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!”