Family Feuds and Life’s Tough Choices in the Moors

Nothing more undemonstrative can possibly be conceived than the meeting betwixt Mr. John Merapie and his sister, Mrs. Frazer. With even less appearance of his ever having done such a thing in his life before, than that which characterized his salutation to Mina, the merchant, having a vague idea that such things were usual upon similar occasions, and inwardly mourning that they were so, gravely kissed his sister; having accomplished which feat, to his immense relief, he drew a chair beside her sofa and inquired, “If she felt better.”

“Still very much fatigued,” was the response, “I did not get to sleep last night until long after you returned home, thinking about how very miserable you must have been.”

The merchant started, and enquired somewhat nervously what she meant.

121“Oh! living all alone in this dreary house, and having no one to look after your wants excepting that dreadful old woman (John, I cannot pretend to tolerate her), and being buried in this out of the way place; and having no lady’s taste to furnish your house properly for you.”

“I am sorry,” returned her brother with a smile, “you have so unnecessarily sacrificed your night’s rest to my concerns: I have, like most other people, had my share of trials, but certainly never dreamed of classing my house, furniture, and servant amongst them. I expect, of course, that now we have actually got you here, this place will look a little more like home: I trust you and yours will be happy, Eliza; they appear remarkably fine children.”

“Oh! Malcolm is the very best, cleverest, dearest boy that ever existed; but as for Mina——”

“Why what is wrong about Mina,” demanded the merchant, finding that a dead blank was intended to express volumes in the child’s disfavor; “what is wrong about Mina?”

“Everything,” responded the lady, “mind, manners, ideas, appearance, everything.”

“Excepting her excessive pallor, and the extraordinary way in which she has cropped her hair on one side, I see nothing greatly amiss with her appearance,” 122he returned; “and Malcolm tells me the latter was done in great haste, before leaving Craigmaver, that she might give the curls to her uncle and cousin: and as for the paleness, we both know the cause of that, Eliza.”

“Yes, but it seems so unnatural in a child to keep pining and crying, for months, when we were all doing what we could for her; she is far too old-fashioned; her father perfectly spoiled her, she never cared for the things other children do, never enjoyed herself like them, and her sorrow more resembles that of some strange-tempered old woman, than a little girl’s transient trouble. I do not comprehend her; I never could.”

“But surely Eliza,” exclaimed her brother sternly, “you, who are her father’s widow, do not mean to blame Mina for weeping so bitterly for him?”

“Not if she would have done it like a child,” retorted the lady angrily, “but she did not. After I had worn myself to a perfect skeleton, nursing her through the low fever which detained us so long in Scotland, the first thing she said, when consciousness returned was, “Where is my dear papa? I had rather have him than anybody else in the world—where is he?” and when I told her “she must lie very quiet and not ask for him as he could not 123come to her any more, but that I would stay near her if she chose;” she said, “Oh! I remember now; but I care for nobody except him,” and began crying and sobbing so violently that she brought on a relapse, which had almost proved fatal.

Mr. Merapie answered not, but gazed earnestly at her who uttered the above sentence. Worn to a skeleton she was not, either by grief or watching—that fact was self-evident, and the small place Mina occupied in her heart was no less apparent. “Poor little creature,” mentally exclaimed the merchant, recalling the pale, thoughtful face to memory; and, albeit by no means given to feel much concern about the sentiments and trials of his neighbours in general and the sentiments and trials of children in particular, on the present occasion something marvellously like compassion came swelling up in his bosom on behalf of the fragile girl, whose mother loved her so very little.

After a pause, devoted to useless expectation of an answer of some kind from her brother’s lips, Mrs. Frazer proceeded.

“But why talk of Mina? she will improve now she is away from those horrid Highland mountains and vulgar Scotch people, and thrown more amongst children and associates of her own rank 124in life! I know she will, I wanted to speak to you of our future plans.”

“I thought,” remarked Mr. Merapie, “they were quite settled,—that you were to reside with me.”

“Of course,” returned his sister, coloring a little, “but I presume you do not propose continuing to live in Belerma Square.”

“And why not?” demanded Mr. Merapie.

“Why not?” she echoed; “it is so dreadfully unfashionable.”

“And, my dear Eliza, of what earthly consequence is fashion either to you or to me; will it support, clothe, educate your children? Can it contribute one iota to our happiness? Fashion is a word which has destroyed more domestic peace, wasted more fortunes, made more homes desolate, and finally, caused less real joy to mortals, than any other in our language; it is a perfect humbug.”

“But you don’t mean to say,” began Mrs. Frazer, her astonishment mastering for once her indolence, and inducing her to speak not merely rapidly, but loudly; “but you don’t mean to say you brought me from Craigmaver to live here?”

“I had certainly no intention of bringing you from Craigmaver to die here,” responded her brother somewhat pettishly; “but, if such be your 125desire, pray consult your own inclinations on the subject; I have no wish to fetter them in anyway:” and Mr. Merapie, having delivered himself of this obliging permission, arose, and taking up a sort of vantage position on the hearth rug, prepared himself to “go through” the remainder of the interview with what patience he might.

Mrs. Frazer, upon hearing the above reply, burst into a passion of tears, and buried her head in the sofa pillow: “It would have been well for her had she died at the same time as her poor dear Allan, and been laid in the quiet grave with him; she was wretched—she was miserable—she had expected different treatment from her brother; but all men were alike—heartless—unfeeling—selfish. Still the laird of Craigmaver would never have so wantonly lacerated her heart. He offered her a beautiful house, and servants, and everything; but she had said, she would go to her brother, and this was the result of it: to be brought to a low, horrid locality, into a dingy dirty house, the very name and sight of which had, in addition to the fatigue of their hurried journey, made her own maid so ill, that she was unable to rise and attend to her mistress; who consequently was thrown, for even sugarless supplies of coffee, upon the mercies of one of the most hideous 126and dreadful amongst old women: brought to a place like this, and when, after having patiently borne all, she suggested the propriety of seeking another home, she was cruelly told, ‘that if she could not live there, she might die.’”

From that species of dais whence the gentlemen of England love to deliver the law unto their wives and children, the merchant gazed,—first at the dull November sky, then at his sister, finally around the room. Calmly as he might have waited for the termination of an April shower, no portion of which was falling upon his head, did he watch till Mrs. Frazer’s indignant feelings should have subsided, or at least till there should come a lull; and, when the sobs became less frequent, and the lamentations and reproaches grew neither so doleful nor vehement, in a voice of quiet decision he said—

“I never thought Eliza, you were especially overburdened with sense, and now I am sure of it. It is one of those things, indeed, which no lapse of time, or change of place, or afflictions, or teaching, can implant in the character of any individual, and therefore I was intensely foolish to expect you to have acquired it with the lapse of years and a great misfortune. Had I not understood from your letters that you most earnestly desired to leave Scotland, I never 127should have dreamed of asking you here: but now, as you are here; as the only home I can offer you does not appear to satisfy you; as you cannot come down to your position; and as you will not understand that I, though rich, and willing and anxious to render you and yours happy, am neither a millionaire, nor your over indulgent father, the next best thing I can think of is, to allow you an income of—say one hundred pounds per annum, and pay for the education of your children at some good school. If you consider an arrangement of this kind would prove more conducive to your comfort and well-being than our present one, I am willing to pay over the first instalment to-morrow: I like people to be happy in their way, providing that way does not throw me altogether out of mine.”

Here was a come down! a miserable awakening from dreams of Berkeley Square, endless upholsterer’s bills, amber-colored curtains, luxurious furniture, a carriage, possibly, servants certainly, money ad libitum; and an awful reality of an alternative offered between Belerma Square and shabby genteel lodgings, and a ridiculous income of one hundred per annum;—twenty-five pounds per quarter, not quite two per week.

“I could not think of such a proposition,” began 128the bewildered lady; but John Merapie, cutting it short with an emphatic “You had better reflect upon it,” left her to her own meditations.

Unsatisfactory enough they assuredly proved, but time and hope poured, as they generally do, a sort of balm into her cup of bitterness; and, by almost imperceptible degrees, the lady arrived at the pleasant conclusion that men are not invulnerable. Even Achilles, of whom she remembered once to have heard something, had one susceptible spot: and, if Achilles, why not John Merapie.

Perhaps she had been too abrupt; had not flattered him sufficiently, had seemed to desire too much. She would appear to give in,—would actually do so for the present; and probably in time he might be led to adopt her views and agree to her wishes. At all events, leave his house, quarrel with him, lose the chance of his making Malcolm his heir, she would not; in brief, ere two hours had elapsed, Mrs. Frazer had once again arrived at the conclusion that she could induce her brother to do anything, if she only took the proper plan with—and managed him.

But, unhappily, to quote Moore’s simile, “hope” proved in this instance, as it generally does, “like the bird in the story,” and accordingly lured the lady, 129with its brilliant plumage, on into perfect labyrinth of imagination, from whence, when rudely told she was on the wrong path, she had to flounder back to the safe, though uninviting, ground of fact, with what celerity she might. She had formed her ideas of the lords of the creation in general from her minute juvenile observation of her worthy papa, who was so excessively kind and sensible that, if she only cried long enough for anything, she got it: she considered it was their duty to make money as they could, and give it unhesitatingly to women, to spend as they liked. Captain Frazer had been in her former opinion, a sort of tyrannical, obstinate wonder, an exception to every rule, unlike any other man in the world; but ere long Mr. John Merapie taught her there was another being in creation, besides Allan Frazer, who not merely liked to have his own way, but would have it: upon whom tears had less effect than on sticks and stones; whom flattery could not reach, or persuasion turn, or anger move, or vague feminine hints and threats intimidate.

“He and Allan might have been brothers,” she frequently sighed, “they are so alike;” and in some points, perhaps, they did resemble each other; only, where the English merchant said plumply, fairly, and straightforwardly, “I will not, so there is no 130use in wasting further tears or arguments upon the matter,” the Scotch officer had been wont to remark—“Of course, my dear, it grieves me to see you weep, but as your wishes are impracticable, it is not in my power to comply with them.” The one frequently implied a refusal—the other always gave it point blank; the real point of resemblance between the two, was a perfectly genuine, sincere, and settled resolution never, under any circumstances, to say “Yes” to any proposition to which they had ever felt inclined to answer “No.” And as John Merapie would as soon have dreamt of putting his hand into the fire, as of making himself and his sister fashionable West End people; as all he cared for in life, was to get through it quietly, and to invite a few steady-going city men, with bald heads and grey whiskers, at certain intervals to eat roast beef and drink port wine with him, which invitation they had not the smallest objection to accept and to reciprocate; as Belerma Square suited him as well, or better, for a residence, than any other place in London; and, as in brief, he had firmly resolved not to leave it; his widowed sister soon discovered, that she was but wasting time in seeking to melt adamant: wherefore, with many sighs and groans, she swallowed her disappointment, and scattered her 131visions to the four winds of heaven, with what complacence was possible under the circumstances; and moved about the house with the air and manner of a suffering saint, who, if not too good for this world, was a million times too genteel and ladylike for the society and locality into which she was thrown: and her brother went in an omnibus every morning, away into mysterious regions, lying on the Tower side of London Bridge, regions commanding water and street and warehouse views, where he made any amount of money; and whence he returned each evening, at about six o’clock, once again viâ omnibus to the Square, in which his sister was “buried alive”—to borrow one of her own figurative expressions—and where he owned three houses, two of which, to his no small chagrin, lacked tenants.

Thus Mrs. Frazer was conquered; she had to submit,—there was no alternative for it; and thus, so far as she was concerned, he triumphed: but ere long, the worthy merchant discovered there was nothing on earth so difficult to tame or manage as a child, and that of all children, Mina was the hardest to deal with; insomuch as that, no matter what she did, he found it impossible to be seriously angry with her, in addition to which, Mina’s will being 132considerably stronger than her uncle’s, whenever his inclinations and hers chanced to clash, he invariably had to give up, after having held out just long enough to teach the little girl her power.

And as it chanced that, upon the very first time of her being sent, not to a select seminary, as her mother had planned, before quitting the Highlands, should be the case, but to a somewhat large day-school,—chosen by Mr. Merapie, perhaps for no better motive than because the principal thereof wore calico dresses, and persisted, for a reason known to herself and a few intimate friends, in teaching her pupils solely useful things, or rather, things which she called useful, but which were not actually so. Mina, when asked by her gouvernante a very absurd question, that might puzzle wiser heads than her’s to answer, viz: “Which is the finest country in the world?” replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “Scotland;” and in spite of explanation, entreaty, threats, and punishment, adhered so obstinately to her text, adding thereto, first, that her uncle was the best man in it, and secondly, that London was the worst place in the universe, and that she hated it, and wished she might go back to Craigmaver—that she did; that the superintendent, who had a perfect horror of Scotland and the Scotch, and 133dreaded, moreover, the effect such an example might have on the other pupils, requested her assistant, Miss Caldera, to put on her bonnet, take Miss Frazer home, and report the matter to the authorities in that quarter. Upon receipt of which order, Miss Caldera, one of the most patient amongst teachers, sorrowfully holding the little rebel by the hand, set forth upon a mission that she had much rather have left unaccomplished.

There had been a hope of pardon held out to Mina, if at any stage of her journey towards Belerma Square, she repented, and would return meekly into the school-room, and say to the superintendent, in the presence of all the children, “England is the finest country in the world, and I am very sorry ma’am, and hope you will forgive me for being so naughty;” but, at the bare suggestion, the concentrated Highland blood of the whole Frazer clan rushed indignantly into the child’s cheeks, and she said so many evil things about England and the English, all of which, I regret to add, she had heard from the lips of Colin Saunders, that the schoolmistress, in very horror, banged the hall door behind the refractory importation from the “Land of the Leal,” as she might have closed the gates of Paradise upon a hardened, hopeless, sinner.

134“Are not you sorry, dear?” asked Miss Caldera, after they had proceeded in silence for some distance.

“No, I am not,” was the prompt reply; “I’d say it again, if she asked me again, and if she didn’t I’d think it.”

“What will your dear mamma say to you?” enquired the lady.

“Nothing,” responded Mina.

“Why, won’t she be angry?” demanded Miss Caldera, rapidly jumping to the conclusion that, if she would not, the mystery of her daughter’s stubbornness explained itself; “won’t she be angry?”

“Perhaps she may, indeed I’m sure she will, but I don’t care,” replied her charge valiantly.

“Not care about your mamma being angry? oh! fie!” said the governess, becoming more mystified than ever; in answer to which she received a determined “No,” into which Mina somehow contrived to fling a tone, implying that the anger of the whole world signified very little unto her.

There was a pause, and then Miss Caldera, in a soothing voice, began:

“Now should you not like to come back with me like a good little girl, and—”

“No, I shouldn’t;” interrupted Mina, “and 135what’s more, I wouldn’t; I’ll never go back to school again as long as I live, for that ugly old woman struck me, and I never was struck by anybody in my life before; papa never allowed me to be struck—oh! I wish my own dear papa was here now.”—Whether the mention of his name carried her away from the place where she stood, or whether a sudden rush of old griefs caused her to forget she was in a veritable London street, one thing is indisputable—that, at the conclusion of the above sentence, she burst into such a perfect agony of tears, that Miss Caldera, utterly shocked and confounded, stood mutely regarding her, whilst Mina sobbed and cried to her heart’s content.

“What is the matter?” demanded one of two gentlemen, who chanced to be passing; “is the child hurt?”

“Only naughty, I fear,” responded Miss Caldera, against which assertion, Mina forthwith entered an indignant protest.

“I am not, but I want my papa, and he’s dead; and I wanted to stay in Scotland and they would not let me.”

“Good gracious! why it is Mina Frazer, Mr. Merapie’s niece,” exclaimed the companion of him who had first spoken; upon making which discovery, 136Mr. Alfred Westwood, for he it was, turned and walked with Miss Caldera and her charge, to the door of his principal’s house in the “Square;” and, having thus obtained full particulars, he took an opportunity of recounting the whole history to Mr. Merapie, ere that gentleman returned home, and heard a rather exaggerated report thereof from the lips of his sister.

“What shall I do with her, poor little thing?” asked Mr. Merapie of his clerk, who had latterly become, in some sort, his confidential adviser; “she is more trouble to me than the whole of my business. I never felt so sorry for, and anxious about, a human being before. I wish from my soul her mother had left her at Craigmaver, as old Mr. Frazer wanted her to do. From their cradles to their graves women are sources of perpetual annoyance.”

Mr. Westwood laughed, and so, in spite of his perplexity, did Mr. Merapie, but the next moment added,

“Aye! but indeed the matter is beyond a jest, for there is no one at home fit to manage her, and Mrs. Frazer will not let her go to Scotland; and, if she have determined not to return to school, why, I cannot make her, that is all.”

137“I can manage her; she does whatever I ask her,” remarked Mr. Westwood.

“Indeed!” ejaculated the merchant, fixing a glance of incredulous wonder on the speaker; “and how the deuce do you proceed? it would be a secret worth knowing.”

“Why you see,” returned his employé, “I let her talk as much as she likes about ‘home,’ as she calls that heathenish Highland place, and never contradict her, no matter what she says; and tell her I have been in Scotland myself: all of which makes her so wonderfully tractable, that if I say, ‘Will you not do so and so for me?’ she answers, ‘Yes,’ instanter.”

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” remarked Mr. Merapie with a dissatisfied air, as if he were as far off his end as ever, “but does not she bore you to death; she would talk for hours about that confounded Glenfiord, and an old Calvinistic gardener who has inducted her into some wonderful theological mysteries; do you not get very tired of her? I feel fond enough of the child, and am, moreover, her uncle,—but still I do, often.”

“Frank, at all events,” thought the clerk; then answered aloud, “No; I never weary of anything when I have any object, no matter how trifling, in 138view; and, besides, you know I am fond of children, which you, sir, I believe, are not.”

“No, no, I am fond of nothing but business. I understand how to keep books and make money tolerably well; but as for ever comprehending human nature, and more especially that portion of it called woman’s nature, I give up the study as hopeless.”

“I was not aware you had ever commenced it,” said Mr. Westwood simply, whereupon Mr. Merapie quickly demanded,

“But what am I to do with this niece of mine? That is the present question; for back to school I think she would scarcely go for her father, even if he were now alive, and there is no use asking her mother anything about it.”

“Mrs. Frazer wishes her to go to a fashionable boarding-school, does she not?” enquired Mr. Westwood.

“Yes,” responded his principal, “but I have resolved she shall not go.”

“Well, then, the only other plan I can suggest is, that you have a visiting governess for her; a person like this Miss Caldera, for instance: an amiable sensible woman might make almost what she chose of your niece. That lady told 139me, to-day, she felt sure much might be done with her.”

Which simple plan never having previously entered the brain of the worthy but puzzled merchant, he caught at it instantly, and cordially thanking Mr. Westwood for his suggestion, informed him he was the most useful fellow in the world, and that he really did not know what he should do without him. In reply to which, Mr. Westwood smiled in his blandest manner, mentally adding thereto the words, “I believe you.”

And Mr. Westwood took an early opportunity of informing Mrs. Frazer how he had spoken to Mr. Merapie concerning sending her daughter to a boarding-school, to which idea he found him so decidedly opposed, that merely as a pis aller he had suggested the propriety of having some sort of governess for her.

“Of course, my dear madam,” he continued in an impressive manner, “nothing short of an aristocratical school could render her all you wish, but (you understand me, I am speaking in strict confidence to you,) my excellent principal—as worthy and kind-hearted a man as ever existed—has some peculiarities (we are all a little eccentric, you know), and his aversion to what you and I should call genteel, 140agreeable society is so insurmountable, that I found it perfectly useless to contend further. The plan proposed is, at all events, better than having her thrown among common acquaintances, as she would have been at that day-school, where she made her first appearance and her final exit within the space of about three hours or so: was that not it?”

Mrs. Frazer believed he was correct, and assured him she considered he was one of the kindest, truest, most sensible of friends; but that, as regarded her brother, he was hopeless; and, in reference to Mina, the least said the better; it was a painful topic: for years she had proved the greatest trial ever experienced by mortal;—and Mrs. Frazer wept, and Mr. Westwood condoled and consoled; and the relict of Captain Frazer considered he was a most agreeable person, and hoped her brother would soon take him into partnership: and perhaps, in course of time, if he had promised her a house at the West End and a carriage, she might have done so too. But whatever Mr. Westwood’s views might be, they certainly appeared anti-matrimonial: all he apparently desired was to keep on good terms with every member of his principal’s family, from the head thereof, John Merapie, to wit, down to little Mina,—Mrs. Frazer and Malcolm of course inclusive.