"I can not tell; still, it was right to try. You yourself said it was right to try."
"Yes;" and then, seeing it was done now, the practical, brave Helen stilled her uncertainties and let the matter rest.
No one was surprised that weeks elapsed before there came any tidings of the travelers. Then Mr. Menteith wrote, announcing their safe arrival in London, which diffused great joy throughout the parish, for of course every body knew whither Lord Cairnforth had gone, and many knew why. Scarcely a week passed that some of the far-distant tenantry even, who lived on the other side of the peninsula, did not cross the hills, walking many miles for no reason but to ask at the Manse what was the latest news of "our earl."
But after the first letter there came no farther tidings, and indeed none were expected. Mr. Menteith had probably returned to Edinburg, and in those days there was no penny post, and nobody indulged in unnecessary correspondence. Still, sometimes Helen thought, with a sore uneasiness, "If the earl had had good news to tell, he would have surely told it. He was always so glad to make any body happy."
The long summer twilights were ended, and one or two equinoctial gales had whipped the waters of Loch Beg into wild "white horses," yet still Lord Cairnforth did not return. At last, one Monday night, when Helen and her father were returning from a three days' absence at the "preachings'—that is, the half-yearly sacrament—in a neighboring parish, they saw, when they came to the ferry, the glimmer of lights from the Castle windows on the opposite shore of the loch.
"I do believe Lord Cairnforth is come home!"
"Ou ay, Miss Helen," said Duncan, the ferryman, "his lordship crossed wi' me the day; an' I'm thinking, minister," added the old man confidentially, "that ye suld just gang up to the Castle an' see him; for it's ma opinion that the earl's come back as he gaed awa, nae better and nae waur."
"What makes you thinks so? Did he say any thing?"
"Ne'er a word but just 'How are ye the day, Duncan?' and he sat and glowered at the hills and the loch, and twa big draps rolled down his puir bit facie—it's grown sae white and sae sma', ye ken—and I said, 'My lord, it's grand to see your lordship back. Ye'll no be gaun to London again, I hope?' 'Na, na,' says he; 'na, Duncan, I'm best at hame—best at hame!' And when Malcolm lifted him, he gied a bit skreigh, as if he'd hurted himself—Minister, I wish I'd thae London doctors here by our loch side," muttered Duncan between his teeth, and pulling away fiercely at his oar; but the minister said nothing.
He and Helen went silently home, and finding no message, walked on as silently up to the Castle together.