Even Miss Phemie MacGuffog was forced to forego her usual charitable views, and to confess that the poor unfortunate girl had been ruined by her training. Every circumstance, she said, was against her. Her father was a worldly man, engrossed with money-making, and seldom at home. Her mother, a silly woman, was abandoned to romance reading, and neglected her everyday duties, and lived in a world of unreality. The poor girl herself got no solid education. She had no need, her mother told her, to be clever or accomplished. She was lovely, which was far better, and would undoubtedly make a grand match and be a titled lady. To look handsome, and graceful, and fascinating, therefore, was all that she required to do. And the despatching of her to a boarding-school, and then to the Continent, in order to escape her aristocratic admirer, was a mere device. She was sent to a boarding establishment near Oxford because he was a student there, and she afterwards went to France to continue her education because he had gone there. And Miss Phemie was told that the education which she received at both these places was of the flimsiest kind, being limited to the singing of one or two songs, the hammering out on the piano of one or two classical pieces, and the copying of one or two drawings. The most of the pupils' time and attention was devoted to talking about fine dresses, equipages, balls, and aristocratic admirers. "In fact," concluded Miss Phemie, "they were evidently taught to look upon the world, not as a sphere of duty and labour, but as a big cookie shine."
The worthy people of Sandyriggs were still discussing this strange catastrophe, when a new surprise claimed their notice. Intelligence came regarding the long-lost Charles Raeburn. His cousin, the doctor, received a letter from him, bearing the postmark of a town in Spain, and empowering him to sell Cowslip Brae and transmit the price. Before the gossips had ceased to puzzle their brains over this extraordinary sacrifice, another letter arrived and explained the whole mystery. In the frankest and most straight-forward language, Charles Raeburn told his cousin the following romantic tale:—
"I felt that I could not remain in Sandyriggs after the object of my adoration had gone. So I followed her to Oxford and to France, and back again to England, and was present at the trial. From my professional experience I very soon saw how judgment was likely to go, and what a terrible fate was hanging over the head of the unfortunate girl. So, when stung by Ridley's merciless language, she left the Court abruptly, I followed her, and in presence of her mother told her that the verdict was almost certain to be against her, and that, if it were so, she would be apprehended for forgery. While she stood aghast and dumb at this intelligence, I offered my assistance, and they accepted it. I went with them at once to their hotel, paid their bill, packed their luggage, and had everything ready for flight. As soon as the result which I had anticipated was announced, we were off, and by next morning were on the Continent. I took rooms for them in this town, and a lodging for myself not far off, and here we remained till we could see what ought to be done.
"One morning, Miss Callendar sent to say that she wanted to see me. When I went to her, she told me with tears in her lovely eyes that her mother must go back to her husband in England, but that she herself must remain abroad; and what could she do to earn her bread? Would I, the only friend she now had, advise her? What could I do but offer, as her husband, to protect and cherish her for the rest of her life. She started back in horror, declared that she was a criminal, a felon, a forger who ought to be in prison, and utterly unworthy to be the wife of an honest man, and that she would not bring disgrace on one whom she esteemed so much, whom—and here she gave way and cried most bitterly. Then there flashed through my brain and heart Spenser's exquisite lines:—
"'Nought is there under heav'n's wide hollownesse
That moves more deare compassion of mind
Than beautie brought t' unworthy wretchednesse
Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind.
I, whether lately through her brightnesse blind,
Or through alleageance and fast fealtie,
Which I do owe unto all womankind,
Feele my hart perst with so great agony,
When such I see, that all for pity I could die.'
"These were the very feelings that were thrilling through me. I lost control of myself. Dropping down on my knees and seizing her hand, I poured out my whole soul. What I said I cannot recall; but at last she reluctantly consented to marry me, on condition that I would do my very best to teach her to be a good woman and a dutiful wife. Poor broken-hearted darling, she was more sinned against than sinning. The persons really to blame were her mercenary father and her novel-reading mother, who neglected her education, and that hollow-hearted aristocrat who trifled with her innocence. And most touching it is to see how humble and yet how loving she is, and how her face is still 'combating with tears and smiles.' If she is not to be forgiven, there can be no such thing as forgiveness on earth. I am sure that I have done what is right. Away from her, I would have been in outer darkness. Beside her, I am in Paradise."