a humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But
what in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when
their place is supplied--as in the case of my betrothed--by a heart that
knows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms
that would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and
fortune I do not want.
"Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I
return again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any
had, I would have told them they spoke untruly--that I had abjured the
world, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray
would not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others
to account for and moralize on it."
* * * * *
Such, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby,
during the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he
also wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these,
and to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain.
Having no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the
intervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related
and the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry
forward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event.
On that day--
"Rosy, my love," said Mr Mowbray, smiling, "I have a proposal to make to
you."
"Indeed!--what is it, William?"
"Why, I'll tell you what it is," said the latter; "I wish to go on a visit
to a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me."
"Oh, surely," replied Mrs Mowbray. "Is it far?"
"Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on
it?"
"Surely--surely, William. Anywhere with you!"
"Thank you, my love," said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife.
"Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy," continued the former; "I wish
your father and mother to accompany us."
"What! my father and mother too!" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise.
"Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such
a cavalcade of visiters?"
"Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express
wish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded
me."
"Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you
thought of the expense? That will be rather serious."
"Oh, not in the least, my love," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "Not in the
least serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter."
"Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To
get him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely
prevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily
believe, although it were to make a lord of him."
"I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute," said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of
the apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found.
"Leave hame for a week!" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known
to him his wishes on this subject. "Impossible! my dear sir; impossible!
Wholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a
fauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek;
the lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to
bing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre.
Impossible, my dear sir--impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye
may get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair,
laughing jocosely; "and may keep her too, if ye like."
"Yes--yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of
the manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason
for pressing this point, and really will not be denied."
For a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray
and his father-in-law; both being resolute--the one to carry his point, the
other to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former
finally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was
ultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to
promise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this
promise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following
day as that on which they should set out.
On the following day, accordingly--Mrs Adair's consent having, in the
meantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her
husband's--two chaises--unwonted sight--appeared at the door of West Mains
House; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country
town; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be
occupied.
"I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae
things," said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises
that stood at the door. "I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life.
Nasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist
as in ane o' them."
Having expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr
Adair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of
Mr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed
himself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were
shut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the
vehicles were in rapid motion.
On the forenoon of the second day after their departure--nothing, in the
interval, having occurred worth relating--the party arrived at a certain
noble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having
drawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants
in rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the
doors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very
marked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly
in the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of
very puzzling meaning.
On the party having got out of their chaises--"Is this your freen's house,
Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great
astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him.
"It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray.
"My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then--that's clear. He has a rare
sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord."
"The house is very respectable, certainly," said Mr Mowbray; "and, I think,
you'll find the inside every way worthy of the out."
"I dinna doot it--I dinna doot it," replied Mr Adair. "But whar's your
freen, himsel?"
"Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in." And, taking
his wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted
by the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no
less overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was
surrounded.
Having entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase,
and ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All
but Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken
with the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this
feeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father
and mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued
gazing around them in silent amazement and admiration.
When the party had seated themselves--"Shall I serve up some refreshment,
sir?" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but
with that perplexing smile on his face.
"Yes, John, do," said Mr Mowbray; "and as quick's you like; for we are all,
I fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us--I speak for myself at any
rate--not a little thirsty."
The servant bowed and retired. When he had done so--"'Od, sir, ye seem to
be greatly at your ease here," said Mr Adair, who was not a little
surprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner
of his son-in-law in his friend's house, "You and your freen maun surely be
unco intimate."
"Oh! we certainly are so," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "I can use any
freedom here--the same as if I were in my own house."
"Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like," said Mr Adair. "But isna your
freen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?"
"Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay--something of a
particular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime,
we'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so." And
Mr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently.
A servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from
Mr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation.
Mr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very
unceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he
thought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life;
but he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this
feeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same
extent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene,
was that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which
his proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do
everything he could think of to increase them.
By and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome
one it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet
appeared--Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself
taking the foot--and proceeded to do justice to the good things before
them. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray--who, to
the now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and
Mrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he
had been in a common inn--desired all the attendants to retire. When they
had done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet
and, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife,
bade her welcome to _her own house_!
"What!" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair.
"Eh!" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers.
"William," said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and
endeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged
again to sink.
"True, my friends," said Mr Mowbray; "all true. This, Mr Adair, is your
daughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my
love, to your own fireside!" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, "and
long may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton
House, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!"
Here, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would
choose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of
explanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief.
Mr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in
love, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all
its joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy
scenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he
kept to this resolution our story tells.
A HIGHLAND TRADITION.
On the summit of a bluff headland that projects into the Sound of Sky,
there stand the grey ruins of an ancient castle, which was once the
residence of a Highland chieftain of the name of M'Morrough--a man of
fierce nature and desperate courage, but not without some traits of a
generous disposition. When about middle age, M'Morrough married the
daughter of a neighbouring chief--a lady of much sweetness of manner and
gentleness of nature. On the part of the former, however, this connection
was one in which love had little share: its chief purpose would have been
attained by the birth of a male heir to the name and property of the feudal
chieftain; and this was an event to which he looked anxiously forward.
When the accouchement of his lady arrived, M'Morrough retired to an upper
apartment of the castle to await the result--having desired a trusty
domestic to bring him instant intelligence when the child was born, whether
it was a male or a female. The interval he employed in walking up and down
the chamber in a fever of impatience. At length the door of the apartment
opened, and Innes M'Phail entered. The chieftain turned quickly and
fiercely round, glanced at the countenance of his messenger, and there read
the disappointment of his hopes without a word being uttered.
"It is even so, then," roared out the infuriated chieftain. "It is a girl,
Innes; a girl. My curses on her!"
"Say _girls_, M'Morrough," said Innes, despondingly. "There are twins."
"And both girls--both!" exclaimed the former, stamping the floor in the
violence of his passion. "To the battlements with them, Innes!--to the
battlements with them instantly, and toss them over into the deep sea! Let
the waves of Loch Sonoran rock them to sleep, and the winds that rush
against Inch Caillach sing their lullaby. Let it be done--done instantly,
Innes, as you value your own life; and I will witness the fidelity with
which you serve me from this window. I will, with my own eyes, see the deed
done. Go--go--quick--quick!"
Innes, who had been previously aware that such would be the fate of a
female child, if such should unfortunately be born to his ruthless chief,
and who had promised to be the instrument of that fate, now left the
apartment to execute the atrocious deed. In less than ten minutes after,
Innes M'Phail appeared on the battlements, carrying a large wicker basket.
From this depository he took out a child, swaddled in its first apparel,
and raising it aloft, tossed it over to perish in the raging sea below. The
little arms of the infant extended as it fell; but the sight was momentary.
It glanced white through the air like an ocean bird, and, in an instant
after, disappeared in the dark waters of Loch Sonoran. The murderer
followed with his eye the descent of his little victim, till the sea closed
over it, when, returning to the basket, he took from it another child, and
disposed of it as he had done the first.
During the whole of this dreadful exhibition, M'Morrough was standing at a
window several yards lower down than the battlements, but so situated in an
angle of the building that he could distinctly see what passed on the
former. Satisfied that his atrocious decree had been fully executed, he
withdrew from the window; and, avoiding an interview with his wife,
whom--stern and ruthless as he was--he dreaded to meet with the murder of
her infants on his head, he left the castle on a hunting expedition, from
which he did not return for three days. On his return, M'Morrough would
have waited on his lady, whom he hoped now to find in some measure
reconciled to her bereavement, but was told that she would see no one; that
she had caused a small apartment at the top of the castle to be hung with
black; and that, immuring herself in this dismal chamber, she spent both
her nights and days in weeping and lamentation. On learning this,
M'Morrough did not press his visit, but left it to time to heal, or, at
least, to soothe the grief of his unhappy wife. In the expectation which he
had formed from the silent but powerful operation of this infallible
anodyne, M'Morrough was not mistaken. In about a month after the murder of
her babes, the lady of M'Morrough, deeply veiled, and betraying every
symptom of a profound but subdued grief, presented herself at the morning
meal which was spread for her husband. It was the first time they had met
since the occurrence of the tragical event recorded above. To that event,
however, neither made even the slightest allusion; and, whether it was that
time had weakened the impression of her late misfortune, or that she
dreaded rousing the enmity of her husband towards herself by a longer
estrangement, the lady of M'Morrough showed no violent disinclination to
accept of the courtesies which, well-pleased with her having made her
appearance of her own accord, he seemed anxious to press upon her. A
footing of companionship having thus been restored between the chieftain
and his lady, matters, from this day, went on at Castle Tulim much as they
had done before, only that the latter long continued to wear a countenance
expressive of a deeply wounded, but resigned spirit. Even this, however,
gradually gave way beneath the influence of time; and, when seventeen years
had passed away, as they now did, unmarked by the occurrence, at Castle
Tulim, of any event of the smallest importance, the lady of M'Morrough had
long been in the possession of her wonted cheerfulness.
It was about the end of this period, that the haughty chieftain, now
somewhat subdued by age, and no longer under the evil influence of those
ungovernable passions that had run riot with him in his more vigorous
years, was invited, along with his lady, to a great entertainment which was
about to be given by his father-in-law. M'Morrough and his lady proceeded
to the castle of their relative. The banquet hall was lighted up; it was
hung with banners, crowded with gay assemblage, and filled with music.
There were many fair faces in that assemblage; but the fairest of all, were
those of two sisters, who sat apart by themselves. The beauty of
countenance and elegance of form of these two girls, who seemed to be both
about the same age--seventeen--were surpassing. M'Morrough marked them; he
watched them during the dance; he could not keep his eyes off them. At
length, turning to his lady, he asked who they were.
"They are _your_ daughters, M'Morrough," replied the former.
A deadly paleness overspread the countenance of the chief. He shook in
every limb, and would have sunk on the floor had he not been supported. On
recovering a little, he covered his face with his hands, burst into a flood
of tears, and rushed out of the apartment. On gaining a retired and
unoccupied chamber, M'Morrough sent for his daughters. When they came, they
found him on his knees, fervently thanking God for this signal instance of
his mercy and beneficence. He took his daughters in his arms, blessed them
a thousand times over, buried his head between them, and wept like a child.
THE SURGEON'S TALES.
THE BEREAVED.
By looking over the memorial of my professional life; and writing out the
extended details of my experience, I am, in effect, living my life over
again. Most of the scenes I witnessed left such an impression upon my mind,
that it requires only the touch of the _caduceus_ of the witching power of
memory, to call them all up again with a vividness scarcely less than that
by which they were formerly presented to me. There is only this difference,
that my remembered experiences, now invested with a species of borrowed
light, seem like scenery which one has seen in the glance of a mid-day sun,
presented again to the dreamy "evening sense" under the soft blue
effulgence of the waning harvest-moon; the trees with the sere leaf
rustling under the fluttering wing of the night bird; and the dead silence,
which is not broken by the internal voice speaking the words that have been
spoken by those who lie under the yew tree. In an early leaf of my journal,
I find some broken details of a visit I paid to Mr B----, a rich
manufacturer in the town where I began my practice; but which I left when I
had more confidence in those humble powers of ministering to the afflicted,
which have raised me to an honourable station, and supplied me with the
means of passing my old age in affluence. This individual had lost his
wife--a very amiable woman, with whom he had lived a period of twenty-five
years--and took on grief so heavily, that he was unfit to attend the
funeral. He lay in bed, and would not be comforted. Having attended his
wife, I continued my attentions to the husband. Three days had passed since
his wife had been buried, and during all that time, he had eaten nothing;
and, what augured gloomily for his fate, he had never been heard to speak,
or sigh, or even to give vent to his sufferings in a single groan. There
seemed to have fallen over him a heavy load, which, pressing with deadly
force upon the issues of life, defied those reacting energies of nature,
which usually struggle, by sighs and groans, to throw off the incubus of
extraordinary griefs.
I have met with many wiseacre-sceptics who laugh at the idea of what is
vulgarly called a "broken heart," as a direct consequence either of
unrequited love or extraordinary grief--admitting, however, in their
liberality, that death may ensue from great griefs operating merely as an
inductive original cause, which destroying gradually the foundations of
health, bring on a train of other ailments, that may, in the end, prove
mortal. The admission cares for nothing, as a matter of every-day
experience; and the original proposition to which it is objected as a
qualification, remains as a truth which may humble the pride of man, and
speak to the sceptic through the crushed heart of a fatal experience. I
have seen many instances of the fatal effects of grief as a direct mortal
agent, killing, by its own unaided energies, as certainly, though not in so
short a time, as a blow or a wound in the vital organs of the human body.
The common nosologies contain no name for the disease, because, in truth,
it cannot properly be called a disease, any more than a stab with a sword
can deserve that name; and this, combined with the fact that it is only in
a very few instances that the _coup_ works by itself, without the aid of
some ailment generated by it, that young practitioners often homologate the
vulgar notions that prevail upon this important subject.
Among all the many causes of grief to which mankind are daily exposed, I
know not that there is one that strikes so deeply into the secret recesses
of the vital principle as the loss of a dearly-beloved wife, who has lived
with a man for a lengthened period, through early adversity and late
prosperity--borne him a family which have bound closer the tie that was
knitted by early affection, and who has left him to tread the last weary
stages of existence alone, and without that support which almost all men
derive from woman. The effects are often supposed to be proportioned to the
affection; yet I doubt if this solves the curious problem of the diversity
of consequences resulting from this great privation. There are many men of
strong powers of mind, who are so constituted that they _cannot_ but press
heavily on the support of another. They seem almost to live through the
thoughts and feelings of their helpmates; and the energies they take credit
for in the busy affairs of the world, have their source--unknown often to
themselves--in the bosom of wedded affection. It is in proportion to the
strength of the habit of this _leaning_, combined, doubtless, with the
coexistent affection, that the effects of the loss of a helpmate, in the
later period of life, work with such varied influence on the survivor. It
may also seem a curious fact, and I have no doubt of the truth of it, that
a man when advanced in years is much more apt to break suddenly down under
this visitation than a woman; while, again, the consequence would seem to
be reversed if the calamity has overtaken them in the more early stages of
the connection. These are grounds for speculation. At present I have only
to do with facts.