It was his second day at Mossgray, and Halbert remembered his last walk up the Aberdeenshire glen, a week ago, with Menie Monikie, and his declaration to her—
“I will tell him, I don’t come to ask anything from him, Menie—I know he has been kind to me already—but he must know the world better than we do. Your father says he has been in India—and if I could but begin to maintain myself—then, Menie!”
And Halbert remembered what followed this then—the breaking of that slender golden coin, one half of which hung by Menie’s blue ribbon, was warm against his own strong youthful breast, and the following farewell, with its tears and smiles, and visions of reünion; and Halbert’s honest heart beat something loudly, and he grew bold and eager—if he only could begin.
“Halbert,” said Mossgray, gently, “your father and I did not part friends. I thought he had not dealt truly by one whom I cherished as a sister, and it was in consequence of that, perhaps unwisely, that I denied myself the satisfaction of seeing another Graeme grow a man in this old house of Mossgray; but you say truly that it is time to decide on your future profession. Are you very impatient for this beginning?”
The kindly eye of Mossgray could not see through the warm double-breasted waistcoat, with which the care of Mrs Monikie had provided Halbert for his journey. The Laird had no knowledge of the mystic half of the broken coin, nor had ever heard the musical name of Menie. He thought therefore that this beginning was not so very momentous, and that it might be put off for a time without any particular disadvantage; and Halbert stammered as he answered. His kinsman thought it was but the natural shyness of youth.
“You must let us know you better,” he continued, “and I shall qualify myself to advise; in the mean time, Halbert, remember that you are at home. You have all the beauties of your ancestral district to see, and I promise you they are not few. While you learn to know them and us, we shall consult on this important matter. Are you content?”
Halbert could not be otherwise than content; the grace of the old man’s kindness charmed the young fresh spirit, and it was no penance to remain a member of that household of Mossgray, even though the fortune was not yet begun to make, and Menie Monikie disconsolately wandered in the Aberdeenshire glen alone. So Halbert took possession of his father’s former room, and wrote pleasant letters to the North—letters, on receipt of which the pragmatical licentiate took pinches of mighty snuff in sign of satisfaction, and declared that “the lad, Halbert, was a lad born to a good estate, and would do credit to them all.”
But Mossgray began to behold festivities within its quiet walls; and great was the interest and expectation among the invited guests, from Mrs Maxwell, of Firthside, painfully selecting from her Georgina’s abundant wardrobe, the dress which would best become her, to Mrs Buchanan, in her little palour, deliberating long and carefully over that one black silk gown of Helen’s. It was so very unusual, that all were curious about the long-suspended hospitalities of Mossgray.
In the little household itself there was some degree of excitement as they assembled in the drawing-room to await their guests. Lilias, with her mourning dress more studied than usual, looked almost as pale as when she first came to Mossgray, and sat in her ordinary seat, so serene and calm in appearance, even though her pulse did own a little acceleration, that the young joyous Halbert compared her in his fancy to one of those fair spirits of the air, nearer humanity than angels are, whose eyes are yet so much clearer than ours, as to unseen woes and perils, that men always paint them sad. Yet Lilias was not sad: the stillness of grief grown tranquil did indeed still temper all her feelings, but there were warm and pleasant hopes no less swelling in the even current of her mind. Only with these hopes the strangers about to be gathered round her had little sympathy and no concern, and involuntarily, with that quick instinct which makes us feel most solitary in a crowd, the thoughts of Lilias had travelled far away, and were dwelling with one who laboured alone in a strange country over the sea.
Very different were the feelings of the young betrothed of Menie Monikie; but if Halbert was by no means intense, he was very honest. He had written to Menie, proclaiming his anticipated enjoyment of this same festivity, and promising a faithful record of it, and having thus done all that was needful for the absent, he stood before the cheerful fire in great spirits, listening for the first sound of wheels, and exceedingly satisfied with his position.