The morning rises dimly,
There are clouds and there is rain,
But always the sun is there--
So softly breaking, parting like the mists
About the hills, the dismayed sorrow looses
Her heavy veil and cloak of mourning from her,
And sometimes smiling, sometimes weeping, like
The skies in April, lifts her head again,
And looks upon the light.
“Miss Maxwell,” said Hope Oswald, as she sat on a low chair by the side
of Lilias on the morning of Hallowe’en, the last day she was to spend at
home: “you have never seen Helen Buchanan yet;--I should like so much to
let you see her before I go away.”
“And you are going away to-morrow, Hope?” said Lilias.
“Yes,” said Hope, disconsolately; “my father is to take me to-morrow. I
should be so glad, Miss Maxwell, if you only knew Helen.”
“Well, Hope,” said Lilias, “you must contrive to introduce us to each
other to-night. I see no other way of accomplishing it.”
“But, Miss Maxwell,” said Hope, with some confusion, “Helen will not be
at our house to-night,--she never comes to our house--she always stays
at home.”
“And why does she always stay at home?”
Hope’s face flushed indignantly.
“Because she has to keep a school--not a school for young ladies--and
because she is proud, and other people are foolish and do not know what
it is to be a gentlewoman;--and because my father--”
Hope paused, perceiving that it might not be necessary to publish the
faults of her father. At the same time Hope was very anxious to make
Lilias useful in her absence as a means of proclaiming the excellencies
of Helen; and there was yet another thing which Hope desired to make
Lilias understand,--that William was by no means an eligible _parti_,
whatever his father or Mossgray might say to the contrary. Hope had
never heard yet of the mysterious Indian letters, and did not know that
Lilias was as completely fortified against the attractions of William as
he was from hers.
“Because she keeps a school, and because she is proud,” repeated Lilias;
“but she has been here in Fendie all her life--and she must have
friends.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Hope, promptly, “she has plenty of friends; only you
know, Miss Maxwell, nobody she cares about--I don’t mean that either--I
mean there is nobody like herself--I never saw any one like Helen but
you.”
“And am I like Helen?”
Hope looked up at the calm, pensive face before her with its fair still
features, and faint colour, and thoughtful melancholy eyes--and
confessed to herself that it was not so.
“No--I don’t mean you are like in the face--only--” Hope paused and was
puzzled, “only you are Helen’s age--and you are alone--and--you are a
gentlewoman.”
Lilias smiled.
“Thank you, Hope, for your good opinion; but perhaps if Miss Buchanan is
so proud she would not like me to call on her.”
“Oh, would you go?” exclaimed Hope--“Oh, Miss Maxwell, if you would only
go! I did not mean that Helen was proud--only she does not care for
people who do not care for her.”
“Mossgray bids me go out,” said Lilias;--she had very soon adopted the
kindly territorial name which was at once respectful and familiar, and
by which her guardian liked to be called; “and the day is bright--will
you take me with you, Hope, and we shall go to see Miss Buchanan?”
Hope was full of delight and thanks.
“But if you come to Fendie now, mind you are not to go back till
night;--for you promised to be with us at Hallowe’en--mind, Miss
Maxwell.”
Miss Maxwell did mind, and gently promised she would remain, though the
mirth of the youthful party was scarcely very congenial to her subdued
spirits; and when she had equipped herself for her walk, and had
received the smiling permission which she asked from Mossgray, and with
Hope’s hand in hers, was walking down the water-side to Fendie, she
resumed the subject,--
“And so you think, Hope, that Miss Buchanan could not be induced to meet
us to-night?”
Hope looked up with some alarm.
“My mother has not asked her to come. Oh, Miss Maxwell, do you think my
father would not be angry if I did?”
Lilias shook her head;--she did not know.
“But to be sure Helen would not come,” said Hope, ruefully. “Do you
know, Miss Maxwell--”
“Do I know what, Hope?”
But Hope still hesitated.
“I mean, Miss Maxwell--if you like Helen--you are sure to like her--at
least I think you will--perhaps; if you do like Helen, will you tell my
father sometime how good she is--for my father does not know Helen.”
Lilias looked at Hope with a smile, and Hope returned the look with a
very sagacious, perplexed, deliberative expression upon her fresh,
candid face.
“You seem to be very fond of Miss Buchanan, Hope?”
“And so I am,” said Hope, blythely, “and so is everybody--only--my
father does not know Helen.”
This anxious affection of Hope’s, childish at once, and chivalrous, had
a great deal of interest for Lilias, and she was silent now, her
thoughts almost as much occupied about Helen as were those of Helen’s
youthful champion.
“Helen will like you, Miss Maxwell,” said Hope, suddenly. “I know she
will; for the people have been saying so much about you since you came.”
The colour rose gently on the cheek of Lilias.
“What have they said about me, Hope?”
“Oh, not very much--only that they were sorry you were ill, and thought
you would be so solitary at Mossgray. Helen saw you at church, Miss
Maxwell, and when the people speak about the strange young lady, she
calls you the lily of Mossgray; but I called you--”
“What did you call me, Hope?”
“You will not be angry?--It was only because your name is like the names
in the old ballads--I called you the Laird’s Lilias.”
“So my name reminded you of the Laird’s Jock, and the Laird’s Wat, did
it, Hope?” said Lilias, smiling; “but it is an excellent title you give
me, for I should have been a very solitary sad Lilias, but for the
Laird;--and was Miss Buchanan sorry for me because I was alone?”
“She never said that,” said Hope, honestly, “because Helen is always
alone herself--only she is with her mother.”
Lilias walked on silently and put her hand over her eyes: how great a
difference did that brief sentence make!
Helen Buchanan’s scholars were flocking out when Hope and Lilias reached
the house. There was a considerable number of them, from awkward hoydens
of Hope’s own years, whose shyness their graceful teacher had mellowed
into something not unhandsome, down to little sunburnt fairies of four
or five, who, spite of clogs and coarse dresses, had still the
unconscious charm of childhood upon them, and needed no mellowing. They
all knew Hope, and with her were much more friendly than deferential,
for Hope with her buoyant spirits and frank young life could not always
be kept within the bounds of the circle of Misses who were proper
acquaintances for the Banker’s daughter; and most of them had heard of
the young lady of Mossgray. Some, touched with reverence for the
paleness of Lilias’ face, saluted her with a shame-faced curtsey; the
rest hung back, crowding upon each other in little groups, and looked at
her with curiosity only softened by their shyness--for all were shy. The
young teacher, like the poet, had a sympathy for “sweet
shame-facednesse,” and thought it sat well upon children; so that she
rather cherished than found fault with the native bashfulness of her
pupils. People think otherwise in these precocious days; but the little
ones in Fendie are happily still shy.
Helen sat in her presiding chair in the school-room with thumbed
books and copies, and slates covered with armies of sprawling figures
heaped upon the table before her. She was leaning her head upon her
hand and looking somewhat wearied; the lessons were over for the
day, for the placid work of sewing--a most weary one to the young
practitioners--occupied the afternoon. There was a certain mist upon
her face, and she sighed. Her sky was rather wayward at this present
time, and had various passing shadows; and though her mother had
already two or three times called her to the parlour, Helen still
lingered alone--not that she was thinking deeply or painfully; her
changeful nature had times which did not think at all, and in the mist
of an unconscious reverie, slightly sad, but which a single touch could
raise into buoyant exhilaration or depress into melancholy, she sat by
the large work-table in the empty school-room leaning her head upon her
hand.
“Helen,” said Hope Oswald, “this is Miss Maxwell.” Hope intended to add
something pretty--to say that they were like each other, and should be
friends; but it would not do, for Hope too, after her own peculiar
fashion, was shy; so she withdrew abruptly and left her friends to
improve their acquaintance by themselves.
“I am very glad to see you, Miss Maxwell,” said Helen, earnestly; and
then she too stopped and became embarrassed, and looked at the door for
her mother--but her mother did not come: and Helen glanced up with
admiration and quick liking into the quiet pensive face whose steadiness
she could not but envy, and felt her own variable countenance burn as
she repeated,--“indeed I am very glad to see you.”
“You are very kind,” said the composed and gentle Lilias, who was less
swiftly moved than Helen. “Hope told me you had compassion on my
solitude, Miss Buchanan, and encouraged me to ask you to cheer it;--and
I had confidence in Hope.”
“But you must have no confidence in Hope as regards us,” said Helen,
recovering herself, “for Hope is my sworn knight, and has been my
mother’s favourite all her life:--will you come and see my mother?”
Mrs Buchanan was prepared for them by Hope’s kind warning, and had
little more than time to remove some small matters of preparation for
their simple mid-day meal from the fire, when the famed young lady of
Mossgray entered the parlour with Helen.
And then as Lilias, the motherless, received the cheerful kindly
greeting which people call _motherly_, Helen saw that the face of the
Lily of Mossgray was not an unexpressive one; that the large dark blue
eyes were cast down to hide unshed tears, and that even in the pleasure
which Mrs Buchanan’s welcome gave her, the anguish of the solitary and
desolate came over the orphan’s heart.
They were soon friends--friends so warmly and speedily that Hope Oswald
started in glad surprise when Mrs Buchanan invited Lilias to remain with
them, until it should be time for Mrs Oswald’s juvenile Hallowe’en
party, and Lilias consented with goodwill. Here was a master-stroke! To
have the Lily of Mossgray, at present the admired of all admirers, come
direct from the humble house of Helen Buchanan! Hope repeated to herself
as she went home the commendation of Miss Swinton, and ventured to
believe it true.
“What will my father think?” mused Hope; and she hurried to the office
to beg him, as an especial favour, himself to come with her to the
grocer’s to lay in a stock of nuts for the important transactions of the
evening.
“Wait till after dinner, Hope,” said the banker, graciously; and Hope
waited till after dinner; then, when the lights began to shine out one
after another in the main street of Fendie--the more dignified shops of
Fendie are resplendent in the glories of gas--and Hope was quite sure
that her friend Adelaide would be getting ready to start, and that she
herself would scarcely have time to assume the new silk frock which Mrs
Oswald feared could not fail to receive extensive damage this evening,
her father at last was ready to accompany her, and they proceeded to
make their important purchase.
There was a good deal of the mist of frost in the bracing, pleasant air;
but high above the haze was a cold, distinct, full moon. It did not cast
down a very clear light however through the veil which hung between the
earth and the sky, and the youngsters in the Main Street of Fendie
decidedly preferred the shop-windows.
Opposite the important shop of Mr Elliot Bell, the principal grocer of
Fendie, a group of little girls were enjoying themselves in the bright
spot illuminated by the lights within. They were performing one of those
childish dramas which look like relics of some early stage not without a
certain art in their construction. Who that has had the good fortune to
be born a girl in Scotland does not remember the monotonous expectancy
of the first act, and the quite startling nature of the last in that
famous play of “Janet Jo?” It made rather a pretty scene in the quiet
street of Fendie. A pile of packing-cases and empty boxes standing
securely in a street innocent of thieves because the premises of the
great drapers, Messrs Scott and Armstrong, had no room for them, formed
the back-ground; demurely arranged in the shelter of these stood a row
of little girls; while advancing and retiring before them was another
line of little figures, keeping time to their chant. The light shone
pleasantly upon the small, sparkling faces--every Jean and Mary, and
Maggie among them, had been already summoned by their respective
mothers, but the play was not played out, and the young performers
remained at their post. The banker stood at Mr Elliot Bell’s door with
his daughter, very graciously pleased and admiring. The other part of
the street lay in shadow; the soft, brown haze faintly lighted by the
moonbeams hung between them and the serene unclouded sky, and through
the mist, the spire of the church at the other end of the street shot
strangely up, making its sharp point visible against the clear, blue
arch above; and the sweet voices of the children, in their monotonous
chant, were in harmony with the time.
The banker was not easily moved by the æsthetics of common life; but the
society of his favourite melted his heart.
“Where have these children learned to move so gracefully, Hope?” asked
Mr Oswald, in the incautiousness of his gracious mood; “they might have
been with the French dancing-master, whom your friend Adelaide speaks so
much about.”
“The French dancing-master, papa!” exclaimed Hope; “he could not make
people graceful. Adelaide Fendie is not graceful; she only knows how to
put her feet--”
Mr Oswald laughed.
“Well then, Hope, what about these little girls?--it must be natural to
them.”
Hope began to tremble as she adventured her first direct experiment.
“I think I know what it is, father.”
“Well, Hope?”
“It’s because--because they have a gentlewoman to teach them,” said the
brave Hope, with a considerable tremor.
Mr Oswald looked grave and frowned; he had lost his interest in the
children; but his frown only provoked the bold spirit of his favourite
daughter, who knew her own power.
“They are only common people’s children,” continued Hope, with a good
deal of warmth; “but they have a gentlewoman to teach them, papa; and
Miss Swinton says that is the way to make people graceful. I am sure it
is too--for if you only saw the girls who are not with Helen
Buchanan!--because it’s not being rich that does any good;--people might
have all the money in the world, and only be common people; but Helen
Buchanan is a gentlewoman born!”
The banker wisely withdrew into the shop, and, busying himself about the
nuts, pretended not to have noticed the energetic speech which made
Hope’s cheek burn and her eyes glow in the delivery. Mr Oswald was
considerably afraid, for he saw that Hope was by no means an antagonist
to be despised, and did not well know how to meet her fiery charges.
Hope was indifferent about the nuts: she had begun her campaign, and
felt all the glow and excitement of her first declaration of war.
In the mean time, Lilias Maxwell had settled down quietly into her
corner of Mrs Buchanan’s parlour. The rapid sympathy of Helen had
already gathered up the loneliness, the wants and yearnings of the
orphan, and all that were in sorrow had an unfailing claim upon the pity
and tenderness of her mother. The calm face, so pensive and pale, and
thoughtful, and the unquiet face with its constant life and motion,
contrasted strangely, so near to each other; but their diverse currents
of life had yet many points of harmony. Each was the only child of her
mother: each had the self-knowledge which comes in solitude, and as they
talked together, each came to recognise thoughts like her own, in a
guise and form so different, that strange smiles almost mirthful
brightened even the face of Lilias as they grew familiar. The stranger
very soon ceased to be a stranger then, for even Mossgray was not so
like home.