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.
On the 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 the inexpensive 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 bluid for 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, covered with 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 in the 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. It _was_ a 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.