CHAPTER VII.
OLD PLAY.
It was not without a little embarrassment that Cuthbert presented himself next day at the office of his uncle. It was the day before the despatch of one of the mails, and everybody in the office was very busy. Round the desk of Mr. Gilchrist, the cashier, who had the capital business head, and the two hundred yearly pounds, the snuff lay in little heaps, and all the clerks of meaner degree were working furiously, with scarcely time to interchange now and then, the usual badinage of the counting-house; while, in Mr. Buchanan’s room, Richard sat writing letters beside his father.
“Better get away out of town, Cuthbert,” said the merchant, “we shall be late to-night; but your aunt and Clemie are at home, and are always glad to see you, you know, whereas we shall only bore you, if you wait for us. I think you had better go down to Greenbank at once.”
“Very well, uncle,” said Cuthbert. He was quite resigned to postpone his enjoyment of their company for a few hours. “I have some business to do, but I shall get home before you, I think.”
“I say, Cuthbert,” said Richard in an aside, “why don’t you ask for Harry Muir? I believe you’ve been there already.”
“Then you believe nonsense, Dick,” said Cuthbert, with a little heat. “How is he, poor fellow?”
“He’s gone down to Ayr. Oh, he’s recovering fast,” said Richard. “These women made it worse than it was, you know, with their lamentations. I suppose you’re going to call, Cuthbert?”
“I am going to look after a case which my friend Lindsay is engaged in,” said Cuthbert, with some dignity. “I must do that before I make any calls. There now, that will do—you are sure to be late with your letters, Dick.”
“I should not wonder,” mused Dick Buchanan, as Cuthbert made his escape, “if his business was in Port Dundas after all.” And the curious young merchant endeavoured to discover, through the opaque window, which course his cousin took; but the endeavour was quite unsuccessful. The dim yellow pane preserved Cuthbert’s secret.
It was past mid-day when Cuthbert reached the busy road to Port Dundas. It was, as usual, noisy and loud, and crowded, with echoing carts on its causeway, and streams of mill-girls pouring along its pavement, returning to the factories after dinner. Little stout round forms—faces sometimes sallow, but by no means unhealthy—hair dressed with extreme regard to the fashion, and always excellently brushed, and in the finest order—made these passengers, in their coloured woollen petticoats and bright short gowns, a very comely part of the street population. Very true most of them planted broad, sturdy, bare feet upon the dusty pavement; but the free loud mirth, no less than the comfortable habiliments, showed them quite removed from the depressing effects of extreme poverty—as indeed they were.
And opposite Harry Muir’s house, in the little half finished street, Maggie McGillivray still sat clipping, with her brisk scissors in her hand, sending her loud clear voice into the din like an arrow—and still another branch of the Glasgow feminine industry, came under the amused observation of Cuthbert, before he reached the little parlour.
Miss Aggie Rodger, with her large shoulders bursting from under the little woollen shawl, and a great rent in the skirt of her faded large-patterned cotton gown, sat on the highest step of the stair, holding in her hand a very dingy piece of embroidered muslin, which she was jerking about with wonderful rapidity as she “opened” it. Miss Aggie, like the humbler clipper, was lightening her task with the solace of song; but, instead of the clear flowing canty “Learig,” Miss Aggie, with great demonstration, was uttering the excellences of the Rose of Allandale. Both the natural voices were tolerably good; but Cuthbert thought he preferred Maggie McGillivray’s.
In the little “green,” to which the paved passage from the street directly led, Miss Rodger, the elder sister, was laying out the collars and caps of the family to bleach. Miss Rodger was, in her way, a very proud person, and had a severe careworn face, which, six or seven years ago, had been pretty. From the green, Cuthbert heard her addressing her sister:
“Aggie, haud your tongue. Folk would think to see ye that you kent nae better than the like of that lassie McGillivray. They’ll hear ye on the street.”
“Ye can shut to the door, then, if ye’re so proud,” responded Miss Aggie, drawing out the long quavers of her song with unabated zeal.
Miss Jeanie, the prim intermediate sister, looked out from the kitchen window, and interrupted the dialogue in a vehement whisper:—“Aggie, will ye come out of that, and no let yoursel be seen, such a like sicht as ye are? do ye no see the gentleman?”
Miss Aggie looked up—saw Cuthbert standing below—and, snatching up the torn skirt of her gown in her hand, fled precipitately, leaving behind her a considerable-sized dilapidated slipper, trodden down at the heel, which had escaped from her foot in her flight.
“I’ve lost yin o’ my bauchals. Throw it into us, woman, Jean—what will the strange man think?” cried Miss Aggie, disconsolately, as she reached the safe refuge of the kitchen.
Miss Jeanie was dressed—for this was the day, on which they carried home their finished work, to the warehouse which supplied them. Miss Jeanie was very prim, and had a little mouth, which she showed her appreciation of, as the one excellent feature in a tolerable face, by drawing her lips together, and making them round. She was magnificently arrayed in a purple silk gown, bound round the waist with a silken cord, from which hung a superb pair of tassels. This dress was by far the grandest article of apparel in the house; and with great awe and veneration, Violet Muir had just intimated to her sisters, that Miss Jeanie was going to the warehouse, and that she had on, her Adelaide silk gown. Adroitly extending the skirt of this robe of state to cover the unlucky “bauchal” of Miss Aggie, Miss Jeanie primly stood by the open door, admitting the visitor, and Cuthbert entered without making any further acquaintance with the family.
The same universal feminine work re-appeared in the parlour, where Martha sat by the window in her usual place, busy with her usual occupation, while Rose, seated by the table, and occasionally pausing to glance down upon an open book which lay before her, listened with a smile, half of pleasure, half of amusement, as Violet, standing by her side, with a glow upon her little pale face, poured forth page after page of the Bridal of Triermain. Martha too, raised her eyes now and then, with a smile of playful love in them—for little Lettie’s low-voiced intense utterance, and enthusiasm, refreshed and pleased the heart which knew so many harder sorrows than the evils of romance. Rose was Violet’s governess; in an evil hour the young teacher had bidden her pupil choose any poetry she liked for her task, and learn as much of it as pleased her. Now Violet did at that time particularly affect the minstrelsy of Sir Walter, and the result was, that already one canto of Triermain had been accomplished, and another, and another, remained to say.
Out of doors in the sunshine, Maggie McGillivray sang the “Learig,” and with a gay flourish of her shears accompanied the swell of the “owerword,” as she ended every verse. At the window in the kitchen, Miss Aggie Rodger sat in a heap upon the table, and stayed her needle in mid-course, while she accomplished the Ro-o-se of A-ah-allandale; and within here the little form of Violet expanded, and her small face glowed, as her story progressed; while Rose smiled and worked, and glanced at the book; and Martha, with fresh and genuine pleasure, listened and looked on. After all, the gift of song is a fair gift to this laborious world. There was nothing very grand or elevated in either the ballads or the fable, yet enough to stir the heart, and keep the busy hands from weariness—and to do that, is to do well and merit a hearty blessing of the world.
Cuthbert was loth to disturb this pretty home scene, as he did at his entrance; but notwithstanding, Cuthbert was very well satisfied with the bright surprise and shy pleasure, which one at least of the little group displayed, and took his place among them like an old friend. Violet’s copy-book lay open on the table; and Violet made very bad pot-hooks indeed, and hated the copy intensely, though she liked the poetry. The copy lines set for her were not very beautiful either, though they were written in a good, sensible, female hand, which had some individuality in it, and was not of the fashionable style. Such copy lines! stray lines out of books, as diverse and miscellaneous as could be collected, differing most widely from those sublime, severe, abstract propositions, which in common cases introduce the youthful student to wisdom and half-text. Cuthbert could not help a visible smile as he glanced over them.
“I have interrupted my little friend’s lesson,” said Charteris, as he laid down the book.
Rose was shy of him. She did not answer.
“Violet has a great appetite for verse,” said Martha, “we shall have all the rest of it at night.”
“Triermain.” Cuthbert was a little surprised that the child should be so far advanced—innocent Cuthbert! he did not know what a host of books, of all kinds and classes, the little Violet had devoured already.
“How is Mr. Muir?” asked Cuthbert. “I heard at the office he was not at home, and I was very glad to find that he was able for travelling. Have you heard from him? How is he?”
“He is getting strong rapidly, Agnes writes,” said Martha. “They are with my uncle in Ayr. We were brought up there, all of us, and so we say Harry has gone home. I hope it will strengthen him—every way,” she added, with a suppressed sigh.
“And so you like Sir Walter, Violet,” said Cuthbert; “come and tell me what you have read besides Triermain.”
Violet came shyly to his side, and drooped her head, and answered with bashfulness, “I have read them a’.”
“Read them all! not quite, I think—how many books have you read, altogether?” said the puzzled Cuthbert.
Violet looked up with mingled astonishment and pity, and opened her eyes wide. She, who had already begun to look at advertisements of books, and to tease Mr. Syme, the librarian in the Cowcaddens, about new publications, which he had never heard of, and which in the ordinary course, would not reach him these hundred years—she to be asked how many books she had read! Violet was amazed at the want of apprehension, which such a question displayed.
“I have read a great heap—and I can say the Lord of the Isles, by heart, and bits of the Lady of the Lake.”
Cuthbert’s ignorance had given Violet a little courage; but as she met his eye, her head drooped again, and she relapsed into her former shyness.
“And how old are you, Violet?”
“I shall be eleven next May.” Violet had already had very grave thoughts on this subject of her age. It seemed a stupendous thing to pass that tenth milestone.
“Violet—where did you get that pretty name of yours,” said Cuthbert, drawing his hand over her small dark head.
“It was my mother’s name,” said the little girl reverently.
The conversation came to a sudden pause. Conscious that he had a motive in asking those seeming simple questions, Cuthbert felt confused, and could not go on—so he turned to the copy-book.
“Have you written all this yourself, Violet?”
He had gone back to the beginning, and there certainly was to be traced the formation of a different hand from Violet’s—the respectable, womanly writing which had placed those odd copy lines on the later pages; he traced it as it improved, through a good many different steps of progress, and at the end found a clear, good-looking signature, proclaiming it to be the work of Rose A. Muir.
“Rose A. Muir,” he repeated it unawares aloud.
The bearer of the name started with a slight blush. Martha glanced at him with grave scrutiny—and little Violet, looking admiringly at her sister’s handwriting, explained, “Rose was called after my grandmother.”
“It is not a common name,” said Cuthbert, growing embarrassed under the grave eye of Martha. “May I ask Miss Rose, what is represented by this A.”
“It will be Anne or Alice, or some stupid woman’s name,” he said to himself, while his heart beat a little quicker.
“I was called after my grandmother, Mr. Charteris, as Lettie says,” said Rose, shyly. “It is Rose Allenders—that was her name.”
The young man started visibly. He had no idea of falling on anything so clear as this; but Martha looked at him with sudden curiosity, and he felt himself compelled to make some explanation.
“It is by no means a usual name, Miss Muir,” said Cuthbert, turning to the elder sister. “I know something.—I am slightly acquainted with a family called Allenders. Did this lady—your grandmother, Miss Rose—come from the east country?”
“I cannot tell, indeed,” said Rose. “She died very long ago—before any of us were born.”
“I think they came from London,” said Martha; “I have heard my uncle say so—there were two sisters of them; and their father died in Ayr. Mrs. Calder, in the old town, was very kind to the orphans, and took them in: and there the younger sister—her name was Violet—died; and my grandmother married Mrs. Calder’s son. I have heard she died young too, and called her only child, who was our mother, after her little sister. It is a sad story altogether; but we heard my uncle speak of it often; and I remember how many of the old people in Ayr recollected Rose Allenders.”
“My mother’s name was Violet Calder,” said Lettie, “but I am only plain Violet. She did not call me after all her name; but Rose has got two names because she’s after my grandmother.”
“I am going further west,” said Cuthbert. “I shall be in Ayr for a day or two, I believe. I think I must ask you to introduce me to your uncle, Miss Muir.”
“He will be glad to see you,” said Martha, quietly. “But if you go now, you will find Harry established there. Give Mr. Charteris my uncle’s address, Rose—but indeed you hardly need that, for every one knows my uncle.”
But Cuthbert had not the least desire to meet Harry in Ayr. So he was careful to excuse himself, and suddenly discovered that he could not be able to make acquaintance with Alexander Muir, the uncle, for a full fortnight, by which time it was certain that Harry must have returned.