Harry Muir

A few days after this, Martha came to Edinburgh according to her appointment, to meet Harry’s principal creditor, accompanied by Uncle Sandy who, “with all the bairns,” as he said, was to return home to Ayr whenever he was freed from his attendance on Martha.

The meeting was arranged to take place in Lindsay’s office, and Martha carried with her the half-year’s interest payable to this creditor. It was the last of his own four thousand pounds.

The man was a retired shop-keeper, eloquent on “the value of money,” and thinking the five or six thousands which were the much-boasted result of his life, a great fortune, justly entitling its possessor to “a proper pride.” Like most people, whose increase has been an accumulation of morsels, Mr. Macalister was terribly afraid of risk, and shrank from speculation with the most orthodox horror. Persuaded at first to invest his money in Harry’s mortgage, because land was the most secure of banks, his ears had been keenly alive, ever since, to every morsel of news he could glean about Harry; and when Mr. Macalister heard he was wild, he trembled for his four thousand pounds. Then came Harry’s death, and hearing that the property was left only in the hands of women, Mr. Macalister had a vague notion that he had power to sell the lands of Allenders, and pay himself, very probably making a profit of the transaction; or that he might, if he would, take possession, and become Laird of Allenders in his own person; but he had never mentioned this grand imagination to any one, though it invested him with a visionary importance, which surprised his very wife. Yet Macalister was by no means a dishonest man, nor one who would deliberately set about benefiting himself by cheating his neighbours—by no means; but his exaggerated idea of the money which he had laboriously earned, made him believe that all this was in his power.

So he came to Lindsay’s office very spruce and shining, with an elaborate shirt-frill, and a new cane, determined to demand instant re-payment of the money, or failing that, to intimate his intention of entering upon possession of Allenders.

Lindsay, somewhat puzzled, was endeavouring to understand the solemn hints, and important allusions of Macalister, when Martha and her uncle entered his office. The creditor was somewhat taken by surprise; and when he saw the deference with which the lawyer received this grave-looking woman in her deep mourning, Macalister faltered; for he had never thought of “the other party—” never, except as natural opponents and adversaries of whom he, in this connexion of debtor and creditor, had greatly the advantage.

“I have been thinking—I’ll likely want my money, Miss Allenders,” said Macalister after a few general words had passed, followed by an embarrassed silence.

“Mr. Lindsay will pay you the interest which is due,” said Martha; “and it would be a convenience to us if you did not—at least, immediately—claim your money. The works for which it was borrowed have not had time yet to be profitable; but a few years more, I trust—”

“Ay, Miss Allenders; but it’s not so easy for me to wait a few years more,” said Macalister, briskly, restored to his natural self-importance by Martha’s request; “for ye see, I can show you plainly—”

But what Mr. Macalister could have shown plainly, remained for ever unknown to Martha; for at that moment, a great commotion arose in the outer office, and the door of this room thrown violently open, disclosed the ghost-like face, inflamed with fury, of Miss Jean Calder, who, holding Lindsay’s clerk at arm’s length, with her long fingers clutched upon his shoulder, had thrown the door open with her disengaged hand, and was about to enter the room.

Involuntarily, Alexander Muir drew back his chair, and Martha started. Like a visitant from the dead, the old woman, with a great stride, entered among them. Her tall, angular frame tottered, and her head shook, half with rage and excitement, half with the natural palsied motion of her extreme age. She was dressed in a large woollen shawl, once bright tartan, now as dim in its complexion as it was thin in its texture, and a large bonnet, standing out stiffly like a fan round her ghost face, which was encircled under it by a stiff ruff of yellow lace. Miss Jean made one great step forward, and seizing upon Alexander Muir, shook him till herself was so thoroughly shaken that she scarcely could stand.

“Did I no tell ye—did I no warn ye, Sandy Muir, that I would pit my fit yet on his turf, that thought I was auld, and wished me dead, and had his covetous e’e on my siller? I’m saying did I no tell ye? And I’ll tell ye what, strange folk,” said Miss Jean, turning round with a glittering smile of malice, “I’m glad the reprobate’s dead—that am I!—for now he’ll keep nae honest body out of their ain.”

Martha started from her seat with a violent passion—mingled of burning grief and fury—in her face. Her hand clenched, her form dilated—you would have thought her about to strike down at her feet the incarnate demon, whose laugh of shrill malicious triumph rang over Harry’s grave; and, for an instant, a perfect tempest—an overwhelming storm, to whose rage everything would have been possible—possessed Martha, like another kindred demon. Then she suddenly sat down, and clasping her hands together, leaned them on her knee, drawing up her person, and stretching out her arms to their full length as if the pain were some relief to her; for years of endurance had not quenched the passionate, fiery nature out of Martha’s soul.

“He’s in the hands of God—he’s entered the life where no man makes shipwreck!” said Uncle Sandy, rising up. “Bairns, have pity upon this miserable woman, who kens not the day that her soul may be required of her. Curse her not, Martha; curse her not. And woman, I say, blessed are the dead—blessed are the young graves—blessed is the very pestilence and sword, that preserves innocent bairns from living to be evened with the like of you!”

And, with a visible tremble of indignation shaking his whole frame, the old man sat down, unwitting that the curse he had forbidden Martha to speak, was implied in his own denunciation.

“Let them laugh that win,” said Miss Jean; “and the play’s no played out yet, Sandy Muir. Where’s my guid siller?—and where’s a’ the books and papers I furnished to yon lawyer chield, to make out your prodigal’s claim? Weel, he’s dead—he has nae claim noo—and I crave to ken wha’s the heir?”

“His son,” said Martha, distinctly.

“His son!—wha’s his son? He was naething but a bit callant himsel. Ay, Sandy, my man, ye thought little of my skill in folk’s lives; ye thocht Jean Calder would have thrissels growing ower her ain head, or ever there came a grey hair in Harry Muir’s! What are ye saying till’t noo, Sandy? No uncle to a laird noo—uncle to naething, but six feet of grass and a headstane! I saw him ance wi’ his hair fleeing in the wind, and his laugh that ye could have heard it half a mile off, and me hirpling on my staff, wi’ never ane looking ower their shouther at me. I kent then in my heart, that auld as I was I would see him dead!—and it’s true this day. Lad, may I sit down? I’ve come for my siller.”

Lindsay put a chair towards her silently, and she half fell into it, half voluntarily seated herself. Poor respectable Macalister stood aghast, afraid of her wrinkled face, and the wild gleam in her frosty eyes. Martha, pressing her foot upon the ground, as if she crushed something under it, and clenching her hands together, till the pain of them mingled with the burning pain in her heart, bent down her head and kept silence; while Uncle Sandy, elevating himself with a simple indignant dignity, seemed about to speak several times, but for a sob which choked him, and which he would not have Miss Jean hear.

“I’ve come for my siller!” repeated Miss Jean, stamping her foot upon the ground, to give her words emphasis. “What do ye ca’ this woman? It’s Martha, is’t? Weel, there’s little about her for onybody to envie, if it binna her bombazine. Ye would gie a hantle for the yard o’ that now? I wonder ye had the heart—a’ off the prodigal callant’s estate, and cheating folk that he’s awn lawful siller to. And it’s no as if ye were a young lassie either, or ane to be set off wi’ the like o’ thae vanities. I wonder a woman come to your years doesna think shame!”

“Listen, Auntie Jean,” said Martha, suddenly raising herself and speaking quick, as if to keep the resolution which she had brought to this pitch: “There is nothing to be envied in me. I have neither youth, nor good looks, nor happiness—and never had! You may deal with me on equal terms: I am able to give you as much as you have hitherto got for this money of yours. I want it, and you want the income from it—give it to me if you choose: if you do not choose, withdraw it at once, without another word. This is all I have to say to you. I will be glad if you take it away and make me free of the connexion of your name; but I will change no arrangement willingly. Now, take your choice; and you, Sir, do the same. This is all I have to say.”

And Martha turning her eyes from them, looked to Uncle Sandy, who kept his fixed upon Miss Jean, and was still painfully composing himself to answer her.

“No,” said the old woman with a malignant, feeble laugh, “there’s naething to envie in you. I was a different looking woman to you in my young days, Martha Muir; but there was never a well-far’d bit about you a’ your life, and a temper like the auld enemy. I wish you nae ill. I wadna gang out of my gate to do either gude or ill to the like of you, for I dinna think ye’re worth my pains; but mony’s the bonnie lad, and mony’s the bonnie lass I’ve seen hame to the mools, that took their divert off me—and mony a ane I’ll see yet, for a’ that sneck-drawing hypocrite says.”

“Ay,” said Martha, “the comely, and the blythe, and the hopeful die away. The like of us that it would be a charity to take out of this world, live all our days, and come to grey hairs. Ay, auntie, the bairns are dying night and morning—the like of us lives on!”

“But bless the bairns, Martha—bless them whom the Master was at pains to bless,” cried Uncle Sandy, his eyes shining through tears. “I am old, too, and have seen sorrow; but God preserve and bless the gladness of the bairns!”

“Ye’re but a bairn yourself, Sandy Muir,” said Miss Jean, casting upon him a half-angry, half-imbecile glance out of her wandering eyes; “and I’ve gien Mr. Macer a missive about your twa hunder pounds. What does the like o’ you want wi’ siller? and your grand house and garden, my bonnie man, and a’ the young, light-headed gilpies ye train up to vanity? We’ll just see how muckle the wives and the weans will mind about you in Ayr, when ye’re gaun frae door to door wi’ a mealpock and a staff; but ye need never seek frae me.”

The old man rose with some dignity: “Martha, my woman, this does not become you and me,” said Uncle Sandy, “we that have grief and the hand of God upon us, are no more to suffer railing than to return it. These folk have heard what ye had to say, and you’re no a person of two minds, or many words. Let us go back to our sorrowful house, and our bereaved bairns, with neither malice nor curse in our hearts, leaving the ill-will with them that it comes from. Ye can hear their answer, Martha, from the gentleman. Ye have said what ye had to say.”

Almost mechanically Martha rose to obey him, and took the old man’s arm. But after she had left her seat and taken a few steps towards the door, whither Uncle Sandy hastened her with tremulous speed, she turned round—perhaps only to speak to Lindsay who followed them, perhaps to look again at the old miserable woman, who still was of her own blood, and had scarcely a nearer relative than herself in the whole world.

“I’ve come from Ayr on the tap o’ the coach, my lane,” said Miss Jean, suddenly relapsing, as she did sometimes, into the natural passive state of age, which forgot in an instant the emotions which had animated the poor exhausted skeleton frame. “If it hadna been a decent lad that paid the odds of the charge, and put me in the inside atween this and Falkirk, I’m sure I wad have been perished wi’ the cauld, and never ane of you offering a puir auld woman a morsel to keep her heart. I heard from Mr. Macer, in Stirling, there was to be a meeting here the day, and I thought my canniest plan was to take my fit in hand, and trust nane of thae sliddry writers. But, man, micht ye no be mending the fire the time ye’re glowering at me? the tane’s as easy as the tither, and there’s as mony coals yonder standing in the scoop as would fill my bunker, and hand me gaun half the year. Coals maun be cheap here away, and I wadna scruple to make a bleeze, if you’re sure the lum’s clean; but I aye keep a frugal fire at hame: I’m a very careful woman. Sandy, do ye ken ony place hereawa where an auld body could get a sma’ cheap meal? I’m very moderate in my eating mysel, but travel appetizes even a frail person like me; and what was yon ye was saying about the siller?”

Lindsay repeated what Martha had said in a few words. Mr. Lindsay did not by any means admire this occupation of his office. But Miss Jean’s eyes wandered to Martha, who still stood silently looking on, and holding her uncle’s arm.

“She’s no muckle to look at,” said the old woman, bending her shrivelled face forward, “but I’ve heard the voice she speaks wi’ afore, and it’s no like a fremd voice. Canna ye tell me what ye said about the siller yoursel, instead of standing there like a stane figure? and sit down and be quiet, honest man, now ye have gotten on the coals.”

This was addressed to Macalister, who very humbly, and with a look of fright at Lindsay, had replenished the fire at Miss Jean’s command. He now obeyed her again, with instant submission, feeling himself a very small person, and altogether forgetful of his imaginary grandeur.

Martha repeated her former words, where she stood, holding the arm of Uncle Sandy—and Uncle Sandy, still perceptibly trembling, averted his head with a simple pride and dignity, and held Martha’s arm closely in his own, as if with an impulse of protection.

“As lang as ye gie me fifty pounds by the year, ye can keep the siller till I hear of mair for it,” said Miss Jean, at last; “but where are favours ye, and does ye charity, ye might show a decent respect. Woman, there’s the like o’ you that never was weel-favoured nor yet young, nor had as guid a wit in your haill buik as I hae in my little finger; but ane bows to ye, and anither gies ye a haud o’ their arm, and a’ body civil, as if ye were something—when ye’re naething but a single woman, without a penny in your purse, and needing to work for your bread day by day. But never ane, if it binna whiles a stranger, like him that put me in the inside of the coach, says a guid-e’en or a guid-day to me; and when I’m useless wi’ my journey, it’s no apples and flagons to keep my heart, but fechting and contentions that I never could bide—for a’ body turns on me.”

And the poor old woman mumbled and sobbed, and put up a great dingy handkerchief to her eyes.

Uncle Sandy’s offence was gone—he could not see a semblance of distress without an effort to relieve it.

“I’ll take ye in a coach to a decent place, Miss Jean,” said Alexander Muir, “and bid them take care of ye, and see ye safe hame, and be at all the charges, if you’ll just think upon your evil ways, and take tent to your ain life, and harm the young and the heedless nae mair.”

“He thinks I’m a witch, the auld haverel,” said Miss Jean, looking up with a harsh laugh; “but never you heed, Sandy, we’ll gree; and ye can tell the folk to take me an inside place in the coach, and I’ll take care mysel to see they settle for a’ thing, and I’ll gang away the morn; so ye can gie them the siller—or I’ll take charge of it and pay them mysel—its a’ the same to me.”