Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
SHAKSPEARE.
SULLEN Demeyet lies mantled over with the sunshine which steals
gradually further and further westward, pencilling out with a daring
touch his rugged shoulders, and throwing into deepest shadow, here and
there, an abrupt hollow on his side. The trees of Allenders shadow the
river just under the windows, but on either side the sun flashes off
the dazzling water, as if it had a resistant power, and could repel the
rays and throw them back with disdain and pride. Just now the little
Stirling steamer, bound for Leith, has passed those overhanging trees,
while up upon their drooping branches, with the momentary force of sea
surf, comes a great roll of foaming water displaced by the passing
vessel, and rushing along the green river banks after it, like an
insulted water-god. There is always some one at the east window of the
Allenders’ drawing-room when the steamer passes up or down, for it is
a pleasant sight, winding hither and thither through the bright links
of Forth, with its gay passengers and rapid motion, and gives to the
broad landscape the animation which it needs.
By the east window at this present moment, Rose, and Rose alone,
occupies the usual place. She wears a white gown, as Dragon said, and
if scarcely self-possessed enough for a fairy, looks prettier and more
delicate than usual, and has a slight tremor upon her, which she can
neither subdue nor hide. Agnes, with little Harry in her arms, stands
on the turret, eagerly looking out for the returning carriage, while
Martha at a lower window watches the same road. Fain would Rose take
her place, too, on the breezy turret; fain be the first to read in
Harry’s eye how he has spent these hours in Stirling; but no, Harry is
not first just now in the thoughts of his sister. She is not thinking
about any one, Rose would tell you indignantly; but, nevertheless, she
sits here with the most obstinate industry, at the east window where
it is impossible to obtain the least glimpse of the road, and trembles
a little, and drops her needle, and thinks she can hear every leaf
fall, and can tell when a fly alights on the gravel walk, so keen is
her ear for every sound.
And now there comes through the drawn curtains of the west window,
which at present is full of sunshine, the sound of a great commotion;
and carriage-wheels dash over the gravel, and Agnes flies down stairs,
and Harry calls loudly to John, who has sprung from his perch to catch
the excited horse by the head, and calm him down, that the gentlemen
may alight in safety. The colour comes and goes upon Rose’s cheek, and
her fingers shake so, that she scarcely can hold the needle, but she
sits still; and though Harry’s laugh immediately after rings strangely
on her ear, and she listens with sudden anxiety for his voice, Rose
never leaves her window--for another voice there has spoken too.
By and bye a sound of footsteps and voices come up the stair, and
Rose suddenly commanding herself, raises her head and becomes
elaborately calm and self-possessed. Alas, poor Rose! for the door of
the drawing-room opens, and the voices pause without, but there only
enters--Gilbert Allenders.
Gilbert Allenders and a stranger like himself--an intimate of his, whom
he has persuaded Harry into acquaintance with. No one knows that Rose
is here; no one thinks of her, indeed, but the guest of honour who is
being conducted to his own room, and who does not at all admire the
loud greeting in which Mr. Gilbert Allenders expresses his delight
at finding her; but poor Rose, returning those greetings with intense
pride, disappointment and reserve, could almost cry, as she finds
herself compelled to be amiable to Harry’s friend. And now she has time
to grow painfully anxious about Harry himself, and to think of his
excited voice and laughter, and to shiver with sudden fear.
While Rose sits thus, Martha, with so still a step that you cannot
hear her enter, comes gliding into the room like a ghost. With the old
feverish solicitude, the younger sister seeks the elder’s eye; but Rose
learns nothing from the unusual gaiety of Martha’s face. Indeed this
smile, so forced and extreme, and the light tone in which her grave
sister immediately begins to speak--speaking too so very much more than
her wont--terrifies Rose. The strangers see nothing more than a proper
animation, and Gilbert Allenders relaxes and condescends to notice
Martha; but Rose steals out in wonder and terror, fearing she knows not
what.
There is nothing to fear--nothing--say it again, Rose, that your
loving anxious heart may be persuaded. Harry stands by the table in
his dressing-room, unfolding a great bale of beautiful silk to the
wondering eyes of Agnes; and though Harry is a little more voluble than
usual, and has an unsteady glimmer in his eye, and a continual smile,
which reminds her of some sad homecomings of old, there is in reality
nothing here to make any one unhappy. Nothing--nothing--but Rose’s
heart grows sick with its own confused quick throbs as she lingers,
looking in at the door.
“Come along here, Rosie; look what I have been getting a lecture for,”
cried Harry, looking up from the table. “It seems that Agnes needs no
more gowns. Come here, and see if there is anything for you.”
And Rose, who was by no means above the usual girlish vanities, but
liked to see pretty things, and liked to wear them, went in very
quickly--much more anxious than curious it is true, but nevertheless
owning to a little curiosity as well.
“Oh, Rose, see what Harry has brought me,” said Agnes, breathless
with delight, deprecation and fear: “such a splendid silk, white and
blue! but it’s too grand, Rose--do you not think so? And this quiet
coloured one--it is quite as rich though--is for Martha; and here is
yours--pink, because your hair is dark, Harry says.”
And as Agnes spoke, Harry caught up the radiant pink silk glistening
with its rich brocaded flowers, and threw it upon Rose, covering
her simple muslin gown. To say that Rose’s first impression was not
pleasure would be untrue--or that she did not bestow a glance of
affectionate admiration upon the three varieties of Harry’s choice. But
the eyes that sought them for a moment sought again with a lengthened
wistful gaze his own flushed and happy face. And Harry was considerably
excited--that was all--and it was so very easy to account for that.
“But just now, you know, we cannot afford it,” said Agnes, gathering
her own silk into folds, which she arranged scientifically on her
arm, and looking at it with her head on one side, as she held it in
different lights. “I never saw anything so beautiful--it’s just too
grand; but then the price, Harry!”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about the price,” said Harry, gaily.
“You’ve nothing to do but to be pleased with them; no, nor Martha
either; for do you think, after securing that old wife’s siller, that
I may not indulge myself with a silk gown or two? And if my wife and
my sisters won’t wear them, why I can only wear them myself. There,
there’s some cobweb muslin stuff in the parcel for the two of you,
young ladies, and something for Lettie and her friend, and something
for our heir; but away with you now, girls, and let me dress, and say
nothing about the money.”
Ah! hapless Miss Jean Calder! if but you could have heard and seen the
doings of this zealous agricultural improver, whose resolute purpose
of doubling the value of his newly-acquired lands, drew your beloved
“siller” out of its safe concealment, what a wailing banshee shriek
had wrung then through these sunny rooms of Allenders! Not on strong
cattle and skilful implements--not on the choice seed and the prepared
soil--but on the vanities you have scorned through all your envious
lifetime--to deck the fair young forms, whose gladsome breath you
grudge to them--that _your_ gold, the beloved of your heart, should be
squandered thus! Alas, poor miser! But Miss Jean even now clutches her
mortgage parchment, with the glitter of malicious power in her cold
blue eyes. Let them squander who will--she has secured herself.
And Martha, even in her heart, does not say, “Poor Harry!” No, Martha,
for the first time, tries to blind herself with false hope--tries to
dismiss all her old anxious love from her heart, and be careless, and
take no thought for the morrow. She has determined to think of Harry’s
errors as other people think--to call them exuberances, follies of
youth, and to smile with gentle indulgence, instead of sorrowing in
stern despair. For Harry is a man--head of a household; and Martha
tries to endure placidly--tries to persuade herself that there is
nothing to endure--knows that he must be left now to himself, to make
his own fate. To-day she sees, as no other eye can see, the beginning
of peril, and Harry’s excitement, excusable though it may be, and
constantly as she herself excuses it, has wrought in Martha a kindred
agitation. She will not permit herself to grieve or to fear; but sad is
this assumed light-heartedness which Rose trembles to see.
Meanwhile Rose and Agnes, who have carried off Harry’s gifts between
them, are laughing and crying together over the store. It may be
imprudent--it may be extravagant; but it is “so kind of Harry!” He is
so anxious to give them pleasure.
And Mr. Charteris, in the drawing-room, talks to Martha with some
abstraction, and coldly withdraws himself from the elegant conversation
of Mr. Gilbert Allenders. Cuthbert cannot understand why Rose should
avoid him; and he feels the blood warm at his heart with the pride
to which neglect is grievous. But, at the same time, he is troubled
and depressed, and looks with a yearning he never knew before at the
closed door, and speaks little, lest he should lose the sound of the
approaching footstep, which he remembers to be so light. The room is
full of roses, though now in July their flush of beauty is nearly over.
Roses red and white, the delicate blush and the burning purple; but
Cuthbert would throw them all into the river joyfully for one glimpse
of his Lady Rose.
This love-fit sits strangely on the grave advocate--he does not quite
understand how, of all men in the world, it should have found out
him--and its effect is singular. It moves him, perhaps by the power of
those circumstances which hang over this family like a continual cloud,
to a half-sorrowful tenderness for everything young and gentle. It does
not occur to Cuthbert to inquire why his constant dream is to comfort,
to console, to carry away the Rose of Allenders, and bear her tenderly
in his arms out of sorrow and trial. This is the aspect under which he
instinctively views the conclusion of his growing affection. Sometimes,
indeed, there break upon him fair visions of a bride in the sunshine,
a home gladdened by a joyous, youthful voice, and smiles like the
morning; but the usual current of Cuthbert’s fancies present to him a
far-off glimpse of happiness, chastened and calmed by suffering; and
his hope is to deliver her out of some indefinite gloom and evil, to
deliver and carry her home into a gentle rest.
And the shadow of this visionary trouble to come, throws a tender
pathos over Rose in the eyes of her true knight. His stout heart melts
when he sees her, with an indescribable softening--as if he extended
his arms involuntarily, not so much to enclose her for his own content,
as to ward off unseen impending dangers, and keep her safe by his care.
Nevertheless, Cuthbert feels his cheek burn with quick, indignant
anger, and starts and frowns in spite of himself, when he perceives
that Gilbert Allenders gives his arm--again with considerable
demonstration--to the shy, reluctant Rose.
Harry is new to his duties as host, and perhaps his attention to his
guests is slightly urgent and old-fashioned; but Harry is in triumphant
spirits, and throws his radiant good-humour and satisfaction over them
all like a great light. Not without a secret misgiving at the bottom
of their hearts, Rose and Agnes make strong efforts to rise to Harry’s
pitch, if it were but to persuade themselves how innocent and blameless
is Harry’s exhilaration; and Martha continues to smile and speak as
Rose never heard her speak before. It is quite a gay dinner-table.
The time glides on, the ladies leave the dining-room; but when they are
alone, after some forced efforts to keep it up, their gaiety flags,
and one after another glides to her accustomed seat, and subsides into
unbroken silence. It is true that the rejoicings of Violet and Katie
over the new frocks which Harry has not failed to bring for them, make
a little episode, and sustain the animation for a short time--but the
sure reaction comes; and now they sit still, one professing to read,
and the others working, but all casting anxious looks towards the door.
By and bye comes laughter and voices and ringing footsteps up the
stair, but only Charteris enters the drawing-room; for Harry and
his other friends are climbing further up to the turret, where he
has fitted up a little “den,” as Gilbert Allenders calls it, for
himself. And their good friend, Mr. Charteris, looks very grave; they
think Harry has lowered himself in Cuthbert’s eyes--they think this
seriousness is the painful regret with which a strong man sees a weak
one sink under temptation; and their hearts flutter within them with
restless anxiety, and they listen to Harry’s laugh in the distance
till its echo makes them sick. While, all the time, Cuthbert is too
much interested not to notice how uneasily the young wife moves upon
her chair, and the abstraction from which Martha starts with a dismal
resolution to be gay again. Poor Harry! But Cuthbert stands behind the
chair of Rose, and feels that he is consoling _her_--feels that he is
occupying with his presence something of the space which, without him,
might have been wholly given to anxiety and fear.
The children are already out under the windows, playing on the lawn;
and, at Cuthbert’s suggestion, Rose and Martha accompany him to the
mall on the river-side. He tells them how he admired this when he
came first with Harry to see Allenders, and that he often fancies how
they must enjoy this verdant cloister when he is shut up in his office
at Edinburgh. The sun slants in through the great oak which rounds
the end of the mall, and just touches here and there a heavy alder
leaf, and lights up one little branch upon a stately elm, with tender
golden rays, cool and dewy; and there is wind enough to disturb the
long willow branches and ruffle the fleecy lining of their leaves. A
narrow strip of path, sandy and yellow, breaks the soft green turf
which slopes down to the water on one side, and on the other, rich
with flower-beds, stretches up in a slight incline to the walls
of Allenders; and Cuthbert, with Martha on his arm, walks slowly,
silently, looking after the white figure which has strayed a step or
two before. Slightly turning towards them, with a shy, half-conscious
look backwards, Rose says something to Martha about the wild flowers
in the grass; and Rose guesses, with a tremor, that Cuthbert has had
visions of herself under the shadow of these trees, and feels that his
eye just now is dwelling upon her, and that he is saying words to her
in his heart. But the charmed silence lasts, and even Martha, looking
on, has not the heart to break its spell.
But look up yonder at the turret. With the sun glancing in his hair,
Harry stands in the little battlemented gallery, and holds up a glass
of sparkling wine, and bows and smiles, and drinks to them. Immediately
both the sisters look at Cuthbert; and Cuthbert, with a gaiety he does
not feel, takes off his hat, and returns the salutation with playful
stateliness. His gesture cheers them, and they become again quite
tremulously glad, when he calls to Harry to come down, and Harry nods
in assent, and disappears upon the turret stair. It is true that the
momentary smile flits away from Cuthbert’s face, and he becomes very
serious. But they are looking for Harry--they do not see the deep
regret and gravity which clouds the brow of his friend, who, within
himself, says “Poor Harry!” with a heavy sigh.
And Harry is now more excited than ever, and they are constantly
calming and soothing him to keep him within bounds--trying to be gay
themselves that his unreal gaiety may be less marked--and carefully
avoiding everything which could possibly irritate his feelings. Poor
Harry! some wistful eye is always following him, some solicitous
voice constantly interposing to bring down to the ordinary quietness
and moderation his unconscious extravagance--eyes which are afraid
to meet--afraid to confide to each other, even by a glance, this new
pain which Harry has brought upon them; for hitherto they have seen
principally the remorse which followed his fall, and never before have
beheld others conscious, of what so greatly humiliated themselves. Now
the sneer and patronizing forbearance of Gilbert Allenders, who has too
cool a head to be moved as Harry is, chafes Martha beyond endurance,
and excites the gentle little Agnes to such a pitch of anger, that her
hand clenches involuntarily, and she could almost strike him in a burst
of weeping petulance. But the long, long painful hours pass away, and
at last it is night.
“It is nothing--it is nothing. Nobody thinks anything of this but us.
We are always so anxious!” sobs Agnes, as she wakes in the middle of
the night, and weeps; but Martha, who does not need to wake--who has
never slept--suffers her heart to say nothing, but only prays, and
tries to forget--tries to think of anything rather than Harry; and
cannot weep, if she should try for ever.