There was one thing, however, which, if it did not throw the laird into a passion--nothing, as I have said, did that--brought him nearer to the outer verge of displeasure than any other, and that was, anything whatever to which he could affix the name of superstition.The indignation of better men than the laird with even a confessedly harmless superstition, is sometimes very amusing;and it was a point of Mr.Galbraith's poverty-stricken religion to denounce all superstitions, however diverse in character, with equal severity.To believe in the second sight, for instance, or in any form of life as having the slightest relation to this world, except that of men, that of animals, and that of vegetables, was with him wicked, antagonistic to the Church of Scotland, and inconsistent with her perfect doctrine.The very word ghost would bring upon his face an expression he meant for withering scorn, and indeed it withered his face, rendering it yet more unpleasant to behold.
Coming to the benighted country, then, with all the gathered wisdom of Edinburgh in his gallinaceous cranium, and what he counted a vast experience of worldly affairs besides, he brought with him also the firm resolve to be the death of superstition, at least upon his own property.He was not only unaware, but incapable of becoming aware, that he professed to believe a number of things, any one of which was infinitely more hostile to the truth of the universe, than all the fancies and fables of a countryside, handed down from grandmother to grandchild.When, therefore, within a year of his settling at Glashruach, there arose a loud talk of the Mains, his best farm, as haunted by presences making all kinds of tumultuous noises, and even throwing utensils bodily about, he was nearer the borders of a rage, although he kept, as became a gentleman, a calm exterior, than ever he had been in his life.For were not ignorant clodhoppers asserting as facts what he knew never could take place!
At once he set himself, with all his experience as a lawyer to aid him, to discover the buffooning authors of the mischief; where there were deeds there were doers, and where there were doers they were discoverable.But his endeavours, uninterrmitted for the space of three weeks, after which the disturbances ceased, proved so utterly without result, that he could never bear the smallest allusion to the hateful business.For he had not only been unhorsed, but by his dearest hobby.
He was seated with a game pie in front of him, over the top of which Ginevra was visible.The girl never sat nearer her father at meals than the whole length of the table, where she occupied her mother's place.She was a solemn-looking child, of eight or nine, dressed in a brown merino frock of the plainest description.Her hair, which was nearly of the same colour as her frock, was done up in two triple plaits, which hung down her back, and were tied at the tips with black ribbon.To the first glance she did not look a very interesting or attractive child; but looked at twice, she was sure to draw the eyes a third time.She was undeniably like her father, and that was much against her at first sight; but it required only a little acquaintance with her face to remove the prejudice; for in its composed, almost resigned expression, every feature of her father's seemed comparatively finished, and settled into harmony with the rest; its chaos was subdued, and not a little of the original underlying design brought out.The nose was firm, the mouth modelled, the chin larger, the eyes a little smaller, and full of life and feeling.The longer it was regarded by any seeing eye, the child's countenance showed fuller of promise, or at least of hope.Gradually the look would appear in it of a latent sensitive anxiety--then would dawn a glimmer of longing question; and then, all at once, it would slip back into the original ordinary look, which, without seeming attractive, had yet attracted.Her father was never harsh to her, yet she looked rather frightened at him; but then he was cold, very cold, and most children would rather be struck and kissed alternately than neither.And the bond cannot be very close between father and child, when the father has forsaken his childhood.The bond between any two is the one in the other; it is the father in the child, and the child in the father, that reach to each other eternal hands.It troubled Ginevra greatly that, when she asked herself whether she loved her father better than anybody else, as she believed she ought, she became immediately doubtful whether she loved him at all.
She was eating porridge and milk: with spoon arrested in mid-passage, she stopped suddenly, and said:--"Papa, what's a broonie?"
"I have told you, Jenny, that you are never to talk broad Scotch in my presence," returned her father."I would lay severer commands upon you, were it not that I fear tempting you to disobey me, but Iwill have no vulgarity in the dining-room."His words came out slowly, and sounded as if each was a bullet wrapped round with cotton wool to make it fit the barrel.Ginevra looked perplexed for a moment.
"Should I say brownie, papa?" she asked.
"How can I tell you what you should call a creature that has no existence?" rejoined her father.
