My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky;So was it when my life began,So is it now when I am old—The child is father to the man,And I would have my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky;So was it when my life began,So is it now when I am old—The child is father to the man,And I would have my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky;So was it when my life began,So is it now when I am old—The child is father to the man,And I would have my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.—Wordsworth.
Thetrees stooped grandly over the wan water in all their autumn wealth of colouring, dropping now and then a fluttering, feeble leaf through the sunshine and the chill air, which already felt the breath of winter. The long, yellow tresses of the ash were already gone, the glories of the sycamore lay so thick upon the ground that you could scarcely see the damp verdure of the grass underneath for the hundredfold of russet leaves which covered it; the heavy fir obtruded its spectral branches through the thin ranks of its neighbours; the red, dry leaves were stiffening on the oak and the beech; and with the flush of the red October light not quite departed, there had risen the first pallid November day.
“No, Lilias, it is not a melancholy time to me,” said Adam Graeme. “I like these changes—I like to see this calm nature harmonized to our humanity; not always bare and stern, not always in the pride of strength and sunshine, but touched with the mortal breath, putting off and putting on the mortal garments. I like the cadence these old leaves make as they pass away. There is the kindred tone in it; an analogy more minute and perfect than those we talk of in our philosophies.”
But Lilias did not answer. She had other thoughts of this perpetual change. The slight, feverish red was flickering again on the cheek of the Lily of Mossgray. Softened down into her grave, calm womanhood, was she the same Lily to whom the wanderer, in yon fair far-away days, plighted his early faith? and he—how had the universal breath swayed him in its varyings? That morning she had received a hurried note from London announcing his arrival; this night they were to meet.
“It is a strange subject this,” said Mossgray, with the smile of his gentle musings, “for with all my years, and with all my changes, Lilias, I smile sometimes to see how the old pertinacious self has carried its own features through all. Up there in my study, where I left Bishop Berkeley this morning, was it yesterday I manufactured bows and arrows and dreamed as I made them? So strange it is to mark how this identity runs through all, how we learn and alter, are experienced, calmed, changed, and yet are perpetually the same.”
Gentle philosophies! how soothingly they fell upon the timid, anxious heart beside him.
“But sometimes the change is violent, Mossgray,” said Lilias, “tearing up old habits so rudely; and sometimes the whole discipline is altered—the whole life.”
She paused. The old tales of that strange eastern life crossed her memory, and she could not continue.
“I think these things only develope this obstinate identity more fully, Lilias,” said Mossgray, smiling. “We come through the process after our own individual fashion, and carry the distinct self triumphantly through every change. I think we must turn back, though, and leave our philosophies if you begin to tremble. Come, we will go home.”
They turned towards the house, but Lilias only trembled the more; and the old man, as he looked down upon her pale face, beheld it suddenly flush into brilliant change. She stood still, leaning on him heavily.
“Are you ill? does anything ail you, Lilias?”
“No, no; it is Hew!” said the low, joyous voice; “look, Mossgray, it is Hew!”
And the old man started violently, as he looked up at the young, strong, manlike figure leaping down that hillock, with its rude steps of knotted trees—the happy flushed cheek, the frank simplicity of joy and haste.
“It is Hew!” said Lilias, looking up at the one object which she saw.
Was it Hew Murray, in the flush of his youth and strength again?
Mossgray stepped forward hastily, and grasped the hand of the new comer in silent welcome; and then the old man turned away and left them alone.
Adam Graeme was not changed; his heart beat as strongly against his breast as it had done thirty years ago,when he laboured and yearned for some clue to the fate of Hew Murray. Hew Murray! with what a quickening thrill of tenderness his old friend turned away from the young rejoicing face, which brought back the image of his youth.
The old man’s mind was confused; he did not know what to make of this singular resemblance. “It is Hew!” Was it Hew? Was the romance of the old faithful servant in their desolate house to have a wonderful fulfilment after all? The good, pure, gentle Hew, loving God and loving man, had his Master indeed given him youth for his inheritance? Singularly struck and bewildered, and with an unconscious expectation in his mind, Adam Graeme hurried forward towards the house of Murrayshaugh.
The great saugh trees beside it had shed their slender leaves, and were waving their long arms mournfully, with here and there a feeble, yellow cluster at the end of a bough, ready to drop after their fellows into the deep, sombre burn, whose course was almost choked by the multitudes of the fallen. As Mossgray crossed the old, frail, broken, wooden bridge, he heard voices beyond the willow-trees, and saw as he drew nearer two strangers standing together. The old man’s heart beat high and loud with excited and wondering anticipation as they turned towards him.
The lady was very thin and pale, and had silvery white hair smoothed over the patient, thoughtful forehead, in which time and grief had carved emphatic lines. The face was a face to be noted; serene now, it had not always been serene—but the storm had altogether passed from the evening firmament, and light was upon it pale and calm, like the luminous sky of summer nights when the sun with its warmth of colour and influence has long since gone down into the sea.
Her companion seemed about her own age; he had the strong framework of an athletic man, but it was not filled up as a strong man’s form should have been. You saw, as you looked at him, that he was not strong; that sickness, or privation of the healthful, free air which now he seemed to breathe in with so much pleasure, had unstrung and weakened the hardy frame of this old man; but his hair was scarcely gray, and his eye glanced from under his broad, brown, sunburnt forehead with the hopeful, cheery light of youth. The sun had not gone down with him. Over the fair world which he looked forth upon, the rich tints of anautumn sunset were throwing their joy abroad; the warm light and brilliant colouring were in his heart.
They looked at each other, the two strangers and the Laird of Mossgray. They were all wondering, all uncertain, all embarrassed, for Adam Graeme had paused before them, and regardless of all formal courtesies they were gazing at each other.
“Can you tell me if this is Murrayshaugh?” said the lady, with a faltering unsteady voice.
But that would not do.
“Man, Adam, have you forgotten me?” cried Hew Murray with tears in his eyes; and the two boys who had grown up together beside that pleasant water of Fendie were grasping each other’s hands again.
There needed no other salutation. “Man, Adam!” Through their varied, troubled, far-separated course, the two sworn brothers had carried the generous boyish hearts unchanged—and simple as the lads parted, the old men met. “Man, Adam!” there never were superlative endearing words, which carried a stronger warmth of long and old affection than Hew Murray’s boyish greeting, bursting from the honest, joyous, trembling lip that had not spoken it before for thirty years.
“Where have you come from—where have you been? Hew! Hew, what has become of you all this life-time?” exclaimed Adam Graeme. They were holding each other’s hands—looking into each other’s faces—recognizing joyfully the well-remembered youthful features in those subdued ones, over which the mist of age had fallen; but in Hew Murray’s eager grasp, and in the happy, gleaming eyes, whose lashes were so wet, the spirit of the youth was living still.
“He will tell you by and by, Adam,” said the lady. “It is a long story—but have you nothing to say to me?”
And Lucy Murray held out her hands—the soft, white, gentle hands, whose kind touch Adam Graeme remembered so long ago.
“Is it you, Lucy?” said Mossgray. “Are we all real and in the flesh?—is it no dream?”
Hew Murray put his arm through his friend’s—far through, as he had been used to do, when they dreamed together over the old grand poetic city on the breezy Calton.
“Give Lucy your other arm, Adam,” said the familiar genial voice, “and we will tell you all our story.”
Lucy with the white hair took Adam’s arm.
“Have you never been away?—is it all a dream those thirty years?” cried Adam Graeme.
“Look at me again,” said Lucy Murray with a smile. “No—there are things in those thirty years too precious to part with. I think you have not seen my son.”
“Your son, Lucy?—is it my Lily’s Hew?” asked Mossgray.
“Lucy’s Hew—our representative,” said Hew Murray, “was it not a strange chance, Adam—if we may speak of chances—which brought our boy and I together?”
“I am bewildered, overpowered,” said Mossgray. “Do you forget, Hew, that I know nothing?—that this morning I only clung to the hope that you were living at all as to a fantastic dream—that it is thirty years since I gave up the sober expectation of finding you again?—where have you been?—why have you kept us in this suspense? How is it that we have never heard of you, Hew Murray?”
Hew Murray grasped his friend’s arm tightly in his own.
“Did you ever think the fault was mine, Adam?—but who is this?”
The little old woman, the housekeeper of Murrayshaugh, came quickly round the gable of the house. They were standing in front of it—and their voices had startled her.
“Who is it?” Lucy Murray looked at her, with some anxiety. “I think it must be Isabell Brown.”
Very suspiciously Eesabell returned the scrutiny. The dignified, gentle, aged lady with her serene face and silver hair brought some singular thrill of recognition to the old woman. She thought she had seen the face before.
“I thought it was only gangrel folk. If I had kent it was you, Mossgray, I wadna have disturbed you; but maybe the lady and the gentleman wad like to see the hoose.”
She looked at them again with a jealous eye; the feeling was instinctive. Isabell did not know why she was suspicious of those friends of Mossgray.
“Do you not know me, Isabell?” said the graceful old lady, holding out her hand.
Isabell drew back with a slight curtsey.
“Na—there’s few ladies ever came about Murrayshaugh in my time; Miss Lucy had mair maids than me—ye’re maybe taking me for my sister.”
“There was no one else but Jean, I think, Isabell,” saidLucy, smiling; “and Jean was not like you. She was as tall as I am, and she had red hair. We gave her blue ribbons on Hew’s birthday because they suited her ruddy face—do you mind, Isabell?—and do you not know me now!”
Isabell drew further back—the old woman looked scared, suspicious, afraid.
“Na, I dinna ken ye, Madam,” she repeated firmly. “I ken few fremd ladies—I haena been in the way o’ them—how should I?”
Lucy smiled: it brightened her face in the calm of its peacefulness into warmer and sunnier life.
“If you do not know me, Isabell, do you know Hew?”
The old woman cast a jealous, angry look upon the sunburnt face of Hew Murray—her tone became abrupt and peevish.
“I’m no to ken wha ye’re meaning, Madam—I never saw ye before nor the gentleman neither. I’ve lived in Murrayshaugh a’ my days, but the like o’ me wasna to see a’ the company; and how should I ken the gentleman?”
The sharp black eyes twinkled through a tear affectionate and angry. The old woman was afraid of these stranger people, afraid of the singularly familiar faces which she thought she had seen in a dream.
“Adam,” said Hew Murray, “I thinkyoumust tell her who we are; or shall I, Lucy? Do you forget how you packed the Murrayshaugh apples for me, Isabell, when I went to India? and the moss you put round them in the basket? I think I have some of it still. But have you really forgotten—did you think, Adam, that any one could ever forget our sister Lucy Murray?”
Trembling and considerably excited Isabell stood on the defensive still.
“I never kent ane of the name but Miss Lucy, and this lady micht be Miss Lucy’s mother. Do ye think I dinna ken? Oh, Mossgray! it’s no’ like you to let folk make a fuil o’ an auld lone woman!”
Lucy disengaged herself from Mossgray’s arm.
“Come, Isabell, we will let them in. And so you remembered poor Lucy Murray and thought that time had spared her? But I am older than you. I used to have my white roses here. What has become of my roses? But I have something better to show you; my son, Isabell, my young Hew; and now come, we’ll let them in.”
And Lucy turned along the narrow path to Isabell’s back-door; jealously, and in sullen silence, the old woman followed her.
“But, Hew, Hew, where have you been?” repeated the astonished Mossgray, as they waited for the opening of the great door.
“In India, Adam; all this time buried in the depths of India, without having any power or means of letting you know that I lived; but wait, wait till we are all together. You shall hear the whole of my story to-night.”
The heavy door swung open. Lucy had opened it, and Isabell, jealous and silent, stood behind.
“Come in; come home, Hew,” said Lucy Murray. “Let us enter our father’s house in peace and thankfulness as we left it with sorrow.”
They entered in silence, and silently the brother and sister went through the faded, dreary rooms; while the old woman followed them like a shadow.
Last of all they went into “Miss Lucy’s parlour.” It had no very sad associations for Hew. He remembered only the pleasant boyish evenings spent in it, the sadness of the parting, which now, so far away, was softened into a tender memory, making its scene not mournful, only dear; and Hew lifted the window and stepped happily out upon the terrace, while Lucy seated herself on the old high-backed chair at the old work-table, to ponder on the old times. To her the room was full of dim days well remembered—girlish griefs and solitudes, struggles which no one witted of—they seemed to have been dwelling here like so many pale ghosts, waiting for her coming, to remind her of their former selves.
A touch on her sleeve roused Lucy from her reverie. Isabell was looking down earnestly into her silvery, gentle face.
“Leddy—Madam,” said the old woman, with a husky voice, “you didna mean you? You wasna saying that you’re Miss Lucy?”
“I am Lucy Murray grown old,” was the answer, “and that is my brother Hew, Isabell, whom we lost in India. Could you forget Hew? Do you not know Hew, Isabell?”
“And Murrayshaugh?” gasped the old woman.
“My father is dead; he lived until ten years ago, and when he died was a very old man, Isabell, and a gentler one than he used to be. Will you welcome me now?”
Timidly, and still a little jealous, the housekeeper consented to meet with a hasty touch the white hand of the old lady whom she feared; and then Isabell abruptly left the room.
They remained for some time in the same position; Lucy in her old place, thinking of the past, and Hew joyously passing from room to room, pointing out the scene of youthful games and merry-makings. Lilias and the young Hew had speedily followed Mossgray, and now a double introduction, very proudly and joyfully performed, had to take place, for Lucy presented her son to Adam Graeme, and Hew Grant bade his mother welcome her new child. The mother had been afraid somewhat of her son’s early choice, and thought, as mothers will, that Lilias had but an indifferent chance of being worthy of her Hew; and Lilias too had slightly trembled for the meeting; but now all the formidable part of it was over, and they were already friends.
All her fears were forgotten; it was almost too much for Mossgray’s Lily. Hew did not think her changed; he was not changed himself; and his mother received her as her own child. Lilias felt her happiness overpower her. She went away to seek for Isabell, who had disappeared, and to realize it all for a moment alone.
Isabell was in the great dining-parlour of Murrayshaugh. She was on her knees in a corner, with her apron flung over her head, and petulant, painful sobs coming from under its cover, like the sobs of a child.
“What ails you, Isabell?” said Lilias, stooping kindly over her.
“Oh, Miss Maxwell, what ails me?” sobbed the old woman, whose innocent romance had perished. “She says she’s Miss Lucy—and I canna deny’t—Idivken the face; but she’s an aged woman! She has hair whiter than the like o’ me—and she says she’s Miss Lucy. Oh, Miss Maxwell, that I should have lived to see this day!”
I ran it through, even from my boyish daysTo the very moment that he bade me tell it,Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,* * * * * *Of being taken by the insolent foeAnd sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.—Othello.
I ran it through, even from my boyish daysTo the very moment that he bade me tell it,Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,* * * * * *Of being taken by the insolent foeAnd sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.—Othello.
I ran it through, even from my boyish daysTo the very moment that he bade me tell it,Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,* * * * * *Of being taken by the insolent foeAnd sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.—Othello.
Adam Graemeand Hew Murray were sitting together in the large, low room in the Tower of Mossgray, which they both knew so well. Bishop Berkeley was still upon the table, but the visitor had no interest in the bishop; neither was he looking at the chymic tools or the instruments of science. He was casting long, loving glances into the dim corners of the room; the old fishing-rods, the superannuated bows and arrows, the ancient skates, they were all there, those worn-out tokens of the fair youth which was past.
“And now, Hew,” said Mossgray, drawing one of those large, heavy, lumbering chairs to the unoccupied side of the hearth, “now, Hew, for this wonderful history. What have you been doing? where have you been?”
Mossgray placed himself in front of the cheerful, glowing fire; on the other side stood the low carved chair, turned mournfully aside as if some one had risen from it newly. Its position had never been changed; it still stood where the pale sunbeams could touch it, but it was turned away from the living fireside circle; for the old occupant could never return to Charlie’s chair. Strangely pathetic sometimes are these dumb things about us—mournfully estranged and standing apart it touched the gentle heart of Adam Graeme.
Hew paused to spread his hands over the fire. It was a peat fire, and the glowing intense red and homelike fragrance warmed the very heart of the exile.
“Well, you heard I was robbed and killed, Adam,” said Hew; “and so I was—as near it, at least, as one could be, who is now so blessed as to be at home. Such things, you know, are not unusual in India. I was carrying rich presents. I had not a very sufficient escort, and the chances were all rather that I should have filled a hidden grave in the desert long ago, than that, even now, I should be beside you again.
“I was very severely wounded. These Affghan fellows do not play at fighting; but I was not quite dead, as you see, Adam, and I was young. The old, martial Border spirit had excited me, I suppose, for I stood on my defence desperately, until there was nothing left but the feeblest spark of life.
“Why they did not at once extinguish it I cannot tell. Perhaps they had pity on me for my youth’s sake; at all events, they spared the life, and after a journey which I shudder still to recollect, we reached their head-quarters, and my long captivity began.
“Their chief was a hater of the English, stern and desperate—not by any means the usual type of man to be met with among his countrymen: less treacherous, less supple, and if not less a tyrant, at least more tyrannically wise. Liberty for his subjects he did not at all conceive of, of course, but the wild liberty of despotism was an instinct and necessity with our Rajah; he hated foreign domination with an energetic hatred, such as one could not fail to respect, even though one suffered by it.
“The Rajah fancied my services might be of use to him. You will smile when I tell you how, Adam. He thought of the De Boignys, and Skinners, and the native troops they drilled, and despotized, and inspired with the mechanical heroism of mercenary soldiers; and he believed that I could drill his wild followers for him, could teach them the unfaltering British discipline, could form them into mechanical pipe-clayed battalions like their European enemies.
“And I tried to do it, Adam, for at six-and-twenty one would not choose to die; if I had known perhaps the long probation which awaited me, I might have shrunk and desired the end at once; but this end is not naturally desired ever, I think—I should still choose to live, I believe, were I placed in the same circumstances again; and I hoped more warmly then.
“I began to be artful like themselves. I intrigued and schemed to have a share in the education of the young chief, and at last I attained my object. Ahmed, the future Rajah—the presumptive heir—I was to have the honour of teaching him my language.
“And I taught him my language, Adam; and Ahmed atthe head of his tribe speaks English, which has the fragrance of the Scottish border upon it. I used to smile when I heard him.
“We grew very good friends, my pupil and I. Heathen and stranger as Ahmed is, he was my boy, Adam, and we came to like each other—so much so—” said Hew Murray, averting his head a little, “that if I had not heard of you all at home, and only my place vacant, I scarcely think I should have cared for my new freedom.”
There was a pause.
“We had but one book,” said Hew, resuming, “my Bible, which I had managed to preserve with great difficulty. If I had been teaching the father instead of the son, in that glowing Eastern country, and with that Bible, I could have made a poet of him, Adam!
“But Ahmed was not the stuff to make poets of. He was cowed and humbled in his father’s presence—overpowered by a force which he could not understand, and though he grew up a gentle lad—weak folk learn wiles, you know—there was the national policy, the tendency to intrigue and deceit; the defective sense of truth and honour constantly displaying themselves. I could not hedge my Affghan boy about with the higher principles, so much more noble and pure than the natural instincts which yet suit our humanity so well—and I could not give him the savage virtues of his father; but I only clung to him the more, because he perplexed and grieved me.”
“A difficult matter,” said Mossgray, “and how about religion, Hew?”
“Ahmed is not brave,” was the answer. “He is a Mussulman still; the intellectual conviction is not strong enough, ever, I fancy, to break the old hereditary chains of the creed in which we are born. But Ahmed is like multitudes of those quick Indian youths in the great cities of our Eastern empire. He knows it all; the wonderful histories of the old time with their grand types and emblems, and the wonderful fulfilment they had. Did any one ever open that little volume, think you, Adam, and rise from it without a secret conviction that this was true? not my boy—not my Ahmed. The enchantment of the human life in which its Divinity is clothed charmed the mind of my pupil; for when one knows how men describe God, it quickens one’s apprehension of the wonderful difference when God reveals himself.
“And my boy knows it all, Adam, yet in outward form is an unbeliever still; and other youths by the hundred in Bombay, and Madras, and Calcutta, as they tell me, are like him: knowing the extraordinary intellectual truth, and ready, if but the divine spark came, to burst the green withes that hold them, and worship the Saviour of the Gospel under His own free heaven. May it come soon! they are prepared for it, these lads—may the divine impulse come soon! I would fain know that my work has prospered, though I never see Ahmed more.”
There was another interval of silence. The subject impressed them both; but Mossgray had not seen the singular state of society of which his friend spoke, and did not know how those young, quick, intelligent spirits, like the old sacrifices on the altars of the patriarchs, were unconsciously waiting for the fire from heaven, ready to be offered to the Lord.
In a short time Hew resumed:
“This imprisonment and work of mine continued all the father’s lifetime. I did what I could to drill his soldiers, and I communicated the Fendie accent to his son; but my captivity was not lightened—and so we went on until that fatal affray which made Ahmed chief of the tribe. The lad liked me, I told you; he felt too, in the consciousness of his new power, the advantage of securing an alliance with those powerful English whom his father hated; and so, in compassion, he brought his wounded captives back to me.
“I knew none of them, but Hew’s face struck me. He was the weakest of all, poor fellow, and some natural instinct drew me to him—and then, Adam—then, after my thirty years’ entire separation from all that I held dear, fancy what my feelings were, when the stranger told me thathisname too was Hew, and that he was Lucy Murray’s son!
“It was a strange meeting;” Hew Murray wiped away the pleasant moisture which dimmed those happy eyes of his; “and Ahmed had given me my freedom. That wily, politic boy! I wonder if he was getting wearied of his old Dominie after all, or if his reluctance to part with me was real. I wish affection was as blind as they call it, Adam, for I think my eyes, being so solicitous about him, were only quickened to see his weakness; but I could not have remained. I could not have done him any service even if I had remained.
“So I gave him my Bible, Adam, and he gave me jewelsand shawls more than I knew what to do with. I was bringing them all home innocently to Lucy,” said Hew, with his old frank laugh. “Lucy would have been as magnificent as a Begum had no one interfered, but we got into a mercantile atmosphere before we left India, and so some of Ahmed’s pretty things were converted into coined monies. There is enough to make the old house habitable, I think; but I have come home as I went away, Adam. I always thought I should; there has no bilious fortune fallen to my share; only they have given me a pension—and better than the pension—give me your hand, Adam—I am at home.”
And the two gray-haired men grasped each other’s hands.
Lucy Murray had entered the room unheard. She came forward with her gentle, gliding step, and leaned over the carved back of Charlie’s chair, looking at them as they sat together by the fireside.
“What are you doing, boys?” said Lucy, with the voice and the smile of her youth. Boys—the young composed grave girl, long ago, had called them by that name. They were both older than she was; but the assumed dignity of the earlier maturing woman sat gracefully on her then, as that smile did now.
“We were talking of that merchant boy of yours, and how he would not let me bring home Ahmed’s jewels to his mother, Lucy,” said Hew.
“I wonder Hew did not remember the bride that will soon be,” said Lucy. “Adam, I like your Lily; I was a little afraid—may I tell you? a little afraid when I began to guess what the conjunction of her two names pointed to. You look grave, Adam—I should not have said so much?”
“No, Lucy,” said Mossgray, “they are dead; how far we might err in our early dreams, let us not question. I forget all that is evil when I look back. Let us lay the errors of their youth beside them in the grave.”
Lucy Murray bowed her head silently in acquiescence, and folding her hands over Charlie’s chair, pitifully thought of the dead.
The dead who wounded hearts and had no power to heal them—who broke faith, and went away with their treachery in their hearts to the grave; who disenchanted youthful eyes and darkened lives which were not bright before—evils that the doer never can atone—alas for them, unhappy! Alas for the false—the cruel—the heart-breakers! The hearts brokenwill heal; the suffering will pass away like clouds; but woe for those who inflict—woe for the seedmen of sin, whose harvest shall not fail.
“And you, Lucy,” said Mossgray. “I must question you, and blame you as I cannot blame Hew. Why have I never heard from you? where have you been?”
“We came from France to Orkney,” said Lucy; “was not that a change, Adam? and there I have been very glad and very sorrowful. They both lie yonder—my husband and my father, and there my Hew was born. I should have written to you, Adam, but I have told you before how long my father lived, and how he retained his old pride; and when he was dead, and James was dead, and Hew away from me, forgive me that I was very listless, very sad, Adam. I could write to no one but my son.”
“Not even to Lilias; when you knew who she was, Lucy?” said Mossgray.
“Not even to Lilias, Adam. I did not knowherself, and I had some fears, I confess, of Hew’s early decision on a matter so important; and when they sent me word that my son was dead, and when I got her simple, touching letter, I was jealous, Adam, that any one should mourn for him but myself. I became selfish as grief does sometimes; I would not believe that any other heart could break as mine did. He was mine—my son. I was jealous of her, Adam, when I thought she claimed a right to share with me my boy’s grave.”
“And afterwards?” said Mossgray, smiling. He too seemed in a jealous mood—jealous for his ward and her new position.
“Afterwards I fell into my old indolent, listless mood again,” said Lucy; “Hew was coming home—the two Hews—it filled all my mind. I went to meet them at London, promising myself that I should atone to Lilias for my neglect, and she accepts my apology. Will not you accept it, Adam? You do not know how listless and powerless one becomes whose life has been so overcast as mine. I think it will be otherwise now—I think it is all past, Adam, and we will travel to the sunsetting together.”
But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.—Parable of the Prodigal.
But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.—Parable of the Prodigal.
“Gangin bauld, man—put on a guid face, and tak the first word o’ flyting. What are ye looking sae wae about?—they’ll e’en be ower blythe to welcome ye hame.”
“Na, na, Robbie, I ken better,” said the person whom Robbie Caryl was exhorting; a tall, thin, sunburnt young man, who limped a good deal, and looked sickly and weak. “Man, I wad rather face a file o’ bagnets than face my faither and him angry; and I wad gie a’ the Indies gin I had them, if he would just be friends wi’ me again.”
“Friends wi’ ye?—ne’er a fears o’ him,” said the fisherman. “I’ll just tell ye, Peter—if he disna be friends wi’ you after a’ you’ve gaen through, and a’ he’s gaen through himsel, I could maist find it in my heart to pit him in Tam Macqueen’s boat the first ill day, and let him set to wi’ the Firth, and try which ane’ll master the tither—for he’s past dealing wi’ men.”
“Whisht, Robbie, ye dinna ken,” said the young man. “I’ll hear nae mortal speak ill o’ my faither; if I could but get a word o’ my mother, hidelins—just to see—maybe he’s mair merciful noo. He’s an auld man—he’s winning near heaven. Wha kens—he may be turned to mair mercy.”
Their path lay along the side of the Marsh, and they had just rounded the projecting corner, on which the comfortable farmsteading of Seabraes, with its barns and byres, and hay-stacks, stood, looking on the Firth, with only a swelling bank of close seaside grass between it and the beach. On this green bank, the stakes of the salmon-nets used during the summer were piled in a rude pyramid, and past it wound a byway to Fendie. They were advancing towards the gate of a field through which the road lay.
A gaunt, high figure stood leaning there, hidden by the hedge. Saunders Delvie had heard that his son lived and was returned from young Hew Grant, who last evening hadvisited the cottage along with Mossgray to prepare the way for the prodigal; and now, trembling under the cold, bright November sunshine, the father stood waiting for his son.
The proud old man was glad that he had been warned—glad that he had time to compose the rigid muscles of his face, and that no man could guess how his joy boiled in his veins, and how the passionate heart beat in his breast. He was solemnly dressed in his decent Sabbath suit, and looked almost hysterically calm, though all his endeavours could not put away the look of high, suppressed excitement from his twitching eyebrows and stern-featured face.
“Faither! faither!” cried Peter Delvie, as they came suddenly upon him—the old man’s efforts at calmness, and his unusual dress, carried fear to the heart of his son: poor Peter lifted his hand imploringly. “I was only a laddie—have pity on me—have pity upon me, faither!”
The grim muscles twitched, and worked about the old man’s mouth; the dew hung heavy on his eyelashes.
“Come hame, lad,” he said, in a voice husky with the effort which confined his welcome to those seeming indifferent words. “Come hame, lad, to your mother. What garred ye sleep under a fremd roof this last night, and your ain bed waiting on ye at hame?”
“I thought I had some skill in men,” said Robbie Caryl, as he turned back to his cottage, vehemently pulling down his eyelid on pretence that some particle of the innocent wet sand had entered his eye. “I thocht I could see through maist folk, but this ane’s beat me. The auld dour whig o’ a man! wasna I feared to face him when the word came that the lad was dead? and was I no fleyed for him fenting like the women folk for sake o’ the joy? Ne’er a bit o’ him—he taks his son hame as canny as I would tak little Sandy out o’ a dub. Are ye there again in the saut water, ye wee black dielie? I’ll pin ye in the net amang the grilse, and sell ye up in the toun for a fat flounder, as sure as the next tide—wife! is this bairn to drown itsel, ance for a’, the day?”
“I’m sure it’s mair your business, Robbie, to keep the laddies out o’ mischief than mine,” answered Robbie’s wife, who was spreading out the large stake nets on long ropes to dry, the season of fishing being now over; “but what hae ye dune wi’ Peter? has he gane hame?”
“I gied him in a present to his faither,” said the fisherman, lifting the little wet obstreperous Sandy upon hisshoulders, “and Saunders took him as quiet as that cuddie taks the thrissles—so a’ the splore’s dune, Jean, and I maun awa into the toun wi’ the flounders; whaur’s the creels?”
“Mr Oswald,” said Saunders Delvie solemnly, looking in at the door of the banker’s private room, as he passed the bank on his way home. “I hae gotten back my son; he was dead and is alive again—he was lost and is found—and I’ve come to offer ye my thanks, Sir, for your guid counsel. The Lord sent grief sae lang as I called His name to witness my wrath against the lad, but now, when I hae learned better, behold the mercy! I’m thankfu’ to you, Maister Oswald—I’m an auld man, but I needed to learn—and I’m thankfu’ aboon a’ to Him that pat words o’ guid counsel into your mouth, and garred my heart change—for now I’m taking Peter hame.”
The banker fell back in his chair as Saunders withdrew, looking and feeling very much disconcerted; forhehad offered no good counsel—had given no advice. The thanks which he did not deserve fell on him with the strength of just reproof. The pen fell from his fingers—the solemn joy and thanksgiving of the stern old peasant moved him almost as much as his grief had done. It touched the conscience of the obdurate father of William Oswald.
“And was you killed at the same place as the gentleman, Peter, my man?” said Peter’s mother, wiping her eyes, as the first excitement of their meeting subsided. The cottage too was in very solemn order, and the house-mother had put on her Sabbath gown. There was a grave significance in these changes.
“Na—I got my wound at anither place, mother,” said Peter, “and they pat me in the hospital. It was just when I came out that I heard o’ the gentlemen—that they were gaun hame; sae I gaed to Mr Murray—I minded hearing aboot him being lost lang ago—and tellt him my story, and he engaged me to be his servant. His servant, mother; but I think he paid mair attention to me on the road hame than I could do to him, and said he would speak to my faither. I wish—I just wish there was onything in the world the like o’ me could do—no like to make it up to him, but just to let him see that ane was thankful; but I’m come hame a puir useless object, mother; they say I’ll be lame a’ my days.”
Poor Peter began to look disconsolate again. The idea of being a burden on those for whom he would so gladly have laboured, was very bitter to him.
“Dinna, laddie, dinna,” said Saunders Delvie. “I’m strong and hale, the Lord be thanked, though I’m auld; do ye think I winna work for ye baith as blythe, ay, as blythe as the day ye were born—as blythe as I gaed out to my wark, Marget, the first time I heard the bairn greet in this house, and kent the blessing was come? Maistly blyther, woman, for I didna ken the depths then as I do now. What for do ye greet? I tell ye it behoves us to gie the Lord thanks, and no’ tears, for His mercy.”
But the tears were the thanks; they hung upon Saunders’s own withered cheek as he reproved his wife.
“Nae doubt but we’ll fend,” said the mother, “nae doubt but we’ll be provided for. Wha ever wanted yet that put trust where it should be put? But gang away, Saunders, like a man, and put on your ilka day’s claes; I canna help it—it comes into my head ye’ve been at a funeral when I look at ye, and the like o’ thae thochts are no’ for this day.”
And in this cottage and in Mossgray the joy of reünion was the same, only perhaps so much the greater here, as the passionate spirit of this old man was more intense and vehement than any other near him, greater alike in its joys and sorrows.
In Mrs Buchanan’s little parlour those long November evenings were less busy now; the dreaded Martinmas came and went; the work was finished and the rent paid.
Six pounds—how small a sum it was—and yet it had swallowed up the whole half-yearly dividend, and the whole produce of their hard labours. Helen began to look discontentedly at her best gown, that long-preserved black silk one, which now that her brown merino was so far gone, must be worn every day, and for which no substitute could be obtained; and Mrs Buchanan sighed over the thin shawl as she daintily darned the places where it began to give way, and smoothed her daughter’s hair tenderly, in an unconscious endeavour to console her. Mrs Buchanan comforted herself by thinking that, in spite of the old shawl and the one much-worn gown, her poor Helen looked a gentlewoman still; but the days grew chill, and other people were wearing cloaks and plaids and furs. Mrs Buchanan sighed—she could not venture to make any addition to Helen’s stock, for the next half-year’s rent began to lour upon her gloomily already. How was it to be met?
Helen was a good deal overcast with those cares too, butthe clouds never settled down upon her firmament; they came and went, as the ceaseless breezes drove them hither and thither, a hundred times in a day; and between every pang of heart-sickness, between those weary sighings for something happier, which could not choose but fall upon her sometimes, there always intervened bright glimpses of wayward sunshine, stirrings of the young uncontrollable life, the nervous strength and daring of her nature, which rose to meet the struggle when it came, and when it was not present, happily forgot it all.
It was Saturday, the first Saturday for a long time which she had not spent with Lilias. But Lilias was joyfully engrossed with the strangers, and Helen shyly kept herself apart, and felt a shadow of contrast upon her own sombre, unchanging lot; but just as she began to sink under her natural dimness, an appearance crossed her eyes, which brought out the merry, ringing laugh, and flushed her sky with the sunshine of gay impulse. The appearance was the Reverend Robert Insches escorting a lady—a very young, very bashful, very pretty little lady, who seemed to see a good deal of fascination in the handsome head which bent down to her so graciously. If he was beginning to be cured of the more serious wound, the Reverend Robert was not cured of the mortification. The pretty little girl was a Laird’s daughter, by no means disinclined to smile upon the handsome minister. He was escorting her home—the traitor, on a Saturday! and chose this road out of the remaining anger and malice aforethought, which still testified the power of Helen, to try if he could not mortify her as she had mortified him.
There never was a more lamentable failure. Mrs Buchanan upstairs heard the ringing laugh break the silence, and then the new impulse of mirth made itself a voice. The good mother listened with a smile. Helen was moving about below. Helen was singing, and in another moment the gay voice and the light foot came upstairs, keeping time with each other in the pleasant caprice of a cheerful heart.
Mrs Buchanan was working at a particular “fancy work” of her own. She was darning the carpet. The carpet had been new once, but that was so very many years ago, that it was growing aged now, and feeble like other things. There is a pleasure in doing what one knows one can do well. Mrs Buchanan had a modest pride in her skill for repairing these dilapidations of time; and the natural delicacy of mind which couldnot be at ease while there was anything ungraceful or imperfect around it, expressed itself after this homely fashion. She did not patronize finery at all, but the aesthetical feelings were delicately developed in the good mother’s mind nevertheless, and there was art in her darned carpet.
“Will you come with me, mother, to the Waterside?” said Helen.
“I must have this done: I don’t want to begin to it again, my dear,” said Mrs Buchanan, looking up from her work; “and besides, it is very frosty and cold, Helen; wrap yourself up as well as you can, and I will have a cup of tea for you when you come in again.”
So Helen drew the shawl, which fortunately had been of very sober colours in its far-distant youth, over her merino gown, and tieing on her little straw bonnet with its plain brown ribbon, went down-stairs again, and out into the clear, chill November air. It was rather cold, but bright and exhilarating, and singing snatches of old songs under her breath, Helen went happily down the steps of the bridge till she reached the river-side, far down, towards the waterfoot.
Yonder, quivering under the red, bold, frosty sun, the great Firth thrills through its full veins with the joyous impulse of life. Far away among some quiet clouds is Skiddaw and his humbler brother, vigilant, far-seeing, watching over “the English side,” as it slopes down, in the serene evening atmosphere, to the brink of the great waves; and there the winding Fendie water glides into the estuary, and cold at that point looks the round hillock from which the sun has quite withdrawn, while in the west that great bluff hill which defies Skiddaw has a glory on him almost too grand to look at, and the range of far-withdrawing hills, of which he is the last and greatest, open away in the distance, with cloudy peaks ascending behind, and clear intervals of sky, like lakes, between.
The air was very quiet, the river drowsy with the frost, the last old patriarchal leaves fluttering down one by one. In shady nooks which the sun had not reached, the morning hoar frost was still white upon the grass. Calmly over the world stole the slow change, clothing the earth like a garment with all its blessed uses in it. Calm over all, the great sun went down unchanging—the wonderful heavens stood constant for ever. Strange harmony—strange contrast; the eternal yonder, stedfast in the skies—the immortal here, bornto be swayed, and taught, and changed in right of its humanity—the child of the great heavens.
The clouds were still red in the west, and from the haze of light which the sun left for a moment behind him, the dark stern hill stood boldly out. Helen was about to turn back, carrying more sadly the heart that came hither singing like a bird; for great thoughts were rising in it now, thoughts which breathe only in the graver air, and hush the voice of singing.
“Helen!”
How she started! but slowly, only very slowly, her pride permitted her to turn, to ascertain whence the voice came.
“I have been looking for you up the water,” said William Oswald, coming up with a warm eager glow upon his face; “and should have gone back again to your mother disconsolately, had I not caught a glimpse of your shawl.”
She looked at it very pleasantly; the venerable, aged friend; it was good for something in this world after all.
“And now, Helen, I have a great deal to say to you.”
Helen did not doubt it. There came upon her a slight tremour; this then was to be the final combat, hand to hand. He was resolved to conquer; she saw it in his eye, and for the first time she was afraid.
But at present William Oswald said nothing very warlike; he began to speak of his work in Edinburgh—his book; and Helen in spite of herself was interested. He told her of his prosperity; the rising good name; the modest beginning of fortune; frankly and in full confidence, as people speak to those who have a right to know, and an interest in all which concerns the speaker; and Helen turned her head away now and then half afraid of this quiet appropriation—this strangerightby which he claimed her sympathy.
Other people had been walking that Saturday afternoon beside the wan water. Far upon the opposite side, Hope Oswald and her father were returning from Fairholm, where they had been to make a call—a business call of Mr Oswald’s, in which he had persuaded his favourite to accompany him.
“Do you know where William went, when we came out, Hope?” said the banker.
Hope looked up doubtfully in her father’s face; but she hesitated only a moment. “He went to Mrs Buchanan’s, father.”
Mr Oswald said nothing. William had only been a few hours at home, but during these had undergone a scrutiny of which he little dreamed. The banker had been prepared to find his son changed, and had prepared himself to be contemptuous; but William was not changed: and the old pertinacity began to tighten its grasp upon his father’s heart.
In a quiet link of the water, not very far from Fendie, yet as still and solitary as though it were in the midst of a wilderness, lay a little mossy burying-ground. They are frequent in that Border district; melancholy, green, dewy places, sometimes clustering their tall, grey spectral gravestones about the ruined walls of an ancient chapel, sometimes altogether deserted by the reliques of the old faith—lying alone, by roadsides and in quiet places, disturbed only when grave processions come, to add to the number of the names of those who are dwelling there.
A few fine old trees grew within the enclosure and round it; through a fringe of long bare willow branches you could see the water. Mimic forests of moss covered the trunks of the trees, and minute white fungi specked the green with delicate flower-bells. Hope Oswald had a great admiration of those lichens—she entered the graveyard to seek some specimens of them—and her father good-humouredly followed her.
The strong man’s heart was softened; he was more open to kindly impressions than usual; and as he stood waiting for his favourite child, his eye fell upon a grave. Nothing had happened in his prosperous life to bring him near such solemn dwelling-places as this. He had lost no children; and the memory of father, mother, and brethren, had faded out of his heart long ago. He had never seen this humble stone before: “Sacred to the memory of Walter Buchanan;” it moved him like the dead man’s voice.
With a hushed and whispering tone the river passed by upon its way, and the willows rustled on the water with a low lamenting cadence. Amid such sights and sounds as living he would have loved to hear, the gentle man lay dead; where none could ask or give forgiveness—where none could alter the unjust anger, the evil sternness, the cruel pride which was past. The heart of the rigid man began to beat and tremble, as he remembered the absolute conclusion put to all human doings by that grave. A little time the glad vicissitudes of change should remain for himself—and then—
What life soever he had darkened—what truth dishonoured—what mercy neglected—absolute and stern, the coming death should fix them all unchangeable for ever.
He was a Christian man, despite of all the weakness which lay in his boasted strength. He felt that the secrets of his own heart lay bare before the Eye which judged the dead. Wonderingly Hope Oswald looked into her father’s awed and changing face. She dared not venture to say, “This is poor Mr Buchanan’s grave,” as, with simple art, she had intended, when she first observed it; and in silence he took her hand and led her away.
His stronghold was broken down—his worldly wisdom failed him. He had deliberated on all his actions all his life—should he obey the impulse now?
“Hope,” said the subdued banker, “why did you speak of Mr Grant that evening we went to see Saunders Delvie? Do you remember? Why did you say to them that you thought Peter was alive?”
The sensible Hope was perplexed.
“I—I don’t know, father,” she said, with some hesitation. “I just said it because it came into my head.”
And the prudent, deliberate, elderly banker felt himself constrained to copy his child.
“Go home now, Hope,” said Mr Oswald, as they reached the bridge. “I have something to do; tell your mother I shall not be long.” And Mr Oswald hurried away to say what had come into his head. The obstinate man felt that it was right, and that he dared not trust himself to consider. Very grand and successful had been Hope’s experiment—her father determined to try one of his own.
William Oswald had indeed a great deal to say. They lingered on their walk, Helen and he, till the dusk stole over the sky, blotting out the sunny clouds in the west. He was a good general, this grave resolute William; he skirmished with his restless suspicious adversary, till he got her into the most favourable position for his decisive movement, and then he struck the blow.
But her usual bravery had forsaken Helen; against the strong will which took possession of her now, she could not bring up the buoyant might of resistance which was so available in her usual struggles. She tried it faintly, but the proud heart would only flutter, it would not rise to the warfare; and so poor Helen perforce had to listen, and at the criticalpoint of the listening, instead of keeping up the combat as she had hitherto done, could only, by some strange imbecility which she by no means comprehended, say something which ended in “your father.”
The moment the words were said, the heart did rise in indignation at its own treachery; but theyweresaid, and she was compelled to listen again.
“I have not spoken to my father yet,” said William, “but he thinks I have given up this matter, Helen, and he thinks he is very much satisfied.”
He had done it now—the enchantment began to relax—the eager heart sprang up in awakened strength, again resolute not to be conquered.
“He thinks I have forgotten,” pursued the imperturbable William, “and he thinks he is satisfied; but at the same time, Helen, he thinks I am a very pitiful fellow, and that there is no one like you in all Scotland.”
They were close to the gate of Mrs Buchanan’s little house. The weaker belligerent visibly started—not at the singular speech alone, but at a sight more singular; for there with his hand upon the wicket gate, awkwardly fumbling about the latch, and looking as shy as ever girl looked, stood the banker Oswald.
He was just parting with Mrs Buchanan; but Mrs Buchanan’s impetuous daughter had reached the gate before he could open it. The stern banker was very much confused; he looked up awkwardly at the unquiet face with its strange, perplexed wonder—its singular mixture of emotions—pride, anger, pleasure, even—alas, for Helen’s dignity—a little fun; for the confusion of the respectable Mr Oswald had something ludicrous in it.
No one would help him; he appealed to William with a glance, but the uncompassionating William looked on with secret glee, and offered no assistance. Mr Oswald was very much confused. He wanted to say something to the purpose, but could not accomplish it; so he said something which was not to the purpose.
“A cold evening, Miss Buchanan.”
Miss Buchanan’s expectant face was turned full upon him. Her rapid lip moved unconsciously as he said the unmeaning words. She bowed her shy graceful bow, and passed him with the swift nervous motion which belonged exclusively to herself. The banker looked a little blank; hedidwant to say something, and he was annoyed that he had failed.
“Helen, my dear—Helen,” said the good mother, with a slight tone of reproof. Helen paused and turned round within the gate; the slight impatient motion—the embarrassed frank look—Mr Oswald was pleased that like himself Helen did not know what to say.
“I came to say,” said the banker slowly, “that my wife intended—I mean wished, to call to-morrow if your mother would permit her, and that we—that is, I hope we shall see more of each other in future, Miss Buchanan—good night.”
He held out his hand—shyly the small nervous fingers met it. The banker looked dubiously in her face; was it to be peace? but she only said good night—and Mr Oswald turned away with a doubtful, pleased smile, too much occupied to notice his son till he stumbled against him, and then suffered the glad silent grasp of William’s hand, in token of full and happy reconciliation.
In the little parlour, the tea-tray was on the table, the fire shining brightly, the light—though there was still but one candle—cheerfully filling the homelike room; but Helen ran upstairs and laughed a little, and shed a few bright tears, and came down exceedingly dignified and proper, endeavouring to persuade herself that she was angry, but certainly shedding no angry radiance round her, out of her shining eyes.
The old kind face in the old corner; the pleasant, familiar, son’s voice discoursing of old household things which no one else knew as he did. Mrs Buchanan wondered at herself how she could ever tolerate another—could ever dream that any but he might be the future son.