its place--was still detained in her situation of
candle-holder, "that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's
descending from his vantage-ground."
"True, good wife," said David; "but was not his doing so but a means
of fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought
about else?"
The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without
further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now
late, retired to bed.
In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence.
The rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first
faintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the
descending deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining
river on the blast as it boiled and raged along.
Henderson had been in bed about an hour--it was now midnight--but had
been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently
jogging his slumbering helpmate--
"Goodwife," he said, "listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of
some one shouting without?"
They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon
distinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house.
In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the
door, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the
exclamations of--
"Ho! within there! house, house!" gave intimation that the rider
sought admittance.
"Who can this be?" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in
which, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back,
saying--
"Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to
admit visitors. Who can tell who they may be?"
"And who cares who they may be?" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing
himself out of bed. "I'll just see how they look from the window,
Mary;" and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and
saw beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black
horse, with a lady seated behind him.
"Dreadful night, friend," said the stranger, looking up to the window
occupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the
noise made in raising it. "Can you give my fellow-traveller here
shelter till the morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched
with wet, and so exhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that
she can proceed no further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to
make out."
"This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers,"
replied the farmer. "I am not in the habit of admitting strangers
into my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this."
"Had I been asking for myself," rejoined the horseman, "I should not
have complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish
as refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce
retain her seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid
for any trouble you may be put to."
"Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am
indeed very much fatigued," came up to the ear of Henderson, in
feeble but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman,
with the addition, after a short pause, of "You shall be well
rewarded for the kindness."
At a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but,
scratching his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his
wife.
Learning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this
circumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to
be intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance,
to her husband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be
admitted.
On this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window,
and thrusting out his head, exclaimed, "Wait there a moment, and I
will admit you."
In the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped
out to assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this
courtesy by her companion, who had already placed her on the ground.
"Shall I put up your horse, sir?" said Henderson, addressing the
stranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress
and manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more
closely, he had no doubt he was a man of rank.
"Oh no, thank you, friend," replied the latter. "My business is
pressing, an I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady
to your kindest attention. To-morrow I will return and carry her
away."
Saying this, he again threw himself on his horse--a noble-looking
charger--took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and
regardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the
night, darted off with the speed of the wind.
In an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but
their furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they
had disappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce
collision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was
tearing his way with such desperate velocity.
Henderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the
house, and had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now
risen for the purpose of attending her.
A servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on
the hearth of the best apartment in the house--that into which the
strange lady had been ushered.
The kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with
dry clothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power
to render her as comfortable as possible.
To this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted
her; but an additional motive presented itself in the youth and
extreme beauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife
afterwards remarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes
ever beheld. Nor was her manner less captivating; it was mild and
gentle, while the sweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an
additional charm to the graces of her person.
Her apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest
description; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the
shape of rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after
another on a table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of
one accustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great
value.
A purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound
indicated, was likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent
manner.
The wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the
eyes of her humble, unsophisticated attendant.
The comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the
offer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely
partook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone
in the apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room
containing a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for
strangers.
On rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and
earnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who
or what the strangers could be. They supposed, they conjectured,
they imagined, but all to no purpose. They could make nothing of it
beyond the conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural
politeness of the "guidwife" had prevented her asking the young lady
any questions touching her history, and she had made no communication
whatever on the subject herself.
As to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one
of the family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall,
dark man, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak,
that he could not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme
darkness of the night, make out his features distinctly.
Henderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his
departure, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which
he had ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of
all obstacles that might be in the way.
It was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of
the ground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great
marvel he held it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards
without horse and man coming down, to the utter destruction of both.
Such was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife
regarding the horseman. The latter's to him was of the youth and
exceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently
prodigious wealth. The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and
looks of excessive wonderment, her glowing descriptions of the
sparkling jewels and heavily laden purse which she had seen the
strange lady deposit on the table; and greatly did these descriptions
add to his perplexity as to who or what this lady could possibly be.
Tired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest,
trusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which
so sadly puzzled them.