There had been mail after mail from the far East, but no letter for Lilias; and this was the day again. She had gone to Murrayshaugh to fill up the feverish blank of those slow moments; to look once more upon the face which never perhaps she should look upon with faith and trust again; and now she was hurrying to the decision of all those tremulous doubts and fears; if there was a letter to-day—and if there was none—
Her lips were parched—they would hardly meet to ask that question—“No.” Lilias looked into the postmaster’s face wistfully again; she would not hear the denial. “No, there were no letters for Miss Maxwell.”
And immediately there fell upon her a dead calm; a dull slow pain of quietness. She went out in her noiseless way, and glided down the street like a shadow; her heart was sick—she could have seated herself by the road-side, and wept out the slow tears that were gathering under her eyelids, unconscious of any passers-by; but those who did pass by saw only the grave, pale, pensive Lily of Mossgray. The fever was over—there remained no present hope to distract her now, and she was calm again.
And then she began to think, and laboured bravely to put away from her those doubts and fears—but Lilias had not the impulsive energy of hope; the elastic life, which can fight and wrestle with sorrow at its strongest, was not in her; but she could do what the more buoyant could not have done—she could wait—and knowing the time that she must wait, she became calm.
She had intended going home, but as the shock softened, she changed her purpose. She went to borrow hope from Helen Buchanan, in one of those sudden yearnings for gentle company, with which sad hearts are sometimes seized. In her hush and faintness she wanted to have some living thing come in between her and her secret pain—she wanted to forget herself.
It was a holiday with Helen, and she was in a holiday mood, withstanding, with her natural enthusiasm, the gloomy dogmas of Mrs Gray, who was making a gracious call upon Mrs Buchanan. Mrs Buchanan did not much like the melancholy lady; her sanguine gentle temper recoiled from the sombre atmosphere which suited Mrs Gray; but she was Mrs Whyte’s sister, and a “very respectable” acquaintance for Helen; so the good mother submitted pleasantly.
“Are you ill, Lilias?” said Helen.
“No, Helen, it is nothing,” answered Lilias, gently. It was her universal answer; the melancholy cloud was indeed very visible, but she would not speak of the cause.
“My dear,” said Mrs Gray—she was very affectionate, this good doleful woman—her very gloom increased her tenderness; “I am very much afraid you are not taking sufficient care of yourself. I am sure you got damp feet that day you were at the Manse, and Elizabeth would never think of asking you to change them. Elizabeth is really very careless about damp feet; she never heeds them herself—and I have known many a one get a consumption with them. You are looking very white, my dear; you must really take care.”
“I am quite well, Mrs Gray,” said Lilias; “perfectly well, I assure you.”