CHAPTER X.

I do not hope--ah, no!--mine eyes are clear, I see it would be vain; perchance, perchance, Some other heart doth hope and will be blessed; But mine--why should this gladness come to mine? I have been used with grief; A sombre way has mine been, all my days, And yet perchance--oh, Heaven, such things might be! As that one giant joy should come to me, Eclipsing common joys.--OLD PLAY.

“Helen,” said Lilias, “do you think I am very weak?”

They were sitting alone together on the morning of the third day after Mossgray’s departure. It was early, and Helen was just preparing to return to the daily labours which she could not intermit.

“I think you have had great trouble, Lilias, and you are not strong; but why do you ask me?”

“Helen,” said the pale Lilias, “do you never think it is selfish to sink under this blow as I have done? I think it has sometimes come into your mind; _you_ would not have done it, Helen?”

“We are not alike,” said Helen, hurriedly. “I think I should have rebelled, I should have repined. I should have been like the Leonore of that ghastly ballad; but I have my daily work to battle with, and little cares and little humiliations to teach me patience--yet I will never be so patient as you are, Lilias.”

“It is because I am alone, Helen,” said Lilias, in her faint, pleading tone of self-defence, “because there is no one in the world, not one, to whom I am the best beloved. If I had been like you--if my mother had lived--I think I should have been brave, Helen; but now I have only my grief, nothing more, in all this cold world.”

“And Mossgray, Lilias,” said Helen.

“I am very ungrateful,” said Lilias, bending her head. “I wanted you to think that I was not selfish, Helen; and yet to lose them all--to lose them both in one year, it is very bitter, very hard; you cannot tell how hard it is.”

She was very pale, though perfectly composed; but now as she paused, a red light seemed to flash across her face for a moment, the flicker of that unnatural, feverish hope which she fancied she had tried to quench, but which, instead, was gathering strength every hour, and lighting up her heart with an unnatural radiance.

“I wish you could work as I have to do, Lilias,” said Helen, as she drew her homely shawl about her. “I think it would be good medicine if you were strong enough. If we could only change, if you could fight a little as it is natural for me, and I could be patient as you are; but we must be content. I am going out now to my little battle-ground; there are some struggles and bitternesses in it, you know; will you try to-day to think how important you are to all of us--to us all here, Lilias, and to let the sun come in upon you?”

“These long days!” said Lilias. “I am not patient, Helen. I think they will never come to an end. Will you bring some of the children with you? Hope Oswald--any of them. I like to see the children; and we will try to-night to forget--to forget,” said Lilias, with the flickering red light upon her face again, “not the sorrow, but the hope.”

The feverish hope which had so frail a foundation to build its airy fabric on--what was it that wakened out of the gentle passive depths of Lilias’s mind the feeling that her sinking calm of grief was wrong, and that there was need to exert herself to cast it off? It was not reason, it was not thought; it was a new hysteric strength, other than comes from the deliberated wisdoms of man; a fluttering meteoric light, springing up about her, dangerously exciting, desperate, wild. She said she would forget it; she did not know that it was the fairy strength of this hope inspiring her, which made it possible that she should forget.

And while Lilias began to move about the house in the new strength, which, she fancied, arose from a resolve to exert herself and show her gratitude to her friends, Helen went quickly down the Waterside to her daily labour. Her quick, nervous, tell-tale motions seemed to have been subdued in presence of the mourner, and her face looked paler and quieter than was its wont. That varying temperament of hers had a strange facility of catching the tone of the atmosphere in which she was, and wearing it unconsciously as the sky wears the clouds. The happy good-morrow twitterings--not songs--of the birds among the dewy glistening leaves confused the stronger voice of the wan water, and filled all the fresh morning air with inarticulate music--cheerful sounds came through the intervening trees from Fendie. Children, yonder, on the high-road began to flock out of the cottage doors to school. Scarcely any heart could refuse to rise with the buoyant upspringing new day; but along the green, soft path, and through this plain of long waving grass by the side of the bridge, Helen Buchanan went quietly with a dimness on her face.

She had cares and bitternesses enough, as she said. William Oswald was still in Edinburgh; he had not been home even for a day; but the Reverend Robert had learned with inexpressible surprise and considerable pain that the young schoolmistress of Fendie did not choose to accept the dignified position to which he had elected her. It was almost the first rebuff he had met with since the triumphant beginning of his career, and he was a mortal young man, though he was a minister, and felt the mortification of being rejected to its fullest extent. So the Reverend Robert concealed the disappointment of the true honest feelings which did him honour under a veil of pique and pride. He could not manage to be indifferent, yet in his manner, when he accidentally met her, and in his attempt at indifference, was almost rude to Helen. Her sensitive pride began to rise again in full tide; people had begun to notice her for the sake of the minister, who now believing, as thoughtless malice said, that the minister had changed his mind and withdrawn in time, withdrew too, and marked the change: and Mrs Buchanan’s little quiet house fell into its old loneliness once more.

And the old weariness came sometimes back, and forlorn bitter thoughts swelled sometimes again about the changing heart. It was the penalty she paid for her power to endure and to enjoy.

So she went to her usual labour, and worked at it as she had worked for years; but other schools were rising in Fendie, where the little daughters of the masons and joiners and seamen of the good town could acquire a greater stock of accomplishments than Helen professed--where the fancy-work flourished in a perfect luxuriance of patterns, and the sober “whiteseam,” which was poor Helen’s staple, was thrust aside in disgrace. Helen was so foolish as to have an opinion on this subject; she had a good deal of wilfulness about her, it must be confessed; she thought it an honourable craft for those small maidens of hers, the manufacture of garments for their various homes; but was somewhat impatient of the tawdry prettinesses after which their ambition yearned.

It did her a little harm this weakness of aesthetical feeling; she thought of the natural fitness and propriety, and they gave her no thanks; and so it chanced that Helen got few new scholars. She felt the evils of competition; as her elder girls dropped off with their quota of education completed, younger ones did not come in to fill up the declining numbers, even when the young schoolmistress having discovered her error began not very willingly to amend it. Mrs Buchanan was beginning to look very sad and careworn; the steps of the coming wolf were already at the door.

The half year’s rent would soon be due, and the mother and daughter, in their anxious consultations, could by no means see where it was to come from. And the banker Oswald was their landlord; the gentle widow and the proud, sensitive Helen were at one in that point; there was nothing that they would not rather do than delay their payment by a single day.

Mrs Buchanan’s little portion was very attenuated now; the expenses of her husband’s illness and death had nearly swallowed it up, and the remnant was in the form of bank shares; but the very meagre dividend which this little capital yielded yearly was not above half what was necessary for this dreaded rent. The good mother painfully hoarded the little stock of school-fees; painfully expended what was absolutely needed--and lay awake far into the night and started again before the sun was up, calculating that sad arithmetic which could not issue in anything but a failure--laboriously trying to bring together the two ends which would not meet.

So Helen needed the natural spring and buoyant life of her temperament as much as Lilias did the gentle human touch of hope: their sorrows were apportioned to them by the same Hand which did so diversely create their spirits. Lilias had been very patient, until this wild light of hope broke in upon her still dead sorrow; and now Helen was bravely fighting against the cold incoming tide of neglect and poverty; holding up a high heart above the waves, and keeping as she could, unwetted by the chill spray about her, the wings of her strong life.

The banker Oswald was looking on; he had managed to ascertain so much of their need, and means, and mode of life as would have added bitterness to their struggle had Mrs Buchanan or her daughter known of it; and with singular interest and even some excitement, as he might have looked at a strong swimmer contending with the stronger current, the obstinate man looked on. To see these women battling so stoutly with a tide more powerful than that under which Walter Buchanan had sunk in his mid-day; to observe how Helen bore her fall from the temporary elevation which the minister’s attentions had procured for her, and went upon her way alone in her own unconscious dignity, so open to all kindnesses, still, and with the frank, clear skies of youth constantly breaking through the clouds of injured pride--no thought of coming to the rescue entered the mind of the banker, but there were no two persons in Fendie, out of his own household, whom he observed with half the interest which fascinated him to these. He fancied William had altogether forgotten the poor schoolmistress, and while he was entirely satisfied that such should be the case, a certain shade of contempt for this, obtruded itself into the pride with which he regarded the rising name of his son: but had William suddenly presented himself to ask the banker’s consent, as he had done before, the answer would still have been the same; he was still determined, unchangeable, bound by the resolution which nothing should break--never!

“I do not know what to say to Lilias, mother,” said Helen, as in the afternoon she prepared to return to Mossgray, where Mrs Buchanan was to accompany her. “_You_ will know--I cannot speak to her of this, for it would be terrible to lead her to hope, and then have that dreary blank of disappointment return again--and such disappointment! It is not like our troubles--troubles which could be almost altogether removed by what would be a very little matter to Mossgray; but Lilias has a heavier burden than we have.”

“The present trouble looks aye the hardest, Helen,” said Mrs Buchanan. “She is young, and has many friends--she will forget; but you must fight on, my poor bairn. I feel your trouble more than hers.”

Helen could lament herself into despondency without much difficulty, but the perverse temperament would not droop for any will but its own.

“Hush, mother!” said Helen; “it is only a fight after all, and there is nothing so very bad in having to labour; I could not do without it, I think, and we will get through yet, no fear.”

Mrs Buchanan shook her head.

“I hope so, my dear--I hope we shall, Helen; but how we are to do at Martinmas I cannot tell.”

“The fear of ill exceeds the ill we fear,” said Helen, with a bright face. “We will do all we can, mother, and we will manage someway--do not let us think of it to-night.”

Mrs Buchanan’s heart did not rise as her daughter’s did; but the good mother was ready to brighten too, lest those occasional gleams of sunshine, the sole solace of Helen’s toiling life, should be overcast.

“When is Hope to come?” she asked, “and what made Lilias think of asking Hope, Helen?”

“She wanted to escape from her own thoughts--at least she said so, mother--she wanted to be prevented from dwelling upon her hopes and fears for this night; and the grown-up people, the young ladies and the young gentlemen, would have tormented rather than eased her. Poor Lilias! I think she has some idea of Mossgray’s errand; she has not asked much about him, but a step without makes her shiver, and at night she grows so anxious. You are used to nervous people, mother, but when Lilias is nervous--so calm as she naturally is--it is far more painful to see, I think, than any natural tremor. Are you ready? for there is Hope.”

Hope led by the hand a little white-frocked, blue-eyed girl, the little Mary Wood of whom she had spoken so much. Miss Swinton had remained only a day in Fendie, and to Hope’s great disappointment, had not seen Helen; but the little Mary was left with Mrs Oswald for a long visit. Hope was exceedingly fond and proud of the child, and eager to display its juvenile wisdom and attainments. They all set out together for Mossgray.

“My papa is in India,” said little Mary Wood, sliding her small hand into the trembling fingers of Lilias, as they sat under cover of the great beech, watching the autumn sun sink gorgeously over the western hill; “and when I am a big lady I’m to go to India too, and then I’m to be married to somebody--Miss Mansfield says so, Hope.”

And Lilias laughed tremulously with the others, communicating a sick melancholy tone to the very sound of mirth.

“But Miss Mansfield says so, Miss Maxwell; and Miss Mansfield is a grown-up lady; she’s bigger than Miss Buchanan--isn’t she, Hope?”

“Never mind Miss Mansfield; nobody cares about her,” said Hope; “but look, little Mary, look at yon star!--oh, Helen, look! in among the gold clouds, and it so white and cold like--I know what it’s like.”

“Oh! what is it like, Hope?” cried little Mary Wood, who had the greatest possible admiration of Hope’s stories.

“It’s like somebody--somebody like what folk are in books,” said Hope, “standing in among the rich common people; it’s far better than the clouds--it’s as good as the sun, only it’s not so great; but for all that, look at it, how it’s shaking, and how pale it is; but it knows it is better than the clouds.”

Little Mary looked up wonderingly in awe of Hope’s occult acquaintance with the star; but this did not strike her as Hope’s stories generally did; for she said, after a little pause,--

“I wish it were to-morrow--I wish it were the day after to-morrow.”

“Why, Mary?” said Lilias.

“Because Miss Swinton said papa was going to write me a letter, and that I would get it to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow. A whole big letter to myself--a letter from papa, all the way from India--oh, Miss Maxwell!”

Lilias trembled a little; a slight painful shiver, as if of cold. She remembered well the time so long marked and looked for.

“The night is getting chill,” said Mrs Buchanan; “I think we must go in now; and come tell me, little Mary, about these great designs of yours.”

“Mary is very little,” said Hope, apologetically, taking the vacant place by the side of Lilias; “she says just what comes into her head, you know, Miss Maxwell.”

“And do _you_ not say what comes into your head, Hope?”

“But then I am not like Mary, Helen,” said Hope promptly; “I am fifteen--I know--at least I should know better than little Mary. Do you know when Mossgray is coming back, Miss Maxwell?”

Lilias shivered again. “No, Hope.”

Poor Hope! she was not so very much wiser than little Mary, after all.

The harvest moon had risen; the night was considerably advanced; Mrs Buchanan had set out with Hope and the child some time since; Helen and Lilias were alone.

They were sitting together in the deep recess of one of those old-fashioned windows, and the room was perfectly dark, save for the broad, full moonlight which made bars of silver light across the gloom. They were speaking in the hushed tone which people instinctively adopt at such times, and Helen was endeavouring to keep the attention of Lilias occupied, although her broken answers and unconnected words showed how ill she accomplished it, and frequent starts and intervals of listening evinced the anxiety of both.

“Let us have lights, Lilias,” said Helen; “it is not good this--it will do you harm.”

“Yes,” said Lilias, vacantly--“I mean, wait a little--only wait a little, Helen.”

She had repeated the excuse again and again, and now grasping her friend’s arm with those tightened fingers, she bent her pale head in the full mellow moonlight, and listened, shivering with the chills and starts of expectation.

There was a slight noise below.

“There is some one coming, Helen,” and the trembling fingers tightened in their eager grasp. “It is not Halbert--it must be Mossgray--hush!”

“It is only Janet moving below,” said Helen.

“Hush--listen! it is Mossgray! but I dare not go to meet him. Stay with me, Helen--stay till he comes! Now--now--it will be over now!”

And speaking incoherent words of prayer, Lilias held her eager friend tight, so that she could not escape, and turned her own bowed head towards the door.

Lightly up the stair came the elastic footstep, and Mossgray opened the door gently, and stood before them in the grace of his old age, the moonbeams mingling with his white hair.

“Where are you?” said the old man, looking into the dark shadows of the room. “Helen, is she strong? can she bear joy?”

“Mossgray!”

“My good child, there are others in the world to guard your strength for. He is not strong himself, poor fellow! He has had wounds and sickness; but he lives to thank God, Lilias, as we do.”

The room was reeling round her, with its heavy shadows, and bars of broad white light. She held firmly by the firm form of Helen, and laying down her dizzy head upon her friend’s shoulder, closed her eyes. She resigned her strained faculties willingly--at present she did not crave more; the quietness--the peace--fell over her like the moonlight--it was enough.

“Has she fainted, Helen?” asked Mossgray, anxiously, after a considerable pause.

Lilias lifted her head, still sick and dizzy, but with a sickness so different from that of grief.

“No, Mossgray, I am strong.”

And so she was, though she wavered and staggered in the moonlight, and scarcely could stand without support as yet. The winds had spent themselves and past away; the unusual fever had fled in a moment, and in her quietness she was herself again. Already the quick, wild pulse had fallen into its usual gentle beating; the turbulent strength of joy was not hers, any more than the passionate might of grief; but in the great peace of her gladness Lilias was strong.

And then the old man told them his tidings fully; how this very mail had brought home the certain news; how _he_ did not survive alone, but various others, officers and men, shared his fancied loss, and sure restoration; how the wounded men on the field where the little band had been cut to pieces, were left to the tender mercies of an Affghan tribe, whose fierce chief had perished in the encounter; how the son of this rebel Rajah had been trained by a captive Englishman, long ago seized by the wandering banditti of the tribe, and knew of justices and generosities higher than are taught by the creed of Mahomet; how the young sovereign saw how vain the struggle was between his shifting, unstable countrymen and the steady British arms, and moved by policy alike, and friendliness, had caused gentle succour to be given to the helpless wounded British men who were within his power; how they had travelled to his capital, and found his English tutor there, now, after long oppression and confinement, a free and honoured man, and how, with gifts and compliments, the strongest of the prisoners had been dismissed, and the brave young merchant, Grant, was to follow when he could.

Dim, dubious, inarticulate thoughts were rising in the old man’s mind as he told this story, touching a long-past sorrow--a visionary hope of his own; but he gave them no utterance--and Lilias’ face had not lost the flush with which she heard the name of its title--brave--when Mossgray placed a letter in her hand. Lilias was strong now; she hurried away to her own apartment with this crowning joy of all.

“I waited in Fendie till they should arrange their letters,” said Mossgray, “that I might see if there was anything for Lilias, and I got what I desired, Helen. There are other things in this story which interest me greatly. I wonder--but we shall hear, no doubt, when this young man comes home.”

The letter was a very brief one, written while he was still scarcely able to hold the pen, as the unsteady characters bore witness, and only assuring her that he was safe and out of danger, and whenever his wounds permitted, would hasten home.

“Does he say nothing of--of the Englishman?” said Mossgray, anxiously, when Lilias came down to tell him.

But the letter said nothing of any Englishman; the writer had been too feeble to write anything but the few words which told his safety, and that he was carefully tended--“in good hands.”