The Marquis of Lossie eBook

Those who knew that Miss Campbell, as Portlossie regarded her, had been in reality Lady Lossie, and was the mother of Malcolm, knew as well that Florimel had no legal title even to the family cognomen; but if his mother, and therefore the time of his mother’s death, remained unknown, the legitimacy of his sister would remain unsuspected even upon his appearance as the heir.  Now there were but three besides Mrs Catanach and Malcolm who did know who was his mother, namely, Miss Horn, Mr Graham, and a certain Mr Morrison, a laird and magistrate near Portlossie, an elderly man, and of late in feeble health.  The lawyers the marquis had employed on his death bed did not know:  he had, for Florimel’s sake taken care that they should not.  Upon what she knew and what she guessed of these facts regarded in all their relations according to her own theories of human nature the midwife would found a scheme of action.

Doubtless she saw, and prepared for it, that after a certain point should be reached the very similarity of their designs must cause a rupture between her and Caley; neither could expect the other to endure such a rival near her hidden throne of influence; for the aim of both was power in a great family, with consequent money, and consideration, and midnight councils, and the wielding of all the weapons of hint and threat and insinuation.  There was one difference, indeed, that in Caley’s eye money was the chief thing, while power itself was the Swedenborgian hell of the midwife’s bliss.

CHAPTER XXXVII:  AN INNOCENT PLOT

Florimel and Lady Clementina Thornicroft, the same who in the park rebuked Malcolm for his treatment of Kelpie, had met several times during the spring, and had been mutually attracted—­Florimel as to a nature larger, more developed, more self supporting than her own, and Lady Clementina as to one who, it was plain, stood in sore need of what countenance and encouragement to good and free action the friendship of one more experienced might afford her.  Lady Clementina was but a few years older than Florimel, it is true, but had shown a courage which had already wrought her an unquestionable influence, and that chiefly with the best.  The root of this courage was compassion.  Her rare humanity of heart would, at the slightest appearance of injustice, drive her like an angel with a flaming sword against customs regarded, consciously or unconsciously, as the very buttresses of social distinction.  Anything but a wise woman, she had yet so much in her of what is essential to all wisdom—­ love to her kind, that, if as yet she had done little but blunder, she had at least blundered beautifully.  On every society that had for its declared end the setting right of wrong or the alleviation of misery, she lavished, and mostly wasted, her money.  Every misery took to her the shape of a wrong.  Hence to every mendicant that could trump up a plausible story, she offered herself a willing prey.  Even when the barest faced imposition was brought home to one of the race parasitical, her first care was to find all possible excuse for his conduct:  it was matter of pleasure to her friends when she stopped there, and made no attempt at absolute justification.