The Surgeons Daughter | Page 8

of Fiction, as
you call her, as many an honest man does with his own sons in flesh
and blood."

"And how is that, my dear sir?"
"Send her to India, to be sure. That is the true place for a Scot to thrive
in; and if you carry your story fifty years back, as there is nothing to
hinder you, you will find as much shooting and stabbing there as ever
was in the wild Highlands. If you want rogues, as they are so much in
fashion with you, you have that gallant caste of adventurers, who laid
down their consciences at the Cape of Good Hope as they went out to
India, and forgot to take them up again when they returned. Then, for
great exploits, you have in the old history of India, before Europeans
were numerous there, the most wonderful deeds, done by the least
possible means, that perhaps the annals of the world can afford."
"I know it," said I, kindling at the ideas his speech inspired. "I
remember in the delightful pages of Orme, the interest which mingles
in his narratives, from the very small number of English which are
engaged. Each officer of a regiment becomes known to you by name,
nay, the non-commissioned officers and privates acquire an individual
share of interest. They are distinguished among the natives like the
Spaniards among the Mexicans. What do I say? They are like Homer's
demigods among the warring mortals. Men, like Clive and Caillaud,
influenced great events, like Jove himself. Inferior officers are like
Mars or Neptune; and the sergeants and corporals might well pass for
demigods. Then the various religious costumes, habits, and manners of
the people of Hindustan,--the patient Hindhu, the warlike Rajahpoot,
the haughty Moslemah, the savage and vindictive Malay--Glorious and
unbounded subjects! The only objection is, that I have never been there,
and know nothing at all about them."
"Nonsense, my good friend. You will tell us about them all the better
that you know nothing of what you are saying; and come, we'll finish
the bottle, and when Katie (her sisters go to the assembly) has given us
tea, she will tell you the outline of the story of poor Menie Gray, whose
picture you will see in the drawing-room, a distant relation of my
father's, who had, however, a handsome part of cousin Menie's
succession. There are none living that can be hurt by the story now,
though it was thought best to smother it up at the time, as indeed even

the whispers about it led poor cousin Menie to live very retired. I mind
her well when a child. There was something very gentle, but rather
tiresome, about poor cousin Menie."
When we came into the drawing-room, my friend pointed to a picture
which I had before noticed, without, however, its having attracted more
than a passing look; now I regarded it with more attention. It was one
of those portraits of the middle of the eighteenth century, in which
artists endeavoured to conquer the stiffness of hoops and brocades; by
throwing a fancy drapery around the figure, with loose folds like a
mantle or dressing gown, the stays, however, being retained, and the
bosom displayed in a manner which shows that our mothers, like their
daughters, were as liberal of their charms as the nature of the dress
might permit. To this, the well-known style of the period, the features
and form of the individual added, at first sight, little interest. It
represented a handsome woman of about thirty, her hair wound simply
about her head, her features regular, and her complexion fair. But on
looking more closely, especially after having had a hint that the original
had been the heroine of a tale, I could observe a melancholy sweetness
in the countenance that seemed to speak of woes endured, and injuries
sustained, with that resignation which women can and do sometimes
display under the insults and ingratitude of those on whom they have
bestowed their affections.
"Yes, she was an excellent and an ill-used woman," said Mr. Fairscribe,
his eye fixed like mine on the picture--"She left our family not less, I
dare say, than five thousand pounds, and I believe she died worth four
times that sum; but it was divided among the nearest of kin, which was
all fair."
"But her history, Mr. Fairscribe," said I--"to judge from her look, it
must have been a melancholy one."
"You may say that, Mr. Croftangry. Melancholy enough, and
extraordinary enough too--But," added he, swallowing in haste a cup of
the tea which was presented to him, "I must away to my business--we
cannot be gowfling all the morning, and telling old stories all the
afternoon. Katie knows all the outs and the ins of cousin Menie's

adventures