I have heard when one lay dying, after long
And steadfast contemplation of sure death,
That sudden there would spring delicious hope,
And boastful confidence of health restored,
Into the heart which had not threescore throbs
Of its worn pulse to spend--
There is a madness that besets the verge
Of full destruction--madness that hath wild dreams
Of victory and triumph.
“HOW’S the farm getting on, Harry? Armstrong doesn’t seem very
jubilant about it. What’s to become of the land?” said Gilbert
Allenders.
They were sitting in the little round turret-room, looking out from the
open door upon the lands of Allenders, and many a fair acre besides.
A dewy May evening was shedding sweetness and peace over it all, and
through the whole wide country before them the setting sun found out,
here and there, a running water, and made all the hills aware of it
with a triumphant gleam. Green corn rustling in the breeze, and gardens
gay with blossoms, with here and there a red field of new ploughed
earth, or a rich luxuriant strip of meadow to diversify them, spread
round on every side; and the hum of animate life, the indistinct
farmyard voice, the din of playing children, came to them dreamily,
upon air which told you in loving whispers, of the hawthorn trees in
those deep lanes below.
In Harry’s eye shines an unusual gaiety; and the confidence which
sometimes deserts him, leaving him in such morose and sullen
melancholy, has returned to-day. Not all natural is this renewal; for
excitement, which makes Martha crush her hands together, and sends
Agnes away secretly to weep, animates him with its passing gleam; but
still he has command of himself, and is above Gilbert’s sneers.
“What’s to become of the land? It will do famously, of course!” said
Harry; “and it’s only Armstrong’s caution that makes him quiet about
it. If Fairly remains in the market for a year or two, I think I will
buy it, Gilbert. They say it once belonged to the estate of Allenders,
and Hoolie too, which is now Sir John’s. I should like to bring the
land up to what it was in the old times; and I say, Gibbie, man, you
shall have a house, a regular red pill-box, with just such a surgery
as will suit you; and settle down, and have an appointment at once,
to doctor all my tenants. I should have quite a band of retainers if
Fairly were added to Allenders.”
“It’s very well _you_ got the estate, Harry,” said Gilbert, with a
sneer, which poor Harry could not see. “If it had fallen into our
hands, it might have remained as it was, till the end of time, and
neither been improved nor increased. Thank you for the pill-box, Harry;
I always knew you were a warm friend. I’ll depend on getting it, I
promise you.”
“And so you shall, Gilbert,” said Harry; “but I’m not quite prepared
to buy Fairly now. I’ve ordered home a great stock of fine cattle. I
don’t know if we’ll have room for them all; plough horses--magnificent
fellows!--and the finest cows that ever were seen in the respectable
Carse of Stirling; but they take a lot of money, all these things; and
I should be very glad to have the harvest over.”
“The harvest? But this first year, I suppose, you don’t expect very
much from it?” said Gilbert.
“Don’t I? Well, we’ll see,” said Harry, laughing; “but I must be
economical this year, Gilbert--going on at this rate won’t do. I’ve
spent a small fortune this year; to be sure, it was on the land,”
said Harry, musing; “cattle, stables, byres, Armstrong and all his
labourers, not to speak of the plough graith, and the harrows, and the
thrashing-machine, and all the things they have bothered me about; but
we must be thrifty this year.”
“I believe you’ve no memorandum of the money you lent me. I must make
out one for you to-night, Harry,” said Gilbert, carelessly. “Do you
know how much it is?”
“Not I,” said the lofty Harry; “nor do I care to know. Never mind
memorandums--we know each other too well for that.”
And Harry, whose capital had shrunk to the final thousand, and whose
last expensive purchase remained to be paid for, led the way down
stairs in high glee, feeling himself already the second founder of the
family, and rich in patriarchal wealth. At the gate, Agnes and Rose
were looking out eagerly along the road, from which a tramp of hoofs
penetrated into the very drawing-room of Allenders. Little Katie Calder
stood upon the summit of the low wall, with one foot on a tree, and
Martha a little behind them, looked out with much gravity and concern.
Great work-horses, with ribbons at their ears, and elaborate
decorated tails, were marching with heavy hoofs into Harry’s stables;
and the lowing of Harry’s kine from the fields summoned the new
milkmaids to lead them home. You would have thought it the most
prosperous of homesteads, with its grey, thin house, and abrupt turret,
telling of long descent and elder times; its superannuated Dragon
witnessing to the family kindliness which would not abandon an ancient
servant; its great farm ranges, new and shining, which testified, or
seemed to testify, to present energy and wealth; and its youthful
family crowded about the gate, from pretty little matron Agnes to the
meditative Lettie, standing by Dragon’s side in the road without.
Prosperous, peaceful, full of natural joys and pleasant progress; but
Harry’s flushed, excited face, and the coarse pretension of Gilbert
Allenders came in strangely to break the charm.
“Come along, Agnes, and see them,” said Harry, loudly. “I told you
they were splendid fellows, Gilbert. Come, never mind your bonnet; and
Gilbert will give you his arm, Rosie--come along.”
“Wait till I get a shawl on--for the servants, Harry,” said Agnes,
freeing herself from his grasp.
“What about the servants? it’s only at your own door,” said Harry,
securing her arm in his own; “and the light shines in your hair, Agnes,
very prettily. Come away, little wife.”
And Harry went on singing--
“There’s gowd in your garters, Marion,
And siller on your white hause bane.”
to the secret misery of Lettie, who thought he was humiliating
himself, and to the great wonder and astonishment of Katie Calder.
But Rose drew firmly back, and would not go. Rose was very near hating
Gilbert Allenders; so he went to the other side of Agnes, and they
walked to the stables together--poor little Agnes, nearly choking all
the way with wounded pride, and shame, and fear, lest Harry might be
offended in spite of her compliance.
“Why has Lady Dunlop never called on you again? and what has become of
that pedantic son of hers?” said Harry, when they had returned, and
were taking the tea which Agnes hoped would subdue him. “It’s three
or four months now since you called on them, Agnes--why does not her
ladyship return your visit? and I should just like to know what’s
become of young Dunlop.”
“Hush, Harry!--I don’t know--I can’t tell,” said Agnes, very humbly.
“Young Mr. Dunlop has never been here since that time--you mind,
Martha--after Harry came back from London.”
“And why doesn’t the fellow come again?” said Harry. “A pretty man he
is, to think we’re to keep on good terms with him, when he never does
anything to keep it up himself. And what’s become of these Nettlehaugh
people, and Haigh of Foggo Barns? I suppose it’s your fault, Agnes;
you’ve been neglecting the proper forms--you’ve never called on them, I
suppose?”
“Yes, Harry,” said again the very low, timid voice of Agnes, “you have
forgotten--you went with me once to both Foggo and Nettlehaugh, and
Martha and I went another time, and they have never called since.”
“I should like to know what they mean,” said Harry loudly, his face
flushing to a deep crimson. “I suppose they think we’re not so good as
them. Never mind, Agnes; never mind, my little wife--you’ll be a richer
woman yet, and see your son a greater man than any half-dozen of these
little lairdies. I’ll have all the work, you know, and I’ll take it
gladly; but little Harry shall be heir to better land than young Dunlop
will ever see. A set of nobodies setting up for something! I should
like to know what they mean.”
“They were very kind at first,” murmured Agnes, scarcely able to
restrain the tears with which her eyes were weighed down.
“They were very kind at first,” repeated Martha distinctly, as she rose
to leave the room; “and to-morrow, when you are alone, Harry, I will
tell you what they mean.”
Never since she entered Allenders had Martha’s voice had this
tone before. Her brother started and turned to look after her, with
something of the mingled look--defiance, reverence, respect and
pain--which they all knew on his face long ago; but Martha was gone
without another word. It had a singular effect on Harry. He sat down at
the table, leaned his head upon his hand, and gazed with fixed eyes on
the vacant space before him; but he scarcely spoke again that night.