“You are not so brave as you think, Helen,” said her mother, smiling.

“Willie Thomson would have found you a very timid passenger.”

“Perhaps--if he was prosaic and understood me literally,” said Helen,

“but I mean one’s heart rises: and in our poor little concerns, mother,

I think we are in the boat, and the Firth is wild with his lion’s mane,

and we are at the oars. Never mind the wind--I like it now, when I am

used to the rocking--and those great, surly, bellowing waves--let us

tame them, mother, it is what they were made for; and yonder is the

shore!”

Mrs Buchanan shook her head. This hand-to-hand struggle with the meagre

strength of poverty was new to Helen. At their best time they had very

little--so little that it was almost a marvel how the good, careful

mother kept the boat afloat; but then their wants bore proportion to

their means, and they were as much content with their spare living as if

it had been the richest;--solitary women always have inexpensive

households--and never before had there been such urgent need as now. It

was well and happy that the young heart rose to meet it; the elder one

had old experiences--memories of being worsted in the battle--of failing

heart and sinking courage, and the armed man, Want, victorious over all.

She sighed and was silent when her daughter spoke; but the storm roused

the strength of Helen. It was the trumpet of her natural warfare, and

she bent to her oar with a stout heart; the end was attainable--they saw

the shore.

“Father,” said Hope Oswald on one of those mellow September days,

“Saunders Delvie is not well--will you come and see him?”

Mr Oswald hesitated a good deal; he had not much power of expression,

and though he might show his sympathy practically if it was much

excited, he could not manage to speak about it. In his capacity as

elder, he could administer reproof with very becoming solemnity, and

overawe the scorner with the grave dignity of his office; but to

encourage, to soothe, to console--these were out of Mr Oswald’s way--he

was shy of adventuring upon them.

“Father,” said Hope, “when Saunders heard that Peter was dead he came to

you--he wanted _you_ to advise him and not Mossgray; and now when there

is no good word about poor Peter, will you not come and see Saunders,

father? for they say he will break his heart and die.”

“People do not die of broken hearts,” said Mr Oswald, hastily.

“But I think Saunders has broken his heart even if he does not die,”

said Hope, with reverence, “and I think that is harder than if God had

taken him away like Peter; but, father, Robbie Caryl says that he heard

Saunders at his worship on Saturday night, and he _minded_ Peter.

Father, Saunders minded Peter in his prayer as if he were not dead.”

Mr Oswald shook his head.

“I am afraid there is very little chance of that, Hope.”

But Hope reiterated her prayer.

“Will you come with me to see Saunders, father?”

“Wait till the evening, Hope,” said the banker: “I will go then.”

And Hope, when the evening came, would suffer no evasion of the promise.

Mr Oswald permitted himself to be led away somewhat reluctantly, for he

felt the duty a very difficult and painful one.

The door of Saunders Delvie’s cottage was closed when they came up, and

from it issued the voice of psalms. It was earlier than the usual

carefully-observed hour of worship, but Saunders and his wife were both

weary and sick at heart, and they were glad to shut out the world and

its gay daylight, and to seek the merciful oblivion of rest as soon as

they could.

The cottage was dimly lighted by the fire, and through the window the

quick eyes of Hope discerned the two well-known figures seated on either

side, and mingling their old cracked, trembling voices in the psalm. It

was strange music--the wife’s low, murmuring, crooning tones, and the

deeper voice of the old man with that shrill break in it--more pathetic

than any sweeter woe of music. Old, poor, bereaved, and solitary, they

omitted no night their usual “exercise”--they never forgot, with these

sinking, wearied hearts and broken tones of theirs, to praise the God

who chastised them.

The banker and his daughter stood without, waiting till their worship

ended; the low, grave murmur of Saunders’ voice as he read the chosen

chapter came to them indistinctly through the gloom, and then Hope saw

the two old solitary people kneel down to prayer.

They could hear what he said then--all the familiar petitions--the daily

prayers in which the godly peasant, ever since he first knelt down at

his own fire-side, had remembered before God his church, his country,

and the authorities ordained in each--had their place first in the old

man’s evening supplications; and last of all, with his voice then

shriller and more broken than ever, and his hard, withered, toil-worn

hands convulsively strained together, there came the soul and essence of

the old man’s prayer,--“If he is yet within the land of the living, and

the place of hope; if he is still on praying ground;” terrible anguish

of entreaty over which that “if” threw its doubt and gloom.

Mr Oswald turned away his face from the quick scrutiny of Hope; the one

vehement strong man understood the other, but the banker felt himself

abashed and humiliated before the intenser, sublimer, and less selfish

spirit: “People do not die of broken hearts.” The young ladies and the

young gentlemen rarely do; but George Oswald discovered, in the

stillness of his own awed soul that night, how solemn a thing a broken

heart is, and how the strongest might die of that rending, or more

terrible, might live.

By and by they entered. The old man was sitting in a homely elbow chair

covered with blue and white checked linen. The bed which occupied one

end of the room was decently curtained with the same material. The house

was only a but and a ben; an outer and an inner apartment, but

everything in it was very neatly arranged and clean. Poor Mrs Delvie’s

“redding up” was done very mechanically now; her hands went about it,

while her mind was far otherwise occupied, but still the kitchen was

“redd up.”

She sat in another elbow chair opposite her husband. She was a sensible,

kindly, good house-mother, and would have been noticeable in any other

connection, but the fervent, strong, passionate old man threw his

gentler wife into the shade; and even her sufferings for the lost son,

whose name through all these weary months she could mention under her

own roof only in her prayers, were dimmed in presence of the intense and

terrible love of the father. She looked very old and tremulous as she

sat there shaking in her chair, and wiping her withered cheek with her

apron. Saunders also had some heavy moisture veiling the almost fierce

light that burned in his eye, and the old man trembled too with the wild

earnestness of his passionate appeal to God.

Mr Oswald entered with a shy inquiry after Saunders’ health.

“Weel eneuch, weel eneuch--better than I deserve,” said Saunders, rising

with a haste which showed still more visibly how his gaunt sinewy frame

shook with his emotion. The visit was greatly esteemed and felt an

honour, though Saunders scarcely thought it right after concluding the

day in his Master’s presence, as he had just done, to enter again into

intercourse with men; they shut out the outer world when they closed

their cottage door reverently upon the waning daylight, and laid the

Book upon the table; but the old man rose to offer the banker his chair.

Mr Oswald sat down upon a high stool near the table, and Hope got a low

one, and drew it in to the hearth, where she could look up with those

young fearless eyes, whose boldness was not intrusion, to the old man’s

face. The banker was embarrassed; he desired to sympathize, but felt

himself an intruder.

“I hear you have been ill, Saunders,” he said.

“Na, no to ca’ ill,” said Saunders, clearing his voice with an effort,

“I’m an auld man, and I get frail; but I hae muckle mair than I deserve;

a hantle mair than I deserve--mair than I wad hae gien to ony ane that

did evil in _my_ sight.”

“Oh, Saunders, man!” It was the only remonstrance his wife ever made.

“And I’m no ill,” continued Saunders, with the spasmodic shrillness in

his voice. “I’m strong in my bodily health, Mr Oswald, it’s no that: I

gaed to ye ance when my heart was turning--ye ken it’s no that.”

To no other man would Saunders have said so much, but he thought better

of the rigid banker than he deserved. He thought him possessed of his

own stern unselfish nature, without his miseries to bring out its

harsher points.

“Oh, Maister Oswald,” said the wife, “say something till him! speak to

the auld man; bid him no be sae hard on himsel.”

“Whisht, Marget,” said the old man, labouring to steady himself, “haud

your peace--it’s you that disna ken. What would it become me to be but

hard on mysel? wasna I hard on ane--ane--” the spasm returned, the voice

became hoarse and thick, and then broke out peremptorily shrill and

high, “ane that canna ken now how I hae warstled for him, yearned for

him--oh, woman, ye dinna ken!”

And the mother drew back into the darkness and hid her face; she too had

yearned and travailed--but before this agony she was still.

“And gin we win up yonder where we hae nae right to win,” continued the

unsteady, broken, excited voice, “and seek for him amang the blessed,

and find him never--will ye say I hae nae wyte o’t? Me that avenged his

sin upon him, and shut him out o’ my heart wi’ a vow? The Lord mightna

have saved him; it might have pleased the Lord no to have saved him; wha

can faddom the Almighty? but _I_ banished him away, I pat him out of

sound and sight o’ the word that saves, and isna the burden mine?

Marget, I bid ye haud your peace--ye hae nae guilt o’ his bluid--but for

me--”

The old man’s head shook with a palsied vehement motion, the wild fire

shot out in gleams from under his heavy eyebrows; the hard hand with its

knotted sinews distinct upon it was clenched in bitter pain.

The banker sat beside him, awed, embarrassed, incapable; the small

motives--the little endeavours of his own worldly existence, shrank away

ashamed and convicted of meanness in this presence. He could not act as

comforter--he felt a moral inability to speak at all--to presume to

intrude his own indifferent feelings, before this stern avenging wrath

of Love.

And Hope sat looking up with her fearless, reverent, youthful eyes into

the old man’s harshly-agitated face. She laid her soft girlish hand upon

those swollen veins of his.

“Saunders, I think he is not dead.”

The young face was quite clear, brave, undoubting--the girl’s heart, in

which the first breath of the rising woman and the sympathies of

childhood still met and blended, could tread in awe, but without fear,

where the worldly man dared not enter. Peter Delvie’s mother threw her

apron over her head and wept aloud; and after a convulsive struggle to

restrain them, one or two heavy tears ran down the cheek of Saunders.

“Na, na, ye dinna ken--ye’re but a bairn--he’s mine, and I canna hope.”

Oh, secret, hoarded, precious hope, to which the wrung heart clung with

such passionate tenacity! He could not bear that a stranger’s eye should

glance upon it. He whispered it never in any ear but God’s. His wife,

the mother of the lost, knew it not except as she heard it in his daily

prayer; and he denied it. Jealous of this spark of light which still was

in his heart, he denied it rather than make its presence known; and

yet--the light leaped up in its socket--the precious germ quickened and

moved within him. He could not resist the quivering thrill, almost of

expectation, with which he heard those words--the softening tears that

followed them.

“Saunders, God let the prodigal come back that his father might forgive

him. I think He will let Peter come back to hear that you will be

friends with him now. There was a gentleman--Miss Maxwell knows him at

Mossgray--and they sent home word that he was dead; but he was not

dead--he is coming home--and I think, Saunders, that Peter did not die.”

“Is’t true--bairn, bairn, are ye sure it’s true?” cried Peter Delvie’s

mother, “is he coming hame--is he living that was ca’ed dead? Wha telled

ye it was true? If it happened wi’ ane it micht happen wi’ twa--and my

laddie! my ain bairn!”

“It is quite true, for Helen Buchanan told me,” said Hope.

The old man trembled strangely. He held his head supported in his hands,

and was silent. It was the mother who spoke now; the secret treasure of

hope in the old man’s vehement breast would not bear the light.

“And she’s true and aefauld, but she’s wiser than the like o’ you,” said

the mother through her tears, “I see what she meant now; but she wadna

tell me this, for fear I did hope, and my hope was vain. Oh, wha

kens--wha kens but the Lord? but if it happened to ane, it might happen

to twa, and His mercy has nae measure. It wadna be merciful to send him

to his grave wi’ his faither’s wrath upon him.”

The old man’s harsh, stern voice was broken at every word, by the

convulsive sob which he could not restrain.

“Haud your peace, Marget; say ony ill o’ me; but if He slew your dearest

ten times ower, dinna daur to malign the Lord.”

When they left these old, agitated, sorrowful people alone with their

grief and their hope, the banker did not venture to reprove his child

for her want of wisdom. His own mind was full. This youthful faith and

boldness--this clear uplooking to the heavens--rash as it might be, and

inconsistent with worldly prudence, was a higher wisdom than his. He

felt that the girl at his side had met in her simplicity, difficulties

with which he dared not measure his strength--that the grand, sublime,

original emotions were fitter for the handling of the child than for the

man. It made him humble and it made him proud; for the fearless girl’s

voice of Hope speaking to the desolate had touched him to the heart.

“Should I not have said it, father?” said Hope, after a considerable

silence. “Do you think it was wrong?”

“I cannot tell, Hope,” said the subdued strong man, “it may turn out the

best and wisest thing. It may--I cannot tell, Hope--you have got beyond

the regions of expediency.”

He was not able to cope with these things--he confessed it

involuntarily.

“Because Helen did not tell them, father,” said Hope. “If Helen had

thought it was right, she would have told them.”

“Does Helen visit them, Hope?”

Hope had forgotten for the moment the antagonism of Helen and her

father.

“She goes sometimes--sometimes since poor Peter went away.”

“And what does Helen say about Saunders, Hope?”

“I don’t know, father, except that she is sorry; but I mind once what

Mossgray said. Mossgray said it was a good thing that folk were able to

change, and that it was very miserable that Saunders did not change till

it was too late--very miserable--that was what Mossgray said; but

Mossgray should have told Saunders, father, about the gentleman.”

“Mossgray is wise; we are all wiser than you are, Hope,” said the

banker; “even your Helen. And that was what Mossgray said? too late--he

did not change till it was too late?”

Too late--too late to keep the due honour of a wise father, too late

gracefully to approve and sanction the righteous purposes of a good son.

Too late! The words rang into his ear as the musical air of night swept

by in its waving circles, and the moon rose in a haze mild and silvery.

The gentle warmth of change was loosing the chains about his heart.

CHAPTER XII.

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began,

So is it now when I am old--

The child is father to the man,

And I would have my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.--WORDSWORTH.

The trees stooped grandly over the wan water in all their autumn wealth

of colouring, dropping now and then a fluttering, feeble leaf through

the sunshine and the chill air, which already felt the breath of winter.

The long, yellow tresses of the ash were already gone, the glories of

the sycamore lay so thick upon the ground that you could scarcely see

the damp verdure of the grass underneath for the hundredfold of russet

leaves which covered it; the heavy fir obtruded its spectral branches

through the thin ranks of its neighbours; the red, dry leaves were

stiffening on the oak and the beech; and with the flush of the red

October light not quite departed, there had risen the first pallid

November day.

“No, Lilias, it is not a melancholy time to me,” said Adam Graeme. “I

like these changes--I like to see this calm nature harmonized to our

humanity; not always bare and stern, not always in the pride of strength

and sunshine, but touched with the mortal breath, putting off and

putting on the mortal garments. I like the cadence these old leaves make

as they pass away. There is the kindred tone in it; an analogy more

minute and perfect than those we talk of in our philosophies.”

But Lilias did not answer. She had other thoughts of this perpetual

change. The slight, feverish red was flickering again on the cheek of

the Lily of Mossgray. Softened down into her grave, calm womanhood, was

she the same Lily to whom the wanderer, in yon fair far-away days,

plighted his early faith? and he--how had the universal breath swayed

him in its varyings? That morning she had received a hurried note from

London announcing his arrival; this night they were to meet.

“It is a strange subject this,” said Mossgray, with the smile of his

gentle musings, “for with all my years, and with all my changes, Lilias,

I smile sometimes to see how the old pertinacious self has carried its

own features through all. Up there in my study, where I left Bishop

Berkeley this morning, was it yesterday I manufactured bows and arrows

and dreamed as I made them? So strange it is to mark how this identity

runs through all, how we learn and alter, are experienced, calmed,

changed, and yet are perpetually the same.”

Gentle philosophies! how soothingly they fell upon the timid, anxious

heart beside him.

“But sometimes the change is violent, Mossgray,” said Lilias, “tearing

up old habits so rudely; and sometimes the whole discipline is

altered--the whole life.”

She paused. The old tales of that strange eastern life crossed her

memory, and she could not continue.

“I think these things only develope this obstinate identity more fully,

Lilias,” said Mossgray, smiling. “We come through the process after our

own individual fashion, and carry the distinct self triumphantly through

every change. I think we must turn back, though, and leave our

philosophies if you begin to tremble. Come, we will go home.”

They turned towards the house, but Lilias only trembled the more; and

the old man, as he looked down upon her pale face, beheld it suddenly

flush into brilliant change. She stood still, leaning on him heavily.

“Are you ill? does anything ail you, Lilias?”

“No, no; it is Hew!” said the low, joyous voice; “look, Mossgray, it is

Hew!”

And the old man started violently, as he looked up at the young, strong,

manlike figure leaping down that hillock, with its rude steps of knotted

trees--the happy flushed cheek, the frank simplicity of joy and haste.

“It is Hew!” said Lilias, looking up at the one object which she saw.

Was it Hew Murray, in the flush of his youth and strength again?

Mossgray stepped forward hastily, and grasped the hand of the new comer

in silent welcome; and then the old man turned away and left them alone.

Adam Graeme was not changed; his heart beat as strongly against his

breast as it had done thirty years ago, when he laboured and yearned

for some clue to the fate of Hew Murray. Hew Murray! with what a

quickening thrill of tenderness his old friend turned away from the

young rejoicing face, which brought back the image of his youth.

The old man’s mind was confused; he did not know what to make of this

singular resemblance. “It is Hew!” Was it Hew? Was the romance of the

old faithful servant in their desolate house to have a wonderful

fulfilment after all? The good, pure, gentle Hew, loving God and loving

man, had his Master indeed given him youth for his inheritance?

Singularly struck and bewildered, and with an unconscious expectation in

his mind, Adam Graeme hurried forward towards the house of Murrayshaugh.

The great saugh trees beside it had shed their slender leaves, and were

waving their long arms mournfully, with here and there a feeble, yellow

cluster at the end of a bough, ready to drop after their fellows into

the deep, sombre burn, whose course was almost choked by the multitudes

of the fallen. As Mossgray crossed the old, frail, broken, wooden

bridge, he heard voices beyond the willow-trees, and saw as he drew

nearer two strangers standing together. The old man’s heart beat high

and loud with excited and wondering anticipation as they turned towards

him.

The lady was very thin and pale, and had silvery white hair smoothed

over the patient, thoughtful forehead, in which time and grief had

carved emphatic lines. The face was a face to be noted; serene now, it

had not always been serene--but the storm had altogether passed from the

evening firmament, and light was upon it pale and calm, like the

luminous sky of summer nights when the sun with its warmth of colour and

influence has long since gone down into the sea.

Her companion seemed about her own age; he had the strong framework of

an athletic man, but it was not filled up as a strong man’s form should

have been. You saw, as you looked at him, that he was not strong; that

sickness, or privation of the healthful, free air which now he seemed to

breathe in with so much pleasure, had unstrung and weakened the hardy

frame of this old man; but his hair was scarcely gray, and his eye

glanced from under his broad, brown, sunburnt forehead with the hopeful,

cheery light of youth. The sun had not gone down with him. Over the fair

world which he looked forth upon, the rich tints of an autumn sunset

were throwing their joy abroad; the warm light and brilliant colouring

were in his heart.

They looked at each other, the two strangers and the Laird of Mossgray.

They were all wondering, all uncertain, all embarrassed, for Adam Graeme

had paused before them, and regardless of all formal courtesies they

were gazing at each other.

“Can you tell me if this is Murrayshaugh?” said the lady, with a

faltering unsteady voice.

But that would not do.

“Man, Adam, have you forgotten me?” cried Hew Murray with tears in his

eyes; and the two boys who had grown up together beside that pleasant

water of Fendie were grasping each other’s hands again.

There needed no other salutation. “Man, Adam!” Through their varied,

troubled, far-separated course, the two sworn brothers had carried the

generous boyish hearts unchanged--and simple as the lads parted, the old

men met. “Man, Adam!” there never were superlative endearing words,

which carried a stronger warmth of long and old affection than Hew

Murray’s boyish greeting, bursting from the honest, joyous, trembling

lip that had not spoken it before for thirty years.

“Where have you come from--where have you been? Hew! Hew, what has

become of you all this life-time?” exclaimed Adam Graeme. They were

holding each other’s hands--looking into each other’s faces--recognizing

joyfully the well-remembered youthful features in those subdued ones,

over which the mist of age had fallen; but in Hew Murray’s eager grasp,

and in the happy, gleaming eyes, whose lashes were so wet, the spirit of

the youth was living still.

“He will tell you by and by, Adam,” said the lady. “It is a long

story--but have you nothing to say to me?”

And Lucy Murray held out her hands--the soft, white, gentle hands, whose

kind touch Adam Graeme remembered so long ago.

“Is it you, Lucy?” said Mossgray. “Are we all real and in the flesh?--is

it no dream?”

Hew Murray put his arm through his friend’s--far through, as he had been

used to do, when they dreamed together over the old grand poetic city on

the breezy Calton.

“Give Lucy your other arm, Adam,” said the familiar genial voice, “and

we will tell you all our story.”

Lucy with the white hair took Adam’s arm.

“Have you never been away?--is it all a dream those thirty years?” cried

Adam Graeme.

“Look at me again,” said Lucy Murray with a smile. “No--there are things

in those thirty years too precious to part with. I think you have not

seen my son.”

“Your son, Lucy?--is it my Lily’s Hew?” asked Mossgray.

“Lucy’s Hew--our representative,” said Hew Murray, “was it not a strange

chance, Adam--if we may speak of chances--which brought our boy and I

together?”

“I am bewildered, overpowered,” said Mossgray. “Do you forget, Hew, that

I know nothing?--that this morning I only clung to the hope that you

were living at all as to a fantastic dream--that it is thirty years

since I gave up the sober expectation of finding you again?--where have

you been?--why have you kept us in this suspense? How is it that we have

never heard of you, Hew Murray?”

Hew Murray grasped his friend’s arm tightly in his own.

“Did you ever think the fault was mine, Adam?--but who is this?”

The little old woman, the housekeeper of Murrayshaugh, came quickly

round the gable of the house. They were standing in front of it--and

their voices had startled her.

“Who is it?” Lucy Murray looked at her, with some anxiety. “I think it

must be Isabell Brown.”

Very suspiciously Eesabell returned the scrutiny. The dignified, gentle,

aged lady with her serene face and silver hair brought some singular

thrill of recognition to the old woman. She thought she had seen the

face before.

“I thought it was only gangrel folk. If I had kent it was you, Mossgray,

I wadna have disturbed you; but maybe the lady and the gentleman wad

like to see the hoose.”

She looked at them again with a jealous eye; the feeling was

instinctive. Isabell did not know why she was suspicious of those

friends of Mossgray.

“Do you not know me, Isabell?” said the graceful old lady, holding out

her hand.

Isabell drew back with a slight curtsey.

“Na--there’s few ladies ever came about Murrayshaugh in my time; Miss

Lucy had mair maids than me--ye’re maybe taking me for my sister.”

“There was no one else but Jean, I think, Isabell,” said Lucy, smiling;

“and Jean was not like you. She was as tall as I am, and she had red

hair. We gave her blue ribbons on Hew’s birthday because they suited her

ruddy face--do you mind, Isabell?--and do you not know me now!”

Isabell drew further back--the old woman looked scared, suspicious,

afraid.

“Na, I dinna ken ye, Madam,” she repeated firmly. “I ken few fremd

ladies--I haena been in the way o’ them--how should I?”

Lucy smiled: it brightened her face in the calm of its peacefulness into

warmer and sunnier life.

“If you do not know me, Isabell, do you know Hew?”

The old woman cast a jealous, angry look upon the sunburnt face of Hew

Murray--her tone became abrupt and peevish.

“I’m no to ken wha ye’re meaning, Madam--I never saw ye before nor the

gentleman neither. I’ve lived in Murrayshaugh a’ my days, but the like

o’ me wasna to see a’ the company; and how should I ken the gentleman?”

The sharp black eyes twinkled through a tear affectionate and angry. The

old woman was afraid of these stranger people, afraid of the singularly

familiar faces which she thought she had seen in a dream.

“Adam,” said Hew Murray, “I think _you_ must tell her who we are; or

shall I, Lucy? Do you forget how you packed the Murrayshaugh apples for

me, Isabell, when I went to India? and the moss you put round them in

the basket? I think I have some of it still. But have you really

forgotten--did you think, Adam, that any one could ever forget our

sister Lucy Murray?”

Trembling and considerably excited Isabell stood on the defensive still.

“I never kent ane of the name but Miss Lucy, and this lady micht be Miss

Lucy’s mother. Do ye think I dinna ken? Oh, Mossgray! it’s no’ like you

to let folk make a fuil o’ an auld lone woman!”

Lucy disengaged herself from Mossgray’s arm.

“Come, Isabell, we will let them in. And so you remembered poor Lucy

Murray and thought that time had spared her? But I am older than you. I

used to have my white roses here. What has become of my roses? But I

have something better to show you; my son, Isabell, my young Hew; and

now come, we’ll let them in.”

And Lucy turned along the narrow path to Isabell’s back-door; jealously,

and in sullen silence, the old woman followed her.

“But, Hew, Hew, where have you been?” repeated the astonished Mossgray,

as they waited for the opening of the great door.

“In India, Adam; all this time buried in the depths of India, without

having any power or means of letting you know that I lived; but wait,

wait till we are all together. You shall hear the whole of my story

to-night.”

The heavy door swung open. Lucy had opened it, and Isabell, jealous and

silent, stood behind.

“Come in; come home, Hew,” said Lucy Murray. “Let us enter our father’s

house in peace and thankfulness as we left it with sorrow.”

They entered in silence, and silently the brother and sister went

through the faded, dreary rooms; while the old woman followed them like

a shadow.

Last of all they went into “Miss Lucy’s parlour.” It had no very sad

associations for Hew. He remembered only the pleasant boyish evenings

spent in it, the sadness of the parting, which now, so far away, was

softened into a tender memory, making its scene not mournful, only dear;

and Hew lifted the window and stepped happily out upon the terrace,

while Lucy seated herself on the old high-backed chair at the old

work-table, to ponder on the old times. To her the room was full of dim

days well remembered--girlish griefs and solitudes, struggles which no

one witted of--they seemed to have been dwelling here like so many pale

ghosts, waiting for her coming, to remind her of their former selves.

A touch on her sleeve roused Lucy from her reverie. Isabell was looking

down earnestly into her silvery, gentle face.

“Leddy--Madam,” said the old woman, with a husky voice, “you didna mean

you? You wasna saying that you’re Miss Lucy?”

“I am Lucy Murray grown old,” was the answer, “and that is my brother

Hew, Isabell, whom we lost in India. Could you forget Hew? Do you not

know Hew, Isabell?”

“And Murrayshaugh?” gasped the old woman.

“My father is dead; he lived until ten years ago, and when he died was a

very old man, Isabell, and a gentler one than he used to be. Will you

welcome me now?”

Timidly, and still a little jealous, the housekeeper consented to meet

with a hasty touch the white hand of the old lady whom she feared; and

then Isabell abruptly left the room.

They remained for some time in the same position; Lucy in her old place,

thinking of the past, and Hew joyously passing from room to room,

pointing out the scene of youthful games and merry-makings. Lilias and

the young Hew had speedily followed Mossgray, and now a double

introduction, very proudly and joyfully performed, had to take place,

for Lucy presented her son to Adam Graeme, and Hew Grant bade his mother

welcome her new child. The mother had been afraid somewhat of her son’s

early choice, and thought, as mothers will, that Lilias had but an

indifferent chance of being worthy of her Hew; and Lilias too had

slightly trembled for the meeting; but now all the formidable part of it

was over, and they were already friends.

All her fears were forgotten; it was almost too much for Mossgray’s

Lily. Hew did not think her changed; he was not changed himself; and his

mother received her as her own child. Lilias felt her happiness

overpower her. She went away to seek for Isabell, who had disappeared,

and to realize it all for a moment alone.

Isabell was in the great dining-parlour of Murrayshaugh. She was on her

knees in a corner, with her apron flung over her head, and petulant,

painful sobs coming from under its cover, like the sobs of a child.

“What ails you, Isabell?” said Lilias, stooping kindly over her.

“Oh, Miss Maxwell, what ails me?” sobbed the old woman, whose innocent

romance had perished. “She says she’s Miss Lucy--and I canna deny’t--I

_div_ ken the face; but she’s an aged woman! She has hair whiter than

the like o’ me--and she says she’s Miss Lucy. Oh, Miss Maxwell, that I

should have lived to see this day!”

CHAPTER XIII.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days

To the very moment that he bade me tell it,

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,

* * * * *

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.--OTHELLO.

Adam Graeme and Hew Murray were sitting together in the large, low room

in the Tower of Mossgray, which they both knew so well. Bishop Berkeley

was still upon the table, but the visitor had no interest in the bishop;

neither was he looking at the chymic tools or the instruments of

science. He was casting long, loving glances into the dim corners of the

room; the old fishing-rods, the superannuated bows and arrows, the

ancient skates, they were all there, those worn-out tokens of the fair

youth which was past.

“And now, Hew,” said Mossgray, drawing one of those large, heavy,

lumbering chairs to the unoccupied side of the hearth, “now, Hew, for

this wonderful history. What have you been doing? where have you been?”

Mossgray placed himself in front of the cheerful, glowing fire; on the

other side stood the low carved chair, turned mournfully aside as if

some one had risen from it newly. Its position had never been changed;

it still stood where the pale sunbeams could touch it, but it was turned

away from the living fireside circle; for the old occupant could never

return to Charlie’s chair. Strangely pathetic sometimes are these dumb

things about us--mournfully estranged and standing apart it touched the

gentle heart of Adam Graeme.

Hew paused to spread his hands over the fire. It was a peat fire, and

the glowing intense red and homelike fragrance warmed the very heart of

the exile.

“Well, you heard I was robbed and killed, Adam,” said Hew; “and so I

was--as near it, at least, as one could be, who is now so blessed as to

be at home. Such things, you know, are not unusual in India. I was

carrying rich presents. I had not a very sufficient escort, and the

chances were all rather that I should have filled a hidden grave in the

desert long ago, than that, even now, I should be beside you again.

“I was very severely wounded. These Affghan fellows do not play at

fighting; but I was not quite dead, as you see, Adam, and I was young.

The old, martial Border spirit had excited me, I suppose, for I stood on

my defence desperately, until there was nothing left but the feeblest

spark of life.

“Why they did not at once extinguish it I cannot tell. Perhaps they had

pity on me for my youth’s sake; at all events, they spared the life, and

after a journey which I shudder still to recollect, we reached their

head-quarters, and my long captivity began.

“Their chief was a hater of the English, stern and desperate--not by any

means the usual type of man to be met with among his countrymen: less

treacherous, less supple, and if not less a tyrant, at least more

tyrannically wise. Liberty for his subjects he did not at all conceive

of, of course, but the wild liberty of despotism was an instinct and

necessity with our Rajah; he hated foreign domination with an energetic

hatred, such as one could not fail to respect, even though one suffered

by it.

“The Rajah fancied my services might be of use to him. You will smile

when I tell you how, Adam. He thought of the De Boignys, and Skinners,

and the native troops they drilled, and despotized, and inspired with

the mechanical heroism of mercenary soldiers; and he believed that I

could drill his wild followers for him, could teach them the unfaltering

British discipline, could form them into mechanical pipe-clayed

battalions like their European enemies.

“And I tried to do it, Adam, for at six-and-twenty one would not choose

to die; if I had known perhaps the long probation which awaited me, I

might have shrunk and desired the end at once; but this end is not

naturally desired ever, I think--I should still choose to live, I

believe, were I placed in the same circumstances again; and I hoped more

warmly then.

“I began to be artful like themselves. I intrigued and schemed to have a

share in the education of the young chief, and at last I attained my

object. Ahmed, the future Rajah--the presumptive heir--I was to have the

honour of teaching him my language.

“And I taught him my language, Adam; and Ahmed at the head of his tribe

speaks English, which has the fragrance of the Scottish border upon it.

I used to smile when I heard him.

“We grew very good friends, my pupil and I. Heathen and stranger as

Ahmed is, he was my boy, Adam, and we came to like each other--so much

so--” said Hew Murray, averting his head a little, “that if I had not

heard of you all at home, and only my place vacant, I scarcely think I

should have cared for my new freedom.”

There was a pause.

“We had but one book,” said Hew, resuming, “my Bible, which I had

managed to preserve with great difficulty. If I had been teaching the

father instead of the son, in that glowing Eastern country, and with

that Bible, I could have made a poet of him, Adam!

“But Ahmed was not the stuff to make poets of. He was cowed and humbled

in his father’s presence--overpowered by a force which he could not

understand, and though he grew up a gentle lad--weak folk learn wiles,

you know--there was the national policy, the tendency to intrigue and

deceit; the defective sense of truth and honour constantly displaying

themselves. I could not hedge my Affghan boy about with the higher

principles, so much more noble and pure than the natural instincts which

yet suit our humanity so well--and I could not give him the savage

virtues of his father; but I only clung to him the more, because he

perplexed and grieved me.”

“A difficult matter,” said Mossgray, “and how about religion, Hew?”

“Ahmed is not brave,” was the answer. “He is a Mussulman still; the

intellectual conviction is not strong enough, ever, I fancy, to break

the old hereditary chains of the creed in which we are born. But Ahmed

is like multitudes of those quick Indian youths in the great cities of

our Eastern empire. He knows it all; the wonderful histories of the old

time with their grand types and emblems, and the wonderful fulfilment

they had. Did any one ever open that little volume, think you, Adam, and

rise from it without a secret conviction that this was true? not my

boy--not my Ahmed. The enchantment of the human life in which its

Divinity is clothed charmed the mind of my pupil; for when one knows how

men describe God, it quickens one’s apprehension of the wonderful

difference when God reveals himself.

“And my boy knows it all, Adam, yet in outward form is an unbeliever

still; and other youths by the hundred in Bombay, and Madras, and

Calcutta, as they tell me, are like him: knowing the extraordinary

intellectual truth, and ready, if but the divine spark came, to burst

the green withes that hold them, and worship the Saviour of the Gospel

under His own free heaven. May it come soon! they are prepared for it,

these lads--may the divine impulse come soon! I would fain know that my

work has prospered, though I never see Ahmed more.”

There was another interval of silence. The subject impressed them both;

but Mossgray had not seen the singular state of society of which his

friend spoke, and did not know how those young, quick, intelligent

spirits, like the old sacrifices on the altars of the patriarchs, were

unconsciously waiting for the fire from heaven, ready to be offered to

the Lord.

In a short time Hew resumed:

“This imprisonment and work of mine continued all the father’s lifetime.

I did what I could to drill his soldiers, and I communicated the Fendie

accent to his son; but my captivity was not lightened--and so we went on

until that fatal affray which made Ahmed chief of the tribe. The lad

liked me, I told you; he felt too, in the consciousness of his new

power, the advantage of securing an alliance with those powerful English

whom his father hated; and so, in compassion, he brought his wounded

captives back to me.

“I knew none of them, but Hew’s face struck me. He was the weakest of

all, poor fellow, and some natural instinct drew me to him--and then,

Adam--then, after my thirty years’ entire separation from all that I

held dear, fancy what my feelings were, when the stranger told me that

_his_ name too was Hew, and that he was Lucy Murray’s son!

“It was a strange meeting;” Hew Murray wiped away the pleasant moisture

which dimmed those happy eyes of his; “and Ahmed had given me my

freedom. That wily, politic boy! I wonder if he was getting wearied of

his old Dominie after all, or if his reluctance to part with me was

real. I wish affection was as blind as they call it, Adam, for I think

my eyes, being so solicitous about him, were only quickened to see his

weakness; but I could not have remained. I could not have done him any

service even if I had remained.

“So I gave him my Bible, Adam, and he gave me jewels and shawls more

than I knew what to do with. I was bringing them all home innocently to

Lucy,” said Hew, with his old frank laugh. “Lucy would have been as

magnificent as a Begum had no one interfered, but we got into a

mercantile atmosphere before we left India, and so some of Ahmed’s

pretty things were converted into coined monies. There is enough to make

the old house habitable, I think; but I have come home as I went away,

Adam. I always thought I should; there has no bilious fortune fallen to

my share; only they have given me a pension--and better than the

pension--give me your hand, Adam--I am at home.”

And the two gray-haired men grasped each other’s hands.

Lucy Murray had entered the room unheard. She came forward with her

gentle, gliding step, and leaned over the carved back of Charlie’s

chair, looking at them as they sat together by the fireside.

“What are you doing, boys?” said Lucy, with the voice and the smile of

her youth. Boys--the young composed grave girl, long ago, had called

them by that name. They were both older than she was; but the assumed

dignity of the earlier maturing woman sat gracefully on her then, as

that smile did now.

“We were talking of that merchant boy of yours, and how he would not let

me bring home Ahmed’s jewels to his mother, Lucy,” said Hew.

“I wonder Hew did not remember the bride that will soon be,” said Lucy.

“Adam, I like your Lily; I was a little afraid--may I tell you? a little

afraid when I began to guess what the conjunction of her two names

pointed to. You look grave, Adam--I should not have said so much?”

“No, Lucy,” said Mossgray, “they are dead; how far we might err in our

early dreams, let us not question. I forget all that is evil when I look

back. Let us lay the errors of their youth beside them in the grave.”

Lucy Murray bowed her head silently in acquiescence, and folding her

hands over Charlie’s chair, pitifully thought of the dead.

The dead who wounded hearts and had no power to heal them--who broke

faith, and went away with their treachery in their hearts to the grave;

who disenchanted youthful eyes and darkened lives which were not bright

before--evils that the doer never can atone--alas for them, unhappy!

Alas for the false--the cruel--the heart-breakers! The hearts broken

will heal; the suffering will pass away like clouds; but woe for those

who inflict--woe for the seedmen of sin, whose harvest shall not fail.

“And you, Lucy,” said Mossgray. “I must question you, and blame you as I

cannot blame Hew. Why have I never heard from you? where have you been?”

“We came from France to Orkney,” said Lucy; “was not that a change,

Adam? and there I have been very glad and very sorrowful. They both lie

yonder--my husband and my father, and there my Hew was born. I should

have written to you, Adam, but I have told you before how long my father

lived, and how he retained his old pride; and when he was dead, and

James was dead, and Hew away from me, forgive me that I was very

listless, very sad, Adam. I could write to no one but my son.”

“Not even to Lilias; when you knew who she was, Lucy?” said Mossgray.

“Not even to Lilias, Adam. I did not know _herself_, and I had some

fears, I confess, of Hew’s early decision on a matter so important; and

when they sent me word that my son was dead, and when I got her simple,

touching letter, I was jealous, Adam, that any one should mourn for him

but myself. I became selfish as grief does sometimes; I would not

believe that any other heart could break as mine did. He was mine--my

son. I was jealous of her, Adam, when I thought she claimed a right to

share with me my boy’s grave.”

“And afterwards?” said Mossgray, smiling. He too seemed in a jealous

mood--jealous for his ward and her new position.

“Afterwards I fell into my old indolent, listless mood again,” said

Lucy; “Hew was coming home--the two Hews--it filled all my mind. I went

to meet them at London, promising myself that I should atone to Lilias

for my neglect, and she accepts my apology. Will not you accept it,

Adam? You do not know how listless and powerless one becomes whose life

has been so overcast as mine. I think it will be otherwise now--I think

it is all past, Adam, and we will travel to the sunsetting together.”

CHAPTER XIV.

But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had

compassion, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.--PARABLE

OF THE PRODIGAL.

“Gang in bauld, man--put on a guid face, and tak the first word o’

flyting. What are ye looking sae wae about?--they’ll e’en be ower blythe

to welcome ye hame.”

“Na, na, Robbie, I ken better,” said the person whom Robbie Caryl was

exhorting; a tall, thin, sunburnt young man, who limped a good deal, and

looked sickly and weak. “Man, I wad rather face a file o’ bagnets than

face my faither and him angry; and I wad gie a’ the Indies gin I had

them, if he would just be friends wi’ me again.”

“Friends wi’ ye?--ne’er a fears o’ him,” said the fisherman. “I’ll just

tell ye, Peter--if he disna be friends wi’ you after a’ you’ve gaen

through, and a’ he’s gaen through himsel, I could maist find it in my

heart to pit him in Tam Macqueen’s boat the first ill day, and let him

set to wi’ the Firth, and try which ane’ll master the tither--for he’s

past dealing wi’ men.”

“Whisht, Robbie, ye dinna ken,” said the young man. “I’ll hear nae

mortal speak ill o’ my faither; if I could but get a word o’ my mother,

hidelins--just to see--maybe he’s mair merciful noo. He’s an auld

man--he’s winning near heaven. Wha kens--he may be turned to mair

mercy.”

Their path lay along the side of the Marsh, and they had just rounded

the projecting corner, on which the comfortable farmsteading of

Seabraes, with its barns and byres, and hay-stacks, stood, looking on

the Firth, with only a swelling bank of close seaside grass between it

and the beach. On this green bank, the stakes of the salmon-nets used

during the summer were piled in a rude pyramid, and past it wound a

byway to Fendie. They were advancing towards the gate of a field through

which the road lay.

A gaunt, high figure stood leaning there, hidden by the hedge. Saunders

Delvie had heard that his son lived and was returned from young Hew

Grant, who last evening had visited the cottage along with Mossgray to

prepare the way for the prodigal; and now, trembling under the cold,

bright November sunshine, the father stood waiting for his son.

The proud old man was glad that he had been warned--glad that he had

time to compose the rigid muscles of his face, and that no man could

guess how his joy boiled in his veins, and how the passionate heart beat

in his breast. He was solemnly dressed in his decent Sabbath suit, and

looked almost hysterically calm, though all his endeavours could not put

away the look of high, suppressed excitement from his twitching eyebrows

and stern-featured face.

“Faither! faither!” cried Peter Delvie, as they came suddenly upon

him--the old man’s efforts at calmness, and his unusual dress, carried

fear to the heart of his son: poor Peter lifted his hand imploringly. “I

was only a laddie--have pity on me--have pity upon me, faither!”

The grim muscles twitched, and worked about the old man’s mouth; the dew

hung heavy on his eyelashes.

“Come hame, lad,” he said, in a voice husky with the effort which

confined his welcome to those seeming indifferent words. “Come hame,

lad, to your mother. What garred ye sleep under a fremd roof this last

night, and your ain bed waiting on ye at hame?”

“I thought I had some skill in men,” said Robbie Caryl, as he turned

back to his cottage, vehemently pulling down his eyelid on pretence that

some particle of the innocent wet sand had entered his eye. “I thocht I

could see through maist folk, but this ane’s beat me. The auld dour whig

o’ a man! wasna I feared to face him when the word came that the lad was

dead? and was I no fleyed for him fenting like the women folk for sake

o’ the joy? Ne’er a bit o’ him--he taks his son hame as canny as I would

tak little Sandy out o’ a dub. Are ye there again in the saut water, ye

wee black dielie? I’ll pin ye in the net amang the grilse, and sell ye

up in the toun for a fat flounder, as sure as the next tide--wife! is

this bairn to drown itsel, ance for a’, the day?”

“I’m sure it’s mair your business, Robbie, to keep the laddies out o’

mischief than mine,” answered Robbie’s wife, who was spreading out the

large stake nets on long ropes to dry, the season of fishing being now

over; “but what hae ye dune wi’ Peter? has he gane hame?”

“I gied him in a present to his faither,” said the fisherman, lifting

the little wet obstreperous Sandy upon his shoulders, “and Saunders

took him as quiet as that cuddie taks the thrissles--so a’ the splore’s

dune, Jean, and I maun awa into the toun wi’ the flounders; whaur’s the

creels?”

“Mr Oswald,” said Saunders Delvie solemnly, looking in at the door of

the banker’s private room, as he passed the bank on his way home. “I hae

gotten back my son; he was dead and is alive again--he was lost and is

found--and I’ve come to offer ye my thanks, Sir, for your guid counsel.

The Lord sent grief sae lang as I called His name to witness my wrath

against the lad, but now, when I hae learned better, behold the mercy!

I’m thankfu’ to you, Maister Oswald--I’m an auld man, but I needed to

learn--and I’m thankfu’ aboon a’ to Him that pat words o’ guid counsel

into your mouth, and garred my heart change--for now I’m taking Peter

hame.”

The banker fell back in his chair as Saunders withdrew, looking and

feeling very much disconcerted; for _he_ had offered no good

counsel--had given no advice. The thanks which he did not deserve fell

on him with the strength of just reproof. The pen fell from his

fingers--the solemn joy and thanksgiving of the stern old peasant moved

him almost as much as his grief had done. It touched the conscience of

the obdurate father of William Oswald.

“And was you killed at the same place as the gentleman, Peter, my man?”

said Peter’s mother, wiping her eyes, as the first excitement of their

meeting subsided. The cottage too was in very solemn order, and the

house-mother had put on her Sabbath gown. There was a grave significance

in these changes.

“Na--I got my wound at anither place, mother,” said Peter, “and they pat

me in the hospital. It was just when I came out that I heard o’ the

gentlemen--that they were gaun hame; sae I gaed to Mr Murray--I minded

hearing aboot him being lost lang ago--and tellt him my story, and he

engaged me to be his servant. His servant, mother; but I think he paid

mair attention to me on the road hame than I could do to him, and said

he would speak to my faither. I wish--I just wish there was onything in

the world the like o’ me could do--no like to make it up to him, but

just to let him see that ane was thankful; but I’m come hame a puir

useless object, mother; they say I’ll be lame a’ my days.”

Poor Peter began to look disconsolate again. The idea of being a burden

on those for whom he would so gladly have laboured, was very bitter to

him.

“Dinna, laddie, dinna,” said Saunders Delvie. “I’m strong and hale, the

Lord be thanked, though I’m auld; do ye think I winna work for ye baith

as blythe, ay, as blythe as the day ye were born--as blythe as I gaed

out to my wark, Marget, the first time I heard the bairn greet in this

house, and kent the blessing was come? Maistly blyther, woman, for I

didna ken the depths then as I do now. What for do ye greet? I tell ye

it behoves us to gie the Lord thanks, and no’ tears, for His mercy.”

But the tears were the thanks; they hung upon Saunders’s own withered

cheek as he reproved his wife.

“Nae doubt but we’ll fend,” said the mother, “nae doubt but we’ll be

provided for. Wha ever wanted yet that put trust where it should be put?

But gang away, Saunders, like a man, and put on your ilka day’s claes; I

canna help it--it comes into my head ye’ve been at a funeral when I look

at ye, and the like o’ thae thochts are no’ for this day.”

And in this cottage and in Mossgray the joy of reünion was the same,

only perhaps so much the greater here, as the passionate spirit of this

old man was more intense and vehement than any other near him, greater

alike in its joys and sorrows.

In Mrs Buchanan’s little parlour those long November evenings were less

busy now; the dreaded Martinmas came and went; the work was finished and

the rent paid.

Six pounds--how small a sum it was--and yet it had swallowed up the

whole half-yearly dividend, and the whole produce of their hard labours.

Helen began to look discontentedly at her best gown, that long-preserved

black silk one, which now that her brown merino was so far gone, must be

worn every day, and for which no substitute could be obtained; and Mrs

Buchanan sighed over the thin shawl as she daintily darned the places

where it began to give way, and smoothed her daughter’s hair tenderly,

in an unconscious endeavour to console her. Mrs Buchanan comforted

herself by thinking that, in spite of the old shawl and the one

much-worn gown, her poor Helen looked a gentlewoman still; but the days

grew chill, and other people were wearing cloaks and plaids and furs.

Mrs Buchanan sighed--she could not venture to make any addition to

Helen’s stock, for the next half-year’s rent began to lour upon her

gloomily already. How was it to be met?

Helen was a good deal overcast with those cares too, but the clouds

never settled down upon her firmament; they came and went, as the

ceaseless breezes drove them hither and thither, a hundred times in a

day; and between every pang of heart-sickness, between those weary

sighings for something happier, which could not choose but fall upon her

sometimes, there always intervened bright glimpses of wayward sunshine,

stirrings of the young uncontrollable life, the nervous strength and

daring of her nature, which rose to meet the struggle when it came, and

when it was not present, happily forgot it all.

It was Saturday, the first Saturday for a long time which she had not

spent with Lilias. But Lilias was joyfully engrossed with the strangers,

and Helen shyly kept herself apart, and felt a shadow of contrast upon

her own sombre, unchanging lot; but just as she began to sink under her

natural dimness, an appearance crossed her eyes, which brought out the

merry, ringing laugh, and flushed her sky with the sunshine of gay

impulse. The appearance was the Reverend Robert Insches escorting a

lady--a very young, very bashful, very pretty little lady, who seemed to

see a good deal of fascination in the handsome head which bent down to

her so graciously. If he was beginning to be cured of the more serious

wound, the Reverend Robert was not cured of the mortification. The

pretty little girl was a Laird’s daughter, by no means disinclined to

smile upon the handsome minister. He was escorting her home--the

traitor, on a Saturday! and chose this road out of the remaining anger

and malice aforethought, which still testified the power of Helen, to

try if he could not mortify her as she had mortified him.

There never was a more lamentable failure. Mrs Buchanan upstairs heard

the ringing laugh break the silence, and then the new impulse of mirth

made itself a voice. The good mother listened with a smile. Helen was

moving about below. Helen was singing, and in another moment the gay

voice and the light foot came upstairs, keeping time with each other in

the pleasant caprice of a cheerful heart.

Mrs Buchanan was working at a particular “fancy work” of her own. She

was darning the carpet. The carpet had been new once, but that was so

very many years ago, that it was growing aged now, and feeble like other

things. There is a pleasure in doing what one knows one can do well. Mrs

Buchanan had a modest pride in her skill for repairing these

dilapidations of time; and the natural delicacy of mind which could not

be at ease while there was anything ungraceful or imperfect around it,

expressed itself after this homely fashion. She did not patronize finery

at all, but the aesthetical feelings were delicately developed in the

good mother’s mind nevertheless, and there was art in her darned carpet.

“Will you come with me, mother, to the Waterside?” said Helen.

“I must have this done: I don’t want to begin to it again, my dear,”

said Mrs Buchanan, looking up from her work; “and besides, it is very

frosty and cold, Helen; wrap yourself up as well as you can, and I will

have a cup of tea for you when you come in again.”

So Helen drew the shawl, which fortunately had been of very sober

colours in its far-distant youth, over her merino gown, and tieing on

her little straw bonnet with its plain brown ribbon, went down-stairs

again, and out into the clear, chill November air. It was rather cold,

but bright and exhilarating, and singing snatches of old songs under her

breath, Helen went happily down the steps of the bridge till she reached

the river-side, far down, towards the waterfoot.

Yonder, quivering under the red, bold, frosty sun, the great Firth

thrills through its full veins with the joyous impulse of life. Far away

among some quiet clouds is Skiddaw and his humbler brother, vigilant,

far-seeing, watching over “the English side,” as it slopes down, in the

serene evening atmosphere, to the brink of the great waves; and there

the winding Fendie water glides into the estuary, and cold at that point

looks the round hillock from which the sun has quite withdrawn, while in

the west that great bluff hill which defies Skiddaw has a glory on him

almost too grand to look at, and the range of far-withdrawing hills, of

which he is the last and greatest, open away in the distance, with

cloudy peaks ascending behind, and clear intervals of sky, like lakes,

between.

The air was very quiet, the river drowsy with the frost, the last old

patriarchal leaves fluttering down one by one. In shady nooks which the

sun had not reached, the morning hoar frost was still white upon the

grass. Calmly over the world stole the slow change, clothing the earth

like a garment with all its blessed uses in it. Calm over all, the great

sun went down unchanging--the wonderful heavens stood constant for ever.

Strange harmony--strange contrast; the eternal yonder, stedfast in the

skies--the immortal here, born to be swayed, and taught, and changed in

right of its humanity--the child of the great heavens.

The clouds were still red in the west, and from the haze of light which

the sun left for a moment behind him, the dark stern hill stood boldly

out. Helen was about to turn back, carrying more sadly the heart that

came hither singing like a bird; for great thoughts were rising in it

now, thoughts which breathe only in the graver air, and hush the voice

of singing.

“Helen!”

How she started! but slowly, only very slowly, her pride permitted her

to turn, to ascertain whence the voice came.

“I have been looking for you up the water,” said William Oswald, coming

up with a warm eager glow upon his face; “and should have gone back

again to your mother disconsolately, had I not caught a glimpse of your

shawl.”

She looked at it very pleasantly; the venerable, aged friend; it was

good for something in this world after all.

“And now, Helen, I have a great deal to say to you.”

Helen did not doubt it. There came upon her a slight tremour; this then

was to be the final combat, hand to hand. He was resolved to conquer;

she saw it in his eye, and for the first time she was afraid.

But at present William Oswald said nothing very warlike; he began to

speak of his work in Edinburgh--his book; and Helen in spite of herself

was interested. He told her of his prosperity; the rising good name; the

modest beginning of fortune; frankly and in full confidence, as people

speak to those who have a right to know, and an interest in all which

concerns the speaker; and Helen turned her head away now and then half

afraid of this quiet appropriation--this strange _right_ by which he

claimed her sympathy.

Other people had been walking that Saturday afternoon beside the wan

water. Far upon the opposite side, Hope Oswald and her father were

returning from Fairholm, where they had been to make a call--a business

call of Mr Oswald’s, in which he had persuaded his favourite to

accompany him.

“Do you know where William went, when we came out, Hope?” said the

banker.

Hope looked up doubtfully in her father’s face; but she hesitated only a

moment. “He went to Mrs Buchanan’s, father.”

Mr Oswald said nothing. William had only been a few hours at home, but

during these had undergone a scrutiny of which he little dreamed. The

banker had been prepared to find his son changed, and had prepared

himself to be contemptuous; but William was not changed: and the old

pertinacity began to tighten its grasp upon his father’s heart.

In a quiet link of the water, not very far from Fendie, yet as still and

solitary as though it were in the midst of a wilderness, lay a little

mossy burying-ground. They are frequent in that Border district;

melancholy, green, dewy places, sometimes clustering their tall, grey

spectral gravestones about the ruined walls of an ancient chapel,

sometimes altogether deserted by the reliques of the old faith--lying

alone, by roadsides and in quiet places, disturbed only when grave

processions come, to add to the number of the names of those who are

dwelling there.

A few fine old trees grew within the enclosure and round it; through a

fringe of long bare willow branches you could see the water. Mimic

forests of moss covered the trunks of the trees, and minute white fungi

specked the green with delicate flower-bells. Hope Oswald had a great

admiration of those lichens--she entered the graveyard to seek some

specimens of them--and her father good-humouredly followed her.

The strong man’s heart was softened; he was more open to kindly

impressions than usual; and as he stood waiting for his favourite child,

his eye fell upon a grave. Nothing had happened in his prosperous life

to bring him near such solemn dwelling-places as this. He had lost no

children; and the memory of father, mother, and brethren, had faded out

of his heart long ago. He had never seen this humble stone before:

“Sacred to the memory of Walter Buchanan;” it moved him like the dead

man’s voice.

With a hushed and whispering tone the river passed by upon its way, and

the willows rustled on the water with a low lamenting cadence. Amid such

sights and sounds as living he would have loved to hear, the gentle man

lay dead; where none could ask or give forgiveness--where none could

alter the unjust anger, the evil sternness, the cruel pride which was

past. The heart of the rigid man began to beat and tremble, as he

remembered the absolute conclusion put to all human doings by that

grave. A little time the glad vicissitudes of change should remain for

himself--and then--

What life soever he had darkened--what truth dishonoured--what mercy

neglected--absolute and stern, the coming death should fix them all

unchangeable for ever.

He was a Christian man, despite of all the weakness which lay in his

boasted strength. He felt that the secrets of his own heart lay bare

before the Eye which judged the dead. Wonderingly Hope Oswald looked

into her father’s awed and changing face. She dared not venture to say,

“This is poor Mr Buchanan’s grave,” as, with simple art, she had

intended, when she first observed it; and in silence he took her hand

and led her away.

His stronghold was broken down--his worldly wisdom failed him. He had

deliberated on all his actions all his life--should he obey the impulse

now?

“Hope,” said the subdued banker, “why did you speak of Mr Grant that

evening we went to see Saunders Delvie? Do you remember? Why did you say

to them that you thought Peter was alive?”

The sensible Hope was perplexed.

“I--I don’t know, father,” she said, with some hesitation. “I just said

it because it came into my head.”

And the prudent, deliberate, elderly banker felt himself constrained to

copy his child.

“Go home now, Hope,” said Mr Oswald, as they reached the bridge. “I have

something to do; tell your mother I shall not be long.” And Mr Oswald

hurried away to say what had come into his head. The obstinate man felt

that it was right, and that he dared not trust himself to consider. Very

grand and successful had been Hope’s experiment--her father determined

to try one of his own.

William Oswald had indeed a great deal to say. They lingered on their

walk, Helen and he, till the dusk stole over the sky, blotting out the

sunny clouds in the west. He was a good general, this grave resolute

William; he skirmished with his restless suspicious adversary, till he

got her into the most favourable position for his decisive movement, and

then he struck the blow.

But her usual bravery had forsaken Helen; against the strong will which

took possession of her now, she could not bring up the buoyant might of

resistance which was so available in her usual struggles. She tried it

faintly, but the proud heart would only flutter, it would not rise to

the warfare; and so poor Helen perforce had to listen, and at the

critical point of the listening, instead of keeping up the combat as

she had hitherto done, could only, by some strange imbecility which she

by no means comprehended, say something which ended in “your father.”

The moment the words were said, the heart did rise in indignation at its

own treachery; but they _were_ said, and she was compelled to listen

again.

“I have not spoken to my father yet,” said William, “but he thinks I

have given up this matter, Helen, and he thinks he is very much

satisfied.”

He had done it now--the enchantment began to relax--the eager heart

sprang up in awakened strength, again resolute not to be conquered.

“He thinks I have forgotten,” pursued the imperturbable William, “and he

thinks he is satisfied; but at the same time, Helen, he thinks I am a

very pitiful fellow, and that there is no one like you in all Scotland.”

They were close to the gate of Mrs Buchanan’s little house. The weaker

belligerent visibly started--not at the singular speech alone, but at a

sight more singular; for there with his hand upon the wicket gate,

awkwardly fumbling about the latch, and looking as shy as ever girl

looked, stood the banker Oswald.

He was just parting with Mrs Buchanan; but Mrs Buchanan’s impetuous

daughter had reached the gate before he could open it. The stern banker

was very much confused; he looked up awkwardly at the unquiet face with

its strange, perplexed wonder--its singular mixture of emotions--pride,

anger, pleasure, even--alas, for Helen’s dignity--a little fun; for the

confusion of the respectable Mr Oswald had something ludicrous in it.

No one would help him; he appealed to William with a glance, but the

uncompassionating William looked on with secret glee, and offered no

assistance. Mr Oswald was very much confused. He wanted to say something

to the purpose, but could not accomplish it; so he said something which

was not to the purpose.

“A cold evening, Miss Buchanan.”

Miss Buchanan’s expectant face was turned full upon him. Her rapid lip

moved unconsciously as he said the unmeaning words. She bowed her shy

graceful bow, and passed him with the swift nervous motion which

belonged exclusively to herself. The banker looked a little blank; he

_did_ want to say something, and he was annoyed that he had failed.

“Helen, my dear--Helen,” said the good mother, with a slight tone of

reproof. Helen paused and turned round within the gate; the slight

impatient motion--the embarrassed frank look--Mr Oswald was pleased that

like himself Helen did not know what to say.

“I came to say,” said the banker slowly, “that my wife intended--I mean

wished, to call to-morrow if your mother would permit her, and that

we--that is, I hope we shall see more of each other in future, Miss

Buchanan--good night.”

He held out his hand--shyly the small nervous fingers met it. The banker

looked dubiously in her face; was it to be peace? but she only said good

night--and Mr Oswald turned away with a doubtful, pleased smile, too

much occupied to notice his son till he stumbled against him, and then

suffered the glad silent grasp of William’s hand, in token of full and

happy reconciliation.

In the little parlour, the tea-tray was on the table, the fire shining

brightly, the light--though there was still but one candle--cheerfully

filling the homelike room; but Helen ran upstairs and laughed a little,

and shed a few bright tears, and came down exceedingly dignified and

proper, endeavouring to persuade herself that she was angry, but

certainly shedding no angry radiance round her, out of her shining eyes.

The old kind face in the old corner; the pleasant, familiar, son’s voice

discoursing of old household things which no one else knew as he did.

Mrs Buchanan wondered at herself how she could ever tolerate

another--could ever dream that any but he might be the future son.

CHAPTER XV.

Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love

Accompany 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--unless _you_ wanted 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 the party 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’body _does_

aye find something to say, whatever folk do; and then forbye being a

_lady_--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--there _is_ a 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 what glamour 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.

CHAPTER XVI.

“Now draws he to the west, and noble clouds

Near to his royal person all the day

Attend him to his chamber. In his eye,

His broad, full, fearless eye, no faint or chill

Is 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 as the 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

wait _yonder_ for 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}