CHAPTER XXIII.

THE WISHING WELL.

Hugo's first call at Strathleckie was made on the day following Mr.

Stretton's arrival. Father Cristoforo's letter had been delivered by that morning's post, and it was during a stroll, in which, to tell the truth, Brian was more absorbed by the thought of Elizabeth than by any remembrance of his own position or of the Prior's views, that he dropped the letter of which the contents had so important a bearing on his future life. In justice to Brian, it must be urged that he had no idea that the Prior's letter was likely to be of any importance. Ever since he left San Stefano, the Prior had corresponded with him; but his letters were generally on very trivial subjects, or filled with advice upon moral and doctrinal points, which Brian could not find interesting.

The severe animadversions upon his folly in returning to Scotland under an assumed name, which filled the first sheet, did not rouse in him any lively desire to read the rest of the letter. It was not likely to contain anything that he ought to know; and, at any rate, he could explain the loss and apologise for it in his next note to Padre Cristoforo.

The meeting between him and Elizabeth in the garden, which had been such a revelation to Hugo's mind, was purely accidental and led to no great result. She had been begged by the children to ask Mr. Stretton for a holiday. They wanted to go to a Wishing Well in the neighbourhood, and to have a picnic in honour of Kitty's birthday. Mr. Stretton was sure not to refuse them they said--if Elizabeth asked. And Mr. Stretton did not refuse.

His love for Elizabeth--that love which had sprung into being almost as soon as he beheld her, and which had grown with every hour spent in her company--was one of those deep and overmastering passions which a man can feel but once in a lifetime, and which many men never feel at all.

If Brian had lived his life in London and at Netherglen with no great shock, no terrible grief, no overthrow of all his hopes, he might not have experienced this glow and thrill of passionate emotion; he might have walked quietly into love, made a suitable marriage, and remained ignorant to his life's end of the capabilities for emotion which existed within him. But, as often happens immediately after the occurrence of a great sorrow or recovery from a serious illness, his whole being seemed to undergo a change. When the strain of anxiety and prolonged anguish of mind was relaxed, the claims of youth re-asserted themselves. With returning health and strength there came an almost passionate determination to enjoy as much as remained to be enjoyed in life. The sunshine, the wind, the sea, the common objects of Nature,

"To him were opening Paradise."

And when, for the first time, Love also entered into his life, the world seemed to be transfigured. Although he had suffered much and lost much, he found it possible to dream of a future in which he might make for himself a home, and know once more the meaning of happiness. Was he selfish in hoping that life still contained a true joy for him, in spite of the sorrows that fate had heaped upon his head, as if she meant to overwhelm him altogether? At least, the hope was a natural one, and showed courage and resolution. He clung to it desperately, fiercely; he felt that after all he had lost he could not bear to let it go. The hope was too sweet--the chance of happiness too beautiful--to be lost. He felt as if he had a right to this one blessing. He had lost all beside.

But, perhaps, this was a presumptuous mood, destined to rebuke and disappointment.

The fourth day after his arrival dawned, and he had not yet perceived, in his blindness of heart, the difference of position between the Elizabeth of his dreams and the Elizabeth of reality. Could the crisis be averted very much longer?

He fancied that Elizabeth was colder to him after that little scene in the study than she had ever been before. She looked pale and dispirited, and seemed to avoid speaking to him or meeting his eye. At breakfast-time that morning he noticed that she allowed a letter that had been brought to her to lie unopened beside her plate "It's from Percival, isn't it?" said Kitty, thoughtlessly. "You don't seem to be very anxious to read it." Elizabeth made no answer, but the colour rose to her cheek and then spread to the very roots of her golden-brown hair.

Brian noticed the blush, and for the first time felt his heart contract with a bitter pang of jealousy. What right had Percival Heron to write letters to Elizabeth? Why did she blush when she was asked a question about a letter from him?

The whole party set off soon after ten o'clock for an expedition to a little loch amongst the hills. They intended to lunch beside the loch, then to enjoy themselves in different ways: Mr. Heron meant to sketch; Mrs. Heron took a novel to read; the others proposed to visit a spring at some little distance known as "The Wishing Well." This programme was satisfactorily carried out; but it chanced that Kitty and the boys reached the well before the others, and then wandered away to reach a further height, so that Brian and Elizabeth found themselves alone together beside the Wishing Well.

It was a lonely spot from which nothing but stretches of barren moor and rugged hills could be discerned. One solitary patch of verdure marked the place where the rising spring had fertilised the land; but around this patch of green the ground was rich only in purple heather. Not even a hardy pine or fir tree broke the monotony of the horizon. Yet, the scene was not without its charm. There was grandeur in the sweep of the mountain-lines; there was a wonderful stillness in the sunny air, broken only by the buzz of a wandering bee and the trickle of the stream; there was the great arch of blue above the moor, and the magical tints of purple and red that blossoming heather always brings out upon the mountain-sides. The bareness of the land was forgotten in its wealth of colouring; and perhaps Brian and Elizabeth were not wrong when they said to each other that Italy had never shown them a scene that was half so fair.

The water of the spring fell into a carved stone basin, which, tradition said, had once been the font of an old Roman Catholic chapel, of which only a few scattered stones remained. People from the surrounding districts still believed in the efficacy of its waters for the cure of certain diseases; and the practice of "wishing," which gave the well its name, was resorted to in sober earnest by many a village boy and girl.

Elizabeth and Brian, who had hitherto behaved in a curiously grave and reserved manner to each other, laughed a little as they stood beside the spring and spoke of the superstition.

"We must try it," said Elizabeth, looking down into the sparkling water.

"A crooked pin must be thrown in, and then we must silently wish for anything we especially desire, and, of course, we shall obtain it."

"Quite worth trying, if that is the case," said Brian. "But--I have tried the experiment before."

"Here?"

"Yes, here."

"I did not know that you had been to Dunmuir before."

"My wish did not come to pass," remarked Brian; "but there is no reason why you should not be more successful than I was, Miss Murray. And I feel a certain sort of desire to try once again."

"Here is a crooked pin," said Elizabeth. "Drop it into the water."

"Are you going to try?" he asked, when the ceremony had been performed.

"There is nothing that I wish for very greatly."

"Nothing? Ah, I have one wish--only one."

"I am unfortunate in that I have none," said Elizabeth.

"Then give me the benefit of your wishes. Wish that my wish may be fulfilled," said Brian.

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into the water.

"I have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but I must not say what I wish: that breaks the charm."

"Sit down and rest," said Brian, persuasively, as she turned away.

"There is a little shade here; and the others will no doubt join us by-and-bye. You must be tired."

"I am not tired, but I will sit down for a little while," said Elizabeth.

She seated herself on a stone beside the well; and Brian also sat down, but rather below her, so that he seemed to be sitting at her feet, and could look up into her face when he spoke. He kept silence at first, but said at last, with gentle deference of tone:--

"Miss Murray, there was something that you said you would tell me when you had the opportunity."

She paused before she answered.

"Not just now," he understood her to say at last, but her words were low and indistinct.

"Then--may I tell you something?"

She spoke more clearly in reply.

"I think not."

"Forgive me for saying so, but you must hear it some time. Why not now?"

She did not speak. Her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain.

"I do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "I have thought a great deal about it--about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why I should not speak. You are of age; you can do as you please; and I could work for both--because--Elizabeth--I love you."

It was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. As it was, Elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause.

"Oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. Take back what you have said, Mr. Stretton."

"I cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and I would not if I could; because you love me, too."

The conviction of his words made her turn pale. She darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. Twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. But at last she found her voice.

"You do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that I am engaged to my cousin Percival."

He rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. She did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. It seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart.

"Is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been--hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "And you never told me?"