“Ay, even here, in the close city streets,
’Tis good to see the sunset--how the light,
Curious and scornful, thrusts away the masses
Of vapour brooding o’er the busy town,
Yet leaves a trace of rosy light the while
Even on the thing it scorns.
And the rich air gives sweetness to all sounds;
And hazy sunbeams glorify young faces--
And labour turns aside, glad of its hour
Of aimless idling.”
CUTHBERT CHARTERIS, much against his will, was detained a week longer
in Glasgow. His uncle, a man of unbounded hospitality, an almost
invariable characteristic of his class, was not without a little family
pride in Cuthbert’s attainments and position--and such a succession
of people had been already invited to “meet” Mr. Buchanan’s advocate
nephew, that Cuthbert’s good humour, though already sufficiently taxed,
would not suffer him to disappoint them.--Neither was it until the very
last evening of the week, when he had made positive arrangements for
going to Ayr next day, that he had leisure to call on the Muirs.
The sun was setting on the soft April evening, and the slanting level
sunbeams streamed through the dusty streets, drawing out in long
shadows the outline of the houses. Within these shadows the bystanders
felt almost the chill of winter, while in the sunshine at the street
corners, lounging groups congratulated each other that summer had come
at last.
Here the light fell on a white “mutch” or two, and on the sun-burnt
heads of innumerable children, of whose boisterous play the gossip
mothers took no notice.--There it glimmered and sparkled in braids
and curls, and plaits of beautiful hair which a _coiffeur_ might have
studied for the benefit of his art, and which you could scarcely fancy
the short thick toil-hardened fingers of these laughing mill-girls
able to produce. But toilsome as their factory life was, it had its
edge of enjoyment, quite as bright and enlivening as the evening
recreations of any other class--and with those young engineer workmen
clustering around them, and the evening sunshine and the hum of
continual sound--sound which expressed repose and sport, and scarcely
had the least admixture of the laborious din of full day--filling the
atmosphere, there were many scenes less pleasant and less graceful,
than the street corner and its groups of mill-girls. And here, up the
broad road, now almost free of the carts which usually crowd it, dashes
at full speed a bright little equipage glowing in green and gold, which
draws up with a flourish at the corner. Straightway the “closemouths,”
and “common stairs” pour forth a stream of girls and women, carrying
vessels of every form and size, from the small china cream-jug from
some lonely lady’s tea-table, to the great pitcher under which little
Mary staggers as she carries it home in her arms to supply the porridge
of a dozen brothers and sisters; and you never were refreshed with
richer milk under the deepest umbrage of summer trees, than that which
gives forth its balmy stream from the pretty green barrels hooped with
brilliant brass, which rest upon the light framework of the Port Dundas
dairy cart.
Rose Muir stood at the door as Cuthbert approached--he had chosen a
later hour than usual for his visit, that he might not disturb them at
their simple evening meal--but as he glanced at the downcast face of
Rose, over which an uneasy colour was flushing, he saw that the old
anxiety, the origin of which he had guessed at before, had now again
returned. The long wistful glances she cast along the street--the eager
expectant look with which she turned to himself--once before the herald
of poor Harry--would have almost sufficed to reveal the secret of the
family to Cuthbert had he not guessed it before.
“Harry has not come home yet,” said Rose, with an unconscious apology
in her tone; “they are sometimes kept very late at the office--but my
sisters are up stairs, Mr. Charteris, will you come in?”
Cuthbert followed her silently. He had become so much interested in
the fortunes of the family, that he felt his own heart sink, as he
remembered that “the office” had been closed a full hour ago.
Agnes was alone when they entered the parlour, and Cuthbert, roused
to observation, saw her sudden start as they opened the door, and
the pallor and sickness of disappointment which came over her pretty
youthful face, when her eye fell upon himself. The work she had been
busy with, fell from the fingers which seemed for the moment too
nervous to hold it. The little wife had been so confident--so sure of
Harry’s reformation,--and her heart was throbbing now with a positive
agony of mingled fear and hope.
Cuthbert seated himself on the sofa, and began to talk of the baby--it
was almost the only subject which could soothe the young mother--but
even while he spoke, he could see how nervously awake they both were to
every sound; how Rose suspended her work and held her breath at every
footstep in the street below which seemed to approach the door--and
how the needle stumbled in the small fingers of Agnes, and the unusual
colour flickered on her cheek.
“You are very late, Harry,” said Martha, entering from the inner
room--Cuthbert’s back was towards her--she thought it was her brother.
“It is Mr. Charteris, Martha,” said Rose.
There was a fiery fight in Martha’s eyes--an impatience almost fierce
in the evident pang, and short suppressed exclamation with which
she discovered her mistake. She too had been strong in her renewed
hope--had began to rest with a kind of confidence in the changed mind
of Harry.
But now the former chafing had commenced again, and the bitter
hopelessness which once before overpowered her, returned upon her
heart--Cuthbert thought of the old grand picture of the bound
Prometheus--of the lurid background, and the cold tints of the captive
figure, rigid in his manacled strength, with the vulture at his heart.
Bitterest of dooms, to be bound to this misery, without one free hand
to struggle against it.
But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation was very
languidly carried on. Insensibly Cuthbert felt the same anxiety steal
over himself--he felt that he _ought_ to go away, but yet he remained.
By degrees the conversation dwindled into broken remarks from himself,
and faltering responses from Rose and Agnes; sometimes indeed Martha
spoke, but her words were harsh and bitter, or else full of a conscious
mockery of lightheartedness, which was more painful still.
The tea-tray with its homely accompaniments stood on the table--the
little kettle sang by the side of the old-fashioned grate,--but the
night was now far advanced, and reluctant to shut out the lingering
remains of daylight, the sisters had laid aside their work; it was
almost dark, and still Harry had not come.
“Where is Violet, Agnes,” said Martha, after a long silence.
“She went out to play,” said the little wife. “Some of her friends were
down here, and they wanted her. I could not keep Lettie in, Martha, on
so fine a night.”
“I was angry at the poor bairn,” said Martha, with a singular humility,
“I did wrong. I will go myself and look for her--our troubles are not
so few that we should make additions to them of our own will.”
There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which Martha spoke, and
in the sudden melting of the strained vehement heart. Cuthbert saw the
trembling hand of Agnes steal up to her eyes, and heard the appealing
deprecatory whisper of Rose, “Oh Martha!” He could see its meaning--he
could hear in it an echo of that other exclamation--poor Harry! so
common in this house.
Little Violet had been at play in the street below, carrying the vague
blank grief of childhood into her very sport. As Martha rose, the
little girl suddenly burst into the room. “Agnes, Harry’s coming.”
They were all very quiet--a sort of hush of deep apprehension came
upon the sisters, and Rose went out hastily to the door.
In another moment, Harry had entered the room--looking very pale, and
with an unmeaning smile upon his face. He came forward with great
demonstration to greet Charteris, and hurried over an elaborate account
of things which had detained him--the strangest complication of causes,
such as came in no one’s way but his.
“Why don’t you light the candles?” said poor Harry, with an
ostentatious endeavour at high spirits. “Have you been sitting in the
dark like so many crows? Rosie, quick, light this, and get another
candle. You don’t think we can see with one, and Mr. Charteris here.
Have you not got tea yet, Agnes? Nonsense, what made you wait for me?
I can’t always be home at your hours, you know--when a man hasn’t
his time at his own disposal, you know, Mr. Charteris--what is it
now?--what do you want, Lettie?”
The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the table. It
threw a painful illumination upon Harry’s perfectly colourless face,
as he stood in the middle of the room, with an unsteady swing in his
movements. Agnes had left the arm-chair to him, but still he stood by
the table--while Rose, with a paleness almost as great as his upon her
face, went about painfully arranging things that needed no arrangement,
and Martha sat rigid in her chair.
“I say, what is it, Lettie?” repeated Harry.
“Nothing, Harry--only you’ve torn your coat,” said Violet.
She showed it to him--some one had seized his skirt apparently, to
detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought a sudden flush to
the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush was of defiance and anger.
He struck Violet with his open hand, and exclaimed impatiently, “Get
away, what business have _you_ with that?”
It was a very slight blow--and Violet shrank away in silence out of the
room; but a deep red burning colour flushed over Martha’s faded face,
and with a quick impulsive start, she rose from her chair.
“Harry!” Her harsh hoarse voice seemed to sober the unhappy lad. He
looked round him for a moment on those other pale faces, and on the
grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with the defiant stare which he had
tried to maintain before; but as his eyes turned to Martha, and to the
deep and painful colour of shame and anguish on her face, poor Harry’s
courage fell. He did not speak--he glided into the vacant chair, and
suddenly abandoning his poor design of concealment covered his face
with his hands.
“Harry is not well--he is not strong poor fellow,” said Agnes almost
sobbing, “get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit down.”
Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face of
poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her anger
seemed melting away--melting into that utter despondency and
hopelessness--that deep humiliation, which with the second sight that
sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope was useless, and
yet in the depths did only cling the closer to this impossible hope.
Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, but then she could have
wept--such desperate burning tears, as only come out of the depths.
Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain by being
a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening
immediately away.
“I shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, “and I think I
must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. What am I to say
to your uncle?”
“That you left us--Nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with a great
effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning look of
grief, “say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows how he would
wish us to be in his own gentle heart--and it is best to leave it so;
say we were well--and now we must not detain you. Harry, have you
anything to say to my uncle?”
Poor Harry uncovered his white unhappy face. “I?--nothing--nothing--you
know I have nothing to say--good bye, Mr. Charteris.”
“It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, offering
Cuthbert her trembling hand.
And then he left the room.
The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound like
a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the parlour
door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the ground,
with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha had been
displeased at her. Harry had struck her--and fearful dreams of being
utterly alone, and having no one in the world to care for her, were
passing drearily through Violet’s mind. That sad dumb anguish of the
child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we have children to
deal with, weighed down the young spirit to the very dust. She thought,
poor solitary girl, miserable proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them
to grieve for her when she was dead, who would not care for her enough
when she was living--and she thought, too, of toiling on alone to the
vague greatness which children dream of, and shutting up her heart in
her solitary course, from those who had chilled and rejected it so
early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent poetic child, who in an hour
could be bright as the sunshine again--but while it lasted there were
few things in elder life so bitter as that childish pain.
Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the
weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. “Mr. Charteris,” said
Rose, eagerly, “do not say anything to my uncle about----. I mean, will
you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything ails Harry?
Will you, Mr. Charteris?”
Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose; but
whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away, the youthful woman
lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child. Rose had reached a
further stage than Violet in this grave journey of life; and if she
knew more fully the absolute causes of the family affliction, she had
outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other thoughts, too, came
in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of her own heart, as
she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harry hitherto had been
constantly the central object in her mind--the dearest always, and in
his brightest times the best--perhaps only the more endeared for all
his weakness; but now there began to dawn upon Rose a stronger, purer,
higher ideal. Stealthy and tremulous the thought glided into her mind;
a higher excellence than poor Harry’s--a fairer fate than that of
Harry’s sister. She put it away as if it had been guilt; but still it
had looked in upon her, and left a trace of secret sunshine behind.
Thus they were, the child and the girl--Violet already cheered by the
gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with the fair fantastic light
of her own thick-coming fancies. Neither forgot the sorrow which was
parted from them only by these slight walls--neither yet could stay
their involuntary tears--and the elder heart overflowed with pity and
tenderness for poor Harry; but yet there were others than Harry in the
world for both.
Within that little room it was far otherwise. He was sitting there
still, his clasped hands covering his face, and the cup of tea, which
Agnes had poured out for him, standing untasted on the table. No one
else had thought of beginning to this joyless meal. Agnes sat near him,
leaning her arm upon his chair, touching his shoulder sometimes, and
murmuring “Harry;” but he had not lifted his head. Opposite him, Martha
sat very still, her eyes wandering about, her fingers convulsively
clasped, her features moving. Sometimes she started suddenly, as if she
could have dashed that aching brow of hers against the wall; sometimes
a low unconscious moan escaped from her lips; and when, after
wandering round the room, noting the little well-known peculiarities
of its furniture, as people only do in their bitterest moments, her
eyes turned to Harry lying motionless in his chair, with the damp hair
clustering upon his brow, and his hands hiding his face, the anger
and passion fled away from her brow like shadows. Poor Harry! in his
weakness, in his sin--only so much the more her own--not the strong
man now, for whom she had woven dreams of fond and proud ambition--but
ever and always the dependent boy, the child she tended long ago--the
unhappy lad over whom her heart yearned now as a mother. Martha
rose--the tears came out from under her dry eyelids--a sad smile dawned
upon the stern harsh features of her face. She laid her hand upon his
shoulder.
“Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have nothing but
you--no hope in this world but you. Will you take it from us, Harry?
Will you make us desolate?”
The little wife looked up through her tears, begging forbearance. Poor
Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped the hands she held out to
him. “Never again--never again.”
Her tears fell upon the clasped hands, and so did his. “Never again.”
Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her little hand upon his arm.
Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her head upon his shoulder, almost happy
again in the reconciliation; and Rose stood behind his chair.
Poor Harry! They all heard his vow; they all tried to take up their
hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. No one believed
more devoutly than he did himself that now he could not fall again. No
one was so confident as he that this sin was his last: “Never again.”
Heavy, unseen tears flowed from under Martha’s closed eyelids that
night, when all the rest were peacefully asleep--poor Harry first of
all. Never again! The words moved her to anything but hope. Poor Harry!