’Tis over--over: here is no present now;
All life lies in the past.
OLD PLAY.
THERE is a deep hush upon Allenders, the silence of death; and quiet
footsteps glide about another sick room, passing by the door, where
lies one who shall want human tendance never again. Poor little Agnes,
worn out and broken, lies there very ill; and they are watching her
night and day, as a week ago they watched Harry--but with better hope.
And now all the dreary _business_ of this time falls upon Martha. She
thinks they will craze her--those necessary directions which she is
compelled to give; and Martha cannot afford to risk either her mind
or her health for the family’s sake, which now hangs on her hands to
be provided for. So the second day after Harry’s death she wrote to
Charteris, the only friend, near at hand, to whom she could apply.
Martha’s letter was abrupt and short; she could not intimate what had
come upon them in many words.
“My brother Harry is dead”--this was her letter--“Agnes is ill; and I
alone am left to do what this trial requires to be done. You were his
friend, and wished him well. Will you come to my aid in this extremity
for his sake?”
It might have been the letter of a cold heart. Cuthbert knew better
than to think it was.
And from the window of Agnes’s sick room, Martha, grave and tearless,
watched them carry away the dead. There was a long funeral train,
for now that he was dead, every one was ready to pay respect to poor
Harry. Little Lettie weeping as if her heart would break, had seen the
hearse stand at the door; now she grew suddenly still, chill, and full
of mysterious terror; and when Mysie lifted her from the window, and
softly opened the shutters, letting in the hitherto excluded sunshine,
Lettie sat down on the carpet in the light, and shivered and sobbed,
but could not weep. They had carried him away--poor Harry! where never
mortal ear should hear, or mortal eye look on him again; and Lettie’s
little trembling heart was overpowered with irrestrainable longing to
see his face; and she could not remember it--could not recal, except in
a mist, the features she knew so well.
A few of the most considerable followers of the funeral, Sir John
Dunlop and his son, Mr. Haig of Foggo, and Cuthbert Charteris, who had
arrived two days before, and arranged everything, returned with the
minister, Mr. Robertson the Stirling writer, and Uncle Sandy, to the
house. It was a considerable surprise to all, to find that there was a
will, and they returned to be present while it was read.
The party assembled in the dining-room, where the blinds were still
closed, and the funeral bread and wine remained on the table. When
they had waited for some time, Martha and Rose and little Lettie came
in. They were all already dressed in the deepest mourning, and Rose,
trembling and half-hysteric, was deadly pale; her eyes wandered from
side to side, and she held up her head with a mechanical motion, as
if only half conscious where she was. Lettie, wistful and full of
mysterious trembling, was still keenly alive to everything that passed,
and attended, with her eyes fixed on every speaker with an intense
regard, which riveted every word upon her mind. On Martha’s usual
appearance there was little change. Her eyes were more hollow, perhaps,
and the wrinkles deeper in her brow; but that was all. Uncle Sandy,
passive and absorbed, sat by them in perfect silence. The old man was
greatly shaken with this unexpected grief.
“Before we begin to this business,” said the minister, “let us pray
again with and for this afflicted family. I am sure they have all our
deepest sympathy and good wishes. Let us commend them to the God of
consolations.”
They were all standing before he concluded; but Cuthbert saw the
little gasp and totter with which Rose left her chair, closing her eyes
with the blindness of a worn-out heart. He had not time to think if
his impulse was prudent; it was enough that he could not stand by, and
see her unsupported, while he was there to give her help. He stepped
forward hastily, and taking both her hands into his own, drew one of
them through his arm, and held up her weakness with his strength. A
little audible sob came from the overcharged breast of Rose. She did
not think of Cuthbert, nor was he sufficiently callous to believe she
could. She was thinking of poor Harry in his new grave, and longing,
like Lettie, to see his face once more; but she leaned upon the strong
arm which supported her, and a vague, unconscious comfort came to
Rose’s heart.
But Martha, whose fate it was to stand alone--to whom no one came to
offer support--whose heart knew its own bitterness, and whose cares
there was none to share or lighten, held with both hands the back
of a chair, and bent over it heavily with a stoop like the stoop of
age. Lettie, standing near her, drew close to Martha with the same
impulse which drew Cuthbert to Rose, and Lettie laid her head softly
against her elder sister’s arm. It moved the silent mourner into sudden
irrestrainable tears, and she put out the arm which long exhaustion and
straining had made almost rigid, and drew the child into her heart,
pressing her there with a convulsive grasp. So were the sisters helped
through this painful hour, each as suited her best.
When they were again seated, Martha spoke:
“My sister is ill--Mrs. Allenders--she cannot receive you, gentlemen,
nor thank you. I thank you in her stead. I thank you for paying this
respect--for doing all the honour that can be done now--I thank you--I
thank you. Have I to do anything more?”
And Martha looked round for a moment vacantly; she was forgetting
herself like one in a dream.
Then the lawyer rose and read the will. It bequeathed all the
lands--everything of which Harry died possessed--to Martha Muir
Allenders. There was nothing in it but the barest words, which made it
a lawful document, and Harry’s signature at the end.
A violent start came over Martha--a strange surprise upon the
strangers present. “Poor little Mrs. Allenders!” they whispered to
themselves, and wondered whether she would contest this will or no, or
if it was worth her while, as they heard the land was greatly burdened.
The only persons present who evinced no wonder, were Rose and little
Lettie, to whom it seemed the most natural arrangement, that Martha
should be their family head; but Sir John Dunlop rose coldly to shake
hands with Miss Allenders of Allenders. He had no sympathy with her now.
“Stay,” said Martha, “stay, I beg; there is something more to be said.
Was he--he--able to execute this when he did it. Was his mind clear?
Tell me--let me not say his name more than I must.”
“Of sound mind,” said the writer gravely, “with perfect knowledge of
what he was doing--cooler than I am now; he said he had broken your
heart and lost your hopes--that he had nothing remaining but the land,
and he would give it to you, to make a better use of it than he had
done.”
“He had remaining that was dearer than the land, and he bequeathed
_them_ to me,” said Martha with difficulty. “If this land is mine now,
bear me witness that it is only for the boy--only for little Harry, his
heir, for Agnes and her other child. I take the trust since he gave
it--but nothing is mine--I tell you nothing is mine. Mr. Charteris,
I trust it to you, to see a deed made equal to this will, securing
the land to his lawful heir. Now, may we go away? I am faint and
exhausted--I cannot speak; but thank you--thank you. Our best thanks
to you all--to all who have been here to-day--for the respect--for the
honour.”
And, as they came in, the three sisters left the room.
But the lawyer shook his head when Cuthbert asked him what he knew of
Harry’s affairs.
“Heavy debts, heavy debts,” said Mr. Robertson--“I hear as much as
five thousand pounds--and how can they ever pay that, off four hundred
and fifty pounds a-year, which is all the estate yields. My opinion is,
as a private friend, that they should sell the land. I cannot tell just
now how much, but certainly it will require a heavy sum for a year or
two to keep up the cultivation the way it has been begun. No doubt it
will be very hard to give it up after such a capital is sunk in these
fields; but then unless they have good friends to back them, how can
they ever try to carry on with such a load? And I hear there’s one
thousand of the debt, at least, at extravagant interest. My opinion is,
they should sell the land.”
“I don’t think they will ever consent to that,” said Cuthbert.
“It’s easy to see,” said the writer earnestly; “deduct two hundred and
fifty for interest, it leaves them two hundred to live on--plenty, I
confess, for a family of women, especially when there is a person of
resolution among them like Miss Allenders; but if she should live a
hundred years, she’ll never be able to pay a penny of the principal off
that. You are a friend, Mr. Charteris--I think you should advise Miss
Allenders to sell the land.”
“She herself knows best. I will speak to her,” said Cuthbert; “it
depends entirely on what she means to do.”
A week after, they were able to lift Agnes from her bed to a
fireside sofa. Her fever was gone; but the sweet convalescence of an
invalid surrounded by loves and cares, was sad and heavy to the young
widow--for everything reminded her of Harry. She listened unawares to
passing sounds without, and started and thought he was coming--fancied
she heard his step on the stair, and the little cheerful stir with
which he was wont to enter the outer room into which her own opened;
and then she wept--poor youthful broken heart!--but there was relief in
those floods of tears.
They were all sitting round her--Martha close by her on the sofa,
supporting and gently moving, when she wished it, her delicate feeble
frame. And Rose held the baby up to her, while little Harry, wondering,
and solemnly silent, stood by her, with his arm resting on her knee.
Uncle Sandy, much shaken, and looking ten years older, stood behind at
the window, trying, with much exertion, to compose himself, and speak
to Agnes of the duty and necessity of resignation: but the good old man
needed the exhortation as much as she did. Lettie, last of all, sat on
a stool by the fire very silent, practising a stitch of “opening” which
she had importuned Rose to teach her; and Katie Calder, behind Lettie,
looked over her shoulder, and learned the stitch too.
“What are we to do, Martha?” said Agnes feebly. “Tell me, I will soon
be well now--are we to go away?”
Martha laid her hand on little Harry’s head, and drew him into the
midst. The child stood gravely silent, looking up under her hand, with
wondering eyes, and ruddy lips apart. Poor little Harry had cried a
great deal through these seven days, for he could not understand why
they led him after the coffin, and made him stand beside the grave. He
cried then with dread and terror, but since then, many a time had Harry
asked Mysie what had become of papa.
“This bairn must have the land, free as when we came,” said Martha,
calmly; “and when the land is clear and redeemed, Agnes, he must
have fair fame, and family credit, and good report, to add to his
inheritance. I am left in trust to clear the land for its heir: we must
stay in Allenders.”
Agnes did not speak for a moment. She glanced round the room, first
with a sick, despairing look, as if in fear of all its associations,
then with tears and melting tenderness. The young mother put one feeble
arm round her boy, and leaned her head upon Martha’s shoulder, “I am
very glad,” she said, “very glad--we will have no other home.”
This was all that was said to her in her weakness about the will,
which might have added a concealed pang to Agnes’s lawful grief--for
now she too was jealous of Harry’s love, and could not bear to think
that any one had shared it with her, in anything near the same degree.
Poor Harry! it was true that Martha and Uncle Sandy perceived the rash,
unconsidering generosity, which set natural justice aside, to make this
hasty will; but they said this to no one, nor to each other even; and
in the hearts of all, Harry’s sins were forgotten. He was already a
saint canonized by sorrow and love.
“And Katie and me would like to do the opening,” said Lettie in a
half-whisper; “and Martha, Katie wants you to tell her that she’s no to
go back to Miss Jean.”
“Oh, will you let me stay?” said little Katie, pathetically, “I’ll
never be ony trouble, and I could do the opening fine.”
“The bairn’s bread will never be missed,” said Uncle Sandy, leaning
upon the back of the sofa where Martha sat. “Ye must come with me,
bairns, for a change, and stay a while in Ayr to rest your minds, poor
things!--and Martha, my woman, you have mony a hard thing to do--you’ll
have to see Miss Jean.”
“Ay, uncle,” said Martha, “and I hear there is somebody in Edinburgh
besides; it’s only about money, Agnes: nothing to vex you, my poor
bairn; and you must trust me with all. Will you go with my uncle,
Agnes?”
“If _you_ will, Martha,” said the poor little invalid, holding by her
indulgent nurse.
“I will come for a day,” said Martha; “but now I must learn about
business,” she added, with a faltering smile, “and take order for many
things. I cannot be long away from Allenders. Rose will go with you and
the bairns. You have the bairns, Agnes, God be thanked! to comfort you.”
And Rose, who had not spoken, again held up the baby, who stretched out
his hand to pull his young mother’s cap, and crowed and laughed in her
face, struggling to reach her arms with baby glee.
Poor little unconscious fatherless boy! Very strange looked this
impulse of infant joy among all those sorrowful faces; and with a
burst, which none could restrain, they all bowed down their heads and
wept.
All of them, from the old man sobbing aloud behind the little couch,
and Martha, no longer able to preserve her self-control, to little
Harry, struggling stoutly as he looks upon them all, and breaking out
in a loud shivering sob before the tears come; and it is some time
before they can recover themselves--before the invalid is carried to
her bed, and watched till she falls asleep, and they all disperse to
do what they can, and conquer themselves. Martha and Uncle Sandy wait
in the library for Charteris, who is to return to-day, bringing with
him an account of poor Harry’s debts--and their consultations are very
grave; and you can fancy that on Martha’s brow, care takes the place
of sorrow--for no one knows the deep life grief, undisturbable and
still, which lies at the bottom of her heart. Martha treats Agnes as if
she were the principal sufferer; comforts Rose; soothes and consoles
the very children, but does not say what she feels--that to all of
them lie other interests, other hopes, and gladnesses within the world
which they still are only entering--whereas herself sees nothing in the
future but a monument of good fame, honour, and charity to be raised
over Harry’s grave. This is the end which, proud of him, and jealous
for him still, she proposes to herself, caring little what obstacles
lie in the way; and Uncle Sandy understands the wish, but doubts in his
heart, in spite of all his faith in Martha, and cannot see how she is
to accomplish it.
Meanwhile Agnes sleeps--forgets her griefs, and strengthens the feeble
health which has worn to so delicate a thread; and Rose, sitting beside
her, overcome by much watching, constant fatigue, and a sorrow no less
present and engrossing than the young widow’s, falls into quiet slumber
too, and has a faint pensive smile under the tears, which still fall in
her dream; and Violet and Katie sit on the carpet at the drawing-room
window, with their heads close together, learning other stitches.
Sometimes, indeed, Lettie pauses to cry bitterly, and Katie wipes eyes
which stream in sympathy; but they are both much absorbed with this
delicate craft, and are calculating how many “holes” they could do in
a day, and how they will be able to help Martha; so the children are
comforted.
And deep exhaustion and quietness is upon Allenders. Idly in the
faint sunshine, Dragon sits on his stair-head, and thinks with a faint
wonder of his own recovery and Mr. Harry’s death, and cannot apprehend
that it is true, but listens still for his quick ringing footstep, and
calls to John to inquire why Harry’s horse is left continually grazing
in the meadow park; and John in the kitchen speculates in a subdued and
sober tone, upon the changes which may happen, and thinks he will speak
to the minister about a new place in case of the worst. In Maidlin
Cross there is much speculation too, and they wonder if the family will
stay at Allenders, and whether they will sell the land: but nothing is
known; and many an honest sigh for poor Allenders heaves from the broad
breasts of his labouring men, and many a cottage mother lifts her apron
mechanically to her eye, when she speaks of the “weel-spoken,” kindly
dead. Poor Harry! his whole world, gently and tenderly, let the veil
of death fall over his evil deeds; remember only what he did well; and
peace is upon his grave.