Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:

_italic_




                              HARRY MUIR.

                       A STORY OF SCOTTISH LIFE.


                           BY THE AUTHOR OF

           “PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MRS. MARGARET MAITLAND,”
                    “MERKLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” &C.


              “God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,
              At thy affections....
              The hope and expectation of thy time
              Is ruined; and the soul of every man,
              Prophetically, does forethink thy fall.”
                                                         KING HENRY IV.


                           IN THREE VOLUMES.
                                VOL. I.


                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                     SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                 1853.




LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.




HARRY MUIR.

CHAPTER I.

    “Housekeeping youth have ever homely wits.”
                                               TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.


“AND this is the pillar that Rob Roy hid behind, the Sabbath day that
he warned the young English gentleman in the kirk. It’s the very place
itsel. Here was the pulpit--and the seats were a’ here, and this is the
pillar that hid Rob Roy.”

A party of young men were in the crypt of Glasgow cathedral--the little
sleek, humble-looking man, who very unobtrusively acted as Cicerone,
was pointing out to them the notability, with these words.

One of the visitors turned away with a grave smile, and leaving
his companions, began to wander slowly down one of the long black
aisles. The dim withdrawing vistas--the pillars with their floral
chaplets--the singular grace and majesty of those dark and ponderous
arches--impressed him with very different associations. The young man’s
smile, slightly scornful at first, melted as he reached the lower end,
and looking up through this grand avenue, saw the little knot of dim
figures in the distance. He was glad to escape from their laughter,
and unsuitable merriment. These noble old cloisters were too grave and
solemn, to have their stillness so invaded.

But he was not suffered long to remain uninterrupted in his
contemplative mood. “What ails Cuthbert?” said one of the younger of
the party, a lad in the transition state between boy and man. “See
to him down yonder at the very end, like a craw in the mist--I say,
Cuthbert!”

As the piping shrill voice called out his name at its highest pitch,
the young man began slowly to advance again. The lad came forward to
meet him. “What are you smiling at--what did you go away for?”

“I was smiling at myself, John,” answered the accused.

John was curious. “What for?”

“For thinking there were things more interesting here, than the pillar
that hid Rob Roy. Come along--never mind. Where are they all bound for,
now?”

They were bound for a very dissimilar place--no other than the crowded
Broomielaw, where John’s brothers were bent upon showing their
Edinburgh cousin, Cuthbert Charteris, and an English stranger who
accompanied them, one or two fine ships belonging to “the house” then
in port. These young men were the sons of a prosperous merchant, all of
them already in harness in the office, and beginning to make private
ventures on their own behalf. There were three of them--Richard, Alick,
and John Buchanan; the two elder had reached the full dignity of young
manhood, and rejoiced in mighty whiskers, which John, poor fellow,
could only covet intensely, and cultivate with all his might; but even
John had begun to have the shrewd man of business engrafted on the boy,
and was sometimes precociously calculating, and commercial--sometimes
disagreeably swaggering and loud--though not unfrequently simple,
foolish, and generous, as better became his years.

“I say, Cuthbert,” said the communicative John, as he swung his arm
through his grave cousin’s, and followed his gay brothers on the way to
the river, “did you ever see Harry Muir? Dick says he’s going to make
him come and dine with us to-night.”

“And who is Harry Muir?” asked Charteris.

“Oh, he’s nobody--only a clerk in the office you know--but you never
saw such a clever chap. He can sing anything you like. He’s a grand
singer. And when Harry’s in a good humour, you should just hear him
with the fellows in the office. My father looks out of his own room
sometimes to see what’s the row, and there’s Gilchrist sucking his pen,
and Macauley and Alick close down over their books, writing for a race,
and Muir quite cool, and looking as innocent as can be. You should just
see them, and see how puzzled my father is, when he finds that there’s
no row at all!”

“And in such emergencies, how do you behave yourself, Johnnie?”

“Johnnie! I wish you’d just mind that I’m not a boy now.”

“Jack, then! Will that please you, young man,” said Charteris, smiling.

“Me? I behave the best way I can,” said the mollified John. “The best
plan is, to set to working, and never let on that you hear the door
open; but we like to get him among a lot of us when there’s nobody in
the way; and you’ll just see to-night, Cuthbert, what a grand fellow he
is for fun.”

Cuthbert did not look very much delighted. “And when is this famous
dinner to be?” he asked. “Is Dick to entertain us at home?”

Master John burst into a great laugh. “Man, Cuthbert, what a simple
fellow you are! You don’t think my mother would ask Harry Muir to dine.”

“And why not, my boy?” asked the Edinburgh advocate.

“Why not! Man, is that the way you do in the east country? He’s only a
clerk, and everybody knows you Edinburgh folk are as proud as proud
can be. Would you ask your clerk to dine with you?”

“I don’t possess such an appendage, Sir John,” said the briefless
barrister, “except it be a little scrubby boy like what you were the
last time I was west here--and he certainly would need some brushing
up. So he’s not a gentleman, this wit of yours? He would not be
presentable in the drawing-room?”

“Hum! I don’t know,” said honest John, hesitating. “He looks quite
as well as Dick or Alick, or that Liverpool man there.” The lad drew
himself up and arranged his neckcloth complacently. “There’s handsomer
men, to be sure; but I think Muir’s better looking than any of you,
Cuthbert.”

Charteris laughed: “Is he not well-bred, then?”

“Oh yes, he can behave himself well enough. He’s got a way of his own,
you know; but then he’s a clerk.”

“And so are you, Jack, my man,” said Charteris.

“Oh yes, but there’s a difference. He’s got no money--and more than
that,” said the juvenile merchant, “he’s got no enterprise, Cuthbert.
There’s Alick, he had a share in a plan, sending out a lot of things
to San Francisco on a venture, just when the news came about the gold,
you know, and he cleared a hundred pounds; that’s the way to do. But
then, that fellow Muir, he never tries a thing; and worse than that,
he went away and married somebody last year, and he had three sisters
before, and them all living with him. Just think of that. Four women
all dragging a young man down when he might be rising in the world.
Isn’t it awful?”

“A very serious burden,” said Charteris, smiling, “but what is his
salary, John?”

“His salary’s sixty pounds; my father gives very good salaries. He’s
just a clerk, you know. The cashier has two hundred.”

“Sixty pounds! and five people live on sixty pounds!” said the lawyer.

“And they’ve got a baby,” said John, solemnly.

It was the climax; there was no more said.

The respectable firm of George Buchanan and Sons had its office in a
dingy business street near the Exchange. The early darkness of the
February night had almost blotted out the high sombre houses opposite,
except for the gleaming gas-light streaming from office windows in
irregular patches from garret to basement. It was not a very busy time,
and at five o’clock the clerks were preparing to leave the office.

“I say, Muir,” cried Richard Buchanan, bursting in hastily, “come and
dine with us.”

Charteris was behind. The famous Harry Muir was certainly
handsome--very much better looking than any other of the party, and had
a fine, sparkling, joyous, intelligent face--but the lines of it had
everything in them but firmness.

“Not to-night,” said the clerk, “you must not ask me to-night.”

“Why not to-night?” said the young master. “Come along now, Harry. Do
be a good fellow. Why it’s just to-night of all nights that we want
you. There’s my cousin Charteris, and there’s an Englishman; and we’re
all as flat as the Clyde. Come along, Muir, don’t disoblige us.”

“I am very sorry,” said Muir, “but I can’t stay in town to-night. Let
me off to-night; I will be more obedient next time.”

“He wants to get home to nurse his wife,” said Buchanan, with a sneer.

“My wife is quite well,” answered Harry, with a quick flush of anger;
“she does not need my nursing, Mr. Buchanan.”

“_Mr._ Buchanan! don’t be ill-natured, Harry--come along.”

“No, no; I cannot go to-night. I don’t think I can stay to-night,” said
the brilliant facile clerk.

The entreaties continued a little longer; the resistance became feebler
and more feeble, and at last, stipulating that he was to leave them
early, the genius of the counting-house consented.

“Harry, my man, send a message to your wife,” said a grave snuffy
person, who enjoyed the two hundred pounds a year of which John had
boasted, and was cashier to the Messrs. Buchanan.

Harry wavered a moment. “Where is the boy?”

“Perhaps she’ll come for you, Harry,” suggested the malicious Buchanan.

The poor clerk threw down, angrily, the pen he had taken up, and lifted
his hat. In another minute, with quickly recovered gaiety, they went
out in a band to the adjacent square where they were to dine.

“There’s the makings of a capital man in that lad, and there’s the
makings of a blackguard,” said the grave Mr. Gilchrist, shaking
his head ruefully, and taking a pinch of snuff; “it’ll be a hard
race--which of them will win?”

The dinner in George’s-square went off very well, and the young
clerk, as he warmed, dazzled the little company; he was only a
clerk--they were inclined to patronize him at other times--but now
the unmistakeable, undesired, pre-eminence, which these young men
yielded to their poor companion, was a noticeable thing. The matter of
ambition now, was, who should seem most intimate with--who should most
attract the attention of the brilliant clerk.

Cuthbert Charteris was a more completely educated man than any other of
the party. The thorough literary training will not ally itself to the
commercial, as it seems. None of the young merchants had time for the
long discipline and athletic mental exercises of the student. They were
all making money before they should have been well emancipated from the
school-room--all independent men, when they should have been boys--and
the contrast was marked enough. There was a good deal of boisterousness
in their enjoyment, and they were enjoying themselves heartily, while
Cuthbert, getting very weary, felt himself only preserved from utter
impatience of their mirth by the interest with which the stranger
inspired him--this poor, clever, facile Harry Muir.

The quick mind of this young man seemed to have attained somehow to the
results of education without the training and discipline which form so
principal a part of it. He seemed to have been a desultory reader, a
devourer of everything which came in his way, and while the Buchanans
knew few books beyond the serial literature of the time, Harry threw
delicate allusions about him, which it seemed he made only for his own
enjoyment, since the arrows flew most innocently over the heads of all
the rest. Threads of connection with those great thoughts which form
the common country of imaginative minds, ideas radiating out from the
centre of these, like the lessening circles in the water--the student
Cuthbert heard and understood, and wondered--the Buchanans applauded,
and did not understand.

One of them at last proposed to go to the theatre--the rest chimed
in eagerly. Cuthbert, anxious to have the evening concluded as soon
as possible, and resolving to seek no more of the delectable society
of his young cousins except at home, where they were tolerable,
remonstrated only to be laughed at and overpowered. The grown-up,
mature, educated man resigned himself to their boyish guidance very
wearily--and what would their wit do now?

He said he would go home--he took up his hat, and played hesitatingly
with his gloves. He was excited with the company, the applause, and a
little with the wine, and was permitting himself to parley with the
tempter.

“Come along, Muir, it’s only for once; let us just have this one night.”

“No, no.” The noes grew faint; the hesitation increased. He consented
again.

And so, louder and more boisterous than before, they again entered
the busy streets. John Buchanan was a good deal inclined to be
obstreperous. It was all that Cuthbert could manage to keep him within
bounds.

They had reached the Trongate, and Cuthbert stopped his young companion
a moment to look down the long gleaming line of the crowded street.
It had been wet in the morning, and the brilliant light from the shop
windows glistened in the wet causeway in long lines, and the shifting
groups of passengers went and came, ceaselessly, and the hum and din of
the great thoroughfare was softened by the gloom and brightened by the
light of traffic that illuminated all.

“What are you looking at? See they’re all away across the street.
What’s the good of glowering down the Trongate? Man, Cuthbert, how slow
you are,” said John Buchanan, dragging the loiterer on.

There was a crowd on the opposite side which had absorbed the others.
Cuthbert and John crossed over.

The accident which attracted the crowd was a very common one--an
overtasked horse, wearied with the long day’s labour, had stumbled and
fallen; and now, the weight of the cart to which it was attached having
been removed, was making convulsive plunges in the effort to rise. The
carters, and the kindred class who are always to be found ready in such
small emergencies, were leaping aside themselves, and pressing back
the lookers on, as the poor animal struck out his great weary limbs,
endeavouring to raise himself from the ground.

Suddenly there was a shrill cry--“The wean--look at the wean; the
brute’s fit’ll kill the wean.”

John Buchanan had pushed his way into the crowd, dragging with him
the reluctant Cuthbert--and there indeed, close to the great hoofs
of the prostrate animal, stood one of those little pale, careworn,
withered children whom one sees only in the streets of great cities,
and oftenest only at this unwholesome hour of night. But the acuteness
peculiar to the class seemed to have forsaken the very little wrinkled
old man of the Trongate. He was standing where the next plunge would
inevitably throw him down, with the strange scared look which is not
fear, common to children in great peril, upon his small white puckered
face. Again the panting horse threw out his hoofs in another convulsive
exertion. The child was down.

A shadow shot across the light. There were several cries of women. The
child was thrown into somebody’s arms uninjured. The horse was on its
feet, and a man, indistinctly seen in the midst of the eager crowd,
struggled ineffectually to raise himself from the ground, where he had
fallen.

“I am hurt a little,” said the voice of Harry Muir. “Never mind, it is
not much, I dare say. Some of you help me up.”

There was a rush to assist him; a burst of eager inquiries.

“I got a blow from the hoof; ah! I can’t tell what it is,” gasped the
young man, over whose face the pallor of deadly sickness was stealing.
He could not stand. They carried him--these rough strong men, so
gently--with his friends crowding about him, to the nearest surgeon’s.
Everybody was sympathetic; every one interested. But Harry Muir’s head
had sunk upon his breast, and the fight had gone from his eyes. He was
conscious of nothing but pain.

The accident was a serious one; his leg was broken.




CHAPTER II.

    “He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
    To tell this story.”
                                                        AS YOU LIKE IT.


“CUTHBERT,” said Richard Buchanan, “do, like a good fellow, go and tell
his wife.”

“Do you not see, man, that a stranger would alarm her more? Why make me
the messenger? You say she knows you, Dick.”

“Ay, she knows him,” said the second brother, “but she does not know
him for any good. You see, Cuthbert, Dick’s always enticing poor Muir
away--as he did to-night--and the wife wouldn’t flatter him if he went
up now.”

“I don’t care a straw for the wife,” said Richard angrily. “It’s yon
grim sister Martha, and that white-faced monkey of a girl. I say,
Cuthbert--you needn’t go in, and they don’t know you--do go before and
tell them he’s coming. I’ll come up with him myself in the noddy--just
to oblige me, Cuthbert, will you go?”

“He lives in Port Dundas-road, it’s not very far. John will show you
where it is,” urged Alick.

Cuthbert consented to go; and the obstreperous John was very much
subdued, and very ready to accompany his cousin to poor Muir’s
house. It was now nearly ten o’clock. The young men were all greatly
concerned, and in an inner room poor Harry was getting his leg
examined, and looking so deadly sick and pale as to alarm both surgeon
and friends. It was his temperament, so finely organized, as to feel
either pain or pleasure far more exquisitely than is the common lot.

“What will you say to them? Man, Cuthbert, are you not feared?” asked
John.

“Why should I be feared? I am very sorry for her, poor woman--but is
she such a fury, this wife?”

“It’s not the wife, it’s his eldest sister. Dick went home with Muir
one night when he was’nt quite able to take care of himself, and I can
tell you Dick was feared.”

“Dick was to blame--I do not feel that I am,” said Charteris; “but why
was he afraid?--did she say so much to him?”

“She did’nt say anything to him; but you know they say she’s awful
passionate, and she’s a great deal older than Harry; and she’s just
been like his mother. They’re always so strict, these old maids--and
Miss Muir’s an old maid.”

“Wait, then, till I see, John,” said Cuthbert; “don’t try to intimidate
me.”

“Yonder’s the house,” said John.

They had just passed a great quarry, across which the dome of some
large building loomed dark against the sky. Then there was a field
raised high above the road, with green grass waving over the copestone
of a high wall, and at the end of the field stood a solitary house.
A house of some pretension, for it boasted its street-door, and was
“self-contained;” and albeit the ground-floor on either side was
occupied by two not very ambitious shops, the upper flat looked
substantial and respectable, although decayed.

They were on the opposite side--the street was very quiet, and their
steps and voices echoed through it, so clearly that the loud John sank
into whispering and felt himself guilty. The light of a very pale moon
was shining into one of the windows. Looking up, Cuthbert saw some one
watching them--eagerly pressing against the dark dull panes; as they
crossed the street, the face suddenly disappeared.

“That’s one of them,” whispered John. “Isn’t it awful that a poor
fellow can’t be out a little late, but these women are watching for him
that way?”

Cuthbert did not answer. He was thinking of “these women,” and of their
watching, rather than of the poor fellow who was the object of it.

They had not time to knock, when the door was opened wide to them, and
a pale girl’s face looked out eagerly. She shrank back at once with a
look of blank disappointment which touched Cuthbert’s heart, “I--I beg
your pardon--I thought it was my brother.”

“Your brother will be here very soon. He has done a very brave thing
to-night, and has had a slight accident in consequence. I beg you will
not be alarmed,” said Cuthbert hastily.

“Oh! come in, sir, come in,” said the young sister. “A very brave
thing.” She repeated it again and again, under her breath.

“There’s the noddy,” whispered John, as he lingered behind. “I’ll wait
and help him in.”

The door admitted into a long paved passage, terminating in a little
damp “green.” John Buchanan remained at the door, while Cuthbert
followed the steps of his eager conductor, through the passage, and up
an “outside stair,” into the house. She seemed very eager, and only
looking round to see that he followed her, ran into a little parlour.

“Harry is coming. He has been helping somebody, and has hurt himself,
Martha; the gentleman will tell you,” exclaimed poor Harry’s anxious
advocate, placing herself beside the chair where sat a tall faded
woman, sternly composed and quiet.

“Is Harry hurt?” cried another younger and prettier person, who
occupied the seat of honour by the fireside.

“He has done a very brave thing;” Cuthbert heard it whispered
earnestly, into the elder sister’s ear.

He told them the story. The little wife was excited and nervous--she
began to cry. The sister Martha sat firmly in her chair, her stern face
moved and melting. The younger girl stood behind, with her arm round
her sister, and her bright tearful face turned towards Charteris. “Our
Harry--our poor Harry! it was this that kept him, Martha--and he saved
the child.”

“What shall we do? Will he be lame?” sobbed the little wife.

The grave Martha suddenly rose from her chair as the faint sound of
wheels reached them. “He is here. Rose, make the room ready for him,
poor fellow. Do not let him see you crying, Agnes. Come to the door,
and meet him.”

They went away hastily, leaving Charteris still in the room. Rose
vanished by another door into an inner apartment. They were overmuch
excited and anxious to remember the courtesy due to a stranger; and the
stranger, for his part, was too much interested to leave them until he
had seen how the sufferer bore his removal.

“Rose,” said a very small voice, “has Harry come home?--Rose!”
Charteris looked round him a good deal puzzled, for there was no
visible owner of the little voice. There certainly was a cradle in a
corner, but nothing able to speak could inhabit that.

“Rose!”

There was no answer. Then there followed a faint rustling, and then a
third door opened, and a little head in a white nightcap, looked out
with a pair of bewildered dark eyes, and suddenly shrank in again, when
it found the room in possession of a stranger. The stranger smiled
at his own somewhat strange position, and began to move towards the
door--but suddenly the cradle gave sound of life, and a lusty baby
voice began to cry. They were carrying the baby’s father then, into the
house. The good-humoured Cuthbert rocked the cradle.

Poor Harry was still very pale, though the surgeon who accompanied
him was as tender of him as the most delicate nurse, and the strong
young arms of the Buchanans carried the patient like a child. _They_
made their escape immediately, however,--but divided between sympathy
for the family, and a consciousness of his own somewhat ridiculous
position, Cuthbert stood at his post, rocking the refractory cradle.
They all passed into the inner apartment. He was alone again.

It was a very plain parlour, and various articles of feminine work were
scattered about the room; some small garment for the sleeping baby lay
on the ground, where it had fallen from the young mother’s hand; on the
table, where Martha had been sitting, was a piece of fine embroidery,
stretched on two small hoops which fitted closely into each other.
She had been engaged in filling up the buds and blossoms of those
embroidered flowers with a species of fine needlework, peculiar to
Glasgow and its dependent provinces. Another hoop, and another piece of
delicate work, remained where Rose had left it. The sisters of the poor
clerk maintained themselves so.

The baby voice had ceased. Groans of low pain were coming from the
inner room. Cuthbert felt that he did wrong to wait, and turned again
towards the door--but just then Miss Muir entered the parlour.

“The doctor thinks he will do well,” said Martha. “To-night I can
hardly thank you. But he is everything to us all--poor Harry!--and
to-night you will excuse us. We can think of nothing but himself. Come
again, and let us thank you?”

“I will come in the morning,” said Cuthbert, “not to be thanked, but to
hear how he is. Good night.”

She went with him to the door, gravely and calmly: when she had shut
it upon him, she stood still, alone in the dark, to press her hands
against her heart. Again--again!--so long she had hoped that this
facile temper would be steadied, that this poor brilliant wandering
star would be fixed in his proper orbit. So often, so drearily, as her
hopes had sunk into that blank of pain. Poor Harry! it was all they
could say of him. When others praised the gay wit, the happy temper,
the quick intelligence, those to whom he was dearest, could only say,
poor Harry! for the good and pleasant gifts he had, made the bitterness
of their grief only the deeper. Their pride in him aggravated their
shame. Darkest and saddest of all domestic calamities these women,
to whom he was so very dear, could not _trust_ the man in whom all
their hopes and wishes centred. He had not lost their affection--_it_
seemed only the more surely to yearn over and cling to him, for his
faults--but he had lost their confidence.

They could not believe him: they could not rely upon word or
resolution of his. When Harry was an hour later than his usual time of
home-coming, Martha grew rigid in her chair, her strong heart beating
so loud that almost she could not hear those footsteps in the street
for which she watched with silent eagerness; and the work fell from
the hands of the young wife, and Rose stole away, pale and agitated,
into the inner room, to watch at the window in the darkness; and even
the little sister--the child--was moved with the indefinite dread and
melancholy which is the grief of childhood. There were many grave
people who would have smiled at poor Harry’s sins, and counted them
light and venial, but so did not these.

To lose confidence in those who are most dear to us, to be able no
longer to trust word or vow--it is the climax of womanish misery,--a
calamity terrible to bear!

And Martha Muir, under this discipline, was growing old. Morning after
morning there had been a rebound of eager hope, only to be utterly
cast down when the night fell. She had had something of the mother’s
pride in him--had transferred to Harry the natural ambition, the eager
hopes and wishes, which for herself had all faded with her fading
prime--and now, she who had so strong a will, so resolute a mind, to
see this man with all his gifts, and the free scope he had to exercise
them, sinking, falling, tarnishing with mean sins, the lustre and
glory of his youth. Poor Harry! his stern sad sister said nothing more
of blame--but as she turned again along the damp passage, and up the
stairs, the heart within her sank into the depths. She pressed her
hands upon it. Strange sympathy between the frame and the spirit, which
makes it no image to say that there is a weight upon the heart!

“Martha, has Harry come home,” said the little sister, standing in her
white night-dress at the door of the small bed-closet which opened from
their parlour. The child’s eyes were bright and wide open, as if, in
her compulsory solitude in the closet, she had been steadily fixing
them to keep herself awake. “When I looked out I saw a gentleman. And
where’s Rose and Agnes, Martha. Is Harry no weel?”

“You must go to bed, Violet,” said Martha. “Poor Harry has got a
broken leg. He was in the Trongate to-night with the Buchanans, and
saved a child’s life--but you cannot see him to-night--the doctor is
with him just now, poor fellow; go to bed--you shall see him to-morrow.”

Little Violet began to cry, and the dark bewildered wide open eyes
looked up inquiringly into Martha’s face. Violet knew that Harry did
not need to be in the Trongate with the Buchanans, and that they all
waited for him very long before they would take their humble cup of tea.

“He will not be able to go out for a long time, Violet--and he saved
the bairn’s life,” said Martha, as she put her little sister into the
dark closet bed, which she herself and Rose shared, “and you must not
cry--rather be thankful that the little boy’s mother has not lost him,
Lettie, and ask God to bless poor Harry--poor Harry! do you know you
should always think of him, Violet, when you pray?”

“And so I do, Martha,” said little Violet, looking up through her tears
as she clung to her elder sister, the only mother she had ever known.

“Then you must let me go to him now, poor fellow,” said Martha. “Hush!
he will hear you crying--lie still, Lettie, and fall asleep.”

One of Violet’s tears rested on Martha’s faded cheek--other tears came
as she wiped it away. “Poor bairn--poor bairn,” said the elder sister,
“I might be her mother--and so I am.”

When she entered the sick-room, the surgeon was just preparing to leave
it. He had set the broken bone, and done all that could be done to give
his patient ease. Harry, greatly exhausted, and deadly pale, was lying
quiet, not strong enough to express even his suffering by more than a
faint groan--and his wife and Rose watched anxiously beside him. But
Harry’s mind was very much at ease, and tranquil. His accident covered
triumphantly any error he had committed, and his anxious attendants
were tranquil and satisfied too--for who could think of Harry’s fault
or weakness, when Harry’s generous bravery had brought him so much
pain. They were content to believe--and they did believe, poor eager
loving hearts! that no one else could have been so daring--no one else
had so little thought of personal safety--and were saying, with tears
in their eyes, what a providence it was for the child and its mother,
that “our Harry,” and no other, was there to rescue it.

“I am to sit up with him, Martha,” said the little wife.

“But there is the baby, Agnes,” said Rose; “you must let me sit up with
Harry.”

“You must go away, both of you, and sleep,” said Martha. “Hush, speak
low! I cannot trust any of you, bairns--I must watch him myself. No,
little matron, not you. I must take care of my boy myself--my poor
Harry!”

These words so often said--expressing so much love, so much grief--they
were echoed in the hearts of all.

Poor Harry! but his conscience did not smite him to-night: only his
heart melted into tenderness for those who were so very tender of him,
and involuntarily there came into his mind, gentle thoughts of all he
would do for them, when he was well again; for Harry never feared for
himself.

They left his wife with him for a short time, and returned to the
fireside of the little parlour--it was Saturday night, and some of
their delicate work had to be finished, if possible, before the twelve
o’clock bell should begin the Sabbath-day.

They were but lodgers in this house. The mistress of it, a decayed
widow--strong, in her ancient gentility--had three daughters, who
maintained themselves and an idle brother by the same work which
occupied the Muirs. The collars and cuffs and handkerchiefs of richer
women, embroidered by other workers, principally in Ayr and Ayrshire,
were given out at warehouses in Glasgow, to the Muirs and Rodgers, and
multitudes of other such, to be “opened,” as they called it--which
“opening” meant filling up the centre of the embroidered flowers with
delicate open-work in a variety of “stitches” innumerable. Very expert,
and very industrious workers at this, could, in busy times, earn as
much as ten weekly shillings--and thus it was that Martha and Rose Muir
supported themselves and their little sister, and were no burden on the
scanty means of Harry.

“Well, Martha?” said Rose, breathlessly, as the door of the inner room
closed upon the little wife.

Martha could not lift up her eyes to meet her sister’s. “Well, my
dear?”

“I am sure,” said Rose, “I am sure, you are quite satisfied to-night.”

“Surely, surely,” said the less hopeful sister--a sigh bursting, in
spite of her, out of her heavy heart.

“Surely, surely--what do you mean, Martha?” said the dissatisfied Rose.
“Poor Harry! you are surely pleased with him to-night.”

“I said so, Rose,” said Martha. “Poor Harry!”

The younger sister did not speak for a moment--then she put her work
away and covered her face with her hands.

“You will never trust him--you will never trust Harry, Martha!”

Martha sighed. “I will trust God, Rose.”

Rose Muir dried her eyes, and took up her work again--there was nothing
to be said after that.

Martha was rocking the cradle softly with her foot; and Martha,
mother-like, was fain to divert the younger heart, and make it lighter
than her own. “Our poor wee Harry,” she said with a smile. “Did you see
what a strange nurse he had to-night?”

“Was it the gentleman?” said Rose; “did you say anything to him,
Martha--he would think us very ungrateful.”

“I can trust the person who rocks our cradle,” said Martha. “He is
coming back to-morrow to be thanked.”

“On Sabbath-day!”

“It is charity to come to Harry,” said Martha. “Poor Harry, how every
one likes him!”

Their eyes were becoming wet again--it was a relief to hear a quiet
knock at the parlour door.

The visitor was the younger Miss Rodger--a large, soft, clumsy,
good-humoured girl, with a pleasant comely face. She wore a broken-down
faded gown, which had once been very gay, and a little woollen
shawl, put on unevenly, over her plump shoulders, and her hair in its
enclosure of curl-papers for the night; ends of thread were clinging
to the fringes of the shawl, and the young lady was tugging it over
her shoulders, conscious of deficiencies below; but the good-humoured
offer to “take the wean,” or do anything that might be needed, covered
the eccentricities of Miss Aggie’s general house dress and appearance.
The precious child was not entrusted to her, but the hoyden’s visit
enlivened the sisters, and immediately after, they finished their work,
and Martha saw Rose and Agnes prepare for rest, and then took her own
place noiselessly by her brother’s bedside.




CHAPTER III.

    “How still and peaceful is the Sabbath morn!--
    The pale mechanic now has room to breathe.”
                                                                GRAHAM.


EARLY on the following morning, Cuthbert Charteris, after a long walk
from his uncle’s house, presented himself at Harry Muir’s door. The
street was very still and Sabbath-like. Some young workmen, in suits
of snowy moleskin, stood grouped about the corner of the Cowcaddens,
enjoying the sunshine, and some few who were of the more respectable
Church-going class, and could not spend the after-part of the day
in such a manner, were returning from early walks. There were very
few shadows, however, to break the quiet undisturbed sunshine of the
usually crowded street.

The blinds were all drawn down in Mrs. Rodger’s respectable house--all
except one in the little parlour of the Muirs. The outer door stood
ajar--it was generally so during the day--and as Cuthbert proceeded up
the stairs, the grave doleful voice of some one reading aloud struck
on his ear. This, and the closely-veiled windows, made him somewhat
apprehensive--and he quickened his pace in solicitude for the sufferer.

The door of the house was opened to him by a little slipshod
pseudo-Irish girl, who held the very unenviable situation of servant to
Mrs. Rodger. The door opened into a large airy lobby, at the further
end of which was Harry Muir’s little parlour; but Cuthbert’s attention
was drawn to another open door, through which he had a glimpse of a
large kitchen, with various figures, in strange dishabille, pursuing
various occupations in it--one engaged about her toilette--one
preparing breakfast--and another trying to smooth out with her hands
the obstinate wrinkles of a green silk gown. They were talking without
restraint, and moving about continually, while, at a large deal
table near the window, with her back turned to the open door, sat a
tall old woman, in a widow’s cap, with a volume of sermons in her
hand, reading aloud. The voice was most funereal and monotonous, the
apartment darkened by the blind which quite covered the window. One of
the daughters caught a glimpse of the stranger, and hastily closed the
door. Cuthbert turned to the little parlour with a puzzled smile.

The room was small, and furnished with a faded carpet, an old sofa,
half-a-dozen ponderous mahogany chairs, and the cradle which Cuthbert
had rocked the previous night. The little table was covered with a
white table-cloth, and glancing with cups and saucers; and by the
side of the little clear fire the kettle was singing merrily. Rose,
in her Sabbath dress of brown merino, stood at the window with the
baby. Martha, newly relieved from her long night’s vigil in the sick
room, was cutting bread and butter at the table; and in the arm-chair,
with great enjoyment of the dignity, sat Violet, her attention divided
between the psalm she was learning, and the little handsome feet in
their snowy-white woollen stockings and patent-leather shoes, which
she daintily rested upon the fender. As Cuthbert entered the room, the
young wife looked out from the door of the inner apartment, with her
finger on her lip, to telegraph that Harry had fallen asleep. They were
all of that sanguine mood and temperament which springs up new with
the light of the morning, and even on the pale dark face of Martha
there were hopeful smiles.

“The surgeon has been here already,” she said, “and Harry is not
suffering so much as we feared he should. The symptoms are all
favourable, and we may hope that it will have no ill results: the
doctor says that he will not be lame, poor fellow; and now, Mr.
Charteris, we have to thank you for preparing us so gently last night
for the accident. It was very kind--very kind--to take so disagreeable
an office on yourself, and not to leave it to your cousins.”

“I can assure you they were sincerely grieved,” said Cuthbert, “and are
very anxious about your brother.”

“They are only lads,” said Martha, quietly, “and have not the
consideration. We could not trust youths like them, as we can trust
a more mature judgment. For our own sakes, I am very glad, Mr.
Charteris, that _you_ saw poor Harry’s accident, and the cause of
it--poor Harry!”

Cuthbert Charteris was very much interested--so much so, that it did
not occur to him what a very unsuitable time he had chosen for his
visit--nor that the teapot on one side of the old-fashioned grate was
beginning to puff a faint intimation that it had been left there too
long, and that the kettle on the other was boiling away. It was very
nearly ten o’clock, and, in a few minutes, the Church-going bells would
ring forth their summons. Rose began to look embarrassed, and to dread
being too late for Church; but the gentleman was talking to the baby
and to Martha, and steadily kept his place.

At last Rose, listening in terror for the first notes of the bell,
shyly suggested to Martha that, perhaps, Mr. Charteris had not
breakfasted.

But Mr. Charteris had breakfasted; and as Martha lifted the puffing
teapot from the place which was too hot for it, and bade Violet
lay down her psalm-book, and began to fill the cups, Mr. Charteris
drew his seat into the window, and kept possession. He had settled
himself already quite on the footing of an old friend, and began to
feel it very pleasant to sit there, looking out on the fresh wintry
sunshine, and the clean humble families who began to set out in little
bands for the far-away old parish Churches of Glasgow--not choosing
to content themselves with the Chapel-of-ease, politely called St.
George’s-in-the-Fields--profanely, the Black Quarry. There were a few
such in this immediate neighbourhood, who went to the Barony, and the
Tron and High Churches, as old residenters, and rather looked down
upon the new. To look out on these--the mechanic father and thrifty
mother, and group of home-spun children, embellished, perhaps, with a
well-dressed daughter, working in the mills, and making money--and to
look in again upon the little bright breakfast-table, and the three
sisters--the mature, grave, elder woman--the Rose, in the flush of
her fairest years, half-blown--the little, shy, dark-eyed child--Mr.
Charteris felt himself very comfortable.

They had to speak very low, for Agnes stole to the door of the inner
room now and then, to lay her finger on her lips again, and telegraph
the urgent necessity for silence--and speaking in half whispers makes
even indifferent conversation look confidential. The friendship
waxed apace--very rarely did such a man as Charteris come within
sight or knowledge of this family. The atmosphere of commerce is
rarely literary--in their class they had read of the fully equipped
intellectual man, but had met him never.

They themselves were of an order peculiar to no class, but scattered
through all; without any education worth speaking of, except the two
plain indispensable faculties of reading and writing, Harry Muir and
his sisters, knowing nothing of the world, had unconsciously reached
at and attained the higher society which the world of books and
imagination opens to delicate minds. They were not aware that their own
taste was unusually refined, or their own intellect more cultivated
than their fellows, but they were at once sensible of Cuthbert’s
superiority, and hailed it with eager regard--not without a little
involuntary pride either, to find that this, almost the most highly
cultivated person they had ever met, was, after all, only equal to
themselves.

There are the bells, echoing one after another, through the now
populous streets. Mrs. McGarvie, from the little shop below, has locked
her door, and issues forth, with her good man, who is a rope-maker
and deacon of his trade, to the Barony Kirk, with Rab, her large
good-humoured red-haired son, and her little pretty daughter Ellen, a
worker in the mill, following in her train; and with great dignity, in
green silk gowns and tippets of fur, Miss Jeanie and Miss Aggie Rodger
sail from the door, bound for the Relief Meeting-house, while Rose
Muir ties on Violet’s neat bonnet, and arranges her little cloak, and
glides away herself to complete her own dress, wondering, with a little
flutter, what Mr. Charteris will do now.

Mr. Charteris very speedily decided the question, for he stood waiting,
with his hat in his hand, when Rose entered the parlour, cloaked and
bonneted. Mr. Charteris had never heard Dr. Jamieson. He thought, if
the young ladies would permit him, he should be glad to walk with them
to the Church.

And the young ladies did permit him, with much shy good will, and Mr.
Charteris listened to Dr. Jamieson’s fine voice and polished sentences
with great edification. The Doctor was a man in his prime, bland and
dignified, and knew all the economics of sermon-writing, and that
famous art of domestic wisdom which makes a little go a great way;
nevertheless, Mr. Charteris turned back some distance on the road,
when the service was ended, to animadvert upon the Doctor, and to
get up a very pretty little controversy with Rose, who, as in duty
bound, refused to hear a word in detriment of her minister, so that
the discussion carried Mr. Charteris back again to the very door, and
gave him another prospect of the Misses Rodger’s green silk gowns, at
sight of which, raising his hat, to the great admiration of Violet, Mr.
Charteris turned reluctantly away.




CHAPTER IV.

    “For the sweet Spring that bringeth joy to all,
    Frets the pale sufferer bound to painful couch,
    Or chamber dim and still.”


THE following evening was signalised in the quiet house of Mr.
Buchanan, by such a discussion as never before startled its respectable
echoes. Cuthbert Charteris, lawless as Ishmael, lifted his hand against
every man, and refused to confess himself worsted, though George
Buchanan and Sons, as a firm, and as individuals, not to speak of Adam
Smith, and the law of supply and demand, were set in battle array
against him.

The subject of controversy was one which would have made the blood
boil with indignation and wrath in the veins of Harry Muir, being
nothing less, indeed, for a starting-point, than his salary, which the
advocate, looking on the matter in a theoretical point of view, and not
admitting into his consideration the “everybody-else” whose practice
had so large a share in forming the opinions of his cousins, condemned
very strongly and clearly, to the great wrath of Richard and Alick, and
the half-convinced irritation of their father, as quite an unfair and
inadequate remuneration for the full time and labours of an--at least
partially--educated man. Cuthbert had not at all a commercial mind, and
the natural right and justice continually overshadowed with him the
laws of supply and demand. It was impossible to persuade him, that any
law required of him a systematic wrong, nor that a man’s own personal
conscience had nothing to do with his position as an employer of other
men. Cuthbert would not be convinced--neither would Dick and Alick--and
Mr. Buchanan himself, head of the firm and the house, took up his
candle abruptly and went off, in some excitement, to his own apartment,
there to sleep upon sundry propositions which had entered, like arrows,
sharp and irritating, into a mind which would hear reason, whether its
possessor chose or no.

Cuthbert remained some weeks in Glasgow--he had little practice to
neglect at home, and the western magnates made much of him, greatly
esteeming in their hearts the metropolitan “rank” so very different
from their own, which they affected to despise;--and the intercourse
which he had with the Muirs, already bore a character of friendliness
and confidence, such as not unusually elevates an acquaintance formed
at some family crisis, into a warm and lasting friendship. But
Charteris at length was going home, and, not without many jibes from
his young cousins, about the strange attraction which drew him so often
to visit the invalid, he set out from the office for the last time to
see Harry Muir.

Very different is the look which this bustling street bears in its
every-day occupation from the Sabbath quietness which hushes all its
voices. Great carts are constantly passing with ostentatious din and
clamour, as if proud of their load--light unburdened ones, flying up
and down, with the driver perched on his little movable seat, and the
end of the whip floating like a streamer over his horse’s head--while
now and then wearied travelling people come slowly down, carrying box
and carpet bag, fresh from the tedious journeys of the canal. Violet
Muir stands at the door of the little room wherein Mrs. McGarvie
lives, and eats, and sells butter, brose-meal, and “speldrens,”
lovingly conversing with Tiger, Mrs. McGarvie’s great ferocious,
sinister-looking dog. He is by no means prepossessing, this friend of
Violet’s, and has a wiry yellow coat, and a head largely developed
in the animal parts, and small in the intellectual, with a fiery red
truculent eye;--yet, nevertheless, he is Violet’s friend, and the
little girl like the fairy Titania, has beauty enough in her own eyes
and heart to glorify her friend withal--so Tiger is sufficiently
adorned.

Shaking hands kindly in passing, and patting the little shy head which
drooped under his eye, Cuthbert went up stairs through the always open
door to the now familiar parlour. Harry was rapidly recovering; he had
been removed from his room for the first time to-day, and now lay on
the sofa, while his little wife gaily danced about the crowing baby
before him. They made a pretty group, as Agnes leaned over the great
arm chair, and little Harry put forth his dimpled hand to stroke his
father’s cheek, but there was a little peevishness and impatience in
the face which the rosy child’s fingers passed over so lightly. The
invalid was slightly querulous this morning.

“Just the time of all the year that I enjoy most,” said Harry, “and to
be shut up here now! It tries a man’s patience--open the window, Rose.”

“Rose got cold last night, when you had the window open,” said Agnes
with humility, “and the baby is not well--it may hurt yourself too,
Harry.”

“Nonsense. Rose can sit somewhere else. Open the window.”

“Surely, if you wish it, Harry,” said Rose promptly.

The day was bright, but cold, and the wind blew in, with a sudden gust,
through the opened window, tossing poor Rose’s hair about her face, and
shaking her with a momentary shiver, but saying nothing, she withdrew
quietly to a corner and resumed her work. Rose had never ventured all
her life to dispute any one of Harry’s caprices.

“One likes to have a glance at the world again,” said Harry, raising
himself on his pillows. “Yonder comes the postman, Agnes--see, he
is holding up a letter--run, and get it, Rose; and yonder is Rab
McGarvie, carrying a peck of brose-meal to somebody, and little Maggie
McGillivray clipping at the door. It is pleasant to see them all, and
this wind, how fresh and wholesome it is. Lift the window a little
more, Martha--just for a moment.”

“It is very cold, Harry,” pleaded the little wife.

“Nonsense,” repeated Harry, “don’t you think it is quite warm for the
season, Mr. Charteris. Martha!”

Martha rose with sudden impatience, threw down her work, and rapidly
closed the window. She did not speak, but Cuthbert saw a strange
combination of the strongly-marked lines on her forehead, and a close
compression of her lips, which did not look very peaceable. The act
itself was not very peaceable certainly, but there was a suppressed
passion in her look and manner, which had a singular effect upon the
stranger.

Harry Muir said nothing, but he threw himself back upon the pillow,
sullen and offended. There was a scared timid expression on the face of
the young wife, and little Violet glided up behind Martha, and laid her
hand upon her sister’s shoulder in childish deprecation.

Just then Rose entered with the letter. “It is from Ayr, from my
uncle,” she said. “Shall I open it, Harry?”

“As you please,” said Harry, sulkily.

She cast a hurried glance round the room, pausing for a moment with a
searching, inquisitive, painful look, as her eye fell on Martha. Then
she came to her brother’s side, and laid her hand softly with a half
caress upon his arm.

“Shall I read what my uncle says, Harry, for everybody’s benefit? Uncle
Sandy always writes to the whole of us, you know.”

There was no answer. Cuthbert took up his hat, and rose with
embarrassment. The scene was becoming painful.

“You are not going away, Mr. Charteris,” said Agnes, anxiously; “pray
don’t go away so soon, when this is your last visit too; and I am
sure Harry has never had an opportunity before to thank you for your
kindness, nor indeed any of us, except Martha. Martha had to make all
our thanks.”

“Did you, Martha?” asked Rose.

Cuthbert turned away his head. He did not wish them to think that he
saw through those little palpable affectionate artifices of theirs to
heal the new-made breach.

“Martha!” repeated Rose, under her breath.

And Cuthbert looked stealthily at this passionate face. The rigid lines
were relaxing slowly; the muscles of the mouth moving and trembling;
fierce and strong anger melting into inexpressible tenderness and
sorrow. Vain anger, bootless yearnings, which might spend their
strength for ages, like the great sea upon the sand, and never change
its form.

“Mr. Charteris, I fear, got but few thanks from me,” said Martha,
slowly; “but Mr. Charteris has seen us since, and knows that to do
kindness to Harry is to have the greatest gratitude we can feel.”

There was another pause, and the stranger could easily perceive that,
facile as Harry was elsewhere, he liked to reign at home, and did not
very readily forgive any resistance to his will. He had, indeed, been
very querulous and unreasonable this morning, and this was only the
climax of a series of petty selfishnesses which had exhausted Martha’s
powers of long-suffering.

“Shall we see you soon in Glasgow again,” asked Harry, at length,
turning once more to Cuthbert.

“In a few weeks, perhaps; I may have some business,” said Cuthbert,
with embarrassment. “You will be strong again then, I hope. My uncle
commissions me to say that you must take full time to recover, and not
hurry to the office too soon.”

“Mr. Buchanan is always very kind,” said Agnes.

“Is he?” said Cuthbert, smiling, “scarcely kind enough, I am disposed
to think; but I believe it is not the inclination that is defective
in my uncle. These trammels of ordinary usage--doing as other people
do--have a great effect upon men occupied as he is. He does not take
time to judge for himself, and exercise his own generosity and justice.”

Cuthbert concluded in some haste. Quite consistent as this apology was
with his own previous thoughts, it suddenly occurred to him that it was
quite irrelevant and unnecessary here.

“Mr. Buchanan has done perfect justice to Harry, I fancy,” said Martha
Muir, raising her thin figure from its habitual stoop, and speaking in
a tone of cold _hauteur_, which, like the passion, revealed a new phase
of her character to Cuthbert, who watched her with interest; “and as
for generosity, Mr. Charteris, your uncle seems by no means deficient
where there is any scope for that. I see his name often in the papers.
You judge Mr. Buchanan hardly.”

Cuthbert comprehended, and was silent. Between the rich man’s
indifference and the poor man’s pride it was difficult to steer; and
Richard and Alick Buchanan were not more haughtily offended at the
accusation of treating their clerks unfairly than was Harry Muir’s
sister at the suggestion that his employer’s generosity could reach him.

“This poor leg of mine is nearly a month old now,” said Harry, “and
except some grave visits from Gilchrist, no one has ever taken the
trouble to inquire for me. I suppose your cousins are more pleasantly
occupied.”

“I rather think Dick is afraid,” said Cuthbert.

He was singularly unfortunate in his choice of subjects. A little red
spot began to burn on Harry’s cheek; poor fellow, he wanted to be angry.

“Afraid!”

“I mean, they would rather not encounter the ladies till you are quite
recovered. Persuading you to go with them, you know, burdens their
conscience, because it exposed you to this accident. Not, of course,
that any one was to blame,” said Cuthbert, hurriedly, and with some
confusion.

“Their conscience is over scrupulous,” said Harry, looking round him
with a smile of defiance. “I went with them for my own pleasure; so far
as there is any blame it is entirely mine.”

Poor Harry!--weak and yielding as the willow in the wind, there was no
blame to which he was so nervously susceptible as this--no accusation
which he denied and defied with so much anger.

Cuthbert turned again to the window. Just before him, in a half-built
street, which struck off at right angles from the road to Port Dundas,
Maggie McGillivray sat in the cold sunshine on the step of her mother’s
door, “clipping,”[1] with a web of tamboured muslin on her knee and
scissors in her hand. Maggie, as Violet Muir could have testified,
was only sixteen, though her “clipping” had helped the family income
for several years, and her own money had purchased for her the little
bright red tartan shawl which just covered her stout shoulders, but
left her arms unincumbered and her hands free. On the half-paved road
before her stood a mill-girl, with whom work was “slack,” and who had
spent a full hour this morning elaborating the beautiful plaits and
braids of her crisped hair. This young lady, with much gesture and many
superlatives, was describing to the busy little worker an itinerant
show which had fixed its temporary quarters at Port Dundas, wherein
there was a giant and a dwarf, a beautiful lady who danced, and a boy
who had pink eyes, and which she herself was on the way to see; but
Maggie clipped and shook her head, unfolding the web, to show her
tempter how much had to be done before one o’clock, when she must lay
it by, to take up the pitcher with her father’s broth, and carry to him
his wholesome dinner; and when the idler sauntered on, to seek some
less scrupulous companion, Maggie returned to her labour with such
alacrity, that Cuthbert fancied he could almost hear the sound of the
shears, and the loud clear lilt of the “Learig,” to which they kept
time.

Yet Maggie McGillivray was only a humble little girl, while Harry Muir,
in his way, was an accomplished man. Cuthbert looked back upon the
young man’s fine intelligent face, on which the proud look of defiance
still lingered, with a sigh of pity and regret--not so would _he_ have
overcome the temptation.




CHAPTER V.

    “She had such a nature,
    You would have thought some fairy, ’ware o’ th’ hour,
    When out of heaven came a young soul, predestined
    For a King’s heir, to make a conqueror of him
    Had, by some strange and wondrous art, diverted
    The new-born spirit from its proper course,
    And hid it in the form of a poor maiden;
    Leaving the princely weakling in his cradle,
    Shorn of the fate that waited him: the other
    Chafing at its caged limits all its days----”
                                                              OLD PLAY.


A SELF-WILLED, proud, ambitious woman, with a strong, clear, bold
intellect, a passionate temper, and vehement feelings, Martha Muir had
been born. So much education as she had, tended all to reduce her to
the due humility of poverty and womanhood, but surrounded always by
placid natures, who never fully comprehended the stormy spirit with
which they had to deal, Martha, dwelling alone, and hiding in her
own heart the secret aspirations which no one round her could have
understood, remained as proud, as self-willed, and as ambitious as she
had been born.

For hers were not the hopes and fancies common, as people say, to
youthful women. Advantages of appearance she had never possessed,
and the children who were growing up at her feet absorbed all the
passionate affections of their grave sister; but Martha’s hopes were
visions of unmitigated ambition, eager to work out for itself a future
worthy of its own bold spirit--for it was not of windfalls, or happy
chances, or of fortune to be bestowed on her by another, but of that
ladder “to which the climber upward turns his face,” that the solitary
woman dreamed.

To raise them--these children--to that indefinite rank and honour
which exists in the fancy of the young who are poor--to win for them
exemption from those carking cares amid which her own youth, a strong
plant, had grown green and flourished. Such hopes were strong in the
heart of the passionate girl when people round her thought her only a
child; and when darker necessities came--when following many little
pilgrims, the father and the mother went away, leaving her the head of
the sadly diminished family, her strong desire, intensified by great
grief, possessed her like a fiery tormenting spirit. She was then a
woman of only twenty years, while Harry was but thirteen; and Martha
prayed in an agony for means--only means, to let her strong energies
forth and labour for her children: but the means never came--how could
they? and all she could do in her passion of ambitious love was to
toil day and night for their bread.

No one of all her friends knew how to deal with Martha--so that her
impatient soul knew no discipline except the inevitable restraints of
poverty, and these, if they humble the pride, are but spurs to the
eager fancy, burning to escape from their power. Through all the years
of romance the wish and hope to do somewhat, had filled Martha’s mind
with visions; but then came those slow, gradual, steady years, wherein
the light of common day began to blot out the radiant mists of the
morning, and as her hopes fell one by one, and one by one the months
lengthened, filled with the tedious labour which gave such scope for
thought, bitterness came in like deep waters into the fierce heart,
which rendered all its strength to that might of disappointment, and
wrestled with itself like a caged eagle. To find that after aspiring
to do all, one can do nothing--that soaring in fancy into the broad
firmament, in the body one must condescend to all the meanest and
smallest cares of daily life--to dream of unknown heights to be
attained, and to find instead that by the slow toil of every long
uninteresting day one must labour for daily bread--it is not wonderful
that the awaking was bitter; and all the more, because in both the
dream and the awaking she was uncomprehended and alone.

They all lay dead these hopes of her strange solitary youth--but as
they died others rose. This boy, in whom the young beautiful life rose
with a grace which she knew it never had in herself--what might he not
do? and so she set herself to train him. The old lore that is in all
hearts, of the brave and of the great, the histories of Scripture,
which live for ever; all that God has recorded for us of his servants’
stout lives, and much that men have written in lesser records. The
lonely young woman, feeling herself grave and old among her neighbours,
poured all her vehement heart into the glowing intelligence of the boy.
She began to think it well that those chimeras of her own had fallen
like withered leaves to enrich the soil--and in him should be the
glorious spring.

How was it now? The deep red flush which sometimes burned on Martha’s
cheek, the anger which only one of so dear regard could awaken,
and sadder still, the utter heaviness with which her heart sank in
the rebound, proclaimed the end of her second harvest. The first
time she had sowed in proud wilfulness--it was meet she should reap
disappointment; but the second seed-time had been in hope more
Christianlike, and with strong crying for the sunshine and the dew--the
wonderful sunshine and dew of high heaven, which had never fallen upon
her seed.

It seemed that her fate had been born with her. The proud and
passionate temper to be thwarted and crossed at every turn--the
vehement ambitious mind, to be disgraced and humbled--and with those
arrows in her heart, she was now fighting with herself a greater fight
than she had ever hazarded before, subduing herself to herself, and
to the Higher One, who thus painfully had brought back the rebel soul
to His allegiance. It was hard to subdue the old passion--the old
pride--but she had begun to sanctify her contest now, when it had come
to the bitterest.

No other trial could have been so hard to her as this; it struck at
her very life. Misfortunes against which she could struggle would have
been happy discipline to Martha, but to look on helplessly while these
elements of ruin were developing in the life of her brother; to stand
by and see him fall lower and lower into the poor and petty sins which
she despised--to watch the slow coming of disgrace and wretchedness
which she could not lift a finger to avert--who can wonder that the
proud spirit was chafed into passions of fierce anger sometimes,
and sometimes into very despair; but Martha never spoke of what she
suffered--she only said “Poor Harry!”

“Shall I read my uncle’s letter now?” asked Rose, when Cuthbert was
gone.

“Surely,” said Harry, whom some slight incident had restored to perfect
good-humour. “Surely, Rosie, let us hear what the old man says.”

    “I write this to let you know that I am quite well,” read Rose,
    “though a little troubled with the rheumatism in my right arm,
    which always comes on about the turn of the year, as you will all
    mind; and I am very sorry to hear of Harry’s accident; but there is
    less matter for lamentation, it being gotten in a good way, as I
    have no doubt Martha will mind. The town crier, Sandy Proudfoot,
    broke his leg at Hogmanay, and it’s never mended yet; but I cannot
    see what better the daidling body had to expect, it being a thing
    well known, that when the accident was gotten, he was as he should
    not have been, which is a great comfort in respect of Harry. I hope
    all the rest of you are well and doing well, and desire to see some
    of you at Ayr as soon as ever it can be made convenient. If Violet
    is inclined to be delicate, send her out to me for a change. The
    guard of the coach would take good care of her, and I will pay her
    passage myself. I hope she is minding her lessons and learning to
    help the rest with the opening, and that Rose is eident, as the
    cottar says, and minds her duty duly, and that Harry is steady
    and ’grees with his wife. As for Martha, seeing she knows what
    is right, better than I can tell her, I have nothing to say, but
    that I hope she keeps up to the mark, which she knows, and has her
    own judgment in her favour--of which, if she is sure, I know she
    will be feared for no other in the world. And so I remain, my dear
    bairns, your affectionate uncle--ALEXANDER MUIR.”

“What do you say, Agnes,” said Harry, “do we agree?”

The little wife smiled. “When you behave yourself, Harry,” she said,
laying her child in the cradle.

“If we could manage it,” said Martha, “when Harry is able to walk,
Agnes, I think you should go down together to see my uncle. You have
never been in Ayr.”

Agnes looked up brightly. “And I should like so well to go; and it
would do Harry so much good. But then, Martha, how can we afford it?”

Harry winced visibly. Some debts of his own, recklessly and foolishly
incurred, had made the long-projected journey to Ayr impracticable a
year ago; the fifteen pounds could do so little more than provide for
the bare wants of the quarter; and yet again there were other debts
waiting for the next payment of salary. Poor Harry!

“I have been thinking,” said Martha, quietly; “I see how we can manage,
Agnes; we shall only work the more busily, Rose and I, while you are
away, and Harry will be the better of it. I see how we can do it. It
will do Harry good to see my uncle and the little quiet house again.”

Harry felt that there was meaning in her voice. To dwell again under
the humble roof where all her hopes for his young life had risen; where
she had nursed and tended the dawning mind within him, and laboured to
lift his eyes, and teach him to look upward bravely, like a young eagle
to the sun. Alas, poor Harry! For this revival of the unstained hopes
of youth, Martha was willing to toil all the harder at her tedious
unceasing toil; and he felt, almost for the first time, how hopeless
these hopes were. How different were his expectations and hers.

“It is a shame,” he said, abruptly, “for a rich man like Buchanan to
keep us down so. We require a little relaxation, a little ease, as well
as them; and I should like to know how it is possible we can get it on
sixty pounds a year?”

“Peter McGillivray has only fourteen shillings a week,” said Rose.

“And what then?”

“He keeps a family on it, Harry; at least his wife does; but then she
is very thrifty.”

“Thrifty! nonsense. Is not Agnes thrifty too? You are a foolish girl,
Rose,” said her brother; “you think a few shillings is a great fortune.
There now, a pound or two would take us comfortably down to my uncle’s;
but how can we spare that, off the pittance they give me.”

Yet Harry remembered that his own private expenses--the little debts
of which his wife and sister knew nothing--amounted to more than that
needful pound or two, and the remembrance brought a flush to his face
and made him angry.

“There is a meanness attends this mercantile wealth,” he exclaimed
hastily; “a want of thought and consideration of others. What are we
clerks but the stuff these masters of ours are made of? and yet how
they keep us down.”

“They were themselves kept down, and overcame it,” said Martha.

“Well, it is not a very noble art, the art of making money,” said
Harry, with assumed carelessness. “Dick Buchanan and the rest of them
are shallow fellows in spite of it all. And their father--he has made a
fortune--but the honest man is no genius.”

“But it _is_ a noble art to refuse to be kept down,” said the ambitious
Martha, with a kindling of her eye. “I am ashamed to think that Mr.
Buchanan or any other ordinary person, _can_ keep down my brother;
and he cannot, Harry. You have less perhaps than you ought to have
now, but win more; that is your refuge. And don’t let us throw the
responsibility on other people. We have only to answer for ourselves.”

“Well, Martha,” said Harry, looking up, “we have not much of the mammon
of unrighteousness to answer for. I will tell my uncle you have grown
charitable; that is, if it be at all possible to get to Ayr.”

“What do you think, Martha?” said Agnes, with some solicitude in her
face.

“You must go; that is all,” said Martha.

The little wife was by no means self-opinionated. She had a great
reverence for, and faith in, the decrees of Martha, and knew that what
her grave sister resolved would be accomplished “some way,” so she
returned pleasantly to the cradle.

“And _I_ don’t want to go, Martha,” whispered little Violet, desiring
to have her sacrifice appreciated. “My uncle will give the money to
Agnes, and I will stay at home and help you to open.”

“But you would like to go, Lettie?” said Rose.

“No; I would rather stay at home with Martha and you. I think, Martha,”
whispered Violet again, “that it will be fine to be our lane just for a
wee while--when Agnes is with Harry.”

In the elder mind there was a response to the child’s thought--To
know that Harry was safe, with the good uncle, and the anxious little
wife to guard him, while yet they themselves were left a little while
alone, freed from their constant anxiety, to rest and take breath for
the future which remained, with all its unknown cares, before them.
There was something in the thought which gave Martha relief, and yet
oppressed her with a heavier sadness; but Agnes was already gay in
anticipation, and eagerly discussing what she should take of her
little wardrobe, and how many frocks for baby Harry--for Agnes was
still only a girl, and the unusual pleasure filled her with wholesome
natural delight--a good and happy contagion which soon spread itself in
softened degrees over all the rest.




CHAPTER VI.

    “He left me, wi’ his deein’ breath,
    A dwelling-house, and a’ that.”
                                                              OLD SONG.


“I WANT a next of kin, Charteris,” said an Edinburgh W. S., entering
the little office where Cuthbert sat, solemnly considering the
morning’s paper, opposite an elbow-chair, which had very seldom been
honoured by the presence of a client. “I want a next of kin, and I
can’t tell where to find him.”

The speaker was a young man about Cuthbert’s own age, who like
himself had newly begun to encounter on his own behalf the cares
and responsibilities of business. They had come together through the
training of the High School and College, and now were great friends and
allies, furthering each others progress, by all means in their power.

“Advertise,” said the laconic Cuthbert, from behind the folds of his
newspaper.

“Oh, oracle!” answered Mr. David Lindsay, throwing down a black
crumpled “_Times_,” which struck upon the fair broadsheet of “_The
Scotsman_,” and compelled the reader’s attention. “And suppose I have
advertised, and failed--what then?”

“It’s a cold day, Davie,” responded the learned advocate. “Sit down,
Lord Lion, and tell me all about it.”

“I say, Cuthbert, there’s a story,” said the W.S., mysteriously.

Cuthbert stirred the fire, and prepared to listen.

“Up near the links of Forth, there is a gray old house called
Allenders,” said Lindsay, with some importance, “and in the house
there dwells a family as your penetration will guess--or rather, dwelt
a family--for they are now extinguished--Allenders of Allenders--and
between four and five hundred a-year; now that’s what I want a man for,
Cuthbert.”

“Between four and five hundred a-year,” repeated Cuthbert gravely. “I
would take it myself, to oblige you, Davie.”

“Thank you--I could get lots,” said the representative of the poet
King-at-Arms. “But the right man, Charteris--by-the-bye, I should say
the right woman--the right two women--where to lay my hands on them!--”

“So the heir is extant after all,” said Cuthbert; “you know that, do
you?”

“Wait a little, and I’ll tell you what I know. They have always been
a highly respectable family, these Allenders, mind, and you know what
that means; comfortable, slow, common-sense folk, with no hair-brained
sentimental traces about them. Well! the last father of them had seven
sons--there was no appearance of a lack of heirs then--and one of
the sons, the third or fourth I think, took it into his head to be
a--what is your newest philosophical name for it--the Allenders said a
sentimental fool--which means, you know, that he married somebody.”

“I beg to assure you that there is no sort of philosophy in that
achievement, Lion,” said Cuthbert.

“Don’t interrupt me, Charteris--why, man, a romantic episode in
the history of a dull family is a treasure. This son--his name was
John--everybody’s name is John--married some poor girl or other in
Stirling; and thereupon followed a regular tragic disowning of the
refractory son. The good people were startled out of their propriety;
never an Allenders had been known before, to do anything out of the
ordinary jog-trot, and the example of his daring aroused his father and
his brethren. They cast him out--they banished him from the paternal
countenance, and from all hope of ever inheriting the paternal acres,
and so left him to seek his fortune, as he best could. That was seventy
years ago.”

“Seventy years! why, the man must be dead,” said Charteris.

“Very possibly. It does not concern me that,” said Lindsay. “Well,
Charteris, this sentimental John got some sort of situation in
Stirling, and was by no means annihilated by the family ban. He throve
and multiplied for a few years--then his wife died suddenly, leaving
him with two daughters, and then he disappeared.

Where he went to, there is not the least clue. The man was half mad
with grief, I suppose. It was said he was going to England--and it
was said he was going to America. It seems quite impossible to
discover--every trace of him is gone. And now all the seven sons are
exhausted; after all, it must be best to be stagnant, Charteris--for
see you, whenever this romance stepped in among the decent people, what
a blight it brought upon them. Four of them died unmarried--other two
had children who have grown old and died during the lingering lifetime
of the last proprietor. He was a childless widower--and now the old man
has gone too; and where am I to get those heirs?”

“Did he know nothing of them,” said Cuthbert.

“Nothing; he died very old--upwards of ninety--and his senses failed
him; but his memory seems to have turned with a strange kind of
affection to this poor sentimental lost John. There are some far away
cousins who would claim as heirs, but the old laird left a will,
ordaining that search should be first made for the children of John
Allenders--children! they will not be quite youthful now.”

“And there is no trace?” said Cuthbert.

“None, but a rather fantastic one,” said Lindsay, smiling. “The
favourite female name of the Allenders’ family was Violet--old
Allenders thought it certain that one of those children would be called
Violet--and their mother’s name was Rose. What’s the matter, Cuthbert?”

“Strange!” said Cuthbert, looking up, with a start. “Why, I met a
family in Glasgow, last month, in which there were both these names.”

“Ay--where? what’s their name? who are they?” said Lindsay eagerly.

“Their name is Muir--they are rather a noticeable family in many
respects,” said Cuthbert, with a little hesitation; “but so far as
pecuniary matters go, very humble people. Could it be? Rose and
Violet--there can be no mistake about the names. I’ll tell you what,
Lindsay, I’ll go through, myself, to the west, and find it out.”

“Many thanks. I had no idea you took so much interest in these
professional investigations,” said Lindsay, with some curiosity, “I
think it is more in _my_ department than yours, Cuthbert.”

“You don’t know them, Davie--you’re an alien and a foreigner, and an
east countryman--whereas my mother is a Buchanan! I am free of the
city, Lion, and then, I know the Muirs.”

“Well, Cuthbert, you know your own secrets, I suppose,” said Lindsay,
laughing, “and whether all this is pure professional zeal, or no, I
won’t inquire; but as for your rubbish about east countrymen, you don’t
mean me to believe that, you know. Of course, if you are acquainted
with the family, that is a great matter. But mind, be cautious!”

“Look at ‘_The Scotsman_,’ Davie,” said Cuthbert, “and keep silence,
while I read your advertisement. There now, be quiet.”

Two stories up in the honourable locality of York Place, lived
Cuthbert’s mother. They were not very rich, certainly, but the old
lady had a sufficient portion of the means of comfort, to prove her a
Buchanan. She was a little, brisk, active woman, under whose management
everything became plentiful. It was not an economical propensity, but,
refined and somewhat elegant though Mrs. Charteris’ own individual
tastes were, it was an indispensable thing with her that there should
be “routh” in her house. So there were dependants hanging about her
door at all times, and stores of bread and broken meat dispensed to all
comers. Mrs. Charteris had unlimited faith in her two neat, blooming,
sister servants. She thought they could discriminate the line between
plenty and waste, almost as distinctly as she did herself--yet when
Cuthbert returned home that day he found his mother delivering a short
lively lecture on the subject--a lecture such as was rather a habit of
hers--to the elder of the two trusted confidential maids.

“You see, Lizzie, my woman, to lay the moulins out of the bread-basket
on the window-sill for the sparrows is very kindly and wiselike--a
thing that pleases me--but to crumble down one side of the good loaf
that we’re using ourselves, is _waste_. You see the difference. It
might have been given to some poor body.”

“Yes, mem,” said Lizzie, demurely, “and so I did. I gi’ed the ither
half o’ the loaf to Marget Lowrie.”

Mrs. Charteris looked grave for a moment. “We were using it ourselves,
Lizzie; but to be sure, in a house where there’s plenty, there should
aye be the portion for folk that have more need, and as long as its
lawfully used, Lizzie, I never find fault, but to waste is a great
sin. Now, you’ll mind that, and take the moulins after this for the
sparrows.”

“It’s Mr. Cuthbert, mem,” said Jess, the younger sister of the two,
returning from the door, and the little active old lady rustled away in
her black silk gown to her parlour, to see what had brought home her
son at so unusual an hour.

The parlour or drawing-room, for it might be called either, was
a handsome room, though it was on the second story, and its very
comfortable furniture had an air of older fashion than the present
time, which suited very gracefully with the age of its mistress. Near
one of its large windows stood an antique spider-legged table, bearing
a work-box of somewhat elaborate manufacture, an open book, with Mrs.
Charteris’ silver thimble lying on it for a mark, and Mrs. Charteris’
work by its side--while within reach of these stood an easy chair and
a footstool. The spring was brightening rapidly, and Mrs. Charteris’
chair stood always in this window, when the weather permitted her to
leave the fireside--for here, as she plied her sewing, or glanced up
from her book, she could observe the passengers in the street below,
and watch for Cuthbert as he came home from his little office. Cuthbert
had a slight look of excitement to-day, his mother thought, as she took
off her spectacles, and looked at him with her own kindly unassisted
eyes. Mrs. Charteris fancied her son had perhaps got a brief.

“Well, Cuthbert, my man, what brings you home so soon?” said Mrs.
Charteris, sitting down in her chair, and drawing in her footstool.

“I think I will go through to Glasgow to-morrow, mother,” said Cuthbert
hastily.

The old lady looked up with her glasses on. There was certainly an
unusual flush and a happy embarrassed smile upon the face of her good
son.

“The laddie’s possessed!” said Mrs. Charteris. “What would you do in
Glasgow again so soon. It is not a month since you came home, Cuthbert?”

“Neither it is, mother,” said the advocate, “but I have got some
business in hand--a mystery, mother, to exercise my legal judgment on.”

Mrs. Charteris was interested. “Aye, what’s that?”

There was a good deal of hesitation about the learned gentleman--it was
evident there was no fee in this case.

“I told you about that young man, mother,--that family of Muirs.”

The old lady looked up quickly. She was a good deal interested in this
family of Muirs, partly because her son had spoken much of them, and
still more because he seemed so very willing to return to the subject.
“What about them, Cuthbert?”

“I had Davie Lindsay with me to-day,” said Cuthbert, lifting up and
turning over the pages of his mother’s book. “He is very anxious to
trace out the heirs of a small old estate near Stirling, and I’ve a
notion these Muirs are the people he wants.”

Mrs. Charteris dropped her work on her knee, and looked up with much
interest.

“The lost heir had two daughters called Rose and Violet,--rather a
singular conjunction. Now the two younger Muirs bear these names--a
strange coincidence, if it is nothing else; and if one could help such
a family--I told you how much they interested me, mother.”

“Yes,” said the old lady; “Violet--that was the little girl--I heard
you mention her--but which of them is Rose?”

Mr. Cuthbert Charteris looked a little foolish, and withdrew into the
shadow of the curtain, which fortunately was green, and neutralised the
slight unusual flush upon his face. “One forgets these girls’ names,”
he said, with a short laugh, “though this is rather a pretty one. The
elder one is Martha, you know, mother--a grave enough name to make up
for the romance of the other two--the intermediate young lady is Rose.”

“How old is she, Cuthbert?” interrogated his mother.

“I really am no judge--I could hardly guess--quite young though,” said
Cuthbert hurriedly, “but the similarity of names is very striking, and
if I could trace out a relationship, I should be exceedingly pleased,
mother; besides, that one is bound, as a matter of duty, to assist in
proving a birthright in any circumstances--and this young man will
never do in business, it is clear--whereas he might make a capital
country gentleman.”

Mrs. Charteris was a little prejudiced. She shook her head: “It is not
so easy to make a gentleman, Cuthbert; the transition from sixty pounds
a-year to five hundred, though it must be very comfortable, no doubt,
will never accomplish that.”

“Harry Muir, mother,” said Cuthbert, “is not a wise man by any
means--at five and twenty, I scarcely think I was very wise myself--but
Harry Muir with his sixty pounds, is a gentleman already. I am afraid
Dick Buchanan would suffer very greatly, if you saw them together, and
compared the two.”

“Ritchie Buchanan is your cousin, Cuthbert,” said the old lady, warmly.
“He is called after my father, who _was_ a gentleman, though he was not
so rich as his son. To be sure these laddies were very loud the last
time I saw them, and I believe Ritchie had a ring, and no glove upon
his hand--but still, Cuthbert, you must not be an ill bird.”

“Well, we shall see,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “Wait till I show you
Harry Muir, mother--no discredit to Dick, or any of them--but my
uncle’s clerk is a very different person; poor fellow!--if he only had
half as much prudence as the youngest of them, it would be better for
him. He is of that class, who, people say, are nobody’s enemies but
their own.”

“And that is just the most hopeless class of all, Cuthbert,” said Mrs.
Charteris; “you may cure a bad man that has pith--you may turn a vessel
that is ballasted and steady, into another course--but for your bits of
gay pleasure-boats that float with the stream--alack and woe is me! It
is a hopeless work, Cuthbert: you never tried your hand at anything so
vain.”

“That is the sister’s work, not mine, mother,” said Cuthbert, “and I
can believe it is not a very promising one--but in the meantime, I must
try and lay my hands upon the clue which will conduct Davie Lindsay
to his end, and give him an heir to Allenders. Of course, I will not
speak of it to the family, till I have ascertained something more
about these names--but I think the result is very likely to be what I
heartily wish it may.”

“I will wager you a silver crown, Cuthbert,” said Mrs. Charteris, “that
the bairn is called after old Mrs. Violet Primrose of Govan, and that
Mrs. Hervey of Monkland, is the name-mother of the elder one; and to
make it the more appropriate, to-morrow is the first of April, and
Davie Lindsay has sent you on a gouk’s errand, for a credulous callant
as you are; now mind, I told you.”

“Very well, mother, we shall see,” responded Cuthbert.




CHAPTER VII.

    “He has a secret motive in his search,
    Honest, yet would he not that all the world
    Saw full into his heart:--a right good heart--
    Devising nothing evil, yet aware
    Of certain silent secrets of its own.”
                                                              OLD PLAY.


IT was not without a little embarrassment that Cuthbert presented
himself next day at the office of his uncle. It was the day before
the despatch of one of the mails, and everybody in the office was
very busy. Round the desk of Mr. Gilchrist, the cashier, who had the
capital business head, and the two hundred yearly pounds, the snuff
lay in little heaps, and all the clerks of meaner degree were working
furiously, with scarcely time to interchange now and then, the usual
_badinage_ of the counting-house; while, in Mr. Buchanan’s room,
Richard sat writing letters beside his father.

“Better get away out of town, Cuthbert,” said the merchant, “we shall
be late to-night; but your aunt and Clemie are at home, and are always
glad to see you, you know, whereas we shall only bore you, if you wait
for us. I think you had better go down to Greenbank at once.”

“Very well, uncle,” said Cuthbert. He was quite resigned to postpone
his enjoyment of their company for a few hours. “I have some business
to do, but I shall get home before you, I think.”

“I say, Cuthbert,” said Richard in an aside, “why don’t you ask for
Harry Muir? I believe you’ve been there already.”

“Then you believe nonsense, Dick,” said Cuthbert, with a little heat.
“How is he, poor fellow?”

“He’s gone down to Ayr. Oh, he’s recovering fast,” said Richard. “These
women made it worse than it was, you know, with their lamentations. I
suppose you’re going to call, Cuthbert?”

“I am going to look after a case which my friend Lindsay is engaged
in,” said Cuthbert, with some dignity. “I must do that before I make
any calls. There now, that will do--you are sure to be late with your
letters, Dick.”

“I should not wonder,” mused Dick Buchanan, as Cuthbert made his
escape, “if his business was in Port Dundas after all.” And the curious
young merchant endeavoured to discover, through the opaque window,
which course his cousin took; but the endeavour was quite unsuccessful.
The dim yellow pane preserved Cuthbert’s secret.

It was past mid-day when Cuthbert reached the busy road to Port
Dundas. It was, as usual, noisy and loud, and crowded, with echoing
carts on its causeway, and streams of mill-girls pouring along its
pavement, returning to the factories after dinner. Little stout round
forms--faces sometimes sallow, but by no means unhealthy--hair dressed
with extreme regard to the fashion, and always excellently brushed, and
in the finest order--made these passengers, in their coloured woollen
petticoats and bright short gowns, a very comely part of the street
population. Very true most of them planted broad, sturdy, bare feet
upon the dusty pavement; but the free loud mirth, no less than the
comfortable habiliments, showed them quite removed from the depressing
effects of extreme poverty--as indeed they were.

And opposite Harry Muir’s house, in the little half finished street,
Maggie McGillivray still sat clipping, with her brisk scissors in her
hand, sending her loud clear voice into the din like an arrow--and
still another branch of the Glasgow feminine industry, came under the
amused observation of Cuthbert, before he reached the little parlour.

Miss Aggie Rodger, with her large shoulders bursting from under the
little woollen shawl, and a great rent in the skirt of her faded
large-patterned cotton gown, sat on the highest step of the stair,
holding in her hand a very dingy piece of embroidered muslin, which
she was jerking about with wonderful rapidity as she “opened” it. Miss
Aggie, like the humbler clipper, was lightening her task with the
solace of song; but, instead of the clear flowing canty “Learig,” Miss
Aggie, with great demonstration, was uttering the excellences of the
Rose of Allandale. Both the natural voices were tolerably good; but
Cuthbert thought he preferred Maggie McGillivray’s.

In the little “green,” to which the paved passage from the street
directly led, Miss Rodger, the elder sister, was laying out the collars
and caps of the family to bleach. Miss Rodger was, in her way, a very
proud person, and had a severe careworn face, which, six or seven years
ago, had been pretty. From the green, Cuthbert heard her addressing her
sister:

“Aggie, haud your tongue. Folk would think to see ye that you kent nae
better than the like of that lassie McGillivray. They’ll hear ye on the
street.”

“Ye can shut to the door, then, if ye’re so proud,” responded Miss
Aggie, drawing out the long quavers of her song with unabated zeal.

Miss Jeanie, the prim intermediate sister, looked out from the kitchen
window, and interrupted the dialogue in a vehement whisper:--“Aggie,
will ye come out of that, and no let yoursel be seen, such a like
sicht as ye are? do ye no see the gentleman?”

Miss Aggie looked up--saw Cuthbert standing below--and, snatching up
the torn skirt of her gown in her hand, fled precipitately, leaving
behind her a considerable-sized dilapidated slipper, trodden down at
the heel, which had escaped from her foot in her flight.

“I’ve lost yin o’ my bauchals. Throw it into us, woman, Jean--what
will the strange man think?” cried Miss Aggie, disconsolately, as she
reached the safe refuge of the kitchen.

Miss Jeanie was dressed--for this was the day, on which they carried
home their finished work, to the warehouse which supplied them. Miss
Jeanie was very prim, and had a little mouth, which she showed her
appreciation of, as the one excellent feature in a tolerable face, by
drawing her lips together, and making them round. She was magnificently
arrayed in a purple silk gown, bound round the waist with a silken
cord, from which hung a superb pair of tassels. This dress was by far
the grandest article of apparel in the house; and with great awe and
veneration, Violet Muir had just intimated to her sisters, that Miss
Jeanie was going to the warehouse, and that she had on, her Adelaide
silk gown. Adroitly extending the skirt of this robe of state to cover
the unlucky “bauchal” of Miss Aggie, Miss Jeanie primly stood by the
open door, admitting the visitor, and Cuthbert entered without making
any further acquaintance with the family.

The same universal feminine work re-appeared in the parlour, where
Martha sat by the window in her usual place, busy with her usual
occupation, while Rose, seated by the table, and occasionally pausing
to glance down upon an open book which lay before her, listened with
a smile, half of pleasure, half of amusement, as Violet, standing by
her side, with a glow upon her little pale face, poured forth page
after page of the Bridal of Triermain. Martha too, raised her eyes now
and then, with a smile of playful love in them--for little Lettie’s
low-voiced intense utterance, and enthusiasm, refreshed and pleased
the heart which knew so many harder sorrows than the evils of romance.
Rose was Violet’s governess; in an evil hour the young teacher had
bidden her pupil choose any poetry she liked for her task, and learn
as much of it as pleased her. Now Violet did at that time particularly
affect the minstrelsy of Sir Walter, and the result was, that already
one canto of Triermain had been accomplished, and another, and another,
remained to say.

Out of doors in the sunshine, Maggie McGillivray sang the “Learig,”
and with a gay flourish of her shears accompanied the swell of the
“owerword,” as she ended every verse. At the window in the kitchen,
Miss Aggie Rodger sat in a heap upon the table, and stayed her needle
in mid-course, while she accomplished the Ro-o-se of A-ah-allandale;
and within here the little form of Violet expanded, and her small
face glowed, as her story progressed; while Rose smiled and worked,
and glanced at the book; and Martha, with fresh and genuine pleasure,
listened and looked on. After all, the gift of song is a fair gift
to this laborious world. There was nothing very grand or elevated in
either the ballads or the fable, yet enough to stir the heart, and keep
the busy hands from weariness--and to do that, is to do well and merit
a hearty blessing of the world.

Cuthbert was loth to disturb this pretty home scene, as he did at his
entrance; but notwithstanding, Cuthbert was very well satisfied with
the bright surprise and shy pleasure, which one at least of the little
group displayed, and took his place among them like an old friend.
Violet’s copy-book lay open on the table; and Violet made very bad
pot-hooks indeed, and hated the copy intensely, though she liked the
poetry. The copy lines set for her were not very beautiful either,
though they were written in a good, sensible, female hand, which had
some individuality in it, and was not of the fashionable style. Such
copy lines! stray lines out of books, as diverse and miscellaneous as
could be collected, differing most widely from those sublime, severe,
abstract propositions, which in common cases introduce the youthful
student to wisdom and half-text. Cuthbert could not help a visible
smile as he glanced over them.

“I have interrupted my little friend’s lesson,” said Charteris, as he
laid down the book.

Rose was shy of him. She did not answer.

“Violet has a great appetite for verse,” said Martha, “we shall have
all the rest of it at night.”

“Triermain.” Cuthbert was a little surprised that the child should be
so far advanced--innocent Cuthbert! he did not know what a host of
books, of all kinds and classes, the little Violet had devoured already.

“How is Mr. Muir?” asked Cuthbert. “I heard at the office he was not at
home, and I was very glad to find that he was able for travelling. Have
you heard from him? How is he?”

“He is getting strong rapidly, Agnes writes,” said Martha. “They are
with my uncle in Ayr. We were brought up there, all of us, and so we
say Harry has gone home. I hope it will strengthen him--every way,” she
added, with a suppressed sigh.

“And so you like Sir Walter, Violet,” said Cuthbert; “come and tell me
what you have read besides Triermain.”

Violet came shyly to his side, and drooped her head, and answered with
bashfulness, “I have read them a’.”

“Read them all! not quite, I think--how many books have you read,
altogether?” said the puzzled Cuthbert.

Violet looked up with mingled astonishment and pity, and opened her
eyes wide. She, who had already begun to look at advertisements of
books, and to tease Mr. Syme, the librarian in the Cowcaddens, about
new publications, which he had never heard of, and which in the
ordinary course, would not reach him these hundred years--she to be
asked how many books she had read! Violet was amazed at the want of
apprehension, which such a question displayed.

“I have read a great heap--and I can say the Lord of the Isles, by
heart, and bits of the Lady of the Lake.”

Cuthbert’s ignorance had given Violet a little courage; but as she met
his eye, her head drooped again, and she relapsed into her former
shyness.

“And how old are you, Violet?”

“I shall be eleven next May.” Violet had already had very grave
thoughts on this subject of her age. It seemed a stupendous thing to
pass that tenth milestone.

“Violet--where did you get that pretty name of yours,” said Cuthbert,
drawing his hand over her small dark head.

“It was my mother’s name,” said the little girl reverently.

The conversation came to a sudden pause. Conscious that he had a motive
in asking those seeming simple questions, Cuthbert felt confused, and
could not go on--so he turned to the copy-book.

“Have you written all this yourself, Violet?”

He had gone back to the beginning, and there certainly was to be traced
the formation of a different hand from Violet’s--the respectable,
womanly writing which had placed those odd copy lines on the later
pages; he traced it as it improved, through a good many different steps
of progress, and at the end found a clear, good-looking signature,
proclaiming it to be the work of Rose A. Muir.

“Rose A. Muir,” he repeated it unawares aloud.

The bearer of the name started with a slight blush. Martha glanced at
him with grave scrutiny--and little Violet, looking admiringly at her
sister’s handwriting, explained, “Rose was called after my grandmother.”

“It is not a common name,” said Cuthbert, growing embarrassed under the
grave eye of Martha. “May I ask Miss Rose, what is represented by this
A.”

“It will be Anne or Alice, or some stupid woman’s name,” he said to
himself, while his heart beat a little quicker.

“I was called after my grandmother, Mr. Charteris, as Lettie says,”
said Rose, shyly. “It is Rose Allenders--that was her name.”

The young man started visibly. He had no idea of falling on anything so
clear as this; but Martha looked at him with sudden curiosity, and he
felt himself compelled to make some explanation.

“It is by no means a usual name, Miss Muir,” said Cuthbert, turning
to the elder sister. “I know something.--I am slightly acquainted
with a family called Allenders. Did this lady--your grandmother, Miss
Rose--come from the east country?”

“I cannot tell, indeed,” said Rose. “She died very long ago--before any
of us were born.”

“I think they came from London,” said Martha; “I have heard my uncle
say so--there were two sisters of them; and their father died in Ayr.
Mrs. Calder, in the old town, was very kind to the orphans, and took
them in: and there the younger sister--her name was Violet--died; and
my grandmother married Mrs. Calder’s son. I have heard she died young
too, and called her only child, who was our mother, after her little
sister. It is a sad story altogether; but we heard my uncle speak of
it often; and I remember how many of the old people in Ayr recollected
Rose Allenders.”

“My mother’s name was Violet Calder,” said Lettie, “but I am only plain
Violet. She did not call me after all her name; but Rose has got two
names because she’s after my grandmother.”

“I am going further west,” said Cuthbert. “I shall be in Ayr for a
day or two, I believe. I think I must ask you to introduce me to your
uncle, Miss Muir.”

“He will be glad to see you,” said Martha, quietly. “But if you go now,
you will find Harry established there. Give Mr. Charteris my uncle’s
address, Rose--but indeed you hardly need that, for every one knows my
uncle.”

But Cuthbert had not the least desire to meet Harry in Ayr. So he was
careful to excuse himself, and suddenly discovered that he could not be
able to make acquaintance with Alexander Muir, the uncle, for a full
fortnight, by which time it was certain that Harry must have returned.




CHAPTER VIII.

    “There is all hope in thee, sweet Spring, sweet Spring!
    Dull voices, speaking of thee, unawares,
    Bewray themselves to sing.
    For every name thou hast such music bears;
    Whether ’tis March, when all the winds are gay--
    Or April, girlish in her wayward way--
    Or sweetest May.”


DAY by day passed, of Harry Muir’s last bright week at Ayr--passed
no less happily to the three sisters, than to himself and his little
wife--and at last, fresh, healthful, and in high spirits, the youthful
couple and their baby returned home.

To walk to the coach-office to meet them, was of itself a jubilee for
the home-dwellers, and Mrs. Rodger herself held the door open for
them, in stately welcome. Mrs. Rodger was a tall old woman, gaunt and
poverty-stricken, in her dingy widow’s cap, and black cotton gown; but
Mrs. Rodger had been “genteel” once, and never forgot it. She extended
one of her long arms, and gave Harry’s hand a swing, as he stopped to
greet her. “I was just telling our weans,” said Mrs. Rodger, “that the
house wasna like itself, wanting you--and I hope you find your leg
strong, Mr. Muir; bless me, how the wee boy’s grown! I would scarce
have kent him; bring him ben, Violet, and let the weans get a look o’
him. What a size he’s turned!”

Miss Aggie, the youngest of the aforesaid weans, plunged out of the
kitchen, and seized the baby with loud expressions of admiration. The
little wife was easily flattered by praise of that blue-eyed boy of
hers, and was by no means unwilling to accompany him herself, and
exhibit him to the assembled “weans” in Mrs. Rodger’s kitchen.

This apartment, which answered all purposes to the family, was a
good-sized room, showing an expanse of uncovered floor, not over clean,
and a great wooden “bunker” for coals, as its most noticeable feature.
The “bunker” is an article which belongs exclusively to the household
arrangements of Glasgow. This one was not very high as it happened, and
on the corner of it sat Miss Jeanie, her hands busy with her work, her
feet deposited on a chair below. Miss Aggie, in like manner, occupied
a corner of the table in the window. Their work required a good deal
of light, and they were fettered by no punctilios as to attitude. Miss
Rodger, the eldest sister, flitted in and out of a dark scullery--and
withdrawn as far as possible from the light, in the dusky corner, by
the fireside, sat a shabby and not very young man, with shuffling
indolent limbs stretched across the hearth, and pins, the sole
gathering of his idleness, stuck in the lappel of his dusty, worn coat,
and a face that promised better things. This was “Johnnie,” as they
called him, Mrs. Rodger’s only son. Poor Johnnie had begun this sad
manner of life by a long illness, and now, between his rheumatism and
his false shame, incapable, as it seemed, of any strenuous endeavour to
make up for what he had lost, had sunk into the state of an indolent
dependant upon the little earnings of his sisters. They had their
faults, these women; but never one of them murmured at the burden thus
thrown upon them. Living very meanly, as they were constrained to
do, they were still perfectly content to toil for Johnnie. It never
seemed to occur to them at all, indeed, that the natural order of
things was reversed in their case. Sometimes, it is true, there was a
quarrel between the mother, who was a termagant, and the poor indolent
shipwrecked son, whose temper was easily galled, having always this
sore consciousness to bear it company--but never one of the sisters
upbraided Johnnie, or made a merit of labouring for him. Amidst all
their vanity, and vulgarity, this one feature elevated the character of
the family, and gave to those three very common-place young women, a
standing-ground of which no one could possibly be less conscious than
they were themselves.

The large good-humoured hoyden, Miss Aggie, danced the baby in her
arms, and carried him to the fireside to her brother. Poor Johnnie took
the boy more gently, and praised him to his mother’s heart’s content,
while Violet, no longer shy, but at present very fluent and talkative,
stood by the side of her special friend and ally, Mr. John. The little
girl and the poor indolent man, were on very intimate terms.

“I was just telling our weans,” repeated Mrs. Rodger, “that the wee
boy would be just another creature after a while in the country; and
cheeks like roses you’ve gotten yoursel, Mrs. Muir. It would be unco’
dull though, I’m thinking--if it had only been the saut water--but its
no the season for the saut water. I mind when Archie was living--that’s
their father--we gaed down regular to Dundoon, and it was just a
pleasure to see the weans when they came hame.”

“Agnes, Martha says the tea’s ready,” said Violet, “and I’m to carry
little Harry ben.”

The tea-table in the parlour was pleasantly covered, and still more
pleasantly surrounded, and Agnes’ basket, which the good uncle’s own
hands had packed, remained still unopened; so the baby was given
over to the safe keeping of Rose, and the busy young wife began to
distribute uncle Sandy’s tokens of remembrance.

“This pot of honey is for you, Martha,--uncle Sandy thought you would
like to give it to us all, now and then, on high days--and here is a
bottle of cream from Mrs. Thomson, at the corner, and a little silk
handkerchief to Rose, and the last of the apples to Violet--and see
here, look, all of you, look!”

Two little flower-pots carefully packed with moss, one of them bearing
a tuft of fragrant little violets, the other proudly supporting a
miniature rose-bush, with one little bud just appearing from its green
leaves--good gentle uncle! He had been at so much trouble getting
this fairy rose, and cherishing it in his little sitting-room, till
this solitary bud rewarded his nursing. It was hailed with a burst of
delight from Violet, and by the elder sisters, with a pleasure which
almost reached to tears.

“It is so like my uncle,” said Rose.

And then with some happy excitement, they gathered round the tea-table.
Harry had a great budget of local news to open, and the blithe Agnes
interrupted him every moment to tell of her first impressions, and new
acquaintance. There had been beautiful weather, sunny and soft, as
it often is in the early part of April, and the young wife had left
all cares behind her on the grave shoulders of Martha. Harry had been
so well, so happy, so considerate--enjoying so thoroughly the simple
pleasures of his old home, and the society of his pure unsophisticated
uncle--Agnes thought she had never been so happy.

And Harry’s face was sparkling with healthful blameless pleasure. He
looked so man-like, the centre of their anxieties and wishes, and was
in reality so fresh-hearted, and capable of innocent enjoyment, that
Martha’s troubled heart grew glad over the success of her experiment.
He had been home--he had seen again in these old scenes, the pure
heroic fancies of his earliest youth, and many days hence the anxious
sister thought the happy effect would remain.

They closed the evening, as it was always closed in the house at
Ayr--with the simple and devout worship of the family. Harry, with his
fine mind so clear to-night, and happily elevated, a young household
priest, conducted those simple fervent devotions--for the religious
emotions were strong within him. They swayed him much sometimes, as,
unfortunately other feelings swayed him at other some; but he was
deeply susceptible at all times to all the beauty, all the grandeur
of the holy faith he professed. The young man’s voice trembled, and
his heart swelled as he appealed to the Great Father for the sake of
the wonderful Son. And as, most humbly and earnestly, he asked for
strength against temptation, the tears in Martha’s eyes were tears of
hope--almost of joy. She thought that surely never again this young
ingenuous spirit would fall--never again forsake that holy brotherhood,
at whose head He stands, who was once tempted for the sake of us--to
defile its garments with the mean sins of former times. There was a
shadow of deep quiet upon all their faces as they rose from their
knees; they thought they had come to the beginning of a purer, happier
time. They, these anxious women, thought so for him; and he, poor
Harry! for himself, with those joyous eyes of his, looked forward to
the future, without fear.




CHAPTER IX.

    “I was gay as the other maidens--all the springs and hopes and
    youthful things of the world were like me: prithee, lady, think not
    I say so out of envy of your fair estate; for in good sooth, youth
    is estate enough for a free heart. But before youth goes, troubles
    come--yourself must meet them anon--and be not fearful, gentle one;
    for it may be they will leave rare wealth with you, and take but a
    little sunshine away.”
                                                              OLD PLAY.


THE next day Harry entered blithely upon his old duties again. The
morning was sunny, and bright, and Agnes stood at the window with the
baby, to watch him as he emerged from the outer door below, and turned
to look up to her, and take off his hat in playful salutation. He had
a little cluster of fresh spring primroses, pulled last morning in
the Ayr garden, gracing his button-hole, and there was a spring in
his step, and an elastic grace in his manner as he went away, that
made glad the heart of the little wife. They were all very blithe
this morning--the gladness came involuntarily from Agnes’ lips in the
familiar form of song; she sang to the baby--she sang to them all.

She was still a girl, this pretty wife of Harry Muir--a girl belonging
to that very large class, who never discover that they have hearts at
all, until they have sent them forth on some great venture, perilling
all peace for ever. Agnes had been a very gay, perhaps a rather foolish
girl--liking very greatly the small vanities which she could reach, and
managing to keep out of sight the graver matters of life. She knew what
it was to be poor--but then she had known that all her life, and the
difficulties fell upon elder people, not on herself, and Agnes sailed
over them with innocent heedlessness. The heart slumbered quietly in
her bosom--she scarcely knew it was there, except when it beat high
sometimes for some small merry-making; scarcely even when she married
Harry Muir were those gay placid waters stirred. She liked him very
much--she admired him exceedingly--she was very proud of him--yet still
she had not found out her heart.

But when the cloud began to steal over the gay horizon of her
life--when she had to watch for his coming, and tremble for his
weakness, and weep over his faults those sad apologetic tears, and
say, poor Harry! then this unknown existence began to make itself felt
within the sobbing breast of the little, pretty, girlish wife. The sad
and fatal weakness, which made him in a certain degree dependant upon
them--which aroused the feelings of anxious care, the eager expedients
to protect him from himself, gave a new character to Agnes. In sad
peril now was the happiness of this young, tender, sensitive heart; but
the danger that threatened it had quickened it into conscious life.

He went away with smiles, and hopeful freshness to his daily labour.
He came home, honestly wearied, at an earlier hour than usual, having
his conscience free of offence that day. So happily they all gathered
about the little tea-table; so gaily Agnes presided at its tea-making,
and Martha placed on the table the little crystal vessel full of
honey--odorous honey, breathing out stories of all the home flowers of
Ayr--so much the travellers had still to tell, and the dwellers at home
to hear.

“And now, Martha,” said Harry, “put on your bonnet, and come out. I
believe she has never been out, Agnes, all the time we have been away.”

“Yes, indeed, Harry--Martha was always at the Kirk,” said the literal
Violet.

“But we are not going to the Kirk to-night--come Martha, and taste this
April air.”

Martha looked at her work. “It is a temptation, Harry; but I think you
had better take Rose--see, Rose looks white with working so long, and I
have to go to the warehouse to-morrow.”

“To the Candleriggs!” said Harry, laughing. “Where you scarcely can
tell when it is June and when December; and if Rose is white, you are
absolutely green with sitting shut up here so long--come, Martha.”

It was not very complimentary, but the pallid faded cheek of Martha
actually bore, to eyes which had been in the sunshine, a tinge of that
undesirable hue. Save for the beneficent rest of the Sabbath-day, and
the walk through the hushed streets to church, Martha had indeed,
since her brother went to Ayr, never been out of doors. The luxury of
sending Harry to the pure home atmosphere was not a cheap one. She had
been labouring for, while he enjoyed it.

“But what if Mr. Charteris comes?” said Rose, with a little shyness: no
one else seemed to remember that Mr. Charteris was to come.

“We shall not stay long,” said Harry; “you must keep him till we
return.”

Rose seemed half inclined to go too; but she remembered how often
Martha had sent her out to enjoy the walk which she had denied herself;
and there were a great many “holes,” as those very prosaic sempstresses
called the little spaces in the centres of the embroidered flowers,
at which they worked, to be finished before they were returned to
the warehouse to-morrow--so even at the risk of a little additional
conversation with the formidable Mr. Charteris, Rose made up her mind
to stay.

And Martha and Harry went out alone. They were not within reach of any
very pleasant place for walking, but they struck off through some of
those unsettled transitionist fields which hang about the outskirts
of great towns, to the side of the canal. Those soft spring evenings
throw a charm over the common place atmosphere, of even such ordinary
haunts as this--and it is wonderful indeed, when one’s eyes and heart
are in proper trim, how the great sky itself alone, and the vast world
of common air, in which we breathe, and through which human sounds
come to us, can suffice to refresh our minds with the Nature, which is
beautiful in every place.

The distant traffic of the “Port,” to which this canal is the sea;
the flutter of dingy sloop sails, and a far-off prospect of the bare
cordage, and brief masts of little Dutch vessels, delivering their
miscellaneous cargoes there, gave a softened home look, almost like
the quiet harbour of some little seaport, to a scene which, close at
hand, could boast of few advantages. But the air was bright with the
haze of sunset, and in the east the sky had paled down to the exceeding
calmness of the eventide, lying silently around its lengthened strips
of island cloud, like an enchanted sea. Dull and blank was the long
level line of water at their feet, yet it was water still, and flowed,
or seemed to flow; and along the bank came the steady tramp of those
strong horses, led by a noisy cavalier whose accoutrements clanked and
jingled like a steam-engine, piloting the gaily-painted “Swift” boat
from Edinburgh, with its crowds of impatient passengers, to the end
of their tedious journey. These were homely sights--but the charmed
atmosphere gave a harmony to them all.

And there were some trees upon this side of the canal--and grass as
green as though it lived a country life, and stout weeds, rank and
vigorous, by the side of the way--and the hum of the great town came
softly on their ear, with here and there a distinct sound, breaking
the inarticulate hum of that mass of busy life. Better than all these,
there was such perfect confidence between the brother and sister, as
had scarcely been before, since he was the unstained boy, innocent and
ignorant, and she the eager teacher, putting forth a second time in
this young untried vessel, the solemn venture of her hopes. It was not
that Harry had anything to confide to the anxious heart, which noted
all his thoughts and modes of feeling so narrowly; but the little
daily things which sometimes have so weighty a bearing upon the most
important matters of life--the passing fancies, the very turns of
expression, which show the prevailing tone of the speaker’s mind, were
so frankly visible to the eye of the watchful sister, that Martha’s
heart rejoiced within her with solemn joy.

Meanwhile, Rose sat alone in the parlour doing her work, somewhat
nervously, and hoping fervently that Mr. Charteris would not come till
“somebody was in” to receive him.

The baby lay sound asleep in the cradle. Agnes had gone down to Mrs.
McGarvie to negotiate about some washing, and was at this moment
standing in Mrs. McGarvie’s kitchen, near the small table where Mrs.
McGarvie herself, with the kettle in one hand, and a great horn spoon
in the other, was pouring a stream of boiling water into a bowl half
filled with the beautiful yellow peasemeal, which keeps the stomachs of
Glasgow in such superlative order, compounding the same into brose, for
the supper of Rab, who newly come in, had just removed his blue bonnet
from his shaggy red head in honour of his mother’s visitor. Mrs.
McGarvie had undertaken the washing, and Agnes in her overflowing happy
spirits, was telling her about the journey, from which they had just
returned.

Violet, last of all, was in Mrs. Rodger’s “big room,” a very spacious,
fine apartment, which was generally occupied by some lodger. They had
no tenant for it at present, and were this evening entertaining a
party in the large, lofty, shabbily-furnished dining room. Violet had
gone in among these guests with the natural curiosity of a child, and
poor Rose, nervously apprehensive of the coming of this formidable Mr.
Charteris, sat in the parlour alone.

Her busy fingers began to flag as she filled up these “holes;” and now
and then, the work dropped on her knee. The ordinary apprehensions
about Harry, which generally formed the central object of her thoughts,
were pleasantly hushed to-night. Rose was not thinking about anything
particular--she would have said so, at least--but for all that, long
trains of indefinite fancies were flitting through her mind, and her
thick blunt needle was altogether stayed now and then--only recovering
in hysteric bursts its ordinary movements, when Rose trembled to fancy
that she heard a step on the stair. If Agnes would only come in--if
Harry and Martha were but home again!

At last a step was on the stair in reality. “Maybe it is Agnes,”
said Rose to herself as her needle began to fly again through the
muslin--but it was not only Agnes--it was the foot of a man--poor Rose
wondered if by any possibility she could run away.

And there he was, this sad ogre whom Rose feared, quietly opening the
parlour door, as if he had some right to be there. Mr. Charteris was
almost as shy as Rose herself. He sat down with pleased embarrassment,
and looked exceedingly awkward, and spoke by no means so sensibly as he
was used to do. Rose eagerly explained the reason why she was alone,
and went to the window in haste to look for Agnes.

Mr. Charteris’ eye had been caught by something of a very faded neutral
hue, in a black frame, which hung above the mantelpiece. He asked Miss
Rose if it was embroidery.

Miss Rose was moved to laughter, and her laugh dispersed the mist
of shyness very pleasantly. “It is only an old sampler of my
grandmother’s, Mr. Charteris.”

Mr. Charteris rose to look at it.

“There is not much art in it,” said Rose, “it seems that all the
landscapes on samplers are of one style--but my mother gave it to me
when I was a girl--a little girl--and I used to be proud of it, because
it was my own.”

Mr. Charteris took it down to examine its beauties more closely. It
bore the name of the artist at full length “Rose Allenders,” and had a
square house, and some very original trees, like the trees of very old
paintings, elaborately worked upon it.

“I think you said she had been long dead,” said Cuthbert.

“Long ago--very long ago,” said Rose. “When my mother was only a child,
my grandmother died. Her name is on the stone, among the rest of the
Calders, and her father and her little sister are near her, in the
churchyard. Uncle Sandy used to take us there when we were children. I
believe he thought they would feel lonely in their very graves, because
they lay among strangers.”

There was a pause. Cuthbert again hung up the faded sampler, and
Rose worked most industriously at her opening. Each was earnestly
endeavouring to invent something to say--and both of them were
singularly unsuccessful. It was the greatest possible relief to Rose to
hear Harry’s voice in the passage.

The two young men greeted each other heartily--it seemed that there was
some charm in these very faults of poor Harry--for everybody learned to
like and apologise for, even while they blamed him.

“And so you are going to Ayr,” said Harry, “why did you not come a
little earlier, Mr. Charteris, that I might have shown our town to you.
You will not appreciate the beauties it has, unless some one, native to
it, points them out.”

“For which cause I am here to seek an introduction which Miss Muir
promised me to your uncle,” said Cuthbert.

“To my uncle? are you a character hunter, Mr. Charteris?” said Harry
quickly, and with something which Rose thought looked like rudeness.

“No, I don’t think so--but why do you ask me?”

“Because the vulgar call my uncle a character and an original,” said
Harry. “I thought your cousin, who saw him once, might have told you
so,--and he does not like the imputation. We are jealous of my uncle’s
feelings, as we have a good right to be, for he has been father, and
teacher, and companion alike to all of us.”

“I had some business in the neighbourhood of Ayr,” said Cuthbert,
with a little conscious embarrassment--“one of those things in our
profession that border upon the romantic,--there are not many of them,
Miss Rose;--I want to trace out some links of descent--to find some
lost members of an old family. I shall find them only by means of
gravestones I apprehend, but that will answer my purpose. It is not
quite in my department, this kind of business; but it is pleasant to
have some excuse for seeing so fine a country in this time when ‘folk
are longen to gon on pilgrimages.’--I think you must begin to feel
this longing, Miss Muir?”

“It is wonderful how easily one can content oneself,” said Martha, with
a smile which spoke of singular peace. “We have only to shut our eyes,
Rose and I, and straightway we are at home--or to send some one else to
enjoy it, Mr. Charteris. Harry and Agnes, have brought us so much of
the atmosphere that I scarcely desire it now for myself.”




CHAPTER X.

    “Ay, even here, in the close city streets,
    ’Tis good to see the sunset--how the light,
    Curious and scornful, thrusts away the masses
    Of vapour brooding o’er the busy town,
    Yet leaves a trace of rosy light the while
    Even on the thing it scorns.
    And the rich air gives sweetness to all sounds;
    And hazy sunbeams glorify young faces--
    And labour turns aside, glad of its hour
    Of aimless idling.”


CUTHBERT CHARTERIS, much against his will, was detained a week longer
in Glasgow. His uncle, a man of unbounded hospitality, an almost
invariable characteristic of his class, was not without a little family
pride in Cuthbert’s attainments and position--and such a succession
of people had been already invited to “meet” Mr. Buchanan’s advocate
nephew, that Cuthbert’s good humour, though already sufficiently taxed,
would not suffer him to disappoint them.--Neither was it until the very
last evening of the week, when he had made positive arrangements for
going to Ayr next day, that he had leisure to call on the Muirs.

The sun was setting on the soft April evening, and the slanting level
sunbeams streamed through the dusty streets, drawing out in long
shadows the outline of the houses. Within these shadows the bystanders
felt almost the chill of winter, while in the sunshine at the street
corners, lounging groups congratulated each other that summer had come
at last.

Here the light fell on a white “mutch” or two, and on the sun-burnt
heads of innumerable children, of whose boisterous play the gossip
mothers took no notice.--There it glimmered and sparkled in braids
and curls, and plaits of beautiful hair which a _coiffeur_ might have
studied for the benefit of his art, and which you could scarcely fancy
the short thick toil-hardened fingers of these laughing mill-girls
able to produce. But toilsome as their factory life was, it had its
edge of enjoyment, quite as bright and enlivening as the evening
recreations of any other class--and with those young engineer workmen
clustering around them, and the evening sunshine and the hum of
continual sound--sound which expressed repose and sport, and scarcely
had the least admixture of the laborious din of full day--filling the
atmosphere, there were many scenes less pleasant and less graceful,
than the street corner and its groups of mill-girls. And here, up the
broad road, now almost free of the carts which usually crowd it, dashes
at full speed a bright little equipage glowing in green and gold, which
draws up with a flourish at the corner. Straightway the “closemouths,”
and “common stairs” pour forth a stream of girls and women, carrying
vessels of every form and size, from the small china cream-jug from
some lonely lady’s tea-table, to the great pitcher under which little
Mary staggers as she carries it home in her arms to supply the porridge
of a dozen brothers and sisters; and you never were refreshed with
richer milk under the deepest umbrage of summer trees, than that which
gives forth its balmy stream from the pretty green barrels hooped with
brilliant brass, which rest upon the light framework of the Port Dundas
dairy cart.

Rose Muir stood at the door as Cuthbert approached--he had chosen a
later hour than usual for his visit, that he might not disturb them at
their simple evening meal--but as he glanced at the downcast face of
Rose, over which an uneasy colour was flushing, he saw that the old
anxiety, the origin of which he had guessed at before, had now again
returned. The long wistful glances she cast along the street--the eager
expectant look with which she turned to himself--once before the herald
of poor Harry--would have almost sufficed to reveal the secret of the
family to Cuthbert had he not guessed it before.

“Harry has not come home yet,” said Rose, with an unconscious apology
in her tone; “they are sometimes kept very late at the office--but my
sisters are up stairs, Mr. Charteris, will you come in?”

Cuthbert followed her silently. He had become so much interested in
the fortunes of the family, that he felt his own heart sink, as he
remembered that “the office” had been closed a full hour ago.

Agnes was alone when they entered the parlour, and Cuthbert, roused
to observation, saw her sudden start as they opened the door, and
the pallor and sickness of disappointment which came over her pretty
youthful face, when her eye fell upon himself. The work she had been
busy with, fell from the fingers which seemed for the moment too
nervous to hold it. The little wife had been so confident--so sure of
Harry’s reformation,--and her heart was throbbing now with a positive
agony of mingled fear and hope.

Cuthbert seated himself on the sofa, and began to talk of the baby--it
was almost the only subject which could soothe the young mother--but
even while he spoke, he could see how nervously awake they both were to
every sound; how Rose suspended her work and held her breath at every
footstep in the street below which seemed to approach the door--and
how the needle stumbled in the small fingers of Agnes, and the unusual
colour flickered on her cheek.

“You are very late, Harry,” said Martha, entering from the inner
room--Cuthbert’s back was towards her--she thought it was her brother.

“It is Mr. Charteris, Martha,” said Rose.

There was a fiery fight in Martha’s eyes--an impatience almost fierce
in the evident pang, and short suppressed exclamation with which
she discovered her mistake. She too had been strong in her renewed
hope--had began to rest with a kind of confidence in the changed mind
of Harry.

But now the former chafing had commenced again, and the bitter
hopelessness which once before overpowered her, returned upon her
heart--Cuthbert thought of the old grand picture of the bound
Prometheus--of the lurid background, and the cold tints of the captive
figure, rigid in his manacled strength, with the vulture at his heart.
Bitterest of dooms, to be bound to this misery, without one free hand
to struggle against it.

But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation was very
languidly carried on. Insensibly Cuthbert felt the same anxiety steal
over himself--he felt that he _ought_ to go away, but yet he remained.
By degrees the conversation dwindled into broken remarks from himself,
and faltering responses from Rose and Agnes; sometimes indeed Martha
spoke, but her words were harsh and bitter, or else full of a conscious
mockery of lightheartedness, which was more painful still.

The tea-tray with its homely accompaniments stood on the table--the
little kettle sang by the side of the old-fashioned grate,--but the
night was now far advanced, and reluctant to shut out the lingering
remains of daylight, the sisters had laid aside their work; it was
almost dark, and still Harry had not come.

“Where is Violet, Agnes,” said Martha, after a long silence.

“She went out to play,” said the little wife. “Some of her friends were
down here, and they wanted her. I could not keep Lettie in, Martha, on
so fine a night.”

“I was angry at the poor bairn,” said Martha, with a singular humility,
“I did wrong. I will go myself and look for her--our troubles are not
so few that we should make additions to them of our own will.”

There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which Martha spoke, and
in the sudden melting of the strained vehement heart. Cuthbert saw the
trembling hand of Agnes steal up to her eyes, and heard the appealing
deprecatory whisper of Rose, “Oh Martha!” He could see its meaning--he
could hear in it an echo of that other exclamation--poor Harry! so
common in this house.

Little Violet had been at play in the street below, carrying the vague
blank grief of childhood into her very sport. As Martha rose, the
little girl suddenly burst into the room. “Agnes, Harry’s coming.”

They were all very quiet--a sort of hush of deep apprehension came
upon the sisters, and Rose went out hastily to the door.

In another moment, Harry had entered the room--looking very pale, and
with an unmeaning smile upon his face. He came forward with great
demonstration to greet Charteris, and hurried over an elaborate account
of things which had detained him--the strangest complication of causes,
such as came in no one’s way but his.

“Why don’t you light the candles?” said poor Harry, with an
ostentatious endeavour at high spirits. “Have you been sitting in the
dark like so many crows? Rosie, quick, light this, and get another
candle. You don’t think we can see with one, and Mr. Charteris here.
Have you not got tea yet, Agnes? Nonsense, what made you wait for me?
I can’t always be home at your hours, you know--when a man hasn’t
his time at his own disposal, you know, Mr. Charteris--what is it
now?--what do you want, Lettie?”

The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the table. It
threw a painful illumination upon Harry’s perfectly colourless face,
as he stood in the middle of the room, with an unsteady swing in his
movements. Agnes had left the arm-chair to him, but still he stood by
the table--while Rose, with a paleness almost as great as his upon her
face, went about painfully arranging things that needed no arrangement,
and Martha sat rigid in her chair.

“I say, what is it, Lettie?” repeated Harry.

“Nothing, Harry--only you’ve torn your coat,” said Violet.

She showed it to him--some one had seized his skirt apparently, to
detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought a sudden flush to
the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush was of defiance and anger.
He struck Violet with his open hand, and exclaimed impatiently, “Get
away, what business have _you_ with that?”

It was a very slight blow--and Violet shrank away in silence out of the
room; but a deep red burning colour flushed over Martha’s faded face,
and with a quick impulsive start, she rose from her chair.

“Harry!” Her harsh hoarse voice seemed to sober the unhappy lad. He
looked round him for a moment on those other pale faces, and on the
grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with the defiant stare which he had
tried to maintain before; but as his eyes turned to Martha, and to the
deep and painful colour of shame and anguish on her face, poor Harry’s
courage fell. He did not speak--he glided into the vacant chair, and
suddenly abandoning his poor design of concealment covered his face
with his hands.

“Harry is not well--he is not strong poor fellow,” said Agnes almost
sobbing, “get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit down.”

Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face of
poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her anger
seemed melting away--melting into that utter despondency and
hopelessness--that deep humiliation, which with the second sight that
sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope was useless, and
yet in the depths did only cling the closer to this impossible hope.
Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, but then she could have
wept--such desperate burning tears, as only come out of the depths.

Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain by being
a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening
immediately away.

“I shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, “and I think I
must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. What am I to say
to your uncle?”

“That you left us--Nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with a great
effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning look of
grief, “say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows how he would
wish us to be in his own gentle heart--and it is best to leave it so;
say we were well--and now we must not detain you. Harry, have you
anything to say to my uncle?”

Poor Harry uncovered his white unhappy face. “I?--nothing--nothing--you
know I have nothing to say--good bye, Mr. Charteris.”

“It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, offering
Cuthbert her trembling hand.

And then he left the room.

The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound like
a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the parlour
door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the ground,
with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha had been
displeased at her. Harry had struck her--and fearful dreams of being
utterly alone, and having no one in the world to care for her, were
passing drearily through Violet’s mind. That sad dumb anguish of the
child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we have children to
deal with, weighed down the young spirit to the very dust. She thought,
poor solitary girl, miserable proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them
to grieve for her when she was dead, who would not care for her enough
when she was living--and she thought, too, of toiling on alone to the
vague greatness which children dream of, and shutting up her heart in
her solitary course, from those who had chilled and rejected it so
early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent poetic child, who in an hour
could be bright as the sunshine again--but while it lasted there were
few things in elder life so bitter as that childish pain.

Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the
weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. “Mr. Charteris,” said
Rose, eagerly, “do not say anything to my uncle about----. I mean, will
you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything ails Harry?
Will you, Mr. Charteris?”

Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose; but
whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away, the youthful woman
lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child. Rose had reached a
further stage than Violet in this grave journey of life; and if she
knew more fully the absolute causes of the family affliction, she had
outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other thoughts, too, came
in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of her own heart, as
she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harry hitherto had been
constantly the central object in her mind--the dearest always, and in
his brightest times the best--perhaps only the more endeared for all
his weakness; but now there began to dawn upon Rose a stronger, purer,
higher ideal. Stealthy and tremulous the thought glided into her mind;
a higher excellence than poor Harry’s--a fairer fate than that of
Harry’s sister. She put it away as if it had been guilt; but still it
had looked in upon her, and left a trace of secret sunshine behind.

Thus they were, the child and the girl--Violet already cheered by the
gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with the fair fantastic light
of her own thick-coming fancies. Neither forgot the sorrow which was
parted from them only by these slight walls--neither yet could stay
their involuntary tears--and the elder heart overflowed with pity and
tenderness for poor Harry; but yet there were others than Harry in the
world for both.

Within that little room it was far otherwise. He was sitting there
still, his clasped hands covering his face, and the cup of tea, which
Agnes had poured out for him, standing untasted on the table. No one
else had thought of beginning to this joyless meal. Agnes sat near him,
leaning her arm upon his chair, touching his shoulder sometimes, and
murmuring “Harry;” but he had not lifted his head. Opposite him, Martha
sat very still, her eyes wandering about, her fingers convulsively
clasped, her features moving. Sometimes she started suddenly, as if she
could have dashed that aching brow of hers against the wall; sometimes
a low unconscious moan escaped from her lips; and when, after
wandering round the room, noting the little well-known peculiarities
of its furniture, as people only do in their bitterest moments, her
eyes turned to Harry lying motionless in his chair, with the damp hair
clustering upon his brow, and his hands hiding his face, the anger
and passion fled away from her brow like shadows. Poor Harry! in his
weakness, in his sin--only so much the more her own--not the strong
man now, for whom she had woven dreams of fond and proud ambition--but
ever and always the dependent boy, the child she tended long ago--the
unhappy lad over whom her heart yearned now as a mother. Martha
rose--the tears came out from under her dry eyelids--a sad smile dawned
upon the stern harsh features of her face. She laid her hand upon his
shoulder.

“Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have nothing but
you--no hope in this world but you. Will you take it from us, Harry?
Will you make us desolate?”

The little wife looked up through her tears, begging forbearance. Poor
Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped the hands she held out to
him. “Never again--never again.”

Her tears fell upon the clasped hands, and so did his. “Never again.”
Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her little hand upon his arm.
Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her head upon his shoulder, almost happy
again in the reconciliation; and Rose stood behind his chair.

Poor Harry! They all heard his vow; they all tried to take up their
hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. No one believed
more devoutly than he did himself that now he could not fall again. No
one was so confident as he that this sin was his last: “Never again.”
Heavy, unseen tears flowed from under Martha’s closed eyelids that
night, when all the rest were peacefully asleep--poor Harry first of
all. Never again! The words moved her to anything but hope. Poor Harry!




CHAPTER XI.

    “Winter hath many days most like to Spring;
    Soft thawing winds, and rains like dew, and gleams
    Of sweet inconstant sunshine.--I have seen
    An old man’s heart that ne’er was done with seedtime,
    Abiding in its gracious youth for ever.”


THE next morning very early, while Martha Muir, unable to rest, sat
at the window, carefully mending the torn coat which was poor Harry’s
only one, Cuthbert Charteris set out on the top of the coach for
Ayr. What he had seen on the previous night oppressed him heavily,
weighing down even the natural exhilaration which the morning sunshine
usually brought to a mind void of offence towards men, and walking by
faith humbly with God. Continually that scene rose up before him--the
hidden tears and trembling of Agnes and Rose--the stern agitation of
Martha--the fatuous smile upon poor Harry’s white conscious face. “Poor
Harry!” the stranger echoed with emotion, the sad tenderness of this
lamentation so familiar to Harry’s nearest friends.

Harry, meanwhile, was peacefully asleep, unconscious of the hopeless
musing of his sister, as she sat by the window not long after sunrise,
doing this sad piece of work for him, and of the gloom which he cast
over the happier mind of his friend; a common case--almost too common
to need recording.

It was the afternoon before Charteris left his inn to seek the house of
Alexander Muir. In the intermediate time he had been wandering about
the town, and hunting through one old churchyard which lay in his way
for the graves of the Allenders; but his search was not successful. The
afternoon was bright and warm, the month being now far advanced, and
he was directed easily to the residence of the old man whom everybody
seemed to know. It was in one of the quiet back streets of the town,
a narrow-causewayed lane, kept in a kind of constant twilight by the
shadows of tall houses. The house he sought was not tall--its low door
opened immediately from the rough stones of the street; and on either
side was a square window fortified with strong panes of greenish glass,
which gave a hue by no means delightful to the little checked-muslin
blinds within. The upper story was a separate house, and had an outside
stair ascending to it, which stair darkened the lower door, and served
as a sort of porch, supported on the further side by a rude pillar of
mason-work. Cuthbert thought it a very dim dusky habitation for the
gentle uncle of the Muirs.

A little maid-servant, with a striped red and black woollen petticoat
and “short gown” of bright printed cotton, opened the door for him.
Descending a single step, Cuthbert entered a narrow passage, at the
end of which was another open door, with a bright prospect of trees
and flowers, and sunshine beyond. The lobby was paved with brick, very
red and clean, which the little servant seemed just to have finished
scouring; and an open door on one side of it gave him a glimpse of a
trim bed-chamber, with flowers on its little dressing-table; on the
other side was another door (closed) of another bed-room; and, looking
to the garden, the kitchen and the little parlour occupied the further
side of the house.

“Will ye just gang in, sir,” said the girl, removing her pail out of
Cuthbert’s way; “ye’ll get him in the garden himsel.”

Cuthbert obeyed, and passed by himself to the other door.

A very singular scene awaited him there. The garden was a large one,
and formed the greatest possible contrast to the dusky front of the
house. Apple trees in full blossom, and a bright congregation of all
the flowers of spring, surrounded the more homely produce in which the
large enclosure seemed rich. The door was matted round with climbing
plants, roses, and honey-suckles, which, in a month or two, would be as
bright and fragrant as now they were green; and a splendid pear-tree,
flushed with blossom, covered one entire side of the house.

But the animate part of the picture was still more
remarkable--scattered through the garden in groups, but principally
here near the door where some fine trees sheltered, and the sun shone
upon them, were a number of girls, from fourteen to twenty, working
the Ayrshire work as it is called--to wit, the fine embroideries on
muslin, which the Muirs “opened”--and talking, as girls generally talk,
very happily and gaily--with snatches of song, and pleasant laughter.
They had all the average good looks, and were dressed becomingly, as
girls in their class, who maintain themselves by needlework, generally
are. Completely astonished at first, Cuthbert became amused and
interested in the scene as he stood a moment unperceived at the door,
especially when, through the embowering leaves, he caught a glimpse of
the person he had come to see.

He was a little spare man, with hair nearly white, and a hale ruddy
cheek. Seated in an arm-chair, in front of his parlour window, with
a book in his hand, it was very evident that the good man’s book had
very little share of his attention. At present he was telling a story
to his audience; and Cuthbert admired the natural eloquence, the
simple grace of language, in which he clothed it. His speech was quite
Scottish, and even a little provincial, but untainted with the least
mixture of vulgarity; and when he had rounded his tale with a quotation
from Burns, he opened the book in which he had been keeping his place
with his finger, only to close it again immediately, when a new demand
was made upon his attention.

“Eh, Mr. Muir,” said one of the girls, “what for have ye such lots of
horse-gowans yonder in the corner?”

“They’re no horse-gowans, Beatie, my woman--they’re camomile,” said the
old man.

“And what is’t for? is it for eating?” asked the curious Beatie.

“It’s for making drinks for no weel folk,” volunteered a
better-informed companion.

“It’s for selling to John Wilson, the man that has taken up physic at
his own hand,” said the chairman of this strange assembly. “They tell
me he’s a friend of Dr. Hornbook’s; you’ve all read of Dr. Hornbook in
Burns.”

There was a general assent; but some, among whom was the Beatie
aforesaid, looked wistful and curious, and had not heard of that
eminent personage.

“It’s a profane thing, a profane thing,” said Alexander Muir. “Keep to
the Cottar, like good bairns. Ye’ll get no ill out of it. But what ails
ye, Beatie, my woman?”

“Eh, sir, it’s a gentleman,” said Beatie, under her breath. Whereupon
there ensued a dead silence, and a fit of spasmodic industry came upon
the girls, occasionally interrupted by a smothered titter, as one
of the more mischievous, who sat with her back to the door, tempted
to laughter her companions, whose downcast faces were towards the
stranger.

Cuthbert introduced himself in a few words, and was heartily greeted by
the old man. “I have an obligation to you, sir, as well as the rest of
them, for your care of Harry,” said the uncle; “and ye left them well?
They are my family, these bairns, an old solitary man as I am, and
their friends are most welcome to me.”

“You seem to have another family round you here,” said Cuthbert,
looking with a smile on the demure group before him, some of whom were
painfully suppressing the laugh which they could not altogether conceal.

“Neighbours’ bairns,” said Alexander Muir; “bits of innocent things
that have not the freedom of a garden like mine at home. There is a
kind of natural kin between them and the spring. I like to see them
among my flowers, and I think their work gets on all the better, that
they are cheery in the doing of it; but to tell you the truth, I
cannot see, Mr. Charteris, how our own bairns should think themselves
better in Glasgow than with me, now that Harry has gotten a wife.”

“They wish to remain together, I fancy,” said Cuthbert, sadly
remembering the bitter tie which kept them beside poor Harry; “but both
for health and happiness, Mr. Muir, I should fancy they would be better
with you.”

“Say you so?” said the old man, eagerly, “for happiness; aye, say you
so?”

Cuthbert hastened to explain away, so far as he could, the painful
meaning of his words, leaving it to be inferred that it was only the
fresh air and freedom of this pleasant place, of which they stood in
need.

“I am going in for a while with this gentleman,” said uncle Sandy,
raising his voice as he turned to his little congregation; “but mind
there is no need for you turning idle because I am not here to look
after you; mind and be eident, as the cotter’s bairns were bidden to
be.”

The girls acknowledged the smiling speech addressed to them by great
demonstration of industry, and for a few minutes the blue stamped
leaves and branches of their muslin grew into white embroidery with
wonderful speed. The old man looked round upon them with a smile, as
they sat bending down their heads under the glistening sunshine over
their pretty work, and then, laying his book on his chair, he led the
way into the house.

The parlour was a very small one, considerably less than the best
bed-room, which occupied the front of the house, and which, by an
occupant of less poetic taste, would have been made the sitting-room.
But Alexander Muir did not like the dull prospect of the little back
street; he preferred to look out upon the garden in which so much of
his time was spent, and the little room was large enough for all his
quiet necessities.

His old easy chair had been removed from the fireside corner to
the window. It was a latticed window, furnished with a broad shelf
extending all the length of its deep recess, which seemed to have
been made for plants--but no plants interposed themselves between the
sun-shine and the books, which were the best beloved companions of
the old, gentle, solitary man. Cuthbert looked at them as they lay in
little heaps in the corner of the window. There was no dust about them,
but almost as little arrangement. They lay, as their contents lay in
the head of their good master, mingled in pleasant friendliness. The
Fourfold State and the Crook in the Lot embraced the royal sides of
Shakspere, and a much-used copy of Burns lay peacefully beside the
Milton, which, to tell truth, opened more easily at Comus or at Il
Penseroso than in either Paradise. Besides these there were Cowper and
Young, an odd volume of the Spectator, an old time-worn copy of the
Pilgrim, with Samuel Rutherford’s Letters, and Fleming, the interpreter
of prophecy, and the quaint Willison ballasting some volumes of Scott
and Galt. Daily friends and comrades were these, bearing marks of long
and frequent use, some of them encased in homely covers of green cloth,
which the old man’s own careful hands had endued them with; some half
bound, after his fashion, with stripes of uncultivated “calf” defending
their backs, and their boards gay with marbled paper. It was pleasant
to see them, in their disarrangement, upon the broad ledge of the
window, friends too intimate and familiar to be kept on ceremonious
terms.

“Take a seat, Mr. Charteris,” said uncle Sandy; “if you had come while
Harry was here it might have been pleasanter for you--for Harry, poor
man, is a blithe companion; maybe over blithe sometimes for his own
well-doing: And you think the bairns would be better with me?”

“Nay,” said Charteris, hastily, “except in so far as this house of
yours, Mr. Muir, is certainly a most pleasant contrast to the din and
haste of Glasgow, and your nieces, you know, like your young friends
yonder, are of kin to spring.”

The old man had seated himself in his easy chair, which Cuthbert
would not take. He took off his spectacles to wipe them with his
handkerchief, and shook his head. “There is Rose, to be sure, and
little Lettie; but my niece, Martha, Mr. Charteris--well, I cannot
tell--the spring may come to her yet after the summer has passed. I
would not put the bondage of common use about Martha, for the like
of me is little able to judge the like of her. It is a hard thing to
understand. It might have been a question in the days of the auld
philosophy--what for the mind that would have served a conqueror should
be put into her--a mind that can ill bow to the present yoke--when
there is even too much need of such in high places. It will be clear
enough some time--but it has aye been a wonder to me.”

“There may be difficulties in her way to conquer, more hopeless than
kingdoms,” said Cuthbert involuntarily.

“Young man, do you ken of any evil tidings,” asked Alexander Muir, with
sudden haste and energy.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Cuthbert, annoyed at himself for speaking
words from which inferences so painful could be drawn--“You must hear
my special mission to Ayr, Mr. Muir. Your niece has told me that the
name of her grandmother was Allenders--it is an unusual name--Could you
give me any information about the family.”

The old man looked considerably surprised. “They were strangers here,”
he said. “I mind of Mrs. Calder, very well, whose daughter Violet
married James Muir, my brother. He was ten years younger than me, and
so I mind of his good-mother, though she died long ago. They came from
London, Mr. Charteris. There was a father and two daughters in the
family. I will let you see all that remains of them--their grave.”

“And are there no papers--no way of tracing the family to their
origin,” said Cuthbert, with some uneasiness.

“We have never thought it of any importance,” said the old man,
smiling, “if it is, we may fall on some means maybe. It sharpens
folk’s wits to have something to find out--but what depends on it, Mr.
Charteris.”

“I have said nothing of it to our friends in Glasgow--fearing that the
name might have misled me,” said Cuthbert, “but there is, I am glad to
tell you, an estate depending upon it--not a great one, Mr. Muir--a
comfortable small estate producing some four hundred pounds a-year.”

Cuthbert wanted to be rather under than over the mark--four hundred
pounds a-year! the sum was princely and magnificent to the astonished
old man. He looked at Cuthbert in a mist of bewilderment. He took off
his spectacles and wiped their glasses again. He put up his hand to
his head, and rubbed his forehead in confused amazement. “Four hundred
pounds a-year!”

“So far as I have gone yet, it seems almost certain that your nephew
is the heir,” said Cuthbert. “The surname of itself is much, and the
Christian names confirm its evidence very strongly. If you think there
can be anything done to trace the origin of these Allenders, I should
be glad to proceed to it at once.”

The old man had bowed down his head--he was fumbling now with
nerveless fingers at his glasses, and suddenly he raised the
handkerchief with which he had been wiping them, up to his eyes. Some
sounds, Cuthbert heard, like one or two broken irrepressible sobs, “For
Harry--for the unstable callant--the Lord’s grace to save him from
temptation--that I should live to see this hope!”

The short broken sobs continued for a moment, and then he raised his
head. “I see, Sir,” said the old man, with natural dignity, “that to
thank you for troubling yourself in this way, with the humble concerns
of these orphans, who can render you little in return, would be to hold
you in less esteem than is your due. I take your service, as, if I
had been as young and well endowed as you, I think I could maybe have
rendered it--and now tell me what it is you want to discover--that I
may further it, if I can, without delay.”




CHAPTER XII.

    “What! mine own boy?”


ALMOST in Lindsay’s words, Cuthbert told to the old man the story of
the Allenders. He listened without making any remark, but evidently, as
Cuthbert saw, with great attention.

“John Allenders--yes, that was the name,” he said, when his visitor
had concluded. “And Violet and Rose--it looks like--very like, as if
these bairns were the folk you seek. I pray heaven they may; no for the
siller,” continued the old man, turning back on his way to the pin
where hung his low broad-brimmed hat: “no alone or even specially for
the siller; but for other matters, Mr. Charteris--other things of more
concern to Martha and me, and the rest of them, too, poor things, than
silver and gold; though no doubt an honourable maintenance, no to say a
grand independence like that, is to be thankfully received for itself,
if we would not sin our mercies--and now, sir, I am ready.”

Charteris followed without any question.

The old man turned first to the garden door, and looked out. His young
guests had slackened a little in their industry; one of them sat
solemnly in the arm-chair, reading with great emphasis from the book
he had left. Another had thrown down her work to arrange in elaborate
braids a favourite companion’s hair; and two or three other groups,
with their heads close together, were discussing “the gentleman;”
and what could possibly be his errand with Maister _Meur_. “Bairns,”
said the old man, looking out smilingly. With a sudden start the girls
resumed their work, the occupant of the arm-chair threw down the book
in great haste, and fled to her own seat.

“The book will do ye no harm; ye may read it out loud, one at a time,”
said the gracious patron of the young embroiderers; “but see that you
do not forget what work must be done, or make me forsworn of my word,
when I promised to see ye keep from idleness. Mind! or we will cast out
the morn.”

Saying which, the old man turned to the street door, directing his
little Jessie as he passed the kitchen, to have tea prepared with
some ornamental additions to its ordinary bread and butter, which he
specified in a whisper, exactly at six o’clock.

“And I have a spare room that you are most kindly welcome to, if ye
can put up with my small accommodations, Mr. Charteris,” said the
master of the little house, as they passed into the street; “but I
see you are for asking where we are to go. There is one person in
the town that may very likely help us, I think. She was aunt to my
sister-in-law, that’s now departed, and knew all about the Allenders.
She is an old woman. I would not say, but she has the better of me by
twenty years; but she’s sharper at worldly business yet, than many folk
in their prime. She has some bits of property and money saved that will
come to the bairns no doubt some time, but the now she holds a firm
grip, and is jealous of respect on the head of it. I will take it kind
if ye will just grant her the bit little ceremony that has grown a
necessity to her, Mr. Charteris. She is an aged woman, and it does not
set youth ill to honour even the whims of gray hairs.”

“I shall be very careful,” said Cuthbert with a smile, for he did not
think it needful to add that he was a very unlikely person to show any
want of courtesy to the aged or the weak.

They walked through the town somewhat slowly, for the old man paused
now and then to point out with genuine pride and affection the notable
things they passed. The polemic Brigs, the Wallace tower. His mild gray
eye kindled as he reminded his visitor that this was doubly classic
ground--the land of Wallace, and of Burns--of the old traditional hero
whose mighty form looms over his country still, and of the unhappy poet
whom the poor of Scotland cherish in their hearts.

Alexander Muir was one of those whose end of life seems almost as pure
as its beginning. A spirit so blameless and placid, that we might
almost think it had only been sent here, because it is a greater joy
to be a man, and know by certain experiment the wonderful mystery of
redemption, than to be satisfied with such knowledge as the sinless in
heaven can gain. It is happy for us, amid the dark records of common
lives, that here and there God permits us one such man, born to be
purer than his fellows; so much lower than the angels that the taint of
native sin has come with him into the world--so much higher than they,
that the mantle of the Lord has fallen upon him, and that he stands
accepted in a holiness achieved by the Master and King of all. Lichened
over with the moss of age, in quiet places here and there five gracious
souls of this happy class, and Alexander Muir was one.

But very human was the pure unworldly spirit, deeply learned in the
antiquities of the country, with which his very life seemed woven.
Happily proud of all its fame and all its great men, and interested
even in its prejudices, there could have been found nowhere a guide
more pleasant. Cuthbert and he insensibly began to use the language of
intimates--to feel themselves old friends; and when the children in
the streets came forward to pull the old man’s skirts, and solicit his
notice, the young one, impatient at first of the delay, became soon
so much interested in the universal acquaintanceship of his cheerful
companion, as to linger well pleased where he chose to linger. Almost
every one who met them had a recognition respectful and kindly for
uncle Sandy. His passage through the street was a progress.

“But we are putting off our time,” said uncle Sandy at last. “This way,
Mr. Charteris.”

They were then in the outskirts of the town; before a two story house,
of smaller proportions than his own, the old man at last concluded his
walk. The door stood open, and the sanded passage leading to a flight
of stone stairs, floury and white with “camstane,” proclaimed the house
to have more occupants than one. A door opening into this passage gave
them a glimpse of a family apartment, where the mother stood at an
ample tub washing, while children of all sizes overflowed the limits of
the moderately clean kitchen. This woman, Mr. Muir addressed kindly,
inquiring after her exuberant family first, and then for Miss Jean.

“Ou ay, there’s naething ails her,” was the answer, given not without
some seeming ill-humour. “I was paying her the rent yestreen. She’s
glegger about siller now, than ever I was a’ my days; and as for gieing
a bawbee to a wean, or an hour’s mercy to a puir body, ye micht as
weel move the heart o’ a whinstane; no that we’re needing ony o’ her
charity. I have a guid man to work for me, that has been even on seven
year wi’ ae maister, and there’s no mony could say that; but it’s
awfu’ to see an auld body wi’ such a grip o’ the world.”

Leaving Miss Jean’s tenant, operating with angry energy upon the
garments in her hands, they proceeded up the camstaned stair to the
door of Miss Jean’s own habitation. A very small girl, dressed in a
remote and far-away fashion, with a thick cap covering her short-cut
hair, admitted them, recognising the old man with a smile of evident
pleasure, and looking with a little alarm at his companion.

“You will tell Miss Jean it’s me, Katie, and a stranger gentleman I’ve
brought to see her,” said uncle Sandy; “and when is she to let you home
to see your mother?”

“Whisht,” said the little girl in a whisper; “she’ll hear. She’ll no
let me at a’. Oh, if you would speak to her, uncle!”

“So I will, Katie, my woman,” said the old man kindly, patting the head
of the little drudge as she showed them into a front room; “and mind
you and be a good bairn in the mean time, and dinna be ill to her, even
if she is ill to you: and now you must tell Miss Jean.”

The child fingered a moment. “If ye please, uncle--maybe she’ll no let
me speak to you after--is Lettie ever coming back again?”

“Maybe, my dear; there’s no saying,” said uncle Sandy. “I will try if
she can come to see you, or maybe I will take you to see her; but,
Katie, my woman, you must tell Miss Jean.”

The little girl went away with a lighter step. “She is a faraway
cousin,” said the old man, “a fatherless bairn, poor thing, needing
whiles to eat bitter bread; if our bairns come to their kingdom they
must take Katie Calder. I think the blood is warmer on our side of the
house; any way none of them will grudge the bit lassie her upbringing.”

Miss Jean Calder’s best room was furnished with a set of old
lugubrious mahogany chairs, and a solemn four-posted bedstead, with
terrible curtains of heavy dark moreen. Neither the bed nor the room
were ever used, the other apartment serving all purposes of kitchen,
parlour, and sleeping-room to its aged mistress and her little
handmaiden. They could hear sounds of some little commotion in it, as
they sat down to wait. Miss Jean had preparations to make before she
could receive visitors.

At last, having completed these, she entered the room. She was a tall
and very meagre old woman, with very false black hair smoothed over
the ashy wrinkled brow of extreme age, and a dirty cap of white net,
hastily substituted for the flannel one in which she had been sitting
by the fireside in the other room; an old, dingy, much-worn shawl and
a rustling black silk apron covered the short-comings of her dress;
but underneath the puckers of her eye-lids, keen, sharp, frosty eyes
of blue looked out with undiminished vision; and, but for the pinched
and grasping expression which seemed to have settled down upon them,
there would have been intelligence still in the withered features,
which once, too, had had their share of beauty. Some one says prettily
that Nature, in learning to make the lily, turned out the convolvulus.
One may trace something like this in the character of a family as it
descends from one generation to another, as if, the idea of a peculiar
creation once taken up, experiments were made upon the race, and
gradations of the mind to be produced, were thrown, first into one
position and then another, until the climax was put upon them all by
the one commanding spirit in which the design was perfected. It is not
uncommon. Miss Jean Calder was a lesser and narrower example of the
mind of Martha Muir; eager in her young days to raise herself above
her comrades, she had repelled with disdain the neighbours’ sons, who
admired her; while yet she resented bitterly the neglect with which
her honest wooers avenged themselves afterwards for her disdain. Then
the selfish, fiery, proud woman began with firm industry to make a
permanent provision for herself; and from that early period until
about two years before this time, she had toiled early and late, like
the poorest of labouring men. All that might have been generous and
lofty--if there ever was such admixture in the ambition and pride of
her youth--had evaporated long ago; a tyrant of unbending will in her
small dominion--a hard, grasping, pitiless creditor to the miserable
tenants who happened to be in her power--an unhappy spirit, clinging to
the saddest dross of worldliness, she had become.

A sad object--but yet standing, to the mind of Martha Muir--if we may
venture so to speak of the working of Him who creates all--in the
relation of a study to a great painting--a model to a finished statue.

“Good morning to ye, Alexander Muir,” said Miss Jean, “who’s this ye’ve
brought in your hand?”

“The gentleman is from Edinburgh, Miss Jean,” said Alexander. “He is a
friend of Harry’s, and has been kind to him, as most folk are, indeed,
who ken the lad.”

“I tell ye, Sandy, ye have made a fuil of that boy,” said the old woman
harshly; “a wasterful spendthrift lad that would throw away every
bawbee that he had, and mair, that he hasna; but he needna look to
sorn on me if ever he comes to want. I have nae mair than I can do wi’
mysel: and where’s my twenty shillings, guid white monie, that I gied
to fit him out?”

“He will pay it back some day, no fear,” said Alexander, “for I hear
from this gentleman that Harry is like to prosper, poor man, and no
doubt he will mind his friends, Miss Jean. The gentleman has been
speaking to me of your guid sister, John Calder’s wife. He thinks he
kens some good friends she had. Did you ever hear what part that family
came from?”

“Ay, good friends? where are they? what’s like to come o’t?” said Miss
Jean, fixing the frosty eyes, whose keen light contrasted so strangely
with her ashy wrinkled face, on Cuthbert.

“I cannot tell,” said Cuthbert, warily, “it depends entirely upon what
relationship I may discover--but it may be good for those who were kind
to the Allenders, Miss Calder, if I find that they were relatives of
the family I suppose.”

“Kind to the Allenders? Do you ken, lad, that it was _my_ mother took
them in, when their father died, and the poor things hadna a mortal to
look after them?--kind to the Allenders, said he?--weel, weel--puir
bairns, they’re baith gane.”

Something human crossed the sharp pinched selfish face--even in this
degraded spirit, there was a memory of the fragrant far away youth.

“And Mr. Charteris,” said Alexander Muir, “would like to ken where
they came from, Miss Jean--it is weel kent how good ye were to the
orphans--I am meaning your mother--and no doubt you ken better about
them than indifferent folk;--that was the way I troubled you, and
brought Mr. Charteris this length.”

“Wha’s Mr. Charteris?”

“It’s the gentleman,” said the old man simply.

“If they left any papers,” interposed Cuthbert, “or books, or any
relics indeed from which we might discover their origin--I should feel
it a great obligation, Miss Calder, if you would assist me to trace
it.”

“Obligation! I have little broo of obligation,” said the old woman with
a grating laugh, mingled of harshness and imbecility. “I have seen ower
mony folk that I obliged, slip away out of my hand like a knotless
thread; but is there anything like to come of it? I dinna ken this
stranger lad--I can put trust in you, Alexander Muir--that is in what
you _say_, ye ken.”

“Well, Miss Jean, it depends upon what the gentleman finds out,” said
the old man, a little proud of his tactics, and marvelling within
himself at his own address, “if he can be satisfied by means of any
papers or books or such like--I believe something good may come of it.”

The old woman wavered. “It’s a hantle trouble,” she said, “to put a
frail woman like me to, that have but a little monkey of a lassie to
help me in the house,--but there _is_ a kist ben yonder in below the
bed--and there may be some bits of things in it--I dinna ken--but
neither her nor me are fit to pull it out.”

“Can I help?” said Cuthbert, hurriedly.

“Ye’re unco ready wi’ your offer, lad,” said Miss Jean, grimly,
“it’s no for love o’ the wark, I judge, wi’ thae bit white lassie’s
fingers--look at mine,” and she extended a long shrivelled hand, armed
like the claws of a bird, “na, na, I ken naething about you--but if
Katie and you can manage it, Sandy Muir--and she’s a fusionless brat,
no worth the half of the meat she eats--I’ll be nae hindrance--ye can
try.”




CHAPTER XIII.

    “Oh, lean and covetous old age!--a winter unblessed, that blights
    where’er it touches.”


ALEXANDER MUIR instantly proceeded in great haste to the kitchen,
whither Miss Jean suspiciously followed him. In a few minutes Cuthbert
heard “the kist” making audible progress--and a very short time after,
the old man called him out to the passage, between the two rooms,
whither they had dragged it.

“Ye’re giving yoursel a hantle fash wi’ a thing that can never do
you ony good, Sandy,” said Miss Jean tauntingly, “for the Allenders
were nae connexion to you, even though Violet Calder did marry your
brother Jamie--Weel I wat she would have been better wanting him. It’s
a bonnie story when its telled--a woman to live as lang as fifty year,
and syne to die because her man died--auld taupie! when she might have
been to the fore to have a share of the benefit, if there is to be ony
benefit--what ailed the fuil to dee?”

“Poor woman, she would have been blithe to remain, for the bairns’
sakes,” said the old man, gently, “if it had not been otherwise
ordained.”

“Weel, there’s the fewer to pairt it among, if onything comes o’ this,”
said the miser. “Ye maun just stand back awee, my man. I dinna open a’
my posies afore fremd folk; and ye’re no to think the Allenders left as
muckle behind them, claithes and a’ thegither, as would fill the half
o’ that kist. What there is, I’ll bring ye, but I’ll hae nae stranger
meddling wi’ my gear.”

Cuthbert withdrew as he was ordered, to the door of the “best room.”
The chest was a large one, painted a dull brown colour, and judging
from its broken lock, contained nothing of any value. The old woman
raised the lid, and dived into a wilderness of lumber, faded worn
out cobweb-like garments, long ago unfit for use, but preserved
nevertheless on the penurious principle of throwing nothing away. After
long fishing among these relics of ancient finery, Miss Jean at last
produced from the very bottom of the abyss, a small quarto Bible in
a dark decayed binding, much worn at the corners. “Here!” she said,
abruptly, handing it to Cuthbert, “ye can look at that, and I’ll see if
there’s ony mair--there should be some papers in the shottle.”

Cuthbert hastily returned to the window to examine the book; on the fly
leaf was written simply the name of John Allenders, a remote date, and
a text. It gave no further clue to its owner’s identity.

“Have ye gotten onything, Mr. Charteris?” asked anxiously the old man
at his side. Cuthbert could only shake his head as he turned over the
dark old pages and looked for farther information in vain.

The Bible contained, as all Bibles do in Scotland, the metrical
version of psalms sanctioned by the Kirk, and between the end of the
New Testament and the beginning of these, it is customary to have
the family register of births and deaths. Cuthbert turned hastily to
this place; at first he concluded there was no entry, but on further
examination, he found that two leaves had been pasted together, and
that on the outer side of one something was written. He looked at it,
“Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke,”
was the melancholy inscription; and the handwriting was stiff and
painful and elaborate, most like the hand of bitter grief. There were
mistakes too and slips of the mournful pen. Cuthbert felt it move him
greatly--so strange it seemed to see the mark of the faltering hasty
fingers, which so long ago were at rest for ever.

One of the leaves had been a good deal torn in a vain endeavour to
open this sealed record. Cuthbert feeling himself growing excited
and anxious, with the wished for evidence so very near him, made
other attempts which were as unsuccessful. The dead man had shut up
the chronicle of his happier days that he might not see it in his
desolation, and the jealous grief seemed to linger about it as its
guardian still.

Cuthbert held it up to the light and endeavoured to read through, but
with as little success as before. Alexander Muir had been watching him
anxiously. There was a glass of water on the table, which Katie had
brought for him; the old man wet his handkerchief, and with trembling
hands spread it upon the hidden page.

“I dinna ken what a’ thae papers are,” said Miss Jean, entering with
a bundle of yellow letters tied together with a strip of old linen as
yellow as themselves, “but there’s nae secrets in them, ye may look
over them as ye like. What are ye doin’ to the book?”

“There’s something written here,” said the old man, endeavouring vainly
to conceal his anxiety.

“Ane wad think there was a fortune coming to _you_, Sandy Muir,” said
Miss Jean, “ye’re unco anxious to bring profit to other folk.”

“I aye wished weel to my neighbours,” said Alexander, meekly, and with
a little self-reproach. He felt as if it were almost selfish to be so
anxious about his nephew’s fortune.

In the meantime Cuthbert untied the string, and as the too jealous gum
showed yet no indication of yielding, began to look over the papers.
The first that came to his hands, evidently added by Miss Jean to the
original heap, and ostentatiously displayed on the top, was an account
for the funeral expenses of John Allenders, in which Mrs. Calder
appeared debtor to William Lochhead, undertaker; unfortunately Miss
Jean had not observed the rigid honesty with which it was endorsed in
a very cramped female hand, “Paid by me, out of the notes left by John
Allenders for his burial, leaving a balance of three pounds and a penny
halfpenny for the behoof of Rose and Violet. Signed--Marget Calder.”

Other tantalizing bits of writing were below this; a child’s note
signed Violet, and addressed to the father in some temporary absence
from home, telling how Rose had began to “flower” a collar, and how
the writer herself had bought seeds with her sixpence for Mrs. Calder’s
garden. Another bit of paper contained a list, in a hand more formed,
of different articles of “flowering,” received from some warehouse.
Then there were school accounts, for the girls, of a still earlier
date, and at last Cuthbert came to a letter bearing the postmark
of London and Stirling. He opened it in haste. It was a letter of
commonplace condolence, beginning, “My dear Sir,” and suggesting the
ordinary kind of consolation for the loss of “my dear departed sister,”
and was signed by “Daniel Scott.” Lindsay had not mentioned the surname
of the wife of John Allenders--this letter was evidently from her
brother.

Cuthbert went on with great anxiety, and very considerable excitement,
just glancing up to see that the softening process carried on by
Alexander Muir had not yet produced much effect, and taking no part
in the conversation. The next letter in the bundle was in the same
hand, and in its substance little more interesting; but its postscript
brought a flush of satisfaction to Cuthbert’s eager face.

“I hear that your father is but weakly,” wrote the matter-of-fact
Daniel, “and your brother Gilbert being dead two months ago, as you
were informed, has sent for Walter--that’s the captain--home. If you
were asking my opinion, I would say you should certainly come back to
be at hand whatever might happen; for when once trouble comes into a
family, there is no saying where it may end; and, after your father,
and Walter, and Robert, there is no doubt that you are the right heir.”

This letter had been torn up as if in indignation of the cold-blooded
counsel. Cuthbert laid it aside as a link in the chain which he had to
form.

“I’ll no have the book destroyed wi’ weet. I tell ye, I winna, Sandy
Muir,” said Miss Jean, extending her lean brown hand. “Let it abee wi’
your napkin. I wonder that the like o’ you, that pretends to be better
than your neighbours, could gie such usage to the Scripture. Think
shame o’ yourself, man; and be done wi’ your slaistering.”

The old man thrust her hand away with less than his usual mildness.
“Have patience a moment--just have patience. See, Mr. Charteris, see!”

Cuthbert rose--the leaves came slowly separate--and there in this
simple record was all he sought.

“John Allenders, writer, fourth son of Gilbert Allenders, of Allenders,
married, on the first day of March, 1769, to Rose Scott, daughter of
Thomas Scott, builder, Stirling.”

Cuthbert laid down the book on the table, and, extending his hand,
took the somewhat reluctant one of the anxious old man, and shook it
heartily. “It’s all right,” said Cuthbert, swinging the arm of uncle
Sandy in unusual exhilaration. “It’s all right. I have nothing to do
but congratulate you, and get up the proof. I thought we would find it,
and here it is as clear as daylight. It’s all exactly as it should be.”

“What is right? what’s the lad meaning?” said Miss Jean, thrusting
herself in between them; “and what are ye shaking hands wi’ that
foolish body Sandy Muir for, when it’s me that ony thing belonging to
the Allenders should justly come to? We keepit them here in our ain
house; we gied the auld man decent burial as ye would see, and it’s out
of my book ye have gotten a’ ye ken. What does the man mean shaking
hands wi’ Sandy Muir?”

“It’s no for me--it’s for the bairns--it’s for Harry,” said Alexander.

“Hairy! and what has Hairy to do wi’t, I would like to ken? He’s but
a far-away friend; forbye being a prodigal, that it wad be a shame to
trust guid siller wi’--Hairy!--the man’s daft! what has he to do with
John Allenders?”

“A little,” said Cuthbert, smiling. “He is the _heir_ of John
Allenders, Miss Calder.”

“The heir!” the old woman’s face grew red with anger. “I tell ye he had
nae lawful heir, if it binna the ane surviving that did him kindness.
It’s you that disna ken. Hairy Muir is but niece’s son to me.”

“But he is grandson to Rose Allenders,” said Cuthbert, “and the heir of
her father.”

Miss Jean stood still for a moment, digesting the strange purport of
those words; at last she stretched forward her hand to clutch the
Bible. “The book’s mine--ye ken nocht but what ye have gotten out of
my book--gie it back to me, ye deceivers. Am I gaun to gie my goods,
think ye, to better Hairy Muir? Na, na,--ye have come to the wrang
hand; give me back my book.”

“There is some property in the case,” said Cuthbert, keeping his
hand upon the Bible: “It cannot come to you, Miss Jean; for, though
I believe you were very kind to them, you are not related to John
Allenders; but Harry Muir is. Now, whether would it be better that this
property should go to a stranger, or to your nephew who is in your
debt?”

Miss Jean had been eager to interrupt him, but his last words were a
weighty utterance. She paused to consider. “Ye’re a clever chield,” she
said at last, with a harsh laugh. “I wadna say but ye could put a case
gey weel. My nephew that’s in my debt--and so he is, that’s true--what
kind o’ property is’t? ye’ll be a writer, I reckon?”

“Yes,” said Cuthbert, with a smile, “I am a writer. It is some land--a
small estate, Miss Jean; but only one who is a descendant of John
Allenders, can be the heir, and that is Harry Muir.”

“Weel, I take ye to witness that what ye have said is true,” said the
old woman eagerly; “that this lad is in my debt; and payment I’ll hae
afore he bruiks the possession a week. Wasna it out of my book ye
got a’ ye ken? and wha has sae muckle claim to consideration as me?
I take ye to witness; and you, ye auld sneck-drawer--it was this ye
was thinking about a’ the time?--Oh Sandy Muir! me, in my innocence,
thinking ye were taking this pains to do me a guid turn: as ye’re awn
me a day in harst, a’body kens; and you thinking o’ yoursel a’ the
time. I wonder ye can have the face to look at me!”

“I am seeking nothing for mysel, Miss Jean,” said Alexander, with a
little pride, “the little I have will soon go to the bairns, as this
will do. And I am thankful to say I owe ye nothing, if it be not in
the way of good will.”

“Guid will, said he! bonnie guid will to take a braw inheritance out
frae under my very een,” said the old woman, bitterly. “I hand ye bound
for the value of that book, Sandy Muir, mind. I’ll haud ye bound, and
you too, my braw lad; sae if ye tak it away the noo ye sall bring it
back again, or it will be a’ the waur for yoursels. Mind what I say;
I’ll hae my goods spoiled and my gear lifted for nae man in this world.”

Cuthbert promised, with all reverence, to restore the Bible, which he
had considerable fears he would not be permitted to take away; and
after they had soothed, so far as was possible, her bitter humour, Miss
Jean, with as much courtesy as she was capable of, suffered them, rich
in these precious documents, to depart.

“I’ll no can speak to Miss Jean to day, Katie,” whispered uncle Sandy,
as the little girl stole after them down stairs; “but keep you a good
heart, my bonnie woman, there’s blythe days coming--and may be I’ll
take ye to see your mother myself.”

“Are you sure this will do, Mr. Charteris?” continued the old man, when
they were again on their way to the town.

Cuthbert was in great spirits. “I will astonish Davie Lindsay,” he
said, smiling. “Oh yes, it will do, it was just the thing I wanted. Now
we must have the register of the different marriages and births; that
part of it will be easily managed, I fancy.”

“My brother James’s Family Bible is in my house,” said uncle Sandy,
“and he was married by Mr. Clunie, of the Old Kirk. I will go to the
session clerk to-night, if you like, or it will be time enough the
morn. He is never far out of the way, being an old man like myself,
half idle, half independent. And, speaking of that, ye must see my
garden, Mr. Charteris, though this is hardly the best time.”

“You seem to keep it in excellent order,” said Cuthbert.

“It’s no bad; you see, Mr. Charteris, the house is my own, and so
is it,” said the old man, with a little natural pride, desiring to
intimate that the substance was not altogether on the Calder side of
Harry’s ancestry; “and it is just a pleasure to me to dibble at it in
my own way. Indeed I think sometimes that it’s this work of mine, and
the pleasure of seeing the new life aye coming up through the soil,
that makes me like the bairns so well.”

“It has not always so pleasant a result,” said Charteris.

“Mostly, I think, mostly,” said Alexander. “For example, now, how could
ye think a man that had such thoughts in his heart to a mouse or a
gowan, as Burns had, could harm or be unkindly to the bits of buds of
his own race; though to be sure I am not minding what a strong part
evil had in that grand earthen vessel. Woes me! that what might have
been a great light in the land should be but a beacon on the black
rocks; but I never mind that when I read the Cottar.”

“The Cottar is your favourite, I think,” said Charteris.

“Aye--I confess I like them all, ill as some of them are,” said the
poet’s countryman; “but the Cottar is near perfect to my vision--all
but one place, where he puts in an apostrophe that breaks the
story--that about ‘Sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth’--you mind? I aye
skip that. He kent ill ower weel, poor man.”




CHAPTER XIV.

    “Here hath been dawning
      Another blue day.”
                                                               CARLYLE.


THE next morning, Cuthbert busied himself in obtaining extracts from
registers. The proof he procured was very full and clear, establishing
the legal as well as the moral certainty.

That day the family at Port Dundas were pursuing their ordinary
employments with a greater hush and stillness about them than usual.
Martha and Rose sat together, sewing in the parlour. They were both
very silent--in the exhaustion of hopelessness, afraid to speak to
each other of the one great subject which absorbed their thoughts.
Agnes had gone with her baby in her arms to the kitchen to speak
to Mrs. Rodger, and was lingering there a little, willing to be
delivered from herself; while Violet had carried out a little wondering
pre-occupied heart into the midst of a juvenile assembly in front of
the house, and was gradually awaking out of abstraction into vigorous
play.

The prospect was very cheerful from the window. Yonder little Maggie
McGillivray, with unfailing industry, clipped and sang at her mother’s
door under the full sunshine of noon; and here, upon the pavement,
the little form of Violet, poised on one foot, pursued the marble
“pitcher” through the chalked “beds” necessary for the game, while her
playmates stood round watching lest she should infringe its rules, and
Mrs. McGarvie’s tawny truculent Tiger winked in the sunshine as he sat
complacently looking on. The very din of traffic in the busy street
was cheering and life-like; but the two sisters, sat with their little
muslin curtain drawn, sick at heart.

At the window in the kitchen Miss Aggie Rodger stretched her
considerable length upon the deal table, while the hapless idle Johnnie
occupied his usual chair by the fireside, and Miss Jeanie in a dress a
little, and only a little, better arranged than her sister, sat on the
wooden stool near her, very prim and very busy. Miss Aggie had laid
down her work, and from the table was making desperate lunges at the
crowing baby.

In a dingy printed gown, girded round her waist by an apron professedly
white, but as dingy as the print, and with a broad black ribbon tyeing
down her widow’s cap, Mrs. Rodger stood conversing with the lodger.
“This is Thursday,” said Agnes, “by the end of next week, Mrs. Rodger,
I shall be ready with the rent.”

“Very weel, Mrs. Muir,” responded the widow, “what suits you will
suit me. It’s a new thing to me, I assure you, to be needing to seek
siller. When Archie was to the fore--and a guid man he was to me, and
a guid father to the weans--I never ance thought of such a needcessity
as this; but are maun submit to what’s imposed; and then there’s thae
wearifu’ taxes, and gas, and water. I declare it’s enough to pit folk
daft--nae suner ae body’s turned frae the door than anither chaps--it’s
just an even down imposition.”

“Look at the pet--Luick, see! eh! ye wee rogue, will ye break my side
comb,” cried Miss Aggie, shaking the baby with furious affection, from
which the young mother shrunk a little.

“Dinna be sae wild, Aggie,” said her prim sister. “Ye’ll frighten the
wean.”

“Never you fash your head, Jean. Are ye there, ye wee pet? Eh, if he
hasna pitten his finger through yin o’ the holes!”

Miss Aggie hurriedly snatched up her work, and the little wife drew
away the baby in alarm. “Has he done much harm,” asked Agnes, “give it
me, and I will put it in again.”

“It’s nane the waur,” said the good-humoured hoyden, cutting out the
injured “hole” with her scissors. “I’ll put it in with a stitch of
point--it’s nae size. Jean’s at a new stitch, Mrs. Muir--did ye ever
see it?”

“It’s rather a pretty thing,” said Miss Jeanie, exhibiting it with prim
complacence. “I learned it from Beenie Ure, at the warehouse, and it’s
no ill to do. I was thinking of coming ben, to show Miss Rose; but it’s
no every body that Beenie would have learned it to.”

“Wha’s that at the outer door?” asked the idle brother, whose listless
unoccupied life had made him quick to note all passing sounds.

“Losh me!” said Miss Aggie, looking up, “its Mr. Muir, and he’s in an
awfu’ hurry.”

Agnes ran to open the door. It was indeed Harry, and the face of pale
excitement which he turned upon her, struck the poor wife to the heart.
Little Violet ran up the stair after him, with eager curiosity. There
was a sullenness, quite unusual to it, on the colourless face of poor
Harry. He passed his wife without saying a word.

“Are you ill? what brings you home at this time? what is the matter,
Harry?” cried the terrified Agnes.

He only pressed before her into the sitting-room.

As Harry entered, with Agnes and little Violet close behind him, the
two melancholy workers in the parlour, started in painful surprise.
“Harry is ill!” exclaimed Rose, with the constant instinct of apology,
as she threw down her work on the table.

“What now, Harry? what new misfortune has come upon us now?” asked the
sterner voice of Martha.

“Harry, what is it? what ails you?” said poor Agnes, clinging to his
arm.

He took off his hat, and began to press it between his hands. “Agnes,
Martha,” said the young man with a husky dry voice, “it’s not my
fault--not this time--I’ve lost my situation.”

The little wife uttered a low cry, and looked at him and the baby. Lost
his situation! the sole means of getting them bread.

“What do you mean, Harry?” asked Martha.

The young man’s sullen, despairing eye glanced round them all. Then he
flung his hat on the table, and threw himself into the arm-chair. “I
mean that, that’s all. I’ve lost my situation.”

For a moment they stood still, looking in each other’s blank faces,
as people do at the first stroke of a calamity; then Agnes put the
baby into the arms of Rose, and herself glided round to the back of
her husband’s chair. She could not bear to see him cast himself down
so, and hide his face in his hands. Her own eyes were half blinded
with tears, and her gentle heart failing; but however she might suffer
herself, she could not see Harry so utterly cast down.

Violet stole again to the stool at his feet, and sat looking up in
his face with the breathless interest of her years. Poor Agnes tried
to draw away the hands from his face. He resisted her fretfully. Rose
went softly about the room with the child, hushing its baby glee, and
turning tearful eyes on Harry; but Martha stood, fixed as she had risen
on his entrance, her hands firmly grasping the back of her chair, and
her head bowed down.

The tears of poor Agnes were falling upon his clasped fingers. Hastily
the unfortunate young man uncovered his face. “I suppose I shall have
to sit by the fire like John Rodger, and let you be a slave for me,” he
exclaimed bitterly, clasping his wife’s hands. Agnes could do nothing
but weep and murmur “Harry! Harry!”

“I will work on the streets first--I will do anything,” said Harry,
in hysteric excitement. “I am not broken down yet, Agnes, for all
they say. I can work for you yet. I will _be_ anything, I will _do_
anything, rather than let want come to _you_.”

And the little wife wept over the hands that convulsively clasped her
own, and could only sob again, “Oh, Harry, Harry!”

“Harry,” said Martha, “what have you done? Let us understand it
clearly. Answer first one thing. Lift up your head, and answer me,
Harry. Is the fault yours? Is it a misfortune or a sin?”

He did not meet her earnest, anxious eye; but he answered slowly, “The
fault is not mine, Martha. I was, indeed, exasperated; but it was not
me. I am free of this, Martha; it was no blame of mine.”

She looked at him with jealous scrutiny; she fancied there was a
faltering in his voice, and that he dared not lift his eyes to meet
her own, and the misery of doubt convulsed Martha’s heart. Could she
believe him?

“If it is so,” she said, with a calmness which seemed hard and cold to
Rose, “I see no reason you have to be so much cast down. Agnes, do not
cry. This working on the street is quite an unnecessary addition to the
shock Harry has given us.”

“_If_ it is so!” cried Harry, with quick anger. “Martha, do you not
believe me? will you not trust my word?”

“Be composed,” said Martha, herself sitting down with a hopeless
composure quite unusual to her; “tell us what the cause is calmly,
Harry. It is a great misfortune; but every misfortune is to be borne.
Let us look at it without exaggeration; tell me the cause.”

He had worn her patience out, and the aspect her exhaustion took was
that of extreme patience. It surprised and hushed them all. Rose laid
the baby in his cradle, and stealthily took up her work. Agnes withdrew
her hand from Harry’s grasp; even he himself wiped his damp brow, and
sat erect in his chair.

“I went to-day to the Bank to get a cheque cashed,” he said, in his
usual manner; “it was a small cheque, only fifty pounds, and I put the
notes in my coat pocket. Everybody does it. I did in that respect just
as I have always done; but I was robbed to-day--robbed of the whole
sum.”

“What then?” said Martha, breathlessly.

“Of course I went at once and told Dick Buchanan. His father is not
at home, and Dick took it upon him to reprove me for carelessness,
and--various other things,” said Harry, with assumed bravado. “So
we got to high words--I confess it, Martha. I was not inclined to
submit to that from him, which I could scarcely bear from you. And the
result was what I have told you--I gave up my situation, or rather he
dismissed me.”

There was a dead silence, for Martha’s composure hushed the condolences
which otherwise would have comforted poor Harry, and made him feel
himself a martyr after all.

“What did young Buchanan blame you for?--not,” said Martha, a rapid
flush covering her face as she looked at her brother, “not with any
suspicion--not for _this_.”

He returned her look with one of honest and unfeigned indignation.
“Martha!”

“I did not know,” said Martha hurriedly. “The lad is a coarse lad. I
did not know what you meant. What did he blame you for, Harry?”

A guilty flush stole over Harry’s face. He sighed deeply. “For many
things, Martha,” he said with simplicity, “for which you have blamed me
often.”

The stern questioner was melted. It was some time before she could
resume her inquiries. “And how did it happen? How did you lose the
money, Harry?” said Rose.

“It was no such wonder,” answered Harry with a little impatience. “It
is a thing that happens every day--at least many men have been robbed
before me. They lie in wait about the banks, these fellows.”

“And what way did you put it into your pocket, Harry?” said Violet. “I
would have held it in my hand.”

“Be quiet, Violet; what do you know about it?” exclaimed Harry angrily.

“And was it near the Bank you were robbed?” inquired Agnes.

Harry faltered a little. “Not very far from it.”

“And did nobody see the thief? Surely if it was done in the open
street, somebody must have seen who did it,” said Rose.

Harry’s eyes were cast down. “No,” he muttered in a very low tone,
“they know their business too well to let anybody see them.”

“Was it done in the street?” asked Martha quickly.

He faltered still more. “I don’t know--not exactly in the street, I
think. I met the captain of one of our--of one of Buchanan’s ships; and
I--I went with him to a place he was going to call at. I suppose it
might be done about there.”

Poor Harry! his head was bowed down--his fingers were fumbling with the
table-cover. He could not meet the eyes which were fixed so anxiously
upon him.

A low groan came from Martha’s lips--it was hard to relinquish the
comfort of believing that his besetting sin had no share in this
misfortune--hard to have the courage quenched out of a heart, which
could be buoyant, joyous, in the face of trials and dangers appointed
by heaven, to be suffered and overcome--but who could do nothing
against a weakness so inveterate and strong as this.

There was nothing more said for a time--they all felt this add a pang
to their misfortune; but while Martha’s eyes were still fixed on the
ground, and Rose and Agnes forbore to look at him, in delicate care
for his humiliation, Harry had already lifted his head, and growing
familiar with his position, forgot that there was in it any humiliation
at all.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “what will be very hard upon us--very
hard indeed--these monied men have hearts like the nether millstone.
Agnes, I don’t know what you will do with your accounts. I have lost
my quarter’s salary as well as my situation.”

The poor little wife looked at him aghast. She had been scheming
already how she could get these accounts paid, and begin to “the
opening” herself, to keep them afloat until Harry should hear of some
other situation;--but this crowning calamity struck her dumb.

“They will hold me responsible for the whole fifty pounds,” said Harry,
in a low voice. “I don’t think Mr. Buchanan himself would have kept
back this that is owing me--this that I have worked for. I should not
care so much for the whole debt,” said poor Harry with glistening eyes,
“because it would be a spur to me to labour more strenuously, and I
don’t doubt we might pay it off in a year or two--but to throw me on
the world, and keep back this poor fifteen pounds--it is very cruel--to
leave us without anything to depend on, until I can get another
situation--it is very hard--but they do not know what it is to want
five pounds, those prosperous men. Mr. Buchanan himself would never
have done it--and to think that Dick should turn upon me!”

“It is well,” said Martha harshly, “I am pleased that he has kept this
money--how we are to do I cannot tell--but I would not have had you
take it, Harry. What you have lost was theirs, and we must make it up.
Some way or other we will struggle through, and it is far better that
you did not become further indebted to them by receiving this.”

Harsh as her tone was, it was not blame--poor Harry’s sanguine spirit
rose. He could take some comfort from the bitter pride that would
rather descend to the very depths of poverty than have such a debt as
this. The galling burden seemed for the moment to withdraw Martha’s
thoughts from the more-enduring misery, the weakness that plunged him
into so many misfortunes.

But Agnes, sadly considering how to satisfy the poor widow, Mrs.
Rodger, who could not do without her money, and how to apologise to
butcher, baker, and grocer,--could take no comfort;--darkly the cloud
of grave care settled down upon the soft young features. “But what will
I do with Mrs. Rodger,” said Agnes, “and Waters, and Mr. Fleming--oh
Martha!”

“I will speak to them myself,” said Martha, compressing her lips
painfully. “You shall not be subjected to this, Agnes--I will speak to
them myself.”

“And Mrs. McGarvie,” said Agnes, “I might have done the things myself
if I had only known--and Mrs. Rodger.”

“Mrs. Rodger must be paid,” said Martha. “I am going to the warehouse
to-day--we must see--we must think about it all, Agnes.”

But they made no reference to Harry. Rose, who had said nothing all
this time, was already working very rapidly, pausing for an instant
sometimes to look round upon them with affectionate wistfulness, but
scarcely slackening the speed of her needle even then; there was such
occasion for labour now, as there had never been before.

Poor Harry! He sat in silence, and heard them discuss those sad
economics--he saw that they made no reference to him; and the
bitterness of having lost the confidence of those whose strong and
deep affection could not be doubted, even by the most morbid pride,
smote him to the heart. A momentary perception of his position
disclosed itself to Harry, and with the instant spring of his elastic
temperament, he felt that to perceive was to correct, and that the
power lay with himself to recover all that he had lost. With a sudden
start he turned to his wife and his sister.

“Agnes!--Martha!--why do you look so miserable? I will get another
situation. We may be better yet than we ever were before.”

“And so we may,” said Martha, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and
so we may--we will always hope and look for the best.”

Her voice sounded like a knell. Agnes, who was not quick to discover
shades of implied meaning, brightened at the words--but Rose, who
deprecated and softened in other cases, could oppose nothing to this.
It made herself sick and hopeless--for worse than all impatience or
harshness was this conscious yielding to fruitless and false hope, as
one yields to a fretful child.




CHAPTER XV.

    “Now shall you see me do my daily penance.
    Mean, say you?--’tis the grander suffering then.
    And thus I bear my yoke.”--


IT had been Martha’s custom at all times to take upon herself the
disagreeable things of their daily life. A turbulent stormy spirit, it
was impossible to form any apprehension of her character without taking
into account the harsh and strong pride which had come undiminished
through all her trials;

                      “----the spurns
    Which patient merit of the unworthy takes,”--

the slights and trifling disrespects which are only felt by the refined
poor--all these petty indignities were bitter to Martha, yet she
had a certain satisfaction in compelling herself to endure them. To
stand among the indiscriminate host who maintained themselves as she
did; to submit her work to the inspection of some small official; to
listen patiently to comments upon it, made for the sake of preserving
a needful importance and superiority; these and many a trifling insult
more were very hard to bear--but there was a bitter pleasure in bowing
to them, a stormy joy in the conscious force with which she subdued
her own rebellious nature, and put her foot upon its neck. It was
conquering her pride, she thought, and she conquered it proudly, using
its own might to vanquish itself.

But though Martha could bear needful humiliations herself, this pride
of hers, which enabled her to bear them, built a mighty wall round
her children. She could not bear humiliation to brother or sister;
they were hers--heart of her heart, crown of her honour--and with the
constant watchfulness of jealous love she guarded them from derogation.
With courage unfailing she could bear what was needful to be borne if
it might be in her own person, but if it fell on them, the blow struck
to her heart.

And so she passed through crowds of prosperous people, who never
bestowed a second look upon her--a woman growing old, with grey streaks
in her hair, and harsh lines in her face--a _poor_ woman, distressed
and full of care--what was there to look at? But if some magic had
changed the bodily form, which was a veil to her, into the person of
some noble despot king, foiled and despairing, there was enough to
rivet the eyes of a world.

She was carrying back a fortnight’s laborious work--and filling up all
the interstices of the greater misery, which did not change, were a
hundred shifting plans of how to distribute this pittance. A strange
chaos was in Martha’s mind as she went through those crowded streets.
Broken prayers, so often repeated that they came vacantly into her mind
often, and often fell upon her like strong inspirations, forcing her
almost to cry aloud in an agony of entreaty, mingled with those painful
calculations of the petty sum she was about to receive, which hovered
like so many irritating insects over the dull and heavy pain in her
heart. The cloud would not disperse; the weight would not lighten from
her. Harry, at home, had smiles of new confidence on his face already,
and had talked Agnes and Rose into hope; but the days of hope were past
for Martha. She desired to submit; she longed to bend her neck meekly
under the yoke, and acquiesce in what God sent; but the struggle was
hard, and it seemed to herself that she could have submitted easily to
any affliction but this--this was the intolerable pain--and this was
her fate.

The warehouse was in the Candleriggs, and a spruce clerk received the
work from her, and paid her the joint wages of Rose and herself for the
fortnight’s labour. It was thirty shillings--a very little sum, though
they thought it good. On rare occasions the weekly produce of their
united toil was as much as a pound, but this was a more usual amount.

Filling her little basket with the renewed and increased supply of
work given at her request, Martha turned to one of the dim streets
of counting-houses which surround the Exchange. In the same line of
buildings the Buchanans had their office, but Martha was not going
there. She ascended another dusty stair at some little distance, and
entering a smaller office, asked for Mr. Sommerville.

Mr. Sommerville was a ruddy comfortable man, in an easy chair; once a
poor Ayrshire lad, now, totally forgetful of that time, a cautious,
shrewd, wealthy merchant, richer than many of the splendid commercial
magnates who lightened the dim sky around him. But some claim of
distant kindred or ancient acquaintance connected him with the family
of the Muirs; though his look of doubt as Martha entered, and his
laconic greeting, “Oh, Miss Muir,” when he recognised her, showed that
this claim was of the slenderest kind.

“I have come to speak to you about my brother,” said Martha, standing
before him with a flush upon her face; “I mean I have taken the
liberty, Mr. Sommerville--for Harry has lost his situation.”

“What! the place I got for him in Buchanan’s?” exclaimed the merchant.
“What has he done that for? some misconduct I suppose.”

“No misconduct,” said Martha, with sudden courage; “nor have you the
slightest ground for supposing so. Harry had money stolen from him on
his way between the bank and the office--a thing which no one could
foresee, and which has happened to many a wiser man. This is the cause;
but this is not misconduct.”

Mr. Sommerville waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, I understand;
I see. Money stolen from him: _I_ never had money stolen from me. But
I never will recommend a man again; they invariably turn out ill. How
much was it?”

“Fifty pounds.” said Martha, “for all of which he is responsible, and,
if he were but in another situation, which we would not fail to pay.”

“Oh yes, that’s all very well,” said the merchant, “but how is he to
get the other situation? There must have been great carelessness, you
know, or they never would have dismissed him. I heard he was wild;
young Buchanan told me he was wild--but I did not expect it was to end
so soon.”

“And neither it shall,” said Martha, controlling, with absolute
physical pain, the fierce hot anger of her mother-like love. “Mr.
Buchanan has already taken from Harry a proportion of this sum. I
pledge myself that the rest shall be paid.”

“You!” He looked at her. Certainly, her name would not have been of the
smallest importance at a bill; but glimmerings of truth higher than
bills, or money values, will flash sometimes even on stolid men. For a
moment his eyes rested strangely upon her; and then he turned away his
head, and said, “Humph!” in a kind of confidential under tone. The good
man rubbed his bushy hair in perplexity. He did not know what to make
of this.

“But unless Harry has employment we can do nothing,” said Martha, “all
that is in our power, without him, must be the mere necessities of
living. You have helped us before, Mr. Sommerville.”

“If that was to be a reason for exerting myself again, in every case of
distress that comes to me,” said the merchant with complacency, “I can
tell you, I might give up all other business at once; but recommending
a man who turns out ill is a very unpleasant thing to creditable
people. There is Buchanan now--of course he took my word for your
brother--and I assure you I felt it quite a personal reflection when
his son told me that Muir was wild.”

“And his son dared!” exclaimed Martha, with uncontrollable indignation,
“and this youth who does evil of voluntary intent and purpose is
believed when he slanders Harry! Harry, whom this very lad--that he
should have power, vulgar and coarse as he is, with a brother of
mine!--has betrayed and beguiled into temptation. But I do wrong to
speak of this. The present matter is no fault of Harry’s, yet it is the
sole reason why he loses his situation; and I see no ground here for
any one saying that my brother has disgraced them.”

Strong emotion is always powerful. It might be that Mr. Sommerville
had no objection to hear Richard Buchanan condemned. It might be that
Martha’s fierce defence awoke some latent generosity in the mind she
addressed. However that might be, the merchant did not resent her
outburst, but answered it indistinctly in a low voice, and ended with
something about “partiality,” and “quite natural.”

“I am not partial,” said Martha hastily. “No one has ever seen, no one
can ever see, Harry’s faults as I do. I am not indifferent enough to
pass over any one defect he has; but Harry is young. He has reached the
time when men are but experimenting in independent life. Why should he
lose his good name for a common misfortune like this?”

“You should have stayed in Ayr,” said Mr. Sommerville, with a little
weariness. “_I_ don’t want to injure his good name! I have no object in
hurting your brother; indeed, for the sake of the old town, and some
other things, I would help him to a situation if I could. I’ll just
speak to my cash-keeper. He knows about vacant places better than I do.”

And partly to get rid of a visitor whose unusual earnestness
embarrassed him; partly out of a sudden apprehension that he might
possibly be called upon by and by for pecuniary help, if no situation
could be got for Harry, Mr. Sommerville left his easy chair, and had
a consultation in the outer office with his confidential clerk. Very
weary and faint, Martha remained standing in the private room. Many
a time in her own heart, with the bitterness of disappointed hope
and wounded love, she had condemned Harry; but with the fierceness of
a lion-mother, her heart sprang up to defend him when another voice
pronounced his sentence. She could not bear the slightest touch of
censure--instinctively she dared and defied whosoever should accuse
him--and no one had liberty to blame Harry except the solitary voice
which came to her in the night watches wrung out of her own heart.

In a short time Mr. Sommerville returned.

“I hear of one place, Miss Muir,” said the merchant; “but there is
security needed, and that might be a drawback--seventy pounds a-year--a
good salary, but then they want security for five hundred pounds.
If you could manage that, the place is a very good one--Rowan and
Thomson--and it is a traveller they want--not so much confinement as
in an office; it might suit your brother very well, if it were not for
the security.”

“It would not do,” said Martha, quickly. “Harry cannot be a
traveller--it would kill him.”

Mr. Sommerville elevated his eyebrows. “Cannot be a traveller! Upon
my word, Miss Muir, to say that you came asking my help, you are very
fastidious. I fancied your brother would be glad of any situation.”

“Not this--only not this,” said Martha, in haste, as if she almost
feared to listen to the proposal, “Harry is not strong. I thank you,
Mr. Sommerville, I thank you; but it would kill him.”

“Then, I know of nothing else,” said the merchant, coldly resuming his
seat. “If I hear of anything, I will let you know.”

Cold words of course, often said, never remembered. Martha turned away
down the dusty stair, blaming herself for thus wasting the time in
which she might have been working; but she could work--could give daily
bread to the little household still--and that was the greatest comfort
of her life.

Far different from the mill-girls and engineers of Port Dundas was the
passing population in these dusty streets. Elderly merchantmen, with
ease and competence in every fold of their spotless broadcloth--young
ones exuberant and unclouded, casting off the yoke of business as
lightly, out of the office, as they bore it sensibly within, met
Martha at every step. Here come some, fresh from the Exchange. You can
see they are discussing speculations, calculating elaborate chances,
perhaps “in the way of business,” hazarding a princely fortune, which
may be doubled or dissolved before another year. And a group of young
men meet them, louder and more demonstrative, circling round one who
is clearly the object of interest to all. Why?--he is going out to
India to-morrow to make his fortune--and save that it gives him a
little importance, and makes him the lion of the day, envied by all his
compeers, this youth, who is flushed just now with a little excitement,
in reality feels no more about his Indian voyage, than if it were but a
summer expedition to the Gairloch, or Roseneath Bay; and is much more
comfortably assured of making his fortune, than he would be of bringing
home a creditable amount of trout, if the event of to-morrow was a
day’s fishing, instead of the beginning of an eventful life. Of the
youths round him, one will be the representative partner of his “house”
in far America before the year is out; another will feed wool in the
bush; another learn to adorn his active northern life, with oriental
pomps and luxuries by the blue waves of the Bosphorus. And among them
all there is a certain fresh confident unconscious life, which, so far
as it goes, carries you with it in sympathy. It is not refined, it is
not profound, it has little elevation and little depth; but withal it
has such a fresh breeze about it, such a continual unceasing motion,
such an undoubting confidence in its own success, that this simplicity
of worldliness moves you as if it were something nobler. Not true
enough, nor great enough to call the solemn “God speed” out of your
heart; yet you cannot choose, but wish the young adventurers well.

And there are clerks more hurried; young men with quick business-step
and eye, whose sons shall be merchants’ sons, as carelessly prosperous
as are the young masters in the office now; but some who will live and
die poor clerks, yet who will have their share of enjoyed life as well,
and end their days as pleasantly, pass and repass among the crowd.
Some, too, who will sink and fall, who will break hearts, and give
fair hopes the death-blow. So much young life--so many souls, each to
make its own existence for itself, and not another. There come solemn
thoughts into the mind which looks on such a scene.

And Martha, half abstracted, looked on it, comparing them with Harry.
But there was none like Harry--not one; the heart that clasped its arms
about him in his misfortune--the dry eye which watched the night long
with schemes for his prosperity--could see none worthy to be placed
beside him. Poor Harry! his sister could not see these others, for his
continual shadow resting on her heart.

When Martha had nearly reached the Exchange, she heard some one calling
after her. It was John Buchanan; he came up out of breath.

“Will you tell Harry that I think he should come down and see my
father, Miss Muir?” gasped John. “I’ve been chasing you for ten
minutes--you walk so fast. My father’s come home, and he’s shut up with
Dick. I don’t think he’s pleased. If Harry would come down to-morrow,
it might be all right again.”




CHAPTER XVI.

    “’Tis the weak who are overbold; your strong man can count upon the
    might he knoweth; your feeble one, in fancy sets no bound to his
    bravery, nor thinks it time to fail till there is need of standing.”
                                                              OLD PLAY.


“SEVENTY pounds a-year,” repeated Harry Muir, as his sisters and his
wife sat round him, all of them now busy with the “opening,” while
Violet kept the baby; “and my uncle might be security, say for three
hundred pounds. It’s a mere matter of form, you know. Perhaps they
would take him for three hundred instead of five; and Rowan and Thomson
is a very good house. I think I might go down to-morrow and inquire.”

“It would not do--you must not think of it,” said Martha quickly.

“Why must I not think of it? I don’t believe John Buchanan is right,
Martha, about his father quarrelling with Dick for sending me away.
And, besides, how could I return there, where they all know I was
dismissed--_dismissed_, Martha; besides Dick’s own abuse. I could not
do it. I would rather do anything than go back;--and seventy pounds
a-year!”

“Harry, let us rather labour for you night and day.”

His face grew red and angry. “Why, Martha? I am not a child surely that
I cannot be trusted. What do you mean?”

“No,” said Martha bitterly, “you are not a child; you are a full-grown
man, with all the endowments a man needs to do something in the world.
You can constrain the will of these poor girls, who think of you every
hour they live; and you can assert your independence, and be proud,
and refuse to bear the reproof you have justly earned. God forgive me
if I am too hard; but you wear me out, Harry. When I say you must not
seek for a fatal occupation like this, have I not cause? Do I need to
descend to particulars? Would you have me enter into detail?”

“Martha! Martha!” The trembling hand of Rose was on her arm, anxiously
restraining her; and Agnes looked up into the sullen cloud on Harry’s
face, whispering, “Do not be angry; she does not mean it, Harry.”

“Is it because I am in your power that you taunt me, Martha?” he said,
fiercely.

Martha compressed her lips till they grew white; she did not answer.
After the first outburst, not even the cruel injustice of this received
a reply. She had herself to subdue before she could again approach him.

And the two peacemakers, hovering between them, endeavoured, with
anxious pains, to heal the breach again. The young wife whispered
deprecatory words in Harry’s ear, while she laid her hand on Martha:
but pitiful looks were all the artillery of Rose; they softened both
the belligerents.

“I don’t care what happens to us out of the house, Martha,” said Rose
at last; “but surely we may be at peace within. There are not so many
of us in the world; we should be always friends.”

And Martha’s anger was shortlived. “I spoke rashly,” she said, with
strange humility; “let us say no more of this now.”

And there was little more said that night.

But Harry would not go to the office again to see Mr. Buchanan;
and, poor as they were, none of them desired to subject him to this
humiliation. So he went out instead the next morning to make bootless
inquiries and write bootless letters--exertions in which there was
no hope and little spirit; went out gloomily, and in gloom returned,
seeking comfort which they had not to bestow.

But while poor Harry was idle perforce, a spasmodic industry had
fallen upon the rest. They scarcely paused to take the simple meals
of necessary life; and the pleasant hour of family talk at tea was
abridged to-night to ten minutes, sadly grudged by the eager labourers,
on whose toil alone depended now the maintenance of the family. Little
Violet stood by the table with a clean towel in her hand, preparing,
with some importance, to wash the cups and saucers when they had
finished. But Harry lingered over the table, leaning his head on
his hand, and trifling with something which lay by him. Violet, in
housewifely impatience, moved about among the cups, and rung them
against each other to rouse his attention, and let him see he retarded
her; but Harry’s mind was too much occupied to notice that.

“Harry,” cried Agnes, rather tremulously from the inner room, “I see
Mr. Gilchrist on the road. He is coming here. What can it be?”

Harry started and put away his cup. They all became anxious and
nervous; and Agnes hastily drew her seat close to the door of the
room, that she might hear what the visitor said, though her baby, half
dressed, lay on her knee, very sleepy and impatient, and she could not
make her appearance till she had laid him in his little crib for the
night.

Thus announced, Mr. Gilchrist entered the room. He was a massy large
man, with grizzled hair, which had been reddish in his younger days,
and kindly grey eyes gleaming out from under shaggy eyebrows. His linen
was spotless; but his dress, though quite appropriate and respectable,
was not very trim; little layers of snuff encumbered the folds of his
black waistcoat; and from a steel chain of many complicated links,
attached to the large round silver watch in his fob, hung two massy
gold seals, one of them engraven with an emphatic “J. G.” of his own,
the other an inheritance from his father. There was no mistaking the
character and standing of this good and honourable man; his father
before him had been head clerk in an extensive mercantile house in
Glasgow; his sons after him might be that, or greater than that. With
his two hundred pounds a-year, he was bringing up such a family as
should hereafter do honour and service to their country and community;
and for himself, no better citizen did his endeavour for the prosperity
of the town, or prayed with a warmer heart, “Let Glasgow flourish.”

“Harry, my man,” said Mr. Gilchrist, as he held Harry’s hand in his
own, and shook it slowly, “I am very sorry about this.”

“Well, it cannot be helped,” said Harry with a little assumed
carelessness, “we must make the best we can of it now.”

“Ay, no doubt,” said the Cashier, as he turned to shake hands with Rose
and Martha, “to sit down and brood over a misfortune, is not the way to
mend it; but it may not be so bad as you think. Angry folk will cool
down, Harry, if ye leave them to themselves a little.”

Harry’s heart began to beat high with anxiety--and Rose cast furtive
glances at Mr. Gilchrist, as she went on nervously with her work,
almost resenting Martha’s calmness. But Agnes had entered just then
from the inner room, and the kindly greeting, which the visitor gave
her, occupied another moment, during which the excitable Harry sat on
thorns, and little Violet, holding the last cup which she had washed in
her hands, polished it round and round with her towel, turning solemn
wide open eyes all the time upon this messenger of fate.

“I have a letter from Mr. Buchanan,” said Mr. Gilchrist, drawing slowly
from his pocket a note written on the blue office paper. Harry took it
with eager fingers. Agnes came to the back of his chair, and looked
over his shoulder. Rose, trying to be very quiet, bent her head over
her work with a visible tremor, and Martha suffered the piece of muslin
she had been working at, to fall on her knee, and looked with grave
anxiety at Harry.

Round and round went the glancing tea-cup in the snowy folds of the
towel which covered Lettie’s little hands--for she too forgot what
she was doing in curious interest about this; a slight impatient
exclamation concluded the interval of breathless silence. “No, I cannot
take it--it is very kind, I daresay, of Mr. Buchanan; but I cannot
accept this,” exclaimed Harry as he handed the letter across the table
to Martha.

But the visitor saw, that in spite of Harry’s quick decision, he looked
at his sister almost as if he wished her opinion to be different. Agnes
too changed her position, and came to Martha’s side. The letter was
very short.

    “SIR,

    My son has informed me of the circumstances under which you have
    left the office. I regret the loss for your sake, as well as my
    own, but I cannot feel myself justified in doing what I hear my son
    threatened to do, consequently if you will call at the office in
    the course of to-morrow, Mr. Gilchrist has instructions to pay you
    the full amount of your quarter’s salary, due on the 1st proximo.

                                                             I am, Sir,
                                                 Your obedient Servant,
                                                      GEORGE BUCHANAN.”

“I cannot take it--I do not see how I can take it,” said Harry,
irresolutely, as he sought Martha’s eye.

“It’s nonsense, that,” said Mr. Gilchrist, taking out a large silver
snuff-box and tapping slowly on its lid, with his great forefinger,
“you must look at the thing coolly, Harry, my man. It’s no fault of
yours that you lost the money; no sensible person would blame you for
that--a thing which has happened to many a one before. I mind very
well being once robbed myself. I was a lad then, about your years, and
the sum was thirty pounds; but by good fortune twenty of it was in an
English note, and not being very sure whether it was canny or not, I
had taken its number--so off I set to all the banks and stopped it.
It was a July day, and I was new married, and had no superabundance
of notes, let alone twenty-pounders--such a race I had,” said Mr.
Gilchrist with a smile, raising his red and brown handkerchief to his
brow in sympathetic recollection, “I believe I was a stone lighter that
night. I succeeded, however, and got back my English note very soon;
but Mr. Buchanan would not hear of deducting the other ten from my
salary; and he’s better able to stand the loss of a few pounds now than
he was then. Think better of it, Harry.”

“I think Mr. Gilchrist is right,” said Martha, “no one could possibly
blame you for such a misfortune, Harry--and Mr. Buchanan is very
good--you have no right to reject his kindness; it is as ungenerous to
turn away from a favour frankly offered, as it is to withhold more than
is meet.”

“It is very well said, Miss Muir,” said Mr. Gilchrist, contemplating
the long inscription upon the heavy chased lid of his snuff-box, with
quiet satisfaction. “I really think it would be an unkindly thing to
throw back this, which was meant for a kindness, into the hands that
offer it. He is not an ill man, George Buchanan; ’for one ye’ll get
better, there’s waur ye’ll get ten,’ as the song says; and besides,
Harry, I was young once myself, and so was my wife. I mind when our
James was in his cradle like that youngster there, we had just little
enough to come and go on; and for any pride of your own, you must see
and not scrimp your wife. Touts man, you are not going to take ill what
I say. Do you think, if I lost a quarter’s salary just now, it would
not scrimp _my_ wife? and I think no shame of it.”

“Neither do I think shame--certainly not,” said Harry, “we have only
what we work for. But I have actually lost Mr. Buchanan’s money--I
don’t see--”

“Harry,” interrupted Mr. Gilchrist, “never mind telling me what you
don’t see--come down to the office to-morrow, and hear what Mr.
Buchanan sees--he has older eyes than you, and knows the world better,
and there’s no saying what may come of it; for you see, Mrs. Muir,”
continued the Cashier, casting down his kindly eyes again upon the
grandiloquent inscription which testified that his snuff-box had been
presented to him by young men trained in the office under his auspices,
as a token of esteem and respect, “it is wonderful what a kindness
everybody has for this lad. I myself have been missing his laugh this
whole day, and scarcely knowing what ailed me--so maybe something
better may turn up if he comes down to-morrow.”

“And Martha thinks you should go--and mind all that we have to do,
Harry,” whispered Agnes.

A glow of pleasure was on Harry’s face--he liked to be praised, and
felt in it an innocent kindly satisfaction--but still he hesitated.
To go back again among those who knew that he had been dismissed
and disgraced--to humiliate himself so far as again to recognise
Dick Buchanan as his superior--to present himself humbly before Dick
Buchanan’s father, and propitiate his favour. It was very unpalatable
to Harry, who after his own fashion had no lack of pride.

“I will see about it. I will think it over,” said Harry doubtfully.

“I think I must send our Tom to you in his red gown,” said Mr.
Gilchrist; “where he got it, I cannot say, but they tell me the lad
is a metaphysical man--if he ever gets the length to be a preacher,
we will have to send him East, I’m thinking, for metaphysics seldom
flourish here away; but now my wife will be redding me up for being so
late. Mind, Harry, I will expect to see you at the office to-morrow.”

The good man rose to go away. “By-the-bye,” he added as he shook hands
with Rose--and Rose felt herself look guilty under his smiling glance.
“I saw a friend of yours coming off the Ayr coach as I came up--the
advocate lad, Mr. Buchanan’s nephew. You are sure of his good word,
Harry, or else I am much mistaken.”

“Mr. Charteris!--he has come back very soon. Good night Mr. Gilchrist,
I will think about it,” said Harry, as he went to the door with his
sister.

Mr. Gilchrist left some excitement behind him. Agnes had risen
into tremulous high spirits. Rose was touched with some tremor of
anticipation, and Martha, watchful and jealous, looked at her sister
now and then with scrutinising looks; for Mr. Gilchrist’s last words
had awakened Martha’s fears for another of her children; while in the
meantime little Violet had polished all the cups and saucers, and was
now putting them with much care away.

“Harry will go--do you not think he must go, Martha?” said Agnes. “Mr.
Gilchrist says they miss him in the office. I don’t wonder at that. He
will go back again, Martha?”

“I think he should--I think he will,” said Martha with a slight sigh.
“There might have been something better in a change--one has always
fantastic foolish hopes from a change--but I believe this is best.”

Agnes was a little damped; for she saw nothing but the highest good
fortune in this unlooked-for overture of Mr. Buchanan.

Harry lingered at the outer door in a very different mood. He, too,
had been indulging in some indefinite hope from change. He could not
see that the former evils lay in himself--poor Harry! He thought if
the circumstances were altered, that happier results might follow--and
while he was not unwilling to return to his former situation, and had
even a certain pleasure in the thought that it was open to him, the
submission which it would be necessary to make, galled him beyond
measure. He stood there at the door, moody and uneasy; not weighing his
own feelings against the well-being of the family, certainly, for Harry
was not given to any such process of deliberation--but conscious that
the two were antagonistic, and moodily letting his own painful share in
the matter bulk largest in his mind.

Just then a hackney coach drew up at a little distance from the door,
and Cuthbert Charteris leaped out. He was a good deal heated, as Harry
thought, and looked as if he had taken little time to rest, or put his
dress in order since he finished his journey--but he carried nothing
except a little paper parcel. He came up at once to Harry and shook
hands with him cordially--they went upstairs together.

“I have just come from Ayr,” said Cuthbert with some embarrassment, as
he took his old place at the window--“you must pardon my traveller’s
costume, Mrs. Muir, for it is not half an hour since I arrived.”

“You have had little time to see the town,” said Harry. “Did you find
my uncle? Has he sent any message with you, Mr. Charteris?”

“I have a message,” said Cuthbert, clearing his throat, and becoming
flushed, “but before I deliver it, Mr. Muir, you must hear a long
preface.”

“Is my uncle ill?” exclaimed Martha. “Has anything happened?”

“Nothing has happened. He is quite well,” said Cuthbert, “only I have
been making some enquiries about your family concerns, for which I need
to excuse myself by a long story.”

Harry was still standing. He drew himself up with great hauteur, and
coldly said, “Indeed!”

Rose lifted her head for a moment with timid anxiety; the light was
beginning to fail, but Rose still sat in her corner holding the work
which at present made little progress. Martha had laid down hers. Agnes
had withdrawn to the sofa with her baby, who, already asleep, would
very soon be disposed of in the cradle; while Harry, with unusual
stateliness, leaned against the table, looking towards Cuthbert.

“I think I mentioned before I went away,” said Charteris, “that my
errand to Ayr was connected with one of those stories of family
pride and romance and misfortune which sometimes lighten our legal
labours. This story you must let me tell you, before I can explain
how my motives for searching out these, were neither curiosity nor
impertinence.”

As Cuthbert spoke, he opened his parcel, placed the old Bible on the
table, and handed to Harry a little roll of papers. They were formal
extracts from the registers of the old church at Ayr, attested by the
session clerk, proving the marriage of Rose Allenders with John Calder,
and of Violet Calder with James Muir, together with the register of
Harry’s own birth.

Harry was quite bewildered; he turned over the papers, half curious,
half angry, and tried to look cool and haughty; but wonder and interest
defeated his pride, and impatiently calling for the candle, which
Violet, with much care, was just then bringing into the room, Harry
threw himself into the arm chair, and resting his elbows on the table,
leaned his head upon both his hands, and fixed his eyes, with a half
defiance in them, full upon Cuthbert.

The others drew near the light with interest and curiosity as great as
his; but though they held their breath while they listened, they did
not restrain their fingers--the necessity of work was too great to be
conquered by a passing wonder.

“Not much short of a century since,” said Cuthbert, becoming excited in
spite of himself, “a family in the neighbourhood of Stirling had their
composure disturbed by what seemed to them the very foolish marriage of
one of their sons. There were six sons in the family: this one was the
fourth, and at that time had very little visible prospect of ever being
heir. They were but small gentry, and I do not very well know why they
were so jealous of their gentility; but however that might be, this
marriage was followed by effects as tragic as if the offender had been
a prince’s son instead of a country laird’s.

His father disinherited and disowned him; he was cut off from all
intercourse with his family; but in his own affairs he seems to have
been prosperous enough until his wife died. That event closed the
brighter side of life for this melancholy man. He had two daughters,
then children, and with them he left Stirling.”

A slight start moved the somewhat stiff figure of Martha; Rose
unconsciously let her work fall and turned her head towards Cuthbert;
Harry remained in the same position, fixedly gazing at him; while
Agnes, rocking the cradle gently with her foot, looked on a little
amused, a little interested, and not a little curious, wondering what
the story could mean.

“After this,” continued Cuthbert, “my hero, we suppose went to London
(another strange start as if of one half asleep, testified some
recognition, on Martha’s part, of the story), but there I lose trace of
him. It is only for a short time, however, for immediately afterwards I
find him at Ayr.”

“At Ayr?” Harry too, started now, and again turned over the papers,
which he still held in his hand, as if looking for a clue.

“In the meantime,” said Cuthbert, “all the other members of the family
are dead; there is no one remaining of the blood but this man--the
children of this man.”

“And his name?” said Martha, with a slight hoarseness in her voice.

“His name,” said Cuthbert, drawing a long breath of relief, as his
story ended, “was John Allenders.”

There was a momentary silence. They looked at each other with
bewildered faces. “What does it mean?” said Harry, becoming very red
and hot as the papers fell from his shaking fingers; “I cannot see--it
is so great a surprise--tell us what it means.”

“It means,” said Cuthbert, quickly, “that you are the heir of John
Allenders of Allenders, and of an estate which has been in the family
for centuries, worth more than four hundred pounds a year.”

Harry looked round for a moment almost unmeaningly--he was stupified;
but Agnes stole, as she always did in every emergency, to the back of
his chair, and laid her hand softly on his shoulder. It seemed to awake
him as from a dream. With one hand he grasped hers, with the other he
snatched the work from Martha’s fingers and tossed it to the other end
of the room. “Agnes! Martha!”

Poor Harry! A sob came between the two names, and his eyes were
swimming in sudden tears. He did not know what to say in the joyful
shock of this unlooked-for fortune; he could only grasp their hands and
repeat their names again.

Cuthbert rose to withdraw, feeling himself a restraint on their joy,
but Martha disengaged herself from the grasp of Harry, and would not
suffer him to move.

“No, no; share with us the pleasure you bring. You have seen us in
trouble, stay with us now.”

“Is it true, Mr. Charteris, is it true?” said Agnes, while Harry, still
perfectly tremulous and unsteady, threw Rose’s work after Martha’s, and
shaded his eyes with his hands, lest they should see how near weeping
he was--“Tell us if it is true.”

Harry started to his feet. “True! do you think he would tell us
anything that was not true? Mr. Charteris, if they were not all
better than me, I would think it was a delusion--that neither such
an inheritance nor such a friend could come to my lot. But it’s for
them--it’s for them! and a new beginning, a new life--Martha, we
shall not be worsted this time--it is God has sent us this other
battle-field.”

And Harry, with irrestrainable emotion, lifted up his voice and wept.
His little wife clung to his shoulder, his stern sister bent over him
with such an unspeakable tenderness and yearning hope in her face, that
it became glorified with sudden beauty--and Cuthbert remembered uncle
Sandy’s thanksgiving, and himself could have wept in sympathy for the
solemn trembling of this joy; for not the sudden wealth and ease, but
the prospect of a new life it was which called forth those tears.

“And what did my uncle say, Mr. Charteris,” said Rose, when the tumult
had in some degree subsided. No one but Rose remembered that Cuthbert
had spoken of a message from uncle Sandy.

“He bade me repeat to you a homely proverb,” said Cuthbert, who was
quite as unsteady as the rest, and had been a good deal at a loss how
to get rid of some strange drops which moistened his eyelashes. “It
takes a strong hand to hold a full cup steady; that is the philosophy I
brought from your uncle.”

“No fear,” said Harry, looking up once more with the bright clear
loveable face, which no one could frown upon. “No fear--what could I
do with my arms bound? What could I do in yon office? but now, Martha,
now!”

And Martha once more believed and hoped, ascending out of the depths of
her dreary quietness into a very heaven. Few have ever felt, and few
could understand this glorious revulsion. With an impatient bound she
sprang out of the abyss, and scorned it with her buoyant foot. It might
not last--perhaps it could not last--but one hour of such exulting
certain hope, almost worth a lifetime’s trial.

“And I will get a little room all to mysel, and Katie Calder will come
and sleep with me,” said Violet.

They all laughed unsteadily. It brought them down to an easier level.

“I think, Mr. Muir you should come at once with me to Edinburgh,” said
Cuthbert, “and see your lawyer, who has been hunting for you for some
time, and get the proof and your claim established. I begin to think it
was very fortunate he broke his leg, Miss Muir--for otherwise I might
never have seen you.”

“And what made you think of us? how did you guess?” said Harry.

“Rose and Violet,” said Cuthbert, with a little shyness. “It was a
happy chance which gave these names.”

Rose drew back a little. There was something unusual, it seemed, in
Cuthbert’s pronunciation of her pretty name, for it made her blush; and
by a strange sympathy Mr. Charteris blushed too.

“When shall we start? for I suppose you will go with me to Edinburgh,”
continued Charteris.

Harry hesitated a moment. “I must go down to the office to-morrow,”
he said, with his joyous face unclouded. “Your cousin Dick and I had
something which I thought a quarrel. It was nothing but a few angry
words after all. I will go down to-morrow.”

Harry had entirely forgotten how angry he was--entirely forgotten the
insulting things Dick Buchanan said, and what a humiliation he had felt
it would be, to enter that office again. Poor Harry was humble now. He
had such a happy ease of forgetting, that he did not feel it necessary
to forgive. Bright, sanguine, overflowing with generous emotions, Harry
in his new wealth and happiness that night could not remember that
there was any one in the world other than a friend.


END OF VOL. I.


LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.


FOOTNOTE:

[1] Another feminine craft peculiar to the “west country,” where many
young girls, of a class inferior to the workers of embroidery and
opening, are employed to clip the loose threads from webs of worked
muslin.




Corrections

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.

p. 198

  that Nature, in learning to make the lily, turned out the convolvolus.
  that Nature, in learning to make the lily, turned out the convolvulus.

p. 213

  but its postcript
  but its postscript

p. 264

  to make bootless nquiries
  to make bootless inquiries