Chapter Twenty Six.
The next few days were weary ones to all. Will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, Graeme’s spirits flagged sadly. She looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that Will must be left to the tender mercies of Rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. It is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did Graeme less good than attendance on Will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. At any rate, Graeme was thankful for a few days’ quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time Rose and Will got on very well without her.
And Harry—poor, unhappy, repentant Harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night—these were dreary days to him. Graeme never spoke to him about that night. She had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. The preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go West after all. He said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for Graeme to hear.
Much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of Harry, Mr Ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return.
“He does not trust me. He does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs,” said Harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of Allan’s share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. However, he forced himself to wait a little.
“If I am sent West after all, well and good. If not I shall remain no longer. The change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least I will make it so. I can’t stay, and I won’t. If he would but come back and put an end to it all.”
And Harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of Mr Ruthven. Poor Mr Elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. Lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for Allan’s untimely devotion to business. Poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of Mrs Roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. She considered it a very equivocal proof of Lilias’ love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. There had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and Mrs Roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. So, at last, Lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father’s room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near.
“Graeme,” said Harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, “don’t you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? Don’t you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? I think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate.”
Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. Then she said something about being tired and not very well—and about its being impossible always to help one’s looks.
“Why don’t you say at once that it is I who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me—that I am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say—you know very well.”
“Harry,” said she, gently, “I did not mean to say anything unkind.”
Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan.
“If you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme! If you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! I could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, I cannot bear.”
“I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. I can only say, I have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night.”
Harry groaned.
“Oh! well; don’t bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. The chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation.”
“Have you seen—has Mr Ruthven returned?”
“Mr Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I have not spoken with him. It was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. He was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. Well, it does not matter. I shall take the decision into my own hands.”
“What do you mean, Harry?”
“I mean, I shall give up my situation if he does not send me West—if he hesitates a moment about sending me, I shall leave his employment.”
“But why, Harry?”
“Because—because I am determined. Ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, I suppose.”
“Harry,” said his sister, gravely, “is it surprising if he does not?”
“Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be trusted here, and I leave. Graeme, you don’t know what you are talking about. It is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to Allan Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate.”
“Then, why do you say he does not trust you?”
“I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. Not that I care much. I would rather be in the employment of some one else. I shall not stay here.”
“Harry,” said Graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, “what has happened between you and Allan Ruthven.”
“Happened! What should have happened? What an absurd question to ask, Graeme.”
“Harry, why are you so determined to leave him? It was not so a little while ago.”
“Was it not? Oh, well! I daresay not. But one wants a change. One gets tired of the same dull routine, always. Now, Graeme,” added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, “don’t begin to fancy any mystery. That would be too absurd, you know.”
Graeme came and knelt close beside him. His face was turned away so that she could not see it. Her own was very pale.
“Harry, speak to me. Do you believe that Allan Ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and—in other matters? Tell me, Harry.”
“Oh, yes! as gentlemen go. No, Graeme, that is not right. I believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. I think more highly of him than I did at first. It is not that.”
The colour came slowly back to Graeme’s face. It was evident that Harry had no foolish thoughts of her and Allan. In a little she said,—
“And you, Harry—you have not—you are—”
“I hope I am an honourable man, Graeme,” said Harry, gravely. “There is nothing between Mr Ruthven and me. I mean, he does not wish me to leave him. But I must go, Graeme. I cannot stay here.”
“Harry, why? Tell me.” Graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair.
“It is nothing that I can tell,” said Harry, huskily.
“Harry—even if I cannot help it, or remove it—it is better that I should know what is making you so unhappy. Harry, is it—it is not Lilias?”
He did not answer her.
“Harry, Harry! Do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too.”
She drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. In a little she said,—
“Brother, speak to me. What shall I say to you, my poor Harry?”
But Harry was not in a mood to be comforted. He rose and confronted her.
“I think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that I am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. You had better say that to me, Graeme.”
But something in his sister’s face stopped him. His lips trembled, and he said,—
“At any rate, it isn’t worth your looking so miserable about.”
“Hush, Harry,” whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. “And Lilias?”
“Graeme, I do not know. I never spoke to her, but I hoped—I believed till lately—.”
He laid his head down on his sister’s shoulder. In a little he roused himself and said,—
“But it is all past now—all past; and it won’t bear talking about, even with you, Graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. It was only a dream, and it is past. But I cannot stay here—at least it would be very much better—”
Graeme sighed.
“Yes, I can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet—but you are right. It won’t bear talking about. I have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less.”
No, there was nothing that Graeme could say, even if Harry would have listened to her. Her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. It seemed to Graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. Yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for Harry was pressing with tenfold weight. Why had this new misery come upon her? She had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears.
In her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. She judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man—between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him.
Sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. She took no such consolation to herself as that. She knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. She accepted the lot. She thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with God’s help, to be contented.
But Harry—poor Harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? Perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, Graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. Harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. The commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister’s lips, and it was all the better that Graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. After the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister’s sympathy, and I am afraid, if the truth must be told, that Graeme that night suffered more for Harry than Harry suffered for himself. If she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. If from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. She could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. How gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. She felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? Remembering her own impulse to be away—anywhere—to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. That the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. Alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. Best give him into God’s keeping and let him go, she thought.
“But he must not leave Mr Ruthven. That will make him no better, but worse. He must not go from us, not knowing whither. Oh, I wish I knew what to do!”
The next day the decision was made. It would not be true to say that Harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into Mr Ruthven’s private room. There was more need for Charlie’s “keep cool, old fellow,” than Charlie knew, for Harry had that morning told Graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. In spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend Allan, but Mr Ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. He was busy with some one else when Harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him.
There was a good deal said about matters that Harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. There were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. Harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him.
There came a pause at last. Mr Ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. Indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. Harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,—
“Mr Ruthven, may I trespass a moment on your valuable time now?”
Mr Ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. Harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. Certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that Mr Elliott might have to say.
“It is a matter of great importance to me, and I have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. The Western agency—”
“You are right. It is of great consequence to the firm. There is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding—”
“I beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that I should be employed in it.”
“Will a single day make much difference to you?” said Mr Ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be.
“Excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. But, Mr Ruthven, it is better I should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. Allow me, then, to inform you that I wish—that I no longer wish to remain in your employment.”
“Harry,” said Mr Ruthven, gravely, “does your brother—does your sister know of your desire to leave me? Would they approve, if you were sent West?”
“Pardon me, Mr Ruthven, that question need not be discussed. I must be the best judge of the matter. As for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you—drew back.”
Mr Ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. He took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now.
“I understand you, sir,” said Harry, with a very pale face. “Allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place—or at once, if you like—I must go.”
But Mr Ruthven was not listening to him. He had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. He broke the seal, and read it while Harry was speaking. It was very brief, only three words and one initial letter.
“Let Harry go. G.”
He read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. Then he turned to Harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door.
“What is it, Harry? I did not hear what you were saying.”
“I merely said, sir,” said Harry, turning round and facing him, “that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, I shall consider myself at liberty to go.”
“But why should you wish to go?”
“There are several reasons. One is, I shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. If I am not to be trusted at a distance, I shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me.”
His own eye flashed as he spoke.
“But, Harry, man, that is nonsense, you know.”
It was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and Harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone.
“I do not think it is nonsense,” said he.
“Harry, I have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. Let me say, once for all, that I should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. Harry, the world would look darker to me the day I could not trust your father’s son.”
Harry made no answer.
“It is of you I have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. Harry, when I think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish—wrong to wish to send you away.”
Harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home.
“I know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home—such a home as yours—the better. When I think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil I have seen since—. Well, there is no use in going over all that. But, Harry, it would break your sister’s heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us.”
There was nothing Harry could say to this.
“So many fail in the struggle—so many are changed or ruined. And, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. Don’t be angry, Harry,” for Harry started and grew red. “Even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. I have known and proved the world. What we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister’s lips. And if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should I ever answer to her?”
He walked up and down the room two or three times.
“Don’t go, Harry.” For Harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. “You said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. But, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. As for the interests of the firm, I have no fear.”
“I may consider it settled then,” said Harry, huskily. “Arthur was always of opinion that I should go, and Graeme is willing now. And the sooner the better, I suppose?”
“The sooner the better for us. But there is time enough. Do not be hasty in deciding.”
“I have decided already, I thank you, sir—” He hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more.
“I hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. Remember, Harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. I do not believe I shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me.”
Harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn.
And so the decision was made. After this the preparations did not occupy a long time. The second day found Harry ready for departure.
“Graeme,” said Harry, “I cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. I shall begin to think you are not willing that I should go after all.”
“You need not think so, Harry. I am sure it is best since you are determined. But I cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. You would not have me look joyful, when I am going to lose my brother?”
“No—if that were all. But you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. It is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. I shall be home often—once a year at the least; perhaps oftener.”
“Yes, dear, I know.”
“Well, then, I think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if I were worthy of it, which I very much doubt.”
Graeme’s face did not brighten. In a little while her tears were falling fast.
“Graeme, what is it? There is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. You do not trust me, Graeme, you are afraid.”
Graeme made an effort to quiet herself.
“Yes, Harry, I am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. You have hardly been our own Harry for a while, as you know, dear. And what will you be when you are far from us all? I am afraid to let you go from me, Harry, far more afraid than I should be for Will.”
Harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again.
“I wish I could make you quite satisfied about me, Graeme.”
“I wish you could, dear. I will try to be so. I daresay you think me unreasonable, Harry. I know I am tired, and foolish, and all wrong,” said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears.
“You look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything,” said Harry, with a touch of bitterness.
“Do I? Well, I am all wrong, I know. There ought to be hope and comfort too, if I sought them right. I will try to leave you in God’s keeping, Harry, the keeping of our father’s and our mother’s God.”
Harry threw himself on his knees beside her.
“Graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. If you only knew! Such things are thought nothing of. If I disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced.”
Graeme put her hand upon his lips.
“But, Graeme, it is true. I must speak, I can’t bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. Even Allan Ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he—”
“Hush, Harry, you do not need Mr Ruthven to be a conscience to you. And it is not of the past I am thinking, but the future! How can I bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you, Harry.”
It was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. The words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor Harry’s temptation. So she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. By and by he came back to her side, again.
“Graeme,” said he, gravely. “Indeed, you may trust me. The shame of that night shall never be renewed. You shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again.”
She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. It was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but Harry understood it so.
“Graeme, what shall I say to you? How shall I give you courage—faith to trust me? Graeme, I promise, that till I see you again I shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. I solemnly promise before God, Graeme.”
“Harry,” said his sister, “it is a vow—an oath, that you have taken.”
“Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do you trust me, Graeme? Give me that comfort before I go away.”
“I trust you, Harry,” was all she had voice to say. She clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed God to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. And Harry vowed, with God’s help, to be true to himself and her. He did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in Heaven.
That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. Next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by Graeme, but the last glimpse Harry had of home, showed his eldest sister’s face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,—
“Harry, I trust you quite.”