Harry Muir

On the eve of the important party, Cuthbert Charteris arrived at Allenders.

Half-frozen with his journey, and shaking from his coat large flakes of the snow, which trembled in the air, they took him into the dining-room, where a blazing fire, a late dinner, and the warm and smiling welcome of Agnes greatly solaced the wayfarer. Harry had met him in Stirling, and driven him out; but Harry’s carriage, though it could be closed, was not so comfortable on a December night as in the bright sunshine of a July day. Cuthbert made hurried inquiries after Martha and Rose, in answer to which Agnes began a most animated account of an unexpected call from “young Mr. Dunlop” to say that his sister would be very happy to come with him to Agnes’s party. Little Mrs. Muir Allenders, had only ventured at the last moment to invite the baronet’s daughter; and then with but the faintest expectation that Miss Dunlop would come. Agnes was greatly elated; and Rose and Martha were with Mr. Dunlop in the drawing-room.

But on the peaceful countenance of Cuthbert Charteris there passed a momentary savageness. At this moment it seemed to him, in unconscious self-estimation, that he, as the newly-arrived guest and tried friend, should be the principal person at Allenders—whereas this young Mr. Dunlop, most probably a nobody, as Cuthbert concluded with amiable liberality, defrauded him of his welcome from the sisters, and drew away Harry from his side. It was true that Harry returned in ten minutes, and that Martha and Agnes changed places; but still Cuthbert involuntarily frowned. Might not Rose, in common courtesy, have come to greet him? Alas, poor Rose! for Cuthbert could not tell how she trembled at the bright fireside of the drawing-room, nor how the astonished Agnes threw shawls round her shoulders, and wondered what could make her so cold.

Mr. Charteris lingered long over his dinner. Cuthbert, to tell the truth, was rather sullen, and made by no means a brilliant appearance to Martha and Harry, who sat with him while he refreshed himself. He had a great inclination, indeed, to wrap himself up again in his travelling dress, say a surly good-bye at the drawing-room door, and betake himself home without delay; but Cuthbert disconsolately comforted himself, that it was only for one day, and sat with all his attention concentrated on the sounds from the staircase, doggedly assuring himself that no one would come. And no one did come; and Cuthbert was enraged at the fulfilment of his own prophecy.

By and bye, he went up-stairs, attended by Harry, who did not quite comprehend this singular mood, to his own room; and Rose heard his voice on the stair, and trembled still more and more, though young Mr. Dunlop sat by, and did all that in him lay to engage her attention. But poor Rose felt a great inclination to steal away to her own room and cry; for she in her turn, thought it strange, very strange, that Cuthbert should linger so long, and show so little wish to see her.

And when Cuthbert, his face still tingling from the cold blast without, entered the warm and cheerful drawing-room, and saw young Mr. Dunlop sitting beside the silent Rose, describing to her with animation some storied continental towns from which he had lately returned, the grave advocate felt himself yield to boyish pique and jealous resentment—“Civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion,” the tone of his constrained greeting dismayed Rose, and when he had taken her hand in his own somewhat chill one, and let it fall again with scarcely a pressure, he withdrew to the other side of the room, and began to talk to Martha. Rose, who had not been a very good listener before, became worse than ever now—but Mr. Charteris, trying to look very indifferent, occupied himself almost ostentatiously with Martha, and laughed at his own jokes, and became quite exuberant and demonstrative, though he never spoke to Rose.

But Rose would not tell her sister, when she unexpectedly brought a light to their dark room that night, why she was crying; it was for nothing at all, Rose protested—indeed nothing at all—but faster and faster the tears ran down her cheek, and she had much to do to keep back a rising sob. Martha put her hand over the wet eyes tenderly, and did not ask again—for she could guess without explanation, the cause of Rose’s tears.

Next day Mr. Charteris rode out with Harry to see the improvements. He was much interested in them, he said, and so he was—far more interested than he felt yesterday when he came.

Cuthbert had been having a consultation with himself during the night—a consultation in which he looked at various circumstances from a point of view exactly opposite to that of Rose. He saw “young Mr. Dunlop,” son of the rich Sir John, a wealthier man than he could ever be, devoting himself to her unequivocally, as Cuthbert thought—and Cuthbert in his heart devoutly believed that Rose’s gentle excellence needed only to be seen to win all love and honour. So he gravely asked himself whether it would be right for him, even if it were in his power, to stand in the way, and endeavour to secure for himself, who must struggle for years in the uphill road to success, one who would do honour to this higher rank which seemed about to be laid at her feet. And Cuthbert, with the self-denial of a man who magnanimously gives up, what he sees no hope of ever attaining, said to himself: No—no—His affection, strong and powerful as it was, should never stand in Rose’s way.

And this was no small trial to Cuthbert. He had come here prepared to say certain things which would have made one heart in Allenders leap. He had even gone so far as to confide his intention to his mother, and it was somewhat hard now to give it up, and go steadily back to his books and his struggles, relinquishing for ever the fairy solace of these disappointed hopes. It was hard—was it right? Cuthbert persuaded himself so, as he rode silently along those wintry lanes, where the snow lay thick under the hedges, and whitened every spray; but Cuthbert did not know how great a share in it belonged to the pride which lay at the bottom of his heart.

When he returned to Allenders, Rose was busy with Agnes in preparation for the party. He did not see her, and this brought confirmation to his previous thoughts. Then came the party itself, an ordinary collection of well-looking, well-dressed people, among whom Cuthbert, with his pre-occupied thoughts, found very little to interest him. Miss Dunlop, it is true, a well-bred, trained, mature young lady, acquainted with the world, made herself very polite and agreeable, and evidently regarded Cuthbert as one of the most tolerable persons present; but then Mr. Dunlop was at Rose’s side again, and Rose looked shy and pale, and embarrassed, shrinking from the glance and touch of her new attendant as an indifferent person never could do. Cuthbert turned away with a great sigh when he perceived her face flush and grow pale, her hand tremble, her eyes cast down. He thought it was the stranger beside her, whose presence called forth these unwilling evidences of maidenly tremor and confusion; and he turned away, feeling as if some burning hand had clutched at his heart.

But Cuthbert could not see the wistful glances, which, when he painfully averted his eyes, dwelt upon him with inquiring sadness; and when he looked again, Rose was sitting, silent as before, with sudden flushes on her face, and sudden tremors in her frame, answering, it is true, with few words and a little melancholy smile, when any one addressed her, but entirely failing to make the impression which Harry had predicted for her pink silk gown. And there was Mr. Dunlop paying his devoirs gallantly; those easy assiduities of word and manner!—Cuthbert felt the strong love sicken his own heart, as he said to himself that these had charmed the trustful spirit of his Lady Rose.

And Mr. Dunlop, observing the changes of her face, at first with a little amusement, very soon came to the same conclusion too, and was embarrassed and annoyed, gratified and proud. For nothing was further from the thoughts of the baronet’s son, for whom the magnanimous Cuthbert was willing to sacrifice himself, than any particular admiration of Rose, or the faintest intention of offering himself to the sister of Harry Muir. But the young man was human, and not insensible to ladies’ love. He thought, like Cuthbert, that his attractions had overpowered Rose, and his tone insensibly grew tender, and his attentions marked, till Rose, able to bear it no longer, stole away.

“Poor Rose Allenders,” said Miss Dunlop to Cuthbert, as Rose left the room. “She seems to think John is in love with her; she is a very nice little girl, I think, but some young ladies are so ridiculous, taking every little attention so seriously, and I really must speak to John.”

But Cuthbert, if she knew it, could have thrown John out of the window with far greater pleasure than he handed John’s sister to the new piano; and immediately after he sat down for a full hour to watch the door, with so much tenderness and solicitude in his face, that Rose, when she stole in again, brightened as with a sudden sunshine. And Cuthbert’s heart lightened a little too; but still it was full of distrust and doubt, and he never drew near her to speak the words, or hear the response, which might have set this doubt at rest.

The night was over, and nothing but the most ordinary civilities had passed between them; next morning he was to go away. He stood on the threshold in his rough travelling coat and plaid, saying “Good bye,” with a voice which slightly faltered. He had shaken hands with Rose in the dining-room, where they breakfasted, and now he thought he was taking farewell of Allenders. But as he looked back between Martha and Agnes who had come with him to the door, Cuthbert saw a shy lingering figure in the doorway of the room he had left. His heart warmed; he stepped back to take Rose’s hand again, and press it kindly in another farewell. They said nothing except “Good bye;” but Cuthbert caught one timid upward glance, and Rose saw the full steady look which conveyed to her so much of what the heart meant to say. The cloud rose from her heart and floated away; in another moment Cuthbert was gone, and she sat down to her work in intense silence, eager to resume her dreams; but Cuthbert rolled away on the frosty road, and looked back on Allenders, with a sadness at his heart.

He had hitherto unconsciously assumed to himself the right of assistance and succour if any emergency should come. Now he felt this gliding away from him—now he could no longer dream of carrying this Rose in his arms to the safe place where rains of adversity might beat upon its gentle heart no more. The future, of which he had speculated so much, grew misty and uncertain to Cuthbert. The little cloud of breath before him, hovering in the frosty air, rose up like a white mist upon distant Benledi, and obscured him, though he looked out from among the clouds; and so, over many a great event and many a weighty hour, this little present mist rose dim and disheartening, and Cuthbert could not look beyond it—could not in his blended pride, and eagerness, and anxiety, distinguish the simple truth under this momentary veil.

But Harry, by his side, spoke of his projects, and Cuthbert seemed to listen, and gave answers not so far astray, though Cuthbert’s thoughts were little employed about Harry’s improvements, and it cost him an effort to keep up his attention. They parted very cordially, however, and Harry urged upon his friend repeated invitations to return, which Cuthbert was fain to evade. He remembered Rose’s parting glance, and could not prevail upon himself to resign the chance of going back; but again he thought of the previous day, the previous night, and sighed to himself heavily as he turned his face towards home. He thought he had looked his last upon Rose.

When Harry left Cuthbert, he went to his bankers and drew a very considerable sum from his “capital;” but Harry felt he had been very economical lately, and could afford a little indulgence now; so he ordered some pretty bits of jewellery which he had fancied Agnes wanted last night, and called on Gilbert Allenders and some other choice spirits, and dined with them at the principal inn, and spent the evening merrily; nor was it until John had made repeated representations of the darkness of the night, and the necessity for getting home, that Harry suffered himself to be persuaded, and bade a reluctant good-night to his friends.

Charteris was bending over a mass of papers, schooling the heart which still throbbed so loudly, and wearying himself out with indifferent business, that his disappointment might not sit too near the source of his strength, when Harry, wearied by quite a different process, drove past the dark and silent houses at Maidlin Cross. The labourers there were lying down to the untroubled slumber purchased by a toilsome day; and the children were asleep in Allenders, and Martha was standing by the window of her own room, looking out into a darkness so profound, that it made her blind, and feeling a darkness profounder still within the heart, which she coerced into absolute silence; when, drowsy and wearied out, dazzled with the lights, and annoyed by the quietness, Harry came home.