What Lauderdale had to say was still upon the subject of which Colin by this time had got tired—the supposed connexion of the brother and sister with the famous, or rather notorious Meredith of Maltby, who was one of the great leaders of that fashion of swindling so prevalent a few years ago, by means of which directors of banks and joint-stock companies brought so many people to ruin. Of these practitioners Mr. Meredith of Maltby had been one of the most successful. He had passed through one or two disagreeable examinations, it is true, in Insolvent Courts and elsewhere; but he had managed to steer clear of the law, and to retain a comfortable portion of his ill-gotten gains. He was a pious man, who subscribed to all the societies, and had, of course, since these unpleasant accidents occurred, been held up to public admiration by half the newspapers of Great Britain as an instance of the natural effect produced upon the human mind by an assumption of superior piety; and more than one clever leading article, intended to prove that lavish subscriptions to benevolent purposes, and attendance at prayer meetings, were the natural evidences of a mind disposed to prey on its fellow-creatures, had been made pointed and emphatic by his name. Lauderdale’s “case” was subtle enough, and showed that he, at least, had not forgotten the hint given in the Pantheon. He told Colin that all his cunning inquiries could elicit no information about the father of the forlorn pair. Their mother was dead, and, so far as she was concerned, Alice was sufficiently communicative; and she had an aunt in India whom Lauderdale knew by heart. “A’ that is so easy to draw out that the other is all the more remarkable,” said the inquisitor; “and it’s awfu’ instructive to see the way she doubles out when I think I’ve got her in a corner—no saying what’s no true, but fencing like a little Jesuit; that is, speaking proverbially, and no vouching for my premises, for I ken nothing about Jesuits in my ain person. I would like to be at the bottom of a woman’s notions on such subjects. The way that bit thing will lift up her innocent face, and give me to understand a lee without saying it—”
“Be civil,” interrupted Colin; “a lie is strong language, especially as you have no right whatever to question her so closely.”
“I said nothing about lies,” said Lauderdale; “I say she gives me to understand a lee without saying a word that’s no true; which is not only an awfu’ civil form of expression on my part, but a gift of womankind that, so far as I ken, is just unparalleled. If it werna instinct it would be genius. She went so far as once to say, in her bit fine way, that they were not quite happy in a’ their connexions—‘There are some of our friends that Arthur can’t approve of,’ said she, which was enough to make a man laugh or cry—whichever he might be most disposed to. A bonnie judge Arthur is, to be believed in like that. But the end of the whole matter is that I’m convinced the hot-headed callant has carried her off from her home without anybody’s knowledge, and that it’s an angry father you and me will have to answer to when we are left her protectors, as you say.”
“I hope I am not afraid to meet anybody when I have justice on my side,” said Colin, loftily. “She is nothing more to me than any other helpless woman; but I will do my best to take care of her against any man whatsoever, if she is trusted to me.”
Lauderdale laughed with mingled exasperation and amusement. “Bravo,” he said; “the like of that’s grand talking; but I’ll have no hand, for my part, in aiding and abetting domestic treason. I’m far from easy in my mind on the subject altogether. It’s ill to vex a dying man, but it’s worse to let a spirit go out of the world with guilt on its head. I’m in an awfu’ difficulty whether to speak to him or no. If you would but come down off your high horse and give me a little assistance. It’s a braw business, take it all together. A young woman, both bonnie and good, but abject to what her brother bids her, even now when he’s living—and us two single men, with nae justification for meddling, and an indignant father, no doubt, to make an account to. It’s no a position I admire, for my part.”
“It was I that drew you into it,” said Colin, with some resentment. “After all, they were my friends to begin with. Don’t let me bring you into a responsibility which is properly mine.”
“Ay, ay,” said Lauderdale, calmly, “that’s aye the way with you callants. If a man sees a difficulty in anything concerning you, off you fling, and will have no more to do with him. I’m no one to be dismissed in that fashion—no to say that it would be more becoming to consider the difficulty, like reasonable creatures, and make up our minds how it is to be met.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Colin, repentant; “only, to be sure, the imprudence, if there was any imprudence, was mine. But it is hard to be talking in this manner, as if all was over, while Meredith lives, poor fellow. Such invalids live for ever, sometimes. There he is, for a miracle, riding! When summer comes he may be all right.”
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, “I make no doubt of that; but no in your way. He’ll be better off when summer comes.” Meredith turned a corner close upon them as he spoke. He was riding, it is true, but only on a mule, jogging along at a funeral pace, with Alice walking by his side. He smiled when he met them; but the smile was accompanied by a momentary flush, as of shame or pain.
“The last step but one,” he said. “I have given up walking for ever. I did not think I should ever have come to this; but my spirit is proud, and needs to be mortified. Campbell, come here. It is long since we have had any conversation. I thought God was dealing with your soul when I last talked to you. Tell me, if you were as far gone as I am—if you were reduced to this”—and the sick man laid his thin white hand upon the neck of the animal he was riding—“what consolation would you have to keep you from sinking? It may come sooner than you think.”