‘I wadna doot. Rovin’ and rampa-agin’ aboot the waste places o’ the yearth is aye easy to learn. But ye’ll ken yer duty to yer forebears and the young leddies, Maister Wilfred, no’ to tak’ them frae this douce-like hame.’
‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Wilfred. ‘Of course I shall stay here, and shall be very happy and make lots of money again. All the same, it’s a wonderful new country. Half the people here will be wanting to get away when they hear about it. But how did you get this fine crop of wheat put in without working bullocks? I’m afraid, Andrew, you must have been taking a leaf out of Dick Evans’s book, and using other people’s cattle.’
‘Weel, aweel!’ said Andrew, looking doubtful, ‘I winna deny that there micht be some makin’ free wi’ ither folks’ beasties. But they were juist fair savin’ their lives wi’ oor grass parks, and when the rain fell, it was a case o’ needcessity to till the land, noo that the famine was past.’
With regard to the ‘fatal maid,’ Wilfred Effingham had much difficulty in reaching a determination worthy of a man who prided himself upon acting on logically defensible grounds. He was by no means too certain, either, that he could lay claim to Miss Christabel’s undivided affections. So much of her heart as she had to give, he suspected was bestowed upon Bob Clarke. If that were so, she would cling to him with the headlong hero-worship with which a woman invests the lover of her girlhood, more particularly if he happens to be ill-provided with this world’s goods.
The result of all this introspection was that Wilfred, like many other men, sought refuge in delay. There was no need of forcing on the decision. He had work to do at home for months to come. And the marriage question might be advantageously postponed.
Unpacking his valise after breakfast, he produced a number of newspapers, the which, as being better employed, he had not opened. Now, in the leisure of the home circle, the important journals were disclosed. Each one, provincially hungry for news, seized upon one of the messengers from the outer world. ‘Ha!’ said Wilfred suddenly, ‘what is this? Colonel Glendinning, of the Irregular Horse, desperately wounded. Wonderful gallantry displayed by him. Chivalrous sortie from cantonments. Why, this must be our Major, poor fellow!’
He was interrupted by a faint cry from Beatrice, and looking round he saw that she had grown deadly pale. He had just time to catch her fainting form in his arms. But she was not a girl who easily surrendered herself to her emotions. Rousing herself, she looked around with a piteous yet resolved expression, and with an effort collected her mental forces.
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I must go where he is. Tell my father that I have always deferred to his wishes, but that now I must join him—I feel responsible for his life. Had I but conquered my pride, a word from me would have kept him here. And now he is dying—after deeds of reckless daring. But I must go; I will die with him, if I cannot save him.’
‘Dearest Beatrice, there is no need to excite yourself,’ said the fond yet prudent mother. ‘You have only to go to your father. He will consent to all that is reasonable. I myself think it is your duty to go. Major Glendinning is severely wounded, but good nursing may bring him round. I wish you had a companion.’
‘Where could you have a better one than Mrs. Snowden?’ cried Annabel hastily. ‘She said she half thought of going home by India, and I know she does not care which route she takes. She has been there before, and knows all about the route. If papa would only make up his mind to go, half the trouble would be off his mind, and he would enjoy the voyage.’