Memoirs and resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, including some chronicles of the borough of FendieOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
History
Memoirs and resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, including some chronicles of the borough of Fendie
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Bildungsromans; Scotland -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Youth -- Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
At last the weeping came again in a flood, and Lilias awoke; awoke to
hear gentle tongues of women who had only cold words to say to her
before; and, gentlest of all, the old man’s voice, like some kind sound
which she had heard in dreams, and waking, yearned to hear again. And
the burden of its speech was ever home; it came upon her ear again and
again indistinct in every accent but that--what preceded and what
followed was lost to her bewildered sense, but the one word rang clearly
through the mist that enveloped her--she was to come home.
And so she did: Hope Oswald wrapped her humble shawl about her, and Mrs
Fendie, with her strangely changed voice, accompanied her to the door,
and there supported by Mossgray, she entered the carriage which had been
sent for, and was driven from the door, the old man sitting by her side.
Lilias could scarcely convince herself, until she had entered the room
at Mossgray called her own, that it was not all a dream.
The room had been prepared and ready for many days waiting for its
stranger guest. A little fire burned in the grate, and gave the look of
welcome, which the familiar living, kindly light does give at all
times; and through the small, clear panes of the window, the April sun
shone in, in the gentle joy of spring. The panelled walls were painted a
sombre quiet colour, but here and there were hung small pictures in
deep, rich, old-fashioned frames--pictures of such pure faces, saints
and angels, as seem now and then to have looked in upon the dreaming
sense of olden artists--not all gentle or serene, or at rest, but
speaking the common language of humanity; the constantly varying tongue,
in whose very weakness, of change and tremulous expression, lies its
might and charm.
Some books were arranged upon an old cabinet; books which are everywhere
familiar, the friends of all who are able for such fellowship; and some,
too, less universally appreciated, which were yet worthy of their place.
But Lilias did not then perceive these particulars of her guardian’s
delicate care for her. She sat down beside the window, and looked about
in a dream.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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