“My God, now I from sleep awake,
The sole possession of me take;
From midnight terrors me secure,
And guard my soul from thoughts impure.”
To Rachel, who had so often heard that hour strike amid a tumult of midnight miseries, there was something in these words inexpressibly gentle and soothing; the tears sprang into her eyes, as if she had found the spell to chase the grisly phantoms, and she clasped her husband’s hand, as though to communicate her comfort.
“Oh may I always ready stand,
With my lamp burning in my hand;
May I in sight of Heaven rejoice,
Whene’er I hear the Bridegroom’s voice.”
Mr. Clare had just repeated this verse, when he paused, saying, “They are coming down,” and moved quickly to meet them in the hall. Alick followed him to the door, but as they entered the dining-room, after a moment’s hesitation, returned to Rachel, as she sat upright and eager. “After all, this may mean nothing,” he said.
“Oh, we don’t make it better by fancying it nothing,” said Rachel. “Let us try to meet it like your uncle. Oh, Alick, it seemed all this time as if I could pray again, as I never could since those sad times. He seemed so sure, such a rock to help and lean on.”
He drew her close to him. “You are praying for her!” he murmured, his soul so much absorbed in his sister that he could not admit other thoughts, and still they waited and watched till other sounds were heard. The London doctor was going away. Alick sprang to the door, and opened it as his uncle’s hand was on the lock. There was a mournful, solemn expression on his face, as they gazed mutely up in expectation.
“Children,” he said, “it is as we feared. This great sorrow is coming on us.”
“Then there is danger,” said Alick with stunned calmness.
“More than danger,” said his uncle, “they have tried all that skill can do.”
“Was it the fall?” said Alick.
“It was my bad management, it always is,” said Rachel, ever affirmative.
“No, dear child,” said Mr. Clare, “there was fatal injury in the fall, and even absolute stillness for the last few hours could hardly have saved her. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.”
“And now!” asked Alick, hoarsely.
“Much more exhausted than when we were with her; sometimes faint, but still feverish. They think it may last many hours yet, poor dear child, she has so much youth and strength.”
“Does she know?”
“Harvey thought some of their measures alarmed her, but they soothed and encouraged her while they saw hope, and he thinks she has no real fears.”
“And how is it to be—” said Alick. “She ought—”
“Yes; Harvey thinks she ought, she is fully herself, and it can make no difference now. He is gone to judge about coming up at once; but Alick, my poor boy, you must speak to her. I have found that without seeing the face I cannot judge what my words may be doing.”
Rachel asked about poor Lord Keith, and was told that he was to be left in quiet that night, unless his wife should be very anxious for him at once. Mr. Harvey came down, bringing word that his patient was asking urgently for Mrs. Keith.
“You had better let me go in first,” said Alick, his face changed by the firm but tender awestruck look.
“Not if she is asking for me,” said Rachel, moving on, her heart feeling as if it would rend asunder, but her looks composed.
Bessie’s face was in shade, but her voice had the old ring of coaxing archness. “I thought you would stay to see the doctors off. They had their revenge for our stealing a march on them, and have prowled about me till I was quite faint; and now I don’t feel a bit like sleep, though I am so tired. Would Alick think me very wicked if I kept you a little while? Don’t I see Alick’s shadow? Dear old fellow, are you come to wish me good night? That is good of you. I am not going to plague you any more, Alick, I shall be so good now! But what?” as he held back the curtain, and the light fell on his face, “Oh! there is nothing wrong with the baby?”
“No, dear Bessie, not with the baby,” said Alick, with strong emphasis.
“What, myself?” she said quickly, turning her eyes from one face to the other.
Alick told her the state of the case. Hers was a resolute character, or perhaps the double nature that had perplexed and chafed her brother was so integral that nothing could put it off. She fully comprehended, but as if she and herself were two separate persons. She asked how much time might be left to her, and hearing the doctor’s opinion, said, “Then I think my poor old Lord Keith had better have his night’s rest in peace. But, oh! I should like to speak to Colin. Send for him, Alick; telegraph, Alick; he is at the Paddington Hotel. Send directly.”
She was only tranquillised by her brother beginning to write a telegraphic message.
“Rachel,” she said, presently, “Ermine must marry him now, and see to Lord Keith, and the little one—tell her so, please,” then with her unfailing courtesy, “he will seem like your own child, dear Rachel, and you should have him; but you’ll have a wandering home with the dear old Highlanders. Oh! I wonder if he will ever go into them, there must always be a Keith there, and they say he is sure of the Victoria Cross, though papa will not send up his name because
