Marry, he hath a proper person, a brain indifferent well garnished; comes of a good lineage; hath a bold spirit; poor, I deny not; but what doth your young gallant propose to himself, I pray you, but to try a wrestle and a fall with Fortune?—Old Play.
Marry, he hath a proper person, a brain indifferent well garnished; comes of a good lineage; hath a bold spirit; poor, I deny not; but what doth your young gallant propose to himself, I pray you, but to try a wrestle and a fall with Fortune?—Old Play.
Onthe same evening the Edinburgh coach, when it arrived at the door of the George Inn, at Fendie, deposited there a young adventurer fresh from the far North. He had been travelling on the outside of the coach, and was benumbed with cold, though his face glowed from contact with the wind. A small portmanteau was the extent of his luggage, and beyond that his worldly possessions were of the smallest; good looks, good blood, an honest heart, a happy temper, and five one-pound notes in the end of a blue silken purse—he had nothing more.
It was no great amount of capital with which to begin the arduous struggle of life; and upon his glowing healthful face there sat a little anxiety, which was not by any means care. He had one special and particular aim in this journey, but if it failed, how many means of success yet offered themselves to the young, hopeful, ingenuous spirit, with the world lying all before him, where to choose.
The stranger hastily entered the inn and ordered some very simple refreshments. It was his first considerable journey, and the youth was not without the natural shyness which attends those who have passed all their lives in the quietness of one domestic circle. When he had discussed theinexpensive meal placed before him, and thoroughly thawed himself before the fire, and resolved one of his pound notes into shillings by the payment of his bill, the young man, much to the surprise of the waiter at the George, began to button his great-coat once more.
“Do you know,” he inquired, “how far it is to Mossgray?—there is a place called Mossgray in the neighbourhood, is there not?”
The waiter answered readily in the affirmative, with the addition that it was “maybes, a mile,” and an inquiry if the gentleman would want a conveyance.
The gentleman thought he should not—a mile was no great distance—and requested his attendant to direct him how to go.
The waiter, encouraged by seeing the portmanteau left behind, graciously complied. The youth’s appearance was frank and prepossessing, and the waiter at the George was a good-humoured fellow, so he extended his courtesy so far as to look out upon the idlers round the door—it was the evening of the market-day—and ask,—
“Is there ony of you gaun the road to Mossgray?”
John Brown, Mrs Fendie’s factotum, was within hearing. He had been down making purchases at the market, and now, with his light cart moderately well filled, was about starting home. On hearing the question, he responded briskly,—
“Ay, I’m gaun to the Mount—wha’s speiring?”
“Is’t you, John Brown?” said the waiter; “there’s a gentleman here, a stranger, that disna ken the road. He’s gaun to Mossgray.”
“If he’s a decent lad,” said the authoritative John, “I’ll gie him a hurl if he likes; and if he’s no a decent lad, or if he’s ower proud to ride in a cart, if he can keep up wi’ the powny, I’ll let him see the road.”
The stranger laughed, and having, as it seemed, no particular scruples of pride, sprang lightly up on the front of John’s cart, and thanked him for the promised “hurl.” It was a very frosty, chill night; John somewhat gruffly threw one of the rough home-made plaids, of which he had been making a cushion for himself, over the knees of the newcomer.
“Ye’ll ken the Laird?” said John, as they emerged out of the Main Street.
“No—at least I have never seen him,” said the young man.
John uttered a discontented “humph,” and changed his tactics.
“It’s a mair inviting place noo than it used to be, for young folk.”
“Is it?” said the impracticable stranger. “I have never been at Mossgray.”
“Ay,” said John, dryly, fancying he was now sure of a more satisfactory answer; “but ye’ll ken the young lady it’s like?”
“The young lady!” exclaimed his companion in evident astonishment. “Is there a young lady at Mossgray?”
John Brown was brought to a stand-still—he was half angry at his failure.
“Ay, nae doubt there’s a young lady; ye maunna hae been living nearhand here or ye would have heard of the young lady of Mossgray.”
“You don’t mean,” said the young man, hurriedly, “that Mr Graeme is married?”
A long gruff laugh answered the question, to the considerable relief of the inquirer, before John was able to say,—
“Man, ye may ken mony things, but ye dinna ken the Laird!”
“No, indeed I do not,” said the stranger, echoing John’s laugh; “but pray tell me who the young lady is.”
“Ye see,” said John, “the Laird was to have been married langsyne—the time’s past minding—it was lang or ever ye were born or heard tell o’; but ye’ll no prevent the lass frae seeing somebody she likit better,—and a shilpit chield he was, no fit to haud the candle to Mossgray;—sae the short and the lang o’t is, that the twaesome ran away, and the Laird was left without his bride, and took it sair to heart, as I have heard. Aweel, there was nae mair word o’t till a young lady came to the Mount—that’s where I am—to learn the young lasses the kind of havers that’s guid enough for the like o’ them; and wha should this be but the daughter of the Laird’s auld joe, and nae suner was’t found out, than she behoved to gang hame to Mossgray, and as muckle wark made about her as if she had been a crowned head, let alane a bit peenging lassie: and there she’s been, ever since, mistress and mair. The word gangs that she’ll get a’ the land; but I canna think that Mossgray would pass ower his ain bluidfor a stranger, and they say there are some of the name to the fore yet.”
The young man made no answer, and just at this crisis John Brown pulled up his horse opposite a lane which sloped down to the waterside.
“Ye see yon light? it’s in the Laird’s study, for he’s an awfu’ feelosophical man. Yon’s Mossgray; if ye hand straight down ye canna miss’t.”
There was only the partial light of the moon to guide the stranger, as he turned the sudden angle of one of the accumulated buildings, which formed the house of Mossgray. Dimly seen, and in glimpses, as these clouds flitted across the moon, the old house looked grand and imposing to the inexperienced eyes eagerly gazing upon it. A thrill of family pride, the first he had ever felt, made the young man draw himself up, and hold his head higher, as he looked at the heavy bulk of the old tower rising between him and the sky. In the projecting turret high up yonder, and from the small deep windows in its rugged wall, gleams the light which John Brown pointed out. The Laird’s study—the heart of the adventurer beat high, as he tried to prepare himself to meet this stern Laird, half dreaded, half defied.
Lower down in a more modern part of the house, from larger windows of some household sitting room, warm light was shining, and close beside the visitor as he stood surveying the dark mass of building, was the cheerful kitchen fire and lamp. The young man did not perceive that at the uncurtained kitchen window there were curious faces watching him. He lingered with natural hesitation before presenting himself to the unknown Mossgray, whose welcome was so dubious; but while he lingered, another face appeared at the low window near him. The old housekeeper, with excited curiosity, had come to see for herself who the intruder was. A loud exclamation aroused him.
“God preserve us!—we never did ye ill. Have ye come to warn us of our end, Charlie Graeme?”
He saw an aged face, strangely convulsed with terror, fall back upon the shoulder of a strong middle-aged woman who stood behind, as the shrill cry ceased; and hastily advancing, he discovered the kitchen door, and knocked. For some time his summons was not attended to; at last a decent gray-haired elderly man opened it, and looked out, not without timidity.The young man asked for Mr Graeme, and was silently admitted.
In an old elbow-chair by the fire sat the housekeeper of Mossgray, hysterically wringing her withered hands.
“I never did him ill! Oh guid send he be come for me, and no for the innocent callant that he did enow mischief too, when he was in the flesh; but ye saw it, Saunders Delvie—ye saw the Appearance as weel as me.”
“I tell ye, Auntie,” said Janet, “it was nae Appearance; it was a mortal lad, as life-like as either you or me.”
“Will you be so good as tell me,” said the stranger, “if Mr Graeme is at home?”
The old woman sat stiffly erect, gazing at him with rigid terror.
“And where should the Laird be, I would like to ken,” said Janet, testily, “but just in Mossgray?”
The young man smiled. The light of the fire fell full upon his ruddy, animated face. Mrs Mense’s fears began to abate; he was no Appearance after all.
“Wha are ye?” asked the old woman, with some solemnity. “Tell me that you’re no Charlie Graeme?”
“My name is Halbert,” said the stranger. “It is my father you mean, and I am like him, I hear.”
Mrs Mense rose, and advancing to the young representative of the Graemes, looked earnestly into his face. The youth’s colour rose under the scrutiny, but the blush was accompanied by a good-humoured smile: the result was satisfactory.
“Guid grant that it prove what it looks—a true face,” said the old woman as she turned away. “Take him up to the young lady—I’ll tell Mossgray mysel; but no—bide a wee, Janet, I’ll show the gentleman the road.”
The penalty which he paid for entering the house by the kitchen door was the threading of various dark passages linked together by short flights of stairs. The old woman panted and lost her breath as she toiled on before him.
“These stairs must weary you,” said Halbert, kindly; “had you not better direct me, and I will go on myself.”
“Your father would have cared little for trouble to the like of me,” said Mrs Mense, emphatically; “and you’re a guid lad to mind; but I maun tell Mossgray mysel.”
Lilias Maxwell sat alone, leaning upon a small table in the cheerful drawing-room. A desk stood near her, coveredwith notes of invitation which she had been writing for the great party which her guardian insisted on giving in her honour. She had finished these, and was sitting, thoughtfully looking at a book before her, which she did not read. She was thinking of what she could do to help forward the cause of Halbert Graeme.
Just then the door opened, and Lilias started in surprise as Mrs Mense entered, followed by the young man, who, in his flutter of spirits, looked as he was—a remarkably handsome and prepossessing youth.
“I’m gaun to tell Mossgray,” said the housekeeper; “and, Miss Lilias, this is Mr Halbert Graeme.”
There was a little awkwardness at first, which the serene bearing and temper of Lilias got through perhaps scarcely so well as Helen Buchanan’s embarrassed frankness would have done; but they surmounted it, and talked about Halbert’s journey, while Mrs Mense laboriously panted up the old staircase of the tower, to the study of the Laird.
The Laird sat among his books not very attentive to them—his mind had wandered to other things; and by the fire-place stood Charlie’s chair, still turned towards the light—towards the faint pale moonbeams which, dimmed, but not quenched, by the artificial light, stole in like something spiritual across the dusky wall.
“Mr Adam,” said the old woman, advancing to the table in the strength of her unwonted agitation, “I have seen this night a face I never thought to see, under the rooftree of Mossgray, or with my old e’en again. I have looked upon the face of your cousin, Charlie Graeme.”
Mossgray started nervously, and raised his head; that gray, pale, old man’s head, which to his faithful servant looked still young.
“I thought it was an Appearance sent to warn us of our end,” said Mrs Mense, solemnly, “and my heart failed me, Mossgray, because I kent, that whate’er your better spirit may have done, I had ne’er forgiven him, no when he was dead. But it was nae Appearance; the face is the face of a living man, and if it’s like him, it has that in it, that in his bravest days he never had. The lad’s face is a true face, Mr Adam. I have lived near fourscore years, and I have learned to ken.”
“Who is it, Nancy?” said Mossgray.
“He says they ca’ him Halbert Graeme. I pat him inthe big room beside Miss Lilias; they’re a bonnie couple as e’e could look upon, and he’s Mr Charlie’s son.”
There was a brief struggle; the old feeling of suspicion and distrust came up for a moment over the warm heart of Adam Graeme; but, like all unnatural things, it was shortlived, and he recovered himself.
“I will judge him by his own merits,” said the just Laird of Mossgray, “for long ago, Charlie Graeme, long ago, when your treachery was scarcely done, I forgave you.”
A footstep on the stair interrupted the conversation in the drawing-room; it brought the colour almost painfully to Halbert’s cheek as he sat in anxious expectation, and when Mossgray entered the room, the youth rose and stood before him, hesitating and embarrassed. He scarcely observed the stateliness of the old man’s demeanour; he did not see how the face, which at first was only gravely courteous, softened and melted as it looked upon his own. Lilias interposed, as they stood silently looking at each other.
“Mossgray,” she said, her calm face and tone restoring them both to self-possession, “this is Halbert Graeme.”
And then the old man bade him welcome to Mossgray.
It was not in his generous, gentle nature to suffer any guest to remain uneasy under his roof; whatever his purpose might be towards the stranger he could not have been otherwise than kindly courteous as became an host; and Halbert was so ingenuous in his young, frank manhood, so fresh and confident in his untried hopes—so bold of venturing on the world which yet he did not know, that the heart of his kinsman warmed towards him. Itwasa true face, honest, manful, and guileless, with the boyish bloom upon it still, half bashful, half bold. The old man could ill be stern at any time, but now the artificial restraint gradually gave way; he resigned himself to the natural guidance of his heart, and Halbert Graeme was installed that night a member of Mossgray’s family—another child.
Simple, grave, sincere.—Cowper.
Simple, grave, sincere.—Cowper.
Simple, grave, sincere.—Cowper.
William Oswald, the banker’s son, inherited in some degree the disposition of his father; but the bitterness of the original stock was modified in the branch. A grave, decided, firm man, his character had already developed itself; but he was not obstinate. His mind was open at all points to truth, and strong and tenacious as was the grasp of his opinion, he was still convinceable, and did not wilfully shut his eyes against the light from what quarter soever it came. And William Oswald, though a thoroughly natural and warm-hearted man, and with indeed a singular degree of ardour under his gravity, was of the stuff which made stoics in the old Roman times. He had a power of self-denial and self-restraint, which is at all times a very considerable weapon, and could hold steadily on, past all the temptations of pleasure—past even the natural resting-place which wooed him to needed repose, on direct to his end. He did not speak about it; he made no demonstration of his ceaseless pursuit; but he fixed his dark glowing eyes clearly and steadily upon his aim, and went on, swerving neither to the right hand nor the left—able to give up pleasure, ease—able to endure toil and solitude, and with a definite, clear end before him, to pursue his way unfalteringly till it was gained.
He had been “bred a writer,” as the sons of respectable, wealthy, middle-class men in Scotland frequently are, whether they be intended to practise the law as a profession or no; and there had been some talk of William succeeding Mr Shawthewriter in Fendie in his great business. But William, it appeared, did not choose to enter into partnership with young Mr Nichol Shaw, and in the mean time he was resting ingloriously in the obscure labours of his father’s office.
And it greatly chafed the impatient spirit of Helen Buchanan that it should be so. Like most imaginative, youthful women, Helen fancied the freedom and licence of mankind one of the greatest possible gifts. There was no glorious“might be” which did not seem to her ideal vision open to the ambition ofa man. The exceeding might of virtuous influence—the empire of the generous, brave spirit over its fellows—once on this free eminence of manhood, and the ardent mind knew that these would be hers—they were possible to men—above all to the one man upon whom the fair garments of the ideal began to fall.
And Helen chafed unconsciously that William Oswald should be content with this inglorious life. The humble teacher of the little girls of Fendie aspired to a higher intellectual firmament; there were ambitious hopes and dreams and wishes stirring in the bare school-room, enough to have startled the little town out of its propriety; wishes, and dreams, and hopes of a more daring kind than ever young lady in Fendie had entertained before; and Helen Buchanan scarcely ranked as a young lady. She was noticed by none of the magnates, and courted in no society—she was simply the school-mistress; the people of Fendie, young and old, would have been overwhelmed with astonishment to hear of her ambition.
But William Oswald knew it, and his temper agreed as little as her own with the ease of inactivity. He was not the man to prefer the temporary pleasure of even her society, greatly as he prized it, to the necessary work of life; and he too had the upward tendency. He could not be content with the easy indolent satisfaction of competence, and already believing that the strong and vigorous youth within him was destined for something nobler than the businesses or amusements of the little country-town, his energy was stimulated by hers. They stood at this time almost upon terms of mutual defiance, yet each unconsciously supplemented the strength and had a share in all the secret purposes of the other. Their own individual combat was close and exciting, yet in the very act of resisting they invigorated each other for their several wrestles with the world without. They were neither of a very peaceable nature; it suited them to manage their wooing so.
But William’s plans were laid. He had determined to return to Edinburgh to practise his profession. When he had won an independent position and name for himself—and to do that was of itself an end worth striving for—he felt that he should be much more likely to overcome the obstinate opposition of his father. The banker was proudof his family, and William, a known man, occupying a standing ground honourably acquired by his own exertions, might expect to be differently treated from William the unknown who had no other position than that which belonged to Mr Oswald’s son.
His mother assented with a sigh; she foresaw a different end to the romance of her son’s youth. He also, the cold voice of experience prophesied, would learn to approve those views of worldly wisdom, would forget the generous impulses of young life—would acquiesce in the prudent decisions of his father. Mrs Oswald too was prudent; but her heart shrank from beholding the film of calculating foresight fall upon the frank vision of her only son. She could almost have chosen the imprudent marriage sooner than the chill wisdom which would make it impossible.
The banker consented readily to William’s project; it was likely,hethought, to accomplish a twofold good:—to establish the young man’s fortunes steadily, on a basis of good work entered into with the freshness of youth, and to detach him from his foolish liking to the poor schoolmistress, who, gentlewoman as Hope asserted her to be, he was resolved to receive into his family—never!
So, although on grounds so different, the father and mother consented, and the grave, firm, undemonstrative son, the depths of whose nature were too profound to be frozen over as his mother feared by the icy prudence of the world, mapped out his own course, knowing better than they did the tenacious constancy of his own mind. It was no boyish fancy which moved him; the light emotions of youthful liking were very different from this, and there was nothing from which the ardent, grave spirit stood in so little peril as change.
On a dull evening, late in December, he sat by Mrs Buchanan’s fireside waiting till Mrs Buchanan’s daughter should leave her school-room and her pupils. William Oswald had been a favourite long ago with his father’s sensitive partner, and was a favourite with Mrs Buchanan of so long standing, that before the unfortunate hour in which he astonished with unwonted eloquence the wondering ears of Helen, and raised thequestio vexata, which at present did so strangely unite and disunite them, his prospects and purposes had been as confidentially discussed in Mrs Buchanan’s parlour as at home; and still, though Helen’s mother began to feel stronglyinterested in the prosperity of the Reverend Robert Insches, it was impossible to break through the old familiar use and wont which bound her to William Oswald almost like a mother to a son. In his absence she could fancy the Reverend Robert very eligible, but in his presence she felt almost unwillingly that it could be none but he, the daily long-accustomed visitor—the son trained into all their simple habitudes—the friend whom they knew so thoroughly, and who so thoroughly knew them.
To this friendly, confidential footing he was very anxious to return to-night. He wanted to discuss his plans with them, to make Helen aware of the course which he projected for himself. Since he made the plunge, and relinquished his place as friend to claim a nearer one, the attempt had cost him much; not only the constraint which it had placed upon his intercourse with his father, but the loss of Helen’s society which it involved; so he resolved for this night to ignore their past struggle, and to be only the old familiar friend, the son of the house.
Mrs Buchanan and her visitor sat together silently, both of them somewhat sad. The sound of the children’s footsteps and subdued voices broke the stillness, and almost immediately Helen entered the room. The candle was not lighted, for Mrs Buchanan liked the twilight, and was thrifty, besides economizing the daylight as she did other things. She was seated before the fire, which only shed a ruddy glow upon her face, and did not in any degree light the dusky room. Withdrawn in a corner of the sofa, William Oswald sat unseen.
“Mother,” exclaimed Helen, as she entered, “I have been thinking all day of my old plan of going to Edinburgh. You remember what Hope Oswald said about Miss Swinton; and the letter I wrote to her has been lying in my desk for a month. I wish you would consent, mother; I wish you would let me send it.”
“But, Helen, my dear,” said the less hasty mother, “you must take no such step without consideration.”
“What can we do here, mother?” said Helen, eager for the moment, in the strength of impulse. “What can we do here?—always the same—no possibility of changing this dull routine of labour—no chance of rising higher. I shall not always be young,” and the sudden change from warm hopeto depression fell upon the variable face in an instant, “and so long as I am, should we not provide?”
“Helen, my dear,” repeated the gentle Mrs Buchanan, “you distress me when you say such things; besides, it is nonsense, you know.”
Helen did not answer; she sat down on the other side of the fire, and leaned her head upon her hand. The dim cloud of melancholy hovered over her—for the moment the young sunshine was gone. Itwasa dull routine—a laborious life—cheered only by the special inheritance of fair and gracious things which had been given her in her own spirit, and sometimes the cloud overshadowed even these.
“Helen,” said the grave, firm voice whose power over her changeful moods she strenuously resisted, and even to herself would not acknowledge. “Iam going to Edinburgh.”
She started—the quick thrill of her varying nature went over her, carrying the cloud on its sudden breath. A flush of evanescent offence sprang over her face, as she looked past her mother to the dark figure which began to be dimly visible on the sofa. Her purpose had changed on the moment, but she was half angry that she had been anticipated.
“Yes,” said Mrs Buchanan, rising hastily to light the solitary candle, “William is not content to live quietly at home, Helen. The air of Fendie is too still for him.”
There was a slight drawing up of the stooping figure—an almost imperceptible expanding of the breast—a hurried, momentary glance at William, in which only one who had long studied it could discriminate the proud, shy pleasure, tinged as it was by a certain sadness, with which Helen heard this news.
“He is quite right,” she said quickly.
“Do you think so?” asked William; “but what if I only lose myself yonder in the crowd, and remain as unknown as I am now?”
“I know you will not,” said Helen. Then she recollected herself. “I mean—yes, William Oswald, I mean you will not—you will do better than that.”
He was still in the shadow, and while he could observe every change of her features, she could scarcely see the dark glow of pleasure which covered his face.
“But, Helen, you think of fame—and I will never win fame; hundreds fail every year of acquiring the mere standing ground. Is it worth hazarding quietness and peace, and giving up home as I shall do, think you, for the chance of such distinction—only small distinction, Helen—as I can ever reach?”
Her pulse began to beat more quickly—strong in those young warm veins of hers ran the tide of her ambition.
“I do not mean distinction—that is,” said the truthful Helen, who felt that in some degree she did mean it; “I mean things graver and nobler before distinction. I think the old chivalry will never die out of the world, William; to be a knight—to carry arms against all the powers of evil—to win new lands to acknowledge our king—whatever we have to work at for our bread, that remains the real work to live for, as it seems to me, and I know nothing so precious but one might peril it—nothing so dear but one would give it up for such a cause as that.”
Her voice shook a little with the excitement that made it strong—the stooping head was quite erect—the eyes shining like stars.
Mrs Buchanan sat a little apart looking at them—observing with quiet, smiling wonder how the grave face of the silent, uncommunicative William began to speak and grow eloquent too, as it bent towards the other countenance, whose thoughts were “legible i’ the eie.”
But he seemed more inclined to listen than to speak.
“I grant you that,” said William; “but suppose, Helen, a man should distrust his own powers, and think it most expedient to keep himself apart from all struggles—to withdraw far away from the evils he has not strength to contend with—what then?”
“Then he does not fulfil his end,” said the rapid, eager voice—“which is not to flee from natural temptations and difficulties, but bravely to resist and do battle with the same. I know one feels one’s heart sink often. It may not be so with you who are strong—butIfeel that to cease such work and warfare as one is called to do, does bring a perilous sinking of the heart. It is not well—surely it is not well to withdraw from the evils which are in us and about us; we are bound to do battle with them, William—not to stand on our defence alone, but to carry the war into the camp of the enemies. I think sometimes that the state of war must be the only good state for those who have sin natural to them as we have—and that if these words, resist and struggle,were withdrawn from our language we should be no longer human; for when we let our arms fall, our hearts fall, and weariness comes upon us, and distrust and gloom; and out of the living, moving world we come into the narrow chamber of ourselves—and the sun sets upon us, William.”
The sun had set in the changeful face upon which William Oswald looked, and for the moment its waning colour and downcast eyes proclaimed the unmistakeable sinking of the heart. She did not perceive the look that dwelt upon her, nor its language—language unconsciously powerful. “And this, Helen, is your philosophy.” The words fell dreamily upon her ear, echoing through a long silence. The philosophy was not hers alone. Kindred thoughts had risen in the young minds, as they grew together into the early flush of maturity, and now she sent him forth—a knight.
Saucy fortune, did’st thou smile,I perchance would little heed thee;Think’st thou when thou frown’st, the whileFor myself I dread thee?Nay, not I—I only vow,If one falls, it shall be thou.—Anon.
Saucy fortune, did’st thou smile,I perchance would little heed thee;Think’st thou when thou frown’st, the whileFor myself I dread thee?Nay, not I—I only vow,If one falls, it shall be thou.—Anon.
Saucy fortune, did’st thou smile,I perchance would little heed thee;Think’st thou when thou frown’st, the whileFor myself I dread thee?Nay, not I—I only vow,If one falls, it shall be thou.—Anon.
“I am a man now,” said Halbert Graeme, with something of the pride of his years; “and, thanks to your goodness, Sir, I have education enough for any ordinary profession. If only I could make a beginning—”
“You would certainly succeed,” said the Laird of Mossgray, with his pleasant, kindly smile.
“I do not know,” said Halbert, modestly; “but I think that men who are content to work hard and persevere, must surely have some measure of success. I am not very ambitious—that is—”
“I shall not quarrel with you, Halbert, my man, for your ambition,” said the gentle kinsman, whom Halbert had feared as stern.
“Well, Sir,” said the youth, with renewed confidence,“I should like to rise, no doubt; but I am willing to work hard for it, and quite content to begin as humbly as you think it proper I should. I have no right, I know, to such help, where I have already received so much; but I have the claim of blood on no one I have ever known, and I thought I might ask advice from you.”
It was his second day at Mossgray, and Halbert remembered his last walk up the Aberdeenshire glen, a week ago, with Menie Monikie, and his declaration to her—
“I will tell him, I don’t come to ask anything from him, Menie—I know he has been kind to me already—but he must know the world better than we do. Your father says he has been in India—and if I could but begin to maintain myself—then, Menie!”
And Halbert remembered what followed thisthen—the breaking of that slender golden coin, one half of which hung by Menie’s blue ribbon, was warm against his own strong youthful breast, and the following farewell, with its tears and smiles, and visions of reünion; and Halbert’s honest heart beat something loudly, and he grew bold and eager—if he only could begin.
“Halbert,” said Mossgray, gently, “your father and I did not part friends. I thought he had not dealt truly by one whom I cherished as a sister, and it was in consequence of that, perhaps unwisely, that I denied myself the satisfaction of seeing another Graeme grow a man in this old house of Mossgray; but you say truly that it is time to decide on your future profession. Are you very impatient for this beginning?”
The kindly eye of Mossgray could not see through the warm double-breasted waistcoat, with which the care of Mrs Monikie had provided Halbert for his journey. The Laird had no knowledge of the mystic half of the broken coin, nor had ever heard the musical name of Menie. He thought therefore that this beginning was not so very momentous, and that it might be put off for a time without any particular disadvantage; and Halbert stammered as he answered. His kinsman thought it was but the natural shyness of youth.
“You must let us know you better,” he continued, “and I shall qualify myself to advise; in the mean time, Halbert, remember that you are athome. You have all the beauties of your ancestral district to see, and I promise you they arenot few. While you learn to know them and us, we shall consult on this important matter. Are you content?”
Halbert could not be otherwise than content; the grace of the old man’s kindness charmed the young fresh spirit, and it was no penance to remain a member of that household of Mossgray, even though the fortune was not yet begun to make, and Menie Monikie disconsolately wandered in the Aberdeenshire glen alone. So Halbert took possession of his father’s former room, and wrote pleasant letters to the North—letters, on receipt of which the pragmatical licentiate took pinches of mighty snuff in sign of satisfaction, and declared that “the lad, Halbert, was a lad born to a good estate, and would do credit to them all.”
But Mossgray began to behold festivities within its quiet walls; and great was the interest and expectation among the invited guests, from Mrs Maxwell, of Firthside, painfully selecting from her Georgina’s abundant wardrobe, the dress which would best become her, to Mrs Buchanan, in her little palour, deliberating long and carefully over that one black silk gown of Helen’s. It was so very unusual, that all were curious about the long-suspended hospitalities of Mossgray.
In the little household itself there was some degree of excitement as they assembled in the drawing-room to await their guests. Lilias, with her mourning dress more studied than usual, looked almost as pale as when she first came to Mossgray, and sat in her ordinary seat, so serene and calm in appearance, even though her pulse did own a little acceleration, that the young joyous Halbert compared her in his fancy to one of those fair spirits of the air, nearer humanity than angels are, whose eyes are yet so much clearer than ours, as to unseen woes and perils, that men always paint them sad. Yet Lilias was not sad: the stillness of grief grown tranquil did indeed still temper all her feelings, but there were warm and pleasant hopes no less swelling in the even current of her mind. Only with these hopes the strangers about to be gathered round her had little sympathy and no concern, and involuntarily, with that quick instinct which makes us feel most solitary in a crowd, the thoughts of Lilias had travelled far away, and were dwelling with one who laboured alone in a strange country over the sea.
Very different were the feelings of the young betrothed of Menie Monikie; but if Halbert was by no means intense,he was very honest. He had written to Menie, proclaiming his anticipated enjoyment of this same festivity, and promising a faithful record of it, and having thus done all that was needful for the absent, he stood before the cheerful fire in great spirits, listening for the first sound of wheels, and exceedingly satisfied with his position.
The Laird of Mossgray sat at some little distance from the younger members of his family, and seemed to be busied with a book. He was not reading however; he was observing their different looks and feelings, and thinking of the strange conclusion which their presence in his house put to his solitary and recluse life. Both he had determined to keep at a distance from him; both had been shut out, by his grave and deliberate resolution, from his presence and his affection; and yet both were here. Secretly the old man smiled at himself, and at the trustful nature which now was too old to learn suspicion; secretly smiled at the vanity of those brittle barriers called resolutions, with which men stem, or try to stem, the tide of nature—resolutions made to be broken; and in his kindly philosophy he shook his head at his yielding self, and smiled.
The expected company began to arrive. A faint colour rose on the calm cheek of the youthful hostess as she received them, and the young representative of the Mossgray Graemes felt the ingenuous blood glow in his face as eye after eye fell upon him, and acquaintance after acquaintance was made. He felt that there was great consideration paid him, and that, however matters might eventually be decided, it was very clear that these dignified landed people looked upon him, Halbert Graeme, as the heir of Mossgray.
Helen Buchanan, feeling very shy and proud, andde trop, sat by herself in a corner. Near enough for her to hear every word of their conversation, were a group of ladies, old and young, whose glances fell upon her often, but who took no further notice of the humble guest. Girls were among them, gay and confident—mothers, kindly and solicitous, but all looked at her with cold, criticising eyes, and no one said a word of courtesy, or made the slightest attempt to admit her within their circle. They knew her very well; some had been specially introduced to her by her friend Lilias, who was at present occupied with other guests, yet they all suffered her to sit alone and in silence like a Pariah, while their cheerful, animated conversation went on so near. The proud heartswelled bitterly as she listened; for Helen had unconsciously attached importance to this invitation, and accepted it with a flutter of the heart. The disappointment was very painful; it brought the melancholy of her temperament upon her: had it not been for the bulwark of her pride, Helen, out of those downcast, indignant, gleaming eyes, could have shed bitter tears.
Her own shy frankness, which could not rest till it had established terms of kindly intercourse with all who came near her, and the pain it gave herself to see any one uneasy, made her feel the slight the more. So well it would have become one of those comely mothers to spread the shield of their protection over the stranger—so seemly it would have been for the well-endowed and many-friended girls beside her to have helped her with the frank friendship of youth. Helen drew back into her corner, and felt the pain of being alone in all its bitterness. She did not know that the gracious courtesy of which she thought, was a thing, like genius, born and not made—a gift in which the ignoble have no part.
The Reverend Robert Insches was there. He hovered about the group at Helen’s side, but he did not come near herself. She felt his desertion also a little. The Reverend Robert would have cheered her loneliness with all his heart, but he saw no other person who condescended to seek the society of the plebeian schoolmistress of Fendie; and the Reverend Robert was also by origin plebeian, and trembled for his acquired position. So he dared not draw all eyes upon himself, by volunteering the attention which no one else seemed inclined to give.
Lilias was fully occupied with other strangers at the opposite end of the room. Mrs Oswald, after she had saluted Helen with a kindness peculiarly delicate and cordial, thought it most expedient to remain at a distance from her; and William stood watching the changes of the sad, indignant, solitary face until he could bear the pain of the averted look no longer. There was a slight stir in the group of ladies, and among the attendant masculine hangers-on, as William Oswald came quietly to Helen’s side. The Reverend Robert became envious and jealous—the ladies looked towards the corner with suppressed whispers and tittering—the banker watched them with the dark hue of anger on his brow; and with no kind face anywhere, except the one by her side,whose look she would not meet, the bitterness swelled up almost to bursting within the heart of Helen.
Just then the Laird of Mossgray began to see how it fared with the one guest whose presence Lilias had desired, and in his graceful old-world courtesy he drew near to relieve her. As he passed on to Helen’s corner, his attention was claimed at every step; but Mossgray passed through the happier groups, smilingly parrying the attacks made upon him.
“I have something to say to Miss Buchanan.”
William Oswald silently made room for him, and the face of Helen lightened as she met the benign smile of the gracious old man. The group of ladies turned their eyes towards her, now with no tittering—the Reverend Robert insinuated his tall figure into the vacant space behind her chair, and in the distance the banker vainly resisted, as she could perceive, the strong curiosity which turned his eyes towards her. She was a little interested, in spite of herself, in the looks and attitudes of William’s father, and the new animation which lighted up her face had some pique in it. The mercurial temperament sprang up elastic and buoyant from the depths; and the bystanders who had so long ignored her presence, began to listen now, and to draw closer. One only moved to a greater distance than before, and the smile of proud pleasure on his face told well enough what feeling it was which prompted him to stand apart and only look on.
The banker was almost tempted to draw near himself, and ascertain whether the conversation, in which there were now various interlocutors, but the leaders of which were certainly the old man and the humble plebeian Helen, corresponded at all with the singularly variable face, to which his eyes were attracted against his will; but for very shame he could not make any advance. Mrs Oswald and Lilias were quietly conversing beside him. He could not quite hear what they said, but he could distinguish the frequent name of Helen; the obstinate man grew angrily inquisitive; they were all in a conspiracy against him.
He saw Mossgray change his position; he saw Helen rise, and with some evident shyness take the old man’s offered arm. They came towards him; the stern banker was conscious of some excitement. He changed his position, cleared his throat, and twisted up in his hands a roll of engravings which lay on a small table beside him, to their entire destruction, and the secret delight of his watching wife.
“I have brought Miss Buchanan to see our picture,” said the old man. “Mrs Oswald, has Lilias suffered you to see the portrait, for which I must borrow my young friend’s pleasant name—have you seen the Lily of Mossgray?”
The banker’s eyes were fascinated to the life-like nervous figure which stood so near him. The swift, instantaneous movements—the look which read the remainder of Mossgray’s words before his sentence was half spoken—the moving of the lip, which seemed to repeat them as if in unconscious impatience of their tardiness. She was not like her father; he could see, even in this glance—and with something of “the stern joy which foemen feel,” he perceived it—that the irritation which killed poor Walter Buchanan would have been but a spur to this elastic nature; and even Mr Oswald, strongly as he held by all the proprieties, could not but smile to think of the common-place people round him, “looking down” upon Helen.
“I have seen no Lily at Mossgray but one,” said Mrs Oswald, “and was just venturing to reproveherfor retaining her paleness so long. Helen, I wish we could borrow some of your elasticity for Miss Maxwell.”
“That so Helen might withdraw from me the name she has given,” said Lilias, smiling; “and Mossgray forget that I am like his favourite flower; no, no, that will not do; but the picture—I did not think any one would be interested in the picture: and Helen has seen it, Mossgray?”
“Helen only saw it in its earliest sketch,” said the old man. “Come, I must exhibit it.”
It was in a little room, which opened from the drawing-room, a very small place, looking like a recess of the larger apartment. Mossgray led his young companion in, followed by Mrs Oswald and Lilias. The banker made a few steps after them, but suddenly discovering that William watched him, he made a spasmodic halt at the door.
The little room was not brilliantly lighted, and the picture stood leaning against the wall. Lilias had begged that it should not be hung in its future place of honour, until after this evening. It was a very good and truthful portrait, with a pale pure light in its colouring in keeping with the subject. The scene was an antique turret-room in the oldest quarter of the house of Mossgray, which had been a chamber of dais when the old stock of the moss-trooping Graemes began to gather riches and to desire peace. There were carvingsof venerable oak about it, and furniture of a very old date; the Laird had especially chosen this room as the background for the portrait of Lilias.
And Lilias herself looked out from the brown tints of this still life, with her serene looks and every-day apparel. The painter and his subject had, both of them, too much taste to choose the vulgar, full dress, sitting-for-a-portrait attitude. A certain visionary poetic grace and fitness were in all the adjuncts. The contemplative, pensive look, the serene pale face, the pure, calm, melancholy brow, were rendered with a graceful hand; and the old man named the picture well when he called it the Lily of Mossgray.
“But Hope would not have arranged it so,” said Helen, when she had sufficiently admired the portrait. “Hope would have made a group instead of that single spiritual face.”
“And drawn me with breast-plate and rusty spear,” said Lilias, “about to set out on a foray; because my name, Mossgray, reminds Hope of the Laird’s Jock, and his brethren of the ballad-days.”
“Nay,” said Helen, “Hope has caught the graceful spirit of the ballads better than that; but she would have changed the scene to the old hall of the tower, and put breast-plate and steel-jack on a brotherhood of Graemes, and placed you, with your pensive look, in the midst, sending them forth, sadly and bravely, not on a foray, but on a truer errand, if it were to the Flodden that needed them. And I think almost that this same face, with that breath of sadness about it, might have suited the old hall well, and the armed men who were going forth, with a peradventure that they would never return; and the Lily of Mossgray would do honour to Hope’s fancy, if the painter had thought of her as the Laird’s Lilias.”
As she ceased, she slightly turned her head. The banker was looking in eagerly—looking at her. As their eyes met, both withdrew hastily; Helen with a tingling thrill of shy pride, and Mr Oswald with a complication of feelings difficult to describe. Strong determination not to yield, strangely mingled with an absolutelikingfor the girl who praised his Hope so kindly, and to whom Hope clung with such affection. It was a very sudden feeling, but his eyes followed her unawares, almost with pride. William too was looking proudly after the rapid figure in the distance. Hope, at home, was thinking proudly, that no one in Fendie or in Edinburgh waslike Helen Buchanan; and the banker, in his secret heart, acknowledged that they were right, while again he repeated his resolution—never!