“I have all the world—not this little humble house—not that school-room only; but the earth, and the sky, and the sea! Look at them—look at what God gives us—the sunshine and the clouds—the hills and the rivers—and you ask me what I have to enjoy? I have all the world! the weariness and the rest, the labour and the sleep, the night and the day, they are all given us, waiting our pleasures like the spirits of the old dreams. There is no one born into the earth who is not born rich, richer than kings, for we have all the world.”
Mrs Gray was not prepared to answer this; she turned away to look from the window at the flowers, and prudently shook her head, half at the wild doctrine, and half at the eager manner; but she tilted no more at that time with Helen.
“Will you walk up with me to Mossgray, Helen?” said Lilias, in the subdued melancholy voice which made the petition more urgent than a command; and Helen consented at once. As they descended the steps at the bridge, and waded through the long, thick grass, which spread between the backs of the Fendie houses and the river, the pensive calm of Lilias touched the variable spirit of her friend. They began to talk in that tone of half-playful sadness which often veils over griefs which the speakers would not tell. It is the mood of speculation; and they were neither of them too old for the girlish dreamy fancies, half-superstitious, which belong to our imaginative years.
“I wonder,” said Lilias, “whether our minds are formed, Helen, to suit our fate? I mean that our griefs are made for us, like our dwellings, with an individual fitness in them all. It seems so strange sometimes, as if on one person had fallen the fate which properly belonged to another; yet it must be that we are suited always—our minds with our trials.”
“It must be,” said the bolder Helen, “for what would be joy to one is nothing to another, Lilias. I think I could fancy what my troubles would be, and yours?”
“Tell me, Helen.”
“Calm, grave, quiet sorrows, which will not have the fever of doubt and hope in them, which you will know certainly, and be able to weep silent tears for. Lilias, I think these will be yours; and for me—I do not know—I think strong troubles that I can fight and battle with; unquiet, living griefs that will keep me strained and labouring. Lilias, is it not my foolish fancies that make you sad?”
“No. I do not see the sun just now, that is all,” said the pale calm Lilias, shutting the eyes which were again full. “Helen, Helen, let us not say any more.”
CHAPTER III.
“Concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,
Preyed on her damask cheek.”—Twelfth Night.