She was only tranquillised by her brother beginning to write a telegraphic message.
“Rachel,” she said, presently, “Ermine must marry him now, and see to Lord Keith, and the little one—tell her so, please,” then with her unfailing courtesy, “he will seem like your own child, dear Rachel, and you should have him; but you’ll have a wandering home with the dear old Highlanders. Oh! I wonder if he will ever go into them, there must always be a Keith there, and they say he is sure of the Victoria Cross, though papa will not send up his name because of being his own son.” Then passing her hand over her face, she exclaimed—“Wasn’t I talking great nonsense, Rachel? I don’t seem able to say what I mean.”
“It is weakness, dearest,” said Rachel, “perhaps you might gain a little strength if you were quite still and listened to my uncle.”
“Presently. O Rachel! I like the sound of your voice; I am glad Alick has got you. You suit him better than his wicked little sister ever did. You have been so kind to me to-night, Rachel; I never thought I should have loved you so well, when I quizzed you. I did use you ill then, Rachel, but I think you won Alick by it just by force of contrast,”—she was verging into the dreamy voice, and Rachel requested her to rest and be silent.
“It can’t make any difference,” said Bessie, “and I’ll try to be quiet and do all right, if you’ll just let me have my child again. I do want to know who he is like. I am so glad it is not he that was hurt. Oh! I did so want to have brought him up to be like Alick.”
The infant was brought, and she insisted on being lifted to see its face, which she declared to resemble her brother; but here her real self seemed to gain the mastery, and calling it a poor little motherless thing, she fell into a fit of violent convulsive weeping, which ended in a fainting fit, and this was a fearfully perceptible stage on her way to the dark valley.
She was, however, conscious when she revived, and sent for her uncle, whom she begged to let her be laid in his churchyard, “near the willow-tree; not next to my aunt, I’m not good enough,” she said, “but I could not bear that old ruined abbey, where all the Keiths go, and Alick always wanted me to be here—Alick was right!”
The dreamy mist was coming on, nor was it ever wholly dispelled again. She listened, or seemed to listen, to her uncle’s prayers, but whenever he ceased, she began to talk—perhaps sensibly at first, but soon losing the thread—sometimes about her child or husband, sometimes going back to those expressions of Charles Carleton that had been so dire a shock to her. “He ought not! I thought he knew better! Alick was right! Come away, Rachel, I’ll never see him again. I have done nothing that he should insult me. Alick was right!”
Then would come the sobs, terrible in themselves, and ending in fainting, and the whole scene was especially grievous to Alick, even more than to either of the others, for as her perception failed her, association carried her back to old arguments with him, and sometimes it was, “Alick, indeed you do like to attribute motives,” sometimes, “Indeed it is not all self-deception,” or the recurring wail, “Alick is right, only don’t let him be so angry!” If he told her how far he was from anger, she would make him kiss her, or return to some playful rejoinder, more piteous to hear than all, or in the midst would come on the deadly swoon.
Morning light was streaming into the room when one of these swoons had fallen on her, and no means of restoration availed to bring her back to anything but a gasping condition, in which she lay supported in Rachel’s arms. The doctor had his hand on her pulse, the only sounds outside were the twittering of the birds, and within, the ticking of the clock, Alick’s deep-drawn breaths, and his uncle’s prayer. Rachel felt a thrill pass through the form she was supporting, she looked at Mr. Harvey, and understood his glance, but neither moved till Mr. Clare’s voice finished, when the doctor said, “I feared she would have suffered much more. Thank God!”