The air was very quiet, the river drowsy with the frost, the last old patriarchal leaves fluttering down one by one. In shady nooks which the sun had not reached, the morning hoar frost was still white upon the grass. Calmly over the world stole the slow change, clothing the earth like a garment with all its blessed uses in it. Calm over all, the great sun went down unchanging—the wonderful heavens stood constant for ever. Strange harmony—strange contrast; the eternal yonder, stedfast in the skies—the immortal here, born to be swayed, and taught, and changed in right of its humanity—the child of the great heavens.
The clouds were still red in the west, and from the haze of light which the sun left for a moment behind him, the dark stern hill stood boldly out. Helen was about to turn back, carrying more sadly the heart that came hither singing like a bird; for great thoughts were rising in it now, thoughts which breathe only in the graver air, and hush the voice of singing.
“Helen!”
How she started! but slowly, only very slowly, her pride permitted her to turn, to ascertain whence the voice came.
“I have been looking for you up the water,” said William Oswald, coming up with a warm eager glow upon his face; “and should have gone back again to your mother disconsolately, had I not caught a glimpse of your shawl.”
She looked at it very pleasantly; the venerable, aged friend; it was good for something in this world after all.
“And now, Helen, I have a great deal to say to you.”
Helen did not doubt it. There came upon her a slight tremour; this then was to be the final combat, hand to hand. He was resolved to conquer; she saw it in his eye, and for the first time she was afraid.
But at present William Oswald said nothing very warlike; he began to speak of his work in Edinburgh—his book; and Helen in spite of herself was interested. He told her of his prosperity; the rising good name; the modest beginning of fortune; frankly and in full confidence, as people speak to those who have a right to know, and an interest in all which concerns the speaker; and Helen turned her head away now and then half afraid of this quiet appropriation—this strange right by which he claimed her sympathy.
Other people had been walking that Saturday afternoon beside the wan water. Far upon the opposite side, Hope Oswald and her father were returning from Fairholm, where they had been to make a call—a business call of Mr Oswald’s, in which he had persuaded his favourite to accompany him.