The Harrises: being an extract from the commonplace book of Alexander Smith, the Elder

Preface

. It has been my habit, throughout a long life, to keep what can hardly be called a diary — because very little is recorded therein relating to myself — but a sort of commonplace-book, wherein, from time to time, I have entered the heads or out lines of the histories of such of my acquaintances as had any history attaching to them at all. I believe that I was originally induced to fall into this custom by observing the care with which my old and respected friend, John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, adhered to it. What his executors may have done with the many manuscript vol umes of ' Rural Biography ' which used to crowd VI

PREFACE.

. his book-shelves, is more than I can say. But I well remember the eagerness with which that worthy man and eminent scholar and antiquary used to take down from its place one or other of these volumes, and read therefrom, as often as he could get a patient listener, much that wearied, and a good deal that interested and amused. Nor was it on me exclusively, then a mere youth and his occasional visitor, tbat he was wont to confer this favour. The late Lord Woodhouselee, Professor Robison of Edinburgh, Dr Gregory, Dr Gleig of Stirling, Dr Doig, second to no Scotchman of his day for scholarly erudition, — these, with many more of like standing in the world of letters, drank often from the same Cas talian spring ; appearing on each occasion to be most refreshed when their host arrived at the epitaph — a species of composition in which he piqued himself on having attained perfection, and which, either because it was perfect in itself, or that it brought the day's reading to a close,

PREFACE.

. VII never failed to receive from his auditors very hearty commendation. Looking over some of the earlier of these my records, I lighted, not long ago, upon the skeleton of the following history. "Were I, as my old friend was, master of a modest mansion on the Teith ; had I the same salictum, or willow-grove, that he had, or one akin to it, wherein to receive my guests, I might have gathered round me an audience small, but select, and delivered my own soul as he used to deliver his. But in the absence of these temptations to a more quiet sederunt, it occurred to me that it might not be amiss to clothe the bones with flesh and fibre, and to let the narrative fight its own way to such reception as the public might be disposed to concede to it. And here it is. Possibly one or two of my contemporaries may still survive. If any such there be in the land of the living, it is further possible that they may recognise a few, at least, of the originals from

PREFACE.

. VIII which these copies are taken. But I do not on that account experience any apprehension that private feeling will be wounded by what is set down here, or the interests or social status of any human being injuriously affected. All the actors in my drama, whether principal or subordinate, have long gone to their account ; and the noble family, of which the patro^-mic is, of course, a misnomer, probably never heard, in the present generation, of what the generation that preceded them did and suffered. What the moral of my tale may be, I leave each of my readers to make out for himself, being content to subscribe myself his hearty well wisher, Alexander (more generally known as Sandy) Smith, the Elder. BOOK FIRST BOOK FIRST. CHAPTEE I. "death, where is thy sting?" The curtain rises, and we look in upon a chamber over which the angel of death seems to be spreading out his wings.

It is dimly lighted by the rays of a solitary candle, which, doubtless of set purpose, has been removed to a distant corner of the room ; and by the dull flickering of a fire, in front of which, with their backs to the foot of the bed, two gentlemen, both in the prime of manhood, are sitting. They appear to be bowed down with grief, though the attitude of the elder of the two is more abject than that of the younger ; and both are motionless and silent. slfl VOL. I. A Apart from them and on the further side of the bed, a woman large and muscular occupies an easy-chair. She is evidently a hired nurse, for, with the indifference incident to her calling, she dozes in her seat, waking up from time to time to do nothing. The chamber, a room of moderate dimensions, is sufficiently without being elegantly furnished.

Across the window which faces the door, clean white dimity curtains are drawn. On one side of the fireplace, in the recess between the chimney-piece and the wall, stands a mahog any wardrobe, and on the other a wash - hand stand also mahogany, and surmounted with marble. The walls are neatly but not expen sively papered ; the floor is covered with a Brus sels carpet, and the bed itself has its plain white dimity hangings, which, however, are carefully gathered up at this moment into two knots, so as to impede as little as possible the free cir culation of air. Silence the most profound pre vails in that chamber, broken only by that short, sharp, spasmodic breathing which tells of a spirit struggling, and struggling hard, to free itself from the burden of the flesh. For on the bed, between which and the fireplace the two gentlemen are sit ting, lies one, about whom the medical attendant, before taking his leave only ten minutes ago, had pronounced that he could be of no further use to her.

He had exhausted his skill, he had done all that man could do ; she was in God's hands now; his presence was no longer necessary. 0 doom of dread ! if it be spoken in our hearing over some one who has been to us no more than an everyday friend and acquaintance ! 0 terrible sentence ! when the one dear life seems to be struck at by it, which is more closely linked with our own than all in God's creation besides. Who that has ever heard it so pronounced can forget, let him live as long as he may, the dead ening, stupefying, altogether incomprehensible in fluence which it exercised over his whole moral being when first he tried to take it in ? Who does not remember, that not till after an inter val of days, or possibly of weeks, the full measure of all that was involved in it came home to him ; when the future and the present alike had lost their interest for him, and brooding continually over the past, he felt that for him the light of life was gone out for ever ? 0 doom of dread ! heard that night by men who, hearing, seemed not to understand, but sat them down again without a word spoken, without a tear shed, to gaze with vacant stare into the grate.

It is an awful scene, and yet how continually repeated ! The short, sharp, spasmodic breathing went on for an hour or more after the medical attendant had taken his departure. The nurse had risen once or twice to moisten the lips of the breather, when suddenly the stupor into which the two gentlemen seemed to have fallen was broken, and both sprang to their feet and faced round. Rais ing herself slowly on her elbow the dying woman spoke. How beautiful she was ! how unearthly ! with the deep pink fever-flush upon her cheek, and those large lustrous eyes opened to their fullest stretch. She spoke, but not in our English tongue. What she said was of little moment except to herself, and possibly to these two men, both of whom understood her. " Do you not hear the music 1 Is it not divine?" That was all.

" God may be gracious to us yet," exclaimed the younger of the two, in a low eager whisper : " watch you beside her, while I go and fetch Dr Sumner. If human skill can avail at all, you know that we shall find it in him." " Yes, yes," was the reply, " but consider " " Consider ! no. I'll consider nothing now except to save her if we can." So saying, he stole softly but swiftly out of the room, threw a cloak round his shoulders, and let himself out at the front door. It was a keen cold night in January ; the snow lay thick on bush, shrub, and lawn, and covered the tops of the houses with an incrustation of sparkling silver. The air was very still ; and clear and bright in a cloudless sky the moon was shining. He descended at a single bound the flight of steps which led down to a little garden or enclosure.

Through this he hurried, and, unlocking a gate in the wall beyond, emerged into a road on either side of which a row of detached villas had just begun to be erected. Along this he ran, his footfalls making amid the thick snow little or no sound ; and he himself regardless of every object before or about him, except that his eye sought eagerly in all directions for a hackney coach. None, however, was discernible either near or far away, so he rushed forward at the top of his speed, turned sharp to his right, and found himself by-and-by where the suburbs began to lose themselves in the town. " My God ! my God ! " he cried aloud, " are they all gone home, just at this moment when life and death hang in the balance ! " He forgot that the place which he had left behind was far removed from coach-stands.

But fortune favoured him more than he had any right to expect. Just as he gave utterance to this bitter cry, a post-chaise, returning, it seemed, from some distant journey, overtook him, and he eagerly hailed it. The promise of a handsome douceur induced the driver to make light of his own fatigue and the fatigue of his horses. The door was opened, the steps let down, and as fast as the jaded brutes could be constrained to move, the carriage made its way to Green Street. To spring out, to ring the bell violently, and warn the post-boy that he must be ready to undertake another journey, were all the work of a moment. While he waited for the door of the house to be opened, the bells of a hundred churches began to strike. It is astonishing how the striking of the clock affects our minds when they are wound up to a pitch of painful anxiety.

A superstitious dread creeps over us that if the brazen tongues speak on beyond some as signed limit, evil will surely befall ; if the knell stop just where we desire it to stop, the issue may be favourable. The gentleman standing on the door-step in Green Street cast his destiny on that issue. But before the issue could be settled the door opened, and his thoughts were diverted into another channel. Dr Sumner was at home and in bed. A card, bearing the name of his nocturnal visitor, was sent up, and in a few minutes the Doctor made his appearance buttoning his coat, and otherwise evincing symptoms of eager haste. " For heaven's sake, what is it . " " Don't stop to ask questions now, but come with me. A post-chaise stands at the door, and I will tell you everything as we go along. Come at once, and save her life if you can, which is hanging on a thread."

They entered the chaise together. The post boy turned round, and drove as he was directed, overhearing, of course, no part of the conversation which passed between the gentlemen inside. But that it had deeply interested the Doctor was evident from the expression of his countenance when the bright moonlight fell upon it as they alighted. " Is there any hope \ " was the question then put. " While there's life there's hope ; but the case, as you describe it, is not one of promise." By this time the chaise was dismissed. The gate in the garden-wall was opened, and the two men were crossing the lawn together. Sharp ears had caught the sound of wheels, muffled though it was in the snow, and upon the landing-place and in the open doorway stood the watcher to receive them. "Save her, Doctor — oh save her! — and I will fall down and worship you."

" It is not for me to save or to kill. Where is she?" They ascended the stairs and entered the sick room, where again the absolute silence was broken only by the same short, sharp, spasmodic breathing which had broken it an hour before. The patient had again become prostrated ; the eyelids were drooped over the eyes, the balls of which seemed to be turned upwards, for only the whites were visible. The Doctor looked down and shook his head. " You have called me to no purpose ; she is sinking fast. There is nothing to be done except to submit." " Her extremities have been cold these two hours," interposed the nurse ; " she is dead al ready." " Make strong mustard poultices, and apply them to her feet," he said sternly, and looking at the last speaker. " But it's no use," he added, in a softer tone ; " the spark of life is going out rapidly — rapidly."

Down upon his knees before the speaker fell the elder of the two gentlemen. He clasped his hands together, and looking up into the Doctor's face with an expression of intense agony, prayed him to save her. " Save her, save her, Sumner ! don't let her die. I can't die with her. I dare not go where she is going ! Save her even yet — even yet ! " " Man, am I God, that you appeal to me thus ? " So saying, the Doctor turned aside from the speaker, not tenderly, but severely. Meanwhile the poultices had been applied, and they produced a momentary effect. It seemed, indeed, as if the vital energies, loath to be subdued, would even yet rally ; for she again half opened her eyes, and her lips moved. They all stooped down to listen, but the words which came, came in broken accents. "It grows very dark.

I hear a bell. Oh, my love — take care of my love — come nearer — nearer." Then there came a long pause, the eyes closing once more. Then they suddenly opened again — opened to their fullest stretch — and from them a light streamed out, so clear, so ecstatic, so un earthly, that not one of those who witnessed the spectacle that night ever afterwards forgot it. " Angels ! angels ! I see them ! They fill the room ! I see it all ! How glorious ! " It was the last effort of nature — the last struggle with the great enemy — the last attempt, let us rather say, of matter to crib and confine the immortal spirit. For who can doubt that the words then spoken described truly, though in out line, the dawn of glories which become visible to the righteous, and only to the righteous, when that which is immortal in them is passing from time into eternity .

Be that as it may, the speaker never spoke again. Slowly and gradually her stare became fixed and lustreless. Heavier, and at longer intervals, the breathing came, and at last, with one deep convulsive sob, the spirit passed away. The unbroken silence of death fell upon the room like a dark shadow.

Chapter II

" GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY 1 " The blow had fallen, and all who surrounded the bed, not excepting the nurse herself, appeared to be stunned by it. Its immediate effect upon each was peculiar, probably characteristic. Prone to the ground, as if stricken by a sledge-hammer, the elder of the two gentlemen fell. He grovelled on the floor, hiding his face in his hands. The younger bowed his head towards the dead, and was silent. The Doctor stepped back a pace, and uttered the words, as it seemed unconsciously, to himself, " What a tragedy ! " Presently the younger of the two gentlemen spoke, addressing himself to the elder. There was a strange' mix ture in his tone of bitterness and commiseration, though the latter perhaps preponderated. " Rise — rise ; no good can come of this now ; you have been too long here already.

Remember that others must be thought of as well as your self. Rise, and go home." The person addressed made no answer, neither did he change his position. Probably he did not hear. The Doctor, upon this, approached, and taking hold of his arm, lifted him up. The ex pression of his countenance was cadaverous, and his stare vacant and wild. " You must rouse yourself and act ; this is no time for self-abandonment. Go ! We will re main and do all that's necessary to-night. You can return to-morrow, if you like." The abject man obeyed abjectly. Without casting so much as another glance towards the bed, he allowed his coat and hat to be brought, and, putting them on mechanically, moved away and closed the room-door after him. The Doctor, turning towards the window, drew back the cur tain. The grew dawn of a winter's morning was coming in, and he saw in its light the figure of the departing man cross the little lawn.

He saw the gate in the wall open, the figure pass through, the gate close again, and the figure disappear. He continued, however, to look through the window still, as if to withdraw himself from the scene which might be passing behind him. It was an act of exceeding delicacy on his part, yet the friend from whom he diverted his eyes scarcely recognised the fact. It is certain that it exercised no influence whatever over his proceedings, for he still stood where he had been standing when the last act in the tragedy was played out, and continued to gaze, as he had gazed then, upon the countenance beautiful in death. Pre sently he stooped down and kissed the cold brow, and then, without uttering a single syllable, turned, and withdrew towards the fireplace. The Doctor heard him move, and turned also, and they sat down in front of the fire together.

By-and-by the feeble cry of an infant was heard, and the nurse quitted the room. Their tongues, on this, appeared to be loosened. "What's to be done with the child?" asked the Doctor. "Done with it ; what should be done with it ? I will take it home with me, and give it my name, and rear it with the rest of my children, and give it all a father's love. Oh, Doctor, she was so good, so pure, so gifted, so beautiful ! I wor shipped the very ground on which she trod ; and so would you have done had you known her as I knew her. God forgive me! I am tempted at this moment to believe that there is no Provi dence watching over us or shaping out our des tinies. Do with her child ! Do you think that I could ever consent to intrust a charge so precious to strangers ? " " I am the last man in the world, as you know, to put prudence in the scale against moral right ; but you ought well to weigh this matter before you act.

Bear in mind that your position is more than commonly delicate. Don't forget that there are interests at stake far higher than con cern you as an individual. You are not called upon to imperil these, even in such a cause as this." " And leave the innocent child to be brought up, I don't know by whom ! and cast aside, I don't know how, whenever caprice or some worse impulse shall dictate! No, my friend; I will run all risks rather than lade my soul with a burden like that." " I can't blame you for so feeling. It is gener ous, noble, perhaps right ; but I confess that I look forward with some misgivings to the possible consequences. " Be these what they may, my mind is made up. Is it not my duty to render to her dead all the reparation that I can for the evils which she suffered living ? For you know as well as I that if I don't, nobody else will."

"Perhaps ; but what will others say ?': " Make your mind easy on that head. There is nothing to fear in that direction. I have kept no secrets from her heretofore, and I can trust her fully with this also. Thanks for turning my thoughts into their proper channel. Now, will you help me, while we have the house to our selves, to look over her papers ? For many rea sons it is desirable that nothing should be preserved that might create even suspicion." The Doctor assenting, they applied themselves to ransack the wardrobe, in which, as was to be expected, they found one drawer filled with papers. Only a few of these were inscribed with the Eng lish character ; but all were arranged and tied together in little bundles, with the utmost regard to order and neatness. Bundle after bundle of letters was unrolled, and the letters themselves opened, glanced at, and committed to the flames.

It seemed, too, as if this latter operation were carried on, not only without reluctance, but with fierceness. Not one was read at length, few were even cursorily scanned over. The handwriting alone marked each as it came to the top as fit only to be burnt, and it was cast into the flames ruthlessly. At last a sealed packet, with a super scription in French, was found. It fell into the Doctor's hands, who broke the seal, uttered an exclamation of horror, and handed it to his friend. The other took and read it through calmly, re solutely, and with teeth clenched together. " I was sure of it," he said, in a low constrained tone. " I was as confident of this as I could be B VOL. I. of anything of which there was no positive proof before me. That must not go into the flames with the rest ; but what to do with it, how to act in the case, what line to take, now or here after — I confess I don't see my way to a solution of these difficulties ; do you ?"

"None further than this, that the document must be carefully preserved. It refers to that which may affect your own fortunes, and the for tunes of your family too." " My fortunes ! no, no ; not mine nor theirs. Let that pass out of your mind for ever. But to her memory and to the future of her child it may be of the greatest consequence. We must take care of it. Will you keep it, or shall I ?" " Better that neither of us keep it, unless you see your way to following up the search at once. It might get mislaid, or, in the event of a fire in either of our houses, burnt. If I were you I should deposit it with my banker, making a memorandum in duplicate, of which I can keep one copy and you the other." The suggestion was promptly acted upon. A memorandum of what had been found, and how it was to be disposed of, was at once drawn up in duplicate by the Doctor to which both of the gentlemen attached their signatures, each putting his own copy afterwards into his pocket.

The packet was next restored to its original cover and another placed over it, which was sealed with two seals, bearing the crests of the two signatories, and inscribed as deeds of importance usually are. And then the further search of the wardrobe went forward, but with far less eagerness. So passed an hour and a half, during which the dawn enlarged itself into day, bringing out into painful distinctness the squalor which, even in the best-appointed chambers, waits upon the footsteps of death. The unswept hearth, the displaced furniture — the medicine-bottles, some empty and some half filled, which crowded the chimney piece — the washstand, the night-table — the bed with its appointments rumpled and tossed about — the cold, still, wax-like countenance turned up from the pillow, — all these looked ghastly and terrible in the full blaze of a clear, calm, sunshiny winter's morning.

The two friends became sensible of the humiliating influence which, even when our tenderest affections are concerned, such objects exercise upon us, and having ended their task, they rose simultaneously and withdrew into another apartment. It was a little drawing room, furnished with admirable taste, and looking out upon the garden, one small flight of steps beneath the chamber where they had passed the night — and there in silence and melancholy they breakfasted together. Meanwhile directions were given, and all things necessary done, to prepare the body for its last resting-place. The nurse also was di rected to bring in the child, which slept calmly and sweetly while these two men kissed its little forehead, one of them weeping bitterly while he did so. Then, after locking the drawers in the bedroom, and making the key safe, they walked out together in order to deposit their precious burden at the Bank in St James's, and to give the necessary orders for the funeral.

They finaUy parted in Green Street— the Doctor that he might get himself ready to visit his many pa tients — his friend returning to spend the day in the villa where he had spent so miserable a night. We need not linger over this portion of our history. The gentleman whose fortunes we have thus far followed spent the day alone — so he did the day following, and the day after that. His companion at the death-scene returned no more ; no, not even when the hearse and a solitary mourning - coach drew up in the road to receive their respective burdens. He and the Doctor were the only mourners who saw the coffin borne out of the chamber, down the steps, across the lawn still covered with snow, and deposited in the hearse. They took their seats together in the mourning-coach, and the little cavalcade went on its way.

A churchyard in the vicinity of London, yet far enough removed to retain a good deal of that air of simple gravity which gives to our village cemeteries their peculiar charm, was the point to which they were driven. The clergyman met them in his surplice at the gate, and walked before, repeating, as he went, the well-known sentences, " I am the Resurrection and the Life, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." The psalm and the lesson were read in the body of the church, and by - and - by the undertaker's men lifted the coffin again, and bore it to the open grave. What a moment is that ! when, the pall being withdrawn, the cords are heard to rattle through the rings, and, sway ing to and fro, the coffin is lowered, slowly, carefully, down into the abyss.

" Hold up, my poor fellow, hold up," the Doctor whispered to his friend, as the latter, advancing to the very edge of the grave, raised his hands above his head and clasped them together. Vain words, had they not been promptly followed by the unlocking of those clasped hands, and the bringing of one firmly yet kindly under the arm of the speaker. For the brain of the mourner swam round, so that, supported upon the shoulder of his friend, it cannot be said that he heard or saw, except as in a dream, how " earth was committed to earth, dust to dust, and ashes to ashes." They turned away at the close of the service, both of them sad, one stupefied. No conversation passed between them as they drove back at a rapid pace to the place whence they had set out ; and when they entered the villa itself they did so mechanically, for the sense of desolation which came over both as they traversed the little hall, passing thence into the drawing-room, seemed to have stifled in them every other con sciousness.

" It is over now," the Doctor at length said, " and you have a great duty to perform; rouse yourself and face it." " True, true," was the answer; and then it was arranged between them that the Doctor, after settling for arrears of rent, and giving to the landlady and her daughter a few articles of wearing apparel — rather as memorials of a lodger to whom they had been very much attached, than because the present was intrinsically valuable — should remove the effects of the deceased to his own house, and keep them there till otherwise advised. This settled, there remained only one thing more to be done. A post-chaise was al ready at the gate, from which a respectably dressed young woman descended. She helped to convey to the carriage a box, as well as a plain leather portmanteau, after which she en tered the drawing-room and curtsied to the gentlemen.