CHAPTER XVI.

Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of loveAccompany your hearts!—Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“Is it to be, Helen?” asked Lilias.

A sudden gravity floated over the lurking laughter in Helen’s eye.

“Is what to be, Lilias?”

The Lily of Mossgray was almost gay now. She put her hands on her friend’s shoulders, and looked with a smile into her face.

“Because Mossgray particularly desires to know. He will ask you the question himself if you do not tell me, Helen.”

Helen drew away the gentle hands.

“You have told me very little about your new mother, Lilias. Is she indeed the Miss Lucy of Murrayshaugh—Isabell Brown’s young lady?”

“My new mother wants to see you, Helen; you must come with me to Mossgray to-day; and Isabell at Murrayshaugh begins to be reconciled to Miss Lucy. She was cured of her unbelief,” said Lilias, with a happy blush and smile, “when she saw Hew.”

“Is he so like what his uncle was?” said Helen.

“He is very like the picture, and the picture was like his uncle—there is a resemblance still.”

“And, Lilias—for yourself,” said Helen; “do you stay at home—do you remain here?”

The calm Lilias answered less shyly than her friend asked, though both of them blushed. “We are going out to the wars again—not to India; I do not mean to India—but Hew must go and work, Helen; for all these changes do not make us rich, and Mossgray tells him it is best to climb the brae and conquer the difficulties with his own hand.”

The flush deepened on Helen’s cheek—the brave stout heart rose; for her too this work remained; and the notes of the reveilée were already in her ear.

“You guessed well once, Helen,” said Lilias, “when you prophesied calm griefs for me; but now that the terror and the pain are overpast—now, Helen—what do you promise me now?”

“Good times,” said the young prophet, raising her stooping head, “fair calm sunshine, pleasant skies—and so many to help and comfort you, Lilias; sometimes sorrows—quiet ones—righteous people going away hopefully to the other country—but not war; for you will dwell among your own people.”

“Not always,” said Lilias, with her quiet smile; “not at first certainly; and for you, Helen?”

“For me!”

She looked away into the vacant air, her eyes absorbed with fairy visions; not of ease or wealth, or rank—those things so far away and unknown in which she saw no charm; but the loud heart beat high in her breast, and the colour went and came on her cheek, like the rapid breath which seemed to sway it; the hill to climb, the dangers to conquer!

With a sudden start she broke the spell of her musing:

“He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’,But aye a heart aboon them a’,”

she said half aloud, and tears bright and pleasant were in her eyes.

This was the lot which she saw rising in its unknown glory before her, the undiscovered country full of grand perils and deliverances—the storms to be borne, the griefs, the joys—the labours. The bright calm which suited her friend was not made for her; it was she who was going to the wars.

“And am I to have a lilac satin frock, Mamma?” demanded Hope Oswald.

Mrs Oswald had just returned from the promised visit which completed the reconciliation. There was something painful in it, and in the renewal of the old friendship which had been so long and forcibly restrained. Few people, even though they are happy people, can look back upon the past without sadness, and grave thoughts were in the mind of the banker’s gentle wife.

“You will get whatever is proper, Hope, my dear,” said Mrs Oswald.

But Hope was very far from satisfied. “Whatever was proper” might not include the lilac satin frock, on which Hope had set her heart; so she left her mother, who was singularly silent and preöccupied, to discourse to the banker upon the marriage of Mrs Fendie’s eldest daughter, the Reverend Mrs Heavileigh, and the dress in which Adelaide made her public appearance as bridesmaid on that solemn occasion. Mr Oswald was more propitious than his wife.

“You shall have your lilac satin frock, Hope,” said the banker, joyously rubbing his hands, “and anything else you like, for there’s not a Fendie of them all like either of you. You shall have your frock; and do you want anything else, Hope?”

It was a considerable trial to Hope’s self-control. There were, indeed, various other things which she should have liked; for instance, Adelaide Fendie had just got a pair of resplendent bracelets; but Hope restrained herself.

“Thank you, father, no—unlessyouwanted me to get something else.”

The banker laughed, and made a private memorandum. Hope’s modest subjection to the paternal wishes did her no harm.

But the times were by no means ripe for the appearance of Hope’s magnificent official dress. She had to console herself with expectations and wait.

The new year came and passed with its festivities. The strangers settled down in Murrayshaugh; already the old rooms there had grown less dreary, more home-like—but the jealous Isabell, who suspiciously watched every new article of furniture introduced into them, had not much reason to complain. Nothing out of place disturbed the aspect of those familiar rooms. The old state parlour, which had never been used within the memory of man, was to be refurnished, to do honour to “the young folk;” but the son and daughter of Murrayshaugh were content with their old apartments. A little less meagre than they were, the antique, grave sombre rooms were little changed.

And when again the spring began to be spoken of by the softening breeze, preparations were made at Murrayshaugh and Mossgray, and under the roof of the banker Oswald. The young Hew Grant had been in Liverpool, where his business was. He was now coming home, and home too came William Oswald, who had taken a house in Edinburgh, and had been furnishing it, after the modest fashion which suited his means, with great enjoyment of the unusual business.

There had been a farewell party in Helen Buchanan’s school-room—a very large party, comprising the various ranks of girls, who had finished, or had not finished, their education under her. Some of them were sturdy young women, only a few months younger than Helen’s own strangely differing self—some of them very little merry fairies, not reaching her knee, but all undoubtedly owned her sway, and recognised in this enchanted circle no authority so high as “the Mistress.” Hope Oswald was Helen’s aide-de-camp, and assisted on this as on other occasions, and enjoyed theparty greatly; and when the host of ruddy visitors were gone, Helen Buchanan left the school-room, with grave thoughts and a dim face, not to enter it again.

“I have got my lilac satin frock, Helen,” said Hope sedately, the next morning, as she hung over Helen’s work-table.

Helen did not answer. She smiled—a momentary smile fading immediately into gravity. She herself was making a dress of white muslin, which was nearly finished; a very simple dress—the last proud assertion of Helen’s independence.

The banker was greatly inclined to make a favourite of her now; he was proud of the new daughter who, having conquered and fascinated himself, was certain, as he felt, to subjugate all the world. There were strange contradictions in this obstinate rigid man. His son and his son’s fame did not affect him at all in the same way as these two girls did. Helen and Hope—Mr Oswald fancied there were not two like them in Scotland.

And about Helen’s bridal dress; a very fine one lay in Mrs Oswald’s room, waiting until after the momentous ceremony, because the proud Helen would not accept it now. The banker cast a wondering half-disconsolate glance sometimes at its glossy uncut breadths, and thought it would have been a very appropriate bridal dress, and as much richer than Charlotte Fendie’s as the bride was more graceful; but here, in the little parlour, sat Helen, making the plain, white muslin one which her own means could reach.

“Will you let me help you, Helen?” said Hope.

“No,” answered Helen quickly, “it is nearly finished now—I do not need help—but who is that coming in?”

“Oh, Helen, it’s Miss Insches!” exclaimed Hope, struck with momentary alarm. She almost feared the minister was about to rush in, and carry off the prize after all.

Helen laid her work away, and took some other less likely to excite attention. The minister’s little good-humoured sister came bustling in.

“I hardly expect to be long in Fendie now, Mrs Buchanan,” said Miss Insches, significantly.

But Helen’s mother was resolved not to be curious—she only said “Indeed.”

“Ye see,” said Miss Insches, “it’s no to be expected but what a young man like Robert should think of settling;though I aye tell him it’s his best way to take his time and look weel about him, for a minister’s wife, ye ken, Mrs Buchanan, is no like a common body’s; and when a lad like Robert is well likit in a place, he has great reason to be canny—for a wife that wasna just richt, would spoil a’.”

Mrs Buchanan looked a little piqued—but Helen’s face was lighted up, and she was inclined to be very merry.

“You are quite right, Miss Insches,” said Helen.

The good little woman looked at her in some surprise, but Helen’s eyes were cast down, and she could not see the laughter which danced under their lids.

“Ay, Miss Buchanan, it’s a serious thing,” resumed Miss Insches, “for ye see, a minister maunna think about his ain comfort it’s lane, but about what a’body’ll say; for it’s a wonderful thing to me, how a’bodydoesaye find something to say, whatever folk do; and then forbye being alady—and I aye make a point o’ that—there’s so much needed in a minister’s wife. There’s Robert now—he’s as guid a lad as ever was; but when he’s at his studies, or when he’s dune out wi’ preaching, I’m aye as quiet as poussie—but it’s no every wife that would have that discrimination.”

“No indeed,” echoed the mischievous Helen.

“And then Robert, puir man, he’s aye been used to have his ain way,” said Miss Insches, becoming disconsolate as the thought again entered her mind that Robert must consent to come down from his shrine, and very probably should have his own way no longer: “and I’m sure I dinna ken onybody that deserves’t as weel; for a better lad—”

“Is Mr Insches going to be married?” interrupted Hope.

Miss Insches brightened.

“Weel, I’ll no say—thereisa young lady, I ken—she’s very bonnie, though she’s but a young thing, and they have an unco wark with one another. Ye ken he maun make up his mind for himsel—I wouldna take it upon me to advise him to the like o’ that; but I judge he would get na discouragement yonder, and she’s a lady baith by the faither’s side and the mother’s. There’s nae saying what may come to pass in a while; but the noo, Robert’s gaun away to take a jaunt to himsel—he’s just worn out aye at his duty, puir man, and he’s gaun to London.”

“Weel,” added Miss Insches to herself, as she left Mrs Buchanan’s door, “if she ever got the offer of our Robert—maybe she didna—but if she ever did, I kenna whatglamour was in the lassie’s e’en, to make her take that muckle dour man when she might have gotten the minister!”

A little mirth, somewhat strange to look upon, was in Mrs Buchanan’s parlour when the minister’s sister left; for Helen laughed, and her laugh had a quivering sound, and tears were in her eyes; and Hope laughed because Helen did, and in triumph, with some perception that there were deeper feelings than mirth in those tears, and Mrs Buchanan smoothed her slightly ruffled brow, and smiled with them, thinking of the time when “Robert” was great and important in her eyes, as well as in those of his sister, as of a troublous, uneasy time, already far away and hidden in the past.

The white dress was completed: they laid its spotless folds on the old sofa where the spring sunshine fell on it gently, and Hope Oswald laid two or three of those small fragrant, deep-blue violets which grew at the door, upon the bridal dress. Pure, simple, hopeful, marking the conclusion of the chequered youth, which, spent in toil and poverty, had yet been bright with the sunshine of heaven. Tenderly Hope Oswald decked it with her violets—gravely the mother looked on; this gentle grasp of joy brought a strange note of sadness out of the young heart and the old, sadness which made them more joyful, and showed that the happiness had reached the depths, and stirred the stillest waters there.

And in her little room alone, Helen Buchanan paused at this new starting-point of life, to look upon its mercies which were past, its difficulties which were before her: and with tears upon her cheek, rendered the thanks and sought the strength which she owed and needed. A new beginning: to be loftier, purer, braver than it had ever been; and upon the great Ideal which she sought to reach, the light streamed full down from the skies. For it was not an ideal, but a resemblance; the human features of that wondrous Man, who has carried our nature to the throne of Heaven, and wears his universal crown upon a human brow.

“Now draws he to the west, and noble cloudsNear to his royal person all the dayAttend him to his chamber. In his eye,His broad, full, fearless eye, no faint or chillIs visible; grandly and solemnly,As who hath well done work which shall remain,He marches to his rest.Lift up thy gorgeous curtains, thou great sky!That he may enter in. Fall back, O clouds!Where now he goeth, he must go alone.”

“I did not think,” wrote Adam Graeme, as he took up the narrative he had concluded long ago, “that I should ever add more to this record; but strange things have happened with me, since in this quiet study of mine I recorded my resolutions here. My resolutions! I find no trace of them anywhere, except on this page which already begins to grow yellow, and fade into the guise of old age like its human neighbours. They are gone, like the winter ice into the bosom of our wan water, pleasantly melted under the sunshine, into the stream which gave them birth.

“For yonder, with the light mercifully shining on it, stands Charlie’s chair; and beside me on this table are the first lilies of May, with dew upon their snowy leaves. They remind me of my child; not of the dead only, who long ago trod down the early blossoms of my life into the dust, but of the living Lilias, who is mine, not to be lost to me by any change. She has gone away from my old house now, with her bridegroom, but she is still my child. They blend together in my mind, the mother and the daughter, and in memory and in presence they cling to me, where neither jealousy nor fear can interpose, always my own.

“And through the open turret window yonder, I hear the sound of a frank, bold voice; my heir, the manful and stout representative of the old Graemes. He is not like me, and it is well; his honest, joyous, youthful strength will raise up the decaying race. I cannot give my thoughts to Halbert—I cannot bequeath to him my old faculty of dreams—nor would I if I could. Some one, whom I know not, will inherit from me this contemplative life. I would not give it, if I had the power with all its sadnesses and glooms, to Halbert:he has the lands, the old honour, the good name. I am glad that I leave them to him pure, and that he is true and honest, and has not the spirit of his father. His father—who can tell? the greater mysteries of truth might open to him dying, who, living, heeded them not; but we do not speak of Charlie Graeme. Humbly in awe and silence we leave him in the great Hand which has taken him away; ourselves having pity on the dead.

“For Hew and Lucy are with me again, gray-haired people in their father’s house; and Lucy’s son and my Lilias are our common hope. The three of us have had diverse lots, parted in far distant places, exposed to strange fortunes; but we end as we began, with kindred aims and kindred fancies, and travel together towards the one conclusion of mortal life, which is the same to all.

“Hew’s troubles have been those of captivity and exile. To his warm heart, which always has answered so tenderly to voices of kindred and friendship, a very hard and bitter form of the inevitable discipline; but he has borne it bravely, and the frank, simple, guileless spirit has come unaltered through all. When we wander together by our Waterside, when I feel Hew’s arm diving through mine as it used to do thirty years ago, when I hear his unchanged voice addressing me, ‘Man, Adam!’ I close my eyes and thank God. We are young again; the intervening time floats on the air about us, a dream which we have dreamed together, and the enthusiast lads who leaned over yonder wall upon the dim hill-side, looking out dreamily over the royal city, are here, on the banks of the home river, as hopeful, as undoubting, and scarcely wiser than when they parted.

“Heavy wisdoms that come with years, dark experiences that close men’s hearts, let us be thankful that they have not fallen on us—that we are as we were; carrying young hearts with us, into the purer country.

“Lucy has had sorrows other than these. Long patience, the silent burden of slow years and quietness such as only women bear; tending the weakness of the stern old man who lived so long in his solitary pride, and after some year or two of tranquil gladness—no longer, I think—weeping the tears of a widow. We reverence her calmer peace, as we reverenced her youthful gravity long ago, when we were boys, and when the budding woman called us so, and was gentle to us in her young wisdom. It is true her hair is white asthe leaves of my lilies, and that her cheek is colourless, and has something of the ashy hue of age; but Lucy, like Hew, is unchanged. Graver, wiser, more serious still than we are, smiling the old gentle composed smile at our boyish fancies, speaking the old words of quiet counsel, directing us in the old calm playful fashion. Isabell at Murrayshaugh, simple, kind heart, wept for the broken romance, the fair, lost Miss Lucy: but I, who knew her better than Isabell, cannot think thus, for she is still Lucy Murray, the same as she ever was.

“It is some time since we married our children. He is a good youth this Hew of ours, worthy of his mother and of my Lily. My good Lily! I miss her, now that she has left me, perhaps more than if all her time of dwelling here had been happy. I remember the long sad days in which my poor child parted with all her hopes, almost with regret. It seems to me sometimes that there was a blessing in this grief.

“I had fainted unless I had believed to see the ‘goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.’ Great hope and glorious, which speaks of another country—grand as it is, it does not fill up all the requirements of this humanity. To live, we must have some hope for the mortal life, some expectation warm with the human blood. It is only men who divorce and separate the two—the wonderful grace of Heaven gives us both.

“They are to come to us when the autumn comes, and it is coming apace. I agree with them that it is right—that Hew while he is young is doing well to work what work he can, and provide for days of home-dwelling; but I feel that the absence of Lilias makes a great void, and I may innocently wish that this needful work was done, and that we might keep them here beside us.

“The other youthful people have begun their course pleasantly; fair fall this sunny power of change: I felt that Mr Oswald’s resolution must come to an untimely end, like mine, and it is very well that he has yielded gracefully, before it was too late.

“The changed and the unchanged, how they blend and mingle. We are here again, we three, in these old houses, by this wan water; scarcely a tree has fallen, scarcely an acre of those far-spreading banks has been altered, since we were here in our youth, and in our youth our most cherished fancy was to return and meet thus again. Thus, nay, not thus;other dreams were in each heart of us. We thought of others joining us here, in the time of which we smiled to speak, when we should be old. We thought of prosperous lives, of names grown famous, of households and of heirs; but one by one, the old hopes have gone down to the grave of such, and only the oldest of all survives. We are here, we are together, but not as we dreamed.

“Solitary, aged people, alone but not sad; for now we speak of One, of whom then we spoke not ever, of Him who has been with us through all this length of way, the One known when all were strangers, the One present when all forsook us. We speak of Him in His tenderness so near to us, a man touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and we speak of Him in awe and love, as God over all, blessed for ever. A little time and we shall enter His presence, hopeful to be like Him, seeing Him as He is; and while we remain in this fair earthly country, we speak of the heavenly which is to come. Another country—perhaps indeed this familiar world with its change and fiery ordeal past; and again I say I love to think it will be so. I love to anticipate the time when I may watch and waityonderfor that sublime morning which shall restore to me my human frame, my human dwelling-place; and when I look upon this water, my faithful, long companion, I think I see it flowing on under the sunshine of a grand and holy prime, for which these ages of tumult and anguish and misery have but ripened and prepared this world.

“And while we remain here, human gladnesses abound about us, and hold us fast in their silken chains. We are much together; we live abroad under the free heaven, my brother Hew and I, and in the evening we call out Lucy to see the sun go down.

“Bravely going down in light and hope to the other world which waits for him; and thus we travel in peace and happily, on towards the west which comes nearer every day—on to the setting sun!”

THE END.JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:simplicity, philosphers=> simplicity, philosophers {pg 9}many distinctions as as=> many distinctions as {pg 71}mighty precints=> mighty precincts {pg 95}Helen—Miss Buchanau=> Helen—Miss Buchanan {pg 103}more graceml=> more graceful {pg 181}as Saunders call them=> as Saunders calls them {pg 203}after an inval=> after an interval {pg 253}in was a new hysteric=> it was a new hysteric {pg 269}an outer and in inner=> an outer and an inner {pg 284}Lucy Murray bowed ber head=> Lucy Murray bowed her head {pg 301}in some suprise=> in some surprise {pg 318}Isabel at Murrayshaugh=> Isabell at Murrayshaugh {pg 322 x 2}

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

simplicity, philosphers=> simplicity, philosophers {pg 9}

many distinctions as as=> many distinctions as {pg 71}

mighty precints=> mighty precincts {pg 95}

Helen—Miss Buchanau=> Helen—Miss Buchanan {pg 103}

more graceml=> more graceful {pg 181}

as Saunders call them=> as Saunders calls them {pg 203}

after an inval=> after an interval {pg 253}

in was a new hysteric=> it was a new hysteric {pg 269}

an outer and in inner=> an outer and an inner {pg 284}

Lucy Murray bowed ber head=> Lucy Murray bowed her head {pg 301}

in some suprise=> in some surprise {pg 318}

Isabel at Murrayshaugh=> Isabell at Murrayshaugh {pg 322 x 2}

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