CHAPTER IX.

“I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars.”--BURNS.

“Oh, Hope, Alick’s come,” exclaimed Adelaide Fendie one bright August day, as she alighted from the nondescript gig driven by John Brown, and went with her arm linked in her friend’s into the banker’s sober dining-room. “Mamma is so glad--we’re all so glad--Alick’s come.”

“And, Hope,” added Victoria, “somebody else is come too. It’s the sword and cocked hat that Tibbie saw at Hallowe’en. Oh, Hope, if you only saw him!”

“Who is it, Adelaide?” asked Hope.

“It’s--Alick’s come,” said the slow Adelaide with her dull blush, “mamma is so glad, Hope; and we’re to have a ball and parties--I don’t know how many--and Mossgray and young Mr Graeme are coming to dine to-morrow, and next week we are going to Mossgray--because Miss Maxwell will never go out anywhere now you know, and Mr Graeme wants to have Alick and me,” added Adelaide, with a dignified consciousness of having reached the full years of young ladyhood. “I’m to go too.”

“Will Mossgray ask you, Hope?” inquired Victoria.

“Hope is too young,” said Adelaide, in her new dignity. “Doesn’t mamma tell you, Victoria, not to talk about things you don’t understand? but though you’re too young to go out to parties yet, Hope, you’re to come up and see Alick: and there’s Alick’s friends too, you know.”

Hope was offended. She was full fifteen, and thought herself a very mature womanly person, so she condescended to ask no further questions about Alick’s friends, though Victoria’s malicious laugh, and the dull consciousness of Adelaide, made Hope a little curious; but Hope’s mind was occupied with things of very much more importance than cocked hats or swords.

“Adelaide, does Alick know about Peter Delvie? oh, Mr Insches says perhaps it is not true--and poor Saunders!--does Alick know anything, Adelaide; does Alick think it is true?”

“Hope! do you think our Alick knows anything about Peter Delvie?”

“If he does not it is very bad of him,” said Hope boldly; “for Peter is a Fendie man--they were both Fendie men away in yon great India; but did you not ask him, Adelaide? did you not think of poor Saunders when Alick came home?”

“I forgot, Hope,” said Adelaide, more humbly.

“Will you not forget to-day then? will _you_ mind, Victoria? and I will come up to the Mount to-morrow to hear; for Saunders thinks he is dead; oh, Adelaide, if he only were living to come back again!”

Hope had never been able to forget the agony of the old man; but her visitors were by no means interested.

“Do you mind Alick, Hope?” said Adelaide, “mamma says he is so improved; and he’s as brown as he can be with the sun; and then there is Captain Hyde, Alick’s friend; he is an Englishman, and belongs to such an old family. They came in with the Conqueror.”

“And they called them Van Dunder at first,” said the malicious Victoria, “and then they were married to a Miss Hyde, a rich lady: and now their full name is Dunder Hyde; but Alick says it should be Dunderhead, because he’s so stupid.”

“Victoria, I’ll tell mamma,” said the offended Adelaide.

“But Van Dunder is not like a Norman name,” said Hope, who was more erudite; “it’s like Dutch: are you sure they were Normans, Adelaide?”

“I don’t know anything about Normans,” said Adelaide, with dignity; “but I know that Captain Hyde’s family came to England with King William; for he told me that--”

“But that would be Dutch William,” said the historical Hope; “and does he wear a sword and a cocked hat; and do you like him, Adelaide?”

Adelaide drew herself up.

“Hope! what are you thinking of!”

“What is the matter,” said the straight-forward Hope; “would it be wrong if you liked him? I am sure I like Halbert Graeme very well, and perhaps I will like Alick; but I like old Mossgray far better; and I wouldn’t be afraid to say it.”

“Young ladies should not speak so,” said Adelaide, in her dull solemnity.

Hope was very innocent:--she still thought of a young lady only as an ordinary mortal, and not as a professional person--for Hope, schemer and matchmaker as she was, had never been initiated into the system of mutual silliness with which boys and girls, just before they become men and women, surround each other; and although perfectly undefended from the romantic, and prone to be overpowered by it, whenever her hour should come, she had triple armour in her honest, artless temper, against all the affectations of the young lady and young gentleman period.

“Has Alick ever been in a battle?” inquired Hope with some awe.

“Oh, Hope, so many! Alick does not care about battles now,” said Adelaide; “if you only heard Captain Hyde and him!”

“I wonder if he ever killed anybody,” said Hope, with a shudder. “I wonder if he ever took away a man’s life--maybe somebody’s son, Adelaide, like poor Peter Delvie--or like the gentleman--”

“What gentleman, Hope?”

“I mean somebody I heard of,” said Hope, prudently checking herself, as she remembered that what she knew of the bereavement of Lilias was not fit news for her gossiping companions; “but to take away a life, Adelaide,--I think it must be very terrible.”

“I don’t know, Hope,” said the stolid Adelaide; “but Alick has been in so many battles that he does not care for them now--and so has Captain Hyde.”

“And will you mind, Adelaide,” said Hope, as she saw them again safely deposited in the gig, under the care of John Brown, “will you be sure to ask about Peter Delvie?--and I’ll come up to-morrow to hear.”

Adelaide promised, and they returned home; but the promise faded from Adelaide’s memory before they were halfway to Mount Fendie; and when the faithful Hope went up to the Mount next day to ascertain the result of her friend’s inquiries, there was much to be said about Captain Hyde, but nothing of the hapless Peter. The strangers were out. Hope did not see them--and she had to go away, contenting herself with another promise, which was in like manner broken.

Peter Delvie was an early friend of Hope’s. He had helped her over burns, and comforted her when stung by the nettles and pricked by the thorns of juvenile mischance--had pulled brambles for her from inaccessible hedge-rows, and fished unattainable water-lilies to her feet. Hope remembered all his gentle deeds, and liked the unfortunate Peter. And Saunders, in rigid, hopeless misery, was condemning himself as the murderer of his son; the old man’s stern grief moved the young heart strangely. Hope would have endeavoured any exertion to bring comfort to the harsh, agonized, despairing heart.

A second disconsolate journey Hope had made to Mount Fendie; but Adelaide still forgot; and wearily, with something of the discontent and melancholy which elder people feel, in sight of the indifference and lack of sympathy displayed by the common herd, Hope was returning home.

She had entered the garden of Mossgray before she became aware that there were visitors in it. Under shadow of a fine beech tree, Lilias, in her mourning dress, sat on a garden seat. It was Saturday, and those holidays were now very frequently spent by Helen Buchanan with her pensive and delicate friend whose health needed all gentle care and tendance. Helen was standing behind Lilias, looking shy and something out of place, as she bent over the downcast Lily of Mossgray, and tried to shield her from the remarks sometimes addressed to her by the young men who stood with the Laird and Halbert at a little distance. The strangers were Alick Fendie and the redoubtable Captain Hyde; Hope did not know them--she came up, stealing under cover of the trees, to Lilias and Helen.

Lilias had turned her head away, where no one could see the drooping, melancholy face. They had been talking in her presence of those fatal Indian wars--had been running over, with careless levity, those names, made so bitterly memorable to her, of places where the dead had been. She had turned aside, with her trembling arm resting against the silvery beech; and Helen’s eyes were cast down too, and no one saw what clouds were passing over the wan face of the Lily of Mossgray.

Hope did not think of that, as she advanced innocently to the mourner’s side, and looked into her face; the tears were standing upon those colourless cheeks in large drops--the pale lips were quivering.

“Hope!” said Helen, in reproof.

Lilias put her hand upon Hope’s, gently detaining her.

“Hope has been my shield before,” she said in her low, broken voice; and Hope’s heart swelled with graver emotion than was wont to move it, as the drooping Lily leaned for a moment upon her shoulder. She remembered very well the other time--the bow window of Mrs Fendie’s morning-room and the first meeting of Mossgray with his ward; but Lilias was still paler, still more fragile now, and people said she would not dwell long in this life.

The young heir of Mount Fendie, lieutenant in his regiment, but captain at home, was the model of his sister Victoria--malicious with a kind of pert cleverness, which passed muster for wit very well among the stupid Fendies; but Captain Hyde, his butt and companion, was much too complacent to be at all conscious of being quizzed. In himself a tall fellow of his hands--in estate a considerable proprietor in one of the rich English counties on the other side of the island--the arrows of ridicule glanced innoxiously from off the glittering armour of good-humoured self-importance which bucklered Captain Arthur Hyde.

“Poor Robertson,” said Alick Fendie, in his loud voice, as Hope began to listen. “He was killed in that skirmish at ----; but, by the by, don’t you remember hearing a rumour before we left India, Hyde, that all these poor fellows were not killed after all?”

Captain Hyde gaped a “never heard it.”

“I am sure you did,” responded his brisk companion. “Why, man, don’t you recollect? Somebody’s servant had turned up, and reported that himself and his master were not dead--very near it--very badly wounded, but not killed outright, and that the Affghan fellows were nursing a lot of them--I think there was a lot; and the fellows who had taken them were just about to turn their coat; they are always doing that, these wretches of natives, and were taking care of them to curry favour with us; yes, to be sure we heard it. It was a mere rumour, you know, but it might be true. Anything may happen in India. Men get killed and then turn up again in the most miraculous way--eh, Hyde?”

Lilias had risen and turned round blindly to Helen, as if seeking support.

“Save me, Helen,” said the Lily of Mossgray, “save me from this hope.”

“And is that all? do you know nothing further about these unfortunate young men?” said the anxious voice of Mossgray.

“Nothing at all,” answered Alick Fendie briskly. “It may not be worthy of the least credit what we did hear. I only give it you as a rumour.”

“Lilias is ill; we will go in,” said Helen, supporting her friend on the nervous, firm arm, which began to tremble in sympathetic sorrow. “Will you come to us when you can, Mossgray? Lilias is ill.”

And Lilias was ill. After this long sinking in the deep waters of grief, the fever of hope was too much for her. Large, cold drops stood upon her white, shadowy forehead, her thin, wasted frame was shaken with sudden pains, the mist of blindness was upon her eyes, and the slender arm twined in Helen’s leaned so heavily--you could not have fancied there was so much weight in the slight, drooping figure altogether as there was in that one thin arm.

“And, Captain Alick,” said Hope, stepping forward bravely, “did you see Peter Delvie in India? They have sent home word that he is dead; do you think Peter is dead?”

“Why, I believe this is little Hope Oswald,” exclaimed Captain Alick, shaking Hope’s hand energetically, and offering a salutation from which Hope, immensely red and angry, withdrew in high disdain. “Why, Hope, you are taller than Adelaide; and what a little thing you were when I went away.”

“Will you tell me about Peter Delvie, Captain Fendie?” said Hope, with some dignity.

“Who is Peter Delvie, Hope? I never saw him in India, I assure you. But why do you never come to the Mount? I must come and see you myself one of these days.”

Hope went away dissatisfied and sad. Nobody would care except for themselves, nobody would attend to her inquiries, nobody would think of the old man who had lost his only child.

Lilias was sitting on a low chair, bending her head down upon her knees, as Mossgray looked in at the door of their usual sitting-room. Her face was hidden in her hands; she did not see him.

Helen stood close beside her, holding one of those feverish, hot hands.

“Helen, it is very hard to bear,” said the broken Lily, “very terrible. I thought I was patient, I thought I had learned to endure; but this hope, this false, vain hope--I cannot bear it, Helen.”

Helen answered nothing; she only pressed gently the thin, trembling fingers which lay in her own.

“And if it was true,” said Lilias, “they were many, very many; would you have me hope that it was _him_--that _he_ was saved alone?”

And then the wan face was lifted, supplicating, begging to be contradicted--instinct with its woeful entreaty that this hope which it called false might be pronounced true.

“Will you not speak to me!” said poor Lilias. “Have you nothing to say to me, Helen?”

“I cannot tell,” said the faltering voice of Helen. “I have heard of very wonderful things; this may be one of them. What can I say, Lilias? There have been such deliverances before--I cannot tell.”

Lilias rose up suddenly, and laid her arms upon Helen’s shoulders, supporting herself there.

“He is the only son of his mother. She would pray for him night and day. Helen, Helen, there are few so blessed. Would they not be heard in heaven, those prayers?”

Poor Helen trembled as much in her strength as the other did in her weakness; she dared not recommend this hope to the sick heart, which had already grasped it so strongly.

“We must wait, Lilias,” she said. “It is very hard, very hard to do it, I know, but it is in God’s hands, and we must wait.”

Lilias put up her hands to her head; she staggered as she withdrew from her support. A sickly smile came upon her face.

“I ought to go to his mother, Helen. Will you come with me to seek his mother? Mossgray is very good, very kind, but she has more need of me. She has not written, because she would think, like me, that he was dead; but it may be true. You have heard of very wonderful deliverances. You said so, Helen; you thought it might be true.”

But Helen’s head drooped. She feared to encourage the expectation.

Lilias sat down upon her low chair again, and again bent her head upon her knees; her feeble frame was distracted with bodily pains no less than her mind was with mental.

“I think my head is dizzy, Helen,” she said, in her melancholy, broken voice. “I think I am forgetting myself--for this is only vain and false, a mockery of hope. I see it is. If the grief were yours, Helen, you would see that this could not be true.”

Those strange artifices of misery! they brought tears to the eyes of the looker-on, to whom this did indeed seem a mockery of hope.

“You must stay with her, Helen,” said Mossgray, when they had left Lilias alone. “You must stay with her till I return. I cannot leave Fendie to-night, but to-morrow evening I will. I will go to London, and ascertain at once if there is any truth in this. Do not let Lilias know where I am nor what is my errand. I leave her with you in all confidence, Helen. You will be tender of my poor Lily.”