The good Mossgray was pained for the dimness which hung about his adopted child. It was not positive sorrow—it was only a shadowy quietness as of a cloud, and very still and patient was Lilias. She was trying to live in the present only, because the future, when she tried to look upon it, made her heart sick; but it is not in the nature of humanity to do this, and her effort to confine herself to those individual hours, as one by one in their quietness they glided past her, made her only languidly indifferent to them all. For Lilias was alone: the hope in peril was her sole hope; kindly ties of kindred there were none for her, and except the old man, her guardian, to whom she looked with tenderness and reverence as to a father, but who yet was not her father, nor had part in all the associations of the past as members of one family have, she had none in the world but this one—and he!—
Where was he? was it peril or illness, or, painfullest of all, was it change, which produced this agony of silence? She tried to interdict herself from the constant speculation to which she could give no answer, but the yearning wonder and anxiety were too strong for the sorrowful heart; yet she said nothing. She could not blame him; she could not have another fancy that on his truth there lay the faintest suspicion; and with that haze of mild, subdued patience about her, she waited, and when she did think of the future time at all, thought of what lay beyond that fated, solemn day, on which tidings might and surely must come, as of some dreamy, unknown chaos, strange and chill, another life.
“I dinna ken what’s come to Miss Lillie,” said Mrs Mense, with a sigh.
“She’s ower muckle made o’, that’s it,” responded the sourer Janet.
“Woman, woman!” said the housekeeper, bitterly, “have ye nae memory o’ being ance young yoursel’, and maybe having troubles in your ain heart that wadna bear telling? but I needna speak to you.”
“Na, I reckon no,” said Janet. “Me! I wad just like to hear onybody say that I ever had a trouble a’ my born days that mightna hae been visible to the haill world if it likit.”
“And that just shows how little ye ken about it,” said Mrs Mense; “if ye ever had a heart ava, it maun hae grown to bane twenty year ago. Are ye gaun to iron thae bits o’ laces for the young lady or are ye no’?—for if ye’re no’, I’ll do’t mysel’—”
“The young lady—set her up!” said the housekeeper de facto. “Muckle right she has to the auld Lady Mossgray’s guid lace. He’ll be gieing her the land next; there’s nae fuils like auld fuils.”
“Janet Mense,” said the old woman, “ye hae eaten the Laird’s bread mony a year, and I hae suffered ye in the house, for a’ your ill tongue, and for a’ sae little worth as ye are; but if ye daur to say anither word against Mr Adam, I’ll take ye by the shouthers and put ye forth from this door. I’ll do it with my ain hands; sae ye ken.”
Janet judged it prudent to sound a retreat. She began to spread the lace upon the table, preparatory to the process of ironing.