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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harry Muir
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
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laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Harry Muir

A story of Scottish life, vol. 3 (of 3)

Author: Mrs. Oliphant

Release date: March 2, 2024 [eBook #73086]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1853

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eleni Christofaki and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARRY

MUIR ***
 Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation

inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made can be
found at the end of the book.
HARRY MUIR, Vol. III
 HARRY MUIR.

A STORY OF SCOTTISH LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF
“PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF MRS. MARGARET MAITLAND,”
“MERKLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” &C.

“God pardon thee! yet let me wonder, Harry,

At thy affections....
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruined; and the soul of every man,
Prophetically, does forethink thy fall.”

KING HENRY IV.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1853.
 LONDON:
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
HARRY MUIR.
 CHAPTER I.
The Count is neither sad nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but
civil, Count—civil as an orange, and something of that
jealous complexion.—much ado about nothing.
On the eve of the important party, Cuthbert Charteris arrived at
Allenders.
Half-frozen with his journey, and shaking from his coat large flakes
of the snow, which trembled in the air, they took him into the dining-
room, where a blazing fire, a late dinner, and the warm and smiling
welcome of Agnes greatly solaced the wayfarer. Harry had met him
in Stirling, and driven him out; but Harry’s carriage, though it could
be closed, was not so comfortable on a December night as in the
bright sunshine of a July day. Cuthbert made hurried inquiries after
Martha and Rose, in answer to which Agnes began a most animated
account of an unexpected call from “young Mr. Dunlop” to say that
his sister would be very happy to come with him to Agnes’s party.
Little Mrs. Muir Allenders, had only ventured at the last moment to
invite the baronet’s daughter; and then with but the faintest
expectation that Miss Dunlop would come. Agnes was greatly elated;
and Rose and Martha were with Mr. Dunlop in the drawing-room.
But on the peaceful countenance of Cuthbert Charteris there
passed a momentary savageness. At this moment it seemed to him,
in unconscious self-estimation, that he, as the newly-arrived guest
and tried friend, should be the principal person at Allenders—
whereas this young Mr. Dunlop, most probably a nobody, as
Cuthbert concluded with amiable liberality, defrauded him of his
welcome from the sisters, and drew away Harry from his side. It was
true that Harry returned in ten minutes, and that Martha and Agnes
changed places; but still Cuthbert involuntarily frowned. Might not
Rose, in common courtesy, have come to greet him? Alas, poor
Rose! for Cuthbert could not tell how she trembled at the bright
fireside of the drawing-room, nor how the astonished Agnes threw
shawls round her shoulders, and wondered what could make her so
cold.
Mr. Charteris lingered long over his dinner. Cuthbert, to tell the
truth, was rather sullen, and made by no means a brilliant
appearance to Martha and Harry, who sat with him while he
refreshed himself. He had a great inclination, indeed, to wrap himself
up again in his travelling dress, say a surly good-bye at the drawing-
room door, and betake himself home without delay; but Cuthbert
disconsolately comforted himself, that it was only for one day, and
sat with all his attention concentrated on the sounds from the
staircase, doggedly assuring himself that no one would come. And
no one did come; and Cuthbert was enraged at the fulfilment of his
own prophecy.
By and bye, he went up-stairs, attended by Harry, who did not quite
comprehend this singular mood, to his own room; and Rose heard
his voice on the stair, and trembled still more and more, though
young Mr. Dunlop sat by, and did all that in him lay to engage her
attention. But poor Rose felt a great inclination to steal away to her
own room and cry; for she in her turn, thought it strange, very
strange, that Cuthbert should linger so long, and show so little wish
to see her.
And when Cuthbert, his face still tingling from the cold blast without,
entered the warm and cheerful drawing-room, and saw young Mr.
Dunlop sitting beside the silent Rose, describing to her with
animation some storied continental towns from which he had lately
returned, the grave advocate felt himself yield to boyish pique and
jealous resentment—“Civil as an orange, and something of that
jealous complexion,” the tone of his constrained greeting dismayed
Rose, and when he had taken her hand in his own somewhat chill
one, and let it fall again with scarcely a pressure, he withdrew to the
other side of the room, and began to talk to Martha. Rose, who had
not been a very good listener before, became worse than ever now
—but Mr. Charteris, trying to look very indifferent, occupied himself
almost ostentatiously with Martha, and laughed at his own jokes, and
became quite exuberant and demonstrative, though he never spoke
to Rose.
But Rose would not tell her sister, when she unexpectedly brought
a light to their dark room that night, why she was crying; it was for
nothing at all, Rose protested—indeed nothing at all—but faster and
faster the tears ran down her cheek, and she had much to do to
keep back a rising sob. Martha put her hand over the wet eyes
tenderly, and did not ask again—for she could guess without
explanation, the cause of Rose’s tears.
Next day Mr. Charteris rode out with Harry to see the
improvements. He was much interested in them, he said, and so he
was—far more interested than he felt yesterday when he came.
Cuthbert had been having a consultation with himself during the
night—a consultation in which he looked at various circumstances
from a point of view exactly opposite to that of Rose. He saw “young
Mr. Dunlop,” son of the rich Sir John, a wealthier man than he could
ever be, devoting himself to her unequivocally, as Cuthbert thought
—and Cuthbert in his heart devoutly believed that Rose’s gentle
excellence needed only to be seen to win all love and honour. So he
gravely asked himself whether it would be right for him, even if it
were in his power, to stand in the way, and endeavour to secure for
himself, who must struggle for years in the uphill road to success,
one who would do honour to this higher rank which seemed about to
be laid at her feet. And Cuthbert, with the self-denial of a man who
magnanimously gives up, what he sees no hope of ever attaining,
said to himself: No—no—His affection, strong and powerful as it
was, should never stand in Rose’s way.
And this was no small trial to Cuthbert. He had come here prepared
to say certain things which would have made one heart in Allenders
leap. He had even gone so far as to confide his intention to his
mother, and it was somewhat hard now to give it up, and go steadily
back to his books and his struggles, relinquishing for ever the fairy
solace of these disappointed hopes. It was hard—was it right?
Cuthbert persuaded himself so, as he rode silently along those
wintry lanes, where the snow lay thick under the hedges, and
whitened every spray; but Cuthbert did not know how great a share
in it belonged to the pride which lay at the bottom of his heart.
When he returned to Allenders, Rose was busy with Agnes in
preparation for the party. He did not see her, and this brought
confirmation to his previous thoughts. Then came the party itself, an
ordinary collection of well-looking, well-dressed people, among
whom Cuthbert, with his pre-occupied thoughts, found very little to
interest him. Miss Dunlop, it is true, a well-bred, trained, mature
young lady, acquainted with the world, made herself very polite and
agreeable, and evidently regarded Cuthbert as one of the most
tolerable persons present; but then Mr. Dunlop was at Rose’s side
again, and Rose looked shy and pale, and embarrassed, shrinking
from the glance and touch of her new attendant as an indifferent
person never could do. Cuthbert turned away with a great sigh when
he perceived her face flush and grow pale, her hand tremble, her
eyes cast down. He thought it was the stranger beside her, whose
presence called forth these unwilling evidences of maidenly tremor
and confusion; and he turned away, feeling as if some burning hand
had clutched at his heart.
But Cuthbert could not see the wistful glances, which, when he
painfully averted his eyes, dwelt upon him with inquiring sadness;
and when he looked again, Rose was sitting, silent as before, with
sudden flushes on her face, and sudden tremors in her frame,
answering, it is true, with few words and a little melancholy smile,
when any one addressed her, but entirely failing to make the
impression which Harry had predicted for her pink silk gown. And
there was Mr. Dunlop paying his devoirs gallantly; those easy
assiduities of word and manner!—Cuthbert felt the strong love sicken
his own heart, as he said to himself that these had charmed the
trustful spirit of his Lady Rose.
And Mr. Dunlop, observing the changes of her face, at first with a
little amusement, very soon came to the same conclusion too, and
was embarrassed and annoyed, gratified and proud. For nothing was
further from the thoughts of the baronet’s son, for whom the
magnanimous Cuthbert was willing to sacrifice himself, than any
particular admiration of Rose, or the faintest intention of offering
himself to the sister of Harry Muir. But the young man was human,
and not insensible to ladies’ love. He thought, like Cuthbert, that his
attractions had overpowered Rose, and his tone insensibly grew
tender, and his attentions marked, till Rose, able to bear it no longer,
stole away.
“Poor Rose Allenders,” said Miss Dunlop to Cuthbert, as Rose left
the room. “She seems to think John is in love with her; she is a very
nice little girl, I think, but some young ladies are so ridiculous, taking
every little attention so seriously, and I really must speak to John.”
But Cuthbert, if she knew it, could have thrown John out of the
window with far greater pleasure than he handed John’s sister to the
new piano; and immediately after he sat down for a full hour to watch
the door, with so much tenderness and solicitude in his face, that
Rose, when she stole in again, brightened as with a sudden
sunshine. And Cuthbert’s heart lightened a little too; but still it was
full of distrust and doubt, and he never drew near her to speak the
words, or hear the response, which might have set this doubt at rest.
The night was over, and nothing but the most ordinary civilities had
passed between them; next morning he was to go away. He stood
on the threshold in his rough travelling coat and plaid, saying “Good
bye,” with a voice which slightly faltered. He had shaken hands with
Rose in the dining-room, where they breakfasted, and now he
thought he was taking farewell of Allenders. But as he looked back
between Martha and Agnes who had come with him to the door,
Cuthbert saw a shy lingering figure in the doorway of the room he
had left. His heart warmed; he stepped back to take Rose’s hand
again, and press it kindly in another farewell. They said nothing
except “Good bye;” but Cuthbert caught one timid upward glance,
and Rose saw the full steady look which conveyed to her so much of
what the heart meant to say. The cloud rose from her heart and
floated away; in another moment Cuthbert was gone, and she sat
down to her work in intense silence, eager to resume her dreams;
but Cuthbert rolled away on the frosty road, and looked back on
Allenders, with a sadness at his heart.
 He had hitherto unconsciously assumed to himself the right of
assistance and succour if any emergency should come. Now he felt
this gliding away from him—now he could no longer dream of
carrying this Rose in his arms to the safe place where rains of
adversity might beat upon its gentle heart no more. The future, of
which he had speculated so much, grew misty and uncertain to
Cuthbert. The little cloud of breath before him, hovering in the frosty
air, rose up like a white mist upon distant Benledi, and obscured him,
though he looked out from among the clouds; and so, over many a
great event and many a weighty hour, this little present mist rose dim
and disheartening, and Cuthbert could not look beyond it—could not
in his blended pride, and eagerness, and anxiety, distinguish the
simple truth under this momentary veil.
But Harry, by his side, spoke of his projects, and Cuthbert seemed
to listen, and gave answers not so far astray, though Cuthbert’s
thoughts were little employed about Harry’s improvements, and it
cost him an effort to keep up his attention. They parted very cordially,
however, and Harry urged upon his friend repeated invitations to
return, which Cuthbert was fain to evade. He remembered Rose’s
parting glance, and could not prevail upon himself to resign the
chance of going back; but again he thought of the previous day, the
previous night, and sighed to himself heavily as he turned his face
towards home. He thought he had looked his last upon Rose.
When Harry left Cuthbert, he went to his bankers and drew a very
considerable sum from his “capital;” but Harry felt he had been very
economical lately, and could afford a little indulgence now; so he
ordered some pretty bits of jewellery which he had fancied Agnes
wanted last night, and called on Gilbert Allenders and some other
choice spirits, and dined with them at the principal inn, and spent the
evening merrily; nor was it until John had made repeated
representations of the darkness of the night, and the necessity for
getting home, that Harry suffered himself to be persuaded, and bade
a reluctant good-night to his friends.
Charteris was bending over a mass of papers, schooling the heart
which still throbbed so loudly, and wearying himself out with
indifferent business, that his disappointment might not sit too near
the source of his strength, when Harry, wearied by quite a different
process, drove past the dark and silent houses at Maidlin Cross. The
labourers there were lying down to the untroubled slumber
purchased by a toilsome day; and the children were asleep in
Allenders, and Martha was standing by the window of her own room,
looking out into a darkness so profound, that it made her blind, and
feeling a darkness profounder still within the heart, which she
coerced into absolute silence; when, drowsy and wearied out,
dazzled with the lights, and annoyed by the quietness, Harry came
home.
 CHAPTER II.

He will hang upon him like a disease.

much ado about nothing.

“I’ve a great mind to practice out here, Harry,” said Gilbert
Allenders; “lots of scarlet-fever, and measles, and hooping-cough, to
start a man. And I want to be decent and respectable, and get out of
temptation. If you were in an interesting position, like me, I’d get you
a couple of rooms at Allender Mains, and invite you to dinner every
day, till you were set up. Interesting children of Maidlin, you don’t
know how much you want a doctor!”
“And would you actually come out here in winter, Gilbert?” said
Harry. “You don’t know how dull it is sometimes.”
Harry drew his hat over his eyes, and returned very gruffly the
passing salutation of Geordie Paxton. It was now a week since he
had visited his fields, and that was more than time to make Harry
sick—as he said—of the whole concern.
“The duties of my profession, Sir,” said Gilbert, solemnly: “a medical
man is always a martyr to the public and his duty—always. By the
way, Harry, what would you say to take a run up to town for a week
or two, just before settling down? I think it would do me good.”
And Mr. Gilbert laid his hand on his heart, and sighed, as if he were
the most interesting invalid in the world.
“To town? Do you mean to Stirling? I am there often enough
already,” said Harry.
“Stirling!” Mr. Gilbert put up his hand to arrange the great woollen
cravat he wore and laughed hoarsely. “You don’t fancy I call that little
hole of a place, town! How innocent you are, after all!”
 “Am I?” Harry felt himself grow very angry, and kicking away a
stone which happened to lie beside his foot, sent it spinning through
a group of Maidlin boys, dispersing themselves and their “bools” in
all directions. If it had only broken Gilbert Allenders’ shins instead, it
would have pleased Harry better; but even this was a satisfaction.
“Very well aimed,” said Gilbert, approvingly. “What I mean is,
London-town—there is but one ‘town’ in the world. Come up with me,
Harry, and I’ll help you to enjoy yourself. Come.”
“Help me to enjoy myself, will you?” said Harry, scornfully. Harry
was more impatient of his companion to-day, than he had been for a
long time.
“Come, come, we’re old companions now,” said Gilbert; “and I know
you wouldn’t dislike going to London: a man of your years and
station, who has never been in London, is something quite
unparallelled! The country should subscribe for a glass-case, and
show you in it as a real old country-gentleman, who has never been
in town all his life, and never means to go!”
“There is such a thing as going too far,” said Harry, haughtily.
“Who was it said that, the first night I saw you—” said the malicious
Gilbert; “don’t you remember? But I wont aggravate you, Harry; and
you needn’t look as if you could eat me. Come, will you go?”
“I don’t care for seeing London. What is it to me?” said Harry, with
dignity: “just half-a-dozen big towns compounded into one! What
should send everybody to London? At the same time, perhaps I may
go: it’s just as well going there, as staying at home here, doing
nothing. And there is really nothing to be done on the land just now,
in such a frost.”
“You have been quite a hero, Harry!” said Gilbert; “few men, I can
tell you, could have done what you have done. You ought to give
yourself a little rest. Such a thing as this, now,” said Gilbert, pointing
to a line of carts slowly proceeding, with much ringing of horses’
hoofs and carters’ clogs, along the frosty, whitened road, “just to
stand and let those odorous carts pass by might upset a man of your