"I thought it was entailed."
"Gowanbrae is, but as things stand at present that ends with me, and the
other estates are at his disposal."
"Then it would be very hard on the daughters not to have them."
"So hard that the death of young Alexander may have been one of the
greatest disasters of my life, as well as of poor Keith's. However, this
is riding out to meet perplexities. He is most likely to outlive me;
and, moreover, may marry and put an end to the difficulty. Meantime,
till my charge is relieved, I must go and see after him, and try if I
can fulfil Hubert's polite request that I would take him away. Rosie, my
woman, I have hardly spoken to you. I have some hyacinth roots to bring
you to-morrow."
In spite of these suspicions, Colonel Keith was not prepared for what
met him on his return to Myrtlewood. On opening the drawing-room door,
he found Lady Temple in a low arm-chair in an agony of crying, so that
she did not hear his approach till he stood before her in consternation.
Often had he comforted her before, and now, convinced that something
dreadful must have befallen one of the children, he hastily, though
tenderly, entreated her to tell him which, and what he could do.
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed, starting up, and removing her handkerchief,
so that he saw her usually pale cheeks were crimson--"Oh, no," she
cried, with panting breath and heaving chest. "It is all well with them
as yet. But--but--it's your brother."
He was at no loss now as to what his brother could have done, but he
stood confounded, with a sense of personal share in the offence, and his
first words were--"I am very sorry. I never thought of this."
"No, indeed," she exclaimed, "who could? It was too preposterous to be
dreamt of by any one. At his age, too, one would have thought he might
have known better."
A secret sense of amusement crossed the Colonel, as he recollected that
the disparity between Fanny Curtis and Sir Stephen Temple had been far
greater than that between Lady Temple and Lord Keith, but the little
gentle lady was just at present more like a fury than he had thought
possible, evidently regarding what had just passed as an insult to her
husband and an attack on the freedom of all her sons. In answer to a few
sympathising words on the haste of his brother's proceeding, she burst
out again with indignation almost amusing in one so soft--"Haste! Yes!
I did think that people would have had some respect for dear, dear Sir
Stephen," and her gush of tears came with more of grief and less of
violence, as if she for the first time felt herself unprotected by her
husband's name.