Guy Mannering, Or, the Astrologer — Complete

by Walter Scott

  CHAPTER XVII

  Heaven first, in its mercy, taught mortals their letters, For ladies in limbo, and lovers in fetters, Or some author, who, placing his persons before ye, Ungallantly leaves them to write their own story.

  POPE, imitated.

  When Mannering returned to England, his first object had been to placehis daughter in a seminary for female education, of establishedcharacter. Not, however, finding her progress in the accomplishmentswhich he wished her to acquire so rapid as his impatience expected, hehad withdrawn Miss Mannering from the school at the end of the firstquarter. So she had only time to form an eternal friendship with MissMatilda Marchmont, a young lady about her own age, which was nearlyeighteen. To her faithful eye were addressed those formidable quireswhich issued forth from Mervyn Hall on the wings of the post while MissMannering was a guest there. The perusal of a few short extracts fromthese may be necessary to render our story intelligible.

  FIRST EXTRACT

  'Alas! my dearest Matilda, what a tale is mine to tell! Misfortune fromthe cradle has set her seal upon your unhappy friend. That we should besevered for so slight a cause--an ungrammatical phrase in my Italianexercise, and three false notes in one of Paisiello's sonatas! But itis a part of my father's character, of whom it is impossible to saywhether I love, admire, or fear him the most. His success in life andin war, his habit of making every obstacle yield before the energy ofhis exertions, even where they seemed insurmountable--all these havegiven a hasty and peremptory cast to his character, which can neitherendure contradiction nor make allowance for deficiencies. Then he ishimself so very accomplished. Do you know, there was a murmur, halfconfirmed too by some mysterious words which dropped from my poormother, that he possesses other sciences, now lost to the world, whichenable the possessor to summon up before him the dark and shadowy formsof future events! Does not the very idea of such a power, or even ofthe high talent and commanding intellect which the world may mistakefor it,--does it not, dear Matilda, throw a mysterious grandeur aboutits possessor? You will call this romantic; but consider I was born inthe land of talisman and spell, and my childhood lulled by tales whichyou can only enjoy through the gauzy frippery of a French translation.O, Matilda, I wish you could have seen the dusky visages of my Indianattendants, bending in earnest devotion round the magic narrative, thatflowed, half poetry, half prose, from the lips of the tale-teller! Nowonder that European fiction sounds cold and meagre, after thewonderful effects which I have seen the romances of the East produceupon their hearers.'

  SECOND EXTRACT

  'You are possessed, my dear Matilda, of my bosom-secret, in thosesentiments with which I regard Brown. I will not say his memory; I amconvinced he lives, and is faithful. His addresses to me werecountenanced by my deceased parent, imprudently countenanced perhaps,considering the prejudices of my father in favour of birth and rank.But I, then almost a girl, could not be expected surely to be wiserthan her under whose charge nature had placed me. My father, constantlyengaged in military duty, I saw but at rare intervals, and was taughtto look up to him with more awe than confidence. Would to Heaven it hadbeen otherwise! It might have been better for us all at this day!'

  THIRD EXTRACT

  'You ask me why I do not make known to my father that Brown yet lives,at least that he survived the wound he received in that unhappy duel,and had written to my mother expressing his entire convalescence, andhis hope of speedily escaping from captivity. A soldier, that "in thetrade of war has oft slain men," feels probably no uneasiness atreflecting upon the supposed catastrophe which almost turned me intostone. And should I show him that letter, does it not follow thatBrown, alive and maintaining with pertinacity the pretensions to theaffections of your poor friend for which my father formerly sought hislife, would be a more formidable disturber of Colonel Mannering's peaceof mind than in his supposed grave? If he escapes from the hands ofthese marauders, I am convinced he will soon be in England, and it willbe then time to consider how his existence is to be disclosed to myfather. But if, alas! my earnest and confident hope should betray me,what would it avail to tear open a mystery fraught with so many painfulrecollections? My dear mother had such dread of its being known, that Ithink she even suffered my father to suspect that Brown's attentionswere directed towards herself, rather than permit him to discover theirreal object; and O, Matilda, whatever respect I owe to the memory of adeceased parent, let me do justice to a living one. I cannot butcondemn the dubious policy which she adopted, as unjust to my father,and highly perilous to herself and me. But peace be with her ashes! heractions were guided by the heart rather than the head; and shall herdaughter, who inherits all her weakness, be the first to withdraw theveil from her defects?'

  FOURTH EXTRACT 'MERVYN HALL.

  'If India be the land of magic, this, my dearest Matilda, is thecountry of romance. The scenery is such as nature brings together inher sublimest moods-sounding cataracts--hills which rear their scathedheads to the sky--lakes that, winding up the shadowy valleys, lead atevery turn to yet more romantic recesses--rocks which catch the cloudsof heaven. All the wildness of Salvator here, and there the fairyscenes of Claude. I am happy too in finding at least one object uponwhich my father can share my enthusiasm. An admirer of nature, both asan artist and a poet, I have experienced the utmost pleasure from theobservations by which he explains the character and the effect of thesebrilliant specimens of her power. I wish he would settle in thisenchanting land. But his views lie still farther north, and he is atpresent absent on a tour in Scotland, looking, I believe, for somepurchase of land which may suit him as a residence. He is partial, fromearly recollections, to that country. So, my dearest Matilda, I must beyet farther removed from you before I am established in a home. And Ohow delighted shall I be when I can say, Come, Matilda, and be theguest of your faithful Julia!

  'I am at present the inmate of Mr. and Mrs. Mervyn, old friends of myfather. The latter is precisely a good sort of woman, ladylike andhousewifely; but for accomplishments or fancy--good lack, my dearestMatilda, your friend might as well seek sympathy from Mrs.Teach'em;--you see I have not forgot school nicknames. Mervyn is adifferent--quite a different being from my father, yet he amuses andendures me. He is fat and good-natured, gifted with strong shrewd senseand some powers of humour; but having been handsome, I suppose, in hisyouth, has still some pretension to be a beau garcon, as well as anenthusiastic agriculturist. I delight to make him scramble to the topsof eminences and to the foot of waterfalls, and am obliged in turn toadmire his turnips, his lucerne, and his timothy grass. He thinks me, Ifancy, a simple romantic Miss, with some--the word will be out--beautyand some good-nature; and I hold that the gentleman has good taste forthe female outside, and do not expect he should comprehend mysentiments farther. So he rallies, hands, and hobbles (for the dearcreature has got the gout too), and tells old stories of high life, ofwhich he has seen a great deal; and I listen, and smile, and look aspretty, as pleasant, and as simple as I can, and we do very well.

  'But, alas! my dearest Matilda, how would time pass away, even in thisparadise of romance, tenanted as it is by a pair assorting so ill withthe scenes around them, were it not for your fidelity in replying to myuninteresting details? Pray do not fail to write three times a week atleast; you can be at no loss what to say.'

  FIFTH EXTRACT

  'How shall I communicate what I have now to tell! My hand and heartstill flutter so much, that the task of writing is almost impossible!Did I not say that he lived? did I not say I would not despair? Howcould you suggest, my dear Matilda, that my feelings, considering I hadparted from him so young, rather arose from the warmth of myimagination than of my heart? O I was sure that they were genuine,deceitful as the dictates of our bosom so frequently are. But to mytale--let it be, my friend, the most sacred, as it is the most sincere,pledge of our friendship.

  'Our hours here are early--earlier than my heart, with its load ofcare, can compose itself to rest. I therefore usually take a book foran hou
r or two after retiring to my own room, which I think I have toldyou opens to a small balcony, looking down upon that beautiful lake ofwhich I attempted to give you a slight sketch. Mervyn Hall, beingpartly an ancient building, and constructed with a view to defence, issituated on the verge of the lake. A stone dropped from the projectingbalcony plunges into water deep enough to float a skiff. I had left mywindow partly unbarred, that, before I went to bed, I might, accordingto my custom, look out and see the moonlight shining upon the lake. Iwas deeply engaged with that beautiful scene in the "Merchant ofVenice" where two lovers, describing the stillness of a summer night,enhance on each other its charms, and was lost in the associations ofstory and of feeling which it awakens, when I heard upon the lake thesound of a flageolet. I have told you it was Brown's favouriteinstrument. Who could touch it in a night which, though still andserene, was too cold, and too late in the year, to invite forth anywanderer for mere pleasure? I drew yet nearer the window, and hearkenedwith breathless attention; the sounds paused a space, were thenresumed, paused again, and again reached my ear, ever coming nearer andnearer. At length I distinguished plainly that little Hindu air whichyou called my favourite. I have told you by whom it was taught me; theinstrument, the tones, were his own! Was it earthly music, or notespassing on the wind, to warn me of his death?

  'It was some time ere I could summon courage to step on the balcony;nothing could have emboldened me to do so but the strong conviction ofmy mind that he was still alive, and that we should again meet; butthat conviction did embolden me, and I ventured, though with athrobbing heart. There was a small skiff with a single person. O,Matilda, it was himself! I knew his appearance after so long anabsence, and through the shadow of the night, as perfectly as if we hadparted yesterday, and met again in the broad sunshine! He guided hisboat under the balcony, and spoke to me; I hardly knew what he said, orwhat I replied. Indeed, I could scarcely speak for weeping, but theywere joyful tears. We were disturbed by the barking of a dog at somedistance, and parted, but not before he had conjured me to prepare tomeet him at the same place and hour this evening.

  'But where and to what is all this tending? Can I answer this question?I cannot. Heaven, that saved him from death and delivered him fromcaptivity, that saved my father, too, from shedding the blood of onewho would not have blemished a hair of his head, that Heaven must guideme out of this labyrinth. Enough for me the firm resolution thatMatilda shall not blush for her friend, my father for his daughter, normy lover for her on whom he has fixed his affection.'