Saucy fortune, did’st thou smile,
I perchance would little heed thee;
Think’st thou when thou frown’st, the while
For 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 this _then_--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 at
_home_. You have all the beauties of your ancestral district to see, and
I promise you they are not 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, and _de 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 heart swelled 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 reprove _her_ for 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 carvings of 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 absolute _liking_ for 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 was like Helen Buchanan; and the banker, in his secret
heart, acknowledged that they were right, while again he repeated his
resolution--never!