In a few minutes Flora was seated in the boat, uncheered by any parting blessing but the cold farewell, and for ever, of old Captain Kitson, who could scarcely conceal the joy he felt at their departure. The morning was wet and misty, and altogether comfortless, and Flora was glad when the bustle of getting on board the steamer was over, and they were safe upon her deck.
In spite of the early hour, and the disagreeable weather, a number of persons, glad to escape from the close confinement of the cabins, were pacing the deck of the steamer. Others were leaning over the bulwarks, regarding the aspect of the country they were rapidly passing; while some were talking in small groups, in a loud declamatory tone, evidently more intent on attracting the attention of the bystanders than of edifying their own immediate listeners. Though bright eyes might look heavy, and fair faces languid and sleepy, vanity was wide awake, and never more active than in the midst of a crowd, where all are strangers to each other. It affords such a glorious opportunity for display for pretenders to rank and importance to show off their affected airs of wealth and consequence; and the world can lay bare its rotten heart, without much fear of detection, or dread of unpleasant results.
Flora sat down upon a bench beside her husband, and her eye ranged from group to group of those strange faces, with a mechanical, uninterested gaze. Here a pretty insipid-looking girl sauntered the deck with a book in her hand, from which she never read; and another, more vivacious, and equally intent on attracting her share of public notice, raved to an elderly gentleman, on whose arm she was leaning, of the beauty and magnificence of the ocean.
The young and good-looking of either sex were flirting. The more wily and experienced coquetting after a graver fashion; while the middle-aged were gossiping to some congenial spirit on the supposed merits or demerits of their neighbours.
Not a few prostrate forms might be seen reclining upon shawls and cloaks, supported by pillows, whose languid, pale faces, and disarranged tresses, showed that the demon of the waters had been at work, and remorselessly had stricken them down.
Standing near the seat occupied by the Lyndsays, Flora observed a tall, fashionably-dressed woman, apparently about twenty-eight or thirty years of age. She was laughing and chatting in the most lively and familiar manner with a handsome, middle-aged man, in a military undress. The person of the lady was very agreeable, and though neither pretty nor elegant, was fascinating and attractive.
As her male companion constantly addressed her as Mrs. Dalton, we will call her by her name. When Mrs. Lyndsay first took her seat upon the deck Mrs. Dalton left off her conversation with Major F——, and regarded the new arrival with a long, cool, deliberate stare, which would have won a smile from Flora, had it not been evidently meant to insult and annoy; for, turning to the Major, with a glance of peculiar meaning, accompanied with the least possible elevation of her shoulders, she let slip the word—“Nobody!”
“I am sure that he is a gentleman, and, if I mistake not, an officer, and a fine intelligent looking man,” remarked her companion, in an aside; “and I like the appearance of his wife.”
“My dear Sir, I tell you that she is nobody. Look at that merino gown; what lady would venture on board these fine vessels, where they meet with so many fashionable people, in such a dress?”
“A very suitable dress, I should say, for a sea voyage.”
“Pshaw!” muttered Mrs. Dalton, “have done with your prudent Scotch sense of propriety. Who minds spoiling a good dress or two, when their standing in society is risked by appearing shabby? I tell you, Major, that she is nobody.”
“Had you not told me that you had passed the greater part of your life, Mrs. Dalton, in a British Colony, I could have sworn to the fact, from your last speech,” said her companion: “you all think so much of dress, that with you it is really the coat which makes the man, and, I suppose, the gown which makes the lady. However, you shall have it your own way. You know how easy it is for you to bring me over to your opinion.”
“Do you think that a pretty woman?” she said, directing her husband’s eyes towards the lady in question.
“Rather,” he replied coldly, “but very worldly and sophisticated.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Flora, like a true woman; “that is precisely the opinion I have formed of her. Is that officer her husband?”
“I should rather think not. Husbands and wives seldom try to attract public attention to themselves, as that man and woman are doing. I have no doubt they are strangers who never met before.”
“Impossible!”
“Nothing more probable; people who meet on short journeys and voyages like this, often throw aside the restraints imposed by society, and act and talk in a manner which would be severely censured in circles where they are known. Were you never favoured by the autobiography of a fellow-traveller in a stage-coach?”
“Yes often, and thought it very odd that any one should reveal so much of their private history to a stranger.”
“It is a common occurrence, originating in the vanity of persons who love to make themselves and their affairs the subject of conversation; and if they can but obtain listeners, never stop to question who or what they are.”
“Ah, I remember getting into a sad scrape,” said Flora, “while travelling from S—— to London in a stage-coach. It was one of these uncomfortable things which one hates to think of for the rest of a life, and yet so ridiculous that one feels more inclined to laugh over it than to cry, though I believe (for I was but a girl at the time), I did both.
“My fellow-passengers were three gentlemen, one, to whom I was well known, the others perfect strangers. One of the latter, a very well-dressed but rather foppish, conceited young man, talked much upon literary matters, and from his conversation gave you to understand that he was on the most intimate terms with all the celebrated authors of the day. After giving us a very frank, and by no means just critique upon the works of Scott and Byron, whom he familiarly called, ‘my friend, Sir Walter,’ ‘my companion, Lord Byron,’ he suddenly turned to me, and asked me, ‘if I ever read the S. Chronicle?’ This was one of the county papers, I told him; that I saw it every week.
“‘If that be the case,’ said he, ‘will you tell me what you think of the Rev. Mr. B.’s poems, which have from time to time appeared in its columns?’
“This reverend gentleman was a man with a very heavy purse and a very empty head, whose contributions to the county papers were never read but to be laughed at. Not having the slightest personal knowledge of the author, I answered innocently enough, ‘Oh, he’s a stupid, conceited fellow. It is a pity he has not some friend to tell him what a fool he makes of himself, whenever he appears in print. His poetry is such dull trash, that I am certain he must pay the Editor of the paper for allowing him to put it in.’
“Mr. C. was stuffing his handkerchief into his mouth, to avoid laughing out right; while the poor gentleman (for it was the author himself), drew back with a face alternately red and pale, with suppressed indignation. His feelings must have been dreadful, for, during the rest of his journey, he sat and regarded me with an air of such offended dignity, that I must have appeared to him like some wicked ogress, ready to devour, at one mouthful, him and his literary fame. He never opened his mouth to speak to any of us after I had made this unfortunate blunder, and I sat upon thorns, until a handsome plain carriage drove up to the coach about a mile from T., and relieved us of his company.
“This circumstance made me feel so uncomfortable, that I never ventured upon giving an opinion of the works of any living author to a stranger, without having a previous knowledge of the person of the writer.”
“He deserved what he got, for his egregious vanity,” said Lyndsay. “For my part, I do not pity him at all; and it afforded you a good lesson of prudence for the future.”
At this moment a young negro lad, fantastically dressed, and evidently very much in love with himself, strutted past. As he swaggered along the deck, rolling his jet black eyes from side to side, and showing his white teeth to the spectators, an indolent-looking young man, dressed in the extreme of fashion, called languidly after him—
“Hollo, Blacky! What colour’s the Devil?”
“White,” responded the negro, “and sports red whiskers, like you!”
Every one laughed; the dandy shrunk back, utterly confounded; while the negro snapped his fingers, and crowed with delight.
“Hector, go down into the ladies’ cabin, and wait there until I call for you,” cried Mrs. Dalton, in an angry voice; “I did not bring you here to insult gentlemen.”
“De Buckra affront me first!” returned the sable page, as he sullenly withdrew.
“That boy grows very pert,” continued his mistress, turning to Major F.; “this is the consequence of the ridiculous stir made by the English people against slavery. The fellow knows that he is free the moment that he touches the British shores; and he thinks that he can show his independence by disobeying my commands, and being insolent to his superiors. I hope he will not take it into his head to leave me, for he saves me all the trouble of taking care of the children.”
The Major laughed, while Flora pitied the children, and wondered how any mother could confide them to the care of such a nurse.
The clouds, which had been rising for some time, now gave very unequivocal notice of an approaching storm. The rain began to fall, and the decks were quickly cleared of their motley groups.
In the ladies’ cabin all was helplessness and confusion: the larger portion of the berths were already occupied by invalids in every stage of sea-sickness; the floor and sofas were strewn with bonnets and shawls, and articles of dress were scattered about in all directions. Some of the ladies were stretched upon the carpet; others, in a sitting posture, were supporting their aching heads upon their knees, and appeared perfectly indifferent to all that was passing around them, and only alive to their own misery. Others there were, who, beginning to recover from the odious malady, were employing their returning faculties in quizzing, and making remarks in audible whispers, on their prostrate companions.
The centre of such a group was a little sharp-faced, dark-eyed, sallow-skinned old maid of forty, whose angular figure was covered with ample folds of rich black silk, cut very low in the bust, and exposing a portion of her person, which, in all ladies of her age, is better hid. She was travelling companion to a large, showily-dressed matron of fifty, who occupied the best sofa in the cabin, and, although evidently convalescent, commanded the principal attendance of the stewardess, while she graciously received the gratuitous services of all who were well enough to render her their homage. She was evidently the great lady of the cabin; and round her couch a knot of gossips had collected, when Flora, followed by Hannah carrying the baby, entered upon the scene.
The character of Mrs. Dalton formed the topic of conversation. The little old maid was remorselessly tearing it to tatters. “No woman who valued her reputation,” she said, with pious horror in her looks and tone, “would flirt in the disgraceful manner that Mrs. Dalton was doing.”
“There is some excuse for her conduct,” remarked a plain but interesting-looking woman, not herself in the early spring of life. “Mrs. Dalton is a West Indian, and has not been brought up with our ideas of refinement and delicacy.”
“I consider it no excuse,” cried the other vehemently, glancing up, as the cabin-door opened to admit Flora and her maid, to be sure that the object of her animadversions was not within earshot. “Don’t tell me. She knows, Miss Leigh, very well what she’s about. Is it no crime, think you, to endeavour to attract the attention of Major F.? My dear Madam,” turning to the great lady, who with her head languidly propped by her hand, was eagerly listening to a conversation which so nearly concerned her: “I wonder you can bear so calmly her flirtations with your husband. If it were me now, I should be ready to tear her eyes out. Do speak to the creature, and remonstrate with her on her scandalous conduct.”
“Ah, my dear Miss Mann, I am used to these things,” sighed Mrs. F. “No conduct of the Major’s can give me the least uneasiness now. Nor do I think, that Mrs. Dalton is aware that she is trying to seduce the affections of a married man.”
“That she is though,” exclaimed Miss Mann, triumphantly. “I took care to interrupt one of their lively conversations, by telling Major F. that his wife was ill, and wished to see him. Mrs. Dalton coloured, and moved away; but the moment my back was turned, she recommenced her attack. If she were a widow, one might make some allowance for her. But a young married woman, with two small children! I have no doubt that she left her husband for no good.”
“She was married very young, to a man more than double her own age,” said Miss Leigh. “The match was made for her by her friends—especially by her grandmother, who now resides in Edinburgh, and whom I know very well; a woman of considerable property, by whom Mrs. Dalton was brought up. She was always a gay, flighty girl, dreadfully indulged, and used from a child to have her own way. I consider her lot peculiarly hard, in being united, when a mere girl, to a man whom she had scarcely seen a dozen times, and whom she did not love. The worst that can be said of her is, that she is vain and imprudent; but I can never believe that she is the bad, designing woman you would make her.”
“Her conduct is very creditable for a clergyman’s wife,” sneered the old maid. “I wonder the rain don’t bring her down into the cabin. But the society of ladies would prove very insipid to a person of her peculiar taste. I should like to know what brings her from Jamaica?”
“If it will satisfy your doubts, I can inform you,” said Miss Leigh, with a quiet smile. “To place her two children with her grandmother, that they may receive an European education. She is a thoughtless being, but hardly deserves your severe censures.”
The amiable manner in which this lady endeavoured to defend the absent, without wholly excusing her levity, struck Flora very forcibly. Mrs. Dalton’s conduct upon deck had created in her own mind no very favourable opinion of her good qualities. Miss Leigh’s remarks tended not a little to soften her disgust and aversion towards that individual, whose attack upon her she felt was as ill-natured, as it was unjust. She was now inclined to let them pass for what they were worth, and to dismiss Mrs. Dalton from her thoughts altogether. But Miss Mann was too much excited by Miss Leigh’s extenuating remarks, to let the subject drop, and returned with fresh vigour to the charge.
“It is totally beyond my power,” she cried, “to do justice to her vanity and frivolity. No one ever before accused me of being ill-natured, or censorious; but that woman is the vainest person I ever saw. Did you notice, my dear Mrs. F., that she changed her dress three times yesterday, and twice to-day? She knelt a whole hour before the cheval-glass, arranging her hair, and trying on a variety of expensive head-dresses, before she could fix on one for the saloon. I should be ashamed of being the only lady among so many men. But she is past blushing—she has a face of brass.”
“And so plain too,” murmured Mrs. Major F.
“You cannot deny that her features are good, ladies,” again interposed Miss Leigh; “but creoles seldom possess the fine red and white of our British belles.”
“At night,” suggested Miss Mann, “her colour is remarkably good: it is not subject to any variation like ours. The bleak sea air does not dim the roses on her cheeks; while these young ladies look as blue and as cold as figures carved out of stone. Of course, Miss Leigh will think me very uncharitable in saying that Mrs. D. paints; but I know she does. She left her dressing-case open yesterday, and her little boy was dabbling his fingers in her French carmine and pearl white, and a fine mess he made of his mamma’s beautiful complexion. Bless me!” exclaimed the old maid, suddenly lowering her voice to a whisper, “if there is not her black imp sitting under the table; he will be sure to tell her all that we have said about her! What a nuisance he is! I do not think it is proper for him, a great boy of sixteen, to be admitted into the ladies’ cabin.”
“Pshaw!” said Mrs. Major F.; “nobody cares for him—a black.”
“But, my dear Mrs. F., though he is a black, the boy has eyes and ears, like the rest of his sex, and my sense of female propriety is shocked by his presence. But, who are these people?”—glancing at Flora and her maid—“and why is that woman admitted into the ladies’ cabin?—servants have no business here.”
“She is the nurse; that alters the case,” said Miss Leigh. “The plea of being the children’s attendant brought Master Hector into the cabin.”
“The boy is black, and has, on that score, as Mrs. Major F. says, neither rank nor sex,” continued the waspish Miss Mann, contradicting the objections she had made to Hector’s company only a few minutes before. “I will not submit to this insult, nor occupy the same apartment with a servant.”
“My dear Madam, you strangely forget yourself,” said Miss Leigh. “This lady has a very young infant, and cannot do without the aid of her nurse. A decent, tidy young woman is not quite such a nuisance as the noisy black boy that Mrs. Dalton has entailed upon us.”
“But, then she is a woman of fashion,” whispered Miss Mann; “and we know nothing about these people, and if I were to judge by the young person’s dress—”
“A very poor criterion,” interrupted Miss Leigh; “I draw my inferences from a higher source.” And turning to Flora, she inquired, in a kind, friendly tone, “if she were going all the way to Edinburgh, the age of the baby, and how both were affected by the sea.”
Before Flora could answer these questions, Miss Mann addressed her with great asperity of look and manner—
“Perhaps, Madam, you are not aware that it is against the regulations of these vessels, to admit servants into the state cabin.”
“I am sorry, ladies,” said Flora, rather proudly, “that the presence of mine should incommode you. I have only just recovered from a dangerous illness, and am unable at present to take the whole charge of the child myself. I have paid for my servant’s attendance upon me in the cabin, and I am certain that she will conduct herself in a manner not to offend the prejudices of any one here.”
“How unpleasant,” grumbled the old maid, as she turned disdainfully on her heel; “but what else can be expected from under-bred people.”
“Send away your nurse,” said Miss Leigh, in a low voice, to Mrs. Lyndsay; “her presence gives, it seems, great offence to certain people, and, if I may judge by her pale looks, she will be of little service to you; I will help you to take care of your sweet baby.”
Flora immediately complied with Miss Leigh’s request. Hannah was dismissed, and, indeed, the poor girl had enough to do to take care of herself.
Towards evening the wind rose to a gale, and Flora, who had not suffered from sickness during her two disastrous trips to sea, became so alarmingly ill, that she was unable to attend to the infant, or assist herself. Miss Leigh, like a good Samaritan, sat up with her during the night, but in the morning she was so much worse, that she earnestly requested that her husband might be allowed to see her.
Her petition was warmly seconded by Miss Leigh, but met with a decided refusal from the rest of the lady-passengers. Mrs. Dalton, who took a very prominent part in the matter, sprang from her berth, and, putting her back against the cabin door, declared, “That no man save the surgeon should gain, with her consent, an entrance there!”
“Then I hope, Madam,” said Miss Leigh, who was supporting Flora in her arms, “that you will adhere to your own regulations, and dismiss your black boy.”
“I shall do no such thing; my objection is to men, and not to boys.—Hector, remain where you are!”
“How consistent!” sneered the old maid.
“The poor lady may die,” suggested Miss Leigh.
“Send for the Doctor—there is one on board.”
“The Doctor, ladies,” said the stewardess, coming forward, “got hurt last night by the fall of the sail, during the storm, and is ill in his bed.”
“If such is the case,” continued Miss Leigh, “you cannot, surely, deny the lady the consolation of speaking to her husband?”
“What a noise that squalling child makes!” cried a fat woman, popping her night-capped head out of an upper berth; “can’t it be removed? It hinders me from getting a wink of sleep.”
“Cannot you take charge of it, Stewardess?”
“Oh, La! I’ve too much upon my hands already—what with Mrs. Dalton’s children and all this sickness!”
“Have a little mercy, ladies, on the sick mother, and I will endeavour to pacify its cries,” said Miss Leigh. “Poor little thing, it misses her care, and we are all strange to it.”
“I insist upon its being removed!” cried the fat woman. “The comfort of every lady in the cabin is not to be sacrificed for the sake of that squalling brat. If women choose to travel with such young infants, they should take a private conveyance. I will complain to the Captain, if the stewardess does not remove it instantly.”
What a difference there is in women! Some, like ministering angels, strew flowers and scatter blessings along the rugged paths of life; while others, by their malevolence and pride, increase its sorrows an hundred fold.
The next day continued stormy, and the rain fell in torrents. The unsteady motion of the ship did not tend to improve the health of the occupants of the ladies’ cabin. Those who had been well the day before, were now as helpless and miserable as their companions. Miss Leigh alone seemed to retain her usual composure. Mrs. Dalton could scarcely be named in this catalogue, as she only slept and dressed in the cabin, the rest of her time being devoted to her friends upon deck, but, in spite of the boisterous winds and heavy sea, she was as gay and as airy as ever.
Her noisy children were confined to the cabin, where they amused themselves by running races round the table, and shouting at the top of their shrill voices. In all their pranks, they were encouraged and abetted by Hector, who, regardless of the entreaties of the invalids, and the maledictions of the exasperated stewardess, did his very best to increase the uproar and confusion. Hector did not care for the commands of any one but his mistress, and she was in the saloon, playing at billiards with Major F.
Little Willie Dalton had discovered the baby, and Flora was terrified whenever he approached her berth, which was on a level with the floor of the cabin, as that young gentleman, who was at the unmanageable age of three years, seemed decidedly bent on mischief. Twice he had crept into her bed on his hands and knees, and aimed a blow at the head of the sleeping babe with the leg of a broken chair, which he had found beneath the sofa.
While the ladies slept, Hector stole from berth to berth, and possessed himself of all their stores of oranges, lemons, and cayenne lozenges; sharing the spoils with the troublesome, spoilt monkeys, left by their careful mamma in his keeping.
Towards evening Mrs. Lyndsay felt greatly recovered from her grievous attack of sea-sickness; and, with the assistance of Miss Leigh, she contrived to dress herself, and get upon the deck.
The rain was still falling in large, heavy drops; but the sun was bravely struggling through the dense masses of black clouds, which had obscured his rays during the long stormy day, and now cast a watery and uncertain gleam upon the wild scenery, over which Bamborough Castle frowns in savage sublimity.
This was the last glance Flora gave to the shores of dear old England. The angry, turbulent ocean, the lowering sky, and falling rain, seemed emblems of her own sad destiny. Her head sunk upon her husband’s shoulder, as he silently clasped her to his breast; and she could only answer his anxious inquiries respecting herself and the child with heavy sobs. For his sake—for the sake of the little one, who was nestled closely to her throbbing heart—she had consented to leave those shores for ever. Then why did she repine? Why did that last glance of her native land fill her heart with such unutterable grief? Visions of the dim future floated before her, prophetic of all the trials and sorrows which awaited her in those unknown regions to which they were journeying. She had obeyed the call of duty, but had not yet tasted the reward. The sacrifice had not been as yet purified and sublimed, by long-suffering and self-denial, so as to render it an acceptable offering on so holy a shrine. She looked up to heaven, and tried to breathe a prayer; but all was still and dark in her bewildered mind.
The kind voice of her husband at last roused her from the indulgence of vain regrets. The night was raw and cold; the decks wet and slippery from the increasing rain; and, with an affectionate pressure of the hand that went far to reconcile her to her lot, Lyndsay whispered, “This is no place for you, Flora, and my child. Return, dearest, to the cabin.”
With reluctance Flora obeyed. Beside him she felt neither the cold nor wet; and, with the greatest repugnance, she re-entered the ladies’ cabin, and, retiring to her berth, enjoyed for several hours a tranquil and refreshing sleep.
It was midnight when Mrs. Lyndsay awoke. A profound stillness reigned in the cabin; the invalids had forgotten their sufferings in sleep,—all but one female figure, who was seated upon the carpeted floor, just in front of Flora’s berth, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and engaged in reading a letter. Flora instantly recognised in the watcher the tall, graceful figure of Mrs. Dalton.
Her mind seemed agitated by some painful recollections; and she sighed frequently, and several tears stole slowly over her cheeks, as she replaced the paper carefully in her bosom, and for many minutes appeared lost in deep and earnest thought. All her accustomed gaiety was gone; and her fine features wore a sad and regretful expression, far more touching and interesting than the heartless levity by which they were generally distinguished.
“Is it possible, that that frivolous mind can be touched by grief?” thought Flora. “That that woman can feel?”
Mrs. Dalton, as if she had heard the unuttered query, raised her head, and caught the intense glance with which Mrs. Lyndsay was unconsciously regarding her.
“I thought no one was awake but myself,” she said; “I am a bad sleeper. If you are the same, we will have a little chat together; I am naturally a sociable animal. Of all company, I find my own the worst, and above all things hate to be alone.”
Surprised at this frank invitation, from a woman who had pronounced her nobody, Flora replied, rather coldly, “I fear, Mrs. Dalton, that our conversation would not suit each other.”
“That is as much as to say, that you don’t like me; and that you conclude from that circumstance, that I don’t like you?”
“To be candid then,—you are right.”
“I fancy that you overheard my observations to Major F.?”
“I did.”
“Well if you did, I can forgive you for disliking me. When I first saw you, I thought you a very plain person, and judged by your dress, that you held a very inferior rank in society. After listening a few minutes to your conversation with Miss Leigh, who is a highly educated woman, I felt convinced that I was wrong; and that you were far superior to most of the women round me. Of course you thought me a very malicious, vain woman.”
Flora smiled, in spite of herself.
“Oh, you may speak it out. I shan’t like you a bit the less for speaking the truth. I am a strange, wayward creature, subject at times to the most dreadful depression of spirits; and it is only by affecting excessive gaiety that I hinder myself from falling into the most hopeless despondency.”
“Such a state of mind is not natural to one of your age, and who possesses so many personal attractions. There must be some cause for these fits of gloom.”
“Of course there is. I am not quite the heartless coquet I seem. My father was an officer in the army, and commanded a regiment in the West Indies, where I was born. I was an only child, and very much indulged by both my parents. I lost them while I was a mere child, and was sent to Scotland to be educated by my grandmother. I was an irritable, volatile, spoilt child, and expected that everybody would yield to me, as readily as my slave attendants had done in Jamaica. In this I was disappointed. My grandmother was a proud, ambitious woman, and a strict disciplinarian; and it was a constant battle between us who should be master. I was no match, however, for the old lady, and I fretted constantly under her control, longing for any chance that might free me from her rule. It was a joyful day for me, when I was sent to finish my education at one of the first schools in Edinburgh, which I did not leave until I was sixteen years of age. I found grandmamma several years older, and many degrees more exacting than she was before. She was so much alarmed lest I should make an unsuitable alliance, that she never suffered me to go out without I was accompanied by herself, or an old maiden aunt, who was more rigid and stiff than even grandmamma herself.
“At this period of my girlhood, and before I had seen anything of the world, or could in the least judge for myself, a very wealthy clergyman, who had been a great friend of poor papa’s, called to see me, before he returned to Jamaica; where he had a fine living, and possessed a noble property. Unfortunately for me, he fell desperately in love with the orphan daughter of his friend, and his suit was vehemently backed by grandmamma and aunt. He was a handsome, worthy kind man, but old enough to have been my father. I was so unhappy and restless at home, that I was easily persuaded to become his wife; and I, who had never been in love, thought it was a fine thing to be married, and my own mistress at sixteen. Our union has not been a happy one. I much question if such unions ever are. He is now an aged man, while I am in the very bloom of life, and consequently exposed to much temptation. Thank God! I have never acted criminally, though often severely tried. My home is one of many luxuries, but it has no domestic joys. My children are the only tie that binds me to a man I cannot love; and I have been so long used to drown my disappointment and regret in a whirl of dissipation, that it is only in scenes of gaiety that I forget my grief.
“My own sex speak slightly of me; but I do not deserve their severe censures. My fellow-passengers, I heard from Hector, made a thousand malicious remarks about me yesterday, and that you and Miss Leigh were the only ladies who took my part.”
“My conduct,” replied Flora, “was perfectly negative. I said nothing either in praise or blame. I may have injured you by thinking hardly of you.”
“I thank you for your forbearance, in keeping your thoughts to yourself, for I did not deserve that from you. If I did flirt a little with Major F., it was done more to provoke the spleen of that ill-natured old maid, who acts the part of Cerberus for his proud, pompous wife, than for any wish to attract his attention.”
“It is better,” said Flora, her heart softening towards her companion, “to avoid all appearance of evil. Superficial observers only judge by outward appearance, and your conduct must have appeared strange to a jealous woman.”
“She was jealous of me then?” cried the volatile Mrs. Dalton, clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Oh, I am so glad that it annoyed her.”
Flora could not help laughing at the vivacity with which she turned her words to make them subservient to her own vanity. But when she described the consternation felt by Miss Mann, on discovering Hector under the table, her eccentric companion laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.
The introduction of Hector insensibly turned the conversation upon the state of the slaves in the West Indies. The excitement of the slave question was just then at its height; but the bill for their emancipation had not yet passed the Houses of Parliament. Upon Flora expressing her abhorrence of the whole system, Mrs. Dalton proceeded to defend it with no little warmth.
“Ah, I perceive that you know nothing about it. You are infected with the bigotry and prejudices of the Anti-slavery advocates. Negroes are an inferior race; they were made to work for civilized men, in climates where labour would be death to those of a different complexion.”
“This is reducing the African to a mere beast of burthen—a machine in the form of man. The just God never made a race of beings purposely to drag out a painful existence in perpetual toil and degradation.”
“They are better off than your peasants at home,” continued Mrs. Dalton, indignantly;—“better fed, and taken care of. As to the idle tales they tell you about flogging, starvation, and killing slaves, they are fearful exaggerations, not worthy of credit. Do you think a farmer would kill a horse, that he knew was worth a hundred pounds, out of revenge for his having done some trifling injury to his harness? A planter would not disable a valuable slave, if by so doing he injured himself. But your slave adorers will not listen to reason and common sense. I have been the owner of many slaves; but I never ill-used one of them in my life.”
“Hector is an example of over-indulgence,” said Flora. “But still he is only a pet animal in your estimation. Tell me truly, Mrs. Dalton, do you believe that a negro has a soul to be saved?”
“I think it doubtful!”
“And you the wife of a Christian minister?” said Flora, reproachfully.
“If they had immortal souls and reasoning minds, we should not be permitted to hold them as slaves. Their degradation proves their inferiority.”
“It only proves the brutalizing effects of your immoral system,” said Flora, waxing warm. “I taught a black man from the island of St. Vincent to read the Bible fluently in ten weeks. Was that a proof of mental incapacity? I never met with an uneducated white man who learned to read so rapidly, or who pursued his studies with the ardour of this despised, soulless black. His motive for this exertion was a noble one, which I believe cost him his life—the hope of carrying the glad tidings of salvation to his benighted countrymen, which he considered the best means of improving their condition, and rendering less burdensome their oppressive yoke.”
“This was all very well in theory; but it will never do in practice. If the British Government, urged on by a set of fanatics, who, in reality are more anxious to bring themselves into notice, than to emancipate the slaves, madly persist in adopting their ridiculous project, it will involve the West Indies in ruin.”
“It were better that the whole group of islands were sunk in the depths of the sea,” said Flora, vehemently, “than continue to present to the world a system of injustice and cruelty, which is a disgrace to a Christian community—a spectacle of infamy to the civilized world. And do not think that the wise and good men who are engaged heart and hand in this holy cause, will cease their exertions until their great object is accomplished, and slavery is banished from the earth.”
Mrs. Dalton stared at Flora in amazement. She could not in the least comprehend her enthusiasm. “Who cares for a slave?” she said, contemptuously. “You must live among them, and be conversant with their habits before you can understand their inferiority. One would think that you belonged to the Anti-Slavery Society to hear the warmth with which you argue the case. Do you belong to that odious society? for I understand that many pious women make themselves vastly busy in publicly discussing the black question.”
“I have many dear friends who are among its staunch supporters, both men and women; whose motives are purely benevolent; who have nothing to gain by the freedom of the slaves, beyond the satisfaction of endeavouring to forward a good work, which if it succeeds, (and we pray God that it may,) will restore a large portion of the human family to their rights as immortal and rational creatures.”
“Mere cant—the vanity of making a noise in the world. One of the refined hypocrisies of the present age. By-the-bye, my dear Madam, have you read a tract published lately by this disinterested society, called the History of Mary P.? It is set forth to be an authentic narrative, while I know enough of the West Indies, to pronounce it a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end.”
“Did you know Mary P.?”
“I wonder who does. It is an imaginary tale got up for party purposes.”
“You are mistaken,” said Flora quietly. “That narrative is strictly true. I was staying the winter before last, with her mistress in London, and I wrote it myself from the woman’s own lips.”
“You!” and Mrs. Dalton started from the ground as though she had been bitten by a serpent—“and I have been talking all this time to the author of Mary P. From this moment, Madam, we must regard ourselves as strangers. No West Indian could for a moment tolerate the writer of that odious pamphlet.”
Mrs. Dalton retired to her berth, which was in the state cabin; and Flora lay awake for several hours, pondering over their conversation, until the morning broke, and the steamer cast anchor off Newhaven.
The storm had passed away during the night; and at day-break, Flora hurried upon deck, to catch the first glance of—
The sun was still below the horizon, and a thick mist hung over the waters, and hid the city from her view. Oh, for the rising of that white curtain! how Flora tried to peer through its vapoury folds, to
the beautiful abode of brave, intelligent, true-hearted men, and fair good women. Glorious Edinburgh! who ever beheld you for the first time with indifference, and felt not his eyes brighten, and his heart thrill with a proud ecstasy, the mingling of his spirit with a scene, which in romantic sublimity, has not its equal in the wide world—
exclaims the patriotic wizard of the North. Ay, and to die for it, if need be, as every true-hearted Scot would die, rather than see one stain cast upon the national glory of his noble country. The character of a people is greatly influenced by the local features of the land to which it belongs; and the inhabitants of mountainous districts have ever evaded most effectually the encroachments of foreign invaders. The Scot may, perhaps, derive from his romantic country, much of that poetic temperament, that stern, uncompromising love of independence, which has placed him in the first rank as a man.
The sun at length rose; the fog rolled its grey masses upwards, and the glorious old castle emerged from between the parting clouds, like some fabled palace of the gods, its antique towers glittering like gold in the sun.
“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Flora, her eye kindling, and her cheek flushing with delight.
“The situation of Quebec is almost as fine,” said Captain Forbes, who had been watching with pleasure the effect which the first sight of his native city produced upon her countenance. “It will lose little by comparison.”
“Indeed,” cried Flora, eagerly turning to the speaker, “I had formed no idea of anything in Canada being at all equal to this.”
“You have been there, Captain?” said Lyndsay.
“Yes, many times; and always with increased pleasure. Quebec combines every object which is requisite to make a scene truly magnificent—woods, mountains, rivers, cataracts; and all on the most stupendous scale. A lover of nature cannot fail to be delighted with the rock-defended fortress of British North America.”
“You have made me quite happy, Captain Forbes,” said Flora; “I have contemplated a residence in Canada with feelings of such antipathy, that your description of Quebec almost reconciles me to my lot. I can never hate a country which abounds in natural beauty.”
Boats were now constantly plying to and from the shore, conveying passengers and their luggage from the ship to the pier. The Captain, who had recognised a countryman in Lyndsay, insisted on the voyagers taking breakfast with him before they left the vessel. Mrs. Lyndsay accepted the offer with such hearty good-will, that the Captain laughed and rubbed his hands in the excess of hospitable satisfaction, as he called to his steward to place a small table under an awning upon the deck, and serve the breakfast there.
“You will enjoy it much more in the fresh air, Mrs. Lyndsay,” he said, “after your severe illness, than in the close air.”
Flora was delighted with the arrangement, and set the Captain down as a man of taste, as by this means he had provided for her a double feast—the beautiful scenery which on every side met her gaze, and an excellent breakfast, served in the balmy morning air.
The rugged grace with which the gallant tar presided at what might be termed his own private table, infused a cheerful spirit into those around him, and never was a meal more heartily enjoyed by our emigrants. James Hawke, who had been confined during the whole voyage to his berth, now rejoined his friends, and ate of the savoury things before him in such downright earnest, that the Captain declared that it was a pleasure to watch the lad handle his knife and fork.
“When a fellow has been starving for eight and forty hours, it is not a trifle that can satisfy his hunger,” said Jim, making a vigorous onslaught upon a leg of Scotch mutton. “Oh! I never was so hungry in my life!”
“Not even during those two disastrous days last week, which we spent starving at sea,” said Flora.
“Ah, don’t name them,” said the boy, with an air of intense disgust. “Those days were attended with such qualms of conscience that I have banished them from the log of life altogether. Oh, those dreadful days!”
“Why, Jim, you make a worse sailor than I expected,” said Flora; “how shall we get you alive to Canada?”
“Oh, never fear,” said the lad, gaily; “I have cast all those horrible reminiscences into the sea. I was very ill, but ’tis all over now, and I feel as light as a feather; you will see that I shall be quite myself again, directly we lose sight of the British shores.”
On returning to the ladies’ cabin, to point out her luggage to the steward of the boat, Flora found that important functionary, pacing to and fro the now empty scene of all her trouble in high disdain. She had paid very little attention to Mrs. Lyndsay during the voyage. She had waited with the most obsequious politeness on Mrs. Major F. and Mrs. Dalton, because she fancied they were rich people, who would amply reward her for her services. They had given her all the trouble they possibly could, while she had received few commands from Flora, and those few she had neglected to perform. Still, as Flora well knew that the paid salary of these people is small, and that they mainly depend upon the trifles bestowed upon them by passengers, she slipped half-a-crown into her hand, and begged her to see that the trunks she had pointed out were carried upon deck.
The woman stared at her, and dropped a low curtsey.
“La, Mem, you are one of the very few of our passengers who has been kind enough to remember the stewardess. It’s too bad—indeed it is. And all the trouble that that Mrs. Dalton gave with her spoilt children, and nasty black vagabond. And would you believe me, she went off without bestowing on me a single penny! And worse than that, I heard her tell the big fat woman, that never rose up in her berth, but to drink brandy-and-water, ‘That it was a bad fashion the Hinglish had of paying servants, and the sooner it was got rid of the better.’
“‘I perfectly hagrees with you,’ said the fat woman; and so she gave nothing;—no—not even thanks. Mrs. Major F—— pretended not to see me, though I am sure I’m no midge; and I stood in the doorway on purpose to give her a hint; but the hideous little old maid told me to get out of the way, as she wanted to go upon deck to speak to the Major. Oh, the meanness of these would-be fine ladies! But if ever they come to Scotland in this boat again—won’t I pay them off!”
Flora enjoyed these unsolicited confessions of a disappointed stewardess; and she was forced to turn away her head for fear of betraying a wicked inclination to laugh, which if indulged in at that moment would, I have no doubt, have afforded her great satisfaction and delight. As it was, she made no comment upon the meanness of her fellow-passengers, nor consoled the excited stewardess by complaining of their unlady-like conduct to herself.—What they were in their rank of life, the stewardess was in hers. They were congenial souls—all belonging to the same great family, and Flora was not a little amused by the striking points of resemblance.
Bidding adieu to the Captain of the steamer, the Lyndsays and their luggage were safely landed on the chain-pier at Newhaven; from thence they proceeded to Leith, to the house of a respectable woman, the widow of a surgeon, who resided near the Leith bank, and only a few minutes’ walk from the wharf.
Great was the surprise of Flora, when, instead of entering the house by a front door, they walked up an interminable flight of stone stairs, every landing comprising a distinct dwelling, or flat (as it is technically termed), with the names of the proprietors marked on the doors. At last they reached the flat occupied by good Mistress Waddel, situated at the very top of this stony region. Mrs. Waddel was at the door ready to receive them. She showed them into a comfortable sitting-room with windows fronting the street, where a bright fire was blazing in a very old-fashioned grate. She welcomed her new lodgers with a torrent of kindly words, pronounced in the broadest Scotch dialect, only half understood by the English portion of her audience.
A large portly personage was Mrs. Waddel,—ugly, amiable, and by no means particular in her dress; which consisted of a woollen plaid, very much faded, and both ragged and dirty. Her large mutch with its broad frills formed a sort of glory round her head, setting off to no advantage her pock-marked, flabby face, wide mouth and yellow projecting teeth. She had a comical, good-natured obliquity of vision in her prominent light-grey eyes, which were very red about the rims; and Flora thought, as she read with an inquiring eye the countenance of their landlady, that without being positively disgusting, she was the most ordinary, uncouth woman she ever beheld.
Mrs. Waddel was eloquent in the praise of her apartments, which she said had been occupied by my Leddy W. when his Majesty George the Fourth, God bless his saucy face, landed at Leith, on his visit to Scotland. Her lodgings, it seemed, had acquired quite an aristocratic character since the above-named circumstance; and not a day passed, but the good woman enumerated all the particulars of that memorable visit. But her own autobiography was the stock theme with the good landlady. The most minute particulars of her private history she daily divulged, to the unspeakable delight of the mischievous laughter-loving James Hawke, who, because he saw that it annoyed Mrs. Lyndsay, was sure to lead the conversation slily to some circumstance which never failed to place the honest-hearted Scotchwoman on her high-horse: and then she would talk,—ye gods!—how she would talk—and splutter away in her broad provincial dialect, until the wicked boy was convulsed with laughter.
“Ay, Mister Jeames,” she would say, “ye will a’ be maken’ yer fun o’ a’ puir auld bodie, but ’tis na’ cannie o’ ye.”
“Making fun of you, Mrs. Waddel,” said he, with a sly glance at Flora, “how can you take such an odd notion into your head! It is so good of you to tell me all about your courtship: it’s giving me a hint of how I’m to go about it when I’m a man. I am sure you were a very pretty, smart girl in your young days”—with another quizzical glance at Flora.
The old lady drew herself up, and smiled approvingly upon her black-eyed tormentor.
“Na, na, Mister Jeames, my gude man that’s dead an’ gane said to me, the verra day that he made me his ain—‘Katie, ye are nae bonnie, but ye a’ gude, which is a’ hantle better.’”
“No doubt he was right, Mrs. Waddel; but I really think he was very ungallant to say so on his wedding-day, and did not do you half justice.”
“Weel, weel,” said the good dame, “every ain to his taste. He was not ow’r gifted that way himsel; but we are nane sensible o’ our ain defects.”
The great attraction in the small, windowless closet in which James slept, was an enormous calabash, which her son, the idol of Mrs. Waddel’s heart, had brought home with him from the South Seas. Over this calabash, the simple-hearted mother daily rehearsed all the wonderful adventures she had gathered from that individual, during his short visits home; and as she possessed a surprisingly retentive memory, her maternal reminiscences would have filled volumes,—to all of which James listened with the most earnest attention, not on account of the adventures, for they were commonplace enough, but for the mere pleasure of hearing Mrs. Waddel talk broad Scotch, from which he seemed to derive the most ludicrous enjoyment. Mrs. Waddel had two daughters, to whom nature had been less bountiful than even to herself. Tall, awkward, shapeless dawdles, whose unlovely youth was more repulsive than the mother’s full-blown, homely age,—with them the old lady’s innocent obliquity of vision had degenerated into a downright squint, and the redness round the rims of their large, fishy-looking, light eyes, gave the idea of perpetual weeping,—a pair of Niobes, versus the beauty, whose swollen orbs were always dissolved in tears. They crept slip-shod about the house, their morning wrappers fitting so easily their slovenly figures, that you expected to see them suddenly fall to the ground, and the young ladies walk on in native simplicity.
“My daughters are like mysel—na’ bonnie,” said Mrs. Waddel. “They dinna’ tak’ wi’ the men folk, wha look mair to comeliness than gudeness now-a-days in a wife. A’ weel, every dog maun ha’ his day, an’ they may get husbands yet.
“I weel remember, when Noncy was a bairn, she was the maist ugsome wee thing I ever clappit an e’e upon. My Leddy W. lodged in this verra room, in the which we are no’ sittin’. She had a daughter nearly a woman grown, an’ I was in my sma’ back parlour washin’ an’ dressin’ the bairn. In runs my Leddy Grace, an’ she stood an’ lookit an’ lookit a lang time at the naked bairn in my lap: at last she clappit her hands an’ she called oot to her mither—‘Mamma! Mamma! for gudeness sake, come here, an’ look at this ugly, blear-eyed, bandy-legget child!—I never saw sic an object in a’ my life!’
“It made my heart sair to hear her despise a creture made in God’s image in that way, an’ I bursted into tears, an’ said—’My leddy, yer a bad Christian to spier in that way o’ my puir bairn, an’ that in the hearin’ of its ain mither. May God forgive you! but you ha’ a hard heart.’ She was verra angry at my reproof, but my Leddy W. just then came in, an’ she said, with one of her ain gracious smiles—‘For shame! Grace; the bairn’s weel enough. Let us hope she maun prove a’ blessin’ to her parents. The straightest tree does na always bear the finest fruit.’
“I ha’ met wi’ mony crosses and sair trials in my day; but few o’ them made me shed bitterer tears than that proud, handsom’ young leddy’s speech on the deformity o’ my puir bairn.”
Flora stood reproved in her own eyes, for she knew she had regarded the poor ugly girls with feelings of repugnance, on account of their personal defects. Even Jim, careless and reckless though he was, possessed an excellent heart, and he looked grave, and turned to the window, and tried to hum a tune, to get rid of an unpleasant sensation about his throat, which Mrs. Waddel’s artless words had suddenly produced.
“Hang me!” he muttered half aloud, “if I ever laugh at the poor girls again!”
Mrs. Waddel had in common with most of her sex, a great predilection for going to auctions; and scarcely a day passed without her making some wonderful bargains. For a mere trifle she had bought a ’gude pot, only upon inspection it turned out to be miserably leaky. A nice palliasse, which on more intimate acquaintance proved alive with gentry with whom the most republican body would not wish to be on intimate terms. Jim was always joking the old lady upon her bargains, greatly to the edification of Betty Fraser, a black-eyed Highland girl, who was Mistress Waddel’s prime minister in the culinary department.
“Weel, Mister Jeames, jist ha’ yer laugh oot, but when ye get a glint o’ the bonnie table I bought this mornin’ for three an’ saxpence, ye’ll be noo’ makin’ game o’ me ony mair, I’m thinkin’. Betty, ye maun jist step ow’r the curb-stane to the broker’s, an’ bring hame the table.”
Away sped the nimble-footed Betty, and we soon heard the clattering of the table, as the leaves flapped to and fro as she lugged it up the public stairs.
“Now for the great bargain!” exclaimed the saucy Jim; “I think, Mrs. Waddel, I’ll buy it of you, as my venture to Canada.”
“Did ye ever!” exclaimed the old lady, her eyes brightening as Betty dragged in the last bargain, and placed it triumphantly before her mistress. Like the Marquis of Anglesea, it had been in the wars, and with a terrible clatter, the incomparable table fell prostrate to the floor. Betty opened her great black eyes with a glance of blank astonishment, and raising her hands with a tragic air which was perfectly irresistible, exclaimed, “Mercy me, but it wants a fut!”
“A what?” screamed Jim, as he sank beside the fallen table and rolled upon the ground in a fit of irrepressible merriment; “Do, for Heaven’s sake, tell me the English for a fut. Oh dear, I shall die! Why do you make such funny purchases, Mrs. Waddel, and suffer Betty to show them off in such a funny way? You will be the death of me, indeed you will; and then, what will my Mammy say?”
To add to this ridiculous scene, Mrs. Waddel’s grey parrot, who was not the least important personage in her establishment, having been presented to her by her sailor son, fraternised with the prostrate lad, and echoed his laughter in the most outrageous manner.
“Whist, Poll! Hould yer clatter. It’s no laughing matter to lose three an’ saxpence in buying the like o’ that.”
Mrs. Waddel did not attend another auction during the month the Lyndsays occupied her lodgings. With regard to Betty Fraser, Jim picked up a page out of her history, which greatly amused Flora Lyndsay, who delighted in the study of human character. We will give it here.
Betty Fraser’s first mistress was a Highland lady, who had married and settled in Edinburgh. On her first confinement, she could fancy no one but a Highland girl to take care of the babe, when the regular nurse was employed about her own person. She therefore wrote to her mother to send her by the first vessel which sailed for Edinburgh, a good, simple-hearted girl, whom she could occasionally trust with the baby. Betty, who was a tenant’s daughter, and a humble scion of the great family tree, duly arrived by the next ship.
She was a hearty, healthy, rosy girl of fourteen, as rough as her native wilds, with a mind so free from guile that she gave a literal interpretation to everything she saw and heard.
In Canada Betty would have been considered very green. In Scotland she was regarded as a truthful, simple-hearted girl. A few weeks after the baby was born, some ladies called to see Mrs. ——. The weather was very warm, and one of them requested the neat black-eyed girl in waiting to fetch her a glass of water. Betty obeyed with a smiling face; but oh, horror of horrors, she brought the clear crystal to the lady guest in her red fist.
The lady smiled, drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the black-eyed Hebe, who received it with a profound curtsy.
When the visitors were gone, Mrs. ——, who was very fond of her young clanswoman, called her to her side, and said, “Betty, let me never see you bring anything into my room in your bare hands. Always put what you are asked for on to a waiter or an ashat.”
The girl promised obedience.
The very next day some strange ladies called; and after congratulating Mrs. —— on her speedy recovery, they expressed an earnest wish to see the “dear little baby.”
Mrs. —— rang the bell. Betty appeared. “Is the baby awake?”
“Yes, my leddy.”
“Just bring him in to show these ladies.”
Betty darted into the nursery, only too proud of the mission, and telling nurse to “mak’ the young laird brau,” she rushed to the kitchen, and demanded of the cook a “muckle big ashat.”
“What do you want with the dish?” said the English cook.
“That’s my ain business,” quoth Betty, taking the enormous china platter from the cook’s hand, and running back to the nursery. “Here, Mistress Norman, here is ain big enough to hand him in, at ony rate. Pray lay his wee duds smooth, an’ I’ll tak’ him in, for I hear the bell.”
“Are ye duff, lass? Wud ye put the bairn on the ashat?”
“Ay, mistress tauld me to bring what she asked me for on an ashat. Sure ye wud no ha’ me disobey her?”
“Na, na,” said the nurse, laughing, and suspecting some odd mistake. “Ye sal ha’ it yer ain way.”
And she carefully laid the noble babe upon the dish, and went before to open the door that led to Mrs. ——’s chamber.
Betty entered as briskly as her unwieldy burden would permit, and with glowing cheeks, and eyes glistening with honest delight, presented her human offering in the huge dish to the oldest female visitor in the room.
With a scream of surprise, followed by a perfect hurricane of laughter, the venerable dame received the precious gift from Betty’s hand, and holding it towards the astonished mother, exclaimed, “Truly, my dear friend, this is a dish fit to set before a king. Our beloved sovereign would have no objection of seeing a dish so filled with royal fruit, placed at the head of his own table.”
The laugh became general; and poor Betty comprehending the blunder she had committed, not only fled from the scene, but dreading the jokes of her fellow-servants, fled from the house.