You follow the young prince up and down like his evil angel.
KING HENRY IV.
“EH, Harry, here’s a gentleman coming,” said Violet, as she sat on the
floor at the western window of the drawing-room with a book on her lap.
Katie Calder kneeling beside her, was looking from the window, and
making a superb cat’s cradle on her fingers. It was evening and lessons
and work alike concluded, the children chose each her own manner of
amusement, until tea should be over, and leave them free for their
out-door ramble. But it was Katie’s observation which discovered the
gentleman, though Violet was by no means incurious, when the discovery
was communicated to her.
“Oh!” said Harry, turning from the window with a slight flush on his
face, “it’s Gibbie Allenders--I might as well see him alone--but that
would hurt his feelings. Mind he’s quite a foolish fellow.”
This speech was addressed to no one in particular, but Harry looked
annoyed and restless, and they all perceived it. Gilbert Allenders,
indeed, was a kind of ghost to Harry; for already an intimacy which
disgusted his finer mind, but which he seemed to have no power to
struggle against, had sprung up between them, and Gilbert never failed
by jibe or malicious allusion, every time they met, to remind his new
kinsman under what circumstances they first saw each other. Poor Harry!
his earliest error here haunted him perpetually--he could not shake its
consequences off.
“Has he got his smoking-room fitted up yet, Mrs. Muir Allenders,” asked
Gilbert, after the ceremonies of his introduction--though he had seen
Agnes before--were over. “Has Harry not begun to retreat into a den
of his own yet? Ah you don’t know how we young fellows do in these
respects--and really Allenders has shown so much good taste in the
other parts of the house, that I am quite anxious to see the den--I’ve
seen a collection of pipes in a German student’s room, that would
astonish all Scotland to match--Bursch as they call themselves--horrid
language that German--but I never could manage the coarse gutturals.”
“We have plenty in our own tongue,” said Uncle Sandy, quietly.
“Ah, Scotch--gone out of date, Sir, out of date--civilized
people forget that there ever was such a jargon. I say, Harry,
wasn’t that fine, that song Simson gave us the first night I saw
you--magnificent--I didn’t know Allenders then, Miss Muir, quite a
chance meeting, was it not extraordinary? and I think the first night
he was in Stirling too--wasn’t it, Harry?”
Harry cast a guilty angry look round the room; Martha started in her
chair; Agnes glanced up uneasily; and Uncle Sandy involuntarily shook
his head; but Rose, happy Rose, heard nothing of it all, for with her
eyelids drooping in a pleasant heaviness, she was dreaming out her
dream--and though it was herself whom Gilbert addressed as Miss Muir,
Rose remained peacefully ignorant of all he said.
“And there’s your friend, that lawyer fellow--your business man, I
suppose, Allenders--he wasn’t with you; a couple of slow chaps, that
advocate and him,” continued the sapient Mr. Gilbert. “I wouldn’t give
twopence for such society. If they’re not as flat as the canal and as
slow as a heavy boat, I’m no judge.”
“It happens that we are all indebted to Mr. Charteris, and that he is
a friend of ours,” said Martha, quickly, “I believe Harry is proud to
call him so.”
“And I am sure I never met a pleasanter man,” stole in Agnes.
And the eyes of Rose gleamed positive lightning upon the redoubtable
Gilbert. But Rose, though she ventured upon a little short prefatory
cough, said nothing.
“By-the-bye,” said Harry, hurriedly, “you have not seen the grounds,
Allenders; come and give me your opinion of them.”
“Delighted, if the ladies will accompany us,” said Mr. Gilbert;
“otherwise, Harry, I am much obliged, but can’t be detached from such
fair company.” And Gilbert returned, with a glance of very unequivocal
admiration, the indignant flash of Rose’s eye.
A pause of general disconcertment followed; irritated and defiant,
Harry tossed about the books upon a little table near him, and moodily
evaded the looks which sought his face. Mr. Gilbert Allenders, the only
person present at ease, pulled up his high collar, and settled his long
chin comfortably upon his stock, while Agnes, in a little flutter of
anxious deprecation and peace-making, began to move among her cups and
saucers, and to prepare tea.
“We have never had the pleasure of seeing you in Stirling yet, Miss
Muir,” said Gilbert, turning his back upon Martha, and addressing
himself with great demonstration to Rose. “Haven’t you had my sisters
out, calling? I thought so. They’re nice girls enough, considering
they’ve been always in the country. Ah, there’s nothing like a season
or two in London for polishing up a man.”
“Have you been in London, Mr. Allenders?” asked Agnes.
“Yes, three or four years; but I’m not quite a good specimen,” said
Mr. Gilbert, modestly, “for I was at work all the time, studying
very hard--oh! very hard;” and the painful student laughed loudly at
his own boast of industry. “I say, Harry, Leith races come on next
month--you’ll go with us, won’t you? there’s Simson and Allan and me; I
said you would be sure to come.”
“I don’t care a straw for Leith races,” said Harry, rudely; but
notwithstanding he raised his head, and looked by no means so
indifferent as he spoke.
“Care! who said anybody cared?” answered Gilbert; “one must go to lots
of places one doesn’t care a straw for--it becomes a duty to society.
I’ll undertake to say you’ll come, Harry. We needn’t be more than a
couple of days away, and the ladies won’t miss you. Permit me, Miss
Muir.”
And Gilbert, politely shutting out Martha and her uncle from sight
of the tea-table with his long loose person and his easy chair,
elaborately waited upon Rose, and devoted himself to her in a
laborious attempt at conversation; but it is very hard to make a
conversation where one of the interlocutors says only “Yes” and “No,”
and those with anything but good will; so Gilbert took in Agnes as
a partaker of his attentions, and talked so fine, and intimated so
many festivities to come when the summer should be over, that the
little wife grew interested in spite of herself, and wondered (for
Agnes had been very “strictly” brought up) whether it would be proper
and decorous for her, a matron and house-mother, twenty years old,
to go to a ball. Martha, behind backs, sat quietly at her work, and
said nothing; while Uncle Sandy looked on with a slight expression of
displeasure and offence. The old man had a sensitive perception of ill
manners, and by no means liked them to be applied to himself. But
Martha was not offended by the neglect of Gilbert Allenders.
After tea, Harry--who had remained very moody and abstracted, except
for a few minutes when he, too, kindled at those descriptions of local
party-giving--proposed a walk in the grounds, where Agnes willingly,
and Rose with great reluctance, were persuaded to accompany them.
Rose was very innocent of flirtation--circumstances had guarded her,
and kept from her both temptation and opportunity--so that, fully
freighted with her present dreams, there could have been nothing
less pleasant to Rose than to walk slowly along the mall, under the
over-arching foliage, leaning upon the arm of Mr. Gilbert Allenders.
And Mr. Gilbert Allenders was burdened with no delicacy. He kept
steadily behind Harry and Agnes, he lingered in quiet places, he spoke
tender sentimentalities, he _quizzed_ the young ladies of Stirling, he
insinuated his perfect conviction of the extreme superiority of Miss
Rose Muir; but no amount of proof could have persuaded Gilbert of a
tenth part of the disgust and dislike with which Rose Muir listened.
She was very near telling him so several times, and begging rather to
hear the rude jokes than the mawkish sentiment. But Rose was shy, and
her safest refuge was in silence.
“What has Harry to do with such a man as that?” said Uncle Sandy.
“Martha, I doubt this fortune is to have its dangers, as great as the
poverty.”
“Ay, uncle.” Martha had seen enough, after a week at Allenders, to
convince her of that.
“And he’s taken with Rose,” said the old man. “You were feared for Mr.
Charteris, Martha; but there’s more reason here.”
“No reason, uncle, no reason,” was the quiet answer. “He may harm
Harry, but Rose is very safe.”
“So she is, it is true,” said the uncle. “Ay, and the man that would
do no harm to Harry might harm the free heart that clings by nature to
things that are true and of good report. God preserve these bairns! If
such a thing were happening as that Rose was to marry, I think, Martha,
my woman, you should come cannily hame to me.”
A long time after, when both of them had relapsed into thoughtful
silence, Martha answered:
“May be, uncle--it might be best; but many things must come and go
between this time and that.”
“Harry has been speaking to me about a project he has,” said the old
man, “about farming and borrowing siller. Has he told you, Martha?”
“Ay, uncle.”
“And you think well of it?”
“An occupation is always good,” said Martha. “I am doubtful and anxious
about his plans for getting money, but the work should do him service;
and Harry has begun on a great scale here, uncle. It is impossible he
can go on so on his present income, and he will rather increase than
diminish--he is always so confident. So I should be glad to think he
had a chance of improving the property. I thought it a great fortune a
month ago. It does not look so inexhaustible now.”
“Well, as the money would come to you at any rate in the ordinary
course of nature,” said the old man hesitating; “and as there is aye
the land to fall back upon, no to speak of my two hundred pounds, I
think I may venture to speak to Miss Jean whenever I get back to Ayr.”
“Miss Jean! Does Harry mean to ask her for the money?” asked Martha.
“What think ye of it? She is far from a likely person, but he means to
offer her higher interest, he says, than anybody else. What think ye of
it, Martha? for I am only doubtful myself,” said the old man, anxiously.
But Martha only shook her head. “Do it, if Harry asks you, uncle--do
it. I have given up advising now. He must be left alone.”
And Harry, to his great wonder, and with a strange mixture of
irritation and pleasure, found himself left alone--suffered, without
remonstrance or check, to follow entirely the counsel of his own
will. Good little Agnes had great trust in what Harry _said_ about
economy and prudence, and triumphantly pointed out to Martha those
resolutions of sublime virtue with which every piece of practical
extravagance was prefaced; and Martha listened with a grave smile, and
never suggested doubt to the simple heart, which, for itself, saw the
most inexhaustible fortune in those much spoken of “rents,” and never
dreaded now the old familiar evils of poverty.
Martha descended from her mother’s place among them. She stood aside,
as she felt was meet, and suffered the young husband and the young
wife to take their lawful place, free of all interference of hers.
She herself now was only guardian of Rose and Violet, domestic helper
of Mrs. Agnes--Harry Muir’s quiet elder sister, living in his house,
a member of his family; and Martha’s natural pride took a secret
unconscious delight in bowing itself to this voluntary humility. She
soon began to be neglected, too, for the strangers who visited the
young household did not feel that the eldest and least attractive
member of it had any such claim on their attention as the pretty,
girlish wife, or the graceful sister Rose. So Martha dwelt more and
more in her own room, always working, and watching the shadows on
Demeyet for her hourly relaxation. These shadows going and coming, and
the soft wind rustling in the leaves, and the water continually passing
by, and gleaming out and in among the shadowing foliage, were delights
to her in her solitude. So were the children, when they drew her out
to walk between them by the waterside, or when they sat at her feet,
and retailed to her the stories of Dragon; and so were Harry’s good
spirits, his constant occupation, his very infrequent lapses, and the
sunny tone and atmosphere with which the hopeful house was filled. Yet
Martha was anxious for Rose, whose dreams--sweet golden mists--were
the first and only thoughts which her young sister had never ventured
to whisper in her ear; for the graver woman knew by true instinct,
though they had never visited her own experience, what these youthful
dreamings were, and always gave tenderly and quietly the sympathy
which the young moved heart came to seek of her, when Rose leaned upon
her shoulder in the summer nights, and looked at the star twinkling
about Demeyet, and sighed. With her arm round the girl’s waist, and
both their faces veiled in the gloom, Martha would sigh, too, and tell
stories of the old time that was past--gentle remembrances of the
father and mother, tales of Uncle Sandy, and of many a familiar name
in Ayr. And Rose smiled, and shed gentle tears, and asked questions
about those old humble romances, those dead sorrows, those softened
and tranquil histories of common life, till the dreams in her heart
no longer oppressed her with their shadowy enchantment, but floated
away, leaving her only with a deeper apprehension and sympathy; and
themselves came back, when it was their time, freshened as with the
evening dews. Sometimes, while they were thus seated by the open
window, Martha leaning on it, and Rose on her, with sweet sounds
ascending--rustling of trees and water, far-off child-voices of Violet
and Katie, Martha would feel for a moment--and as she felt it, her
steady hand shook a little, and her voice trembled--that this ready
memory of hers, and the unconscious link which drew one story after
another into her remembrance, and from her lips, was a mark of the
age which began gradually to draw near. Age! the time of repose, of
quietness, of peace; in the day-time, when such a thought struck her,
the fiery heart within her chafed and rebelled; but at night she only
felt her eyelid moisten, and her heart swell. Martha was wrong--age was
not near; but in spite of forebodings and anxiety, this was a time of
peace--a reposing time wherein strength for the great conflict was to
be gathered.