“He says they ca’ him Halbert Graeme. I pat him in the big room beside Miss Lilias; they’re a bonnie couple as e’e could look upon, and he’s Mr Charlie’s son.”
There was a brief struggle; the old feeling of suspicion and distrust came up for a moment over the warm heart of Adam Graeme; but, like all unnatural things, it was shortlived, and he recovered himself.
“I will judge him by his own merits,” said the just Laird of Mossgray, “for long ago, Charlie Graeme, long ago, when your treachery was scarcely done, I forgave you.”
A footstep on the stair interrupted the conversation in the drawing-room; it brought the colour almost painfully to Halbert’s cheek as he sat in anxious expectation, and when Mossgray entered the room, the youth rose and stood before him, hesitating and embarrassed. He scarcely observed the stateliness of the old man’s demeanour; he did not see how the face, which at first was only gravely courteous, softened and melted as it looked upon his own. Lilias interposed, as they stood silently looking at each other.
“Mossgray,” she said, her calm face and tone restoring them both to self-possession, “this is Halbert Graeme.”
And then the old man bade him welcome to Mossgray.
It was not in his generous, gentle nature to suffer any guest to remain uneasy under his roof; whatever his purpose might be towards the stranger he could not have been otherwise than kindly courteous as became an host; and Halbert was so ingenuous in his young, frank manhood, so fresh and confident in his untried hopes—so bold of venturing on the world which yet he did not know, that the heart of his kinsman warmed towards him. It was a true face, honest, manful, and guileless, with the boyish bloom upon it still, half bashful, half bold. The old man could ill be stern at any time, but now the artificial restraint gradually gave way; he resigned himself to the natural guidance of his heart, and Halbert Graeme was installed that night a member of Mossgray’s family—another child.
CHAPTER XIV.
Simple, grave, sincere.—Cowper.
William Oswald, the banker’s son, inherited in some degree the disposition of his father; but the bitterness of the original stock was modified in the branch. A grave, decided, firm man, his character had already developed itself; but he was not obstinate. His mind was open at all points to truth, and strong and tenacious as was the grasp of his opinion, he was still convinceable, and did not wilfully shut his eyes against the light from what quarter soever it came. And William Oswald, though a thoroughly natural and warm-hearted man, and with indeed a singular degree of ardour under his gravity, was of the stuff which made stoics in the old Roman times. He had a power of self-denial and self-restraint, which is at all times a very considerable weapon, and could hold steadily on, past all the temptations of pleasure—past even the natural resting-place which wooed him to needed repose, on direct to his end. He did not speak about it; he made no demonstration of his ceaseless pursuit; but he fixed his dark glowing eyes clearly and steadily upon his aim, and went on, swerving neither to the right hand nor the left—able to give up pleasure, ease—able to endure toil and solitude, and with a definite, clear end before him, to pursue his way unfalteringly till it was gained.