At the death of the Laird of Plealands, the Grippy family, as we have
already stated, consisted of three sons and a daughter. Charles, the
eldest, was, as his father intimated to Mr. Kilfuddy, a fine, generous,
open-hearted, blithe-faced boy. Towards him Claud cherished as much
affection as the sterile sensibilities of his own bosom could entertain
for any object; but Mrs. Walkinshaw, from some of those unaccountable
antipathies with which nature occasionally perplexes philosophy,
almost hated her first-born, and poured the full flow of her uncouth
kindness on Walter, who, from the earliest dawnings of observation,
gave the most indubitable and conclusive indications of being endowed
with as little delicacy and sense as herself. The third son, George,
was, at this period, too young to evince any peculiar character; but,
in after life, under the appearance of a dull and inapt spirit, his
indefatigable, calculating, and persevering disposition demonstrated
how much he had inherited of the heart and mind of his father. The
daughter was baptized Margaret, which her mother elegantly abbreviated
into Meg; and, as the course of our narrative requires that we should
lose sight of her for some time, we may here give a brief epitome of
her character. To beauty she had no particular pretensions, nor were
her accomplishments of the most refined degree; indeed, her chief
merit consisted in an innate predilection for thrift and household
management; and what few elements of education which she had acquired
were chiefly derived from Jenny Hirple, a lameter woman, who went round
among the houses of the heritors of the parish with a stilt, the sound
of which, and of her feet on the floors, plainly pronounced the words
one pound ten. Jenny gave lessons in reading, knitting, and needlework,
and something that resembled writing; and under her tuition, Miss Meg
continued till she had reached the blooming period of sixteen, when her
father’s heart was so far opened, that, in consideration of the fortune
he found he could then bestow with her hand, he was induced to send
her for three months to Edinburgh; there, and in that time, to learn
manners, ‘and be perfited,’ as her mother said, ‘wi’ a boarding-school
education.’
But, to return to Charles, the first-born, to whose history it is
requisite our attention should at present be directed, nothing could
seem more auspicious than the spring of his youth, notwithstanding the
lurking inclination of his father to set him aside in the order of
succession. This was principally owing to his grandmother, who had,
during the life of the Laird, her husband, languished, almost from
her wedding-day, in a state of uninterested resignation of spirit, so
quiet, and yet so melancholy, that it partook far more of the nature
of dejection than contentment. Immediately after his death, her health
and her spirits began to acquire new energy; and before he was six
months in the earth, she strangely appeared as a cheerful old lady, who
delighted in society, and could herself administer to its pleasures.
In the summer following she removed into Glasgow, and Charles,
being then about ten years old, was sent to reside with her for the
advantages of attending the schools. Considering the illiterate
education of his father, and the rough-spun humours and character of
his mother, this was singularly fortunate; for the old lady had, in
her youth, been deemed destined for a more refined sphere than the
householdry of the Laird of Plealands.
Her father was by profession an advocate in Edinburgh, and had sat
in the last assembly of the States of Scotland. Having, however, to
the last, opposed the Union with all the vehemence in his power, he
was rejected by the Government party of the day; and in consequence,
although his talents and acquirements were considered of a superior
order, he was allowed to hang on about the Parliament-house, with the
empty celebrity of abilities, that, with more prudence, might have
secured both riches and honours.
The leisure which he was thus obliged to possess was devoted to the
cultivation of his daughter’s mind, and the affection of no father was
ever more tender, till about the period when she attained her twentieth
year. Her charms were then in full blossom, and she was seen only to
be followed and admired. But, in proportion as every manly heart was
delighted with the graces and intelligence of the unfortunate girl, the
solicitude of her father to see her married grew more and more earnest,
till it actually became his exclusive and predominant passion, and
worked upon him to such a degree, that it could no longer be regarded
but as tinctured with some insane malady; insomuch, that his continual
questions respecting the addresses of the gentlemen, and who or whether
any of them sincerely spoke of love, embittered her life, and deprived
her of all the innocent delight which the feminine heart, in the gaiety
and triumph of youth, naturally enjoys from the homage of the men.
At this juncture Malachi Hypel was in Edinburgh, drinking the rounds of
an advocate’s studies; for he had no intention to practise, and with
students of that kind the bottle then supplied the place of reviews and
magazines. He was a sturdy, rough, hard-riding and free-living fellow,
entitled by his fortune and connexions almost to the best society; but
qualified by his manners and inclinations to relish the lowest more
joyously. Unluckily he was among the loudest and the warmest admirers
of the ill-fated girl, and one night after supper, flushed with claret
and brandy, he openly, before her father, made her a tender of his
hand. The old man grasped it with an avaricious satisfaction, and
though the heart of the poor girl was ready to burst at the idea of
becoming the wife of one so coarse and rugged, she was nevertheless
induced, in the space of little more than a month after, to submit to
her fate.
The conduct of her father was at that time quite inexplicable, but when
he soon afterwards died, unable to witness the misery to which he had
consigned his beloved child, the secret came out. His circumstances
were in the most ruinous condition; his little patrimony was entirely
consumed, and he acknowledged on his death-bed, while he implored with
anguish the pardon of his daughter, that the thought of leaving her in
poverty had so overset his reason, that he could think of nothing but
of securing her against the horrors of want. A disclosure so painful
should have softened the harsh nature of her husband towards her, but
it had quite a contrary effect. He considered himself as having been
in some degree overreached, and although he had certainly not married
her with any view to fortune, he yet reviled her as a party to her
father’s sordid machination. This confirmed the sadness with which she
had yielded to become his bride, and darkened the whole course of her
wedded life with one continued and unvaried shade of melancholy.
The death of her husband was in consequence felt as a deliverance
from thraldom. The event happened late in the day, but still in time
enough to allow the original brightness of her mind to shine out in
the evening with a serene and pleasing lustre, sufficient to show
what, in happier circumstances, she might have been. The beams fell on
Charles with the cherishing influence of the summer twilight on the
young plant, and if the tears of memory were sometimes mingled with
her instructions, they were like the gracious dews that improve the
delicacy of the flower, and add freshness to its fragrance. Beneath
her care, his natural sensibility was exalted and refined, and if it
could not be said that he was endowed with genius, he soon appeared
to feel, with all the tenderness and intelligence of a poet. In this
respect his ingenuous affections served to recall the long vanished
happiness of her juvenile hopes, and yielding to the sentiments which
such reflections were calculated to inspire, she devoted, perhaps, too
many of her exhortations in teaching him to value Love as the first
of earthly blessings and of human enjoyments. ‘Love’, she often said
to the wondering boy, who scarcely understood the term, ‘is like its
emblem fire; it comes down from Heaven, and when once kindled in two
faithful bosoms, grows brighter and stronger as it mingles its flames,
ever rising and pointing towards the holy fountain-head from whence
it came.’--These romantic lessons were ill calculated to fit him to
perform that wary part in the world which could alone have enabled him
to master the malice of his fortune, and to overcome the consequences
of that disinheritance which his father had never for a moment ceased
to meditate, but only waited for an appropriate opportunity to carry
into effect.