CHAPTER LXIV
As James approached his fourteenth year, his uncle, still with a view to a union with Robina, proposed, that, when Mr. Eadie thought his education sufficient for the mercantile profession, he should be sent to his counting-house. But the early habits and the tenor of the lessons he had received were not calculated to ensure success to James as a merchant. He was robust, handsome, and adventurous, fond of active pursuits, and had imbibed, from the Highland spirit of Mrs. Eadie, a tinge of romance and enthusiasm. The bias of his character, the visions of his reveries, and the cast of his figure and physiognomy, were decidedly military. But the field of heroic enterprise was then vacant,—the American war was over, and all Europe slumbered in repose, unconscious of the hurricane that was then gathering; and thus, without any consideration of his own inclinations and instincts, James, like many of those who afterwards distinguished themselves in the great conflict, acceded to the proposal.
He had not, however, been above three or four years settled in Glasgow when his natural distaste for sedentary and regular business began to make him dislike the place; and his repugnance was heightened almost to disgust by the discovery of his uncle’s sordid views with respect to him; nor, on the part of his cousin, was the design better relished; for, independent of an early and ungracious antipathy, she had placed her affections on another object; and more than once complained to the old Leddy of her father’s tyranny in so openly urging on a union that would render her miserable, especially, as she said, when her cousin’s attachment to Ellen Frazer was so unequivocal. But Leddy Grippy had set her mind on the match as strongly as her son; and, in consequence, neither felt nor showed any sympathy for Robina.
‘Never fash your head,’ she said to her one day, when the young lady was soliciting her mediation,—‘Never fash your head, Beenie, my dear, about Jamie’s calf-love of yon daffodil; but be an obedient child, and walk in the paths of pleasantness that ye’re ordain’t to, both by me and your father; for we hae had oure lang a divided family; and it’s full time we were brought to a cordial understanding with one another.’
‘But,’ replied the disconsolate damsel, ‘even though he had no precious attachment, I’ll ne’er consent to marry him, for really I can never fancy him.’
‘And what for can ye no fancy him?’ cried the Leddy—‘I would like to ken that? But, to be plain wi’ you, Beenie, it’s a shame to hear a weel educated miss like you, brought up wi’ a Christian principle, speaking about fancying young men. Sic a thing was never alloo’t nor heard tell o’ in my day and generation. But that comes o’ your ganging to see Douglas tragedy, at that kirk o’ Satan in Dunlop Street; where, as I am most creditably informed, the play-actors court ane another afore a’ the folk.’
‘I am sure you have yourself experienced,’ replied Robina, ‘what it is to entertain a true affection, and to know that our wishes and inclinations are not under our own control.—How would you have liked had your father forced you to marry a man against your will?’
‘Lassie, lassie!’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘if ye live to be a grandmother like me, ye’ll ken the right sense o’ a lawful and tender affection. But there’s no sincerity noo like the auld sincerity, when me and your honest grandfather, that was in mine, and is noo in Abraham’s bosom, came thegither—we had no foistring and parleyvooing, like your novelle turtle-doves—but discoursed in a sober and wise-like manner anent the cost and charge o’ a family; and the upshot was a visibility of solid cordiality and kindness, very different, Beenie, my dear, frae the puff-paste love o’ your Clarissy Harlots.’
‘Ah! but your affection was mutual from the beginning—you were not perhaps devoted to another?’
‘Gude guide us, Beenie Walkinshaw! are ye devoted to another?—Damon and Phillis, pastorauling at hide and seek wi’ their sheep, was the height o’ discretion, compared wi’ sic curdooing. My lass, I’ll let no grass grow beneath my feet, till I hae gi’en your father notice o’ this loup-the-window, and hey cockalorum-like love.’