CHAPTER XIII.
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
SHAKSPEARE.
Sullen Demeyet lies mantled over with the sunshine which steals gradually further and further westward, pencilling out with a daring touch his rugged shoulders, and throwing into deepest shadow, here and there, an abrupt hollow on his side. The trees of Allenders shadow the river just under the windows, but on either side the sun flashes off the dazzling water, as if it had a resistant power, and could repel the rays and throw them back with disdain and pride. Just now the little Stirling steamer, bound for Leith, has passed those overhanging trees, while up upon their drooping branches, with the momentary force of sea surf, comes a great roll of foaming water displaced by the passing vessel, and rushing along the green river banks after it, like an insulted water-god. There is always some one at the east window of the Allenders’ drawing-room when the steamer passes up or down, for it is a pleasant sight, winding hither and thither through the bright links of Forth, with its gay passengers and rapid motion, and gives to the broad landscape the animation which it needs.
By the east window at this present moment, Rose, and Rose alone, occupies the usual place. She wears a white gown, as Dragon said, and if scarcely self-possessed enough for a fairy, looks prettier and more delicate than usual, and has a slight tremor upon her, which she can neither subdue nor hide. Agnes, with little Harry in her arms, stands on the turret, eagerly looking out for the returning carriage, while Martha at a lower window watches the same road. Fain would Rose take her place, too, on the breezy turret; fain be the first to read in Harry’s eye how he has spent these hours in Stirling; but no, Harry is not first just now in the thoughts of his sister. She is not thinking about any one, Rose would tell you indignantly; but, nevertheless, she sits here with the most obstinate industry, at the east window where it is impossible to obtain the least glimpse of the road, and trembles a little, and drops her needle, and thinks she can hear every leaf fall, and can tell when a fly alights on the gravel walk, so keen is her ear for every sound.
And now there comes through the drawn curtains of the west window, which at present is full of sunshine, the sound of a great commotion; and carriage-wheels dash over the gravel, and Agnes flies down stairs, and Harry calls loudly to John, who has sprung from his perch to catch the excited horse by the head, and calm him down, that the gentlemen may alight in safety. The colour comes and goes upon Rose’s cheek, and her fingers shake so, that she scarcely can hold the needle, but she sits still; and though Harry’s laugh immediately after rings strangely on her ear, and she listens with sudden anxiety for his voice, Rose never leaves her window—for another voice there has spoken too.
By and bye a sound of footsteps and voices come up the stair, and Rose suddenly commanding herself, raises her head and becomes elaborately calm and self-possessed. Alas, poor Rose! for the door of the drawing-room opens, and the voices pause without, but there only enters—Gilbert Allenders.
Gilbert Allenders and a stranger like himself—an intimate of his, whom he has persuaded Harry into acquaintance with. No one knows that Rose is here; no one thinks of her, indeed, but the guest of honour who is being conducted to his own room, and who does not at all admire the loud greeting in which Mr. Gilbert Allenders expresses his delight at finding her; but poor Rose, returning those greetings with intense pride, disappointment and reserve, could almost cry, as she finds herself compelled to be amiable to Harry’s friend. And now she has time to grow painfully anxious about Harry himself, and to think of his excited voice and laughter, and to shiver with sudden fear.
While Rose sits thus, Martha, with so still a step that you cannot hear her enter, comes gliding into the room like a ghost. With the old feverish solicitude, the younger sister seeks the elder’s eye; but Rose learns nothing from the unusual gaiety of Martha’s face. Indeed this smile, so forced and extreme, and the light tone in which her grave sister immediately begins to speak—speaking too so very much more than her wont—terrifies Rose. The strangers see nothing more than a proper animation, and Gilbert Allenders relaxes and condescends to notice Martha; but Rose steals out in wonder and terror, fearing she knows not what.
There is nothing to fear—nothing—say it again, Rose, that your loving anxious heart may be persuaded. Harry stands by the table in his dressing-room, unfolding a great bale of beautiful silk to the wondering eyes of Agnes; and though Harry is a little more voluble than usual, and has an unsteady glimmer in his eye, and a continual smile, which reminds her of some sad homecomings of old, there is in reality nothing here to make any one unhappy. Nothing—nothing—but Rose’s heart grows sick with its own confused quick throbs as she lingers, looking in at the door.
“Come along here, Rosie; look what I have been getting a lecture for,” cried Harry, looking up from the table. “It seems that Agnes needs no more gowns. Come here, and see if there is anything for you.”
And Rose, who was by no means above the usual girlish vanities, but liked to see pretty things, and liked to wear them, went in very quickly—much more anxious than curious it is true, but nevertheless owning to a little curiosity as well.
“Oh, Rose, see what Harry has brought me,” said Agnes, breathless with delight, deprecation and fear: “such a splendid silk, white and blue! but it’s too grand, Rose—do you not think so? And this quiet coloured one—it is quite as rich though—is for Martha; and here is yours—pink, because your hair is dark, Harry says.”
And as Agnes spoke, Harry caught up the radiant pink silk glistening with its rich brocaded flowers, and threw it upon Rose, covering her simple muslin gown. To say that Rose’s first impression was not pleasure would be untrue—or that she did not bestow a glance of affectionate admiration upon the three varieties of Harry’s choice. But the eyes that sought them for a moment sought again with a lengthened wistful gaze his own flushed and happy face. And Harry was considerably excited—that was all—and it was so very easy to account for that.
“But just now, you know, we cannot afford it,” said Agnes, gathering her own silk into folds, which she arranged scientifically on her arm, and looking at it with her head on one side, as she held it in different lights. “I never saw anything so beautiful—it’s just too grand; but then the price, Harry!”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about the price,” said Harry, gaily. “You’ve nothing to do but to be pleased with them; no, nor Martha either; for do you think, after securing that old wife’s siller, that I may not indulge myself with a silk gown or two? And if my wife and my sisters won’t wear them, why I can only wear them myself. There, there’s some cobweb muslin stuff in the parcel for the two of you, young ladies, and something for Lettie and her friend, and something for our heir; but away with you now, girls, and let me dress, and say nothing about the money.”
Ah! hapless Miss Jean Calder! if but you could have heard and seen the doings of this zealous agricultural improver, whose resolute purpose of doubling the value of his newly-acquired lands, drew your beloved “siller” out of its safe concealment, what a wailing banshee shriek had wrung then through these sunny rooms of Allenders! Not on strong cattle and skilful implements—not on the choice seed and the prepared soil—but on the vanities you have scorned through all your envious lifetime—to deck the fair young forms, whose gladsome breath you grudge to them—that your gold, the beloved of your heart, should be squandered thus! Alas, poor miser! But Miss Jean even now clutches her mortgage parchment, with the glitter of malicious power in her cold blue eyes. Let them squander who will—she has secured herself.
And Martha, even in her heart, does not say, “Poor Harry!” No, Martha, for the first time, tries to blind herself with false hope—tries to dismiss all her old anxious love from her heart, and be careless, and take no thought for the morrow. She has determined to think of Harry’s errors as other people think—to call them exuberances, follies of youth, and to smile with gentle indulgence, instead of sorrowing in stern despair. For Harry is a man—head of a household; and Martha tries to endure placidly—tries to persuade herself that there is nothing to endure—knows that he must be left now to himself, to make his own fate. To-day she sees, as no other eye can see, the beginning of peril, and Harry’s excitement, excusable though it may be, and constantly as she herself excuses it, has wrought in Martha a kindred agitation. She will not permit herself to grieve or to fear; but sad is this assumed light-heartedness which Rose trembles to see.
Meanwhile Rose and Agnes, who have carried off Harry’s gifts between them, are laughing and crying together over the store. It may be imprudent—it may be extravagant; but it is “so kind of Harry!” He is so anxious to give them pleasure.
And Mr. Charteris, in the drawing-room, talks to Martha with some abstraction, and coldly withdraws himself from the elegant conversation of Mr. Gilbert Allenders. Cuthbert cannot understand why Rose should avoid him; and he feels the blood warm at his heart with the pride to which neglect is grievous. But, at the same time, he is troubled and depressed, and looks with a yearning he never knew before at the closed door, and speaks little, lest he should lose the sound of the approaching footstep, which he remembers to be so light. The room is full of roses, though now in July their flush of beauty is nearly over. Roses red and white, the delicate blush and the burning purple; but Cuthbert would throw them all into the river joyfully for one glimpse of his Lady Rose.
This love-fit sits strangely on the grave advocate—he does not quite understand how, of all men in the world, it should have found out him—and its effect is singular. It moves him, perhaps by the power of those circumstances which hang over this family like a continual cloud, to a half-sorrowful tenderness for everything young and gentle. It does not occur to Cuthbert to inquire why his constant dream is to comfort, to console, to carry away the Rose of Allenders, and bear her tenderly in his arms out of sorrow and trial. This is the aspect under which he instinctively views the conclusion of his growing affection. Sometimes, indeed, there break upon him fair visions of a bride in the sunshine, a home gladdened by a joyous, youthful voice, and smiles like the morning; but the usual current of Cuthbert’s fancies present to him a far-off glimpse of happiness, chastened and calmed by suffering; and his hope is to deliver her out of some indefinite gloom and evil, to deliver and carry her home into a gentle rest.
And the shadow of this visionary trouble to come, throws a tender pathos over Rose in the eyes of her true knight. His stout heart melts when he sees her, with an indescribable softening—as if he extended his arms involuntarily, not so much to enclose her for his own content, as to ward off unseen impending dangers, and keep her safe by his care. Nevertheless, Cuthbert feels his cheek burn with quick, indignant anger, and starts and frowns in spite of himself, when he perceives that Gilbert Allenders gives his arm—again with considerable demonstration—to the shy, reluctant Rose.
Harry is new to his duties as host, and perhaps his attention to his guests is slightly urgent and old-fashioned; but Harry is in triumphant spirits, and throws his radiant good-humour and satisfaction over them all like a great light. Not without a secret misgiving at the bottom of their hearts, Rose and Agnes make strong efforts to rise to Harry’s pitch, if it were but to persuade themselves how innocent and blameless is Harry’s exhilaration; and Martha continues to smile and speak as Rose never heard her speak before. It is quite a gay dinner-table.
The time glides on, the ladies leave the dining-room; but when they are alone, after some forced efforts to keep it up, their gaiety flags, and one after another glides to her accustomed seat, and subsides into unbroken silence. It is true that the rejoicings of Violet and Katie over the new frocks which Harry has not failed to bring for them, make a little episode, and sustain the animation for a short time—but the sure reaction comes; and now they sit still, one professing to read, and the others working, but all casting anxious looks towards the door.
By and bye comes laughter and voices and ringing footsteps up the stair, but only Charteris enters the drawing-room; for Harry and his other friends are climbing further up to the turret, where he has fitted up a little “den,” as Gilbert Allenders calls it, for himself. And their good friend, Mr. Charteris, looks very grave; they think Harry has lowered himself in Cuthbert’s eyes—they think this seriousness is the painful regret with which a strong man sees a weak one sink under temptation; and their hearts flutter within them with restless anxiety, and they listen to Harry’s laugh in the distance till its echo makes them sick. While, all the time, Cuthbert is too much interested not to notice how uneasily the young wife moves upon her chair, and the abstraction from which Martha starts with a dismal resolution to be gay again. Poor Harry! But Cuthbert stands behind the chair of Rose, and feels that he is consoling her—feels that he is occupying with his presence something of the space which, without him, might have been wholly given to anxiety and fear.
The children are already out under the windows, playing on the lawn; and, at Cuthbert’s suggestion, Rose and Martha accompany him to the mall on the river-side. He tells them how he admired this when he came first with Harry to see Allenders, and that he often fancies how they must enjoy this verdant cloister when he is shut up in his office at Edinburgh. The sun slants in through the great oak which rounds the end of the mall, and just touches here and there a heavy alder leaf, and lights up one little branch upon a stately elm, with tender golden rays, cool and dewy; and there is wind enough to disturb the long willow branches and ruffle the fleecy lining of their leaves. A narrow strip of path, sandy and yellow, breaks the soft green turf which slopes down to the water on one side, and on the other, rich with flower-beds, stretches up in a slight incline to the walls of Allenders; and Cuthbert, with Martha on his arm, walks slowly, silently, looking after the white figure which has strayed a step or two before. Slightly turning towards them, with a shy, half-conscious look backwards, Rose says something to Martha about the wild flowers in the grass; and Rose guesses, with a tremor, that Cuthbert has had visions of herself under the shadow of these trees, and feels that his eye just now is dwelling upon her, and that he is saying words to her in his heart. But the charmed silence lasts, and even Martha, looking on, has not the heart to break its spell.
But look up yonder at the turret. With the sun glancing in his hair, Harry stands in the little battlemented gallery, and holds up a glass of sparkling wine, and bows and smiles, and drinks to them. Immediately both the sisters look at Cuthbert; and Cuthbert, with a gaiety he does not feel, takes off his hat, and returns the salutation with playful stateliness. His gesture cheers them, and they become again quite tremulously glad, when he calls to Harry to come down, and Harry nods in assent, and disappears upon the turret stair. It is true that the momentary smile flits away from Cuthbert’s face, and he becomes very serious. But they are looking for Harry—they do not see the deep regret and gravity which clouds the brow of his friend, who, within himself, says “Poor Harry!” with a heavy sigh.
And Harry is now more excited than ever, and they are constantly calming and soothing him to keep him within bounds—trying to be gay themselves that his unreal gaiety may be less marked—and carefully avoiding everything which could possibly irritate his feelings. Poor Harry! some wistful eye is always following him, some solicitous voice constantly interposing to bring down to the ordinary quietness and moderation his unconscious extravagance—eyes which are afraid to meet—afraid to confide to each other, even by a glance, this new pain which Harry has brought upon them; for hitherto they have seen principally the remorse which followed his fall, and never before have beheld others conscious, of what so greatly humiliated themselves. Now the sneer and patronizing forbearance of Gilbert Allenders, who has too cool a head to be moved as Harry is, chafes Martha beyond endurance, and excites the gentle little Agnes to such a pitch of anger, that her hand clenches involuntarily, and she could almost strike him in a burst of weeping petulance. But the long, long painful hours pass away, and at last it is night.
“It is nothing—it is nothing. Nobody thinks anything of this but us. We are always so anxious!” sobs Agnes, as she wakes in the middle of the night, and weeps; but Martha, who does not need to wake—who has never slept—suffers her heart to say nothing, but only prays, and tries to forget—tries to think of anything rather than Harry; and cannot weep, if she should try for ever.