“Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.”
TENNYSON.
The funeral was very quiet. By Colonel Keith’s considerate arrangement
the attendants met at Timber End, so that the stillness of the Parsonage
was not invaded, a measure the more expedient, as Alick was suffering
from a return of his old enemy, intermitting fever, and only was able to
leave his room in time to join the procession.
Many were present, for poor Bessie had been a general favourite, and her
untimely fate had stirred up feelings that had created her into a saint
upon earth; but there was no one whose token of respect she would have
more esteemed than Colonel Hammond’s, who in all the bustle of the
remove to Edinburgh had found time to come to Bishopsworthy to do honour
to the daughter of his old commanding officer. A flush of gratitude came
over Alick’s pale face when he became aware of his colonel’s presence,
and when the choristers’ hymn had pealed low and sweetly over the
tranquil meadows, and the mourners had turned away, Alick paused at the
Parsonage gate to hold out his hand, and bring in this one guest to hear
how near to Bessie’s heart the father’s Highland regiment had been in
all the wanderings of her last moments.
The visit was prolonged for nearly an hour, while recollections of
Alick’s parents were talked over, and Rachel thought him more cheered
and gratified than by any other tribute that had been paid to his
sister. He was promised an extension of leave, if it were required on
account of Lord Keith’s state, though under protest that he would have
the aguish fever as long as he remained overlooking the water meadows,
and did not put himself under Dr. M’Vicar. Through these meadows
Colonel Hammond meant to walk back to the station, and Alick and Rachel
conducted him far enough to put him into the right path, and in going
back again, they could not but go towards the stile leading to that
corner of the churchyard where the sexton had finished his work, and
smoothed the sods over that new grave.
Some one was standing at the foot—not the sexton—but a young man
bending as with an intolerable load of grief. Rachel saw him first, when
Alick was helping her down the step, and her start of dismay made him
turn and look round. His brow contracted, and she clutched his arm with
an involuntary cry of, “Oh, don’t,” but he, with a gesture that at once
awed and tranquillized her, unclasped her hold and put her back, while
he stepped forward.
She could hear every word, though his voice was low and deep with
emotion. “Carleton, if I have ever been harsh or unjust in my dealings
towards you, I am sorry for it. We have both had the saddest of all
lessons. May we both take it as we ought.”
He wrung the surprised and unwilling hand, and before the youth,
startled and overcome, had recovered enough to attempt a reply, he had
come back to Rachel, resumed her arm, and crossed the churchyard, still
shivering and trembling with the agitation, and the force he had put
on himself. Rachel neither could nor durst speak; she only squeezed his
hand, and when he had shut himself up in his own room, she could not
help repairing to his uncle, and telling him the whole. Mr. Clare’s “God
bless you, my boy,” had double meaning in it that night.
Not long after, Alick told Rachel of his having met poor young Carleton
in the meadows, pretending to occupy himself with his fishing-rod, but
too wretched to do anything. And in a short time Mrs. Carleton again
called to pour out to Mrs. Keith her warm thanks to the Captain, for
having roused her son from his moody, unmanageable despair, and made him
consent to accept a situation in a new field of labour, in a spirit of
manful duty that he had never evinced before.
This was a grave and subdued, but not wholly mournful, period at
Bishopsworthy—a time very precious to Rachel in the retrospect—though
there was much to render it anxious. Alick continued to suffer from
recurrences of the fever, not very severe in themselves after the first
two or three, but laying him prostrate with shivering and headache every
third day, and telling heavily on his strength and looks when he called
himself well. On these good days he was always at Timber End, where
his services were much needed. Lord Keith liked and esteemed him as a
sensible prudent young man, and his qualities as a first-rate nurse were
of great assistance to the Colonel. Lord Keith’s illness was tedious
and painful, the necessity of a dangerous operation became increasingly
manifest, but the progress towards such a crisis was slow and the pain
and discomfort great; the patient never moved beyond his dressing-room,
and needed incessant attention to support his spirits and assist his
endeavours to occupy himself. It was impossible to leave him for long
together, and Colonel Keith was never set at liberty for exercise or
rest except when Alick came to his assistance, and fortunately this
young brother-in-law was an especial favourite, partly from Lord Keith’s
esteem for his prudence partly from his experience in this especial
species of suffering. At any rate the days of Alick’s enforced absence
were always times of greater restlessness and uneasiness at Timber End.
Meantime Rachel was constantly thrown with Mr. Clare, supplying Alick’s
place to him, and living in a round of duties that suited her well,
details of parish work, walking with, writing for, and reading to Mr
Clare, and reaping much benefit from intercourse with such a mind.
Many of her errors had chiefly arisen from the want of some one whose
superiority she could feel, and her old presumptions withered up to
nothing when she measured her own powers with those of a highly educated
man, while all the time he gave her thanks and credit for all she had
effected, but such as taught her humility by very force of infection.
Working in earnest at his visitation sermon, she was drawn up into the
real principles and bearings of the controversy, and Mr. Clare failed
not to give full time and patience to pick out all her difficulties,
removing scruples at troubling him, by declaring that it was good for
his own purpose to unwind every tangle even if he did not use every
thread. It was wonderful how many puzzles were absolutely intangible,
not even tangled threads, but a sort of nebulous matter that dispersed
itself on investigation. And after all, unwilling as she would have
been to own it, a woman’s tone of thought is commonly moulded by the
masculine intellect, which, under one form or another, becomes the
master of her soul. Those opinions, once made her own, may be acted
and improved upon, often carried to lengths never thought of by their
inspirer, or held with noble constancy and perseverance even when he
himself may have fallen from them, but from some living medium they are
almost always adopted, and thus, happily for herself, a woman’s efforts
at scepticism are but blind faith in her chosen leader, or, at the
utmost, in the spirit of the age. And Rachel having been more than
usually removed from the immediate influence of superior man, had been
affected by the more feeble and distant power, a leading that appeared
to her the light of her independent mind; but it was not in the nature
of things that, from her husband and his uncle, her character should
not receive that tincture for which it had so long waited, strong
and thorough in proportion to her nature, not rapid in receiving
impressions, but steadfast and uncompromising in retaining and working
on them when once accepted, a nature that Alick Keith had discerned and
valued amid its worst errors far more than mere attractiveness, of which
his sister had perhaps made him weary and distrustful. Nor, indeed,
under the force of the present influences, was attractiveness wanting,
and she suited Alick’s peculiarities far better than many a more
charming person would have done, and his uncle, knowing her only by her
clear mellow voice, her consideration, helpfulness, and desire to think
and do rightly, never understood the doubtful amazement now and then
expressed in talking of Alick’s choice. One great bond between Rachel
and Mr. Clare was affection for the little babe, who continued to be
Rachel’s special charge, and was a great deal dearer to her already than
all the seven Temples put together. She studied all the books on infant
management that she could obtain, constantly listened for his voice,
and filled her letters to her mother with questions and details on his
health, and descriptions of his small person. Alick was amused whenever
he glanced at his strong-minded woman’s correspondence, and now and then
used to divert himself with rousing her into emphatic declarations of
her preference of this delicate little being to “great, stout, coarse
creatures that people call fine children.” In fact, Alick’s sensitive
tenderness towards his sister’s motherless child took the form of
avoiding the sight of it, and being ironical when it was discussed; but
with Mr. Clare, Rachel was sure of sympathy, ever since the afternoon
when he had said how the sounds upstairs reminded him of his own little
daughter; and sitting under the yew-tree, he had told Rachel all the
long stored-up memories of the little life that had been closed a few
days after he had first heard himself called papa by the baby lips. He
had described all these events calmly, and not without smiles, and had
said how his own blindness had made him feel thankful that he had safely
laid his little Una on her mother’s bosom under the church’s shade; but
when Rachel spoke of this conversation to her husband, she learnt that
it was the first time that he had ever talked of those buried hopes. He
had often spoken of his wife, but though always fond of children, few
who had not read little Una’s name beneath her mother’s cross, knew that
he was a childless father. And yet it was beautiful to see the pleasure
he took in the touch of Bessie’s infant, and how skilfully and tenderly
he would hold it, so that Rachel in full faith averred that the little
Alexander was never so happy as with him. The chief alarms came from
Mrs Comyn Menteith, who used to descend on the Rectory like a whirlwind,
when the Colonel had politely expelled her from her father’s room at
Timber End. Possessed with the idea of Rachel’s being very dull at
Bishopsworthy, she sedulously enlivened her with melancholy prognostics
as to the life, limbs, and senses of the young heir, who would never
live, poor little darling, even with the utmost care of herself and her
nurse, and it was very perverse of papa and the doctors still to keep
him from her—poor little darling—not that it mattered, for he was
certain not to thrive, wherever he was, and the Gowanbrae family would
end with Uncle Colin and the glassblower’s daughter; a disaster on
which she met with such condolence from Alick (N. B. the next heir)
that Rachel was once reduced to the depths of genuine despair by the
conviction that his opinion of his nephew’s life was equally desponding;
and another time was very angry with him for not defending Ermine’s
gentility. She had not entirely learnt what Alick’s assent might mean.
Once, when Mrs. Menteith had been besetting her father with entreaties
for the keys of Lady Keith’s private possessions, she was decisively
silenced, and the next day these same keys were given to Alick, with a
request that his wife would as soon as possible look over and take
to herself all that had belonged to his sister, except a few heirloom
jewels that must return to Scotland. Alick demurred greatly, but the
old man would not brook contradiction, and Rachel was very unwillingly
despatched upon the mission on one of Alick’s days of prostration at
home. His absence was the most consoling part of this sad day’s work.
Any way it could not be otherwise than piteous to dismantle what had
been lately so bright and luxurious, and the contrast of the present
state of things with that in which these dainty new wedding presents had
been brought together, could not but give many a pang; but beside this,
there was a more than ordinary impression of “vanity of vanities, all
is vanity,” very painful to affection that was striving to lose the
conviction that it had been a self-indulgent, plausible life. The
accumulation of expensive trinkets and small luxuries, was as surprising
as perplexing to a person of Rachel’s severely simple and practical
tastes. It was not only since the marriage; for Bessie had always had
at her disposal means rather ample, and had used them not exactly
foolishly, but evidently for her own gratification. Everything had
some intrinsic worth, and was tasteful or useful, but the multitude
was perfectly amazing, and the constant echo in Rachel’s ears was, “he
heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them.” Lord Keith
could hardly have found an executrix for his poor young wife, to whom
her properties would have done so little harm. Rachel set many aside
for the cousins, and for Mrs. Menteith, others she tried to persuade
the Colonel to call Gowanbrae belongings, and failing in this, she hoped
through Grace, to smuggle some of them into his Gowanbrae; but when all
was done, there was a mass of things that Lord Keith never wished to see
again, and that seemed to Rachel to consist of more ornaments than she
could ever wear, and more knick-knacks than a captain’s wife could ever
carry about with her.
She was putting aside the various packets of letters and papers to
be looked over more at leisure, when the Colonel knocked at the
morning-room door, and told her that his brother would like to see her,
when her work was done. “But first,” he said, “I must ask you to be kind
enough to look over some of these papers, and try to find receipts for
some of those bills.”
“Here they are,” said Rachel, “I was going to look them over at home.”
“If you have time to examine them here with me,” said Colonel Keith,
gently, “I think it might save Alick some pain and vexation.”
Rachel was entirely unaware of his meaning, and supposed he only thought
of the mere thrilling of the recent wound; but when he sat down and took
a long account out of a tradesman’s envelope, a chill of dismay came
over her, followed by a glow of hope as she recollected a possible
explanation: “Have these wretched tradesmen been sending in bills over
again at such a time as this?” she exclaimed.
“I should be very glad to find their receipts,” returned the Colonel.
They opened the most business-like looking bundles, all of them, though
neatly kept, really in hopeless confusion. In vain was the search, and
notes came forth which rendered it but too plain that there had been a
considerable amount of debt even before the marriage, and that she had
made partial payments and promises of clearing all off gradually, but
that her new expenses were still growing upon her, and the few payments
“on account,” since she had been Lady Keith, by no means tallied with
the amount of new purchases and orders. No one had suspected her money
matters of being in disorder, and Rachel was very slow to comprehend;
her simple, country life had made her utterly unaware of the
difficulties and ways and means of a young lady of fashion. Even the
direct evidence before her eyes would not at first persuade her that
it was not “all those wicked tradesmen;” she had always heard that
fashionable shops were not to be trusted.
“I am afraid,” said Colonel Keith, “that the whole can scarcely be
shifted on the tradesmen. I fear poor Bessie was scarcely free from
blame in this matter.”
“Not paying! Going on in debt! Oh she could not have meant it;” said
Rachel, still too much astonished to understand. “Of course one hears of
gay, thoughtless people doing such things, but Bessie—who had so much
thought and sense. It must be a mistake! Can’t you go and speak to the
people?”
“It is very sad and painful to make such discoveries,” said Colonel
Keith; “but I am afraid such things are not uncommon in the set she was
too much thrown amongst.”
“But she knew so well—she was so superior; and with Alick and her uncle
to keep her above them,” said Rachel; “I cannot think she could have
done such things.”
“I could not think, but I see it was so,” said Colonel Keith, gravely.
“As I am obliged to understand these things, she must have greatly
exceeded her means, and have used much cleverness and ingenuity in
keeping the tradesmen quiet, and preventing all from coming to light.”
“How miserable! I can’t fancy living in such a predicament.”
“I am much afraid,” added the Colonel, looking over the papers, “that it
explains the marriage—and then Keith did not allow her as much as she
expected.”
“Oh, Colonel Keith, don’t!” cried Rachel; “it is just the one thing
where I could not bear to believe Alick. She was so dear and beautiful,
and spoke so rightly.”
“To believe Alick!” repeated the Colonel, as Rachel’s voice broke down.
“I thought—I ought not to have thought—he was hard upon her—but
he knew better,” said Rachel, “of course he did not know of all this
dreadful business!”
“Assuredly not,” said the Colonel, “that is self-evident, but as you
say, I am afraid he did know his poor sister’s character better than we
did, when he came to warn me against the marriage.”
“Did he? Oh how much it must have cost him.”
“I am afraid I did not make it cost him less. I thought he judged her
harshly, and that his illness had made him magnify trifles, but though
our interference would have been perfectly useless, he was quite right
in his warning. Now that, poor thing, she is no longer here to enchant
us with her witcheries, I see that my brother greatly suffered from
being kept away from home, and detained in this place, and that she left
him far more alone than she ought to have done.”
“Yes, Alick thought so, but she had such good reasons, I am sure she
believed them herself.”
“If she had not believed them, she could not have had such perfect
sincerity of manner,” said the Colonel; “she must have persuaded at
least one half of herself that she was acting for every one’s good
except her own.”
“And Mr. Clare, whom Alick always thought she neglected, never felt it.
Alick says he was too unselfish to claim attention.”
“I never doubted her for one moment till I came home, on that unhappy
day, and found how ill Keith was. I did think then, that considering
how much she had seen of Alick while the splinters were working out,
she ought to have known better than to talk of sciatica; but she made
me quite believe in her extreme anxiety, and that she was only going
out because it was necessary for her to take care of you on your first
appearance. How bright she looked, and how little I thought I should
never see her again!”
“Oh, she meant what she said! She always was kind to me! Most kind!”
repeated Rachel; “so considerate about all the dreadful spring—not one
word did she say to vex me about the past! I am sure she did go out on
that day as much to shelter me as for anything else. I can’t bear to
think all this—here in this pretty room that she had such pleasure
in; where she made me so welcome, after all my disagreeableness and
foolishness.”
The Colonel could almost have said, “Better such foolishness than such
wisdom, such repulsion than such attraction.” He was much struck by
Rachel’s distress, and the absence of all female spite and triumph,
made him understand Ermine’s defence of her as really large-minded and
generous.
“It is a very sad moment to be undeceived,” he said; “one would rather
have one’s faults come to light in one’s life than afterwards.”
They were simple words, so simple that the terrible truth with which
they were connected, did not come upon Rachel at the first moment; but
as if to veil her agitation, she drew towards her a book, an ivory-bound
Prayer-book, full of illuminations, of Bessie’s own doing, and her eye
fell upon the awful verse, “So long as thou doest well unto thyself,
men will speak good of thee.” It was almost more than Rachel could
bear, sitting in the midst of the hoards, for which poor Bessie had sold
herself. She rose up, with a sob of oppressive grief, and broke out,
“Oh! at least it is a comfort that Alick was really the kindest and
rightest! Only too right! but you can settle all this without him,” she
added imploringly; “need he know of this? I can’t bear that he should.”
“Nor I,” said Colonel Keith, “it was the reason that I am glad you are
here alone.”
“Oh, thank you! No one need ever know,” added Rachel.
“I fear my brother must see the accounts, as they have to be paid, but
that need not be immediately.”
“Is there anything else that is dreadful?” said Rachel, looking at the
remaining papers, as if they were a nest of adders. “I don’t like to
take them home now, if they will grieve Alick.”
“You need not be afraid of that packet,” said the Colonel; “I see his
father’s handwriting. They look like his letters from India.”
Rachel looked into one or two, and her face lighted up. “Oh!” she
exclaimed, “this is enough to make up for all. This is his letter to
tell about Alick’s wound. Oh how beautifully he speaks of him,” and
Rachel, with no voice to read, handed the thin paper to her companion,
that he might see the full commendation, that had been wrung from the
reserved father’s heart by his son’s extremity.
“You must be prepared to hear that all is over,” wrote the father to
his daughter; “in fact, I doubt whether he can live till morning, though
M’Vicar declares that nothing vital has been touched. Be it as it may,
the boy has been in all respects, even more than I dared to wish,
and the comfort he has been ever since he came out to me has been
unspeakable. We must not grudge him such a soldier’s death after his
joyous life. But for you, my poor girl, I could only wish the same for
myself to-morrow. You will, at least, if you lose a brother’s care, have
a memory of him, to which to live up. The thought of such a dead brother
will be more to you than many a living one can ever be to a sister.”
Rachel’s heart beat high, and her eyes were full of tears of exultation.
And the Colonel was well pleased to compensate for all the pain he
had inflicted by giving her all the details he could recollect of her
husband’s short campaign. They had become excellent friends over their
mournful work, and were sorry to have their tete-a-tete interrupted when
a message was brought that his Lordship was ready, if Mrs. Keith would
be so good as to come into his sitting-room.
She wiped away the tears, and awe-struck and grave, followed the
Colonel; a great contrast to Lord Keith’s more frequent lady-visitor, as
she silently received the polished greeting, its peculiar stateliness of
courtesy, enhanced by the feeble state of the shattered old man, unable
to rise from his pillowed chair, and his face deeply lined by suffering.
He would not let her give him any account of her labours, nor refer any
question to him, he only entreated that everything might be taken away,
and that he might hear nothing about it. He spoke warmly of Alick’s
kindness and attention, and showed much solicitude about his
indisposition, and at last he inquired for Rachel’s “little charge,”
hoping he was not clamorous or obnoxious to her, or to Mr. Clare’s
household. Her eager description of his charms provoked a look of
interest and a sad smile, followed by a request, that weather and doctor
permitting, she would bring the child to be seen for a few minutes. The
next day there was an appointment, at which both the Colonel and Alick
were wanted, but on the following one, the carriage should be sent to
bring her and the little one to Timber End.
The effect of this invitation amused Alick. The first thing he heard in
the morning was a decided announcement from Rachel that she must go up
to London to procure equipments for the baby to be presented in!
“You know I can’t go with you to-day.”
“Of course, but I must make him fit to be seen. You know he has been
wearing little Una’s things all this time, and that will not do out of
the nursery.”
“A superior woman ought to know that his Lordship will never find out
what his son has on.”
“Then it is all the more reason that I should not let the poor dear
little fellow go about wrapped up in somebody’s old shawl!”
“What will you do then—take your maid?”
“Certainly not. I can’t have him left.”
“Then take him with you?”
“What, Alick, a little unvaccinated baby! Where have you ever lived! I
don’t see the least reason why I should not go alone.”
“You need not begin beating about the world yet, Rachel. How many times
did you say you had been in London?”
“Three; once with my father when I was a child, once in the time of the
Great Exhibition, and passing through it now with you. But any one of
common sense can manage.”
“If you will wait till five o’clock I will come with you,” said Alick,
wearily.
“No, indeed, I had rather not go, than that you should, you are quite
tired out enough at the end of the day.”
“Then do not go.”
“Alick, why will you have no proper feeling for that poor dear child!”
said Rachel with tears in her eyes.
If he winced he did not show it. “My proper feeling takes the direction
of my wife,” he said.
“You don’t really mean to forbid me to go,” she exclaimed.
“I don’t mean it, for I do so, unless you find some one to go with you.”
It was the first real collision that had taken place, but Alick’s quiet,
almost languid tone had an absolute determination in it from the very
absence of argument, and Rachel, though extremely annoyed, felt the
uselessness of battling the point. She paused for a few moments, then
said with an effort, “May I take the housekeeper?”
“Yes, certainly,” and then he added some advice about taking a brougham,
and thus lightened her heart; so that she presently said humbly,
“Have I been self-willed and overbearing, Alick?”
He laughed. “Not at all; you have persevered just where you ought. I
dare say this is all more essential than shows on the surface. And,” he
added, with a shaken voice, “if you were not myself, Rachel, you know
how I should thank you for caring for my poor Bessie’s child.” He was
gone almost as he spoke the words, but Rachel still felt the kiss and
the hot tears that had fallen on her face.
Mr. Clare readily consented to spare his housekeeper, but the
housekeeper was untoward, she was “busied in her housewife skep,”
and would not stir. Alick was gone to Timber End, and Rachel was just
talking of getting the schoolmaster’s wife as an escort, when Mr. Clare
said—
“Pray are you above accepting my services?”
“You! Oh, uncle; thank you, but—”
“What were your orders? Anybody with you, was it not? I flatter myself
that I have some body, at least.”
“If Alick will not think I ought not!”
“The boy will not presume to object to what I do with you.”
“I do wish it very much,” said candid Rachel.
“Of course you do, my dear. Alick is not cured of a young man’s notion
that babies are a sort of puppies. He is quite right not to let you run
about London by yourself, but he will be quite satisfied if you find
eyes and I find discretion.”
“But is it not very troublesome to you?”
“It is a capital lark!” said Mr. Clare, with a zest that only the slang
word could imply, removing all Rachel’s scruples, and in effect Mr.
Clare did enjoy the spice of adventure in a most amusing way. He knew
perfectly well how to manage, laid out the plan of operations, gave
orders to the driver, went into all the shops, and was an effective
assistant in the choice of material and even of embroidery. His touch
and ear seemed to do more for him than many men’s eyes do for them;
he heard odd scraps of conversation and retailed them with so much
character; he had such pleasant colloquies with all in whose way he
fell, and so thoroughly enjoyed the flow and babble of the full stream
of life, that Rachel marvelled that the seclusion of his parsonage was
bearable to him. He took her to lunch with an old friend, a lady who had
devoted herself to the care of poor girls to be trained as servants, and
Rachel had the first real sight of one of the many great and good works
set on foot by personal and direct labour.
“If I had been sensible, I might have come to something like this!” she
said.
“Do you wish to undo these last three months?”
“No; I am not fit to be anything but an ordinary married woman, with an
Alick to take care of me; but I am glad some people can be what I meant
to be.”
“And you need not regret not being useful now,” said Mr. Clare. “Where
should any of us be without you?”
It had not occurred to Rachel, but she was certainly of far more
positive use in the world at the present moment than ever she had bean
in her most assuming maiden days.
Little Alexander was arrayed in all that could enhance his baby dignity,
and Rachel was more than ever resolved to assert his superiority over
“great frightful fine children,” resenting vehemently an innocent
observation from Alick, that the small features and white skin promised
sandiness of hair. Perhaps Alick delighted in saying such things for the
sake of proving the “very womanhood” of his Clever Woman. Rachel hung
back, afraid of the presentation, and would have sent her maid into the
room with the child if Colonel Keith had not taken her in himself. Even
yet she was not dexterous in handling the baby, her hands were both
occupied, and her attention absorbed, and she could not speak, she felt
it so mournful to show this frail motherless creature to a father more
like its grandfather, and already almost on the verge of the grave. She
came up to Lord Keith, and held the child to him in silence. He said,
“Thank you,” and kissed not only the little one, but her own brow, and
she kept the tears back with difficulty.
Colonel Keith gave her a chair and footstool, and she sat with the baby
on her lap, while very few words were spoken. It was the Colonel who
asked her to take off the hood that hid the head and brow, and who
chiefly hazarded opinions as to likeness and colour of eyes. Lord Keith
looked earnestly and sadly, but hardly made any observation, except that
it looked healthier than he had been led to expect. He was sure it owed
much to Mrs. Keith’s great care and kindness.
Rachel feared he would not be able to part with his little son, and
began to mention the arrangements she had contemplated in case he wished
to keep the child at Timber End. On this, Lord Keith asked with some
anxiety, if its presence were inconvenient to Mr. Clare; and being
assured of the contrary, said, “Then while you are so kind as to watch
over him, I much prefer that things should remain in their present
state, than to bring him to a house like this. You do not object?”
“Oh, no; I am so glad. I was only dreading the losing him. I thought
Mrs. Menteith wished for him when he is old enough to travel.”
“Colin!” said Lord Keith, looking up sharply, “will nothing make the
Menteiths understand that I would rather put out the child to nurse in a
Highland hut than in that Babel of a nursery of theirs?”
Colin smiled and said, “Isabel does not easily accept an answer she
dislikes.”
“But remember, both of you,” continued Lord Keith, “that happen what
may, this poor child is not to be in her charge. I’ve seen enough of
her children left alone in perambulators in the sun. You will be in
Edinburgh?” he added, turning to Rachel.
“Yes, when Alick’s leave ends.”
“I shall return thither when this matter is over, I know I shall be
better at home in Scotland, and if I winter in Edinburgh, may be we
could make some arrangement for his being still under your eye.”
Rachel went home more elevated than she had been for months past.