Mrs Buchanan and her visitor sat together silently, both of them somewhat sad. The sound of the children’s footsteps and subdued voices broke the stillness, and almost immediately Helen entered the room. The candle was not lighted, for Mrs Buchanan liked the twilight, and was thrifty, besides economizing the daylight as she did other things. She was seated before the fire, which only shed a ruddy glow upon her face, and did not in any degree light the dusky room. Withdrawn in a corner of the sofa, William Oswald sat unseen.
“Mother,” exclaimed Helen, as she entered, “I have been thinking all day of my old plan of going to Edinburgh. You remember what Hope Oswald said about Miss Swinton; and the letter I wrote to her has been lying in my desk for a month. I wish you would consent, mother; I wish you would let me send it.”
“But, Helen, my dear,” said the less hasty mother, “you must take no such step without consideration.”
“What can we do here, mother?” said Helen, eager for the moment, in the strength of impulse. “What can we do here?—always the same—no possibility of changing this dull routine of labour—no chance of rising higher. I shall not always be young,” and the sudden change from warm hope to depression fell upon the variable face in an instant, “and so long as I am, should we not provide?”
“Helen, my dear,” repeated the gentle Mrs Buchanan, “you distress me when you say such things; besides, it is nonsense, you know.”
Helen did not answer; she sat down on the other side of the fire, and leaned her head upon her hand. The dim cloud of melancholy hovered over her—for the moment the young sunshine was gone. It was a dull routine—a laborious life—cheered only by the special inheritance of fair and gracious things which had been given her in her own spirit, and sometimes the cloud overshadowed even these.
“Helen,” said the grave, firm voice whose power over her changeful moods she strenuously resisted, and even to herself would not acknowledge. “I am going to Edinburgh.”
She started—the quick thrill of her varying nature went over her, carrying the cloud on its sudden breath. A flush of evanescent offence sprang over her face, as she looked past her mother to the dark figure which began to be dimly visible on the sofa. Her purpose had changed on the moment, but she was half angry that she had been anticipated.
“Yes,” said Mrs Buchanan, rising hastily to light the solitary candle, “William is not content to live quietly at home, Helen. The air of Fendie is too still for him.”
There was a slight drawing up of the stooping figure—an almost imperceptible expanding of the breast—a hurried, momentary glance at William, in which only one who had long studied it could discriminate the proud, shy pleasure, tinged as it was by a certain sadness, with which Helen heard this news.