He will hang upon him like a disease.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
“I’VE a great mind to practice out here, Harry,” said Gilbert
Allenders; “lots of scarlet-fever, and measles, and hooping-cough, to
start a man. And I want to be decent and respectable, and get out of
temptation. If you were in an interesting position, like me, I’d get
you a couple of rooms at Allender Mains, and invite you to dinner every
day, till you were set up. Interesting children of Maidlin, you don’t
know how much you want a doctor!”
“And would you actually come out here in winter, Gilbert?” said Harry.
“You don’t know how dull it is sometimes.”
Harry drew his hat over his eyes, and returned very gruffly the passing
salutation of Geordie Paxton. It was now a week since he had visited
his fields, and that was more than time to make Harry sick--as he
said--of the whole concern.
“The duties of my profession, Sir,” said Gilbert, solemnly: “a medical
man is always a martyr to the public and his duty--always. By the way,
Harry, what would you say to take a run up to town for a week or two,
just before settling down? I think it would do me good.”
And Mr. Gilbert laid his hand on his heart, and sighed, as if he were
the most interesting invalid in the world.
“To town? Do you mean to Stirling? I am there often enough already,”
said Harry.
“Stirling!” Mr. Gilbert put up his hand to arrange the great woollen
cravat he wore and laughed hoarsely. “You don’t fancy I call that
little hole of a place, town! How innocent you are, after all!”
“Am I?” Harry felt himself grow very angry, and kicking away a stone
which happened to lie beside his foot, sent it spinning through a
group of Maidlin boys, dispersing themselves and their “bools” in all
directions. If it had only broken Gilbert Allenders’ shins instead, it
would have pleased Harry better; but even this was a satisfaction.
“Very well aimed,” said Gilbert, approvingly. “What I mean is,
London-town--there is but one ‘town’ in the world. Come up with me,
Harry, and I’ll help you to enjoy yourself. Come.”
“Help me to enjoy myself, will you?” said Harry, scornfully. Harry was
more impatient of his companion to-day, than he had been for a long
time.
“Come, come, we’re old companions now,” said Gilbert; “and I know you
wouldn’t dislike going to London: a man of your years and station, who
has never been in London, is something quite unparallelled! The country
should subscribe for a glass-case, and show you in it as a real old
country-gentleman, who has never been in town all his life, and never
means to go!”
“There is such a thing as going too far,” said Harry, haughtily.
“Who was it said that, the first night I saw you--” said the malicious
Gilbert; “don’t you remember? But I wont aggravate you, Harry; and you
needn’t look as if you could eat me. Come, will you go?”
“I don’t care for seeing London. What is it to me?” said Harry, with
dignity: “just half-a-dozen big towns compounded into one! What should
send everybody to London? At the same time, perhaps I may go: it’s just
as well going there, as staying at home here, doing nothing. And there
is really nothing to be done on the land just now, in such a frost.”
“You have been quite a hero, Harry!” said Gilbert; “few men, I can
tell you, could have done what you have done. You ought to give
yourself a little rest. Such a thing as this, now,” said Gilbert,
pointing to a line of carts slowly proceeding, with much ringing of
horses’ hoofs and carters’ clogs, along the frosty, whitened road,
“just to stand and let those odorous carts pass by might upset a man of
your organization: yet you’ve been among them constantly for some two
months, now. I envy you your force of resolution, Harry.”
Poor Harry! this piece of flattery mollified his irritated temper more
easily than anything else could have done. Half conscious that he had
already abandoned this last and most costly toy of his, it salved his
conscience to have his perseverance wondered at. He put his arm in
Gilbert’s, with sudden friendliness.
“I think I shall go, after all,” he said. “Armstrong can manage
everything well enough. He has been accustomed to this sort of thing
all his life; and, to tell the truth, it requires that, I am afraid, to
make a farmer--that is to say, your thorough enthusiastic farmer. But
now that January is over, I think a few weeks’ change would quite set
me up again: besides, spring always reconciles one to the country. So I
fancy we may settle upon going, Gilbert. When shall you be ready?”
“In a day--any time,” said Mr. Gilbert, shaking the thin, powdery snow
from the hedge, by a blow of his cane. “I haven’t three ladies to look
after me, as you have: the girls have their own affairs to mind, and so
has the mamma. I get my wardrobe to superintend myself--different from
you, Harry.”
And not quite sure whether to be pleased, and accept this as a token of
his superior importance, or to resent it as a check upon his manliness
and independence, Harry began immediately to discuss the projected
journey--how they should go, and when; and it was soon decided, very
much more to Gilbert’s satisfaction, than to the good pleasure of Agnes
and Martha, at home.
For Agnes found out many little objections, and urged them with some
pique and displeasure. Agnes thought she herself, his wife, would have
been a much more suitable companion for Harry than Gilbert Allenders;
and she should have greatly liked to go to London, even at risk of
leaving the baby. Martha said nothing: her hope was gliding out of her
hands again, defying all her eager attempts to hold it; and steady
darkness--darkness as of the Egyptian night, tangible and positive, was
settling down upon Martha’s heart.
“So you have had our Edinburgh friend here again, Miss Rose?” said Mr.
Gilbert. “I suppose he will condescend to be civil to you. What is the
man, Harry? Nothing but a Scotch W. S., I suppose?”
“He is an advocate, and a gentleman,” said Rose, under her breath; and
when she had said this, she turned to the window, fearful of disclosing
the vivid blush which covered her whole face.
“When I called on him with Harry in July--I would not say, in presence
of ladies, what my impulse was,” said Gilbert, lifting his large
bony hand, and displaying his ringed finger in relief against the
black brushwood about his chin. “He looked at me with a malice which
disgusted me. I suppose he thought I was in his way,” added Mr.
Gilbert, complacently, bestowing upon Rose, who had just turned her
head, roused and defiant, a most emphatic look of admiration.
And Harry laughed: Rose turned her eyes to him slowly, and felt her
heart burn--that Harry should think so meanly of her as to fancy
Gilbert Allenders could stand in Cuthbert’s way!
“But when Mr. Charteris looks at you, Rosie,” whispered Violet, “his
lip aye moves, and the lid comes over his eye. Last time, he looked as
if he could greet: what was that for, Rose?”
But Rose made no reply.
There were, as Gilbert prophesied, great preparations in Allenders for
Harry’s departure, and various purchases made, that Harry’s appearance
away from home might be worthy the station which his little wife
thought so exalted. None of them were quite prepared for the total
insignificance which always falls upon a solitary visitor to London;
and when Gilbert, putting up his own little carpet-bag, took occasion
to remark, sneeringly, upon the great, new, shining portmanteau which
Harry carried, neither himself nor Agnes, who had come to Stirling to
see him away, were angry. They said “Poor Gilbert!” in a sympathetic
look, and compassionated him, who had neither rank to maintain, nor a
little wife to help him to maintain it; and when Agnes, as she went
away, casting wistful looks behind her at Harry, caught a glimpse of
Gilbert’s great, sallow, unwholesome face, surmounted by its little
travelling-cap, and encircled by its coarse, wiry hair, she could
almost have been bold enough to turn back, and follow Harry. She
contrasted them in her mind a hundred times, during her melancholy
drive home, and had many a dreary thought about temptation, and evil
company, and Harry “led away.”
Poor Harry! he was always “led away;” for not one of his anxious
watchers, could prevail with herself to speak of his errors in harder
words than these.
As Agnes returned home, she called at Blaelodge to take up the
children; for their holidays were over, and they had returned to
school; and a little cluster of other children, also returning from
school, hung on behind the carriage, and kept up a little quick
tramp of feet behind, tempting John now and then to wave his whip
good-humouredly over their heads, and warn them that he would “come
down the next time.” But John, who came from Maidlin Cross himself,
never came down; and Violet and Katie, peering out of the window on
either side, nodded to the heads of their respective factions, and
whispered to each other, who was at school, and who was “gathering
stanes,” as they passed, band after band--some with books and slates,
some girded with their great work-aprons, returning from the field.
From the open doors at Maidlin Cross, the pleasant firelight shines
out upon the road, reddening its sprinkled snow; and figures stand in
the doorways, dark against the cheery light within; and voices ring,
clear and sharp, through the air. The carriage, now deserted by its
band of attendants, begins to grow rather dreary as it advances into
the darkness, and Agnes does not speak, and Katie and Violet cannot see
each other’s faces; but they are quite cheered and revived, so long as
they can hear the far-off sound of those voices at Maidlin Cross.
And by the fireside Martha and Rose sit very silently. A faint sound
comes from the river, and the wind whistles shrill among the leafless
trees; but except these, and now and then an occasional noise from
the kitchen, where Dragon has been summoned in to sit with Mysie
and her companion, that there may be “a man in the house,” there is
perfect stillness within and without. They are both working--you would
think they never do anything but work--and both are absorbed and lost
in their own thoughts. When at rare intervals they speak, it is to
wonder how far Harry will be by this time, and what he will see in
London, and when he will return; but they do not say to each other
that they tremble for Harry, nor tell what distinct remembrances arise
before them both, of the sad scenes of the past; yet now and then a
sudden start, and quick look round this cheerful room, discover to
you that they have forgotten where they are for the moment, and that
the dim walls of Mrs. Rodger’s parlour, the proper background of many
a recalled grief, are more clearly present before them, than this
brighter and more prosperous place.
Yet they are cheered, in spite of themselves, when Agnes and her
little companions come in, dazzled, out of the darkness; and Lettie
volunteers a confession of some fear as they came along that dark road,
close to the Lady’s Well. Silence is not congenial to Agnes, and the
baby cries loudly in the nursery; and little Harry, very sleepy, rouses
himself up to devour cakes, and swallow as much tea as is permitted. So
the night passes away; but a hundred times they fancy they hear Harry’s
summons at the outer-door; and almost believe, with a thrill between
hope and fear, that he has come home.
The days pass, and grow into weeks, and still they sit all the long
evening through, and again and again fancy they hear the sound of
his return, and hold their breath in eager listening. A few letters,
containing long lists of things he has seen, come to them tardily;
but they never think of Harry, in his extreme occupation, carrying
these letters about with him for a day or two, before he recollects to
send them away. The farm-manager comes now and then, anxious to see
Allenders; for now the frost has broken up, and a genial dry season has
succeeded it, and the cautious Armstrong is slow to do anything without
his employer’s approval. Some fertile, well-cultivated land, for a
lease of which Harry was bargaining with Sir John Dunlop’s factor, as
a profitable addition to his own farm, has been secured by another
applicant during Harry’s absence; and the mason who contracted for
Harry’s new byres and stables, after a long delay by the frost, now
refuses to go on, till he has received one of the payments to which he
is entitled. But no answer comes to the letters in which these matters
are spoken of--his short notes only speak of sights and constant
occupation, and he never says when he is to return.
The cold, mild, early February comes in quietly; and the nightly rains
patter upon the trees, and swell the burn to hoarseness, and plash in
the swollen river. In the morning, when the feeble sunshine falls dimly
upon the lawn, and its flower borders, Violet and Katie rejoice over,
here and there, a golden or purple crocus, and eagerly point out the
buds swelling on the trees; but at night it is always rain, striking on
the bare branches, and filling the whole air with a sound of mysterious
footsteps passing to and fro around the lonely house. And within the
house they all grow very still--they all listen for Harry’s step, for
Harry’s call; and their hearts tremble, and their frames shiver, as
every night they think he will return.
But February is nearly past, and a March gale, impatient of the slow
progress of the year, has sprung up among the hills before his time,
and rends the clouds over Demeyet, tossing them scornfully to the east
and to the west, when at last they hear Harry come home. And he does
not come unexpectedly; but has written before, stating day and hour,
which he religiously keeps. His dress is worn, and out of order; his
shining new portmanteau frayed and dim, some articles of its contents
lost, and almost all injured; but he says nothing of excuse or apology
for his long delay, and is fretted and irritated only when he hears of
its results, liberally blaming everybody concerned. However, by and
bye, everything goes on again--goes on after a fashion, languidly, and
without success; for Harry no longer cares about his fields.