Mr. Menteith was a good deal surprised. Though he had a warm corner in his heart for Helen, still, the idea of her as heiress to so large an estate was novel and startling. He did not consider himself justified in criticizing the earl's choice; still, he thought it odd. True, Helen was a brave, sensible, self-dependent woman—not a girl any longer —and accustomed from the age of fifteen to guide a household, to be her father's right hand, and her brothers' help and counselor—one of those rare characters who, without being exactly masculine, are yet not too feebly feminine—in whom strength is never exaggerated to boldness, nor gentleness deteriorated into weakness. She was firm, too; could form her own opinion and carry it out; though not accomplished, was fairly well educated, possessed plenty of sound practical knowledge of men and things, and, above all, had habits of extreme order and regularity. People said, sometimes, that Miss Cardross ruled not only the Manse, but the whole parish; however, if so, she did it in so sweet a way that nobody ever objected to her government.
All these things Mr. Menteith ran over in his acute mind within the next few minutes, during which he did not commit himself to any remarks at all. At last he said,
"I think, my lord, you are right. Helen's no bonnie, but she is a rare creature, with the head of a man and the heart of a woman. She is worth all her brothers put together, and, under the circumstances, I believe you could not do better than make her your heiress."
"I am glad you think so," was the brief answer. Though, by the expression of the earl's face, Mr. Menteith clearly saw that, whether he had thought it or not, the result would have been just the same. He smiled a little to himself, but he did not dispute the matter. He knew that one of the best qualities the earl possessed—most blessed and useful to him, as it is to every human being—was the power of making up his own mind, and acting upon it with that quiet resolution which is quite distinct from obstinacy—obstinacy, usually the last strong-hold of cowards, and the blustering self-defense of fools.
"There is but one objection to your plan, Lord Cairnforth. Miss
Cardross is young—twenty-six, I think."
"Twenty-five and a half."
"She may not remain always Miss Cardross. She may marry; and we can not tell what sort of man her husband may be, or how fit to be trusted with so large a property."
"So good a woman is not likely to choose a man unworthy of her," said Lord Cairnforth, after a pause. "Still, could not my fortune be settled upon herself as a life-rent, to descend intact to her heirs—that is, her children?"
"My dear lord, how you must have thought over every thing!"
"You forget, my friend, I have nothing to do but to sit thinking."