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IT was a bright and lovely
morning when Arthur Monteith, as yet known only by the name of Mathieson,
bade farewell to the scenes of his youth. Handsome, accomplished, and
chosen at the age of seventeen as aid-de-camp, by so distinguished an
officer as General Beaumont, fancy might perhaps have whispered to him,
that in leaving Scotland for India, he was entering on a career of
honourable ambition, and of future fame. But neither the animating
features of the landscape, nor the warmth of youthful hope could, for
many hours, dispel the sadness which dwelt upon his mind, in parting,
perhaps for ever, from his dear friends at the farm-house of Lochmore,
and at the elegant mansion of Glenlyn.
Arthur’s departure had rendered each of these places a scene of sorrow.
At Loch-more, where Jane Mathieson, his supposed mother, and Annie, who
believed herself to be his sister, both of them absorbed in grief for
his loss, and both fondly cherishing the remembrance of his constant
prudence and tenderness. At Glenlyn, was Mrs. Beaumont, and her
visitors, William Mathieson, Jessie, Ailed, and Jamie, all in various
degrees affected at losing the society of one whom they so justly
esteemed. Mrs. Beaumont looked, with sickness of heart, to the prospect
of a long separation from her beloved husband, the General; but this
circumstance did not prevent her from sympathising deeply with the
friends of our young hero. Jessie, Allen, and Jamie, felt as it was
natural to feel for one whom they all regarded as a brother, though in
fact he bore that relation only to the two former. But the most acute
sufferer was William Mathieson, his preserver and almost more than
parent While the carriage in which the General and Arthur were seated
was receding rapidly from Glenlyn, William stood gazing unconsciously
after it, as if stunned with the violence of his grief: Allen and Jamie
were both drowned in tears at his side; and the sobs and moans of poor
Jessie were heard, even at that distance, by them all.
“Father,” at last said Allen, “Arthur desired us to comfort Jessie. We
must not, therefore, allow ourselves to add to her grief, by letting her
see us in tears. I will go up to her first, and you and Jamie will, I
hope, soon be able to follow me.”—“We must remember that we have
mourners too at home,” said Jamie.—“I thank you, Allen, for recalling to
my recollection that our duty does not allow us to waste time in tears.”
“Oh, what do I not owe that dear boy,” exclaimed William, “for having
trained my son to think and act in the way he does? All that I have ever
done for him, is tenfold paid.”
He pressed Jamie in his arms, saying, “Go home, my love, to your mother.
Allen and I will go up to Mrs. Beaumont and Jessie. Tell my wife that as
soon as we can leave them composed, we will return to her.”
“I cannot go, father, without seeing Jessie; I must, if possible, learn
that she is better, before I return to my mother.”
“Well, well, then, Jamie, run up, but don’t stay long, as your mother
requires you at home more than Jessie can do here.”
Mrs. Beaumont was almost in as great distress as poor Jessie; but in a
little while she overcame, in some degree, her grief^ and entered into
conversation with William. When he left her, she begged that he would
allow Allen to remain with them that day. “And, indeed, my friend,”
continued she, “you must spare him to us very often, or I do not know
what will become of us. He shall not spend his time in idleness, I
promise you; poor dear Arthur never did, but seemed to improve every
day, all the years he has lived with us.”
William assured her that Allen should always be at her service, when not
occupied at school. He then promised, at her request to bring his wife
and Annie, to spend the next day with her, as it happened to be Sunday;
and though upon ordinary occasions tnev never went out on that day,
except to Church, he thought now that it would be good for them all to
be together, at such a time of affliction. Great was Jane’s astonish-ment
when this was communicated to her, for though she had often been invited
to come to Glenlyn, her husband had uniformly made her find some excuse.
"It is not suitable, my dear Jane, for either a farmer or his wife to
sit at the same table with their master and mistress; and neither is it
proper for the father and the mother of their adopted niece to eat with
their servants. I never will agree to either; and, therefore, though it
is kindly .meant in the laird and his lady, to ask us to visit them, we
are much better at home, and can see our dear Jessie more properly in
our own cottage.”
Such had uniformly been William’s reasoning, and, therefore, Jane had
some cause for surprise, when he told her he had settled that she should
spend the next day at Glenlyn.
I thought you would be surprised, my dear, but circumstances alter every
thing. Had we gone formerly to visit the lady, all the country would
have been making their remarks upon our pride, and the laird’s folly in
raising us beyond our proper station in life; but going at such a time
as this, when every one must know that both the lady and we, her
dependents, are suffering from the same cause, will only appear like
good Christians endeavouring to comfort one another. In the lady, it
will look as if she condescended to associate with us, to comfort us for
the loss of our son; and in us, as if we went to the house only in the
hope that through her we might strengthen our boy’s interest with the
Colonel, and incline her to give us every information she receives of
him.” Allen remained all the morning at Glenlyn, and with great
difficulty Mrs. Beaumont prevailed on him to dine with her; but the
moment the dinner was over, he said he was under the necessity of going
a little way on the Linton road before he returned home, and therefore
hoped she would excuse his leaving her directly. When he was gone,
Jessie was so much worn out with her weeping and distress in the
morning, that her aunt prevailed on her to lie down for an hour; and as
soon as Mrs. Beaumont saw her safely in bed, she retired to her own
dressing room, meaning to indulge in the grief she had so long struggled
to restrain. She opened the door, and having fastened it, in order to
avoid surprise, she advanced towards the table, but started on coming
near it, for there lay a similar note to that in the beggar’s bag of
pebbles.
She eagerly took it up, and after reading it, exclaimed aloud: “Now,
indeed, he has kept his word with me, and I am richly rewarded for any
kindness I have ever shown, either to Jessie or Arthur; but how strange
it appears, that through them I should receive my beloved father’s
pardon, after a lapse of so many years, without my ever having heard his
name mentioned, and after having fully believed that he was no longer an
inhabitant of this world. I can, however, doubt no longer; this is his
handwriting and seal, and if any thing could have reconciled me to the
parting from my Charles, the assurance of being pardoned and blessed by
my still dear parent, was the only thing that could have made me
willingly submit to the sacrifice. No wonder,” thought she, as she sat
ruminating in her chair, “that Arthur’s manner and acquirements
surprised us all so much. The pupil of Sir Alexander M’Donald, for five
years, must have surpassed any other lads, either in this neighbourhood
or any place else; and oh! what a comfort to me now, to reflect that
Charles has the benefit of such a companion! For my sake, as well as
that of his instructer, he will watch over my husband’s health and
interest. Far different will be his affection from that which any other
individual in his place could have shown; and whilst he has fife, he
will be to us a son.”
In due time a packet arrived from the travellers to gladden the hearts
of their anxious friends. It contained letters to all of them, though
Allen’s was much more bulky than any of the others. To Jessie, Arthur
sent a small miniature picture of himself; telling her, that as he had
given Annie a keepsake before he left her, he now wished to do the same
to her; and as he knew that she had a very handsome Bible already, lie
had thought that his picture would please her better than any thing
else. Jessie’s delight at receiving so acceptable a present, was
unbounded; and indeed her pleasure was nearly equalled by that of all
connected with the original, who were never tired of looking on a
resemblance that seemed to bring their dear boy, so forcibly to their
recollection.
The Colonel, (or as we must now call him, the General,) told Mrs.
Beaumont, that every day reconciled him more and more to her choice of
an aide-de-camp for him; and he only wished that she had been the person
to choose the other officer who attended him in a similar capacity; for
the young man to whom he found himself compelled by powerful reasons to
give that situation, was very inferior to Arthur, both in appearance and
acquirements.
“Monteith, however, (for that is his name, continued the General,) may
turn out better than I at present expect. His father I never liked; but
his mother, who was a distant relation of mine, was an excellent woman;
and she was completely sacrificed in becoming the wife of such a man.
She died some years ago, report says, of a broken heart, leaving this
boy, and one girl, the only heirs to the large estate which her husband
acquired by the forfeiture and death of his nephew, Hector Monteith.
Poor Hector, whom you must recollect to have seen at your father’s a
little while before our marriage, was unfortunately seized after the
late rebellion, and executed at Carlisle!”
Mrs. Beaumont was delighted with the satisfaction expressed by her
husband, at having Arthur with him, and told William what he had said,
the first time he saw him. William started, on her naming Monteith, and
turned to the window to conceal the agitation which such a piece of
information naturally produced; but Mrs. Beaumont, having no suspicion
of the cause, went on talking and relating all she recollected of the
young man’s father, declaring that she could scarcely forgive the
General for having any connexion with the son of so bad a man.
William was glad when he could with propriety take leave; for the
agitation that this news produced, made him wish earnestly to enjoy a
little quiet reflection before he determined on what course to pursue.
After quitting Mrs. Beaumont, he walked for several hours in the glen,
hesitating whether it would not be better for him at once to write to
Arthur, and advise him to give up his commission and return directly to
Lochmore, rather than allow him to become the associate of the son of
Colonel Monteith; but at last it struck him that by so doing, he might
produce the very evil he wished to avoid; for should the Colonel’s
attention be drawn to Arthur, he would learn that the latter was the
reputed son of William Mathieson, and this name would be enough to. give
so artful a man a clue to the truth. Having therefore convinced himself
that it would be more prudent for Arthur to continue under General
Beaumont’s protection, he determined in his next letter to him to
enforce mofe strongly than ever, the necessity of his saying nothing
whatever on the subject of his birth, and to trust to Providence for the
event.
“He has been the peculiar care of Providence all his life, poor boy,
(thought William,) and I trust he will not now be forsaken; perhaps it
may be for some good purpose that his cousin is made his associate; and
what appears, to a short-sighted mortal like me, to be an evil, may be
intended as the means of bringing about his restoration to his rightful
inheritance.”
William wrote the very next day to Arthur; and having done so,
endeavoured to banish from his mind the recollection of a circumstance
that had given him at first so much uneasiness. General Beaumont and his
suite sailed for India, and for many months their friends heard nothing
of them, as in those days the voyage was much more tedious than it is
now. At last the joyful information arrived of their safety, which
spread a ray of pleasure on every face around Glenlyn. Arthur, according
to William’s particular request, wrote him a long account of all that
had occurred to him during the voyage. Towards .the end of his letter,
he mentioned Colin Monteith as follows:
“He is greatly to be pitied, poor fellow! for no one has ever taken the
slightest trouble to give him instruction, on the subject of all others
the most necessary for the happiness and good conduct of a human being.
A little smattering of Greek and Latin, with abundance of frivolous
acquirements, have occupied the whole of his time; and he fancies, that
by ridiculing and holding up to contempt both religion itself, and those
who profess to be followers of its laws, he shows his superior wit and
understanding; whereas, in fact, he only exposes his own ignorance, and
becomes an object of real pity to those he affects to despise. All this,
however, is a profound secret to General Beaumont, as Monteith has sense
enough to discover that his creed would not raise him in the opinion of
our worthy commander, and therefore he never enters on such topics but
when lie is sure the General is safely lodged in his hammock, or engaged
at such a distance from him, that he runs no danger of being surprised.
“The intercourse I have had with this young man, has increased, if
possible, my feeling of thankfulness and gratitude to Providence, for
having placed me under the care of my dear and ever valued parents at
Lochmore, who, from the earliest moment I can remember, taught me to
depend on God alone for assistance and comfort, in every situation in
which I could be placed; and convinced me that while I made nis laws the
rule of my every thought and action, I need fear neither prosperity nor
adversity. How much richer a man do I consider myself in possession of
the hope they have taught me to rely on, than if they had given me, what
poor Colin Monteith has the prospect, I understand, of inheriting, an
estate somewhere in Scotland, of more than three thousand pounds a
year!”
William shed tears of thankfulness, on reading those sentiments from the
boy he had reared; and in the joy of his heart, thinking to make Mr.
Brown a participator in his satisfaction, by letting him know how much
his pupil valued the instructions which the worthy. clergyman (as
William thought) had so greatly contributed to give him. He therefore
put the letter in his pocket, and walking over in the evening to the
Manse, read to him the above extract.
Mr. Brown sincerely congratulated him on the sentiments of his son;
adding that it was only what he expected from Arthur’s whole conduct,
ever since he had first known him. William, impelled by gratitude, let
fall some expressions which showed that he thought the formation of
Arthur’s mind, for the last five years of his stay at home, was
principally owing to the care of Mr. Brown. The latter begged him to
explain what he meant* and was much astonished to find himself looked
upon as Arthur’s preceptor; nor was William less so, on discovering that
the minister had never given the lad the slightest assistance in his
studies, except occasionally examining him as to his progress in Latin
ana Greek, and directing him in the choice of proper books to read for
his improvement.
“It is very odd,” said William, at last; “and what he could mean by the
conversation he had with me the evening before he left me, I do not at
all understand; but he then told me, that he was not at liberty to say
more than that he had had great advantages; I shall, therefore, never
seek an explanation, either of him, or any one else, till he gives it to
me of his own accord, which I am confident he will, as soon as he is at
liberty to do so; and you will greatly oblige me, dear sir, if you will
promise never to mention the conversation we have just had together; for
Arthur might, with good reason, be offended at my betraying the
confidence he had reposed in me.”
Mr. Brown promised secrecy, and kept his word, though The often
reflected upon what William had communicated to him, and wondered at
himself for having been so easily deceived into the belief of Arthur’s
self-taught progress, considering the superiority of his acquirements.
Years, meantime rolled on, and many changes were taking place among our
young friends. Allen had attended the university for three years, and
was fast rising into manhood. His manners and conversation were nearly
as polished and genteel as his brother’s had been, and his mind almost
equally as well informed, though, in point of ability, he was certainly
inferior. Old Robert still lived and clung to Allen with the same degree
of attachment that he had formerly felt for Arthur. Yet he never forgot
his first friend, and only prayed that he might be allowed to see him
once more before he yielded up a life, which, through his means, had
been rendered not only supportable, but even happy; and which, without
his accidental introduction to the Ravine, would have probably fallen a
sacrifice to cheerlessness and solitude. Mrs. Beaumont had regularly
every month, from the time of the General s departure, found upon her
table a note from her father, containing an assurance of his health and
happiness, and often expressing strong approbation of her conduct
towards Allen and Jessie, as well as of the retired life she led during
her husband’s absence.
Those notes were always conveyed to her hand in a most mysterious
manner, and, at first, excited her curiosity and watchfulness, to a most
painful degree; but, at? last, on observing that in proportion as she
gave way to these feelings, the notes were either discontinued, or came
at greater distances of time, she determined to give up all idea of
discovering what, if she succeeded, would evidently offend her father.
From the time she took this judicious resolution, the notes became much
more regular, and were written more cheerfully and kindly. The comforts
she derived from knowing that her father was near enough to watch over
her, and approve her conduct, tended greatly to reconcile her to the
protracted absence of the General, who, in his last despatches, said,
that he should yet be detained some years before he could honourably
quit his command. He spoke in the highest possible terms of Arthur, who
had just obtained a majority by the death of his superior officer.
“His conduct is beyond any praise I can bestow upon it,” wrote he;
“brave, heroic, and fearless in action; he is at the same time, in
society, the gentleman and the scholar; and in all situations into which
he is thrown he is the devout and pious Christian, never allowing
himself to be either bantered or laughed out of what he believes to be
his duty to his Maker, or to his fellow men. I suspect he has had a
great deal of annoyance from that foolish unprincipled lad, Colin
Monteith, who, in spite of all the admonitions I can give, and all the
restrictions I can impose upon him, will, I am afraid, both ruin his
health and character beyond all power of recovery. I have written to his
father, entreating him to allow Colin to return to England; but even the
health of his only son has no weight, when put against the chance of
gaining, through him, a few lacs of rupees, by way of prize-money. God
knows, if he were to share in the division according to his merits, a
nut-shell would easily hold all they entitle him to; but as his lank,
and not his worth, will determine his proportion of the spoil, he will
probably carry off much more than those who deserve ten times as much as
he does.”
Arthur, in all his letters, mentioned the kindness and affection he met
with from General Beaumont. Sometimes he spoke of Colin Monteith; but
gradually his name became more rarely found in his letters; and even
when it did appear, it was merely to say, that he went on much as he had
ever done, and that he greatly doubted whether he would live to inherit
the wealth his father appeared so anxious to heap up for him.
Jamie was now thought old enough to be associated with his father in the
farm business, to which he applied as steadily and actively as could be
wished; a great relief to William, who had now a very large property to
manage, having been appointed by the General, before his departure, to
overlook all the land that he had usually farmed himself but which was
much too great a concern to be left upon Mrs. Beaumont’s hands. It had
flourished almost beyond example under William’s management, and Mrs.
Beaumont, in her letters to her husband, constantly did justice to the
unremitting care and conscientious conduct of the honest farmer.
Jessie and Annie were by this time nearly seventeen, Jessie being said
to be one year older than Annie, though, in fact, there was scarcely
three months between their ages. Jessie had grown up tall and elegant in
her person, with features perfectly regular and beautiful; her
complexion was fear, with a profusion of bright glossy auburn hair; the
expression of her countenance was rather singular, and no one could
examine it carefully without discovering that her beauty was her least
charm. Her understanding was strong, and highly cultivated; her temper
even, and her disposition cheerful; above all, her principles and habits
were so fixed in truth and purity, that they threw a lustre around all
her actions, far beyond what is commonly seen in young women of her age.
Devotedly attached to Mrs. Beaumont, she yet never forgot what she owed
to her parents at Lochmore; and the day must have been stormy indeed
that could have kept her from visiting her mother, now confined to her
chair by a violent attack of rheumatism.
Annie was not near so tall as Jessie; her complexion was clear, though
her hair was jet black; she had large hazel eyes, with long black
lashes, and all her other features were handsome and interesting. The
delicacy of her appearance often seriously alarmed Mrs. Beaumont for her
health; and, as she advanced in years, this fear rather increased than
diminished. Pious and virtuous, she was the comfort and solace of her
parents’ lives, and on her Jessie’s whole confidence and love were
fixed. True to the promise she had given in childhood, Jessie never
thought of entering into amusement or enjoyment, without soliciting her
father to permit Annie to share it with her; and, in return, Annie’s
whole earthly happiness was centered in Jessie; for the affection she
felt for her parents was so mixed up with attachment to her sister that
to separate them, even in thought, was impossible. |
