CHAPTER XIV.
And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin,
Then the bright kettle sings its matin song.
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong
Blend as they rise.
ROGERS.
“Who is that out there, leading the horse?” asked Agnes, with some anxiety.
The snowy linen and bright silver and china of the breakfast-table sparkle in the sunshine. At a corner, Violet and Katie sit before a covered tray, hastily taking their porridge; for the breakfast is much later than usual this morning, and the children are in great haste, lest they should be too late for school. Rose is working at the corner window—the new window, where the white rose bush nods up to her, and lays a snowy fragrant present of buds upon the window-ledge; but Martha stands silently, as she stood last morning, to watch Harry go away, and again pulls with unconscious fingers the jasmine flowers.
“Who is that?” repeated Agnes.
It is only a groom leading up and down, on the broad gravel walk at the other side of the lawn, a fine horse, stately and impatient, which scorns its limited space, and paws the gravel disdainfully, and arches its proud neck to the infinite admiration of the Dragon and John, who stand by the holly hedge as spectators. Katie and Violet, attracted by the repetition of Agnes’s question, rush from the window to the door to ascertain; and after a brief conversation with Dragon, Violet returns, breathless, with the information, that it is a new riding-horse, sent out this morning from Stirling, where Harry bought it yesterday; but that Dragon says it is too wild a horse for any but a bold rider, and that it is sure to throw Mr. Hairy.
“Tell Dragon he’s an old fool, and that he had better think what he says,” said Harry himself, who suddenly made his appearance as Violet spoke; “and you, Lettie, mind your own business, and don’t be so officious in reporting what everybody tells you. Why don’t you get these children off to school, Agnes? Yes, it’s my horse. I hope no one has any objection.”
Poor Harry! in this morning light, his own conscience has weighty objections, and upbraids him with folly and extravagance. But Harry feels miserable, and is not well—angry with himself, and defiant of all around him—and he feels himself bound in honour to defend his horse.
But no one attacks it; poor little Agnes is only anxious and deprecatory, eager to smile away his impatience, and cheer the depression which she very well knows is sure to follow; while Martha still stands at the open window, without ever turning her head, and vacantly draws the long, pliant branch of jasmine through her fingers, and says not a word.
“They are just going away,” said Agnes, hastily tying on the bonnet which Lettie had brought in her hand; “they have just breakfasted, you see, Harry. We are rather late this morning; and Mr. Charteris is not down stairs yet.”
Harry left the room immediately, and went out. The arrival of this horse did him good—dispersing the clouds of his depression, and its consequent ill-humour—and before he returned to the breakfast-room, Harry had consoled his conscience by a resolution to begin immediately his agricultural labours, and to spend no more of Miss Jean’s money, except lawfully, on the object for which he borrowed it.
When he re-entered the room Cuthbert was there, and Harry had to smooth his brow and welcome his guest. Agnes still half trembling, and growing talkative in her anxiety to restore ease to the conversation, found herself, to her great delight and astonishment, seconded by Martha, as they took their places round the table. And the still composure of Martha’s manner did more for this end, than the tremulous eagerness of the little wife. They regained the every-day tone, the every-day level of quietness and repose; and Agnes began to flatter herself that nothing unusual had happened last night after all, and Harry to think that his conscience blamed him unjustly; only the sickness in Martha’s heart lay still, uneased, and undisturbed. She was done with struggling—now she had only to wait for what it pleased God to reveal.
Charteris was to stay a week, and numerous excursions were discussed at the breakfast-table. It was a relief to them all, to have these things to speak about; but Cuthbert exerted himself to-day to gain the confidence of Harry, and did in some degree gain it. They spoke together of the projected improvements; and though Harry said with a little braggadocio that it was “an old rich aunt” who had given him the necessary capital, he was tolerably frank about his intentions, and very glad to receive introductions to some agricultural authorities whom Cuthbert knew. They walked together over the farm which the tenant was to leave at Martinmas, and together commented on the lean and scanty crops, which sparely covered the half-cultured soil. It was a fresh, showery day, enlivened by a light breeze, which brought down the chiller breath of the hills over the green lowland country; and as this wind waved about his hair, and blew the sparkling rain against his cheeks, Harry struggled under the uneasy burden on his heart, and tried to throw it off, and let it vex him no more. “Forgetting the things that are behind,” he muttered to himself, as they paused on a little eminence, and saw the sun touch into brilliant light a thousand rain-drops among the waving corn, and on the roadside trees—for still a heavy consciousness gnawed at his heart, and compelled him to try some bargain with it for rest—and Harry gladly turned to look away from the past, into the broad life which lay before him, as bright as this sunny strath, though, like it, dewed with tears; and in the future his sanguine eyes again saw nothing but hope.
“Forgetting the things that are behind!” Alas, poor Harry! for it was only too easy to forget.
But there followed a few days of cheerful activity, the very first of which dissipated into thin air the last remnant of Harry’s remorseful consciousness—for Cuthbert and he rode together to call on some of the agricultural authorities before mentioned, and take counsel with them—not always sweet—concerning all the processes of the warfare which should subjugate this stubborn soil; and Harry advertised in the local newspapers for a manager to take charge of his farming operations, and heard of one before his advertisement was printed, so suitable, as it seemed, in every respect, that Harry, fearing he might not wait till Martinmas, engaged him out of hand in July, that no one else might seize on such a treasure.
Not only so—but Harry, whose pride had been greatly hurt by Dragon’s implied opinion that he was a timid rider, subdued his horse, at no small cost to his own nerves, and rode a dozen miles to a cattle-show, partly in self-assertion, partly to acquire some knowledge of “the beasts,” which his agricultural instructors discoursed of so learnedly; but Harry was not the man to study beasts, and his long ride exhausted him, though it was a triumph. He had settled matters, however, with his conscience which now, rather applauded than condemned—and Harry was content.
Poor Harry! but when Cuthbert’s week was out, he said those words with eyes that glistened, and a yearning heart; for Harry was born to be loved, and amid all his faults, and all the unconscious selfishness of his indulgences, he never lost this natural portion.
And Cuthbert, leaving behind him a bright, cheerful, hopeful household, as ready to be exhilarated as depressed, had said nothing to Rose—for he himself had little yet to share with any one, and he was afraid to risk his affectionate interest with the family as friend and counsellor, even for the chance of attaining the nearer and still more affectionate connexion for which he hoped. And Cuthbert, in his tenderness of protection and succour, exaggerated the difference between his age and hers; he only thought himself likely to succeed at all, by the gentle and gradual process of wooing, which might accustom and attach her to him before she was aware. So he went away quietly, leaving, it is true, many tokens which spoke to Rose a strange, unusual language, showing her how much space she occupied in the heart and thoughts of this man, who, of all men she had ever seen, held the highest place. And Rose trembled and smiled with indefinite delight as words and looks came to her remembrance—looks and words which Cuthbert had feared would alarm and startle her, but which even his self-command could not restrain. There is a charm in this guessed and implied affection which perhaps no certainty has; and Rose, whose thoughts had not yet taken shape or form, whose shy, womanly heart shrank even from believing itself beloved, and who would have denied the belief strenuously, had she asked herself the question in so many words—Rose suffered a bright mist of reverie to float about her, and was thrilled now and then with apprehensions and revelations, starting out half-distinct for a moment, and anon disappearing into the sunny maze. It was an idle mood, and sent her straying along the river-side, and seated her for hours together under the oak, with vague smiles and blushes flitting over her face, and many a dream in her heart; but yet her needle flew swiftly too under this mist, and she could be very well content with silence, for the long indefinite musings of her romance were sweet to Rose.