“I grant you that,” said William; “but suppose, Helen, a man should distrust his own powers, and think it most expedient to keep himself apart from all struggles—to withdraw far away from the evils he has not strength to contend with—what then?”
“Then he does not fulfil his end,” said the rapid, eager voice—“which is not to flee from natural temptations and difficulties, but bravely to resist and do battle with the same. I know one feels one’s heart sink often. It may not be so with you who are strong—but I feel that to cease such work and warfare as one is called to do, does bring a perilous sinking of the heart. It is not well—surely it is not well to withdraw from the evils which are in us and about us; we are bound to do battle with them, William—not to stand on our defence alone, but to carry the war into the camp of the enemies. I think sometimes that the state of war must be the only good state for those who have sin natural to them as we have—and that if these words, resist and struggle, were withdrawn from our language we should be no longer human; for when we let our arms fall, our hearts fall, and weariness comes upon us, and distrust and gloom; and out of the living, moving world we come into the narrow chamber of ourselves—and the sun sets upon us, William.”
The sun had set in the changeful face upon which William Oswald looked, and for the moment its waning colour and downcast eyes proclaimed the unmistakeable sinking of the heart. She did not perceive the look that dwelt upon her, nor its language—language unconsciously powerful. “And this, Helen, is your philosophy.” The words fell dreamily upon her ear, echoing through a long silence. The philosophy was not hers alone. Kindred thoughts had risen in the young minds, as they grew together into the early flush of maturity, and now she sent him forth—a knight.
CHAPTER XV.
Saucy fortune, did’st thou smile,
I perchance would little heed thee;
Think’st thou when thou frown’st, the while
For myself I dread thee?
Nay, not I—I only vow,
If one falls, it shall be thou.—Anon.
“I am a man now,” said Halbert Graeme, with something of the pride of his years; “and, thanks to your goodness, Sir, I have education enough for any ordinary profession. If only I could make a beginning—”
“You would certainly succeed,” said the Laird of Mossgray, with his pleasant, kindly smile.
“I do not know,” said Halbert, modestly; “but I think that men who are content to work hard and persevere, must surely have some measure of success. I am not very ambitious—that is—”
“I shall not quarrel with you, Halbert, my man, for your ambition,” said the gentle kinsman, whom Halbert had feared as stern.
“Well, Sir,” said the youth, with renewed confidence, “I should like to rise, no doubt; but I am willing to work hard for it, and quite content to begin as humbly as you think it proper I should. I have no right, I know, to such help, where I have already received so much; but I have the claim of blood on no one I have ever known, and I thought I might ask advice from you.”