‘No,’ said his sister-in-law, ‘she does not go till she accompanies Mrs. Eadie, who intends to pass the summer at Glengael.’
‘I am glad of that; her presence might interfere with his duty.’
‘Whom do you mean?’ inquired Mrs. Charles, surprised at the remark; ‘whose presence?’ and she subjoined smilingly, ‘You are thinking of Ellen; and you will hardly guess that we are all of opinion here that both she and Mrs. Eadie might be of great use to him on the spot. Mrs. Eadie is so persuaded of it, that the very circumstance of their marriage being dependent on his raising a sufficient number of men to entitle him to a company, would, she says, were it known, make the sons of her father’s clansmen flock around him.’
‘It is to be deplored that a woman, who still retains so many claims, both on her own account, and the high respectability of her birth, should have fallen into such a decay of mind,’ said the merchant, at a loss for a more appropriate comment on his sister-in-law’s intimation.—‘But,’ continued he, ‘do not let James apply to any other person. I am ready and willing to advance all he may require; and, since it is determined that he ought immediately to avail himself of Mr. Frazer’s invitation, let him lose no time in setting off for Glengael. This, I trust,’ said he in a gayer humour, which but ill suited with his deep mourning, ‘will assure both him and Miss Frazer that I am not so much their enemy as perhaps they have been led to imagine.’
Soon after this promise the widower took his leave; but, although his whole behaviour during the visit was unexpectedly kind and considerate, and although it was impossible to withhold the epithet of liberality—nay more, even of generosity—from his offer, still it did not carry that gladness to the widow’s heart which the words and the assurance were calculated to convey. On the contrary, Mrs. Charles sat for some time ruminating on what had passed; and when, in the course of about an hour after, Ellen Frazer, who had been walking on the brow of the hazel bank with Mary, came into the parlour, she looked at her for some time without speaking.
The walk had lent to the complexion of Ellen a lively rosy glow. The conversation which she had held with her companion related to her lover’s hopes of renown, and it had excited emotions that at once sparkled in her eyes and fluctuated on her cheek. Her lips were vivid and smiling; her look was full of intelligence and naïveté—simple at once and elegant—gay, buoyant, and almost as sly as artless, and a wreath, if the expression may be allowed, of those nameless graces in which the charms of beauty are mingled with the allurements of air and manners, garlanded her tall and blooming form.
She seemed to the mother of her lover a creature so adorned with loveliness and nobility, that it was impossible to imagine she was not destined for some higher sphere than the humble fortunes of Walkinshaw. But in that moment the mother herself forgot the auspices of her own youth, and how seldom it is that even beauty, the most palpable of all human excellence, obtains its proper place, or the homage of the manly heart that Nature meant it should enjoy.
CHAPTER LXXXII
Mr. Walkinshaw had not left Camrachle many minutes when his nephew appeared. James had in fact returned from Glasgow, while his uncle was in the house, but, seeing the carriage at the door, he purposely kept out of the way till it drove off.
His excursion had not been successful. He found his father’s old acquaintance sufficiently cordial in the way of inquiries, and even disposed to sympathise with him, when informed of his determination to go abroad; but when the army was mentioned the merchant’s heart froze; and after a short pause, and the expression of some frigiverous observations with respect to the licentiousness of the military life, it was suggested that his uncle was the proper quarter to apply to. In this crisis, their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a third party, when Walkinshaw retired.