His hand upon his breast touched the lilac blossom. He drew it out to look at it, and held it idly in his fingers, for his first thought was to drop the fading flower into those pure cold waters, and let it float away towards that sea which is the great symbol of all depths. But Cuthbert’s second thought, more usual, if not more true, was to restore the drooping blossom, and keep it, though it faded; and then, making an effort to shake off the pleasant mystic darkness which hid him from himself, Cuthbert Charteris roused his dreaming heart, and asked what he did there.
What brought him here? The same question which Martha had put to her uncle. No one saw Cuthbert blush; no one was witness to the conscious smile which rose in spite of himself upon his lip. What brought him here? In fact, the slightest possible piece of business, which, at any other time, a letter might have managed; but, in truth—what was it, Cuthbert?
And straightway the thoughts of Cuthbert Charteris plunged into a long, discursive journey, calculating probabilities, prospects, necessities; but through all wavered this conscious smile, and he felt the warm flush on his face, and looked, as Rose had never looked upon her passing angel, into the very eyes of the fairy guide who had led him thither. The stars were dreaming in the sky, wrapped in soft radiant mist, when he left the river-side. Like them, the young man’s-heart was charmed. Not fervent enough for passion yet, nor manstrong as it would be—charmed, fascinated, dreaming—a spell of magic over him, was this new power—the earliest spring of a life which should weave itself yet into the very strength of his.
CHAPTER VII.
A home to rest, a shelter to defend.
PLEASURES OF HOPE.
The evening sun shines into the drawing-room of Allenders—the drawing-room newly completed and magnificent, through which Harry Muir’s little wife goes merrily, laughing aloud as she pauses to admire again and again those luxurious easy-chairs and sofas, which it is almost impossible to believe are her own. It is a long room occupying the whole breadth of the house, for Harry has taken Cuthbert’s hint, and thrown down the partition which once made two dim bed-chambers, where now is this pretty drawing-room.
From the western window you can see the long light stealing over Bannockburn, tracing bright fines of softened green and yellow along the wide strath, and laying down upon the swelling fields as it passes away such a depth of dewy rest and shadow as never lay in any land of dreams. And the hill-tops are dusty and mazed with the rays which stream over them, a flood of golden streaks, falling out of the fight like drooping hair; while nearer, at our very feet, as we stand by this window, the burn below flashes out through the heavy alder boughs, in such sweet triumph over its crowning sunbeam, that you unconsciously smile in answer to its smiling, as you would to any other childish joy.
From the other window you can look out upon Demeyet, somewhat sullenly receiving the radiance of the sunset. He, stout rebel, loves better the young morning, whose earliest glance is over his head, before her eyelids are fully opened. How she glances up playfully behind him, how she shrinks under his great shoulder, you will see, when you see the sun rise upon the links of Forth. But Demeyet, like many another, does not know when fortune is kindest to him, nor ever guesses that he himself, with those royal purple tints upon his robed shoulders, and the flitting shades which cover his brow, like the waving of a plume, shows his great form to better advantage now, than when the faint morning red, and the rising light behind, darken him with his own shadow. Wherefore Demeyet receives the sunlight sullenly, and glooms upon merry Agnes Muir at the window of Allenders’ drawing-room, till she can almost fancy that he lifts a shadowy arm, and clenches a visionary hand to shake it at her threateningly with defiance and disdain.
A silver tea-service, engraven with the Allenders’ crest, and china the most delicate that Agnes ever saw, glitter on the table, which is covered besides with every rare species of “tea-bread,” known to the ingenious bakers of Stirling. And now Agnes glides round and round the table, endeavouring to recollect some one thing omitted, but cannot find any excuse for ringing the bell and summoning one of her hand-maidens to get another survey of the tout ensemble, which dazzles the eyes of the little wife. Harry has gone to Stirling to meet and bring home his sisters; and Uncle Sandy, their escort and guardian, is with them for a visit; and so is poor little Katie Calder, the oppressed attendant of Miss Jean. It is true that Agnes is very affectionate and very grateful—that, herself motherless, she clings to Martha, and would immediately succumb in any strait to the stronger mind, and character, and will of the eldest member of their little household; but withal, Agnes is mortal, and it is impossible to deny that there is quite a new and delightful pleasure to her in feeling herself, and in having others feel, that it is her house to which the sisters are coming home—that she is the head of the family, the house-mother, and that all the glories of this grandest of palaces are her own.