Chapter XII: The Moors Once More

When the laird of Craigmaver first wrote, inviting his relatives to his Highland home, of course he meant for them to stay at the place of his own actual abode; but Mina suggested, when she found her mother inclining to yield to Malcolm’s desire for them to go and see their grand connexions, that if the cottage near the lake were vacant, it might be better for them to remain there, as Craigmaver proper was now always so crowded with company as to render it anything rather than a desirable house for an invalid, requiring occasionally perfect rest and total quietness: accordingly young Mrs. Frazer had the “wigwam,” as she styled it, made habitable. She delighted the old laird by walking down with him every day to see that the workmen were doing their duty; she sent furniture from the “castle on the hill” to the “cottage in the vale;” she assisted with her own fair hands in the arrangement of draperies; had the garden “done up” under her especial _surveillance_; went almost crazy on the subject of well-aired beds and rousing fires; and declared to her husband’s grandfather that she would do anything in the world to make his “dear little niece and her mother comfortable.”

And he whom woman had never blinded before, was deceived by her, and he humbly thanked God for the great comfort He had granted to be the pride and blessing of his declining days; and he trusted Allan, when he grew a little older, and became tired of the world’s flatteries and vanities, would learn to appreciate her in time also; for surely, thought the old man, “there never existed so almost faultless a creature as Cecilia.”

Who, having tact enough to perceive that so long as she possessed his grandfather’s ear she retained a strong hold on her husband, had devoted herself to the old man, with something more than the affection of a daughter, ever since, standing with his grey head uncovered on the threshold of that beautiful home, he welcomed her lovingly to it. She brought sunshine with her to his soul; he felt lonely if she left him for a few days; he thought every one must be wrong excepting herself: there was a charm about her which captivated his very soul.

Mrs. Frazer looked with perfect wonder on the lovely being who greeted her with such tenderness in the lonely romantic spot.

Standing at the cottage door, the sun beaming on her hair, and turning each tress into a lock of gold, her purple eyes soft and sympathising, her features perfect as those of a statue, her colour a little heightened, and her voice more musical than ever, what wonder if the exhausted invalid thought her more an angel than a woman; what marvel if she felt proud to hear her greet Mina as a sister, and to see her kiss the girl over and over again.

How kind she felt it of her to stay and pour tea out for her, and make her lie down on a sofa, the pillows and cushions of which she arranged with a skilful hand, and remain coaxing her to eat, though she said they were going to have a large dinner party at seven o’clock, and that she should scarcely have time to dress for it.

“I must go, I fear,” at last she said; “and I am so sorry, but we could not avoid having these people, as Lord Cintra and Lady Matilda leave us to-morrow; but I shall be down first thing in the morning to see how you have slept. Mina, make your mamma go to bed immediately: I mean to take the entire management of you both, and to bring back a colour into your cheeks: but now I must really be off,—see, it is more than half-past six;” and she darted out of the house and up the hill with the speed and gracefulness of a fawn. Malcolm Frazer said she was the only woman he had ever seen who could run gracefully; but then once, after she had regained her dominion over him, Mina heard him affirm that his cousin Cecilia—as she insisted on their calling her—could bring “creeping on all fours” into fashion if she chose; there was nothing she could not do, nothing.

And, accordingly, she laid herself out to cure Mrs. Frazer, took her drives in the tiniest of pony phaetons, exhausted even the invention of a French _chef_ to concoct tempting dishes for her; got the doctor to say “donkey exercise” would be most beneficial, and procured one of the tribe “that would go” over from Locholen, and walked miles across the moors, sometimes leading the beast by the bridle, sometimes sauntering gaily along by Mrs. Frazer’s side, singing snatches of wild mountain songs to amuse the invalid; then she had cushions laid down in the pleasure-boat, because she felt sure the breeze on the lake would revive her; she almost went distracted one day when she found Mina had permitted her parent to stand for two minutes in a draught; she insisted on writing to an old Edinburgh doctor, a great friend of her father, and asking him to come and stay at Craigmaver, with a view to learning his opinion of what was the exact nature of Mrs. Frazer’s malady; she nursed and petted the lady for months; and at last, by dint of almost superhuman exertions, she had her—before the golden glory of summer was half expended—almost well again.

Then came, however, a slight change: it was hardly perceptible; it was a thing to be felt, not seen—a sort of occasional superciliousness—an assumption in the presence of strangers, and, in the absence of her husband and the laird—a half patronizing air, which wounded Mina to the very soul: there was a gradual falling away in her affection for the trio—Malcolm, perhaps, who was handsome, and flattered her, alone excepted; a little touch of sarcasm mingled at times in her discourse; fresh visitors came in flocks to Craigmaver, and, of course, it was impossible for her always to be attending to, and studying the wishes of, her husband’s relations. Mina knew they had been too long there, but Malcolm would not move; the gay life, the grand society, the perpetual excitement suited him; so she said nothing, but bore—she knew how much—“patiently and silently.”

It was one balmy day in July that Cecilia glided into the parlour of the cottage. Allan and she and one or two others were going out on the lake, and they wanted to know if Mina and Mrs. Frazer would not join them; she said it in her old bright frank manner, for her husband had told her to make them come, and she wanted to please him; but her eye had wandered round the room, and in one corner she spied what caused the angry blood to colour her cheek, though she took no notice of the discovery at the time, and so prayed and begged and beseeched them to join the boating party, that Mrs. Frazer, after vainly urging a slight cold as an apology, felt constrained to rise and put on her bonnet, and desire Mina to do the same.

“Oh! never mind a bonnet, never mind anything but the straw hat, Mina, and your scarf,” said Cecilia, “the day is so warm, you will be baked;” and accordingly she commenced tying on the hat in question, and flung the tartan scarf about the girl’s shoulders, exclaiming, “There, that will do beautifully! I see,” she added the next minute, in a quick light tone, as Mrs. Frazer left the room, “I see you have got a new guitar.”

“Yes, Allan brought it me from Edinburgh,” answered Mina, simply; “it has such a sweet tone, have you tried it yet?”

“Tried it yet!” repeated Cecilia; “no, indeed, how should I?”

“Will you play something on it now, while mamma is getting ready?” said Mina.

“Another time, _ma chére_,” said the lady; “I did not know it was the fashion for married gentlemen to give presents: when did it come out, Mina—you, who are from London and have seen more of the world than I, must be better informed—when did it come out?”

“What do you mean, Cecilia?” demanded Mina; “though Allan is married, he is still my cousin, is not he? I really never thought——”

“No, no, I know you did not,” sneered the other, “and neither did he—of his wife; I wish he would buy _me_ a new one.”

“Take that, do,” cried Mina eagerly; “I do not want it at all, I told him so; I never could learn to play well, and indeed it is of little or no use to me: do please take it.”

“It was from him, not you, I wanted a present,” said Cecilia coldly; “but here is Mrs. Frazer, let us be gone,” and she turned with a bright smile to meet the lady, and they all walked down together to the landing stage near the boat house, where the visitors, with Allan and Malcolm, were already standing.

It was a close sultry day; there was not a leaf stirring, there was scarce a ripple on the waters, the song of the birds was hushed, there was a dead stillness, a suffocating closeness in the air,—so Allan remarked when they had got some distance from shore.

“I fear there will be a thunder storm before very long, sir,” remarked one of the rowers, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of a horny hand.

“So do I,” returned Allan, glancing anxiously up at the darkening sky; “I think we had better return.”

“Now, Allan, do not be tiresome,” expostulated Cecilia; “when it is threatening, you will not venture out at all, and when it is fine, you immediately want to return; as we have got so far, do let us go on.”

“It is only on account of Mrs. Frazer,” said Allan; but a “Pray don’t mind me,” from that lady, settling the question, they proceeded a considerable distance further, till at length Allan again exclaimed,

“Well, really I think we had better return; there is no pleasure in getting wet, and——” his eye fell on the thin dresses of the widow and her daughter, which glance decided Cecilia’s answer.

“And there is no pleasure in always anticipating evil, and the day is so delightful; we shall never have a finer, if we wait for a year.”

She had barely concluded ere a flash of lightning, succeeded by a deafening peal of thunder, announced that the storm had commenced. The rowers instantly turned the boat’s course homewards and pulled with might and main. Cloaks and shawls, which had, unfortunately, been provided in the very scantiest quantities, were produced and adjusted with anxious care, but all in vain; the tempest swept down upon them with relentless fury; the men found it difficult to make “headway;” the rain poured in torrents on the devoted heads of those who had gone out on a party of pleasure; the wind whistled, the thunder roared, the lightning gleamed: it was, in fact, a terrible mountain storm, more violent than enduring, and so, ere long, it went rushing over the hills to seek some other spot whereon to expend the remnants of its fury, and left the boat and its occupants, unswamped, it is true, but thoroughly drenched, as people only can be in some lonely spot in the lonely Highlands, or else on the bosom of the waters, far from human shelter, far from human habitation.

Nothing could exceed Cecilia’s grief on this occasion; she said she was quite distracted with anxiety about Mina’s poor mother; she would not let her return to the cottage, when they had at length regained _terra firma_, declaring Craigmaver was nearer. Before changing her own garments, she insisted on seeing Mrs. Frazer in bed, with a glowing fire in her room, warm bottles at her feet, and every other precaution taken to avert the injurious consequences of a chill. She made Mina put on some clothes of hers, and persisted in forcing her to wrap shawls and cloaks about her till the girl thought she should be fairly suffocated; she sent a servant galloping off for the nearest doctor, with a full statement of events and a request for the learned gentleman to bring something with him likely to cure Mrs. Frazer, supposing she became ill after such an exposure. She was solicitous about all her guests, but she lavished any amount of attention on Mina and her mother: there was no end to her kindness; and when Mrs. Frazer, the following day, was able to come down in time for luncheon, it might have been imagined that some incredible piece of good fortune had occurred to render Cecilia so joyous, light-hearted, and happy.

Then she would not hear of a return to the cottage for a day or two; she wished to make certain of the completeness of the recovery, before letting Mrs. Frazer out of her sight.

She could not trust Mina, she said, and hurt Mina by saying so; but the words were spoken in such a kind, cordial manner, that nobody, save one inclined to fault finding, could have quarrelled with them; and so she did keep the widow for a couple of days, to be quite exhausted with the eternal bustle of visitors, and wearied with the sight of gaiety and fashion and society, which she had no longer health or spirits to enjoy.

The third morning there were to be grand races some five miles off, whither all the household, excepting Mina, her mother, and a few servants, proceeded. Cecilia had implored her “little cousin” to be good natured and leave her mother, who was now so much better, under the charge of an exemplary lady’s maid, but Mina was firm; she did not care for the races, and she did for her mother, wherefore she resisted all entreaties, and for once successfully.

As she and her parent stood at the window watching the departure of the gay cavalcade, it seemed as if a sudden feeling of affection for her daughter and consideration for her situation came into the widow’s breast; previously, Malcolm had been all in all to her—the idol of her soul, the being for whose welfare no sacrifice could be considered too great, whose word was law, whose lightest wish must be fulfilled; but now, even while she smiled in answer to his proud, happy glance, her eyes turned from his face to the pale countenance of her who, with less ostentation and less skill than Cecilia, had nursed and tended her with untiring devotion, with silent, earnest care. She knew that for nights the girl never left her bedside, that she was there ready to listen to her smallest request, to comply with her lightest demand. Because Mina had never made a “fuss,” she had never imagined she was doing anything; but, at that moment, the whole state of the case burst upon her, and, for the first time in her life, she inquired, almost tenderly,

“Mina, should you not like to go too?”

“No, indeed, mamma, I had far rather stay with you.”

There was no other word spoken, but they both bent their eyes steadily on the group of happy faces clustered below—on the carriage containing the Laird of Craigmaver and some of the visitors—on Allan’s melancholy face—on Malcolm’s frank happy countenance and bold careless bearing—on the lady of the mansion, with her blue cloth riding-habit, her long hair half veiling her figure, her graceful easy seat, and lively demeanour. They all smiled and bowed to the two they left behind as they departed; and when the train had entirely swept out of sight, when the last flutter of Cecilia’s feather disappeared from view, when nothing remained within their range of vision but the silent hills and the lonely mountains, and the dark, quiet, mournful fir trees, the widow turned sadly from the window with a deep involuntary sigh.

“Mina,” she said, after a pause, “I think I will go home; so much company and excitement tires me.”

And the girl forthwith led her silently back to the cottage. When they arrived there, she spoke again.

“I should like to go to bed, dear; I do not feel very well.”

Mina did not know why a sort of chill crept to her heart when she heard these words; but a kind of presentiment of coming evil oppressed her. There was no doctor nearer than four miles; but as soon as she had assisted her mother to undress, she despatched a bare-legged Highland lad, who was weeding in the garden, to summon him.

It was hours before the boy returned: he said they told him the doctor was gone to the races, and he had followed him there, but could hear no tidings of him; he had searched high and low, but was not able to see him.

“And did you not speak to my uncle? you must surely have seen him,” exclaimed Mina.

“Yes, I saw him; but there was such a gathering of great folks about the place where he and Mr. Allan and the young leddy were, I could not get word wi’ them; however, I met Mr. Thomas, the new footman, and I bid him tell the laird and look out for the doctor, and he said he would, Miss, so I came home.”

After he had stayed an hour watching the horses, he might have added, but he did not; and it would have done Mina no good if he had. She stole back to her mother’s room, listening eagerly for the footsteps of one who never again came there—in time.

At length, as evening was approaching, a rapid sound of horses’ hoofs smote on her ear.

“It must be he, at last,” she said; “oh! thank God for it!” and she went out to the hall door to meet him.

A man was coming down the hill at a furious pace: it was not he, nor Malcolm, but Allan Frazer.

“What is the matter, Mina?” he exclaimed, springing from the saddle.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Where is the doctor, and where in the world is Malcolm?”

“He and the rest had set out for Locholen before that fellow delivered the message to me,” returned Allan; “I despatched a groom after him, however, and he will be here immediately; nobody seems to know anything about the doctor, but I have sent to the market town for another. What is it, Mina? tell me, child; what is it?”

“Death,” she responded in a quivering voice, hope having died out at the sound of his words, “death! oh! cousin Allan, come in and tell me if it is not so; for pity’s sake don’t leave me, I cannot face it myself.”

He flung the bridle hastily to the gaping lad and entered the house; something else entered it with him, flitted by him in the hall, rushed into the sick chamber and close up to the bedside before he could reach it.

Not before Mina, however, with a wild cry, had flung herself, into her mother’s outstretched arms.

“God bless you, child,” she cried, in a voice which rang in Allan’s ears like the sound of a passing bell: “you have been a good, good child to me. God bless you for it! be a fond sister to Malcolm.”

“Oh! mother, stay,” gasped out the girl; “mother! I have nobody else on earth.”

Ere the sentence was quite concluded, she had not her on earth either, for the woman, who was just beginning to feel such affection for her daughter as might have made life happier to them both, fell back, with a heavy sob, into the arms of the invisible spectre, which had made such cruel speed to receive her.

Mina never knew what occurred between that moment and another, when she awoke to the knowledge of passing events and a consciousness of the great trial which had befallen her. She had a confused recollection of some fresh arrivals, of hearing Malcolm’s voice, of seeing Cecilia leading him out of the room, of a harsh Highland accent she recognized as the doctor’s, of words of kindness spoken by Allan Frazer and some strangers, of driving through the stillness of night to Craigmaver, and being left alone with her dear old uncle there. She spent two or three days in a sort of miserable dream, and then she came fully to comprehend it all: how they were totally orphans, how her mother was dead and buried, how they had no home, or shadow of one, left, and how she and her brother were residing on sufferance in their uncle’s house—beautiful Craigmaver—under the same roof with Cecilia Frazer, General Warmond’s lovely daughter.