Was it Hew Murray, in the flush of his youth and strength again?
Mossgray stepped forward hastily, and grasped the hand of the new comer in silent welcome; and then the old man turned away and left them alone.
Adam Graeme was not changed; his heart beat as strongly against his breast as it had done thirty years ago, when he laboured and yearned for some clue to the fate of Hew Murray. Hew Murray! with what a quickening thrill of tenderness his old friend turned away from the young rejoicing face, which brought back the image of his youth.
The old man’s mind was confused; he did not know what to make of this singular resemblance. “It is Hew!” Was it Hew? Was the romance of the old faithful servant in their desolate house to have a wonderful fulfilment after all? The good, pure, gentle Hew, loving God and loving man, had his Master indeed given him youth for his inheritance? Singularly struck and bewildered, and with an unconscious expectation in his mind, Adam Graeme hurried forward towards the house of Murrayshaugh.
The great saugh trees beside it had shed their slender leaves, and were waving their long arms mournfully, with here and there a feeble, yellow cluster at the end of a bough, ready to drop after their fellows into the deep, sombre burn, whose course was almost choked by the multitudes of the fallen. As Mossgray crossed the old, frail, broken, wooden bridge, he heard voices beyond the willow-trees, and saw as he drew nearer two strangers standing together. The old man’s heart beat high and loud with excited and wondering anticipation as they turned towards him.
The lady was very thin and pale, and had silvery white hair smoothed over the patient, thoughtful forehead, in which time and grief had carved emphatic lines. The face was a face to be noted; serene now, it had not always been serene—but the storm had altogether passed from the evening firmament, and light was upon it pale and calm, like the luminous sky of summer nights when the sun with its warmth of colour and influence has long since gone down into the sea.
Her companion seemed about her own age; he had the strong framework of an athletic man, but it was not filled up as a strong man’s form should have been. You saw, as you looked at him, that he was not strong; that sickness, or privation of the healthful, free air which now he seemed to breathe in with so much pleasure, had unstrung and weakened the hardy frame of this old man; but his hair was scarcely gray, and his eye glanced from under his broad, brown, sunburnt forehead with the hopeful, cheery light of youth. The sun had not gone down with him. Over the fair world which he looked forth upon, the rich tints of an autumn sunset were throwing their joy abroad; the warm light and brilliant colouring were in his heart.
They looked at each other, the two strangers and the Laird of Mossgray. They were all wondering, all uncertain, all embarrassed, for Adam Graeme had paused before them, and regardless of all formal courtesies they were gazing at each other.
“Can you tell me if this is Murrayshaugh?” said the lady, with a faltering unsteady voice.
But that would not do.