THE HOME MADE DESOLATE
"There is a warm impression, an instinctive sagacity, by which we
anticipate future events."
* * * * *
"Life is filled with issues."
With renunciation life begins. For nineteen years I had been a
receiver: I was now to learn the grace of surrender, and of giving up.
I was to drink the cup of pain, and to go through the valley of
humiliation. As far as my home and kindred were concerned, we had
counted the price together, and accepted the inevitable toll of
marriage, understanding well, that marriage, as well as death, makes
barren our lives. This fact was soon illustrated by the attitude
assumed by my old friends in Glasgow. I thought I should be treated
even with additional _eclat_, and they had apparently cut me out of
their lives. I met Mrs. Sage one morning, soon after my return from my
wedding journey, and greeted her with glad excitement. She was polite,
but restrained, and when I asked her to call on me, regretted she had
no time. The girls were going off to school, and her son Alick was
going to Australia as representative of the Western Bank of Scotland.
She gave me this information with a great deal of pride, and just a
tone of resentment, then said, "Good morning," and virtually passed
out of my life.
I was much troubled by her behavior for a week, then I went one
morning to Campbell's for some muslin, and there I saw Mrs. McIntosh.
She was such a good-hearted, sweet-tempered soul, I never doubted her
kindness; but she, also, was changed. Civil, of course, but she never
once spoke of their Saturday evenings, or asked, "When are you coming
to see us?" I told Robert of these meetings, and he smiled and said
that the behavior of my friends was quite natural. I was no longer
available for young parties. I was out of the race, as it were, and
my presence among the youths and girls was restraining and unpleasant
to them. "You will have to be contented with the married women, now,
Milly, and I think the girls are glad of your absence." That was all
his comment, and he did not seem to think it a matter of any
importance.
Now I had always held my own with the girls--with the married women it
was different. I thought them cold and critical, and, unfortunately, I
gave them plenty of opportunities for criticism. I was ignorant of
many things that were only to be learned by years of social
experience, unless one was to the manner born. My dress, though
handsome and becoming, was not like unto theirs, and I was innocently,
but constantly, offending some national feeling or tradition. Thus,
when I went to Campbleton to pay a week's visit to my sister-in-law, I
wore at a special entertainment a satin gown of the Royal Stuart
tartan. I thought I was paying Scotland a compliment, but I could
hardly have done anything more offensive to every Campbell in
Campbleton. They could not believe any one was so densely ignorant, as
not to know that the Campbells hated the Stuarts. To the local dominie
I was an ignoramus, because I was not familiar with the smallest fact
regarding the Great Disruption, and the founding of the Free Kirk. He
wondered where I had been born, "not to have heard of Chalmers and
Guthrie and the Highland Host they led to a great spiritual victory."
Yet, honestly, never even in Dr. Farrar's, where embryo clergy
congregated, had I heard of the Scottish Disruption. And this
ignorance was astounding to them, if it was real, and impertinence, if
it was only pretended.
I dislike to make the acknowledgment, but even Mrs. Semple was
changed. She was offended because she was not asked to be present at
our wedding. I explained to her the circumstances making her visit
impossible--the smallness of my father's house, and the likelihood of
sickness at any hour, and she appeared quite satisfied at the time;
but, when Robert brought his sister and brother-in-law to Kendal, she
thought she ought to have been included in his party. I think she
ought, and I would have been glad of her presence. There was somehow a
mistake, and the fault was said to be mine; and I saw that Robert
would be annoyed if I made a question about it, so I accepted the
wrong and the blame.
Three months after my marriage I should have been quite disheartened
but for the kindness of two admirable women, who had the intelligence
to divine the whole situation. They were Marion, the wife of Walter
Blackie, and her sister, Isabel Brodie. John Blackie, the father of
Walter Blackie, had been the guardian of my husband, and the
publishers of my husband's father's books, consequently there was an
old tie of friendship between the families. But, in spite of this,
Marion Blackie warmly and openly stood my friend. She advised me in
private, and defended me in public. Indeed, she told my critics that
they and herself, also, must appear as peculiar to me as I did to
them. "Of course," she continued, "the Barr women don't like her. She
has not a feeling in common with them, and how can she defend herself
against innuendoes? I only hope they will not sneer and shrug her
husband's love away." Only these two women remain in my memory to
sweeten the story of my three years' residence in Glasgow, as a wife
and mother.
These were the social conditions in which I found myself, and I did
not long struggle against them. Those who should have been kind to me
were irreconcilable enemies; and they were old leaders of public
opinion, and understood thoroughly the people with whom they lived. I
felt that my case was hopeless, because victory in it might bring
defeat in a nearer and dearer relation; for Robert would have
certainly stood by me, if my attitude demanded his support; but I was
sure I could not prevent a sense of anger and injury, if his
interference was called for. It was not worth while provoking such a
danger; I resolved to retire and make myself happy in other ways. I
had a very handsome home to care for, and in it there was a library of
about two hundred of the latest books in fiction, poetry, and travel.
I began to use my needle, and grew expert in embroidery. I ran down to
Kendal now and then for a day, and Father paid me one visit, and
Mother several. In two or three months I had forgotten society, and it
held its regular sessions without remembering me.
But the time passed happily--long sweet days in which I thought as I
sewed, or read, or sang, or sometimes took a walk up to the old
cathedral, or even through the busy thoroughfares of Argyle and
Buchanan Streets. In the evenings I read aloud to Robert, or he taught
me how to sing the Scotch songs he loved. We had a copy of Hamilton's
large edition of them, and I began with the initial lyric of "Braw
Braw Lads of Gala Water," and then went straight through the book,
which took us about a month. Then we began it over again, and I do not
remember wearying, at least not of the older songs, for they were
never written: they sprung from the heart and went direct to the
heart.
Sometimes we walked quietly to Glover's Theatre, especially if there
was a play like "Rob Roy," with the great Mackay in the title role. I
shall never forget the night I saw this play. The theatre was
decorated with Rob Roy tartan, and every woman wore conspicuously some
ornament of Rob Roy ribbon--a large bow, long streamers from her fan,
or a handsome satin scarf of the red and black checks, and I think
there was not a man present without a Rob Roy rosette on the lapel of
his coat. If there was, he must have been some benighted Englishman
who had no acquaintance with Walter Scott and his famous robber hero.
The human stir and enthusiasm was wonderful; the players moved and
spoke as if they were enchanted, and they carried every soul in the
theatre with them. It was good to feel, if only for a couple of hours,
something of the intense emotion of which the soul is capable. No
wonder the Scotch are so Scotch; they nurse their patriotism
continually, feed it with song and story, music and dancing, and the
drama, and they regard the Sabbath Day as peculiarly a Scottish
institution. Surely all this was better than exchanging suspicious
courtesies with critical acquaintances.
As the days lengthened and grew warmer, we went at the week ends to
Bute, or Arran, or Stirling, and very often to Edinburgh; for, at the
latter place, we always heard a fine sermon at the old Greyfriar's
Kirk. The first anniversary of our marriage we spent in Kendal and
Windermere, and somehow, after that event, there was a shadow I could
feel, but could not see or define. Things appeared to go on as usual,
but a singular sense of uncertainty troubled them; and, though I have
said, "things went on as usual," they did not quite do so. There was
one change--it was in Robert's movements. A few months previously he
had gone into partnership with a man in Huddersfield, who had large
woolen mills, and he left his business in Glasgow for two days every
two weeks to go to Huddersfield. At first he always returned buoyant,
and apparently well contented. I supposed, therefore, the woolen mill
was doing well; but, true to his Scotch instincts, natural and
educated, he had never explained anything about the transaction to me.
It was, of course, necessary to say _why_ he took this regular journey
to England, but, beyond that information, the subject was not named,
and I do not know unto this day, what kind of woolen goods were made
in the Huddersfield mills.
This reticence about their business, is, I think, a Scotch trait of
the most pronounced kind. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say, that
no Scotchman ever tells his wife the truth, and the whole truth, about
his affairs. Robert in this respect only followed out his strongest
inherited instincts, the example set before him on every hand, and the
precepts inculcated by parents and guardians. When we were first
married, I tried to win his confidence and share his hopes and plans,
and I was kindly but decisively made to understand that I was going
beyond my sphere. And, as I write, and remember the position occupied
by English and Scotch wives of sixty years ago, my heart burns with
indignation, and I wonder not at _any_ means they now take to
emancipate themselves. I knew women at this time who spent weeks and
months in fears and anxieties, that could have been dispelled by one
word plainly and honestly spoken. But, when a husband says only,
"Yesterday I was rich, today I am poor; you must do as well as you
can," his silence about his position has been not only cruel, but
humiliating. He might make just such a speech to an affectionate and
faithful dog. This is a digression, but it will not be lost, if it
makes one man reflect, or one woman resolve.
As for myself, I was not destitute of rebellious thoughts. Once Robert
had brought his Huddersfield partner home with him to dinner, and I
had carefully scrutinized the man, and his speech, and manner. After
he had left, Robert, in a kind of incidental way, as if it was a
matter of no consequence, asked me what I thought of Mr. P.
"Do you wish me to tell you the truth, Robert," I answered, "or shall
I only say pleasant words?"
"Tell the truth, Milly, by all means," he replied, "though I suppose
you are going to say unpleasant words."
"I am, but they are true words, be sure of that, Robert. I think Mr.
P. is a rascal, from his beard to his boots. Nature has set his eyes
crooked; she has put her mark on the man, and said plainly, 'Beware of
him!' His voice is false. I watched his feet, he turned them out too
much, and he had trod his shoes down at the sides. 'He could not tread
his shoes straight,' is a Yorkshire proverb for a rogue. I would not
trust him with a penny piece, further than I could see him."
"You saw all this, Milly, while he was here a short hour or two?" And
Robert laughed and drew me to his side. So the subject dropped, but I
could see that my suspicions had allied themselves to similar ones in
his own mind.
One incident of this year I must not forget--the meeting with Mrs.
Stowe and Mr. Beecher. I saw them first on the platform of the City
Hall, where I had a seat with some friends on the invitation
committee. I was not attracted by Mrs. Stowe, who was quiet, and
apparently bored or tired; but Mr. Beecher won every heart.
Afterwards, at a reception, I had a long talk with him about America.
Once more I saw him, and the conversation was renewed, and finally Mr.
Beecher said, "I think you will come to America. If you come to New
York, hunt me up; I shall not be hard to find. You will want help in
seeing New York, and I will do anything I can for you." Seventeen
years afterwards I reminded Mr. Beecher of this promise, and he
cheerfully and helpfully redeemed it.
So the time went on, and I was happy, for the pleasure of "use and
wont" of things tried and confidential was mine. I found myself
constantly singing, for I was busy about a very diminutive wardrobe. I
delighted in making some of the tiny articles with my own hands,
sewing into them prayers and hopes and blessings for the child who was
to wear them, and whose advent was expected about the New Year. In
these days I thought a great deal about my own infancy. I recalled its
first exquisite beginnings, its wonder and joy in the mere fact of
living. I thought of the dream I had, when I was too young to find
words to tell it, and blessed God I was not too young for Him to think
of me.
Even the dark November days, with their thick yellow fogs, and muffled
melancholy sounds, could not sadden me. Nor was I much depressed by
that haunting fear, which all women--however often they are
mothers--are subject to before the birth of a child. I might die; many
mothers did. What then? I answered my heart fearlessly, "I shall have
had a perfect life, a happy childhood, a true love, a blessed
marriage. The finite over, the infinite will begin. I shall be
satisfied." And I am sure I could then have trod the common road into
the great darkness, without fear and with much hope.
But one day in this November I awoke both fearful and sad. It was with
difficulty I preserved the cheerful morning face, that I had been
taught from early childhood was the first duty of every day and, as
soon as Robert left for his office, and I knew I should be alone until
evening, I lay down upon my bed and wept with an unreasonable passion.
I knew not why I wept, but my soul knew. She heard what was coming
from afar, and knew that I was now to leave the walled garden of my
happiness, and to take my share in those great sorrows, which are
needed to give life its true meaning.
I had noticed, when at breakfast, that Robert was unusually silent,
and I had not felt able to rise above the atmosphere of gloom and
worry; but in the afternoon it struck me, that perhaps I only was to
blame, and I resolved to dress prettily and be ready to carry the
evening through with songs and smiles. So I rose and put on a gown
that Robert liked to see me wearing, a handsomer garment than I
usually wore, but I told myself that if trouble should be coming, I
would meet it dressed like one who meant to conquer. And I remember
that all the time I was brushing out my hair, I was saying over and
over a few lines that came ready to my lips, though I knew not when,
or where, I had learned them:
"Empire o'er the land and main,
Heaven who gave, can take again;
But a mind that's truly brave,
Stands despising,
Storms arising,
And defies the wind and wave."
I had forgotten the last line, but my mind involuntarily supplied it.
And at that moment I felt able to defy sorrow, and to shut the door
against it. But alas! how poorly we love those whom we love most. Our
love sinks below our earthly cares, and we bruise ourselves against
the limitations of our own love, as well as against the limitations of
others.
I was sitting very still, thinking these things out, and talking
reproachfully to my soul--who has always been a talkative soul, fond
of giving me from the little chest wherein she dwells, reproofs and
admonitions more than I like--when I heard Robert put his latch-key in
the lock, and enter the house. He was an hour before his time, and I
wondered at the circumstance. Generally he came to me in the parlor
first, and then went to dress for dinner, but this night he went
straight to his room. I stood up and considered. Fear tormented me
with cruel expectations, and I would not give place to that enemy, so
I went quickly down the passage, singing as I went, and at the door
asked cheerfully,
"Are you there, Robert?"
"Yes," he answered; "come in, Milly."
Then I entered smiling, and he looked at me with all his soul in his
eyes, and, without speaking, covered his face with his hands.
"Robert!" I cried. "Dear Robert, are you sick?"
"No, no!" he answered. "Sit down here at my side, and I will tell you.
Milly, I have lost nearly all I possess. The Huddersfield mills have
failed."
"Never mind them," I said; "your business here is sufficient, and you
can pay it more attention."
"It has today been sequestered by the English creditors."
"What is 'sequestered'?" I asked. I had never heard the word before.
"It means that I cannot have any use of my business here, until the
court decides, whether it can be made to pay the debts of the
Huddersfield concern. O my dear, dear Milly, forgive me!"
"My love, you have done me no wrong."
"I have. I have taken risks that I ought not to have taken. You
thought you were marrying a rich man, Milly."
"I married you, yourself, Robert. Rich or poor, you are dearer than
all to me. I do not count money in the same breath with you."
"You love me, dear?"
"Better tonight, than ever before."
"I am sick with anxiety."
"Let me share it. That is all I ask. And you must be brave, Robert.
Things are never as bad as you think they are. You are only
twenty-seven years old; you have health and friends. We can half the
expenses. Let the English place go. You will get your business here
back soon, will you not?"
"I hope so. I cannot tell. I must leave you, and go to England
tomorrow and you ought not to be alone now."
"Nothing will harm me. Go, and find out the worst, then you know what
you have to fight. Dinner is ready. You need a good meal; you will
feel better after it."
"How can I? I fear that I am ruined."
"Now, Robert," I said, "that depends on _yourself_. No man was ever
ruined from _without_; the final ruin comes from _within_, when you
turn hopeless and lose courage. I have heard my father tell young men
that, many times."
I suppose that most American husbands and wives would have spent the
evening in talking over this trouble, and considering what steps were
wisest to take. Robert did not speak of it again. During the meal,
when the girl was coming in and out with the various dishes, he talked
of a big fire in the High Street, and the appearance of Harrison in
"The Bohemian Girl," saying he was sorry I could not hear him sing "I
Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." When dinner was over, he asked me to
go on with the book I was reading to him. It was "The Newcomes," and I
lifted it, and he lay down on the sofa with his cigar. But I did not
know what I was reading. The lights seemed dim, my voice sounded far
away, there was a tumult in my senses that was prelusive of fainting.
"I am not well, Robert," I murmured, "I must stop," and I laid "The
Newcomes" down, and have never touched a book of Thackeray's since.
Robert rose immediately. "I must leave for England very early in the
morning," he said. "I will try and get some sleep first."
The next morning he went away before daylight, and I had to bear the
uncertainty and suspense as well as I could; and these journeys
continued until the twentieth of December, when all court business
stopped until after the twelfth day in January. I did not write home
about this trouble. Father had been ill, and Mother was coming to me,
on the second or third day of the New Year; and I hoped afresh every
morning, that some good news would come to brighten the sad story. But
all I heard was that professional accountants were going over the
books of both the Glasgow and the Huddersfield business, and that it
was tedious work, and required Robert's presence constantly to explain
transactions. This appeared sensible and necessary, and I made the
best of the week ends, when Robert usually hurried home, traveling all
night, so as to reach me early Saturday morning.
So Christmas came and went, the saddest Christmas I ever spent in all
my life; but Christmas was not Christmas in Scotland, at that date. It
had too strong a likeness to Episcopacy, yes, even to Popery, for the
Calvinistic Scot; and savored of monkish festivals, and idolatrous
symbols. I never saw a nativity pie in Glasgow, but those I made; and
I really think they caused Robert a twinge of conscience to have them
on the table. He certainly never tasted them. But the New Year was a
modest kind of saturnalia, kept very much as the Calvinistic Dutch
settlers of New York kept it in the days of the Dutch governors. It
was a quiet day with us, and I could not help contrasting it with the
previous New Year's when we had our minister, and the Blackies and
Brodies, and a few others to dinner, and all drank the New Year in,
standing with full glasses. At the moment we did so, my conscience
smote me. I was cold and trembled as the clock slowly struck twelve,
for I had always been used to solemnly keep the Watch Night, and, if
not on my knees in the chapel, I was certain to be praying in my own
room. "The ill year comes in swimming," says an old proverb, and I
have proved its truth.
On the third day of the New Year, Robert's mother called in the
afternoon. Robert had gone to Stirling, and I was alone and much
astonished to see her; but I said, as cheerfully as possible, "Good
afternoon, Mother, and a Happy New Year to you." Then, noticing that
she was much agitated, I grew frightened about Robert, and said
anxiously, "You look troubled, Mother; is anything wrong with
Robert?"
"Is there anything right with the man now? I got this letter from him
on New Year's Day--a nice-like greeting it was to send me."
I looked at her inquiringly, but did not speak, and she asked, "Do you
know what is in it?"
"No; Robert did not tell me he had written to you at all."
"Of course, he didn't! Mother may be heartbroken with shame and
sorrow, but you! You must not have your precious feelings hurt."
"Robert," I answered, "would not willingly hurt a hair of your head,
Mother. I know that. If he has told you of more trouble, I wish to
share it with you."
"You shall," she replied. "He writes me that he fears the
creditors--sorrow take them!--are trying to attach the furniture of
this house, and he asks me, if they do, to buy it for him, at their
valuation. That is a modest request to make, on the first of the
year!"
"Mother, no one can touch this furniture. It is mine. It was given to
me before my marriage, made legally over to me in my antenuptial
contract. The furniture, silver, napery, books, and every item in the
house is especially and carefully named, as the property of Amelia
Huddleston."
"Where is the contract?"
"With John Forbes, the writer. Go and see it."
"I am thinking that the English law makes all that was yours, on your
marriage day, become Robert's, and all that is Robert's belongs to his
creditors, until the creatures are satisfied. But I came on a kind
errand, if you will take it so. I came to tell you that, though you
have been the ruin of my son, I will not see you put on the street. I
will buy the furniture and rent it to you."
"I would not rent it from any one. It is mine. If I am robbed of it, I
will not countenance the robbery, by renting it."
"What will you do with yourself?"
"I shall come to no harm."
"You can maybe find a boarding-house?"
"I shall not need one."
"And there is your own home."
"I shall not go there."
"I think Robert might have told you of this sore strait."
Then, in a sudden passion of anger, I cried out, "I think so, too. He
treats me as if I was a doll or a dog. He tells me nothing. I have the
cruelest part of every sorrow to bear--the part not sure. It is a
shame! It is a great wrong! My heart is sick with anxiety that does no
good. At the last, he has to tell. I cannot bear it!"
"All the women have it to bear."
"Then shame to the men who lay on them such a useless burden."
"We have a saying that women's counsel is ill luck."
"It is the want of it that is ill luck. I never saw that Huddersfield
man but once, yet I told Robert to beware of him."
"People say that you have been a gey, extravagant wife, Amelia."
"People lie!" I answered hotly. "I have saved two hundred and eight
pounds in eighteen months, out of the money given me for housekeeping
expenses."
"Then Robert has been extravagant, and given you too much money."
"He gave me exactly what he gave you, for the same purpose. He told me
so."
"And you have saved two hundred and eight pounds! Well, well! Where is
it?"
"In my bank."
She looked at me not unkindly, and I said, "Mother! Mother! If you and
Jessy would have only directed me, I would gladly have obeyed your
desires. If you would have only stood by me, no one would have seen
any faults in my way of dressing, and doing things. Amelia Barr is no
different from Amelia Huddleston, and under that name every one loved
and praised me."
"Well, well, married women are little thought of--except by the one
man--and not always much thought of by him."
"Try to like me, Mother. I could so easily love you, and I will do all
as you wish it," and, as I spoke, I went to her side and lifted her
hand.
"Please God," she answered, "there is plenty of time to put wrong
right. Will you give me a cup of tea now?"
"Forgive me, I forgot."
"That is just it," she answered. "You forget. You should have offered
it to me, when I first came in."
Then I did all I could to redeem the forgetting, and she said, "Take a
cup yourself; it will do you good, and tomorrow send for John
Forbes."
"I do not trust John Forbes."
"Neither do I," she answered quickly, "it is little he knows of the
English law about any matter. What will you do then?"
"Go to a Councillor, who never yet deceived me."
"I understand, but I'm not sure if that is right, Amelia. Going to God
about chairs and tables, and the like of such things is not at all
respectful."
"We are told to pray about our bread and clothing, because 'God knows
we have need of such things.'"
"Your own way, be it. Tell Robert I am willing to help--if needs be."
"There will be no need, Mother."
"You're a queer woman." She rose as she spoke, and said it would soon
be dark, and she must hurry, for lots of drunken men and women would
be on the streets seeing it was the New Year. Then I fastened her
cloak and furs, and said,
"Kiss me, Mother."
A look of the uttermost discomfiture and confusion came into her face.
She hesitated, and fingered her bonnet strings, but finally bent her
head slightly, and allowed me to kiss her. Then suddenly I recollected
that the family kiss was a thing practically unknown in Scotch
households, and that Robert had more than once told me that he never
remembered his mother kissing him, in all his life. But the momentary
disconcertion passed, and I believed I had won a step in the old
lady's favor, and I was glad of it, for she had some excellencies, and
her faults were the faults of race, education, and life-long habit and
experiences.
Within an hour after her departure, my own dear mother came to me, and
two days later, my daughter Mary was born, "a bonnie wee lassie,
world-like, and wise-like," said the old nurse pleasantly. She kept
her sixtieth birthday a week ago, and may God spare her to keep her
eightieth as well, and as joyfully. After the birth of Mary, her
father's affairs began to settle, and it was not necessary for him to
travel so constantly between Glasgow and Huddersfield. And the
furniture question gave me neither trouble nor anxiety. I took it to
the Highest Court, and the Best Councillor known to man, and I never
heard of it again. Robert did not speak of it to me, and I asked him
no questions. There are times in life when it is wisest to let
sleeping dogs lie, and I thought this subject was one of such
occasions. About May Robert received his certificate of just and
lawful bankruptcy, and was free to reopen his warehouse and recommence
his business.
But I could see it was hard and discouraging work. An American can
hardly estimate how cruel an English bankruptcy is. On its business
side, I could only form opinions from Robert's depression and remarks;
but I could see, and feel, and hear on every hand, the social
ostracism it entails. The kindest heart quickly drops the friend who
has failed. The man is never forgiven by his family. Years cannot
efface the stain, nor future success give back his former social
position, or ever dispel the uncertainty of his business reputation.
Now bankruptcy is not the unpardonable sin in the United States that
it is--or was--in England and Scotland, and one of the things which
struck me most forcibly, when I came to America, was the indifference
with which men spoke of "being broke," or having failed here or there,
or in this, or that line of business, taking misfortune as cheerily as
good fortune, and beginning again and again until they at last
succeeded.
With small economies, small anxieties, and one man's ceaseless
struggle against misfortune, the next year passed away. Hitherto, I
had always felt a contempt for struggling men; I had told myself, that
their opportunities were so many, there was no excuse for the strife.
If one thing, or one place was unfavorable, they could go elsewhere;
the whole world was a market-place for their hands, or their brains.
But during this year I discovered my mistake. Robert was tied by
invisible bonds, and he had not the strength--perhaps not the will--to
burst them asunder.
As for myself, I was busy with my house, and my child, my music, and
books, my needle, and my correspondence with my home, and I could have
been quite content with these sources of pleasure, if Robert had been
in any measure satisfied and successful. But he could not hide from me
the anxiety which was making his life a burden hard to bear. It was
then the idea of exile, of a new country, new surroundings, and an
entirely new effort, unhampered by the debris of an old failure, took
possession of my mind; for this one year's dismaying results satisfied
me that nothing but the most radical changes would be of any use. But
I was daily expecting the birth of my second child, and I told myself
that nothing could be done for another month. I was, however,
mistaken. Robert came home one night in such evident distress, that I
was sure it arose from some social slight, and I asked, "Whatever has
vexed you so much today, Robert?"
"Why, Milly," he said, "three things: My old Sunday school teacher, to
whom I am much attached, passed me without a word, and then turned
back and said angrily, 'Man Robert! I'm disappointed in you. I'm sair
disappointed! I thought you were going to be a rich man, and a pillar
o' the Kirk.' I said, 'It is not my fault, Deacon.' 'It is your
fault,' he continued, 'whatna for, did you buy Alexander Hastie's
business, if you didna ken how to run it? Hastie is now our member to
Parliament, and you hae disgraced the whole city o' Glasgow, by
letting a business so weel kent in his name, go to the dogs. I wonder
me, what your good father would say to the disgrace you hae brought on
his name, and I am sorry, _Dod_! I'm heart sorry for your poor
mother.'"
"O Robert! How cruel! How unjust!"
"I cannot live down such prejudice, Milly. It is impossible. He had
scarcely left me, when I saw Mrs. Semple coming towards me. She
hesitated a moment, then went into a small jeweler's shop to avoid the
meeting. This afternoon Mother came to my office, and we had some very
hard words, about a piece of property that is solely and entirely my
own."
"Have you anything left, that is your own?"
"This piece of property is. Once, when I had plenty of money, I helped
Donald McLeod to save it, and when he died, three months ago, he left
it to me."
"Hold to it fast, Robert," I said. "I beg you not to touch it for
anything."
"Donald told me he had left it for an 'emergency,' and I am keeping it
till that time arrives."
"That time is now here, dear Robert. As soon as my trouble is past,
let us go far away from Scotland, and begin a new life. You are not
twenty-nine years old, and I am only twenty-two. Shall we give up our
lives to a ceaseless, contemptible struggle, that brings us neither
money nor respect? Somewhere in the world, there is peace and good
fortune for us. We will go and find it."
"Are you really willing to leave Scotland, Milly?"
"I will go to the end of the earth with you, Robert."
Then he leaped to his feet, and his face was shining, and he kissed me
tenderly, "Where shall we go?" he asked. "Canada? India? Australia?"
"What do you say to the United States?" I answered. "Tomorrow I will
send to the library for books on all these countries. We will read and
consider, and try to be ready to leave Scotland, about the middle of
August."
"At the middle of August? Why that date?"
"Because, about any new movement, it is good to have some one point
decided. That is a foundation. We are going to seek good fortune about
the middle of August. Let us regard that date as positive, Robert. It
is our first step."
He was by this time in an enthusiasm of fresh hope, and we sat talking
till nearly three in the morning, and, if any acquaintance met him
that day, they must have thought "Robert Barr has had some good luck.
He was like his old self today." Indeed the prospect of this new life
brought back again the old cheerful Robert. Every day he came home
with some fresh idea on the subject, or told me of something done to
forward our plans. Among other incidental arrangements, he insisted on
keeping our intention from the knowledge of his family. He feared his
mother's influence and interference. John Blackie had been urging his
release from any further care of the Barr estate, and Robert's name
would be necessary to many papers in connection with this change, and
unavoidable delays result. It also gave an air of romance to the
flitting, which took it out of the role of ordinary emigration. And I
will be truthful, and confess, that it pleased me to think of his
mother's and sister's futile dismay, when they discovered we had
escaped forever the shadows and petty humiliations of a conventional
Scotch life.
On the twenty-second of May, 1853, my daughter Eliza was born, a
bright, beautiful girl, who certainly brought her soul with her--a
girl who all her life has been the good genius of extremities--never
quailing before any calamity, but always sure there was a road over
the mountains of difficulty, which we could find, as soon as we
reached them. And, I may add, she always found the road.
I recovered rapidly, for I was fed daily on fresh hopes, and, in spite
of the uncertainty surrounding these hopes, I was happy, for I
believed in my dreams. Then there came a letter from Father, asking in
his modest, unselfish way, for the return of Mother. It was enough to
alarm us, for we knew well he had felt the necessity, though he
voiced it with so little urgency; and, as this letter is the only
scrap of my Father's writing that has survived the constant chances
and changes of nearly half a century, I will transcribe it:
MY DEAR AMELIA,
I can assure you the very sight of your letter afforded us
unspeakable delight. Yes, we do feel grateful to that Divine and
attentive Providence, which has been with you the last few weeks.
We may, and do, attribute much to means, but what are all means
without His sanction, and His blessing? To Him be all the praise!
I hope, my dear, if spared, you will evince your gratitude by a
devotion of all to Him. Give yourself, give your dear little ones
to Him. You know well what is meant by that. God bless you! God
bless the little stranger! She has come into a cold world; still
she has friends who love and pray for her. Kiss her for me.
As to Mother, I am sure she has done all in her power, and she
would do it so differently to any one else. I can assure you, at
the time she left me, it was no small trial; but it was _for
Amelia_, and only on this ground could I have been induced to make
the sacrifice. Now, that you are so far improved, do not detain
her. I fear another painful visitation. Think of Father. He has
thought of Amelia. Give my love to dear Mother. The little girls
are going to school, and send their love to you, and to dear Mr.
Barr.
Amelia, I am what I ever was to you,
FATHER.
O Father! Father! If, in the stress of my labors and sorrows, I have
forgotten your lovely, patient, helpful life, forgive me this day. Let
my tears wash away my fault, and be still to me, what you ever were,
Father!
* * * * *
As soon as it was possible for me to do so, I faithfully read all I
could read about Australia, India, Canada, and the United States, and
very early came to the conclusion, that we must sail westward. I held
in reserve a possible Canadian settlement, but I was sure that we must
first go to New York. Australia, I had no hesitation in putting out
of consideration; its climate, its strange natural conditions, and its
doubtful early population, as well as its great distance from England,
were definitely against it. But India to me was a land of romance.
There were inconceivable possibilities in India. Anything wonderful
could happen in those rich cities of the upper Ganges. The Huddleston
ships had been early fond of Indian voyages, and Robert had several
friends in Calcutta and Benares, who were making fortunes rapidly. We
could not put India summarily out of our desires and calculations. My
notes about it lay side by side with those of the United States, and
for some time neither Robert nor I could honestly say "I prefer this
or that, before the other."
One night we had swiveled a great deal between New York and Calcutta
as points of landing, Robert having had that day a letter from Andrew
Blair, an old school friend, who was doing well in Delhi, and I went
to sleep thinking that the children would require nothing in the way
of an outfit but some white muslin. Then I dreamed a dream, and when I
awakened from it I said softly, "Are you sleeping, Robert?" And he
answered at once. "No. I heard you cry out in your sleep, and I was
going to speak to you, if you cried again. What frightened you?"
"I thought we were in Calcutta, and we stood alone on a silent street,
knowing not where to go. The sky was black as pitch, the air hot and
heavy, and red as blood, and a great cry, like a woman's cry, rang
through it, and seemed to be taken up by the whole earth. Then a voice
at my side said, 'Look!' and I saw that Calcutta was built entirely of
great blocks of coal, and that, in the center of each block, there was
a fierce fire burning. I must then have cried out, and awakened
myself."
For a few moments Robert did not speak, then he said in a hushed
voice, "We cannot go to India. Blair told me in his letter that the
whole country was restless, and the army mutinous, and that he felt a
little uneasy. But that is such an old complaint, I did not heed it,
and did not think it wise to trouble your decision by just a say-so."
"Well, then, Robert," I said, "you got the word, both for you and
yours, and, as you did not heed it, another messenger was sent. I
wonder if putting our own judgment first of all, and not delivering
the entire message, will be counted as answering 'No' to the heavenly
command."
"Don't say unpleasant things, Milly," was Robert's reply, and I was
silent until he added, "We cannot go to India now, I suppose?"
"I would not go, for the whole wide world."
"Then it must be America."
"Yes, somewhere in America."
In a very positive voice, Robert said, "It must be Canada. I am not
going to give up my English citizenship for anything."
"That is right," I answered. "You can keep it anywhere. It is fine in
you to guard your English citizenship. I have none to guard. It makes
no difference to me where I live."
"My citizenship is yours."
"Oh, no! I do not exercise any of your citizenship rights, and they do
not protect me."
"I exercise them for you."
"Well and good, but I am glad you do not eat, and drink, and sleep for
me, and I would not like you to dream for me. You would not likely
tell me the whole dream."
"Now you are cross, Milly, and I will go to sleep."
But I lay long awake, and felt anew, all through the silent hours, the
horror and terror of that prophetic dream. For I need hardly remind my
readers, that it was awfully verified in the unspeakable atrocities of
the Sepoy rebellion, barely two years afterwards. And I do not believe
Robert slept, but he could not endure allusions to the wrongs of
women--a subject then beginning to find a voice here and there, among
English women "who dared."