Oh, youth! for years so many and sweet
’Tis known that thou and I were one;
I’ll think it but a fond deceit--
It cannot be that thou art gone;
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,
And thou wert aye a masquer bold;
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size;
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will
That youth and I are housemates still.--COLERIDGE.
The Laird of Mossgray stood alone beneath a high beech, whose silvery
trunk and delicate buds made it the most noticeable of all the
neighbouring trees. His figure was tall, thin, and stooping; his hair
the most delicate silvery gray; his face full of thoughtful fortitude
and wisdom in its gentlest guise; but his usual serenity was ruffled
to-day, the calm of his meditative age was broken.
Those dim lands of memory in whose gentle twilight he did so much love
to wander, among the fairy shadows, tender and pensive, of things which
once were stern and hard enough, had been suddenly illuminated by a
flash of the intense and present reality which once they had. The old
man’s quietness had suddenly been rent asunder, and floated away from
him like a mist, while the stormy blood of his more vehement days was
swelling in his veins again.
He held a letter in his hand; the fingers which traced its trembling
lines were now lying in a nameless grave. A worn-out, wearied woman,
prematurely old, and glad to lay down her head in that one place where
the weary are at rest, was the writer of those earnest, living words.
The Laird of Mossgray did not remember that she was old--the past years
were in this moment a fable and a dream to him. He thought of Lilias
only as he saw her last, enshrined in all the pure and gentle dignity of
his young fancies; for Lilias was dead.
And dying, she had revealed to the old man what she was. Not indeed the
lofty lady of his dreaming days, but a gentle, chastened, meek woman,
who knew now, and had long known, the worth of the generous heart she
threw away. In the bitterness of his soul he had believed her an
unsubstantial vision; but the faithful hand of death had brought back to
him the true Lilias, worthy of the place he had given her in his best
days.
“I do not ask you to forgive me,” wrote the dying Lilias, “because I
know that long ago you must have forgiven the witless girl’s heart that
did itself so much more wrong than you. I did not know myself, my own
slight, shallow, girlish self, and pardon me then, Adam Graeme, that I
did not know you. Since then I have learned--what have I not learned
that is bitter and sorrowful? Care, poverty, death, and miserable shames
and humiliations, such as never crossed your path, have been the
constant companions of mine: they are all ending now. I am going hence
to my Lord, and to the children whom He took from me one by one, till my
heart was well-nigh broken; but I cannot go till I make one prayer to
you, one last entreaty for the sake of our youth.
“I would not speak of the time when we last met; in pity to my bitter
lot, and to the dead whose faults we lay with them in the grave to be
forgotten, as I have laid Edward, and as stranger hands shall soon lay
me, do not think of that time. I have one last treasure remaining to me,
one last request to make, and there is no one in the world but you, whom
I have wronged, to whom I can address my prayer.
“Mossgray, I have a child; a friendless, unprotected, solitary girl,
who will soon be left utterly alone. If I shrink from subjecting her to
the cold charity of Walter’s wife, forgive me, because I am her mother.
I know that Lilias is not what I was. I know that our subdued and
clouded life has given to her youth a greater maturity than I had when I
was her mother. I have fancied often that Lilias is what you thought me
to be, and there has been a sad pleasure in the hope, that for her weak
mother’s sake, your heart would melt to my child.
“I cannot ask you. I feel that I cannot venture to beg of you this last
service; my heart fails me, when I remember how little I deserve any
grace at your hands. But you who have always been so kind and pitiful,
think of the misery of leaving her thus, alone in an evil world. If you
think I presume upon you, if you refuse to hear my prayer, I still must
plead it for her sake. Adam Graeme, will you protect my Lilias? Will you
forgive the sins we have done against you, and protect our child?”
There was more than this; there were the solemn farewells of the dying,
the pathetic earnestness of sorrowful repentance which bade God bless
him for ever. Except in his gray hairs, and in the strength which began
gently to fail and glide away, Adam Graeme was not old. The tide of his
strong and ardent feelings rushed back in that mighty revulsion, with
which the generous soul repents when it has blamed unjustly. He
remembered no injury Lilias had done him--he forgot the blight of his
youth, the solitude of his old age; he only felt that she was again, the
Lilias of his early dreams; and that the commands she laid upon him were
sacred and holy, a trust dearer than any other thing on earth.
And yet, a few brief days before, the old man had solemnly recorded his
resolution to shun their presence; to avoid all contact with Lilias and
her child, that the peace of his age might not be broken. Their very
name was pain to him; therefore he prayed that he might not cross their
path. He resolved to keep himself from any, the most distant intercourse
with them. In solemn earnest he formed this purpose, or rather he formed
it not: it was the instinctive necessity of his heart.
He remembered it now no more. It was not that he combatted his former
resolution; it was swept away before the resistless force of that
impulsive, generous heart, which in its solitary pain had built this
barrier about itself; and there was no inconsistency here. Had his ear
been dull to the voice of Lilias, had he hesitated to respond to her
appeal, then had Adam Graeme in his old age ceased to be consistent to
himself; for the same power which made him resolve to keep himself
separate and distant always from those whose very names had might enough
to move him still, asserted itself in the instant return of all the
ancient tenderness and honour, which painfully taken away from the
living Lilias, could flow forth unrestrained and unblamed upon the dead.
In the enclosure of the letter, a trembling hand had written the date of
the first Lilias’s death. It struck with a dull pang the heart to which
she was restored, yet only thus, he knew, could he have regained her.
That evening the Laird of Mossgray set out on a lonely journey. Before
his going, he warned his anxious housekeeper of the young guest he might
probably bring home with him. The intimation occasioned considerable
excitement in the little household.
The early twilight of the April night had fallen, when Adam Graeme left
the dim lights of Fendie behind him, and travelled away into the
darkness, shaping his course to the south. The faint indefinite sounds,
and musical “tingling silentness” of the night, came close about him,
like the touch of angels’ wings. The stars were shining here and there
through the soft clouds of spring, and the dim shadowy sky blended its
line yonder, in the distance, so gently with the darkened earth, that
you could not mark the place of their meeting. The moon herself had been
an intruder there; the subdued and pensive dimness which told of that
nightly weeping of the heavens from which the young spring draws its
freshness and its life, and the faint shining of yon solitary stars high
in the veiled firmament, harmonized most meetly with the lonely spirit
of the traveller, going forth to look upon the grave of his dead. The
sad, wistful, yearning melancholy which belongs to this hour “between
the night and the day,” who does not know--those faint hushed hopes,
those inarticulate aspirations, turning then, when there is dimness on
the earth, to the better something beyond--there are few who have not
felt the influence of “the holy time.”
A charmed sway it had borne at all times over the mind of Adam Graeme.
And now it travelled with him like a human friend: in the stillness of
his night journey there were gentle ministrations about him, influences
of the earth and of the sky.