The Colonel could almost have said, "Better such foolishness than such
wisdom, such repulsion than such attraction." He was much struck by
Rachel's distress, and the absence of all female spite and triumph,
made him understand Ermine's defence of her as really large-minded and
generous.
"It is a very sad moment to be undeceived," he said; "one would rather
have one's faults come to light in one's life than afterwards."
They were simple words, so simple that the terrible truth with which
they were connected, did not come upon Rachel at the first moment; but
as if to veil her agitation, she drew towards her a book, an ivory-bound
Prayer-book, full of illuminations, of Bessie's own doing, and her eye
fell upon the awful verse, "So long as thou doest well unto thyself,
men will speak good of thee." It was almost more than Rachel could
bear, sitting in the midst of the hoards, for which poor Bessie had sold
herself. She rose up, with a sob of oppressive grief, and broke out,
"Oh! at least it is a comfort that Alick was really the kindest and
rightest! Only too right! but you can settle all this without him," she
added imploringly; "need he know of this? I can't bear that he should."
"Nor I," said Colonel Keith, "it was the reason that I am glad you are
here alone."
"Oh, thank you! No one need ever know," added Rachel.
"I fear my brother must see the accounts, as they have to be paid, but
that need not be immediately."
"Is there anything else that is dreadful?" said Rachel, looking at the
remaining papers, as if they were a nest of adders. "I don't like to
take them home now, if they will grieve Alick."
"You need not be afraid of that packet," said the Colonel; "I see his
father's handwriting. They look like his letters from India."
Rachel looked into one or two, and her face lighted up. "Oh!" she
exclaimed, "this is enough to make up for all. This is his letter to
tell about Alick's wound. Oh how beautifully he speaks of him," and
Rachel, with no voice to read, handed the thin paper to her companion,
that he might see the full commendation, that had been wrung from the
reserved father's heart by his son's extremity.
"You must be prepared to hear that all is over," wrote the father to
his daughter; "in fact, I doubt whether he can live till morning, though
M'Vicar declares that nothing vital has been touched. Be it as it may,
the boy has been in all respects, even more than I dared to wish,
and the comfort he has been ever since he came out to me has been
unspeakable. We must not grudge him such a soldier's death after his
joyous life. But for you, my poor girl, I could only wish the same for
myself to-morrow. You will, at least, if you lose a brother's care, have
a memory of him, to which to live up. The thought of such a dead brother
will be more to you than many a living one can ever be to a sister."