In the meantime, Cosmo, angry with himself and everybody else, went into
Edinburgh to his weekly labor. It was such lovely summer weather, that
even Edinburgh, being a town, was less agreeable than it is easy to
suppose that fairest of cities; for though the green hill heights were
always there to refresh everybody’s eyes, clouds of dust blew up and
down the hilly streets of the new town, which had even still less
acquaintance then than now with the benevolent sprinkling of the
water-carts. If one could choose the easiest season for one’s troubles,
one would not choose June, when all the world is gay, and when Nature
looks most pitiless to sad hearts. Sad hearts! Let every one who reads
forgive a natural selfishness--it is the writer of this story, who has
nothing to do with its events, who yet can not choose but make her
sorrowful outcry against the sunshine, sweet sunshine, smiling out of
the heart of heaven! which makes the soul of the sorrowful sick within
them. It is not the young hero in the agitation of his young
troubles--warm discontents and contests of life--the struggles of the
morning. Yet Cosmo was vexed and aggravated by the light, and heat, and
brightness of the fair listless day, which did not seem made for working
in. He could not take his seat at Mr. Todhunter’s writing-table, laden
with scraps of cut-up newspapers, with bundles of “copy,” black from the
fingers of the printers, and heaps of proof sheets. He could not sit
down to read through silly romances, or prune the injudicious exuberance
of young contributors. Unfortunately, the contributors to the _Auld
Reekie Magazine_ were almost all young; it had not turned out such an
astounding “start” as the _Edinburgh Review_; it had fallen into the
hands of young men at college, who, indisputably, in that period of
their development, however great they may become eventually, are not apt
to distinguish themselves in literature; and Cosmo, who had just
outgrown the happy complacence of that period, was proportionately
intolerant of its mistakes and arrogances, and complained (within
himself) of his uncongenial vocation and unfortunate fate. He was not
fit to be editor of the _Auld Reekie_. He was not able for the labor
dire and weary woe of revising the papers which were printed, and
glancing over those which were not--in short, he was totally
dissatisfied with himself, his position and his prospects, very
probably, but for his love-dream, Cosmo would have launched himself upon
the bigger sea in London, another forlorn journeyman of literature, half
conscious that literature was not the profession to which he was born;
but the thought of Desirée held him back like a chain of gold. He could
see her every week while he remained here, and beyond that office of Mr.
Todhunter’s in which perseverance and assiduity, and those other sober
virtues which are not too interesting generally to young men, might some
time make him a partner, Cosmo could not for his life have told any one
what he would do.
After he had endured his work as long as he could in this quiet little
den, which Mr. Todhunter shared with him, and where that gentleman was
busy, as usual, with paste and scissors, Cosmo at last tossed an
unreadable story into the waste-paper basket, and starting up, got his
hat. His companion only glanced up at him with an indignant reproof.
“What! tired? Are they so _awful_ bad?” said Mr. Todhunter; but this
model of a bookseller said no more when his young deputy sallied out
with a nod and a shrug of his shoulders. The proprietor of the _Auld
Reekie Magazine_ was one of those rare and delightful persons--Heaven
bless their simple souls!--who have an inalienable reverence for
“genius,” and believe in its moods and vagaries with the devoutness of a
saint.
“Of course I would exact common hours from a common young man,” said Mr.
Todhunter, “but a lad of genius is another matter. When he’s in the
vein, he’ll get through with his work like a giant. I’ve seen him write
four papers with his own hand after the twenty-third of the month, and
the magazine as sharp to its time, notwithstanding, as if he had been a
year preparing. He’s not a common lad, my sub-editor;"--and Cosmo quite
took credit with his employer on the score of his fits of varying energy
and his irregular hours.
Cosmo, however, sauntered away through the bright and busy streets
without giving himself so much credit. The young man was thoroughly
uncomfortable, self-displeased, and aggravated. He knew well enough that
it was not the impatience of genius, but only a restless and disturbed
mind, which made his work intolerable on that long summer afternoon. He
was thinking of Desirée, who would not bear thinking of, and whom he
supposed himself to have bitterly and proudly relinquished--of Madame
Roche, with her ridiculous fancy in respect to Huntley--and of Huntley
himself, who it was just possible might accept it, and take Desirée’s
reluctant hand. It seemed to Cosmo the strangest, miserable perversion
of everybody’s happiness; and he could not help concluding upon all this
wrong and foolishness coming to pass, with all the misanthropical
certainty of disappointed youth. Cosmo even remembered to think of Katie
Logan, by way of exaggerating his own discontent--Katie, who quite
possibly had been faithful to Huntley’s memory all these seven long
years.
He was thus pondering on, with quick impatient step, when he caught a
glimpse of some one at a distance whose appearance roused him. The
figure disappeared down the Canongate, which Cosmo was crossing, and the
young man hastened to follow, though this famous old street is by no
means a savory promenade on a hot summer afternoon. He pushed down,
notwithstanding, along the dusty burning pavement, amid evil smells and
evil sounds, and passengers not the most agreeable. Women on the outside
stairs, with dirty babies in their arms, loud in gossip, and unlovely in
apparel--ragged groups at the high windows, where noble ladies once
looked out upon the noble highway, but where now some poor housemother’s
washing, thrust out upon a stick, dallied with the smoky air, and was
dried and soiled at the same moment--hopeless, ill-favored lads and
girls, the saddest feature of all, throwing coarse jokes at each other,
and, indeed, all the usual symptoms of the most degraded class of town
population, which is much alike everywhere. Cosmo threaded his way among
them with disgust, remembering how he had once done so before with
Cameron, whom he was now pursuing, and at a time when his own
anticipations, as well as his friend’s, pointed to the sacred profession
in which the Highlandman now toiled. That day, and that conversation,
rose vividly before Cosmo. It sickened his sensitive heart to realize
the work in which Cameron was employed; but when his mind returned to
himself, who had no profession, and to whose eyes no steady aim or
purpose presented itself anywhere, Cosmo felt no pleasure in the
contrast. This was not the sphere in which a romantic imagination could
follow the footsteps of the evangelist. Yet, what an overpowering
difference between those steps and the wanderings of this disturbed
trifler with his own fortune and youth.
But Cameron still did not reappear. Somewhat reluctantly Cosmo entered
after him at the narrow door, with some forgotten noble’s sculptured
shield upon its keystone, and went up the stair where his friend had
gone. It was a winding stair, dark, close, and dirty, but lighted in the
middle of each flight by a rounded window, through which--an
extraordinary contrast--the blue sky, the June sunshine, and a far-off
glimpse of hills and sea, glanced in upon the passenger with a splendor
only heightened by the dark and narrow frame through which the picture
shone. Cosmo paused by one of these windows with an involuntary
fascination. Just above him, on the dusky landing, were two doors of
rooms, tenanted each by poverty and labor, and many children, miserable
versions of home, in which the imagination could take no pleasure. In
his fastidious distaste for the painful and unlovely realities, the
young man paused by the window;--all the wealth of nature glowing in
that golden sunshine--how strange that _it_ should make its willing
entrance here!
He was arrested by a voice he knew--subdued, but not soft by nature, and
sounding audibly enough down the stairs.
“_I_ don’t know if he can do them harm--very likely no’--I only tell you
I heard somebody speak of him, and that he was going to Melmar. Perhaps
you don’t care about the family at Melmar? I am sure, neither do I; but,
if you like, you can tell Cosmo Livingstone. It’s nothing to me!”
“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron. “Who was the man? Do you know?”
“He was French; and I’m sure a vagabond--I am sure a vagabond!” cried
the other. “I don’t know if _you_ can mind me, but Cosmo will--I’m
Joanna Huntley. I care for none of them but Desirée. Her mother and her
sister may take care of themselves. But we were great friends, and I
like her; though I need not like her unless I please,” added Joanna,
angrily; “it’s no’ for her sake, but because I canna help it.
There--just tell Cosmo Livingstone! Perhaps it’s nothing, but he might
as well know.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Cameron, once more.
Then there came a sound of a step upon the stair--not a light step, but
a prompt and active one--and Joanna herself, grown very tall, tolerably
trim, rather shabby, and with hair of undiminished redness, came rapidly
down the narrow side of the spiral stair, with her hand upon its rib of
stone. She started and stopped when she had reached almost as far as
Cosmo’s window--made as though she would pass him for the first moment,
but finally drew up with considerable hauteur, a step or two above him.
Joanna could not help a little offense at her father’s conqueror, though
she applauded him in her heart.
“I’ve been in London,” said Joanna, abruptly, entering upon her
statement without any preface. “I saw a man there who was inquiring
about Melmar--at least about the eldest daughter, for he did not know
the house--and Oswald directed him every step of the way. I’ll no’ say
he was right and I’ll no’ say he was wrong, but I tell _you_; the man
was a rascal, that’s all I know about him--and you can do what you like
now.”
“But stop, Miss Huntley; did you seek Cameron out to tell him?” said
Cosmo, with gratitude and kindness.
“I _am_ Miss Huntley now,” said Joanna, with an odd smile. “Patricia’s
married to an officer, and away, and Oswald’s in London. My brother has
great friends there. Did I seek Mr. Cameron out? No. I was here on my
own business, and met him. I might have sought you out, but not him,
that scarcely knows them. But it was not worth while seeking you out
either,” added Joanna, with a slight toss of her head. “Very likely the
man is a friend of theirs--they were but small people, I suppose, before
they came to Melmar. Very likely they’ll be glad to see him. But Oswald
was so particular telling him where they were, and the man had such an
ill look,” added Joanna, slowly, after a pause, “that I can not think
but that he wanted to do them an ill turn.”
“Thank you for warning them. He had come yesterday, and I fear he will
do Marie a very ill turn,” said Cosmo; “but nobody has any right to
interfere--he is a--a relation. But may I tell Desirée--I mean Miss
Roche--any thing of yourself? I know she often speaks, and still oftener
thinks, of you.”
“She has nothing to do with us that I know of,” said Joanna, sharply;
“good day to you; that was all I had to say,” and she rushed past him,
passing perilously down the narrow edge of the stair. But when she had
descended a few steps, Joanna’s honest heart smote her. She turned back,
looking up to him with eyes which looked so straightforward and sincere,
in spite of their irascible sparkle, that Joanna’s plain face became
almost pretty under their light. “I am sure I need not quarrel with
you,” she said with a little burst of her natural frankness, “nor with
Desirée either. It was not her fault--but I was very fond of Desirée.
Tell her I teach in a school now, and am very happy--they even say I’m
clever,” continued the girl, with a laugh, “which I never was at Melmar;
and mamma is stronger, and we’re all as well as we can be. You need not
laugh, Cosmo Livingstone, it’s true!” cried Joanna, with sudden
vehemence, growing offended once more; “papa may have done wrong whiles,
but he’s very good to us; and no one shall dare throw a stone at him
while I’m living. You can tell Desirée.”
“I will tell Desirée you were very fond of her--she will like that
best,” said Cosmo.
Whereupon the vail, which had been hanging about her bonnet, suddenly
dropped over Joanna’s face; it is to be supposed from the suppressed and
momentary sound that followed, that, partly in anger, partly in sorrow,
partly in old friendship and tenderness, she broke down for the instant,
and cried--but all that could clearly be known was, that she put out her
hand most unexpectedly, shook Cosmo’s hand, and immediately started down
the stair with great haste and agitation. Cosmo could not try to detain
or follow her; he knew very well that no such proceeding would have
found favor in the eyes of Joanna; and Cameron at that moment came in
sight from the upper floor.
Cosmo never could tell by what sudden impulse it was that he begged his
old friend to return with him to his lodgings and dine; he had no
previous intention of doing so--but the idea seized him so strongly,
that he urged, and almost forced the half reluctant Highlandman into
compliance. Perhaps the listless loveliness of the day affected Cameron,
in a less degree, somewhat as it affected his more imaginative
companion--for, at length, after consulting his note-book, he put his
strong arm within Cosmo’s, and went with him. Cameron, like everybody
else, had changed in these five years. He was now what is called a
licentiate in the Church of Scotland--authorized to preach, but not to
administer the sacraments, an office corresponding somewhat with the
deacon’s orders of the English Church. And like other people, too,
Cameron had not got his ideal fortune. The poor student had no
patronage, and the Gaelic-speaking parish among his own hills, to which
his fancy had once aspired, was still as distant as ever from the humble
evangelist. Perhaps Cameron did not even wish it now--perhaps he had
never forgotten that hard lesson which he learned in St. Ouen--perhaps
had never so entirely recovered that throwing away of his heart, as to
be able to content himself among the solitudes of the hills. But, at
least, he had not reached to this desired end--and was now working hard
among the wynds and closes of old Edinburgh, preaching in a public room
in that sad quarter, and doing all that Christian man could do to awaken
its inhabitants to a better life.
“It is good, right, best! I confess it!” cried Cosmo, in a sudden
_accés_ of natural feeling, “but how can you do it, Cameron?--how is it
possible to visit, to interest, to woo, such miserable groups as these?
Look at them!” exclaimed the young man. “Mean, coarse, brutal, degraded,
luxuriating in their own wretchedness, knowing nothing better--unable to
comprehend a single refined idea, a single great thought. Love your
neighbor--love _them_?--is it in the power of man?”
Cameron looked round upon them, too; though with a different glance.
“Cosmo,” said the Highlandman, with that deep voice of his, to which
additional years and personal experience had given a sweeter tone than
of old, “do you forget that you once before asked me that same question?
Love is ill to bind, and hard to draw. I love few in this world, and
will to the end; but first among them is One whose love kens no caprice
like to ours. I tell you again, laddie, what I tell them forever. Can
_I_ comprehend it?--it’s just the mystery of mysteries--_He_ loves them
all. I have room in my goodwill, if not in my heart, for them that _you_
love, Cosmo; and what should I have for them that He loved, and loved to
the death? That is the secret. My boy, I would rather than gear and
lands that you found it out for yourself.”
“I can understand it, at least,” said Cosmo, grasping his friend’s hand;
“but I blush for myself when I look at your work and at mine. They are
different, Cameron.”
“A lad may leave the plow in mid-furrow for a flower on the brae or a
fish in the water,” said Cameron, with a smile; “but a man returns to
the work he’s put his hand to. Come back, my boy, to your first
beginning--there’s time.”
And Cosmo was almost persuaded, as they went on discussing and
remonstrating to the young man’s lodging, where other thoughts and other
purposes were waiting for them both.