“Me and my sister Jean were brought up here,” said Isabell, more calmly, “and she was married upon a cousin o’ our ain:—maybe ye ken John Broun that’s at the Mount—that’s Jean’s son.”
“He is my earliest acquaintance in Fendie,” said Halbert, good-humouredly, “and an honest fellow he is; but why do they leave you alone here?”
“My lane!” said Isabell; “am I no housekeeper? and us disna ken the day that Murrayshaugh may come hame!”
Lilias checked Halbert with her lifted hand; the old woman’s delusion was sacred.
They had entered “Miss Lucy’s parlour,” and were looking at some pictures on the wall. Before the first of these, that of a young man in an antique dress, evidently an old family portrait, Lilias paused with a sudden start. There was a vivid colour and surprised animation on her face, such as Halbert had never seen her have before, and the tone of her voice struck him as she turned to ask about the picture—low, full, and musical, as if the heart throbbed through it more warmly than was its wont.
“It’s ane o’ the auld Murrays—I dinna mind his name,” said Isabell; “but Miss Lucy had a conceit that it was like Mr Hew. They were a’ like ither; the same face came down, like the name, frae faither to son. That ane was a Hew too, I dinna doubt; it’s a guid name; they maun a’ have been fond o’t.”
“Hew,” repeated Lilias, slowly, as if she too loved to linger on the sound; “Hew—yes, it is a pleasant name.”
And she turned again with lingering looks and smiles of strange pleasure to the picture as she left the room. Halbert smiled too in wonder. He hardly could fancy an appropriate cause for such emotion in the wise, grave Lilias; and there was no such magic in any picture there for him.
CHAPTER XVII.
“He thinks well of himself, Sir—we all do it; and he thinks well of his fortune—happy he who can! and if myself am well, and my fortune is well, who shall resist me?”—Old Play.