CHAPTER V.
“How’s the farm getting on, Harry? Armstrong doesn’t seem very jubilant about it. What’s to become of the land?” said Gilbert Allenders.
They were sitting in the little round turret-room, looking out from the open door upon the lands of Allenders, and many a fair acre besides. A dewy May evening was shedding sweetness and peace over it all, and through the whole wide country before them the setting sun found out, here and there, a running water, and made all the hills aware of it with a triumphant gleam. Green corn rustling in the breeze, and gardens gay with blossoms, with here and there a red field of new ploughed earth, or a rich luxuriant strip of meadow to diversify them, spread round on every side; and the hum of animate life, the indistinct farmyard voice, the din of playing children, came to them dreamily, upon air which told you in loving whispers, of the hawthorn trees in those deep lanes below.
In Harry’s eye shines an unusual gaiety; and the confidence which sometimes deserts him, leaving him in such morose and sullen melancholy, has returned to-day. Not all natural is this renewal; for excitement, which makes Martha crush her hands together, and sends Agnes away secretly to weep, animates him with its passing gleam; but still he has command of himself, and is above Gilbert’s sneers.
“What’s to become of the land? It will do famously, of course!” said Harry; “and it’s only Armstrong’s caution that makes him quiet about it. If Fairly remains in the market for a year or two, I think I will buy it, Gilbert. They say it once belonged to the estate of Allenders, and Hoolie too, which is now Sir John’s. I should like to bring the land up to what it was in the old times; and I say, Gibbie, man, you shall have a house, a regular red pill-box, with just such a surgery as will suit you; and settle down, and have an appointment at once, to doctor all my tenants. I should have quite a band of retainers if Fairly were added to Allenders.”
“It’s very well you got the estate, Harry,” said Gilbert, with a sneer, which poor Harry could not see. “If it had fallen into our hands, it might have remained as it was, till the end of time, and neither been improved nor increased. Thank you for the pill-box, Harry; I always knew you were a warm friend. I’ll depend on getting it, I promise you.”
“And so you shall, Gilbert,” said Harry; “but I’m not quite prepared to buy Fairly now. I’ve ordered home a great stock of fine cattle. I don’t know if we’ll have room for them all; plough horses—magnificent fellows!—and the finest cows that ever were seen in the respectable Carse of Stirling; but they take a lot of money, all these things; and I should be very glad to have the harvest over.”
“The harvest? But this first year, I suppose, you don’t expect very much from it?” said Gilbert.
“Don’t I? Well, we’ll see,” said Harry, laughing; “but I must be economical this year, Gilbert—going on at this rate won’t do. I’ve spent a small fortune this year; to be sure, it was on the land,” said Harry, musing; “cattle, stables, byres, Armstrong and all his labourers, not to speak of the plough graith, and the harrows, and the thrashing-machine, and all the things they have bothered me about; but we must be thrifty this year.”
“I believe you’ve no memorandum of the money you lent me. I must make out one for you to-night, Harry,” said Gilbert, carelessly. “Do you know how much it is?”
“Not I,” said the lofty Harry; “nor do I care to know. Never mind memorandums—we know each other too well for that.”
And Harry, whose capital had shrunk to the final thousand, and whose last expensive purchase remained to be paid for, led the way down stairs in high glee, feeling himself already the second founder of the family, and rich in patriarchal wealth. At the gate, Agnes and Rose were looking out eagerly along the road, from which a tramp of hoofs penetrated into the very drawing-room of Allenders. Little Katie Calder stood upon the summit of the low wall, with one foot on a tree, and Martha a little behind them, looked out with much gravity and concern.
Great work-horses, with ribbons at their ears, and elaborate decorated tails, were marching with heavy hoofs into Harry’s stables; and the lowing of Harry’s kine from the fields summoned the new milkmaids to lead them home. You would have thought it the most prosperous of homesteads, with its grey, thin house, and abrupt turret, telling of long descent and elder times; its superannuated Dragon witnessing to the family kindliness which would not abandon an ancient servant; its great farm ranges, new and shining, which testified, or seemed to testify, to present energy and wealth; and its youthful family crowded about the gate, from pretty little matron Agnes to the meditative Lettie, standing by Dragon’s side in the road without. Prosperous, peaceful, full of natural joys and pleasant progress; but Harry’s flushed, excited face, and the coarse pretension of Gilbert Allenders came in strangely to break the charm.
“Come along, Agnes, and see them,” said Harry, loudly. “I told you they were splendid fellows, Gilbert. Come, never mind your bonnet; and Gilbert will give you his arm, Rosie—come along.”
“Wait till I get a shawl on—for the servants, Harry,” said Agnes, freeing herself from his grasp.
“What about the servants? it’s only at your own door,” said Harry, securing her arm in his own; “and the light shines in your hair, Agnes, very prettily. Come away, little wife.”
And Harry went on singing—
to the secret misery of Lettie, who thought he was humiliating himself, and to the great wonder and astonishment of Katie Calder.
But Rose drew firmly back, and would not go. Rose was very near hating Gilbert Allenders; so he went to the other side of Agnes, and they walked to the stables together—poor little Agnes, nearly choking all the way with wounded pride, and shame, and fear, lest Harry might be offended in spite of her compliance.
“Why has Lady Dunlop never called on you again? and what has become of that pedantic son of hers?” said Harry, when they had returned, and were taking the tea which Agnes hoped would subdue him. “It’s three or four months now since you called on them, Agnes—why does not her ladyship return your visit? and I should just like to know what’s become of young Dunlop.”
“Hush, Harry!—I don’t know—I can’t tell,” said Agnes, very humbly. “Young Mr. Dunlop has never been here since that time—you mind, Martha—after Harry came back from London.”
“And why doesn’t the fellow come again?” said Harry. “A pretty man he is, to think we’re to keep on good terms with him, when he never does anything to keep it up himself. And what’s become of these Nettlehaugh people, and Haigh of Foggo Barns? I suppose it’s your fault, Agnes; you’ve been neglecting the proper forms—you’ve never called on them, I suppose?”
“Yes, Harry,” said again the very low, timid voice of Agnes, “you have forgotten—you went with me once to both Foggo and Nettlehaugh, and Martha and I went another time, and they have never called since.”
“I should like to know what they mean,” said Harry loudly, his face flushing to a deep crimson. “I suppose they think we’re not so good as them. Never mind, Agnes; never mind, my little wife—you’ll be a richer woman yet, and see your son a greater man than any half-dozen of these little lairdies. I’ll have all the work, you know, and I’ll take it gladly; but little Harry shall be heir to better land than young Dunlop will ever see. A set of nobodies setting up for something! I should like to know what they mean.”
“They were very kind at first,” murmured Agnes, scarcely able to restrain the tears with which her eyes were weighed down.
“They were very kind at first,” repeated Martha distinctly, as she rose to leave the room; “and to-morrow, when you are alone, Harry, I will tell you what they mean.”
Never since she entered Allenders had Martha’s voice had this tone before. Her brother started and turned to look after her, with something of the mingled look—defiance, reverence, respect and pain—which they all knew on his face long ago; but Martha was gone without another word. It had a singular effect on Harry. He sat down at the table, leaned his head upon his hand, and gazed with fixed eyes on the vacant space before him; but he scarcely spoke again that night.