Chapter VII.

WE were nearly two years in Edinburgh; and it was there, of course, that baby Harry came into the world. He made a great difference in many things. I could not go out to walk with Harry any longer; I could not even sit and talk with him so much, and, however economical I was, it could not be denied that already three of us cost more than two of us had done. It is strange enough, but still it is true, baby, bless him, brought thorns upon the roses that came with him into the world. Harry had not lived in a family since his father died long ago; he had lived a young man’s life, and had his own fastidious fancies like (I suppose) most young men. He was very much delighted when baby came, but he was not so much delighted when baby was always with us, and occupying almost all my time and attention; and it fretted him when he saw traces about that once nice cosy sitting-room, which was nursery now as well as dining-room and drawing-room; even baby’s basket, all trimmed with white muslin and pink ribbons, which he thought very pretty at first, annoyed him now when he saw it about; and when I had to stop talking to him in order to see after baby, he would first laugh, then bite his lip, then whistle, then go to the window, and after a while say he had better smoke his cigar outside while I was so busy. I dare say this cost me a few tears, for of course I thought there was no occupation in the world so sweet as nursing baby, and was sadly disappointed just at first that Harry could not be content to watch his pretty ways every moment as I did; however, I had to make up my mind to it. And as it was my business to mind Harry as well as his son, I had to think it all over in my mind what was to be done. It was hard work considering what was best; for to think of getting a servant upon our small means went to my very heart. At last one day I formed a great resolution, and took Mrs. Saltoun into my confidence.

“Here is how it is,” said I, “I must have a maid to help me with baby when Mr. Langham is at home. Men can’t understand things; they think it so odd to see one always with a baby on one’s lap; especially when they have not been accustomed to anything of the sort. Mrs. Saltoun, I shall be obliged to have a maid.”{72}

“I told you so, my dear, the very day the lammie was born,” said Mrs. Saultoun; “but I’m one that never presses my advice. I know experience is far more effectual than anything I can say.”

“But look here—I can’t afford it—it’s a disgrace to think of such a thing with our small means, while I am perfectly strong and quite able to take care of him myself; but what can I do?” said I.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Saltoun, “poverty’s dreadful, and debt is worse; but it’s heaviest of all the three to make a young married man discontented with his ain house. Dinna be affronted; I’m no saying a word! the Captain’s just extraordinary; but he’s no the lad to be second to the baby for a’ that; and it’s nothing to sigh about. Thae’s just the kind of troubles every woman has to set her face to, as sure’s she’s born. My dear, however much ye canna afford, you’ll have to contrive.”

“Well, I have been thinking. If you will promise faithfully never to tell anybody, and keep my secret, and above everything, whatever you do, never let Harry know!” cried I.

“I’ll promise,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “but I’ll not promise to give my consent unless it’s feasible and in reason; and no unbecoming the Captain’s bonnie young wife.”

“The Captain’s wife!—ah, if he were only the Captain!—but he’s just a subaltern yet,” said I; “however, you will be disappointed if you think I am meaning anything great. I can’t do anything to bring in money, and I am sure Harry would not let me if I could. No—it’s only—oh, Mrs. Saltoun, if you would help me!—I could get up all the linen myself. I can do it, though you may not think so. All Harry’s things that he is so particular about, the laundress here never pleases him; and baby’s frocks. I think if you would contrive to help me, I could save so many shillings a week. I’ll do those pretty collars of yours and your fine caps, and you shall see how pretty they’ll look.”

“But your pretty bits of hands, my dear?” said Mrs. Saltoun; “a small matter of work betrays itself on a lady’s hands that’s not used to do anything. They would let out your secret, however well I kept it. What would you do with your hands?”

“But it will not hurt my hands—such beautiful clean work—it is quite a lady’s work,” said I; “and then I can put gloves on when I am done, and get some of the kalydor stuff. Besides, it will be only one day in the week.”

Mrs. Saltoun sat thinking it over, but she could not say a{73} single word against it. If I couldn’t have done it, it might have been slow work learning; but I had a genius for it! Ah, hadn’t I ironed out Aunt Connor’s lace much oftener than the clear-starcher did! So here was something at once that could be saved; and nobody knows how dreadful the laundress’s bill is when there’s a baby in the house; so now I thought I might venture to try and look for a maid.

“My great terror was you were thinking of giving lessons, or selling some trumpery of fancy work, begging your pardon, my dear,” said Mrs. Saltoun; “for the young ladies now-a-days would a’ break their necks to make money, before they would take a step out of their road to save it; and indeed, you’re not far wrong that clear-starching is lady’s work. It takes nice fingers, dainty, clean, and light. I was in an awfu’ fright it was lessons on the piano, or handscreens to take into the Repository. But it’s really very reasonable for a young creature of your years; if you’re quite clear in your own mind you can take the responsibility of shirts. Of all the things I’ve seen in my life I canna remember that I ever saw a man what you could call perfectly pleased.”

“I am not afraid about that; but remember, you have promised solemnly, upon your honour,” said I, “never, whatever you do, to tell Harry!”

“I’ll keep my word. But what put it into your head, a sensible young woman like you, to go and run away with the like of a young sodger officer, that everybody knows have scarcely enough for themselves, let alone a wife? And if it’s hard work now, what will it be when you’ve a large family? and how will you ever live or keep your heart if he goes to war?”

“Mrs. Saltoun, don’t speak!” cried I; “what is the use of making me miserable? He is not going to the war to-day. It is not certain there is to be a war at all. Why do you put such dreadful things in my mind? If he goes I’ll have to bear it like the other soldiers’ wives; but do you suppose I have strength to bear it now beforehand, before the time? God does not promise anybody so much. If such a dreadful, dreadful thing should be, I’ll get strength for it that day.”

The good old lady did not say a word, but stroked my hand that was resting on the table in a kind of comforting, coaxing way. I looked up very much alarmed, but I could not see anything particular in her face. I suppose she was sorry for me only in a general sort of way; because I was young, and{74} poor, and just beginning my troubles. So strange! I was pitying her all the same for being old, and nearly at the end of hers. How different things must seem at that other end of the road! Some of her children were dead, some married, close at hand so far as space was concerned, but far distant lost in their own life. I dare say when she liked she could go back into memory and be again a young wife like me, or an anxious middle-aged mother like her own daughter-in-law—and here it had ended, leaving her all alone. But she was very cheerful and contented all the same.

Harry came in while I was busy with planning about my new maid. After I had decided that she would have to sleep somewhere, and wondered why neither Mrs. Saltoun nor myself had ever thought of that, I had begun to wonder what sort of a person I should get; whether, perhaps, she would be a dear good friend-servant, or one of the silly girls one hears about. If she were a silly girl, even, there might be good in her. But here Harry came in, and my thoughts were all dissipated. He looked a little excited, and had a paper in his hand, out of which he seemed just about to read me something. Then he paused all at once, looked first at me and then at baby’s cradle, and his face clouded all over. I got terribly alarmed; I rushed up to him and begged him to tell me, for pity, what it was.

“It’s nothing but fancy,” said Harry. “I was going to tell you great news, my Milly darling; but it came over me, somehow, what you would do, and who would take care of you if you should be left alone with your baby; even though I were not killed.”

“God would take care of us,” I cried out sharp, being in a kind of agony. “Say it out—you are going to the war?”

“No, no; nothing of the sort; only look here. It has thrown us all into great excitement; but we are not under orders, nor like to be,” said Harry. “Don’t tremble—we are all safe yet, you foolish Milly. Look here.”

Though I was leaning upon him, and he held the paper before my eyes, I could not read a word. But I guessed what it was. It was the Proclamation of War.

“Come out with me and hear it read at the Cross. It is to be done at twelve o’clock. Come,” said Harry, coaxing and soothing me; “it is something to see. Pluck up a heart, Milly! Come and hear it courageously, like a soldier’s wife. But, oh! I forgot baby,” he said, stopping short all at once with a soft of half-annoyed laugh.{75}

“Baby shan’t prevent me this time,” I cried; for what between this dreadful news and the excitement in Harry’s mind, and the sudden way he stopped when he recollected I couldn’t rightly go out with him, I was desperate. “Mrs. Saltoun will keep him till I come back; and he will not wake, perhaps, for an hour.”

The old lady came when I asked her; and was quite pleased to sit down by the cradle while I tied on my bonnet with my trembling hands. Harry was very kind—very pleased. We went along winding up the steep paths, through the gardens to the Castle, my favourite walk, and into that long, grand, noisy old street with the yellow haze lingering between the deep houses, down the long slope towards Holyrood. I could see the people clearly enough about the streets, the little groups all clustered about the outside stairs, and the stir of something going to happen. But I could not look at the official people coming to say it again and make it more certain. If the trumpet had been a gun and killed somebody, my heart could scarcely have leaped more. Harry’s cheek flushed up; and I could almost fancy I felt the blood stir and swell in the arm I was leaning on. He was a soldier, and he forgot me as he held up his head and listened. Just then I could not hold up my head. The trumpet sounded to me, somehow, as if it came lonely out of the distance over some battle where men were dying who had wives and babies at home. A woman stood before me crying, and drew my attention for a moment. She dared say out what was in her heart, because, though perhaps she was no poorer, she was not a lady like me. “Eh, weary on them! it’s your man and my man that’s to pay for their fancies,” she was saying among her tears. “Glad! do ye ask me to be glad at sound o’ war? If our regiment doesna gang the day, it’ll gang some day. I’ve five weans that canna fend for themsels’, and I’m a sodger’s wife. God help us a’!” I dropped my veil over my face to hide my eyes from Harry, and slid my hand out of his arm—he, all excited in his soldier-mind, scarcely knowing it—to speak to my neighbour who had spoken to my heart. I had nothing to give her but my hand and my own troubled fellow-feeling, too deep and sore to be called sympathy. “For I am a soldier’s wife, too; and God help us, as you say!” I cried in her ear. She wiped off her tears, poor soul, to look at me as Harry drew me away. She and the other woman with her whispered about us as we went away through the crowd. They forgot their own anxiety to pity “the poor young thing, the young lieutenant’s wife.” I know they did,{76} the kind creatures; for one of them said so another day.—God help us all, soldiers’ wives!

“But do you know this is like a little coward, Milly darling,” said Harry, as we walked home, when he found I could not speak, “and foolish as well. We are not going to the wars.”

“If you are not going to-day, you will go some day,” I cried, with a sob. She said true, poor soul; I felt it in my heart.

“To be sure we shall,” said Harry; “and you care neither for glory nor promotion, nor to have your husband do his duty, you poor-spirited Milly! But you can’t act Lady Fanshawe now; you will have baby to comfort you at home.”

“Do you mean that you are going?” cried I.

“Hush, hush! why this is like a child. I am not going. But, Milly, understand; if I don’t go some day, I shall be wretched. Make up your mind; you are a soldier’s wife.”

So I went home with this in my heart. Oh, my poor little economies, my little vulgar cares about the housekeeping! And perhaps he was going away from me to be killed. But hush, hush! I could not be Lady Fanshawe any more, now that there were three of us in the world; and Harry said the truest love would stay at home and pray.