“I mean somebody I heard of,” said Hope, prudently checking herself, as she remembered that what she knew of the bereavement of Lilias was not fit news for her gossiping companions; “but to take away a life, Adelaide,—I think it must be very terrible.”
“I don’t know, Hope,” said the stolid Adelaide; “but Alick has been in so many battles that he does not care for them now—and so has Captain Hyde.”
“And will you mind, Adelaide,” said Hope, as she saw them again safely deposited in the gig, under the care of John Brown, “will you be sure to ask about Peter Delvie?—and I’ll come up to-morrow to hear.”
Adelaide promised, and they returned home; but the promise faded from Adelaide’s memory before they were halfway to Mount Fendie; and when the faithful Hope went up to the Mount next day to ascertain the result of her friend’s inquiries, there was much to be said about Captain Hyde, but nothing of the hapless Peter. The strangers were out. Hope did not see them—and she had to go away, contenting herself with another promise, which was in like manner broken.
Peter Delvie was an early friend of Hope’s. He had helped her over burns, and comforted her when stung by the nettles and pricked by the thorns of juvenile mischance—had pulled brambles for her from inaccessible hedge-rows, and fished unattainable water-lilies to her feet. Hope remembered all his gentle deeds, and liked the unfortunate Peter. And Saunders, in rigid, hopeless misery, was condemning himself as the murderer of his son; the old man’s stern grief moved the young heart strangely. Hope would have endeavoured any exertion to bring comfort to the harsh, agonized, despairing heart.
A second disconsolate journey Hope had made to Mount Fendie; but Adelaide still forgot; and wearily, with something of the discontent and melancholy which elder people feel, in sight of the indifference and lack of sympathy displayed by the common herd, Hope was returning home.
She had entered the garden of Mossgray before she became aware that there were visitors in it. Under shadow of a fine beech tree, Lilias, in her mourning dress, sat on a garden seat. It was Saturday, and those holidays were now very frequently spent by Helen Buchanan with her pensive and delicate friend whose health needed all gentle care and tendance. Helen was standing behind Lilias, looking shy and something out of place, as she bent over the downcast Lily of Mossgray, and tried to shield her from the remarks sometimes addressed to her by the young men who stood with the Laird and Halbert at a little distance. The strangers were Alick Fendie and the redoubtable Captain Hyde; Hope did not know them—she came up, stealing under cover of the trees, to Lilias and Helen.
Lilias had turned her head away, where no one could see the drooping, melancholy face. They had been talking in her presence of those fatal Indian wars—had been running over, with careless levity, those names, made so bitterly memorable to her, of places where the dead had been. She had turned aside, with her trembling arm resting against the silvery beech; and Helen’s eyes were cast down too, and no one saw what clouds were passing over the wan face of the Lily of Mossgray.
Hope did not think of that, as she advanced innocently to the mourner’s side, and looked into her face; the tears were standing upon those colourless cheeks in large drops—the pale lips were quivering.
“Hope!” said Helen, in reproof.