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.