“There is all hope in thee, sweet Spring, sweet Spring!
Dull voices, speaking of thee, unawares,
Bewray themselves to sing.
For every name thou hast such music bears;
Whether ’tis March, when all the winds are gay--
Or April, girlish in her wayward way--
Or sweetest May.”
DAY by day passed, of Harry Muir’s last bright week at Ayr--passed
no less happily to the three sisters, than to himself and his little
wife--and at last, fresh, healthful, and in high spirits, the youthful
couple and their baby returned home.
To walk to the coach-office to meet them, was of itself a jubilee for
the home-dwellers, and Mrs. Rodger herself held the door open for
them, in stately welcome. Mrs. Rodger was a tall old woman, gaunt and
poverty-stricken, in her dingy widow’s cap, and black cotton gown; but
Mrs. Rodger had been “genteel” once, and never forgot it. She extended
one of her long arms, and gave Harry’s hand a swing, as he stopped to
greet her. “I was just telling our weans,” said Mrs. Rodger, “that the
house wasna like itself, wanting you--and I hope you find your leg
strong, Mr. Muir; bless me, how the wee boy’s grown! I would scarce
have kent him; bring him ben, Violet, and let the weans get a look o’
him. What a size he’s turned!”
Miss Aggie, the youngest of the aforesaid weans, plunged out of the
kitchen, and seized the baby with loud expressions of admiration. The
little wife was easily flattered by praise of that blue-eyed boy of
hers, and was by no means unwilling to accompany him herself, and
exhibit him to the assembled “weans” in Mrs. Rodger’s kitchen.
This apartment, which answered all purposes to the family, was a
good-sized room, showing an expanse of uncovered floor, not over clean,
and a great wooden “bunker” for coals, as its most noticeable feature.
The “bunker” is an article which belongs exclusively to the household
arrangements of Glasgow. This one was not very high as it happened, and
on the corner of it sat Miss Jeanie, her hands busy with her work, her
feet deposited on a chair below. Miss Aggie, in like manner, occupied
a corner of the table in the window. Their work required a good deal
of light, and they were fettered by no punctilios as to attitude. Miss
Rodger, the eldest sister, flitted in and out of a dark scullery--and
withdrawn as far as possible from the light, in the dusky corner, by
the fireside, sat a shabby and not very young man, with shuffling
indolent limbs stretched across the hearth, and pins, the sole
gathering of his idleness, stuck in the lappel of his dusty, worn coat,
and a face that promised better things. This was “Johnnie,” as they
called him, Mrs. Rodger’s only son. Poor Johnnie had begun this sad
manner of life by a long illness, and now, between his rheumatism and
his false shame, incapable, as it seemed, of any strenuous endeavour to
make up for what he had lost, had sunk into the state of an indolent
dependant upon the little earnings of his sisters. They had their
faults, these women; but never one of them murmured at the burden thus
thrown upon them. Living very meanly, as they were constrained to
do, they were still perfectly content to toil for Johnnie. It never
seemed to occur to them at all, indeed, that the natural order of
things was reversed in their case. Sometimes, it is true, there was a
quarrel between the mother, who was a termagant, and the poor indolent
shipwrecked son, whose temper was easily galled, having always this
sore consciousness to bear it company--but never one of the sisters
upbraided Johnnie, or made a merit of labouring for him. Amidst all
their vanity, and vulgarity, this one feature elevated the character of
the family, and gave to those three very common-place young women, a
standing-ground of which no one could possibly be less conscious than
they were themselves.
The large good-humoured hoyden, Miss Aggie, danced the baby in her
arms, and carried him to the fireside to her brother. Poor Johnnie took
the boy more gently, and praised him to his mother’s heart’s content,
while Violet, no longer shy, but at present very fluent and talkative,
stood by the side of her special friend and ally, Mr. John. The little
girl and the poor indolent man, were on very intimate terms.
“I was just telling our weans,” repeated Mrs. Rodger, “that the wee
boy would be just another creature after a while in the country; and
cheeks like roses you’ve gotten yoursel, Mrs. Muir. It would be unco’
dull though, I’m thinking--if it had only been the saut water--but its
no the season for the saut water. I mind when Archie was living--that’s
their father--we gaed down regular to Dundoon, and it was just a
pleasure to see the weans when they came hame.”
“Agnes, Martha says the tea’s ready,” said Violet, “and I’m to carry
little Harry ben.”
The tea-table in the parlour was pleasantly covered, and still more
pleasantly surrounded, and Agnes’ basket, which the good uncle’s own
hands had packed, remained still unopened; so the baby was given
over to the safe keeping of Rose, and the busy young wife began to
distribute uncle Sandy’s tokens of remembrance.
“This pot of honey is for you, Martha,--uncle Sandy thought you would
like to give it to us all, now and then, on high days--and here is a
bottle of cream from Mrs. Thomson, at the corner, and a little silk
handkerchief to Rose, and the last of the apples to Violet--and see
here, look, all of you, look!”
Two little flower-pots carefully packed with moss, one of them bearing
a tuft of fragrant little violets, the other proudly supporting a
miniature rose-bush, with one little bud just appearing from its green
leaves--good gentle uncle! He had been at so much trouble getting
this fairy rose, and cherishing it in his little sitting-room, till
this solitary bud rewarded his nursing. It was hailed with a burst of
delight from Violet, and by the elder sisters, with a pleasure which
almost reached to tears.
“It is so like my uncle,” said Rose.
And then with some happy excitement, they gathered round the tea-table.
Harry had a great budget of local news to open, and the blithe Agnes
interrupted him every moment to tell of her first impressions, and new
acquaintance. There had been beautiful weather, sunny and soft, as
it often is in the early part of April, and the young wife had left
all cares behind her on the grave shoulders of Martha. Harry had been
so well, so happy, so considerate--enjoying so thoroughly the simple
pleasures of his old home, and the society of his pure unsophisticated
uncle--Agnes thought she had never been so happy.
And Harry’s face was sparkling with healthful blameless pleasure. He
looked so man-like, the centre of their anxieties and wishes, and was
in reality so fresh-hearted, and capable of innocent enjoyment, that
Martha’s troubled heart grew glad over the success of her experiment.
He had been home--he had seen again in these old scenes, the pure
heroic fancies of his earliest youth, and many days hence the anxious
sister thought the happy effect would remain.
They closed the evening, as it was always closed in the house at
Ayr--with the simple and devout worship of the family. Harry, with his
fine mind so clear to-night, and happily elevated, a young household
priest, conducted those simple fervent devotions--for the religious
emotions were strong within him. They swayed him much sometimes, as,
unfortunately other feelings swayed him at other some; but he was
deeply susceptible at all times to all the beauty, all the grandeur
of the holy faith he professed. The young man’s voice trembled, and
his heart swelled as he appealed to the Great Father for the sake of
the wonderful Son. And as, most humbly and earnestly, he asked for
strength against temptation, the tears in Martha’s eyes were tears of
hope--almost of joy. She thought that surely never again this young
ingenuous spirit would fall--never again forsake that holy brotherhood,
at whose head He stands, who was once tempted for the sake of us--to
defile its garments with the mean sins of former times. There was a
shadow of deep quiet upon all their faces as they rose from their
knees; they thought they had come to the beginning of a purer, happier
time. They, these anxious women, thought so for him; and he, poor
Harry! for himself, with those joyous eyes of his, looked forward to
the future, without fear.