“Oh, yes, all that sounds very well,” said Angus, but in a pleasanter tone than before—not so much like a big growling dog. “But you don’t know, Duncan—you don’t know! You have no temptations. What can you know about it? I tell you I can’t keep out of it. It is no good talking.”
“‘No temptations!’ I wish that were true. But you are quite right as to yourself; you cannot keep out of it. Do you mean to add that God cannot keep you?”
I did not hear Angus’s reply, and I fancy it came in a gesture, and not in words. But Mr Keith said, very softly,—
“Angus, will you let Him keep you?”
Instead of the answer for which I was eagerly listening, another sound came to my ear, which made me jump up in a hurry, almost without caring whether I was heard or not. That was the clock of Brocklebank Church striking twelve. I should be ever so much too late for dinner; and what would my Aunt Kezia say? I got away as quietly as I could for a few yards, and then ran down the Scar as fast as I dared for fear of falling, and came into the dining-room, feeling hot and breathless, just as Cecilia, looking fresh and bright as a white lily, was entering it from the other end. The rest were seated at the table. Of course Mr Keith and Angus were not there.
“Caroline, where have you been?” saith my Aunt Kezia.
I trembled, for I knew what I had to expect when my Aunt Kezia said Caroline in full.
“I am very sorry, Aunt,” said I. “I went up the Scar, and—well, I am afraid I forgot all about the time.”
My Aunt Kezia nodded, as if my frank confession satisfied her, and Father said, “Good maid!” as I slipped into the chair where I always sit, on his left hand. But Cecilia, who was arranging her skirts just opposite, said in that way which men seem to call charming, and women always see through and despise (at least my Aunt Kezia says so),—
“Am I a little late?”