Marriage

Book 782: Virago Modern Classics

by Susan Ferrier, Val McDermid

Genres: General Fiction; Classics; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

Susan Ferrier sold more copies of her novels than her contemporary, Jane Austen. Sir Walter Scott declared her his equal. Why, then has she been lost to history? On the 200th anniversary of this sharply observed, comic novel, it is time to rediscover her brilliance. 'What have you to do with a heart? What has anybody to do with a heart when their establishment in life is at stake? Keep your heart for your romances, child, and don't bring such nonsense into real life - heart, indeed!' Understanding that the purpose of marriage is to further her family, Lady Juliana nevertheless rejects the ageing and unattractive - though appropriately wealthy - suitor of her father's choice. She elopes, instead, with a handsome, penniless soldier and goes to Scotland to live at Glenfarn Castle, his paternal home. But Lady Juliana finds life in the Scottish highlands dreary and bleak, hastily repenting of following her heart. After giving birth to twin daughters, Lady Juliana leaves Mary to the care of her sister-in-law, while she returns to England with Adelaide. Sixteen years later, Mary is thoughtful, wise and kind, in comparison to her foolish mother and vain sister. Following two generations of women, Marriage, first published in 1818, is a shrewdly observant and humorous novel by one of Scotland's greatest writers.

Release date: December 28, 2017

Publisher: Virago

Print pages: 136

Sample

 

Susan Edmonstone Ferrier (1782–1854) was born in Edinburgh, the youngest of the ten children of a respectable Clerk of Sessions, James Ferrier. The family lived at Lady Stair’s Close, moving in 1784 to George Street, and Susan attended James Stalker’s Academy there, where Henry Brougham was also a pupil. Her father was a close friend of the Duke of Argyll and Susan accompanied him on visits to Inverary and Rosneath, becoming a good friend of the Duke’s niece, Charlotte Clavering. They corresponded frequently and developed the idea of collaborating on a novel. But Charlotte favoured a Gothic style which Susan resisted and so she contributed to only a very early part of the work which was to become Marriage.

After her mother’s death in 1797 Susan, who remained the only unmarried daughter, kept house for her father, dividing her time between George Street and East Morningside House, their summer residence. She read to her father the novel she was working on, initially hiding its authorship from him. Written in 1810 and published anonymously eight years later, Marriage attracted a wide readership, not least because its characters were based on real people. Her second novel The Inheritance followed in 1824. Sir Walter Scott, a friend of the family, was a great admirer of Susan Ferrier, seeing her work as a continuation of the Scottish tradition he established in his Waverley novels. He helped her to change publisher for her third novel Destiny (1831) which she dedicated to him. Susan Ferrier was by now earning a substantial amount from her writing, but her eyesight was failing and she disliked the publicity and notoriety which accompanied publication. In addition, her growing interest in religion culminated in her conversion to Evangelicalism and she published no further novels. Susan Ferrier’s only other works were narratives of visits to Ashestiel and Abbotsford, where she visited Scott during his last illness. After joining the Free Church she retired completely from the literary scene, devoting her time to charity, temperance, missions and the abolition of slavery.

Susan Ferrier’s complete works were published posthumously in 1892 and her letters in 1898, testifying to the sharp eye and wry wit so evident in her novels. Admirers of her work included Joanna Baillie, Sydney Smith, Macaulay, Sir James Mackintosh, Curran and Mrs Piozzi.

The most remarkable thing about the nineteenth-century Scottish novelist Susan Edmonstone Ferrier is that she has all but disappeared from our consciousness. In her lifetime, her novels were wildly popular, earning her significantly more substantial publisher’s advances than Jane Austen. Her work was formally translated into French at a time when only pirated editions of rival novels were available there. Critics said her books were the Scottish equivalent of England’s Jane Austen and Ireland’s Maria Edgeworth. Sir Walter Scott called her his ‘sister shadow’ and claimed that of all his contemporaries she was ‘the most worthy to gather in the large harvest of Scottish fiction’.

And yet now almost nobody knows her name. Not for her Scott’s Gothic pinnacle dominating Princes Street, nor the impressive statue of Conan Doyle that broods over one of Edinburgh’s busiest traffic junctions. The only memorial to Susan Ferrier is a small stone with a faded inscription of her name, her dates and the single word, ‘writer’, on the gatepost of the house in Morningside, Edinburgh, where her family spent their summers.

But Susan Ferrier deserves better than this. Her three sophisticated and worldly novels are observant, witty and throw wide a window on Scottish social life of the period. She has a shrewd eye, is sharply satirical of pretension and sentimentality, and has no hesitation in expressing trenchant views about the value and importance of educating women. The Scottish Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution had brought significant change to Edinburgh, transforming it from a dirty provincial backwater to an elegant and intellectually lively European capital, and Susan Ferrier was one of several novelists who leapt at the challenge of writing about it.

Susan was born in 1782, the ninth of ten children. Her father rose from humble beginnings to become a prominent lawyer whose social circle included Robert Burns, James Hogg, Dr Johnson and Walter Scott. He also believed that girls should be educated; the evidence of this is clear from the literary and philosophical allusions in Susan’s work.

James Ferrier was for a time lawyer to the Duke of Argyll and Susan would accompany him to the ducal seat at Inveraray Castle. The experience gave her an insight into the reality of Highland life. She knew from her own visits that there was nothing romantic about that Spartan way of life and it provided the perfect foil to the intellectual and convivial life she knew in Edinburgh.

Susan also suffered from poor health, and she made several visits to London to stay with her married sister to enjoy a more clement climate. As with her Highland sojourns, these trips gave her an insider’s view of a different social world. When the time came to begin her literary career, she had a broader understanding of life than most Scottish women of her time and class.

She began writing Marriage as a jeu d’esprit with her friend Charlotte Clavering, the niece of the Duke. Charlotte was a devotee of the popular Gothic fiction of the time, but Susan became more interested in the social realism of writers like Austen. So it became a solo project, Charlotte’s contribution being finally whittled away to the single chapter about the history of Mrs Douglas, where her personal experience came to the fore. Susan revised the novel extensively over several years and when it was published anonymously in 1818, it was an immediate success. The first edition of 1500 copies sold out inside six months at a guinea a time – an achievement most authors took years to accomplish. At first, it was popularly attributed to the author of Waverley – Walter Scott himself. Susan had read the manuscript to her father from behind a screen so he couldn’t see what she was reading from, and he pronounced it ‘the best book you’ve ever brought me’.

However, Scottish society was a small community and even though the entire Ferrier family strenuously shuffled off the suggestion that Susan was the author of Marriage, gossipy speculation about the original models for the characters was rife. Like Austen, Susan was a keen observer, a maiden aunt who could constantly gather raw material for fiction without attracting attention. In a preface to the 1840 edition of the book, she wrote, ‘That some of them are sketched from life is not denied; but the circumstances in which they are placed, their birth, habits, language and a thousand minute particulars, differ so widely from the originals as ought to refute the charge of personality.’ It is, after all, what writers of fiction do all the time.

Of course, the reason for Susan’s anonymity went beyond the mere desire not to offend the neighbours. In the nineteenth century, a strong whiff of impropriety clung to women who wrote fiction. If they wanted their work to be taken seriously, they had to hide behind anonymity, like Jane Austen or, like the Brontë sisters, adopt male pseudonyms – Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. And it’s clear from the strong morality that runs in a seam through Susan’s work that she would have hated to be thought improper. She understood what happened to women like that.

Marriage covers two generations of families whose histories become intertwined. It soon becomes clear that no character, regardless of their background or circumstance, is safe from a wit that ranges from sharp barbs to gentle mockery. But whether she’s exposing the empty-headed ignorance of a society woman or the pompousness of a high-ranking military man, Susan Ferrier keeps the story moving. In Marriage, the good do not always end well, but the bad generally pay the price of their sins. The book is equally unsparing in its portrayal of Highland privations and London indulgences, and there is a definite twinkle in her eye as she describes the situations of her characters. Her occasional descents into sententiousness are worthy of Mr Collins himself, while her puncturing of the affectations of the genteel recall Austen’s treatment of Mrs Bennett.

That Susan Ferrier was aware of Austen’s work is clear. The opening sentence of her second novel, The Inheritance, is a tip of the hat to the Englishwoman: ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that there is no passion so deeply rooted in human nature as that of pride.’ Like Austen, her novels reacted against the hysteria and sensationalism of the Gothic genre by striving towards a more realistic portrayal of characters and their circumstances. Their books relied not on convoluted and unlikely plots but rather on situations her readers would recognise. Susan Ferrier’s heroines may be less spirited than those of Austen, but her canvas is broader: her world includes the servants and much more domestic detail than Austen, and this makes for a richer portrayal of the period.

Reading Marriage now, the wit still hits the mark, the struggle between romance and expediency still rings true, and the characters still have resonances for the contemporary reader. It’s hard to understand why she fell from view so comprehensively unless her Scottish settings made her unfashionable. Scott’s romanticised image, with its tartan and nobility and heroism, became the default vision of Scotland. The country Susan Ferrier described was much closer to the uncomfortable reality and thus unappealing to a readership who expected Scott-land.

Two hundred years after the first publication of Marriage, I think it’s time we reasserted Susan Ferrier’s integral place in the Scottish literary tradition. She is as worthy as Scott, Conan Doyle and Stevenson of a place in the pantheon of Scottish letters that led to Edinburgh being recognised as the first UNESCO City of Literature. Read her and find out for yourself.

Val McDermid, 2017 

Love! – A word by superstition thought a god; by use turned to an humour; by self-will made a flattering madness.


ALEXANDER AND CAMPASPE


‘Come hither, child,’ said the old Earl of Courland to his daughter, as, in obedience to his summons, she entered his study: ‘come hither, I say; I wish to have some serious conversation with you: so dismiss your dogs, shut the door, and sit down here.’

Lady Juliana rang for the footman to take Venus; bade Pluto be quiet, like a darling, under the sofa; and, taking Cupid in her arms, assured his lordship he need fear no disturbance from the sweet creatures, and that she would be all attention to his commands – kissing her cherished pug as she spoke.

‘You are now, I think, seventeen, Juliana,’ said his lordship, in a solemn important tone.

‘And a half, papa.’

‘It is therefore time you should be thinking of establishing yourself in the world. Have you ever turned your thoughts that way?’

‘N – no, papa, not exactly in the way of establishing myself,’ replied the lady, hesitatingly.

‘That is well; you have left that for me to do, like a good, wise little girl, as you are. Is it not so, my pretty Jule?’

‘Perhaps, papa; but I – I don’t know’ – She stopped in evident embarrassment.

‘It is right you should know, however,’ said the Earl, knitting his brow, ‘that I can give you no fortune.’

‘Oh, I don’t in the least care about fortune, papa,’ eagerly interrupted his daughter, who knew about as much of arithmetic as of alchymy.

‘Don’t interrupt me, and don’t talk nonsense, child,’ said Lord Courtland, peevishly. ‘As I can give you no fortune, you have, perhaps, no greater right than many other pretty portionless girls to expect a very brilliant establishment.’

This was said, but not thought either by the father or daughter.

‘At any rate, I don’t in the least care about that sort of thing,’ said the lady, disdainfully; ‘else, if I chose – but I assure you, papa, I don’t at all care about what is called a brilliant establishment.’

‘Indeed! and pray what do you care for, then?’ inquired the earl, opening his eyes to their utmost extent.

‘Why, I shouldn’t at all mind being poor,’ said Lady Juliana, assuming a most heroic air.

‘You shouldn’t at all mind being poor!’ repeated his lordship, in utter amazement. ‘You shouldn’t at all mind being poor! Do you know what you are saying, child? Do you know what it is to be poor?’

‘Perfectly, papa,’ was pronounced by her ladyship, in a tone of the most high-flown emphasis.

‘You do? You have tried it, then?’

‘No, papa; but I can easily imagine what it is.’

Lord Courtland hemmed. ‘Then I suppose I am to understand that you prefer the single state and poverty?’

‘Dear papa! you quite misunderstand me; I only meant that – that it was nothing to be poor when – when’ —

‘When what?’ demanded the earl, angrily.

‘When united to the choice of one’s heart,’ answered the lady, in a very romantic key.

‘The choice of a fiddlestick!’ exclaimed Lord Courtland, in a rage. ‘What have you to do with a heart? what has any body to do with a heart when their establishment in life is at stake? Keep your heart for your romances, child, and don’t bring such nonsense into real life – heart, indeed!’

Lady Juliana felt she was now in the true position of a heroine: a handsome lover – an ambitious father – cruel fortune – unshaken constancy. She sighed deeply – even dropped a tear, and preserved a mournful silence.

The father proceeded in a solemn tone: ‘You ought to be aware by this time, Julia, that persons of rank must be guided entirely by family considerations in the connexions they form.’

‘Of course, papa, one wouldn’t marry any but a person of good family, and tolerable fortune, and in the best society’ —

‘Pooh! these are nothing,’ cried the earl, contemptuously; ‘people of birth must marry for the still greater aggrandisement of their family – for the extending of their political influence – for ’ —

‘I don’t in the least care about politics, papa; and I am determined I never will marry anybody who talks politics to me – I hate politics!’

‘You are a little fool, and don’t know what you will do, or what you are talking about. What does your wise head or heart know about these things? What do you know of the importance of political family connexions?’

‘O, thank heaven! I know nothing about the matter,’ replied Lady Julia, in a peevish tone. ‘Have done, Cupid!’

‘I thought not; so you have only to be guided by those who do know – that’s all, my dear!’

‘Have done, Cupid!’ cried the lady, still more fretfully, to her favourite pug, who was amusing himself by tearing the beautiful veil that partly shaded the head of his fair mistress.

The earl tried to be facetious. ‘And pray, my pretty Julia, can this same wonderful wise little head of yours tell you who is the happy man with whom I am about to form an alliance for you?’

‘For me, papa!’ exclaimed Lady Juliana, in a flutter of surprise; ‘surely you are not serious?’

‘Perfectly so – come, guess.’

Had Lady Juliana dared to utter the wishes of that heart, she would have been at no loss for a reply; but she saw the necessity for dissimulation; and, after naming such of her admirers as were most indifferent to her, she declared herself quite at a loss, and begged her father to put an end to her suspense.

‘Now, what would you think of the Duke of L——?’ asked the earl, in a voice of half-smothered exultation and delight.

‘The Duke of L——!’ repeated Lady Juliana, with a scream of horror and surprise; ‘surely, papa, you cannot be serious: why, he is red-haired and squints, and he’s as old as you, and’ —

‘If he were as old as sin, and as ugly too,’ interrupted the enraged earl, ‘he should be your husband; and with my consent you never shall have any other!’

The youthful beauty burst into tears, while her father traversed the apartment with an inflamed and wrathful visage.

‘If it had been any body but that odious duke!’ sobbed the lovely Juliana.

‘If it had been any body but that odious duke,’ repeated the earl, mimicking her, ‘they should not have had you. It has been my sole study, ever since I saw your brother settled, to bring about this alliance; and, when this is accomplished, my utmost ambition will be satisfied. So, no more whining – the affair is settled; and all that remains for you to do, is to study to make yourself agreeable to his grace, and to sign the settlements. No such mighty sacrifice, when repaid with a ducal coronet, the most splendid jewels, the finest equipages, the most magnificent house, the most princely establishment, and the largest jointure, of any woman in England.’

Lady Juliana raised her head, and wiped her eyes. Lord Courtland perceived the effect his eloquence had produced upon the childish fancy of his daughter, and continued to expatiate upon the splendid joys that awaited her, in an union with a nobleman of the duke’s rank and fortune; till at length, dazzled, if not convinced, she declared herself ‘satisfied that it was her duty to marry whoever papa pleased; but’ – and a sigh escaped her, as she contrasted her noble suitor with her gay handsome lover – the admired of all admirers, – ‘but if I should marry him, papa, I am sure I shall never be able to love him.’

The earl smiled at her childish simplicity, as he assured her that was not at all necessary; that love was now entirely confined to the lower orders: that it was very well for ploughmen and dairy-maids, and such canaille, to marry for love; but for a young woman of rank to think of such a thing, was plebeian in the extreme!

Lady Juliana did not entirely subscribe to the arguments of her father; but the gay and glorious vision that floated in her brain stifled for a while the pleadings of her heart; and with a sparkling eye, and an elastic step, she hastened to prepare for the reception of the duke.

For a few weeks the delusion lasted. Lady Juliana was flattered with the homage she received as a future duchess; she was delighted with the éclat that attended her, and charmed with the daily presents showered upon her by her noble suitor.

‘Well, really, Favolle,’ said she to her maid, one day, as she clasped on her beautiful arm a resplendent bracelet, ‘it must be owned the duke has a most exquisite taste in trinkets; don’t you think so? And, do you know, I don’t think him so very – very ugly. When we are married, I mean to make him get a Brutus, cork his eyebrows, and have a set of teeth.’ But just then, the blue eyes, curling hair, and fine-formed person of a certain captivating Scotsman, rose to view in her mind’s eye; and, with a peevish ‘pshaw!’ she threw the bauble aside.

Educated for the sole purpose of forming a brilliant establishment, of catching the eye, and captivating the senses, the cultivation of her mind, or the correction of her temper, had formed no part of the system by which that aim was to be accomplished. Under the auspices of a fashionable mother, and an obsequious governess, the froward petulance of childhood, fostered and strengthened by indulgence and submission, had gradually ripened into that selfishness and caprice which now, in youth, formed the prominent features of her character. The earl was too much engrossed by affairs of importance, to pay much attention to any thing so perfectly insignificant as the mind of his daughter. Her person he had predetermined should be entirely at his disposal, and he therefore contemplated with delight the uncommon beauty which already distinguished it; not with the fond partiality of parental love, but with the heartless satisfaction of a crafty politician.

The mind of Lady Juliana was consequently the sport of every passion that by turns assailed it. Now swayed by ambition, and now softened by love: the struggle was violent, but it was short. A few days before the one which was to seal her fate, she granted an interview to her lover, who, young, thoughtless, and enamoured as herself, easily succeeded in persuading her to elope with him to Scotland. There, at the altar of Vulcan, the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Courtland gave her hand to her handsome but penniless lover; and there vowed to immolate every ambitious desire, every sentiment of vanity and high-born pride. Yet a sigh arose as she looked on the sordid room, uncouth priest, and ragged witnesses; and thought of the special licence, splendid saloon, and bridal pomp that would have attended her union with the duke. But the rapturous expressions which burst from the impassioned Douglas made her forget the gaudy pleasures of pomp and fashion. Amid the sylvan scenes of the neighbouring lakes, the lovers sought a shelter; and, mutually charmed with each other, time flew for a while on downy pinions.

At the end of a few months, however, the enamoured husband began to suspect that the lips of his ‘angel Julia’ could utter very silly things; – while the fond bride, on her part, discovered that, though her ‘adored Henry’s’ eyes were perfectly beautiful, yet sometimes she thought they wanted expression; and though his figure was symmetry itself, yet it certainly was deficient in a certain air – a je ne sais quoi – that marks the man of fashion.

‘How I wish I had my pretty Cupid here!’ said her ladyship with a sigh one day as she lolled on a sofa: ‘he had so many pretty tricks, he would have helped to amuse us, and make the time pass; for really this place grows very stupid and tiresome; don’t you think so, love?’

‘Most exceedingly so, my darling,’ replied her husband, yawning sympathetically as he spoke.

‘Then suppose I make one more attempt to soften papa, and be received into favour again?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Shall I say I’m very sorry for what I have done?’ asked her ladyship with a sigh: ‘you know I did not say that in my first letter.’

‘Ay, do; and, if it will serve any purpose, you may say that I am no less so.’

In a few days the letter was returned, in a blank cover; and, by the same post, Douglas saw himself superseded in the Gazette, being absent without leave!

There now remained but one course to pursue; and that was to seek refuge at his father’s, in the Highlands of Scotland. At the first mention of it, Lady Juliana was transported with joy; and begged that a letter might be instantly despatched, containing the offer of a visit. She had heard the Duchess of M—— declare nothing could be so delightful as the style of living in Scotland: the people were so frank and gay, and the manners so easy and engaging: oh! it was delightful! And then Lady G—— and Lady Mary L——, and a thousand other lords and ladies she knew, were all so charmed with the country, and all so sorry to leave it. Then dear Henry’s family must be so charming! An old castle, too, was her delight – she should feel quite at home while wandering through its long galleries; and she quite loved old pictures, and armour, and tapestry – and then her thoughts reverted to her father’s magnificent mansion in D——shire.

At length an answer arrived, containing a cordial invitation from the old laird to spend the winter with them at Glenfern Castle.

All impatience to quit the scenes of their short-lived felicity, they bade a hasty adieu to the now fading beauties of Windermere; and, full of hope and expectation, eagerly turned towards the bleak hills of Scotland. They stopped for a short time at Edinburgh, to provide themselves with a carriage and some other necessaries. There, too, they fortunately met with an English Abigail and footman, who, for double wages, were prevailed upon to attend them to the Highlands; which, with the addition of two dogs, a tame squirrel, and mackaw, completed the establishment.

What transport to retrace our early plays,

Our early bliss, when each thing joy supplied;

The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze

Of the wild brooks.


THOMSON


Many were the dreary muirs, and rugged mountains, her ladyship had to encounter in her progress to Glenfern Castle; and, but for the hope of the new world that awaited her beyond those formidable barriers, her delicate frame, and still more sensitive feelings, must have sunk beneath the horrors of such a journey. But she remembered the duchess had said the inns and roads were execrable; and the face of the country, as well as the lower orders of people, frightful: but what signified those things? There were balls, and rowing matches, and sailing parties, and shooting parties, and fishing parties, and parties of every description: and the certainty of being recompensed by the festivities of Glenfern Castle reconciled her to the ruggedness of the approach.

Douglas had left his paternal home and native hills when only eight years of age. A rich relation of his mother’s, happening to visit them at that time, took a fancy to the boy; and, under promise of making him his heir, had prevailed on his parents to part with him. At a proper age he was placed in the Guards, and had continued to maintain himself in the favour of his benefactor until his imprudent marriage, which had irritated the old bachelor so much, that he instantly disinherited him, and refused to listen to any terms of reconciliation. The impressions which the scenes of his infancy had left upon the mind of the young Scotsman, it may easily be supposed, were of a pleasing description. He spoke of his own family with all the warmth of early recollection. His father was quite the beau idéal of a Highland gentleman of the old school – frank, high-minded, and warm-hearted; his aunts so kind, simple, and affectionate; his brother so gay, handsome, and good-humoured; his five lovely sisters, Elizabeth, Rebecca, Barbara, Isabella, and Robina, – how charming they must be if they had fulfilled their early promises of youthful and infant beauty! – how his dear Juliana would love them, and how they would love his dear Juliana! Then he would expatiate on the wild but august scenery that surrounded his father’s castle, and associate with the idea the boyish exploits which, though faintly remembered, still served to endear them to his heart. He spoke of the time when he used to make one of a numerous party on the lake, and, when tired of sailing on its glassy surface, to the sound of soft music, they would land at some lovely spot; and, after partaking of their banquet beneath a spreading tree, conclude the day by a dance on the grass.

Lady Juliana would exclaim, ‘How delightful! I dote upon pic-nics and dancing! – à-propos, Henry, there will surely be a ball to welcome our arrival?’

The conversation was interrupted; for just at that moment they had gained the summit of a very high hill, and the post-boy, stopping to give his horses breath, turned round to the carriage, pointing, at the same time, with a significant gesture, to a tall, thin, grey house, something resembling a tower, that stood in the vale beneath. A small sullen-looking lake was in front, on whose banks grew neither tree nor shrub. Behind, rose a chain of rugged cloud-capped hills, on the declivities of which were some faint attempts at young plantations; and the only level ground consisted of a few dingy turnip fields, enclosed with rude stone walls, or dikes, as the post-boy called them. It was now November; the day was raw and cold, and a thick drizzling rain was beginning to fall. A dreary stillness reigned all around, broken only at intervals by the screams of the sea-fowl that hovered over the lake; on whose dark and troubled waters was dimly descried a little boat, plied by one solitary being.

‘What a scene!’ at length Lady Juliana exclaimed, shuddering as she spoke. ‘What a scene! how I pity the unhappy wretches who are doomed to dwell in such a place! And yonder hideous grim house; it makes me sick to look at it. Do bid him drive on!’ Another significant look from the driver made the colour mount to Douglas’s cheek, as he stammered out, ‘Surely it can’t be; yet somehow I don’t know. Pray, my lad,’ letting down one of the glasses, and addressing the post-boy, ‘what is the name of that house?’

‘Hooss!’ repeated the driver; ‘ca’ ye thon a hooss? Yon’s gude Glenfern Castle.’

Lady Juliana, not understanding a word he said, sat silently, wondering at her husband’s curiosity respecting such a wretched-looking place.

‘Impossible! you must be mistaken, my lad: why, what’s become of all the fine wood that used to surround it?’

‘Gin you mean a wheen auld firs, there’s some o’ them to the fore yet,’ pointing to two or three tall, bare, scathed Scotch firs, that scarcely bent their heads to the wind that now began to howl around them.

‘I insist upon it that you are mistaken; you must have wandered from the right road,’ cried the now alarmed Douglas in a loud voice, which vainly attempted to conceal his agitation.

‘We’ll shune see that,’ replied the phlegmatic Scot, who, having rested his horses, and affixed a drag to the wheel, was about to proceed; when Lady Juliana, who now began to have some vague suspicion of the truth, called to him to stop, and, almost breathless with alarm, inquired of her husband the meaning of what had passed.

He tried to force a smile as he said, ‘It seems our journey is nearly ended; that fellow persists in asserting that that is Glenfern, though I can scarcely think it. If it is, it is strangely altered since I left it twelve years ago.’

For a moment Lady Juliana was too much alarmed to make a reply: pale and speechless, she sank back in the carriage; but the motion of it, as it began to proceed, roused her to a sense of her situation, and she burst into tears and exclamations.

The driver, who attributed it all to fears at descending the hill, assured her she ‘needna be the least feared, for there were na twa cannier beasts atween that and Johnny Groat’s Hooss; and that they wad hae her at the castle door in a crack, gin they were ance down the brae.’

Douglas’s attempts to soothe his high-born bride were not more successful than those of the driver: in vain he made use of every endearing epithet and tender expression, and recalled the time when she used to declare that she could dwell with him in a desert; her only replies were bitter reproaches and upbraidings for his treachery and deceit, mingled with floods of tears, and interrupted by hysterical sobs. Provoked at her folly, yet softened by her extreme distress, Douglas was in the utmost state of perplexity, – now ready to give way to a paroxysm of rage, – then melting into pity, he sought to soothe her into composure; and, at length, with much difficulty, succeeded in changing her passionate indignation into silent dejection.

That no fresh objects of horror or disgust might appear to disturb this calm, the blinds were pulled down, and in this state they reached Glenfern Castle. But there the friendly veil was necessarily withdrawn; and the first object that presented itself to the high-bred Englishwoman was an old man, clad in a short tartan coat and striped woollen nightcap, with blear eyes and shaking hands, who vainly strove to open the carriage door.

Douglas soon extricated himself, and assisted his lady to alight; then accosting the venerable domestic as ‘Old Donald,’ asked him if he recollected him?

‘Weel that, weel that, Maister Harry, and ye’re welcome hame; and ye tu, bonny sir’* (addressing Lady Juliana, who was calling to her footman to follow her with the mackaw); then, tottering before them, he led the way, while her ladyship followed, leaning on her husband, her squirrel on her other arm, preceded by her dogs, barking with all their might, and attended by the mackaw, screaming with all his strength: and in this state was the Lady Juliana ushered into the drawing-room of Glenfern Castle!

What can be worse

Than to dwell here?


PARADISE LOST


It was a long, narrow, low-roofed room, with a number of small windows, that admitted feeble lights in every possible direction. The scanty furniture bore every appearance of having been constructed at the same time as the edifice; and the friendship thus early formed still seemed to subsist, as the high-backed worked chairs adhered most pertinaciously to the grey walls, on which hung, in narrow black frames, some of the venerable ancestors of the Douglas family. A fire, which appeared to have been newly kindled, was beginning to burn, but, previous to showing itself in flame, had chosen to vent itself in smoke, with which the room was completely filled, and the open windows seemed to produce no other effect than that of admitting the wind and rain.

At the entrance of the strangers, a flock of females rushed forward to meet them. Douglas good-humouredly submitted to be hugged by three long-chinned spinsters, whom he recognised as his aunts, and warmly saluted five awkward purple girls he guessed to be his sisters: while Lady Juliana stood the image of despair, and, scarcely conscious, admitted in silence the civilities of her new relations; till, at length, sinking into a chair, she endeavoured to conceal her agitation by calling to the dogs, and caressing her mackaw.

The laird, who had been hastily summoned from his farming operations, now entered. He was a good-looking old man, with something of the air of a gentleman, in spite of the inelegance of his dress, his rough manner, and provincial accent. After warmly welcoming his son, he advanced to his beautiful daughter-in-law, and, taking her in his arms, bestowed a loud and hearty kiss on each cheek; then, observing the paleness of her complexion, and the tears that swam in her eyes, ‘What! not frightened for our Highland hills, my leddy? Come, cheer up – trust me, ye’ll find as warm hearts among them as ony ye hae left in your fine English policies’ – shaking her delicate fingers in his hard muscular gripe, as he spoke.

The tears, which had with difficulty been hitherto suppressed, now burst in torrents from the eyes of the high-bred beauty, as she leant her cheek against the back of a chair, and gave way to the anguish which mocked control.

To the loud, anxious inquiries, and oppressive kindness of her homely relatives, she made no reply; but, stretching out her hands to her husband, sobbed, ‘Take, oh! take me from this place!’

Mortified, ashamed, and provoked, at a behaviour so childish and absurd, Douglas could only stammer out something about Lady Juliana having been frightened and fatigued; and, requesting to be shown to their apartment, he supported her almost lifeless to it, while his aunts followed, all three prescribing different remedies in a breath.

‘Oh, take them from me!’ faintly articulated Lady Juliana, as she shrank from the many hands that were alternately applied to her pulse and forehead.

After repeated entreaties and plausible excuses from Douglas, his aunts at length consented to withdraw; and he then exerted all the rhetoric he was master of, to reconcile his bride to the situation love and necessity had thrown her into. But in vain he employed reasoning, caresses, and threats; the only answers he could extort were tears and entreaties to be taken from a place where she declared she felt it impossible to exist.

‘If you wish my death, Harry,’ said she, in a voice almost inarticulate from excess of weeping, ‘oh! kill me quickly, and do not leave me to linger out my days, and perish at last with misery here!’

‘Only tell me what you would have me to do,’ said her husband, softened to pity by her extreme distress, ‘and, if possible, I will comply with your wishes.’

‘Oh! then, stop the horses, and let us return immediately – do fly, dearest Harry, else they will be gone, and we shall never get away from this odious place!’

‘Where would you go?’ asked he, with affected calmness.

‘Oh, any where – no matter where, so as we do but get away from hence – we can be at no loss.’

‘None in the world,’ interrupted Douglas, with a bitter smile, ‘as long as there is a prison to receive us. See,’ continued he, throwing a few shillings down on the table, ‘there is every sixpence I possess in the world.’

Lady Juliana stood aghast.

At that instant, the English Abigail burst into the room; and, in a voice choking with passion, she requested her discharge, that she might return with the driver who had brought them there.

‘A pretty way of travelling, to be sure, it will be,’ continued she, ‘to go bumping behind a dirty chaise-driver; but better to be shook to a jelly altogether, than stay amongst such a set of Oaten-toads.’*

‘What do you mean?’ inquired Douglas, as soon as the voluble Abigail allowed him an opportunity of asking.

‘Why, my meaning, sir, is to leave this here place immediately. Not that I have any objections either to my lady, or you, sir; but, to be sure, it was a sad day for me that I engaged myself to her ladyship. Little did I think that a lady of distinction would be coming to such a poor pitiful place as this, I am sure I thought I should ha’ swooned when I was showed the hole where I was to sleep.’

At the bare idea of this indignity to her person, the fury of the incensed fair one blazed forth with such strength as to choke her utterance.

Amazement had hitherto kept Lady Juliana silent; for to such scenes she was a stranger. Born in an elevated rank – reared in state – accustomed to the most obsequious attention – and never approached but with the respect due rather to a divinity than to a mortal, – the strain of vulgar insolence that now assailed her was no less new to her ears than shocking to her feelings. With a voice and look that awed the woman into obedience, she commanded her to quit her presence for ever; and then, no longer able to suppress the emotions of insulted pride, wounded vanity, and indignant disappointment, she gave way to a violent fit of hysterics.

In the utmost perplexity, the unfortunate husband, by turns, cursed the hour that had given him such a wife; now tried to soothe her into composure; but at length, seriously alarmed at the increasing attack, he called loudly for assistance.

In a moment, the three aunts and the five sisters all rushed together into the room, full of wonder, exclamation, and inquiry. Many were the remedies that were tried, and the experiments that were suggested; till, at length, the violence of passion exhausted itself, and a faint sob, or deep sigh, succeeded the hysteric scream.

Douglas now attempted to account for the behaviour of his noble spouse, by ascribing it to the fatigue she had lately undergone, joined to distress of mind at her father’s unrelenting severity towards her.

‘O the amiable creature!’ interrupted the unsuspecting spinsters, almost stifling her with their caresses as they spoke. ‘Welcome, a thousand times welcome, to Glenfern Castle!’ said Miss Jacky, who was esteemed by much the most sensible woman, as well as the greatest orator, in the whole parish. ‘Nothing shall be wanting, dearest Lady Juliana, to compensate for a parent’s rigour, and make you happy and comfortable. Consider this as your future home. My sisters and myself will be as mothers to you: and see these charming young creatures,’ dragging forward two tall, frightened girls, with sandy hair and great purple arms; ‘thank Providence for having blest you with such sisters!’

‘Don’t speak too much, Jacky, to our dear niece at present,’ said Miss Grizzy; ‘I think one of Lady Maclaughlan’s composing draughts would be the best thing for her – there can be no doubt about that.’

‘Composing draughts at this time of day!’ cried Miss Nicky; ‘I should think a little good broth a much wiser thing. There are some excellent family broth making below, and I’ll desire Tibby to bring a few.’

‘Will you take a little soup, love?’ asked Douglas. His lady assented; and Miss Nicky vanished, but quickly re-entered, followed by Tibby, carrying a huge bowl of coarse Scotch broth, swimming with leeks, greens, and grease. Lady Juliana attempted to taste it, but her delicate palate revolted at the homely fare; and she gave up the attempt, in spite of Miss Nicky’s earnest entreaties to take a few more of these excellent family broth.

‘I should think,’ said Henry, as he vainly attempted to stir it round, ‘that a little wine would be more to the purpose than this stuff.’

The aunts looked at each other; and, withdrawing to a corner, a whispering consultation took place, in which ‘Lady Maclaughlan’s opinion, birch, balm, currant, heating, cooling, running risks,’ &c., &c., transpired. At length the question was carried; and some tolerable sherry, and a piece of very substantial short-bread, were produced.

It was now voted by Miss Jacky, and carried nem. con., that her ladyship ought to take a little repose till the hour of dinner.

‘And don’t trouble to dress,’ continued the considerate aunt, ‘for we are not very dressy here: and we are to be quite a charming family party, nobody but ourselves, and,’ turning to her nephew, ‘your brother and his wife. She is a most superior woman, though she has rather too many of her English prejudices yet to be all we could wish; but I have no doubt, when she has lived a little longer amongst us, she will just become one of ourselves.’

‘I forget who she was?’ said Douglas.

‘A grand-daughter of Sir Duncan Malcolm’s, a very old family of the —— blood, and nearly allied to the present earl. And here they come,’ exclaimed she, on hearing the sound of a carriage; and all rushed out to receive them.

‘Let us have a glimpse of this scion from a noble stock,’ said Lady Juliana, mimicking the accent of the poor spinsters, as she rose and ran to the window.

‘Oh, Henry! do come and behold this equipage!’ and she laughed with childish glee, as she pointed to a plain old-fashioned gig, with a large top. A tall handsome young man now alighted, and lifted out a female figure, so enveloped in a cloak, that eyes less penetrating than Lady Juliana’s could not, at a single glance, have discovered her to be a ‘frightful quiz.’

‘Only conceive the effect of this dashing equipage in Bond Street!’ continued she, redoubling her mirth at the bright idea: then suddenly stopping, and sighing, ‘Ah, my pretty vis-à-vis! I remember the first time I saw you, Henry, I was in it at a review;’ and she sighed still deeper.

‘True; I was then aide-de-camp to your handsome lover, the Duke of L——.’

‘Perhaps I might think him handsome now. People’s taste alter according to circumstances.’

‘Yours must have undergone a wonderful revolution, if you can find charms in a hunchback of fifty-three.’

‘He is not a hunchback,’ returned her ladyship warmly; ‘only a little high-shouldered: but, at any rate, he has the most beautiful place and the finest house in England.’

Douglas saw the storm gathering on the brow of his capricious wife, and, clasping her in his arms, ‘Are you indeed so changed, my Julia, that you have forgot the time when you used to declare you would prefer a desert with your Henry, to a throne with another?’

‘No, certainly, not changed; but – I – I did not very well know then what a desert was; or, at least, I had formed rather a different idea of it.’

‘What was your idea of a desert?’ said her husband, laughing; ‘do tell me, love?’

‘Oh! I had fancied it a beautiful place, full of roses and myrtles, and smooth green turf, and murmuring rivulets, and, though very retired, not absolutely out of the world; where one could occasionally see one’s friends, and give déjeûnés et fêtes champêtres.’

‘Well, perhaps the time may come, Juliana, when we may realise your Elysian deserts; but, at present, you know, I am wholly dependent on my father. I hope to prevail on him to do something for me; and that our stay here will be short; as, you may be sure, the moment I can I will take you hence. I am sensible it is not a situation for you; but for my sake, dearest Juliana, bear with it for a while, without betraying your disgust. Will you do this, darling?’ and he kissed away the sullen tear that hung on her cheek.

‘You know, love, there’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you,’ replied she, as she played with her squirrel; ‘and, as you promise our stay shall be short, if I don’t die of the horrors I shall certainly try to make the agreeable. O my cherub!’ flying to her pug, who came barking into the room, ‘where have you been, and where’s my darling Psyche, and sweet mackaw? Do, Harry, go and see after the darlings.’

‘I must go and see my brother and his wife first. Will you come, love?’

‘Oh, not now; I don’t feel equal to the encounter: besides, I must dress. But what shall I do, since that vile woman’s gone? I can’t dress myself. I never did such a thing in my life; and I am sure it’s impossible t. . .