It was a considerable trial to Hope’s self-control. There were, indeed, various other things which she should have liked; for instance, Adelaide Fendie had just got a pair of resplendent bracelets; but Hope restrained herself.
“Thank you, father, no—unless you wanted me to get something else.”
The banker laughed, and made a private memorandum. Hope’s modest subjection to the paternal wishes did her no harm.
But the times were by no means ripe for the appearance of Hope’s magnificent official dress. She had to console herself with expectations and wait.
The new year came and passed with its festivities. The strangers settled down in Murrayshaugh; already the old rooms there had grown less dreary, more home-like—but the jealous Isabell, who suspiciously watched every new article of furniture introduced into them, had not much reason to complain. Nothing out of place disturbed the aspect of those familiar rooms. The old state parlour, which had never been used within the memory of man, was to be refurnished, to do honour to “the young folk;” but the son and daughter of Murrayshaugh were content with their old apartments. A little less meagre than they were, the antique, grave sombre rooms were little changed.
And when again the spring began to be spoken of by the softening breeze, preparations were made at Murrayshaugh and Mossgray, and under the roof of the banker Oswald. The young Hew Grant had been in Liverpool, where his business was. He was now coming home, and home too came William Oswald, who had taken a house in Edinburgh, and had been furnishing it, after the modest fashion which suited his means, with great enjoyment of the unusual business.
There had been a farewell party in Helen Buchanan’s school-room—a very large party, comprising the various ranks of girls, who had finished, or had not finished, their education under her. Some of them were sturdy young women, only a few months younger than Helen’s own strangely differing self—some of them very little merry fairies, not reaching her knee, but all undoubtedly owned her sway, and recognised in this enchanted circle no authority so high as “the Mistress.” Hope Oswald was Helen’s aide-de-camp, and assisted on this as on other occasions, and enjoyed the party greatly; and when the host of ruddy visitors were gone, Helen Buchanan left the school-room, with grave thoughts and a dim face, not to enter it again.
“I have got my lilac satin frock, Helen,” said Hope sedately, the next morning, as she hung over Helen’s work-table.
Helen did not answer. She smiled—a momentary smile fading immediately into gravity. She herself was making a dress of white muslin, which was nearly finished; a very simple dress—the last proud assertion of Helen’s independence.
The banker was greatly inclined to make a favourite of her now; he was proud of the new daughter who, having conquered and fascinated himself, was certain, as he felt, to subjugate all the world. There were strange contradictions in this obstinate rigid man. His son and his son’s fame did not affect him at all in the same way as these two girls did. Helen and Hope—Mr Oswald fancied there were not two like them in Scotland.