She was scarcely gone, and Rachel had not had time to speak to Mr. Clare, before another visitor was upon her, no other than Lord Keith's daughter, Mrs. Comyn Menteith; or, as she introduced herself, "I'm Isabel. I came down from London to-day because it was so very shocking and deplorable, and I am dying to see my poor little brother and uncle Colin. I must keep away from poor papa till the doctors are gone, so I came here."
She was a little woman in the delicately featured style of sandy prettiness, and exceedingly talkative and good-natured. The rapid tongue, though low and modulated, jarred painfully on Rachel's feelings in the shaded staircase, and she was glad to shut the door of the temporary nursery, when Mrs. Menteith pounced upon the poor little baby, pitying him with all her might, comparing him with her own children, and asking authoritative questions, coupled with demonstrations of her intention of carrying him off to her own nursery establishment, which had been left in Scotland with a head nurse, whose name came in with every fourth word--that is, if he lived at all, which she seemed to think a hopeless matter.
She spoke of "poor dear Bessie," with such affection as was implied in "Oh, she was such a darling! I got on with her immensely. Why didn't you send to me, though I don't know that Donald would have let me come," and she insisted on learning the whole history, illustrating it profusely with personal experiences. Rachel was constantly hoping to be released from a subject so intensely painful; but curiosity prevailed through the chatter, and kept hold of the thread of the story. Mrs. Menteith decidedly thought herself defrauded of a summons. "It was very odd of them all not to telegraph for me. Those telegrams are such a dreadful shock. There came one just as I set out from Timber End, and I made sure little Sandie was ill at home, for you know the child is very delicate, and there are so many things going about, and what with all this dreadful business, I was ready to faint, and after all it was only a stupid thing for Uncle Colin from those people at Avoncester."
"You do not know what it was?"
"Somebody was convicted or acquitted, I forget which, but I know it had something to do with Uncle Colin's journey to Russia; so ridiculous of him at his age, when hs ought to know better, and so unlucky for all the family, his engagement to that swindler's sister. By-the-bye, did he not cheat you out of ever so much money?"
"Oh, that had nothing to do with it--it was not Miss Williams's brother--it was not he that was tried."
"Wasn't he? I thought he was found guilty or something; but it is very unfortunate for the family, for Uncle Colin won't give her up, though she is a terrible cripple, too. And to tell you a secret, it was his obstinacy that made papa marry again; and now it is of no use, this poor little fellow will never live, and this sharper's sister will be Lady Keith after all! So unlucky! Papa says she is very handsome, and poor Bessie declares she is quite ladylike."
"The most superior person I ever knew," said Rachel, indignantly.
"Ah, yes, of course she must be very clever and artful if her brother is a swindler."
"But indeed he is not, he was cheated; the swindler was Maddox."
"Oh, but he was a glass-blower, or something, I know, and her sister is a governess. I am sure it is no fault of mine! The parties I gave to get him and Jessie Douglas together! Donald was quite savage about the bills. And after all Uncle Colin went and caught cold, and would not come! I would not have minded half so much if it had been Jessie Douglas; but to have her at Gowanbrae--a glass-blower's daughter--isn't it too bad?"
"Her father was a clergyman of a good Welsh family."
"Was he? Then her brother or somebody had something to do with glass."
Attempts at explanation were vain, the good lady had an incapacity of attention, and was resolved on her grievance. She went away at last because "those horrid doctors will be gone now, and I will be able to see poor papa, and tell him when I will take home the baby, though I don't believe he will live to be taken anywhere, poor dear little man."
She handled him go much more scientifically than Rachel could do, that it was quite humiliating, and yet to listen to her talk, and think of committing any child to her charge was sickening, and Rachel already felt a love and pity for her little charge that made her wretched at the thoughts of the prognostic about him.
"You are tired with your visitors my dear," said Mr. Clare, holding out his hand towards her, when she returned to him.
"How do you know?" she asked.
"By the sound of your move across the room, and the stream of talk I heard above must be enough to exhaust any one."
"She thinks badly of that poor child," said Rachel, her voice trembling.
"My dear, it would take a good deal to make me uneasy about anything I heard in that voice."
"And if he lives, she is to have the charge of him," added Rachel.
"That is another matter on which I would suspend my fears," said Mr. Clare. "Come out, and take a turn in the peacock path. You want air more than rest. So you have been talked to death."
"And I am afraid she is gone to talk Alick to death! I wonder when Alick will come home," she proceeded, as they entered on the path. "She says Colonel Keith had a telegram about the result of the trial, but she does not know what it was, nor indeed who was tried."
"Alick will not keep you in doubt longer than he can help," said Mr. Clare.
"You know all about it;" said Rachel. "The facts every one must know, but I mean that which led to them."
"Alick told me you had suffered very much."
"I don't know whether it is a right question, but if it is, I should much like to know what Alick did say. I begged him to tell you all, or it would not have been fair towards you to bring me here."
"He told me that he knew you had been blind and wilful, but that your confidence had been cruelly abused, and you had been most unselfish throughout."
"I did not mean so much what I had done as what I am--what I was."
"The first time he mentioned you, it was as one of the reasons that he wished to take our dear Bessie to Avonmouth. He said there was a girl there of a strong spirit, independent and thorough-going, and thinking for herself. He said, 'to be sure, she generally thinks wrong, but there's a candour and simplicity about her that make her wildest blunders better than parrot commonplace,' and he thought your reality might impress his sister. Even then I gathered what was coming."
"And how wrong and foolish you must have thought it."
"I hoped I might trust my boy's judgment."
"Indeed, you could not think it worse for him than I did; but I was ill and weak, and could not help letting Alick do what he would; but I have never understood it. I told him how unsettled my views were, and he did not seem to mind--"
"My dear, may I ask if this sense of being unsettled is with you still?"
"I don't know! I had no power to read or think for a long time, and now, since I have been here, I hope it has not been hypocrisy, for going on in your way and his has been very sweet to me, and made me feel as I used when I was a young girl, with only an ugly dream between. I don't like to look at it, and yet that dream was my real life that I made for myself."
"Dear child, I have little doubt that Alick knew it would come to this."
Rachel paused. "What, you and he think a woman's doubts so vague and shallow as to be always mastered by a husband's influence?"
Mr. Clare was embarrassed. If he had thought so he had not expected her to make the inference. He asked her if she could venture to look back on her dream so as to mention what had chiefly distressed her. He could not see her frowning effort at recollection, but after a pause, she said, "Things will seem to you like trifles, indeed, individual criticisms appear so to me; but the difficulty to my mind is that I don't see these objections fairly grappled with. There is either denunciation or weak argument; but I can better recollect the impression on my own mind than what made it."