_From the same to the same._
Tuesday.
On Sunday morning we saw nothing of our disconsolate guests. Mr. Serge
was closeted with Sir Murdoch; and Mrs. Serge was too much indisposed
to rise before the dining hour. Before I give you the conversation the
baronet has just been detailing to his wife and myself, I must tell
you, that such is my veneration for Mr. Serge, that I cannot be at
peace with my conscience till I have made “l’amende honorable,” for the
flippancy of my pen in describing him to you on my first seeing him.
A few more such lessons as I have had will correct my presumption in
judging too soon; and when I am again tempted to laugh at a double
chin, or the cut of a man’s face, I will remember Sir Murdoch’s and
Mr. Serge’s. The baronet’s account of the interview between him and
this good creature has so steeled my heart against Miss “Nora,” that I
wish to leave her on her journey; and for once descend to a vulgarism,
and say to you, that if it takes “nine taylors to make a man,” I can
prove without difficulty, that it would take ninety and nine gentlemen
to make such a taylor as Jeremiah Serge. Read, and be incredulous if
you can! The conversation began by the baronet’s arguments of hope and
consolation. “I hope that in time, and with God’s help, I shall be
comforted,” answered Mr. Serge; “but it is not to be expected, that I
who am quite an unlettered man, should be so able to meet misfortunes
as those who know more. I have endeavoured to do my duty, as well as
I was able to perform it; but I fear my ignorance has brought this
calamity on my poor child.” “How can this be,” asked Sir Murdoch,
“have you not lived to render your children happy?” “I thought I had,”
replied he, mournfully, “and perhaps I accuse myself without just
grounds; for I dare say, that be a parent ever so wise and learned, if
his heart is wrung as mine is, he will think of some failure or other
of his own, which may have led to the evil he deplores: however this
may be, I cannot help knowing, that my love of peace, and my ignorance
have brought me to sorrow. I never liked this Captain Fairly, who is
without doubt the betrayer of my poor child; for we found last night a
letter which Nora left for her mother, in my wife’s night cap. I hated
to see this coxcomb perpetually dangling after my wife, and I told her
so; but she cried, and asked me whether she had ever given me cause to
be jealous. I could not say she had, for I believe there never was a
more faithful wife; and moreover, I heard her constantly talking to
this puppy about a sweetheart whom he expected at Bath. Some few days
before we left that place I met with a friend, who knew something of
Fairly’s father. He told me, that he had left this young man a pretty
estate, and some money; but that he had dissipated his fortune, and was
then a gambler and a fortune-hunter. I told Lydia this, but she only
laughed, and said my friend had mistaken the matter; for fortune was
hunting after Fairly, a rich widow being in love with him. However, by
this time, I know _Captain Fairly_,” added he, with resentment, “but
he does not yet know Jeremiah Serge. I will teach him, ignorant as I
am, to know, that the goose is not so easy to pluck as the pigeon. No
man is more easily deceived than I am, Sir Murdoch. How should it be
otherwise? For to this hour, I have never been able to discover that
dishonesty was profitable to a man, even in this world, to say nothing
of a better; but when I am tricked by a knave, his business is done
with me. I am not twice caught in the same gin. But, Lord help me! I
talk as though it was keeping my money that could console me! Alas!
what am I the better for riches! One child who has been the prop of
my _every_ comfort, is sinking into an untimely grave! a second, so
trained as to be useless; and the third, who was my pride and pleasure,
the property of a villain! I must tell you, Sir Murdoch, all the
bitterness of my soul. It has for some time been in my mind, how to
make that wealth which Providence has placed in my hands a blessing
to my children. I never wished to aggrandize myself with alliances
that were above my “cut.” Yet I thought my Leonora would not disgrace
any man. I sometimes talked with my counsellor and best friend, a
_Counsellor Steadman_, on this subject; and I begged of him to look
out for me a son in law, who had honour wherewith to meet my honesty,
and good sense enough to balance an easy fortune with an uncertain
expectation from birth. He sometimes joked at my anxiety; and said my
girl would do for a duchess. But knowing I did not wish for a duke, he
mentioned a young man, who to me stands higher than the whole peerage.
This was your Malcolm, your crown of glory, Sir Murdoch!” The baronet
surprised, attempted to speak. “Hear me out,” continued he, “before you
censure me for looking above me. I knew that you had married my wife’s
relation, and that with your rank, you had the feelings of a man. Your
son had every thing, _but money_; and my child had _with that_, a
father whom no man can reproach. So I determined to visit Tarefield,
and to take my chance. Hospitality and kindness have received me;
and encouraged by them, I ventured to hint my wishes to Mr. Maclairn.
But he did not, or as I now know, he could not listen to me. In our
ride home from Durham I was explicit with him; and like what he is, he
was also explicit with me; and told me, that his hand and his heart
had long been plighted to a young lady in this neighbourhood. I will
say nothing of this disappointment, nor the shock it gave my mind, on
hearing that that very child had abandoned me for whom I would have
travelled barefooted through the world to have provided her with such a
protector as Malcolm Maclairn. I have now told you _all_, except what
will comfort me. Give me your _hand_, Sir Murdoch, for my _heart_. Let
me have a share in your blessing: make me useful to your Malcolm’s
happiness. This is what I ask. It shall not make me proud; but it will
comfort me, and be a blessing to my last hour.” Miss Lydia entered the
room, to say that her sister Caroline wished to see her father; and
wringing Sir Murdoch’s hand he hastily followed Lydia to the sick room.
I will now leave you to your comments, having to write to our ‘crown of
glory.’ _Adieu, pour le present._