All men make faults, and even I in this;
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are.
SHAKSPERE.
AND Martha had to meet lesser creditors to whom Harry owed smaller
amounts for trifles of his own wardrobe, of furniture, and other
inconsiderable things. But the sum they came to altogether was far from
inconsiderable. Uncle Sandy, who steadily attended and supported her,
was grieved sometimes by the bitter and harsh passion with which she
received the faintest word which implied blame of Harry. In every other
particular Martha appeared a chastened and sober woman; in this the
fire and pride of her nature blazed with an unchecked fierceness which
grieved the gentler spirit. Within himself there was something also
which sprang up with instinctive haste to defend the memory of Harry;
but Martha’s nervous impatience of the most remote implied blame, and
the headlong fiery passion with which she threw herself upon any one
who attempted this, made the old man uneasy. And people who encountered
Martha’s anger did not know its strange inconsistency, nor could have
believed how well she was aware of Harry’s faults, or how in her heart
she condemned them; but Martha had devoted her life to restore to
Harry’s memory the honour he had lost in his person, and whoso struck
at him, struck at her very life.
They were walking home on their return--for the carriage was already
sold--and John, who had not yet got another place, carried their little
travelling-bags behind them. It was a bright November day, not very
cold, but clear and beautiful, and the sunshine lay calmly like a glory
on the head of Demeyet, crowning him against his will, though even _he_
bore the honour more meekly than in the dazzling days of summer. The
air was so clear, that you could see the white houses clustering at his
feet, and hear the voices of distant farm-yards on every side, miles
away, making a continual sound over the country, which seemed to lie
in a silent trance of listening; and from this little height which the
road descends, you can see the blue smoke of Allenders curling over the
bare trees, and make out that the sunshine glances upon some bright
childish heads under the stripped walnut on the lawn. Uncle Sandy,
looking towards it, prays gentle prayers in his heart--prays to the God
of the fatherless, the widow, the distressed--to Him who blessed the
children in His arms, and wept with the sisters of the dead; and has
his good heart lightened and comforted, knowing who it is to whom he
has in faith committed the charge of these helpless ones; and the old
man has a smile upon his face, and many a word of tender kindness in
his heart, to comfort the “bairns” at home--for they are all bairns to
him.
But other thoughts burn at the heart of Martha, as she walks onward
by his side. Unawares and unconsciously her soul shudders at the
sunshine--hates with fierce impatience the voices and cheerful hum of
ordinary life, which grow audible as they approach Maidlin, and shrinks
from returning home--home, where that one vacant place and absent
voice, makes her heart desolate for ever. Through her bitter repinings,
Miss Jean’s exultation passes with a ghastly terror, and Martha shivers
to think that this unholy age may come upon her, and has her heart full
of questionings almost impious. That this old woman, envious, degraded
and miserable, should be spared in the earth to see many a hopeful head
laid low; that poor old Dragon, basking in the sunshine, should live
on from day to day, and see the children die; that she herself should
remain, and Harry be taken away. Martha said, “Why? why?” and groaned
within herself, and was burdened, hating the very light, and shrinking
with burning impatience from the respectful looks and half-spoken
sympathies of these cottar women at Maidlin Cross. She could not accept
sympathy; she turned away with loathing from all except those who
immediately shared her sorrow; and even them she bore with sometimes
painfully--for who could understand _her_ grief?
A blasting fiery unblessed grief burning her heart like a tempest--and
a sullen gloom came over Martha’s face as she averted her head, and
walked on steadily, closing her ears to the pleasant natural sounds
which seemed to crowd upon her with so much greater distinctness than
usual, that they chafed her disturbed mind into very fury. “The spirit
of the Lord left Saul, and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him.”
It was so with Martha now.
Little Mary Paxton has been learning to-day to make a curtsey--for she
is to go to school for the first time to-morrow; and her big sister,
Mysie, says the young ladies curtsey when they enter the school-room at
Blaelodge. Mary has blue eyes, little ruddy lips, always parted by two
small white teeth, which appear between them; and cheeks, which the sun
has ripened, according to his pleasure, all the summer through. In her
little woollen frock and clean blue pinafore, Mary has been practising
her new acquirement at the Cross. She is only four years old, and has
a licence which the elder children have not; so little Mary rises up
from the step of the Cross on which she has just seated herself for
a rest, and coming forward with her small steps, pauses suddenly on
the road before Martha, folds her little bare hands on her breast,
and looking up with the sweet frank childish face, and the two small
teeth fully revealed by her smile of innocent satisfaction, makes her
little curtsey to the lady, and stands still to be approved with the
confidence of her guileless years.
Upon Martha’s oppressed heart this falls like a blow under which she
staggers, scarcely knowing for the moment from whence the shock comes.
Suddenly standing still, and grasping at the old man’s arm to support
herself, she looks at the child--the child who lifts up her sweet
little simple face, with its smiling parted lips and sunny eyes, and
look of perfect trust and innocence. Little Mary wits not that there
are in the world such despairs and bitternesses as blind the very heart
in Martha’s breast; and Martha’s breast heaves with a great sob as
this sudden stroke falls upon her. The old woman’s haggard face, with
its ghostly triumph, disappears from her mind--herself, heavy with the
grief, which is greater than every other, passes away from her relieved
sight. Standing still in perfect silence, a sudden burst of natural
emotion which sweeps away all evil things before it, falls upon her as
from the skies--a strong revulsion, like the witched mariner:
“O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare.
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.”
The tears came in floods irrestrainable to Martha’s eyes, and with
another long sob, she snatched up the child in her arms, kissed its
little innocent, surprised face, and covering her own with her veil,
hurried away. But she had blessed them unaware--blessed all God’s
creatures out of a full heart, acquiescing in that mysterious love
which apportions all things; and the natural sounds and sights were
gall to her no longer, and the burden fell from her neck. All the way
home she hid her tears, and restrained the sound of her weeping so far
as possible; but Uncle Sandy saw and wondered, that Martha was indeed
weeping like a child.
Two days after, Uncle Sandy with his family went to Ayr. They were to
stay a month, Martha said, and Agnes and Rose acquiesced very quietly.
What did it matter where these pensive, sorrowful days were spent? But
Agnes went away, occupied with many little necessary cares for her own
delicate health, and for the children, who now had no maid to attend
them; and Rose, charged with the care of all the little party, had
countless small solicitudes and responsibilities to interest her, and
could even sometimes escape with a sigh into her own dream-country,
and be charmed into a grateful repose; while Lettie and Katie Calder,
could scarcely repress a certain childish excitement in prospect of
the journey, and were in their full enthusiasm about new stitches,
and the work they were to do in Ayr to help Martha. All had some such
new-awakened interest to relieve the strain of constant grief, as
human creatures mercifully find when God lays upon them the heaviest
of His chastisements. But they went away, and left Martha with her one
maid Mysie, and the poor old Dragon, in a house peopled with continual
reminders of Harry--alone.
And as she lay upon her bed awake, through these gloomy, solitary
nights, and dreamed of footsteps on the stair, and mysterious sighings
through her silent room, the strong heart of Martha trembled. What if
the spirit hovering by her, struggled in those inarticulate breathings
to communicate something to the dull human sense, which cannot hear
the delicate voices out of the unseen country? What if Harry--the
true Harry--not him they laid under the sod in the churchyard of
Maidlin--was straining his grander spiritual faculties by her side, to
attain to the old mortal voice which only she could hear, and tell her
what mercy God had communicated to his soul, and where its dwelling
was? And Martha held her breath and listened, and with a throb of
deeper grief was sensible of this thrill of fear which reminded her how
great a gulf and separation lay now between her and the dead--a gulf
before which the human spirit fainted, refusing to front the forbidden
mystery which yet its restless, curious thoughts assail on every side.
But in the broad daylight many a time there seemed to Martha an eye
upon her which benumbed her like a spell--a conscious presence going
with her as she went and came, sitting silent by her side, fixing upon
her constantly this fascinating eye.
Meanwhile everything extraneous was cleared away from their now
simple and plain establishment. John was gone--and Mr. Buchanan’s money
lodged in the Stirling Bank restored credit and respectability to the
steady and continuous care which began to rule over Harry’s fields.
At Martha’s years there is difficulty in learning an altogether new
occupation, and this was of itself distasteful and _outré_ to a woman;
but sometimes, though every one respected her presence, it happened
that she heard indifferent people speak of “poor Allenders,” of the
“warning” of his death as Gilbert called it, or of the shipwreck of
his life. And this, which brought the burning blood to Martha’s face,
inspired her with power to overcome every obstacle. Harry--who in her
heart needed no name--he had been too long the acknowledged centre
there--it was to Martha the bitterest pain to speak of him to the
uninterested and careless who, presuming on her mention of him, plied
her with allusions to her brother, till her impatient sorrow could
have turned upon them, and struck them down even with a blow. But even
this Martha schooled herself to bear--schooled herself to tell the
men with whom her necessary business brought her into contact, that
this was Harry’s will and that his intention; that he had proposed
this work, and that charity, which she was bound to carry out, and
would. Gradually these people came to look upon him with a visionary
reverence--this spirit of the dead whose intentions lived in a will
so strong and unvarying; and his own weakness passed away, and was
forgotten, in the strength which placed itself, like a monument, upon
his grave.