P. S. The unavoidable delay of my friend’s dispatches permits me to
add to the bulk of my letter. Leaving to the lovers of the pathetic
and sublime at the abbey to describe my “secret interesting languor,”
and “fascinating” pale face, I shall simply tell you, that what with a
hearty dinner on Mrs. Wilson’s boiled fowls, and as hearty a welcome,
they sent me home with a different complexion, and as blythe as a bird.
On entering the parlour, we found Lady Maclairn alone; and for once
counterfeiting failed, for her eyes were swoln with weeping. Sir
Murdoch with tender alarm asked, “What had happened to distress
her.” “Wherefore do you ask that question, sir?” demanded Malcolm,
with emotion. “Is it not always from one and the same cause that my
mother stands indebted for her trials of patience?” “If you mean poor
Lucretia,” answered she with mildness, “you wrong her, at least on
this occasion, for I have scarcely seen her to-day: she was engaged
in writing. But what will you say, when I tell you that I have to
thank _Miss Cowley_ for my red eyes?” She smiled affectionately on
me, and added that I had left the new play of the _Stranger_ in her
way, “and if such be Kotsebue’s influence on the passions,” observed
she, “in a foreign garb, what must be the effect he produces in his
own language! I have been deeply interested in the piece.” “I lose my
patience continually,” replied I, “when I think of the hours of comfort
and amusement you give up to the silly resentment of an unreasonable
woman. Why do you not cease being a _stranger_ to your neighbours?
Mrs. Heartley is formed for your friend.” “I am never so happy, as
_at home_,” replied she, interrupting me. “I have my blessings under
this roof, habit has endeared it to me; and at present, Heaven be
praised! it is my own fault if I be not happy.” She fondly leaned on
her husband’s shoulder as she said this. Malcolm placing himself
in the vacant space on the other side on the sofa, observed, with
seriousness, that contentment, at least, was in her reach; for that Mr.
Wilson had secured the refusal of the _Wereland Farm;_ and could either
purchase the estate, or have it on a long lease. “I am rejoiced to hear
you are likely to succeed,” replied she, “for from your description
of its beauties it must be an enviable spot.” “To me it would be a
_paradise_ under any description,” replied the son, “could I promise
myself to see you and my father inmates with me there. A cottage with
mud walls and independence is all I wish.” “You are right, my dear
Malcolm,” answered she, with dignity. “But do not imagine your mother
is a slave beneath this roof. You give to the little vexations of my
life, much more importance than I do. Poor Lucretia may, it is true,
sometimes appear to you capricious and imposing, and thus disturb
the serenity you wish me; but I am weak whenever this happens, for I
know she loves me; and whilst she lives I shall never have a wish to
quit Tarefield.” “Would to God, then, she were dead!” said Malcolm.
“You would be more charitable,” answered she, mildly, “did you better
understand her present condition.” “Perhaps I might,” replied he, “and
wish her reformation, could I believe the Ethiopian could change his
skin.” “There needs no miracle to effect a reformation of our tempers,
Malcolm,” said she gravely; “the attempt is arduous, the path is
difficult which leads to repentance; but it is not inaccessible; and if
you knew the present difficulties of this poor woman, labouring under
sickness and dejection of mind, you would not wish that the only friend
she has _on earth_ should quit her.” Malcolm was silenced; and if such
be the motives of Lady Maclairn’s conduct _I_ ought to be silenced.
At supper Mrs. Allen joined us; she had prevailed on the invalid to
call in Doctor Douglass, who to-morrow is to meet her former physician,
_a Doctor Tufton_. Her account of Miss Flint softened the good Baronet;
but I perceived that Malcolm’s prejudices were unconquered. Mrs. Allen
tells me this woman is dreadfully ill; and suffers excruciating pain
from the tumour on her knee. Like Malcolm my hour of conversion is not
yet arrived; and if pain and sickness are necessary to her salvation,
why should I grieve? Yet one does not like to hear of remedies that are
worse than horse-whipping. Good night, my dear girl! Allen is weary,
and I am on my good behaviour still; for Douglass is offended by my
late hours; and swears he will write to Mr. Hardcastle and prevent
your letters, “tempting me to evil.” Tell Mary every one here loves
her, and that her sister boasts of her. You will add whatever will
content you to the name of