What man is he that boasts of fleshly might,
And vaine assurance of mortality,
Which, all so soone as it doth come to fight
Against spirituall foes, yields by and by?
FAERY QUEEN.
THAT day, beginning with deep sadness to one member of the family, and
with anxious sympathetic concern to the rest, was the last day of hope
and peace in Allenders.
For on the very next--another June day, rich with the most glorious
mockery of joy and sunshine--Martha’s last desperate hope died in her
heart. It had struggled long in its strange, feverish lifetime; now it
fell at a blow.
A gracious invitation to Sir John Dunlop’s had come that evening to
Harry; and Harry spent the day with Gilbert Allenders in a ride to
Stirling, from which he did not return, until the full time when Sir
John would enter his stately dining-room. Agnes, dressed for a full
hour, stood at the window trembling and miserable, looking for Harry;
and Martha was on the turret; and Rose, roused out of her own trouble,
wandered along the road with the children, to meet him. But when Harry
came, he came with glittering eye and ghastly smiles, as they used to
see him, long ago, in Glasgow; and bidding Gilbert good-bye, with loud
demonstrations of friendship, at the gate, came in great haste, and ran
up-stairs, taking three steps at a time, to get to his dressing-room,
and make ready for Lady Dunlop’s party. Agnes went after him timidly,
to say it was too late, and to beg him not to go; but Harry laughed
first, and then frowned, and then commanded--he was resolved to go,
whatever was the hour.
“He is not fit to go, he will disgrace himself for ever, they will
never speak to him again,” sobbed the little wife. “Oh! Martha, speak
to him, tell him it is too late.”
Poor little Agnes! she could not believe that Martha’s “speaking to
him” would have no effect.
In half an hour, he came down stairs, dressed, and considerably
subdued, though still with an excitement only too easily perceptible.
“Where’s John with the carriage?” exclaimed Harry. “Why does that
fellow always keep us waiting? why is he not at the door?” and he rang
the bell violently.
“You are much too late, and they are punctilious people; I beg you will
not go to-night. It is easy to send an apology,” said Martha, who was
calmer now than she had been through all her time of hope.
“It is this night, and no other, that I intend to go,” said Harry; “and
I am not inclined to suffer any more dictation. What’s the matter,
Agnes? why do you make her cry, Martha? Must I take her away with red
eyes, all for your pleasure? Tell John to bring round the carriage
instantly--instantly, do you hear? he has kept his mistress waiting
long enough already.”
And as the maid withdrew, startled and astonished, Harry himself went
to the door, and stood upon the threshold, waiting for John.
“You’re not angry, Martha,” pleaded poor little Agnes; “he does not
know what he is saying. And never mind sitting up, it would only grieve
you; I must try to take care of poor Harry myself to-night.”
Martha made few demonstrations, but she put her arm round the little
wife now, and kissed the cheek upon which the tears were still wet.
This caress nearly overcame Agnes, but with a strong effort, she wiped
her eyes, and went away.
Drearily passed that evening. A heavy shower came on as it darkened,
and all the night through beat upon the leaves, so that Lettie, holding
her breath as she learned her lessons, fancied that footsteps were
travelling round and round the house--continually, without pause or
intermission, round and round. And the wind whistled with a little,
desolate, shrill cry, about the silent walls, and the burn ran fast
and full into the river. Every sound without became distinctly
audible in the extreme quietness, and other sounds which did not
exist at all, stole in, imagined, upon their strained ears. Sounds
of carriage-wheels, which never advanced, but always rumbled on at a
distance, shrill cries of voices hovering in the air, footsteps upon
the stair, footsteps without--it was a dreary night!
And when it became late, and it was full time for Harry’s return,
Martha stole down stairs to the lower room, and opened the window,
and stood by it in the dark, watching for their carriage-wheels. The
jasmine rustled on the walls, with an early star of white specking
its dark luxuriance--alas! those jasmine flowers! Martha plucked this
half-opened one hastily, and threw it away--she could not bear its
fragrance.
And Rose crept after her, and sat upon a chair at the window, leaning
her throbbing brow on Martha’s arm: “Hush! I hear them,” said Martha;
it was nothing but this imagined sound which had rung through all the
night.
At last they came, and though the sisters heard Harry’s voice while yet
the carriage was hidden in the darkness, he handed his wife out very
quietly, when they came to the door. On their way up-stairs, Agnes felt
her hand caught in Martha’s, and answered the implied question, in a
tremulous whisper: “No doubt they saw--no doubt they saw--and pity me,
Martha, for such a night; but maybe, maybe, it was not so bad as we
might have feared.”
That night nothing more was either asked or told, and it was not
till the forenoon of the next day, when Harry had gone out, that
Agnes, leaning on Martha’s arm, and with Rose bending eagerly over her
on the other side, walked slowly along the mall, and told her story.
They had been received with much stiffness and ceremony by Sir John,
his son, and his daughter, who evidently thought their late arrival a
quite unwarrantable assumption of familiarity. Kindly good-humoured,
Lady Dunlop had soothed and comforted Agnes; but the _hauteur_ of
their reception plunged Harry into a fit of sullen silence, which was
even more painful to see than his excitement. Then, Agnes said, some
stranger present began to comment severely on the rude cothouses at
Maidlin Cross, and to wonder why none of the neighbouring landlords
interfered to provide better accommodation for their workmen. That
Harry fired at this, and challenging Sir John to do his part, pledged
himself that on _his_ property it should be immediately looked to,
was only what the listeners expected to hear; but he did it with such
vehemence and energy, Agnes reported, that some smiled, some looked
grave and pitiful, all turned away, and for half an hour before they
left, no one spoke to Harry or herself, save good Lady Dunlop, who
called her my dear, and patted her shoulder, and did all she could to
soothe the shame and bitter feelings, which the neglect of the others
wounded beyond soothing.
But Harry was gone this morning to the builder who erected his barns,
to see about model cottages; and Agnes almost for the first time began
to be alarmed about the means. Could Harry afford to build model houses
after all the outlay of his expensive life? He who had pulled down
houses and barns to build greater, and who had nothing to put into
them, could he afford to go out of his way and spend money thus? But
they had all been kept totally in the dark as to Harry’s money matters.
They had no idea how much he had wasted--how much had gone to Gilbert
Allenders, and to the pleasures shared by him; but a momentary review
of the past year startled them all. They looked in each other’s scared
faces, and shook their heads in sudden clear-sightedness, as Agnes
asked the question, and the truth dawned upon them all.
“Na, na, lad; Allenders has plenty siller bye the land, ye may take my
word for it,” said the slow voice of Geordie Paxton, speaking out of
the hay-field at the end of the mall, opposite to Rose’s favourite oak.
“I spoke to him mysel about that grand new harrow, and an improvement
o’ my ain in the plough-graith, when he started farming, and he never
boggled at it a minute, though they baith cost siller. Then he has a
free hand himsel, and keeps a plentiful house; and you’ll no tell me
that a man like Allenders--a fine lad, but apt to gang ajee whiles like
ither folk--doesna take a good purse to keep himsel gaun, let alane the
house and a’ thae braw leddies. And so I have reason in my ain mind,
as guid as positive knowledge--which I could only have, if he telled
me himsel, Rob--to say that Allenders has a guid income coming to him,
forbye the land; ten hunder a year--ay, twelve ye may ca’ it--would not
do more than keep up that house.”
Agnes started in dismay, and instinctively put her hand in her pocket
for her little book; but, unfortunately, Agnes always forgot to put
down her housekeeping in this little book, though she had bought it
herself expressly for the purpose; and it was not Agnes’s housekeeping
that was called in question.
“Sir John’s man telled me,” said Geordie’s companion, with the
deliberation of certainty, “that Allenders was naething but a writing
clerk in an office afore he got the estate, and that he hasna a penny
o’ his ain; the story is no mine, but I would like to hear wha should
ken if it wasna Sir John’s man?”
“I dinna believe a word o’t,” said Geordie, hastily. “Would Sir John
keep that auld body of an uncle of mine useless about the house, do
you think, and gie him a’ his ain gait, and cleed him, and feed him,
for the auld family’s sake, and because he’s been a faithful servant?
I trow no; and folk that live in glass houses shouldna throw stanes. I
reckon Sir John’s no fashed wi’ ower muckle siller himsel.”
“That’s naething to the question,” returned his dogmatical opponent,
after one or two sweeps of the scythe among the fragrant grass bore
witness that they had resumed their work. “What I say is, that
Allenders has naething but the estate, and there’ll be a great smash
some of thir days; ye can believe me or no, just as you like.”
“He has his faults, puir lad, but he’s young, and he’ll mend,” said
Geordie; “and you wadna ask me to believe that Allenders is clean mad,
and out of his wits, which is just the same as saying that he lives at
this rate, and has nae siller o’ his ain.”
The listeners withdrew in dismay and alarm. To Martha this gossip
only confirmed many previous fears, but to the others it came like a
revelation.
“If we were ruined, Martha, what would Harry do?” said Agnes. “_We_
could work for ourselves, and I am sure I would never mind the change;
but Harry--poor Harry it would break his heart. I thought there could
be nothing harder to bear than last night, but, Martha, I think if
there is no good change, it will kill me.”
“It must not kill you, Agnes,” said Martha, speaking very low.
“Bairns, hear me; you must let nothing kill you, nothing crush you,
even in your inmost hearts, till God sends the messenger that will not
be gainsaid; and God grant that he may be far off from you both. Now it
is coming--maybe ruin, maybe destruction, certain distress and anguish.
If I could bear it all, you should never hear when it drew near; but it
must come upon you both--upon you both, tender delicate things, that
should be blessed with the dews of your youth. But the end is coming
which God knows; you must not pine, you must not weep, you must not
waste your strength with mourning. Bairns, we have to wait, and be
ready and strong, to meet it when it comes. This is what we have to do.”
As Martha spoke, she held in her grasp the soft warm hands of Agnes
and Rose. They looked up to her, one on either side, like children to
a mother, with lifted eyes, wistful and eager. It was not necessary to
answer, but they went back again to the house together, with a strange
strain in their hearts, something like the bodily strain which their
eager bend towards Martha and anxious look up to her had produced. They
were warned, prepared, ready for the evil; and they thought they had
reached to the sublime sadness of patience, and would not fret or chafe
over the daily griefs again, but rather would be strong for the end.