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