CHAPTER X.
Cuthbert Charteris, much against his will, was detained a week longer in Glasgow. His uncle, a man of unbounded hospitality, an almost invariable characteristic of his class, was not without a little family pride in Cuthbert’s attainments and position—and such a succession of people had been already invited to “meet” Mr. Buchanan’s advocate nephew, that Cuthbert’s good humour, though already sufficiently taxed, would not suffer him to disappoint them.—Neither was it until the very last evening of the week, when he had made positive arrangements for going to Ayr next day, that he had leisure to call on the Muirs.
The sun was setting on the soft April evening, and the slanting level sunbeams streamed through the dusty streets, drawing out in long shadows the outline of the houses. Within these shadows the bystanders felt almost the chill of winter, while in the sunshine at the street corners, lounging groups congratulated each other that summer had come at last.
Here the light fell on a white “mutch” or two, and on the sun-burnt heads of innumerable children, of whose boisterous play the gossip mothers took no notice.—There it glimmered and sparkled in braids and curls, and plaits of beautiful hair which a coiffeur might have studied for the benefit of his art, and which you could scarcely fancy the short thick toil-hardened fingers of these laughing mill-girls able to produce. But toilsome as their factory life was, it had its edge of enjoyment, quite as bright and enlivening as the evening recreations of any other class—and with those young engineer workmen clustering around them, and the evening sunshine and the hum of continual sound—sound which expressed repose and sport, and scarcely had the least admixture of the laborious din of full day—filling the atmosphere, there were many scenes less pleasant and less graceful, than the street corner and its groups of mill-girls. And here, up the broad road, now almost free of the carts which usually crowd it, dashes at full speed a bright little equipage glowing in green and gold, which draws up with a flourish at the corner. Straightway the “closemouths,” and “common stairs” pour forth a stream of girls and women, carrying vessels of every form and size, from the small china cream-jug from some lonely lady’s tea-table, to the great pitcher under which little Mary staggers as she carries it home in her arms to supply the porridge of a dozen brothers and sisters; and you never were refreshed with richer milk under the deepest umbrage of summer trees, than that which gives forth its balmy stream from the pretty green barrels hooped with brilliant brass, which rest upon the light framework of the Port Dundas dairy cart.
Rose Muir stood at the door as Cuthbert approached—he had chosen a later hour than usual for his visit, that he might not disturb them at their simple evening meal—but as he glanced at the downcast face of Rose, over which an uneasy colour was flushing, he saw that the old anxiety, the origin of which he had guessed at before, had now again returned. The long wistful glances she cast along the street—the eager expectant look with which she turned to himself—once before the herald of poor Harry—would have almost sufficed to reveal the secret of the family to Cuthbert had he not guessed it before.
“Harry has not come home yet,” said Rose, with an unconscious apology in her tone; “they are sometimes kept very late at the office—but my sisters are up stairs, Mr. Charteris, will you come in?”
Cuthbert followed her silently. He had become so much interested in the fortunes of the family, that he felt his own heart sink, as he remembered that “the office” had been closed a full hour ago.
Agnes was alone when they entered the parlour, and Cuthbert, roused to observation, saw her sudden start as they opened the door, and the pallor and sickness of disappointment which came over her pretty youthful face, when her eye fell upon himself. The work she had been busy with, fell from the fingers which seemed for the moment too nervous to hold it. The little wife had been so confident—so sure of Harry’s reformation,—and her heart was throbbing now with a positive agony of mingled fear and hope.
Cuthbert seated himself on the sofa, and began to talk of the baby—it was almost the only subject which could soothe the young mother—but even while he spoke, he could see how nervously awake they both were to every sound; how Rose suspended her work and held her breath at every footstep in the street below which seemed to approach the door—and how the needle stumbled in the small fingers of Agnes, and the unusual colour flickered on her cheek.
“You are very late, Harry,” said Martha, entering from the inner room—Cuthbert’s back was towards her—she thought it was her brother.
“It is Mr. Charteris, Martha,” said Rose.
There was a fiery fight in Martha’s eyes—an impatience almost fierce in the evident pang, and short suppressed exclamation with which she discovered her mistake. She too had been strong in her renewed hope—had began to rest with a kind of confidence in the changed mind of Harry.
But now the former chafing had commenced again, and the bitter hopelessness which once before overpowered her, returned upon her heart—Cuthbert thought of the old grand picture of the bound Prometheus—of the lurid background, and the cold tints of the captive figure, rigid in his manacled strength, with the vulture at his heart. Bitterest of dooms, to be bound to this misery, without one free hand to struggle against it.
But Martha took her seat in silence, and a conversation was very languidly carried on. Insensibly Cuthbert felt the same anxiety steal over himself—he felt that he ought to go away, but yet he remained. By degrees the conversation dwindled into broken remarks from himself, and faltering responses from Rose and Agnes; sometimes indeed Martha spoke, but her words were harsh and bitter, or else full of a conscious mockery of lightheartedness, which was more painful still.
The tea-tray with its homely accompaniments stood on the table—the little kettle sang by the side of the old-fashioned grate,—but the night was now far advanced, and reluctant to shut out the lingering remains of daylight, the sisters had laid aside their work; it was almost dark, and still Harry had not come.
“Where is Violet, Agnes,” said Martha, after a long silence.
“She went out to play,” said the little wife. “Some of her friends were down here, and they wanted her. I could not keep Lettie in, Martha, on so fine a night.”
“I was angry at the poor bairn,” said Martha, with a singular humility, “I did wrong. I will go myself and look for her—our troubles are not so few that we should make additions to them of our own will.”
There was a strange pathos in the low tone in which Martha spoke, and in the sudden melting of the strained vehement heart. Cuthbert saw the trembling hand of Agnes steal up to her eyes, and heard the appealing deprecatory whisper of Rose, “Oh Martha!” He could see its meaning—he could hear in it an echo of that other exclamation—poor Harry! so common in this house.
Little Violet had been at play in the street below, carrying the vague blank grief of childhood into her very sport. As Martha rose, the little girl suddenly burst into the room. “Agnes, Harry’s coming.”
They were all very quiet—a sort of hush of deep apprehension came upon the sisters, and Rose went out hastily to the door.
In another moment, Harry had entered the room—looking very pale, and with an unmeaning smile upon his face. He came forward with great demonstration to greet Charteris, and hurried over an elaborate account of things which had detained him—the strangest complication of causes, such as came in no one’s way but his.
“Why don’t you light the candles?” said poor Harry, with an ostentatious endeavour at high spirits. “Have you been sitting in the dark like so many crows? Rosie, quick, light this, and get another candle. You don’t think we can see with one, and Mr. Charteris here. Have you not got tea yet, Agnes? Nonsense, what made you wait for me? I can’t always be home at your hours, you know—when a man hasn’t his time at his own disposal, you know, Mr. Charteris—what is it now?—what do you want, Lettie?”
The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the table. It threw a painful illumination upon Harry’s perfectly colourless face, as he stood in the middle of the room, with an unsteady swing in his movements. Agnes had left the arm-chair to him, but still he stood by the table—while Rose, with a paleness almost as great as his upon her face, went about painfully arranging things that needed no arrangement, and Martha sat rigid in her chair.
“I say, what is it, Lettie?” repeated Harry.
“Nothing, Harry—only you’ve torn your coat,” said Violet.
She showed it to him—some one had seized his skirt apparently, to detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought a sudden flush to the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush was of defiance and anger. He struck Violet with his open hand, and exclaimed impatiently, “Get away, what business have you with that?”
It was a very slight blow—and Violet shrank away in silence out of the room; but a deep red burning colour flushed over Martha’s faded face, and with a quick impulsive start, she rose from her chair.
“Harry!” Her harsh hoarse voice seemed to sober the unhappy lad. He looked round him for a moment on those other pale faces, and on the grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with the defiant stare which he had tried to maintain before; but as his eyes turned to Martha, and to the deep and painful colour of shame and anguish on her face, poor Harry’s courage fell. He did not speak—he glided into the vacant chair, and suddenly abandoning his poor design of concealment covered his face with his hands.
“Harry is not well—he is not strong poor fellow,” said Agnes almost sobbing, “get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit down.”
Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face of poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her anger seemed melting away—melting into that utter despondency and hopelessness—that deep humiliation, which with the second sight that sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope was useless, and yet in the depths did only cling the closer to this impossible hope. Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, but then she could have wept—such desperate burning tears, as only come out of the depths.
Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain by being a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening immediately away.
“I shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, “and I think I must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. What am I to say to your uncle?”
“That you left us—Nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with a great effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning look of grief, “say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows how he would wish us to be in his own gentle heart—and it is best to leave it so; say we were well—and now we must not detain you. Harry, have you anything to say to my uncle?”
Poor Harry uncovered his white unhappy face. “I?—nothing—nothing—you know I have nothing to say—good bye, Mr. Charteris.”
“It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, offering Cuthbert her trembling hand.
And then he left the room.
The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound like a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the parlour door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the ground, with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha had been displeased at her. Harry had struck her—and fearful dreams of being utterly alone, and having no one in the world to care for her, were passing drearily through Violet’s mind. That sad dumb anguish of the child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we have children to deal with, weighed down the young spirit to the very dust. She thought, poor solitary girl, miserable proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them to grieve for her when she was dead, who would not care for her enough when she was living—and she thought, too, of toiling on alone to the vague greatness which children dream of, and shutting up her heart in her solitary course, from those who had chilled and rejected it so early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent poetic child, who in an hour could be bright as the sunshine again—but while it lasted there were few things in elder life so bitter as that childish pain.
Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. “Mr. Charteris,” said Rose, eagerly, “do not say anything to my uncle about——. I mean, will you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything ails Harry? Will you, Mr. Charteris?”
Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose; but whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away, the youthful woman lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child. Rose had reached a further stage than Violet in this grave journey of life; and if she knew more fully the absolute causes of the family affliction, she had outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other thoughts, too, came in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of her own heart, as she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harry hitherto had been constantly the central object in her mind—the dearest always, and in his brightest times the best—perhaps only the more endeared for all his weakness; but now there began to dawn upon Rose a stronger, purer, higher ideal. Stealthy and tremulous the thought glided into her mind; a higher excellence than poor Harry’s—a fairer fate than that of Harry’s sister. She put it away as if it had been guilt; but still it had looked in upon her, and left a trace of secret sunshine behind.
Thus they were, the child and the girl—Violet already cheered by the gentle voice of Rose, and Rose lightened with the fair fantastic light of her own thick-coming fancies. Neither forgot the sorrow which was parted from them only by these slight walls—neither yet could stay their involuntary tears—and the elder heart overflowed with pity and tenderness for poor Harry; but yet there were others than Harry in the world for both.
Within that little room it was far otherwise. He was sitting there still, his clasped hands covering his face, and the cup of tea, which Agnes had poured out for him, standing untasted on the table. No one else had thought of beginning to this joyless meal. Agnes sat near him, leaning her arm upon his chair, touching his shoulder sometimes, and murmuring “Harry;” but he had not lifted his head. Opposite him, Martha sat very still, her eyes wandering about, her fingers convulsively clasped, her features moving. Sometimes she started suddenly, as if she could have dashed that aching brow of hers against the wall; sometimes a low unconscious moan escaped from her lips; and when, after wandering round the room, noting the little well-known peculiarities of its furniture, as people only do in their bitterest moments, her eyes turned to Harry lying motionless in his chair, with the damp hair clustering upon his brow, and his hands hiding his face, the anger and passion fled away from her brow like shadows. Poor Harry! in his weakness, in his sin—only so much the more her own—not the strong man now, for whom she had woven dreams of fond and proud ambition—but ever and always the dependent boy, the child she tended long ago—the unhappy lad over whom her heart yearned now as a mother. Martha rose—the tears came out from under her dry eyelids—a sad smile dawned upon the stern harsh features of her face. She laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Harry, Harry, is it worth all this misery? We have nothing but you—no hope in this world but you. Will you take it from us, Harry? Will you make us desolate?”
The little wife looked up through her tears, begging forbearance. Poor Harry himself lifted his head, and grasped the hands she held out to him. “Never again—never again.”
Her tears fell upon the clasped hands, and so did his. “Never again.” Violet crept to his side, and softly laid her little hand upon his arm. Agnes, weeping quietly, rested her head upon his shoulder, almost happy again in the reconciliation; and Rose stood behind his chair.
Poor Harry! They all heard his vow; they all tried to take up their hope, and once more look fearlessly on the future. No one believed more devoutly than he did himself that now he could not fall again. No one was so confident as he that this sin was his last: “Never again.” Heavy, unseen tears flowed from under Martha’s closed eyelids that night, when all the rest were peacefully asleep—poor Harry first of all. Never again! The words moved her to anything but hope. Poor Harry!