CHAPTER XI.

The auld guidwife’s weelhoordet nits Are round and round divided, And monie lads and lasses’ fates Are there that night decided. Some kindle, couthy, side by side, An’ burn thegither trimly, Some start awa’ wi’ saucy pride An’ jump out owre the chimlie, Fu’ high that night.--HALLOWE’EN.

The juvenile party had assembled in Mrs Oswald’s drawing-room. The Fendies of Mount Fendie, the Maxwells of Firthside, the son and daughter of Dr Elliot, who rented Greenshaw, and several other scions of rural magnates. Hope had a secret feeling that she would have liked an auxiliary party of Helen Buchanan’s scholars in the kitchen, and should have had much better fun with them than among the young ladies and the young gentlemen, with their incipient flirtations and full dress.

The eldest Miss Maxwell of Firthside was eighteen; she sat apart and dignified beside Mrs Oswald and Lilias on a sofa, thinking William Oswald a great lout, and herself much too important a person to countenance the follies of “the children.” Lilias did not think so; but their gay laughter and active sport made her shrink now and then, and by its very contrast recalled her grief.

The banker was very gracious to Lilias. He had some indefinite hope that she might possibly withdraw William from his foolish fancy. He hoped her walk from Mossgray had not wearied her.

“Oh no,” said Lilias, “I have had a long rest. Hope has done me the favour to make a very important addition to my list of Fendie friends to-day.”

Hope paused in the midst of the tumult of burning nuts to listen. Her father glanced at her quickly with an eye which presaged a storm. Hope drew herself up and defied it.

“I have been in Mrs Buchanan’s since the morning--do you know her, Mrs Oswald?”

“Yes, I know her,” said Mrs Oswald, quietly, with secret satisfaction, only less warm than Hope’s. “Mrs Buchanan is an old friend of mine. You liked her, no doubt?”

“Perhaps one must be alone as I have been,” said Lilias, faltering slightly, “before one can know what a pleasure it is--I mean, to be in the atmosphere of a mother; but Hope’s Helen, Mrs Oswald--I wonder I have been here so long, and have not heard of her before.”

“That will be the Miss Buchanan that keeps the school,” interrupted Miss Maxwell of Firthside.

Lilias smiled.

“If you knew her you would not need that distinction, though it is a very good one; but one runs no risk of losing her, Miss Maxwell, though all the other Miss Buchanans in Scotland were congregated in Fendie.”

“Oh, is she so pretty?” asked the young lady, with some curiosity.

William Oswald stood at some distance, leaning upon the mantelpiece. At his feet little Agnes Elliot looked up, vainly pleading that he would put those two nuts, representing herself and Harry Stewart of Fairholm, into some safe corner of the ruddy fire; but William had no ear for little Agnes.

The banker sat in a great chair near his wife’s sofa, looking, as he wished it to appear, towards the young merrymakers round the fire-place, and pretending to be extremely indifferent to the conversation, but listening with all his might.

“It is not that she is pretty,” said Lilias; “I cannot tell what the charm is--but the charm is great, I know. Hope, you know Miss Buchanan best--tell Miss Maxwell what it is.”

“But, Miss Maxwell, I am sure you know better than me,” said Hope, dubiously, her triumph checked by fear, lest her own powers of description should fail. “I don’t know what it is except it is just because Helen is a gentlewoman.”

Miss Maxwell of Firthside elevated her good-looking small head, with its _nez retroussé_, and looked contemptuous. Mr Oswald pushed back his chair hastily.

“Hope is very right,” said Lilias; “but there are gentlewomen, many of them, to whom nothing could give that singular refinement. It is not conventional grace of manner at all, either; one cannot tell what it is.”

“Is that Miss Buchanan? Oh, I know her--I know her!” cried one of the Firthside boys. “She hit me once; but I think I like her for all that.”

“Miss Buchanan struck you?” said his sister. “What did she do that for?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, Georgina!” said a smaller youth. “He was hitting Robbie Carlyle’s cuddie with his switch--he’s a cuddie himself--he was hitting me just before; and the young lady came up and took the switch from him and loundered him. Oh, didn’t he deserve it!”

“She didna lounder me!” cried the first speaker, indignantly, forgetting in his haste that his vernacular should not be spoken before ears polite. “She only hit me once, and laughed, and asked me how I likit it. She never hurt me; and we’re good friends now.”

“Is that a way to speak, Hector?” cried the young lady-sister, in dismay. “What a vulgar boy you are!”

Hope with difficulty restrained a retort as to the superior elegance of our kindly Scottish tongue, when little Agnes Elliot came running forward with the nuts which William Oswald could not be induced to put into the fire for her.

“This is Harry Stewart, and this is me,” said the innocent little Agnes, too young yet to have any sort of bashfulness about her juvenile sweetheart, “and if you please, Hope, will you put them in?”

Hope put them in as she was requested, and Hope also placed another couple of nuts in the glowing heat of the fire, and stood watching them with much anxiety. There were a great many eager gazers about the hearth--a great many youthful fates were being determined; but Hope’s nuts were still burning merrily when the destiny of all the others had been sealed. “Who is it, Hope? who is it?” cried blythe voices on every side; but Hope closed her lips firmly and shook her head, and would not tell.

“Oh, I know!” said Hector Maxwell; “it’s Hope and me--Hope’s burning herself and me!”

Hope’s indignant denial was lost in the general chorus--“Hope’s burning herself and Hector Maxwell!” Hope was very much offended; she pushed the joyous Hector away, and scolded little Agnes Elliot; it was too bad; but she still stood perseveringly by the fire, watching the nuts: they were at the most dangerous stage, and there was still the risk of one starting from the side of the other.

The crisis past; lovingly they subsided together into white ashes.

“It’s William and Helen, Miss Maxwell,” whispered Hope, secretly clapping her hands, and Lilias was prepared for the revelation, and received it with becoming gravity.

All the young faces in the room were red and glowing; they were tired of burning nuts, and Mrs Oswald’s old nurse, Tibbie, was brought in state from the kitchen to superintend and interpret the mysterious process of “dropping the egg.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Victoria Fendie, “look--look! it’s a sword and a grand cocked hat--isn’t it, Tibbie? and that’s for our Adelaide. I wonder what it means.”

“A cocked hat!” said Hector Maxwell, indignantly, “it’s more like a triangle--the thing the showfolk play tunes on; and a sword!--it’s the bow of a fiddle.”

“Whiskt!” said Tibbie, “it’s just a sword; and what should it mean, bairns; just that Miss Adie’s to get a grand sodger officer--see if I dinna say true.”

Adelaide Fendie blushed her dull blush, and whispered,--

“Oh, Hope, do you think she knows?”

“She knows what it looks like,” said Hope.

But Adelaide was not satisfied.

“Do you not think she knows more than that? Oh, Hope, what if it was to come true?”

Hope laughed; but it was her own turn now, to watch the mysterious evolutions of the egg.

“It’s a ship! it’s a ship!” cried Hector Maxwell, in an ecstacy. “Tibbie, I am sure you meant this for me.”

“Never you heed, Maister Hector,” said the oracular Tibbie; “it’s Miss Hope’s; but you’re to get her, ye ken, so it’s a’ ane.”

Hope swept away in high disdain from Hector’s vicinity.

“Tibbie,” she whispered, “try one for a young lady; she is not here, but I like her, and I’ll tell you after who she is.”

Tibbie obeyed.

“It’s like a book,” cried Victoria.

“It’s a letter,” said Hector.

“Oh, Tibbie, what does it mean?” inquired the perplexed Hope.

Tibbie was slightly puzzled too; the rules of her simple art gave her no assistance.

“Well, bairns, I canna just tell--wait a minute. Ay, Miss Hope, that’s it--the young lady will get her fortune out of a book.”

“Out of a book, Tibbie?”

“Deed, ay, Miss Hope; we’re no to ken hoo till the time comes--but see if she disna get her fortune out of a book.”

Hope drew back to cogitate; she could make nothing of this mysterious deliverance of Tibbie’s.

By and by, Adam Graeme’s old-fashioned, brown-hooded conveyance (all classes of vehicles are called by the generic name, conveyance, in Fendie), driven by “Mossgray’s man,” Saunders Delvie, arrived to take Lilias home. Hope accompanied her to the door.

“If you please, Miss Maxwell,” said Hope, “will you see Helen sometimes when I am away?”

“Yes, Hope,” answered Lilias.

“And, Miss Maxwell, will you just speak of her sometimes before my father--I don’t mean _to_ my father--but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, Hope,” repeated Lilias, “I shall do what I can; don’t be afraid, and now good-bye.”

The carriage drove off, but Hope still lingered at the door, looking down the dim, hazy, quiet street. There were very few passengers, but as she stood looking out, she perceived a certain tall, plaided figure rapidly advancing upon the opposite side, in shadow of the houses. Hope turned and shut the door in sudden wrath. What could the Reverend Robert Insches have to do at the “townend” on this Hallowe’en night? It looked suspicious; he had been seeing Helen Buchanan!

The next morning early, Hope herself traversed the same road to bid Helen good-bye. The coach started at eleven, and it was only a little after eight when Hope looked in upon Mrs Buchanan’s breakfast-table. Helen looked in excellent spirits; the ring of her pleasant laugh had reached Hope’s ear before she opened the parlour-door.

“Do you like Miss Maxwell, Helen?” inquired Hope.

“Very much, Hope,” was the quick answer; “we shall be excellent friends.”

“Because she likes you, Helen,” continued Hope. “If you had only heard her last night, Mrs Buchanan.”

The blood flushed at once over Helen’s face. It was not disagreeable to be praised--not even before the Oswalds; but it excited pride as well as curiosity.

“Helen,” resumed Hope, “Mr Insches comes here very often, does he not?” Hope looked immensely jealous.

Helen did not answer; there was some annoyance, and a good deal of mirth upon her face.

“Yes, Hope,” said Mrs Buchanan, sedately, “Mr Insches is a good lad. He visits far better than any minister that has been in Fendie since I came.”

“Ah, but he does not visit everybody else as often as he visits you!” exclaimed the jealous Hope. “Helen, do you like him?”

The merry ring of Helen’s laugh did not by any means please Hope this morning.

“Surely,” she said; “why should I not like him, Hope?”

“Ah, I don’t mean that,” said Hope; “but--I am sure you don’t _care_ for him, Helen?”

Helen blushed again; but her answer was more satisfactory this time.

“No, indeed, Hope; not the very least in the world.”

“Mr Insches is a fine lad,” repeated Mrs Buchanan, significantly.

“Oh yes, so is everybody,” said Hope; “but do you know, Mrs Buchanan, I think he thinks he is good-looking.”

“And so he is, Hope.”

“But he is a man, and a minister! what right has he to think about such a thing?”

Mrs Buchanan shook her head, and did not refuse to smile; for men and ministers too have their vanities.

“Helen,” said Hope, “I made our Tibbie try your fortune last night, and what do you think it was? We could not make it out at first, but Tibbie said it was a book; and you’re to get your fortune out of a book. Now, mind, and we’ll just see what happens--and, Helen, I burnt you.”

The unquiet face grew suddenly grave, and flushed over cheek and brow with the hot blush of pride; the tone changed in a moment.

“Did you, Hope? you were very cruel.”

“Oh, but you know that’s not what I mean!” said Hope; “and, Helen, you need not be angry at me.”

“Who did you burn with Helen, Hope?” said Mrs Buchanan.

Hope dared not answer; and yet there was some curiosity in the kindled indignation of that strangely moving face.

“It is time for me to go away,” said Hope, disconsolately. “Good-bye, Mrs Buchanan; and, Helen, you need not be angry when I am just going away.”

Helen rose and accompanied her favourite to the door.

“I am not angry, Hope; but you must never speak of me again at home; mind--or I shall be very much offended.”

“Why?” said Hope, boldly.

But it was not quite so easy to answer why.

“Because I shall promise if you will tell me the reason,” said the sensible Hope.

But Helen could give no reason; so she bit her lip and looked half angry, and laughed.

“Do you know, Hope, I begin to think you are to be very clever,” she said at last.

“Miss Swinton says I am sensible,” said Hope, steadily; “and when you have no reason, why should you be angry?--but mind, you are to get your fortune out of a book; and now I must go away.”

The farewell was said, and Hope gone; but Helen still stood leaning over the garden-gate, looking after her with an embarrassed smile upon her face. It was a sunny morning, though the haze of the beginning frost was still in the air; the morning always brought new hopes and a buoyant upspringing to the elastic nature of Helen Buchanan, and she felt more than usually light-hearted to-day. As was her habit, she revealed this in every unconscious movement. Mrs Buchanan knew by the very measure of her step as she reëntered the house, that there was no mist in her sunny atmosphere--no cloud upon her sky. A certain shy pleasure hovered upon her face, prompting her to laugh at sundry times with embarrassed uncertain gladness, and swaying about the colour in her cheek, as a mist is swayed by the wind. It did not seem certainly that Hope Oswald had much offended her.

But it was not that; neither was it the evident pleasure which the young minister, who thought himself good-looking, found in Mrs Buchanan’s humble parlour, nor yet the friendship of Lilias Maxwell. The bright nature did indeed in its own warm alembic combine all these together, and draw from them a certain exhilaration; but itself in the involuntary elasticity which was its best inheritance was the source of its own happiness. A rare and precious gift, chequered as it was with the infinite variety of shadows, and all the depths of sudden depression which calmer spirits could not know.

But it was very true that the Reverend Robert Insches had called very many times of late on Mrs Buchanan, and that Helen talked to him as she would have talked to any indifferent acquaintance, in her own varied wayward fashion, and that the young minister seemed exceedingly glad to respond; whereupon Mrs Buchanan, in spite of her great favour for William Oswald, began to perceive more clearly the obstacles which stood between Helen and him, and to grow more indignant at his father. His father, the harsh, stern man whose rigid strength had done so much injury to her gentle husband, and who now cast his severe shadow over the lot of her daughter. And William had been long in possession of the field; it pleased the good mother to see it entered by another competitor, and if ordinary signs held good, a competitor the Reverend Robert Insches was beginning to be.

All this was very true; but very true it was also that Helen was supremely indifferent to the good looks of the youthful minister, and that the Reverend Robert himself had by no means decided whether he had or had not any “intentions” respecting the young schoolmistress of Fendie. She _was_ the schoolmistress; to call her by the more ornamental name of teacher or governess would not do; and the Reverend Robert was himself of somewhat plebeian origin, and knew how apt congregations are to scrutinize the pedigree and breeding of a new minister’s wife. So he was wise though he was fascinated, and Mrs Buchanan was a little premature.

But Hope Oswald, on the journey to Edinburgh, contrived to let the banker know how assiduously the minister visited her friend, and had the consolation to perceive that her arrow did not miss its mark. It by no means weakened the resolution which the obstinate man had formed in respect to the daughter of his former friend; but acting upon the suggestive praise of Lilias Maxwell, it gave him a little misgiving about the wisdom of his unalterable decision. It was humiliating to make a mistake, but the very possibility made him cling more closely to his obstinate resolve. He would never receive Walter Buchanan’s daughter--never! He had fulminated his sentence on the matter once, and it was decided as the Medes and Persians decide--beyond the power of change.