“I fancy Miss Maxwell of Mossgray will be there,” he said with a blush as he returned to his sermon.
Miss Insches applied herself to her shirt with another little suppressed sigh. She understood very well what was meant by Miss Maxwell of Mossgray; and Miss Insches by no means disliked Helen; but the great question whether she would be sufficiently careful of Robert when advanced to the dignity of Robert’s wife was hard and difficult to solve. Miss Insches shook her head as she went on with her work. On Monday—the crisis might come on Monday.
Monday when it came was bright with the sunshine, and fragrant with all the sweet sounds and odours of May. On the preceding day had been the half-yearly Occasion, the Communion Sabbath of Kirkmay, and the Monday’s services were of thanksgiving, according to the reverent usage of Scotland. Mr Wright of Fairholm was the officiating minister, and preached a chaotic ponderous sermon, which, according to the judgment of the Kirkmay elders, had “guid bits in it; very guid bits; but was naething like the minister’s.” The minister was very much beloved in his parish; they rather prided themselves, these simple people, on their possession of a man who wrote books, even though the books were but sixpenny ones; and read his small biographies with proud regard. The one gentle weakness of his fine character came out as an excellence in their eyes, and there were few in Kirkmay who did not boast of “the minister.”
After dinner, while the gentlemen were still down-stairs, Mrs Whyte, with her lady guests, pleasantly occupied the comfortable plain drawing-room, which, though it was by no means so fine, did yet, Miss Insches could not fail to perceive, look a very much more habitable place than the corresponding room in the Manse of Fendie. Mr Whyte dabbled a little in all the gentler sciences—the flowers which his wife cultivated, because she cultivated everything beautiful which was within her reach, the good minister classified, and talked of with gentle erudition; and specimens of fine seaweed, and delicate mosses, and fossils not very rare, and shells picked up on the margin of the Firth, evinced his universal liking, and his only rudimentary knowledge of the kindred philosophies of nature. He was not very learned in these various departments; he only marvelled over the wondrous mechanism of everything which came from his Master’s hand, and cherished them all tenderly for their Maker’s sake.
The ladies—Mrs Gray, Lilias, and Helen were the only lay persons present—were very comfortably gathered into groups in the drawing-room discussing the notable things of their own district: the church, their several families. The small company was by no means dull, especially as Mrs Whyte’s children, the little boy and girl about whom their frank mother had said there could not be two opinions, were, with all their might, entertaining the guests.
The room was rather an oddly shaped room; it had a curiously angled corner, with a window in it, which Mrs Whyte chose as her summer seat, and playfully called her boudoir. The work-table which stood in it was scarcely clear of its ordinary lumber even now; there were traces that the minister’s wife had been sitting there this morning, singing over her household work the low-voiced songs of a pure mind, happily at ease. Lilias Maxwell had strayed alone into Mrs Whyte’s chair by the window. She was very pale, and as she looked out upon the verdant country, and the Firth and the hills far away, her fingers came slowly towards each other, and were painfully clasped as was their wont. It was drawing near again—that day which might change the current of her life.
As she sat there, Helen Buchanan approached quietly; the pale, sad, absorbed face touched her to the heart.
“You are very sad, Lilias,” said Helen, as she stood screening her friend from the other occupants of the room, “but you will not tell me why; will you let me say anything—do anything for you?”
“Yes, Helen.” Lilias rested her head silently upon her companion’s shoulder, and closed her eyes. It was a relief to her; her heart was sick—she could not speak of it, but here in silent confidence she could lean for a moment the weight of her trouble. “I have heard nothing; I have had no word this long, long, weary time—and the day is coming near again. To-morrow—after to-morrow will be the day.”
There was nothing more said, for the sickness rose up blank over the heart of Lilias, and the tears were in Helen’s eyes; but the drooping head of the Lily of Mossgray, overcharged with heavy rain, leaned on the friend’s breast, and was comforted. She remembered the moment long after, and so did Helen. More than many words—more than much bewailing together of a sorrow more openly confessed, did that silent confidence bind them together.