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.