And Helen returned along the main street, her heart within her singing like a bird, and the heavens and the earth bright with a sunshine more radiant than the smiles of May. He was a wise man, that grave resolute William; if his blow were long of coming, it was a mighty blow when it came, and cast down all defences. The hopes of the Reverend Robert perished as incautious buds perish in a night’s frost. He was forgotten.
Mrs Buchanan in the little parlour heard the light, quick step without, and knew by its pace that the gloom was gone; but she also was occupied within, and somewhat puzzled, was turning over the damp, uncut pages of a new book too.
“I do not know what this is, Helen,” said Mrs Buchanan, as her daughter entered the room, “but I suppose William thought it would please you. It came by the coach, my dear, and it is directed in William’s hand.”
Helen sat down by the table to look at that especial passage again. Her heart was full; she wanted to say something, but could not say it, her shyness veiling the new joy, as well as the emotions of so frank a face could be veiled; but that was not saying much. At last she rose and laid the book before her mother, and stood half behind her leaning upon her shoulder.
“Mother, William would be right if he thought this would please me almost better than anything else in the world—it is William’s own.”
Mrs Buchanan took her daughter’s hands and looked into her face. The head drooped, the eyes were cast down. Helen could not meet the scrutinizing glance; but they understood each other, and in the misty, tremulous period which followed, the heart of the good mother lightened too. She dismissed the Reverend Robert with a gentle sigh, and she received again the old friend, the son William, feeling sure now that there could be no competitor for the place he had held so long.
When her scholars were finally dismissed that day—and Mrs Buchanan heard Helen’s voice singing snatches of old songs before the last little one had made her farewell curtsey at the school-room door—Helen took her book in her hand and went away over the bridge and through the long, waving grass to the Waterside. She chose one little dell, her favourite spot, where the trees, closely circling it round, left one green, swelling bank, upon the brink of the water, on which the sunshine fell through a network of boughs and leaves. On the opposite side of the river, within sight of her resting-place, burns were running down like so many choristers into the broad stream, and in the middle of the strong brown current eddies played fantastically, and by the bank branches of long willows swept the tide, and the dark alder and the delicate ash leaned over, glassing their foliage in its waves. And there the young dreamer sat absorbed, lingering over the kindred thoughts which kept pace so truly to the music of her own, and starting now and then as the rapid fancies poured upon her like a flood, and she shaped the future in that fairy loom—a future not such as common dreamers choose. Noble labour, keeping time to the great universal harmonies which God has planted in his world—work such as befits His followers, who for men became a man.
She seemed to hear the grand and noble chimes with which all nature accompanies the work of those who seek to speed the coming of His kingdom. The light of common day was radiant to her with the sunshine of promise; it should yet shine upon a purer world, a country ransomed by its King; and she forgot the pain, and difficulty, and miseries that intervened for joy of the certain end.
But amid the dreamings of Helen, there came the interrupting sound of a hurried, bounding footstep, and almost before she could look up to see who the intruder was, Hope Oswald plunged down upon her, out of breath. Hope had arrived in Fendie only that morning, and had been seeking Helen at home. She was overjoyed to find her here.
“I saw you reading a book,” exclaimed Hope, when the first greeting was over. “I am quite sure you were reading a book—Helen, may I not see it? Why did you put it away?”