CHAPTER XXI.
KING LEAR.
“I was born this day fourscore and five years ago,” said Dragon. “It’s a great age, bairns, and what few folk live to see; and for every appearance that’s visible to me, I may live ither ten, Missie, and never ane be a prin the waur. I would like grand mysel to make out the hunder years, and it would be a credit to the place, and to a’ belonging till’t; and naebody wishes ill to me nor envies me for my lang life. Just you look at that arm, Missie; it’s a strong arm for a man o’ eighty-five.”
And Dragon stretched out his long thin arm, and snapt the curved brown fingers—poor old Dragon! Not a child in Maidlin Cross but could have overcome the decayed power which once had knit those loose joints, and made them a strong man’s arm; but Dragon waved it in the air exultingly, and was proud of his age and strength, and repeated again with earnestness: “But I would like grand to make out the hunder year.”
Lettie, now a tall girl of fifteen, stood by Dragon’s stair, arranging flowers, a great number of which lay before her on one of the steps. They were all wild flowers, of faint soft colour and sweet odours, and Lettie was blending hawthorn and primroses, violets and cowslips, with green sprigs of the sweetbriar, and here and there an early half-opened wild rose—blending them with the greatest care and devotion; while Katie Calder, developed into a stout little comely woman-like figure, stood by, looking on with half contempt; for Katie already had made a superb bouquet of garden flowers, and was carrying it reverentially in her apron.
“It’s five years this day since Mr. Hairy came first to Allenders”, continued the old man, “and it’s mair than three since they laid him in his grave. The like o’ him—a young lad! and just to look at the like o’ me!”
“But it was God’s pleasure, Dragon,” said Lettie, pausing in her occupation, while the shadow which stole over her face bore witness that Harry’s memory had not passed away even from her girl’s heart.
“Ay, Missie,” said the old man vacantly; “do ye think the spirit gaed willingly away? I’ve thought upon that mony a time when I was able to daunder up bye to the road, and see the farm; and it’s my belief that Mr. Hairy will never get right rest till a’s done of the guid he wanted to do, and a’s undone o’ the ill he did—that’s my belief. I think myself he canna get lying quiet in his grave for minding of the work he left to do; and if there was ane here skilled to discern spirits, he might be kent in the fields. What makes the lady sae constant at it, think ye, night and morning, putting to her ain hand to make the issue speedier, if it’s no that she kens about him that’s aye waiting, waiting, and never can enter into his rest.”
Lettie let her flowers fall, and looked away with a mysterious glance into the dark shade of the trees; for the vague awe of poetic superstition was strong upon Lettie still.
“Dragon,” she said in a very low voice, “I used to think I heard Harry speak, crying on me, and his footstep in his own room, and on the stair; and all the rest thought that too, for I have seen them start and listen many a time, thinking it was Harry. Do ye think it could be true? Do ye think, Dragon, it could be Harry? for I came to think it was just because he was aye in our mind that we fancied every sound was him.”
“Ane can never answer for the dead,” said the poor old Dragon. “Ane kens when a living person speaks, for ye can aye pit out your hand and touch them, and see that they’re by your side; but I pit out my hand here, Missie—it’s a’ clear air to me—but for aught I ken, an angel in white raiment may be standing on my stair-head, and anither within my door, laying a mark in the Book yonder that I may open it the night at ae special verse, and read that and nae ither. How is the like o’ me to ken? And you’ll no tell me that Mr. Hairy winna stand by the bride the morn, and be the first voice to wish her joy, though we may ne’er hear what he says.”
With a slight tremble, Violet, putting away her flowers, leaned upon the step, and looked again into the darkening shadow of the trees; and Lettie tried to think, and to pray in her simplicity that her eyes might be opened to discern the spirits, and that she might see Harry, if he were here. But again the mortal shrank from the visible immortality, and Lettie covered her eyes with a thrill of visionary fear.
“Dragon, look at Lettie’s flowers,” said Katie Calder; “she wants to put them on the table, where the minister’s to stand, instead of all the grand ones out of Lady Dunlop’s; and I never saw such grand flowers as Lady Dunlop’s, Dragon.”
“The dew never falls on them,” said Lettie, starting to return to her occupation; “and if you were in the room in the dark, you would never know they were there; but I gathered this by the Lady’s Well, and this was growing at the foot of the stone where Lady Violet sat, and the brier and the hawthorn out of that grand hedge, Dragon, where a’ the flowers are; and if I put them on the table in the dark, the wee fairy that Dragon kens, will tell the whole house they’re there; but Lady Dunlop’s have no breath—and mine are far liker Rose.”
As Lettie speaks, some one puts a hand over her shoulder, and lifting her flowers, raises them up very close to a glowing radiant face; and Dragon, hastily getting up from the easy-chair on his stair-head, jerks his dangling right arm upward towards the brim of the low rusty old hat, which he wears always. It is only persons of great distinction whom Dragon so far honours, and Dragon has forgotten “yon birkie,” in his excited glee about the approaching wedding, and his respect for the “groom.”
“Very right, Lettie,” said the bridegroom, with a little laugh which has a tremble in it; “they are far liker Rose. And will you be able to come to the gate to-morrow, Dragon, and see me carry the flower of Allenders away?”
“But ye see, my man,” said Dragon, eagerly, shuffling about his little platform, as he looked down on Cuthbert, “I never had her about me or among my hands, when she was a little bairn; and if it was either Missie there, or the ither ane, I would have a greater miss; for I’ve gotten into a way o’ telling them stories, and gieing a word of advice to the bit things, and training them the way they should go; so they’re turned just like bairns o’ my ain. But I wish Miss Rose and you muckle joy, and increase and prosperity, and that ye may learn godly behaviour, and be douce heads of a family; and that’s the warst wish that’s in my head, though you are taking ane of the family away, and I never was married mysel.”
And Cuthbert, responding with another joyous laugh, shook hands with Dragon, after a manner somewhat exhausting to the loose arm, of whose strength the old man had boasted, and immediately went away to the waterside, to take a meditative walk along its banks, and smile at himself for his own exuberant boyish joy. Serious and solemn had been many of the past occasions on which he had visited Allenders; and now, as the fulfilment of all his old anticipations approached so certainly, so close at hand, Cuthbert’s moved heart turned to Harry—poor Harry! whose very name had a charm in it of mournful devotion and love!
The sun shone in next morning gaily to the rooms of Allenders, now suddenly awakened as out of a three years’ sleep; and Agnes curls her bright hair, and lets the sunshine glow upon it as she winds it round her fingers, and with a sigh, lays away the widow’s cap, which would not be suitable, she thinks, on Rose’s wedding-day; but the sigh is a long-drawn breath of relief—and with an innocent satisfaction, Agnes, blooming and youthful still, sees her pretty curls fall again upon her cheek, and puts on her new white gown. It is a pleasant sensation, and her heart rises unawares, though this other sigh parts her lips. Poor Harry! his little wife will think of him to-day!
Think and weep, but only with a serene and gentle melancholy; for the young joyous nature has long been rising; and Agnes, though she never can forget, laments no longer with the reality of present grief. It is no longer present—it is past, and only exists in remembrance; and Agnes is involuntarily glad, and will wear her widow’s cap no more.
And Martha is dressing little Harry, who will not be quiet in her hands for two minutes at a time, but dances about with a perpetual elasticity, which much retards his toilet. There are smiles on Martha’s face—grave, quiet smiles—for she too has been thinking, with a few tears this morning, that Harry will be at the bride’s side, to join in the blessing with which she sends her other child away.
And Rose, in her own chamber, in a misty and bewildered confusion, seeing nothing distinctly either before or behind her, turns back at last to that one solemn fact, which never changes, and remembers Harry—remembers Harry, and weeps, out of a free heart which carries no burden into the unknown future, some sweet pensive tears for him and for the home she is to leave to-day; and so sits down in her bewilderment to wait for Martha’s summons, calling her to meet the great hour whose shadow lies between her and the skies.
And Lettie’s flowers are on the table, breathing sweet, hopeful odours over the bridegroom and the bride. And Lettie, absorbed and silent, listens with a beating heart for some sign that Harry is here, and starts with a thrill of recognition when her heart imagines a passing sigh. Poor Harry! if he is not permitted to stand unseen among them, and witness this solemnity, he is present in their hearts.