“Now shall you see me do my daily penance.
Mean, say you?--’tis the grander suffering then.
And thus I bear my yoke.”--
IT had been Martha’s custom at all times to take upon herself the
disagreeable things of their daily life. A turbulent stormy spirit, it
was impossible to form any apprehension of her character without taking
into account the harsh and strong pride which had come undiminished
through all her trials;
“----the spurns
Which patient merit of the unworthy takes,”--
the slights and trifling disrespects which are only felt by the refined
poor--all these petty indignities were bitter to Martha, yet she
had a certain satisfaction in compelling herself to endure them. To
stand among the indiscriminate host who maintained themselves as she
did; to submit her work to the inspection of some small official; to
listen patiently to comments upon it, made for the sake of preserving
a needful importance and superiority; these and many a trifling insult
more were very hard to bear--but there was a bitter pleasure in bowing
to them, a stormy joy in the conscious force with which she subdued
her own rebellious nature, and put her foot upon its neck. It was
conquering her pride, she thought, and she conquered it proudly, using
its own might to vanquish itself.
But though Martha could bear needful humiliations herself, this pride
of hers, which enabled her to bear them, built a mighty wall round
her children. She could not bear humiliation to brother or sister;
they were hers--heart of her heart, crown of her honour--and with the
constant watchfulness of jealous love she guarded them from derogation.
With courage unfailing she could bear what was needful to be borne if
it might be in her own person, but if it fell on them, the blow struck
to her heart.
And so she passed through crowds of prosperous people, who never
bestowed a second look upon her--a woman growing old, with grey streaks
in her hair, and harsh lines in her face--a _poor_ woman, distressed
and full of care--what was there to look at? But if some magic had
changed the bodily form, which was a veil to her, into the person of
some noble despot king, foiled and despairing, there was enough to
rivet the eyes of a world.
She was carrying back a fortnight’s laborious work--and filling up all
the interstices of the greater misery, which did not change, were a
hundred shifting plans of how to distribute this pittance. A strange
chaos was in Martha’s mind as she went through those crowded streets.
Broken prayers, so often repeated that they came vacantly into her mind
often, and often fell upon her like strong inspirations, forcing her
almost to cry aloud in an agony of entreaty, mingled with those painful
calculations of the petty sum she was about to receive, which hovered
like so many irritating insects over the dull and heavy pain in her
heart. The cloud would not disperse; the weight would not lighten from
her. Harry, at home, had smiles of new confidence on his face already,
and had talked Agnes and Rose into hope; but the days of hope were past
for Martha. She desired to submit; she longed to bend her neck meekly
under the yoke, and acquiesce in what God sent; but the struggle was
hard, and it seemed to herself that she could have submitted easily to
any affliction but this--this was the intolerable pain--and this was
her fate.
The warehouse was in the Candleriggs, and a spruce clerk received the
work from her, and paid her the joint wages of Rose and herself for the
fortnight’s labour. It was thirty shillings--a very little sum, though
they thought it good. On rare occasions the weekly produce of their
united toil was as much as a pound, but this was a more usual amount.
Filling her little basket with the renewed and increased supply of
work given at her request, Martha turned to one of the dim streets
of counting-houses which surround the Exchange. In the same line of
buildings the Buchanans had their office, but Martha was not going
there. She ascended another dusty stair at some little distance, and
entering a smaller office, asked for Mr. Sommerville.
Mr. Sommerville was a ruddy comfortable man, in an easy chair; once a
poor Ayrshire lad, now, totally forgetful of that time, a cautious,
shrewd, wealthy merchant, richer than many of the splendid commercial
magnates who lightened the dim sky around him. But some claim of
distant kindred or ancient acquaintance connected him with the family
of the Muirs; though his look of doubt as Martha entered, and his
laconic greeting, “Oh, Miss Muir,” when he recognised her, showed that
this claim was of the slenderest kind.
“I have come to speak to you about my brother,” said Martha, standing
before him with a flush upon her face; “I mean I have taken the
liberty, Mr. Sommerville--for Harry has lost his situation.”
“What! the place I got for him in Buchanan’s?” exclaimed the merchant.
“What has he done that for? some misconduct I suppose.”
“No misconduct,” said Martha, with sudden courage; “nor have you the
slightest ground for supposing so. Harry had money stolen from him on
his way between the bank and the office--a thing which no one could
foresee, and which has happened to many a wiser man. This is the cause;
but this is not misconduct.”
Mr. Sommerville waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I understand;
I see. Money stolen from him: _I_ never had money stolen from me. But
I never will recommend a man again; they invariably turn out ill. How
much was it?”
“Fifty pounds.” said Martha, “for all of which he is responsible, and,
if he were but in another situation, which we would not fail to pay.”
“Oh yes, that’s all very well,” said the merchant, “but how is he to
get the other situation? There must have been great carelessness, you
know, or they never would have dismissed him. I heard he was wild;
young Buchanan told me he was wild--but I did not expect it was to end
so soon.”
“And neither it shall,” said Martha, controlling, with absolute
physical pain, the fierce hot anger of her mother-like love. “Mr.
Buchanan has already taken from Harry a proportion of this sum. I
pledge myself that the rest shall be paid.”
“You!” He looked at her. Certainly, her name would not have been of the
smallest importance at a bill; but glimmerings of truth higher than
bills, or money values, will flash sometimes even on stolid men. For a
moment his eyes rested strangely upon her; and then he turned away his
head, and said, “Humph!” in a kind of confidential under tone. The good
man rubbed his bushy hair in perplexity. He did not know what to make
of this.
“But unless Harry has employment we can do nothing,” said Martha, “all
that is in our power, without him, must be the mere necessities of
living. You have helped us before, Mr. Sommerville.”
“If that was to be a reason for exerting myself again, in every case of
distress that comes to me,” said the merchant with complacency, “I can
tell you, I might give up all other business at once; but recommending
a man who turns out ill is a very unpleasant thing to creditable
people. There is Buchanan now--of course he took my word for your
brother--and I assure you I felt it quite a personal reflection when
his son told me that Muir was wild.”
“And his son dared!” exclaimed Martha, with uncontrollable indignation,
“and this youth who does evil of voluntary intent and purpose is
believed when he slanders Harry! Harry, whom this very lad--that he
should have power, vulgar and coarse as he is, with a brother of
mine!--has betrayed and beguiled into temptation. But I do wrong to
speak of this. The present matter is no fault of Harry’s, yet it is the
sole reason why he loses his situation; and I see no ground here for
any one saying that my brother has disgraced them.”
Strong emotion is always powerful. It might be that Mr. Sommerville
had no objection to hear Richard Buchanan condemned. It might be that
Martha’s fierce defence awoke some latent generosity in the mind she
addressed. However that might be, the merchant did not resent her
outburst, but answered it indistinctly in a low voice, and ended with
something about “partiality,” and “quite natural.”
“I am not partial,” said Martha hastily. “No one has ever seen, no one
can ever see, Harry’s faults as I do. I am not indifferent enough to
pass over any one defect he has; but Harry is young. He has reached the
time when men are but experimenting in independent life. Why should he
lose his good name for a common misfortune like this?”
“You should have stayed in Ayr,” said Mr. Sommerville, with a little
weariness. “_I_ don’t want to injure his good name! I have no object in
hurting your brother; indeed, for the sake of the old town, and some
other things, I would help him to a situation if I could. I’ll just
speak to my cash-keeper. He knows about vacant places better than I do.”
And partly to get rid of a visitor whose unusual earnestness
embarrassed him; partly out of a sudden apprehension that he might
possibly be called upon by and by for pecuniary help, if no situation
could be got for Harry, Mr. Sommerville left his easy chair, and had
a consultation in the outer office with his confidential clerk. Very
weary and faint, Martha remained standing in the private room. Many
a time in her own heart, with the bitterness of disappointed hope
and wounded love, she had condemned Harry; but with the fierceness of
a lion-mother, her heart sprang up to defend him when another voice
pronounced his sentence. She could not bear the slightest touch of
censure--instinctively she dared and defied whosoever should accuse
him--and no one had liberty to blame Harry except the solitary voice
which came to her in the night watches wrung out of her own heart.
In a short time Mr. Sommerville returned.
“I hear of one place, Miss Muir,” said the merchant; “but there is
security needed, and that might be a drawback--seventy pounds a-year--a
good salary, but then they want security for five hundred pounds.
If you could manage that, the place is a very good one--Rowan and
Thomson--and it is a traveller they want--not so much confinement as
in an office; it might suit your brother very well, if it were not for
the security.”
“It would not do,” said Martha, quickly. “Harry cannot be a
traveller--it would kill him.”
Mr. Sommerville elevated his eyebrows. “Cannot be a traveller! Upon
my word, Miss Muir, to say that you came asking my help, you are very
fastidious. I fancied your brother would be glad of any situation.”
“Not this--only not this,” said Martha, in haste, as if she almost
feared to listen to the proposal, “Harry is not strong. I thank you,
Mr. Sommerville, I thank you; but it would kill him.”
“Then, I know of nothing else,” said the merchant, coldly resuming his
seat. “If I hear of anything, I will let you know.”
Cold words of course, often said, never remembered. Martha turned away
down the dusty stair, blaming herself for thus wasting the time in
which she might have been working; but she could work--could give daily
bread to the little household still--and that was the greatest comfort
of her life.
Far different from the mill-girls and engineers of Port Dundas was the
passing population in these dusty streets. Elderly merchantmen, with
ease and competence in every fold of their spotless broadcloth--young
ones exuberant and unclouded, casting off the yoke of business as
lightly, out of the office, as they bore it sensibly within, met
Martha at every step. Here come some, fresh from the Exchange. You can
see they are discussing speculations, calculating elaborate chances,
perhaps “in the way of business,” hazarding a princely fortune, which
may be doubled or dissolved before another year. And a group of young
men meet them, louder and more demonstrative, circling round one who
is clearly the object of interest to all. Why?--he is going out to
India to-morrow to make his fortune--and save that it gives him a
little importance, and makes him the lion of the day, envied by all his
compeers, this youth, who is flushed just now with a little excitement,
in reality feels no more about his Indian voyage, than if it were but a
summer expedition to the Gairloch, or Roseneath Bay; and is much more
comfortably assured of making his fortune, than he would be of bringing
home a creditable amount of trout, if the event of to-morrow was a
day’s fishing, instead of the beginning of an eventful life. Of the
youths round him, one will be the representative partner of his “house”
in far America before the year is out; another will feed wool in the
bush; another learn to adorn his active northern life, with oriental
pomps and luxuries by the blue waves of the Bosphorus. And among them
all there is a certain fresh confident unconscious life, which, so far
as it goes, carries you with it in sympathy. It is not refined, it is
not profound, it has little elevation and little depth; but withal it
has such a fresh breeze about it, such a continual unceasing motion,
such an undoubting confidence in its own success, that this simplicity
of worldliness moves you as if it were something nobler. Not true
enough, nor great enough to call the solemn “God speed” out of your
heart; yet you cannot choose, but wish the young adventurers well.
And there are clerks more hurried; young men with quick business-step
and eye, whose sons shall be merchants’ sons, as carelessly prosperous
as are the young masters in the office now; but some who will live and
die poor clerks, yet who will have their share of enjoyed life as well,
and end their days as pleasantly, pass and repass among the crowd.
Some, too, who will sink and fall, who will break hearts, and give
fair hopes the death-blow. So much young life--so many souls, each to
make its own existence for itself, and not another. There come solemn
thoughts into the mind which looks on such a scene.
And Martha, half abstracted, looked on it, comparing them with Harry.
But there was none like Harry--not one; the heart that clasped its arms
about him in his misfortune--the dry eye which watched the night long
with schemes for his prosperity--could see none worthy to be placed
beside him. Poor Harry! his sister could not see these others, for his
continual shadow resting on her heart.
When Martha had nearly reached the Exchange, she heard some one calling
after her. It was John Buchanan; he came up out of breath.
“Will you tell Harry that I think he should come down and see my
father, Miss Muir?” gasped John. “I’ve been chasing you for ten
minutes--you walk so fast. My father’s come home, and he’s shut up with
Dick. I don’t think he’s pleased. If Harry would come down to-morrow,
it might be all right again.”