Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:
_italic_
HARRY MUIR.
A STORY OF SCOTTISH LIFE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MRS. MARGARET MAITLAND,”
“MERKLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” &C.
“God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,
At thy affections....
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruined; and the soul of every man,
Prophetically, does forethink thy fall.”
KING HENRY IV.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1853.
LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
HARRY MUIR.
CHAPTER I.
Methinks, Sir,
A mother’s heart’s transparent--’tis so easy
To find the way into ’t.
“WELL, Cuthbert, my man, are you back from your gowks errand? The month
is far on now; it has taken you long,” said Mrs. Charteris.
“I have first to present my friend to you, mother,” said the advocate;
“and as he will be Mr. Harry Muir only a day or two longer, we must
make the most of him while he bears his old name.”
“So you were right after all?” said the old lady, lifting up her hands.
“Dear me, Cuthbert, to think of that! You see, Mr. Muir, I could not
believe his story, and prophesied that he was sure to fail--though I am
very glad I was wrong. You are welcome to Edinburgh, and I wish you joy
of your inheritance.”
With a natural diffidence, which flushed his cheek, and slightly
restrained his speech, Harry Muir made his acknowledgments. His dress
had been most carefully overlooked before he left Glasgow that morning,
and his eye was shining with animation and high hope.
Mrs. Charteris felt “her heart warm” to the stranger as he took the
great easy-chair in the corner, and bent forward towards Cuthbert as
to his guide and counsellor. The attitude and expression charmed
Cuthbert’s mother. She felt that her son had done much for this young
man--that he would do more--and Harry Muir became dear to her good
heart, because he made her son dearer, and still more worthy of love.
“We must be off again instantly, mother,” said Cuthbert, “to meet Davie
Lindsay at my office. Ah, Davie is a slow man; he has not an eye for a
mystery like some other people; but I suppose I must not boast. To-day
we shall do a little business; to-morrow we propose a trip up the Firth
by the Stirling steamer, and a glance at Allenders. Muir, it will take
lots of money to put that house in decent order, you may be sure.”
Harry laughed; twenty pounds would have been lots of money to Harry two
days ago. It struck him as being slightly ludicrous, and certainly
quite amusing, all this grandeur of expectation. That _he_ should have
a house to repair, and lots of money to repair it--he, Harry Muir!
“It is a fine country, is it not?” he asked, in some haste, to cover
his nervous joy. “I have never seen those Links of Forth, and their
very name raises one’s expectation. Did you not say this house of
enchantment was near the river?”
“He knows no more than we do, Mr. Muir,” said Mrs. Charteris. “You will
take your bed here, of course? No doubt it is a bonnie country, but
mind you must look for nothing like the Clyde.”
“Come along, Muir--I can’t pretend to cope with _two_ west country
people,” said Cuthbert. “Come, Lindsay will be waiting open-mouthed;
and to-morrow we must make our pilgrimage together, and no one shall
say I am ignorant of the enchanted palace any more. Come, Muir.”
Next day the little party set out upon their brief voyage. This freedom
of enjoyment, without stealth or remorse, was new to Harry. He breathed
freely. It seemed to him, as from a listener, he became a partaker
in the conversation of Lindsay and Charteris, that this was indeed a
new life, a bracing atmosphere, such as he had not known before. He
became quiet at first--somewhat serious even--and looking up upon an
April sky, and down upon the great stream chafing and foaming in the
little vessel’s course, there came upon him the abstraction of a gentle
reverie, picturing the times to come!
The times to come! Harry saw honour, wealth, independence, happiness,
in a bright crowd before him. He did not see, would not see--poor,
rash, incautious heart!--that a grim shadow lowered upon them all,
the shadow of his conquering sin--nor that this presence held the
keys of the joyous home he dreamed of, and stood defiant on its
threshold, blighting the flowers around the door. He never trembled for
himself--poor Harry! there seemed before him nothing but security and
peace.
Overhead the clouds flew to the east like a pilgrimage of birds,
sweeping over the breadth of heaven with a speed which made you dizzy;
and the mass of shadow threw a sable gleam on the water, as it dashed
up its foaming mane, and shook it in the breeze. There are no clouds
down the Firth where Inchkeith yonder burns and expands in the full
sunshine; but here we have only wayward glances of light, darting down
upon us as if in play, which vanish in a moment into the pursuing cloud.
The little vessel leaps over the buoyant water with sometimes a mist
of spray over her bows, and the passengers march in quick time along
the decks, as if this swell and lengthened bound made music wild and
martial, stirring the heart to quicker motion.
Now comes a sudden gleam, touching the russet outline of Inchcolm, as
a painter would have it touched; and as we pass, the light glides on
before us, glittering upon the dewy slopes of Fife, and quivering along
the waves, till it seems to sink there, like a golden arrow launched
out of the heavens; and the clouds again fly over us, away to the
ungenial east.
St. Margaret’s Hope--Ah, Saxon Margaret, Atheling, Exile, Queen
and Saint! was there hope in this quiet bay when the Scottish land
stretched its brown arm of succour, and vowed its rude heart to
thy service? Not very far off now is grey Dunfermline, forsaken
of kings--and you may see a spire glitter on the further side of
those withdrawing braes, pointing where the palace crumbles, and the
wallflower and ivy flourish, over forlorn and solitary places, where
queens had their bowers, and kings their council-chamber. Here too is
the royal ferry, with its narrow gateway, bringing to a point the broad
Firth on either side; and we rustle past the sentinel-rock, which has
looked down often in the old times upon the passing boats of queens,
and dash with a bound into the free course once more; past little busy
ports, and slumbering villages, past the great houses in their nest
of trees--till brave old Demeyet bows his stately head to us among
the clouds, and the sun breaks out triumphant over the crowned rock
of Stirling, and we glide into this silvery maze, radiant with flying
lights and shadows--the links of Forth.
Here, by the side of the water, a great saugh tree droops its long
locks, and trails them on the stream; behind it are a heavy mass of
alders--by its side a hawthorn slowly whitening with its fragrant
blossom--and above the alders you can see a regular line of elm and
beech, marshalled in fair succession, which seem to form a mall or
avenue on the river’s side. Beyond all appear the roof and gables of
a hidden house. You cannot tell either size or form in the passing
glimpse you gain of it from the river, but the heart of Harry Muir
beats high as his eye falls on this home--a home it must be, for smoke
curls from the chimneys, and a boat lies softly rocking on the water at
the foot of the saugh tree.
“Neighbours,” said Harry to himself, under his breath; “and I, too,
must have a boat for Lettie and Rose.”
“Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, bending forward with a smile, “that is
Allenders.”
The heir started violently. With an eager look he tried to penetrate
the network of boughs and opening leaves, and failing that, followed
with his eyes the very smoke as it curled away into the clouds. His
heart beat so loudly that, for a moment, it made him sick.
“Allenders!--my home, _their_ home!” murmured Harry; and he felt his
breast swell as if with a rising sob.
A drive of a few miles from Stirling brought them to the other side of
Allenders. There was less wood there, and the view was towards the wide
strath in which lies Bannockburn. But Harry had not time to look at
the prospect without--there was something, at the moment, greatly more
interesting to him in the gray gables and dilapidated rooms within.
The house was not large, but it was tall, with windows specked over it
in all corners, without an attempt at regularity; and on the eastern
side was a curious little turret, obtruding itself abruptly from the
wall, and throwing up a spear point, now black and tarnished, over the
heads of the high trees.
The door was opened to them tardily by an old man, who did not seem
at all desirous that they should penetrate beyond the threshold. This
custodier of the house of Allenders was thin and shrivelled, and had a
face dingy with age and smoke, the small features of which seemed to
have shrunk and crept together, under the touch of time. A few thin,
white hairs strayed over his head, diverging from the crown in all
directions with genuine independence; and his dress was of homespun
blue, with great ribbed stockings and buckled shoes. Those poor thin
angular limbs seemed to bend any way with the stiff facility of wooden
joints; and as he dangled his lean arms by his side, and gazed with
light grey unmeaning eyes into their faces, it seemed as if the chill
winter of years and poverty had frozen his very soul.
“You must let us in to see the house, my man,” said Lindsay briskly.
“This is the young laird I have brought with me. Do you think he’s like
the old Allenders, Dragon?--you should know them well.”
“Whilk ane is it, Mr. Lindsay--the muckle ane or the little ane?” asked
the old man.
Now Harry was by no means little. He did not at all relish the
adjective.
“This is Mr. Muir--Allenders of Allenders,” said Lindsay, hastily.
“Come in; I’ll be your guide, and Dragon here will overlook us, and see
we take nothing away.”
They entered a small square hall, dimly lighted, at the further end of
which was a stone staircase of good proportions; but the walls were
black with the dust of years, and the oak banisters of the stairs were
broken and dilapidated. It had a dreary, deserted, uninhabitable look;
and Harry, quickly impressed for good or evil, was half inclined to
think Mrs. Rodger’s little parlour a brighter home than this after all.
Lindsay opened quickly, and with the air of one thoroughly acquainted
with the house, which, however, he had only once seen before, one of
the dim oak doors which opened into the hall. Within was a wainscoted
parlour of good dimensions, with one small window in the great
blank of its side wall, and one squeezed into a corner beside the
fire-place. The carpet was so worn that pattern and colours were alike
indiscernible, and dark curtains of faded purply-crimson hung over the
dingy windows. A long dining-table, polished and glimmering, caught one
ray of the sunshine without, and carried it down the narrow length of
the apartment to the old-fashioned sideboard at the end; but save for
this, the place looked as desolate as could be imagined. Lindsay turned
round at the door with the air of an exhibitor, and something of the
feeling; for though himself, at the first glance, had thought all this
very chill and miserable, he looked unconsciously for satisfaction from
Harry. Harry did not say a word. Alas! the house of enchantment--the
fairy palace! The reality was a very different thing from the dream.
Cuthbert went quickly to the nearest window, and drew away with more
energy than was needful the jealous curtain.
“Another window here to keep this one company, and some pictures on
these grim panels, and brighter furniture--you will make this room the
pleasantest of winter parlours, Muir. One can have no idea of what it
will be, from its appearance just now.”
“Anither window!” exclaimed the old man, who had followed them. “Would
ye break the guid wall, ye wasterful prodigal? Mr. Lindsay, is’t this
ane?” and he pointed his finger wrathfully at Cuthbert.
“No, no,” said Harry Muir, with restored good-humour; “we must take
your counsel since you like the walls so well. But what is your name?
What did you call him, Mr. Lindsay?”
“They ca’ me Dragon,” said the warden of Allenders, vacantly. “That
is, I’m meaning my name’s Edom Comrie; but I never hear onybody have
the civility to ca’ me aught but Dragon. Put in anither window! What
would ye do that for, I would like to ken? Do ye mean to say that what
was licht enough for the auld Allenders, is no licht enough for the
like of you? You can wear spectacles if your vision is failing. I do
it mysel’; but what for wad ye break the guid bonnie wa’ that might
withstand the French, for a nonsense window? And there’s a bonnie bush
a’ fu’ o’ white roses, in their season, leaning on the house close by
there. Would ye tramp down my bonnie lady rose for your mason work? Mr.
Lindsay, is’t no again the law?”
“But what if we brought a bonnie Lady Rose to sit at the new window,
and look out upon the flowers!” said Cuthbert with a quick blush. “When
Allenders brings his family home, he’ll bring ladies here; and flowers,
you know, never thrive without light. You would not show yourself a
dragon to the ladies, Adam--the first time they heard of you, too.”
The old man chuckled a strange laugh.
“He thinks _I’m_ heeding about ladies--_me_! and you’ll nane of you be
learned, I reckon; for if ye were, there’s routh o’ grand books ben the
house--I whiles read in them mysel, and they are a’ guid reading and
profitable. When I come on an ill ane, I kindle my fire wi’t. I laid
my hand on ane yestreen, that’s nae better than it should be, in my
judgment; but it was uncommon diverting, and I just laid it by again,
for my ain carnal pleasure--for I’m no abune the like o’ that, though
I’m auld. Come away, Allenders--if you are Allenders; I’ll let you see
the book, and like a guid laddie, ye’ll take nae heed of yon birkie and
his windows.”
The young men followed their conductor in high good-humour. He had
quite neutralized the melancholy appearance of the house.
Opposite the dining-parlour was a much smaller apartment, heavy and
dark with books. Into the sombre twilight of this room no stray sunbeam
wandered. High trees closed it round without, and great book-cases,
dusty and crowded, oppressed the wall within. A single old print of
some obscure Stirlingshire divine, long since forgotten, hung over the
mantel-piece, and a much-worn leathern chair stood before a little
writing-table in front of the fire-place. A window-seat, cushioned and
covered with hard crimson moreen, occupied the recess of the window;
but from this window you only looked out upon the damp outline of a
neglected flower-bed, covered with rank vegetation, and upon the close
screen of trees, which bent round it on every side.
“Man, I dinna _envie_ ye the land!” exclaimed the harmless Dragon of
Allenders, “but I div en_vie_ ye the books; and being a callant, ye’ll
no ken how to make a right use of them. Now isna this a grand room?
I’ll warrant ye never were in a muckle house like this afore?”
“It is light we want--nothing but light. It is the gloom which makes
these rooms look so dreary,” said Charteris, sympathetically beholding
the chill which again fell over Harry.
Harry went to the window, and looked out. Why _they_ would be buried
here--and the good fortune was a piece of penance after all.
“You should give me another five hundred a-year for consenting to live
in this place, Mr. Lindsay,” he said in almost an irritated tone.
Poor Harry had a weakness of thinking that disagreeable things were
somebody’s fault. He was quite impatient with Lindsay and Charteris.
He felt as if they had deluded him.
“Dr. Allenders in Stirling would not think so,” said Lindsay, in his
turn a little offended. “I dare say you might find a Jacob among them
eager enough to bargain for the birthright.”
“See, my man, here’s the book,” said the old servant, shuffling up to
Harry. “Ye needna say onything to the minister about it, if ye should
happen to fall in with him, for, maybe, he mightna think it very richt
for a man of my years; and I’ll put it ben the house on the hob to
kindle the fire when I’m done reading it; but it’s awfu’ entertaining.
See, look at it; but I canna ca’ ye Allenders--Allenders was an auld
man, and you’re only a laddie. What do they ca’ ye by your christened
name?”
“My name is Harry Muir,” was the instant reply, for Harry had
unconsciously a feeling of disgust now at the very sound of Allenders.
“Hairy! What garred them ca’ ye Hairy? it’s no a canny name for a laird
of Allenders; and there’s never ane been called by it since the time
the lady was lost; but I hope ye’ll come to nae skaith, for you’re no
an ill lad, judging by your looks. And ye have leddies coming, have ye?
what right has the like of you to leddies?”
“My sisters and my wife, Adam,” said Harry, with a smile.
“His wife! hear till him! Will ye tell me that the like of this bit
callant’s married? Sirs, I never was married mysel.”
The poor old feeble Dragon looked round as he spoke with the air
of a hero, and lifting up his shrivelled hands, exhibited himself
complacently. But as he did this, his book fell, and stooping to pick
it up, he presented it to Harry, with an unmeaning smile.
Poor Dragon! it was a very rare and fine old edition of Shakespeare,
which his rough handling had by no means improved. Harry was not
sufficiently learned to know that it was curious and valuable, but
he saw its great age and antique appearance, and thought it might be
better employed than kindling Adam’s fire.
“When you are done with it, keep it for me, Dragon,” said Harry; “I
should like to look at it myself.”
The old man began to shake his head, slowly at first, but with a
gradually increasing rapidity of motion.
“I’m far from clear that it’s right to give the like o’ this to young
folk; it’s only those who by reason of use have their senses exercised
to discern both good and evil, the Apostle says; and you are but a babe
to be fed on the sincere milk. How mony sisters have ye, Mr. Hairy?”
“Three, Dragon.”
“Three sisters and ae wife! four women intill a house at ance! Come
your ways up the muckle stair,” said the old man, hastily, “and see the
bonnie rooms we’ve gotten to lodge them a’ in; and plenty of light and
plenty of windows, for a’ yon birkie says.”
The young men followed in silence.
On the second story there was a multitude of small rooms. One of them,
over the library, which they entered first, disclosed to Harry’s
half-reluctant eyes, the prettiest of little silvery burns, sparkling
away into the river, under the shelter of those overgrown trees which
made the under rooms so melancholy.
“Here we are,” said Lindsay, triumphantly. “How you may feel on the
matter, I can’t tell, Mr. Muir, but this seems very fine to me; and the
windows behind look out on the Forth.”
Harry was half-ashamed of his ill-humour, but for the moment he could
not conquer it.
“We’ll give this room to the bonniest ane,” said the Dragon, with his
feeble smile. “Whilk ane’s that, Mr. Hairy? and you’ll no be for ony
mair windows for your Lady Rose,” added the old man, turning sharply
round on Cuthbert.
Cuthbert had been investigating the apartment behind.
“The very brightest of drawing-rooms,” said the advocate, with a warmth
which made Harry still more ashamed of himself. “You have nothing to do
but take down this partition, and throw the two into one room.”
The poor old guardian of these dim walls clenched his hand, and shook
it with feeble vehemence in Cuthbert’s face:
“Would ye put such radical notions into the innocent lad’s head? Would
ye daur?”