Lord what a nothing is this little span
We call a man!
How slight and short are his resolves at longest,
How weak at strongest!
QUARLES.
CUTHBERT CHARTERIS returned to Edinburgh that night, but not until he
had first made a rude outline--he was no artist, but could use his
pencil enough for this--of Allenders, with its eccentric turret and
shady mall, and the boat--a very crazy, incompetent boat as it turned
out--lying under the saugh tree upon the quiet water. He showed it to
Harry, as they eagerly consulted about the necessary improvements, and
Harry thought it quite a remarkable production; but Cuthbert greatly
doubted as he enclosed it to Martha Muir. The deed almost lost its
original intention of simple kindness, as he pondered over it, and
feared that _they_ might think his drawing a very poor affair; but it
was sent at last.
Harry remained with Lindsay in Stirling. It was necessary to see
the family of Allenders residing there, who, failing Harry and his
household, were next heirs; and some legal forms had also to be gone
through. Harry had recovered his usual spirits; he was, excited with
his new position, with his proposed improvements, and even with his
inn lodgings; and while Lindsay laboured through some necessary
processes for his enfeoffment, Harry strayed out to see the town.
He saw the town, it was very true. He climbed to the bastions of the
lofty castle, and looked round him east and west. To the blue Highland
hills in the distance--to Demeyet and his brother Ochils, glooming in
brown shadows over the country at his feet--to the silvery maze of the
Forth, wantoning in and out between those verdant banks as if he were
fain of a pretext to linger at every corner, because he loved the way
so well--and to the broad strath of Bannockburn, stealing away into
those great lines of cloud, which seemed to carry its gently sloping
plain into the distant sky. Harry looked upon them all, and mused and
lingered, thinking pleasant thoughts. Then he saw the lights begin to
gleam, one after another, in the town below, and he sauntered down to
walk through the streets with their pleasant, quiet, leisurely stir,
and then to return to his hotel.
But it was very late when Harry returned to his hotel--and he was
“indisposed,” and would not see the wondering Lindsay, who only left
his papers for the supper he had ordered, when he heard that Mr. Muir
had already gone to his room, and was “indisposed.” Lindsay was puzzled
and offended. He could not make out what this sudden indisposition
could mean.
Poor Harry! next morning he rose late, with an aching head and a pained
heart. He forgot at first when he woke how he had concluded the last
evening; but as the remembrance dawned upon him, he wrung his hands and
groaned aloud. What could he do? how could he defend himself against
this overpowering weakness? He threw himself upon his face, and prayed
in an agony of self-reproach and shame, for strength, for deliverance.
Alas! this great inheritance, this fair new life--had he put the stain
of his infirmity upon its promise already.
Lindsay had breakfasted some time before Harry made his appearance in
their sitting-room; and now sat at a window, reading a newspaper, and
looking very grave and stately. A ceremonious salutation passed between
them; and Harry, sick, despondent, and miserable, sat down at the
table. As he loitered over his coffee, and pushed his plate away from
him with loathing, there was perfect silence in the room, except for
the rustling of Lindsay’s paper, and his own restless motions.
Poor Harry was utterly cast down, but his humiliation struggled with
a fierce irritability; and Lindsay never moved his paper, but his
companion felt the strongest impulse to snatch it from his hand, and
trample on it, as if the indifference, which could content itself with
a newspaper, while he was suffering thus, was a positive injury to him.
When he had finished breakfast, he remained still leaning his head
upon his hand, and idly brooding over the disordered table. He did not
feel any inclination to go out, he had indeed nothing present before
him, but a diseased image of himself overspread with blank despondency,
and clouded with rising ill-humour. He had never felt this so much
before; for always before he had to justify himself, or to melt in
sympathy with those tears of yearning love and pity which had been wept
over him so often. He scarcely had known till now how bitterly and
harshly the soul can condemn itself, alone.
“When you are at leisure, Mr. Muir,” said Lindsay, coldly, “I shall be
glad if you will accompany me to call on Dr. Allenders. He was here
last night, having received a note I wrote him from Edinburgh; and as
he did not see you then--”
“Of course, I am ready--of course,” said Harry, starting up hastily.
“It was impossible I could know when Dr. Allenders intended to call.
But I am quite at your command, Mr. Lindsay. Does this man mean to
dispute my claim?”
“This man is a person of the highest character,” said Lindsay, with his
stiff gravity. “Having seen the documents, he does not intend to put
any obstacle in your way, Mr. Muir. By the bye, I do not know whether
you mean to assume the name of the family which you succeed. It is not
a condition of the will certainly, but it was implied. Shall I present
you to the Doctor as Mr. Allenders?”
“No, no, not yet,” said the conscience-stricken Harry. “Not yet--not
to-day. No, no--let it be a better time.”
These words were spoken incoherently, but Lindsay understood them, and
his heart was softened.
They went out, and the conversation gradually became less constrained
and more familiar; but Harry painfully recognised the places which
he had passed during the ramble of the previous night, and vowed in
his heart, as the bright day without restored in some degree his
failing spirit and courage, that never more, never again, should these
inanimate things remind him of temptations yielded to, and resolutions
broken. Poor Harry! a very short time makes him as confident as ever;
and when they have reached the doctor’s door, he has again begun to
look forward fearlessly into the future, and to bring no self-distrust
or trembling out of the past.
The doctor’s house is on the outskirts of the town, a square,
comfortable habitation, with a radiant glimpse from its windows of the
mazes of the river and the far-off hills. Upon the door glitters a
brass plate, bearing the name of John Allenders, M.D.; and Dr. John
Allenders seems to be in comfortable circumstances, for a spruce boy
in buttons opens the door, and they are shown into a handsome library,
which a strong, peculiar fragrance, and a suspicious glass door with
little red curtains, proclaims to be near the surgery; but Dr. John
has a good collection of books, and altogether appears to Harry an
exceedingly creditable relation, and one with whom even the heir of
Allenders may be sufficiently well pleased to count kin.
It is some time before Dr. John makes his appearance; but Lindsay,
who stands opposite the glass door, catches a glimpse of a
dissipated-looking head, in great shirt collars, stealthily peeping
through the red curtains at Harry, and making faces with an expression
of unmitigated disgust. But he has scarcely time to notice this, when
a shadow falls upon the door, and, with a solemn step, Dr. Allenders
enters the library.
He is a common-place looking man, with great dark eyes, which project
almost their whole round from under the puckered eyelid. It is curious
to notice how those eyes move, as if they were touched by strings or
wires behind; but the rest of his face is very tolerable, and he looks
what he is, a thoroughly respectable person, driving his gig, and
having money in the bank; and understanding himself to be a responsible
man, owing society, in right of his position in it, ever so many
observances and proprieties.
Close behind Dr. Allenders, comes the dissipated head and the shirt
collars, which just now made faces at Harry Muir. The owner of the
head stumbles up the two steps which connect the lower level of the
surgery with that of this more dignified apartment, and enters the
room with a swagger. He has eyes like the doctor’s, and a long, sallow
face, encircled by the luxuriant brushwood which repeats under his
chin the shaggy forest of hair which is the crown and glory on his
head. He wears a very short grey coat, a coloured shirt, and an immense
neck-cloth; and there enters with him into the room an atmosphere of
smoke, tinted with many harmonizing odours, which envelopes his whole
person like a separate world.
Harry turned round with slightly nervous haste as the doctor made his
appearance. The Doctor bowed, and held out his hand with a frankness
half real, half assumed; but Harry’s hand fell as it advanced to meet
that of Dr. Allenders, while Dr. Allenders’ son uttered a coarse
exclamation of surprise and recognition. Poor Harry! his face became
purple with very shame and anger--for this coarse prodigal had been
one of his boon companions on the previous night.
“Met before?” said the doctor, inquiringly, as Harry stimulated by
the rude laugh of young Allenders, and the serious wonder of Lindsay,
made a strong effort to recover himself. “Seen my son in some other
place, Mr. Muir? I am glad of that, for blood is thicker than water;
and though we have lost an estate through your means, my young friend,
I hope we’ll have grace given us not to be envious, but to rejoice in
your exaltation as if it were our own; besides that, it would have been
very inconvenient to me--extremely inconvenient for my professional
duties--to have lived five miles out of town; and then the house is
such an old tumble-down affair. So I wish you joy, most heartily,
Mr. Muir. The income of Allenders’ estate would have been small
compensation to _me_, and Gilbert here has not settled to the harness
yet; so we’ve no reason to complain--not a shadow. Pray sit down--or
will you come up-stairs and see my wife and my daughters? Oh, we’ll not
disturb them; and being relations, they have heard of you, Mr. Muir--I
told them myself yesterday--and would like to see the new heir.”
“I say Muir, my boy, I’m delighted it’s you,” said Mr. Gilbert
Allenders, thrusting forward a great bony, tanned hand, ornamented with
a large ring. “Pleasant night, last night, wasn’t it? Glad to see we’ve
got another good fellow among us. Come along up-stairs and see the
girls.”
Mr. Gilbert Allenders had a rough voice, with the coarsest of
provincial accents; and to mend the matter, Mr. Gilbert put himself
to quite extraordinary pains to speak English, omitting his r’s with
painful distinctness, and now and then dropping a necessary h. It had
been a matter of considerable study to him, and he was very complacent
about his success.
Harry submitted with a bad grace to shake hands, and unconsciously drew
nearer to Lindsay.
But Lindsay, who only smiled at the vulgar Mr. Gilbert, instinctively
drew himself up, and turned his face from Harry. Harry Muir for himself
was nothing to the young lawyer; but Lindsay felt personal offence
mingle in the contempt with which he perceived how his client chose his
company--leaving himself solitary in their inn, to go and seek out a
party which could admit this Gilbert Allenders. Henceforth, Mr. Lindsay
might be man of business to the new heir--friend he could never be.
“I must be in Edinburgh this afternoon,” said Lindsay coldly. “Do you
accompany me Mr. Muir? for if you do not, I have accomplished all that
is necessary here, I fancy, and may take my leave.”
Harry hesitated for a moment, his better feelings struggling with
false shame and pride; but lifting his eyes suddenly, he encountered
the derisive smile of Gilbert Allenders, and took in with one rapid
glance all the characteristics of his new-found kinsman. These had more
effect on his susceptibility than either reason or repentance. He did
not decide on returning in the lawyer’s respectable society, because
he feared for his own weakness, if he permitted himself to remain here
alone. No, often though Harry’s weakness had been demonstrated even to
his own conviction, it was not this; but what a knowledge of himself
could not do, disgust with Gilbert Allenders did. He answered hastily
that he too would return at once, and persuading Lindsay to remain and
accompany him up-stairs to the drawing-room where Mrs. Allenders and
her daughters sat in state expecting their visit, they at length left
the house together, declining the preferred escort of Mr. Gilbert.
But Harry did not escape without a galling punishment for the previous
night’s folly. Gilbert Allenders, seeing how he winced under it, plied
him with allusion after allusion. “Last night, you recollect?” and with
the most malicious perseverance recalled its speeches, its laughter,
its jokes and its noise, assuming too an ostentation of familiarity
and good-fellowship which Harry could scarcely restrain his fury at.
The effect was good and bad; on the one hand, Harry vowed to himself
fiercely that he never would put himself in the power of such a man
again: on the other, he forgot how he himself had wasted the fair
summer night begun with pleasant thoughts and blessings; how he had
desecrated and polluted what should have been its pure and healthful
close. He forgot his repentance. He felt himself an ill-used man.
But he left Stirling that night with the half-mollified Lindsay. So
much at least was gained.