They remained for some time in the same position; Lucy in her old place, thinking of the past, and Hew joyously passing from room to room, pointing out the scene of youthful games and merry-makings. Lilias and the young Hew had speedily followed Mossgray, and now a double introduction, very proudly and joyfully performed, had to take place, for Lucy presented her son to Adam Graeme, and Hew Grant bade his mother welcome her new child. The mother had been afraid somewhat of her son’s early choice, and thought, as mothers will, that Lilias had but an indifferent chance of being worthy of her Hew; and Lilias too had slightly trembled for the meeting; but now all the formidable part of it was over, and they were already friends.
All her fears were forgotten; it was almost too much for Mossgray’s Lily. Hew did not think her changed; he was not changed himself; and his mother received her as her own child. Lilias felt her happiness overpower her. She went away to seek for Isabell, who had disappeared, and to realize it all for a moment alone.
Isabell was in the great dining-parlour of Murrayshaugh. She was on her knees in a corner, with her apron flung over her head, and petulant, painful sobs coming from under its cover, like the sobs of a child.
“What ails you, Isabell?” said Lilias, stooping kindly over her.
“Oh, Miss Maxwell, what ails me?” sobbed the old woman, whose innocent romance had perished. “She says she’s Miss Lucy—and I canna deny’t—I div ken the face; but she’s an aged woman! She has hair whiter than the like o’ me—and she says she’s Miss Lucy. Oh, Miss Maxwell, that I should have lived to see this day!”
CHAPTER XIII.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days
To the very moment that he bade me tell it,
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
* * * * * *
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence.—Othello.
Adam Graeme and Hew Murray were sitting together in the large, low room in the Tower of Mossgray, which they both knew so well. Bishop Berkeley was still upon the table, but the visitor had no interest in the bishop; neither was he looking at the chymic tools or the instruments of science. He was casting long, loving glances into the dim corners of the room; the old fishing-rods, the superannuated bows and arrows, the ancient skates, they were all there, those worn-out tokens of the fair youth which was past.
“And now, Hew,” said Mossgray, drawing one of those large, heavy, lumbering chairs to the unoccupied side of the hearth, “now, Hew, for this wonderful history. What have you been doing? where have you been?”
Mossgray placed himself in front of the cheerful, glowing fire; on the other side stood the low carved chair, turned mournfully aside as if some one had risen from it newly. Its position had never been changed; it still stood where the pale sunbeams could touch it, but it was turned away from the living fireside circle; for the old occupant could never return to Charlie’s chair. Strangely pathetic sometimes are these dumb things about us—mournfully estranged and standing apart it touched the gentle heart of Adam Graeme.