“Indeed it will,” she said, with trembling lips. “Never lose sight of Angus, and try to keep him safe and true.”
“True to the Cause, or true to God?”
“True to both. I cannot separate between right and right.”
I thought there was just one second’s hesitation—no more—before Mr Keith gave his solemn answer.
“I will, so help me God!”
Flora thanked him amidst her sobs. He held her hand a moment longer, and I almost thought that he was going to ask her for something. But suddenly there came a setting of stern purpose into his lips and eyes, and he kissed her hand and let it go, with no more than—“God bless you, dear Flora. Farewell!”
Then Angus came up, and gave us a much warmer (and rougher) good-bye: but I felt there was something behind Mr Keith’s, which he had not spoken, and I wondered what it was.
We left Abbotscliff ourselves at six o’clock next morning. Flora and I were in the chaise; my Uncle Drummond, Sam, and Wedderburn (the Laird’s servant) on horseback. At the gates at Monksburn we took up Annas, and Wedderburn joined us there too. The Laird came to see us off, and nearly wrung my hand off as he said, to Flora and me, “Take care of my bairn. The Lord’s taking them both from their auld father. If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.”
“The Lord will keep them Himself, dear friend,” said my Uncle Drummond. “Surely you see the need to part with them?”
“Oh ay, I see the need clear enough! And an auld noodle I am, to be lamenting to you, who are suffering the very same loss.” Then he turned to Annas. “God be with thee, my bonnie birdie,” he said: “the auld Grange will be lone without thy song. But thou wilt let us hear a word of thy welfare as oft as thou canst.”