"I thought it was entailed."
"Gowanbrae is, but as things stand at present that ends with me, and the other estates are at his disposal."
"Then it would be very hard on the daughters not to have them."
"So hard that the death of young Alexander may have been one of the greatest disasters of my life, as well as of poor Keith's. However, this is riding out to meet perplexities. He is most likely to outlive me; and, moreover, may marry and put an end to the difficulty. Meantime, till my charge is relieved, I must go and see after him, and try if I can fulfil Hubert's polite request that I would take him away. Rosie, my woman, I have hardly spoken to you. I have some hyacinth roots to bring you to-morrow."
In spite of these suspicions, Colonel Keith was not prepared for what met him on his return to Myrtlewood. On opening the drawing-room door, he found Lady Temple in a low arm-chair in an agony of crying, so that she did not hear his approach till he stood before her in consternation. Often had he comforted her before, and now, convinced that something dreadful must have befallen one of the children, he hastily, though tenderly, entreated her to tell him which, and what he could do.
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed, starting up, and removing her handkerchief, so that he saw her usually pale cheeks were crimson-- "Oh, no," she cried, with panting breath and heaving chest. "It is all well with them as yet. But--but--it's your brother."
He was at no loss now as to what his brother could have done, but he stood confounded, with a sense of personal share in the offence, and his first words were-- "I am very sorry. I never thought of this."
"No, indeed," she exclaimed, "who could? It was too preposterous to be dreamt of by any one. At his age, too, one would have thought he might have known better."
A secret sense of amusement crossed the Colonel, as he recollected that the disparity between Fanny Curtis and Sir Stephen Temple had been far greater than that between Lady Temple and Lord Keith, but the little gentle lady was just at present more like a fury than he had thought possible, evidently regarding what had just passed as an insult to her husband and an attack on the freedom of all her sons. In answer to a few sympathising words on the haste of his brother's proceeding, she burst out again with indignation almost amusing in one so soft-- "Haste! Yes! I did think that people would have had some respect for dear, dear Sir Stephen," and her gush of tears came with more of grief and less of violence, as if she for the first time felt herself unprotected by her husband's name.
"I am very much concerned," he repeated, feeling sympathy safer than reasoning. "If I could have guessed his intentions, I would have tried to spare you this; at least the suddenness of it. I could not have guessed at such presumptuous expectations on so short an acquaintance."
"He did not expect me to answer at once," said Fanny. "He said he only meant to let me know his hopes in coming here. And, oh, that's the worst of it! He won't believe me, though I said more to him than I thought I could have said to anybody! I told him," said Fanny, with her hands clasped over her knee to still her trembling, "that I cared for my dear, dear husband, and always shall--always--and then he talked about waiting, just as if anybody could leave off loving one's husband! And then when he wanted me to consider about my children, why then I told him"--and her voice grew passionate again-- "the more I considered, the worse it would be for him, as if I would have my boys know me without their father's name; and, besides, he had not been so kind to you that I should wish to let him have anything to do with them! I am afraid I ought not to have said that," she added, returning to something of her meek softness; "but indeed I was so angry, I did not know what I was about. I hope it will not make him angry with you."
"Never mind me," said Colonel Keith, kindly. "Indeed, Lady Temple, it is a wonderful compliment to you that he should have been ready to undertake such a family."
"I don't want such compliments! And, oh!" and here her eyes widened with fright, "what shall I do? He only said my feelings did me honour, and he would be patient and convince me. Oh, Colonel Keith, what shall I do?" and she looked almost afraid that fate and perseverance would master her after all, and that she should be married against her will.
"You need do nothing but go on your own way, and persist in your refusal," he said in the calm voice that always reassured her.
"Oh, but pray, pray never let him speak to me about it again!"
"Not if I can help it, and I will do my best. You are quite right, Lady Temple. I do not think it would be at all advisable for yourself or the children, and hardly for himself," he added, smiling. "I think the mischief must all have been done by that game at whist."
"Then I'll never play again in my life! I only thought he was an old man that wanted amusing--." Then as one of the children peeped in at the window, and was called back--"0 dear! how shall I ever look at Conrade again, now any one has thought I could forget his father?"
"If Conrade knew it, which I trust he never will, he ought to esteem it a testimony to his mother."
"Oh, no, for it must have been my fault! I always was so childish, and when I've got my boys with me, I can't help being happy," and the tears swelled again in her eyes. "I know I have not been as sad and serious as my aunt thought I ought to be, and now this comes of it."
"You have been true, have acted nothing," said Colonel Keith, "and that is best of all. No one who really knew you could mistake your feelings. No doubt that your conduct agrees better with what would please our dear Sir Stephen than if you drooped and depressed the children."
"Oh, I am glad you say that," she said, looking up, flushed with pleasure now, and her sweet eyes brimming over. "I have tried to think what he would like in all I have done, and you know I can't help being proud and glad of belonging to him still; and he always told me not to be shy and creeping into the nursery out of every one's way."
The tears were so happy now that he felt that the wound was healed, and that he might venture to leave her, only asking first, "And now what would you like me to do? Shall I try to persuade my brother to come away from this place?"
"Oh, but then every one would find out why, and that would be dreadful! Besides, you are only just come. And Miss Williams--"
"Do not let that stand in your way."
"No, no. You will be here to take care of me. And his going now would make people guess; and that would be worse than anything."
"It would. The less disturbance the better; and if you upset his plans now, he might plead a sort of right to renew the attempt later. Quiet indifference will be more dignified and discouraging. Indeed, I little thought to what I was exposing you. Now I hope you are going to rest, I am sure your head is aching terribly."
She faintly smiled, and let him give her his arm to the foot of the stairs.
At first he was too indignant for any relief save walking up and down the esplanade, endeavouring to digest the unfairness towards himself of his brother's silence upon views that would have put their joint residence at Avonmouth on so different a footing; above all, when the Temple family were his own peculiar charge, and when he remembered how unsuspiciously he had answered all questions on the money matters, and told how all was left in the widow's own power. It was the more irritating, as he knew that his displeasure would be ascribed to interested motives, and regarded somewhat as he had seen Hubert's resentment treated when Francis teased his favourite rabbit. Yet not only on principle, but to avoid a quarrel, and to reserve to himself such influence as might best shield Lady Temple from further annoyance, he must school himself to meet his brother with coolness and patience. It was not, however, without strong effort that he was able to perceive that, from the outer point of view, one who, when a mere child, had become the wife of an aged general, might, in her early widowhood, be supposed open to the addresses of a man of higher rank and fewer years, and the more as it was not in her nature to look crushed and pathetic. He, who had known her intimately throughout her married life and in her sorrow, was aware of the quiet force of the love that had grown up with her, so entirely a thread in her being as to crave little expression, and too reverent to be violent even in her grief. The nature, always gentle, had recovered its balance, and the difference in years had no doubt told in the readiness with which her spirits had recovered their cheerfulness, though her heart remained unchanged. Still, retired as her habits were, and becoming as was her whole conduct, Colin began to see that there had been enough of liveliness about her to lead to Lord Keith's mistake, though not to justify his want of delicacy in the precipitation of his suit.