"It is weakness, dearest," said Rachel, "perhaps you might gain a little
strength if you were quite still and listened to my uncle."
"Presently. O Rachel! I like the sound of your voice; I am glad Alick
has got you. You suit him better than his wicked little sister ever did.
You have been so kind to me to-night, Rachel; I never thought I should
have loved you so well, when I quizzed you. I did use you ill then,
Rachel, but I think you won Alick by it just by force of contrast,"--she
was verging into the dreamy voice, and Rachel requested her to rest and
be silent.
"It can't make any difference," said Bessie, "and I'll try to be quiet
and do all right, if you'll just let me have my child again. I do want
to know who he is like. I am so glad it is not he that was hurt. Oh! I
did so want to have brought him up to be like Alick."
The infant was brought, and she insisted on being lifted to see its
face, which she declared to resemble her brother; but here her real
self seemed to gain the mastery, and calling it a poor little motherless
thing, she fell into a fit of violent convulsive weeping, which ended in
a fainting fit, and this was a fearfully perceptible stage on her way to
the dark valley.
She was, however, conscious when she revived, and sent for her uncle,
whom she begged to let her be laid in his churchyard, "near the
willow-tree; not next to my aunt, I'm not good enough," she said, "but I
could not bear that old ruined abbey, where all the Keiths go, and Alick
always wanted me to be here--Alick was right!"
The dreamy mist was coming on, nor was it ever wholly dispelled again.
She listened, or seemed to listen, to her uncle's prayers, but whenever
he ceased, she began to talk--perhaps sensibly at first, but soon losing
the thread--sometimes about her child or husband, sometimes going back
to those expressions of Charles Carleton that had been so dire a shock
to her. "He ought not! I thought he knew better! Alick was right! Come
away, Rachel, I'll never see him again. I have done nothing that he
should insult me. Alick was right!"
Then would come the sobs, terrible in themselves, and ending in
fainting, and the whole scene was especially grievous to Alick, even
more than to either of the others, for as her perception failed her,
association carried her back to old arguments with him, and sometimes
it was, "Alick, indeed you do like to attribute motives," sometimes,
"Indeed it is not all self-deception," or the recurring wail, "Alick is
right, only don't let him be so angry!" If he told her how far he was
from anger, she would make him kiss her, or return to some playful
rejoinder, more piteous to hear than all, or in the midst would come on
the deadly swoon.