“My good child, there are others in the world to guard your strength for. He is not strong himself, poor fellow! He has had wounds and sickness; but he lives to thank God, Lilias, as we do.”
The room was reeling round her, with its heavy shadows, and bars of broad white light. She held firmly by the firm form of Helen, and laying down her dizzy head upon her friend’s shoulder, closed her eyes. She resigned her strained faculties willingly—at present she did not crave more; the quietness—the peace—fell over her like the moonlight—it was enough.
“Has she fainted, Helen?” asked Mossgray, anxiously, after a considerable pause.
Lilias lifted her head, still sick and dizzy, but with a sickness so different from that of grief.
“No, Mossgray, I am strong.”
And so she was, though she wavered and staggered in the moonlight, and scarcely could stand without support as yet. The winds had spent themselves and past away; the unusual fever had fled in a moment, and in her quietness she was herself again. Already the quick, wild pulse had fallen into its usual gentle beating; the turbulent strength of joy was not hers, any more than the passionate might of grief; but in the great peace of her gladness Lilias was strong.
And then the old man told them his tidings fully; how this very mail had brought home the certain news; how he did not survive alone, but various others, officers and men, shared his fancied loss, and sure restoration; how the wounded men on the field where the little band had been cut to pieces, were left to the tender mercies of an Affghan tribe, whose fierce chief had perished in the encounter; how the son of this rebel Rajah had been trained by a captive Englishman, long ago seized by the wandering banditti of the tribe, and knew of justices and generosities higher than are taught by the creed of Mahomet; how the young sovereign saw how vain the struggle was between his shifting, unstable countrymen and the steady British arms, and moved by policy alike, and friendliness, had caused gentle succour to be given to the helpless wounded British men who were within his power; how they had travelled to his capital, and found his English tutor there, now, after long oppression and confinement, a free and honoured man, and how, with gifts and compliments, the strongest of the prisoners had been dismissed, and the brave young merchant, Grant, was to follow when he could.
Dim, dubious, inarticulate thoughts were rising in the old man’s mind as he told this story, touching a long-past sorrow—a visionary hope of his own; but he gave them no utterance—and Lilias’ face had not lost the flush with which she heard the name of its title—brave—when Mossgray placed a letter in her hand. Lilias was strong now; she hurried away to her own apartment with this crowning joy of all.
“I waited in Fendie till they should arrange their letters,” said Mossgray, “that I might see if there was anything for Lilias, and I got what I desired, Helen. There are other things in this story which interest me greatly. I wonder—but we shall hear, no doubt, when this young man comes home.”
The letter was a very brief one, written while he was still scarcely able to hold the pen, as the unsteady characters bore witness, and only assuring her that he was safe and out of danger, and whenever his wounds permitted, would hasten home.