A home to rest, a shelter to defend.
PLEASURES OF HOPE.
THE evening sun shines into the drawing-room of Allenders--the
drawing-room newly completed and magnificent, through which Harry
Muir’s little wife goes merrily, laughing aloud as she pauses to admire
again and again those luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, which it is
almost impossible to believe are her own. It is a long room occupying
the whole breadth of the house, for Harry has taken Cuthbert’s hint,
and thrown down the partition which once made two dim bed-chambers,
where now is this pretty drawing-room.
From the western window you can see the long light stealing over
Bannockburn, tracing bright fines of softened green and yellow along
the wide strath, and laying down upon the swelling fields as it passes
away such a depth of dewy rest and shadow as never lay in any land
of dreams. And the hill-tops are dusty and mazed with the rays which
stream over them, a flood of golden streaks, falling out of the fight
like drooping hair; while nearer, at our very feet, as we stand by this
window, the burn below flashes out through the heavy alder boughs, in
such sweet triumph over its crowning sunbeam, that you unconsciously
smile in answer to its smiling, as you would to any other childish joy.
From the other window you can look out upon Demeyet, somewhat sullenly
receiving the radiance of the sunset. He, stout rebel, loves better
the young morning, whose earliest glance is over his head, before her
eyelids are fully opened. How she glances up playfully behind him,
how she shrinks under his great shoulder, you will see, when you see
the sun rise upon the links of Forth. But Demeyet, like many another,
does not know when fortune is kindest to him, nor ever guesses that
he himself, with those royal purple tints upon his robed shoulders,
and the flitting shades which cover his brow, like the waving of a
plume, shows his great form to better advantage now, than when the
faint morning red, and the rising light behind, darken him with his
own shadow. Wherefore Demeyet receives the sunlight sullenly, and
glooms upon merry Agnes Muir at the window of Allenders’ drawing-room,
till she can almost fancy that he lifts a shadowy arm, and clenches
a visionary hand to shake it at her threateningly with defiance and
disdain.
A silver tea-service, engraven with the Allenders’ crest, and china
the most delicate that Agnes ever saw, glitter on the table, which
is covered besides with every rare species of “tea-bread,” known to
the ingenious bakers of Stirling. And now Agnes glides round and
round the table, endeavouring to recollect some one thing omitted,
but cannot find any excuse for ringing the bell and summoning one of
her hand-maidens to get another survey of the _tout ensemble_, which
dazzles the eyes of the little wife. Harry has gone to Stirling to
meet and bring home his sisters; and Uncle Sandy, their escort and
guardian, is with them for a visit; and so is poor little Katie Calder,
the oppressed attendant of Miss Jean. It is true that Agnes is very
affectionate and very grateful--that, herself motherless, she clings
to Martha, and would immediately succumb in any strait to the stronger
mind, and character, and will of the eldest member of their little
household; but withal, Agnes is mortal, and it is impossible to deny
that there is quite a new and delightful pleasure to her in feeling
herself, and in having others feel, that it is her house to which
the sisters are coming home--that she is the head of the family, the
house-mother, and that all the glories of this grandest of palaces are
her own.
Now a faint rumbling of distant carriage-wheels strikes on the excited
ear of Agnes, but no carriage is visible from the windows--so she runs
impatiently up some flights of narrow winding stairs, and emerges, out
of breath, upon the gallery, which conducts to the little turret of
Allenders. This gallery is very small--three people standing in it
would make quite a little crowd; but then it commands a far-off view
of the Forth, beyond Alloa in one direction, and of Stirling’s crowned
rock, and the Highland hills, and what is still more important at this
moment, of the Stirling road, on the other.
And yonder, along the white line of the Stirling road, seen at present
only in a glimpse through the trees, comes that pretty open carriage,
the price of which Harry is afraid to think of, his latest purchase,
with its strong bay horse and its smart groom driver, beside whom Harry
himself, still wise enough to acknowledge that he cannot drive, sits
leaning back, to point out triumphantly to the crowded company behind
him the first glimpse of their new house. Martha and Uncle Sandy, Rose
and the two children, fill the coach almost to over-brimming; and
though they are all dusty and hot, there are bright looks on every
face of them. But Agnes does not pause to look at their faces, but
flies down stairs, nearly tripping herself with the wide folds of her
muslin gown, to throw the door hospitably open, and stand herself,
dignified like a matron and head of a family, on the threshold, to
receive the strangers.
At the gate, the innocent Dragon of Allenders twirls his rusty hat
feebly on a stick, and laughs to himself with his slow chuckle as he
leans upon the opened gate; and half in curiosity, half because the
housemaid was once in Sir John Dunlop’s, and has very proper notions
of what is due to the “family,” Agnes finds both her servants standing
behind her in the hall. The little wife holds her head high, and
overflows with dignity and innocent stateliness, all the while feeling
an almost irresistible inclination to relieve herself with a burst of
incredulous, wondering laughter; for how she ever came to be a great
lady, Agnes cannot comprehend.
Now, Lettie, jump! Be first out of the grand carriage--first upon the
bright green lawn of Allenders. See, yonder are soft-voiced doves upon
the turret; and the spear-head, no longer tarnished, throws gleams
about it in the sunshine upon those twinkling, tremulous aspen leaves;
and listen here to this child’s tongue singing, calling to you, though
the language is not yours--the burn, Lettie! and this brown foliage
is the fragrant walnut; and past the grey walls and that dim library
window is a broad gleam of silver, all fretted and broken by twining
boughs and foliage, for that is the river--the grand Forth--and this is
fairy land!
“Oh, Martha, Martha!--Rose!--Uncle!” cried Agnes, running forward to
the carriage-door; but as Martha alighted, and took both her hands, the
young house-mother forgot her dignity, and instead of the pretty speech
she had been meditating, only exclaimed again: “Oh, Martha, Martha!”
and burst into a fit of tears.
Laughing, sobbing, smiling, Agnes led them up-stairs, and hurried them
through all the rooms. A pretty apartment, looking to the river, had
been chosen for Martha and Rose, while a smaller one within it was for
the children. They were all perfectly and carefully fitted up--alas!
for Harry’s nine hundred pounds.
“Bairns, I will ask a blessing,” said Uncle Sandy, as they gathered
round the tea-table.
There was an instant hush, and Rose shrouded little Harry’s head with
her hand, and pressed him closer to her side, to still even the child
into reverent silence. She was seated close by the old man, and he,
too, raised one hand to shade his reverent forehead, and solemnly
lifted the other.
“Lord, a blessing on these offered mercies, a blessing on this
roof-tree, upon our meeting and our sundering, and upon these Thy
bairns, fatherless and motherless, whom Thou hast led hitherto, and
brought pitifully unto this day. Give them out of the ark of Thy
covenant, comfort them with strength, and succour from all evil, for
the Lord’s sake. Amen.”
There was a momentary solemn pause, after the voice ceased--and Rose
bent down over the child to hide her face; and Agnes, with the tears
still in her eyes, looked wistfully at the old man; and Harry cast
down his, and laid his hand softly on Martha’s hand. No one said
there were fears and hopes--intensest hopes and fears in this new
beginning--nor that its brightness trembled with a solemn peradventure;
but at this moment, all had a consciousness of putting themselves and
their fate into the hand of God, and of waiting for what He should
bring out of those unknown years. “_I_ cannot tell--God knows what is
to come,” said Martha’s heart, as it yearned within her over them all;
and there came to each a strange humility and trust. God knows! one can
look calmly into a future which, step by step, is known to our pitiful,
great Father. Day by day--hour by hour--they must each of them come to
us out of the heavens, full and rounded with the daily tribulation, the
daily gladness which is appointed to their lot. But God knows now the
way which we shall learn by single footsteps--knows and appoints it
for us out of His great love--God knows--it is very well.