<SPAN name="chap28"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER XXVIII. </h3>
<h3> THE WISDOM OF THE WISE. </h3>
<p>Change, meantime, was in progress elsewhere, and as well upon the
foot as high on the side of Glashgar—change which seemed all
important to those who felt the grind of the glacier as it slipped.
Thomas Galbraith, of Glashruach, Esquire, whom no more than any
other could negation save, was not enfranchised from folly, or
lifted above belief in a lie, by his hatred to what he called
superstition: he had long fallen into what will ultimately prove the
most degrading superstition of all—the worship of Mammon, and was
rapidly sinking from deep to lower deep. First of all, this was the
superstition of placing hope and trust in that which, from age to
age, and on the testimony of all sorts of persons who have tried it,
has been proved to fail utterly; next, such was the folly of the man
whose wisdom was indignant with the harmless imagination of simple
people for daring flutter its wings upon his land, that he risked
what he loved best in the world, even better than Mammon, the
approbation of fellow worshippers, by investing in Welsh gold mines.</p>
<p>The property of Glashruach was a good one, but not nearly so large
as it had been, and he was anxious to restore it to its former
dimensions. The rents were low, and it could but tardily widen its
own borders, while of money he had little and no will to mortgage.
To increase his money, that he might increase his property, he took
to speculation, but had never had much success until that same year,
when he disposed of certain shares at a large profit—nothing
troubled by the conviction that the man who bought them—in
ignorance of many a fact which the laird knew—must in all
probability be ruined by them. He counted this success, and it gave
him confidence to speculate further. In the mean time, with what he
had thus secured, he reannexed to the property a small farm which
had been for some time in the market, but whose sale he had managed
to delay. The purchase gave him particular pleasure, because the
farm not only marched with his home-grounds, but filled up a great
notch in the map of the property between Glashruach and the Mains,
with which also it marched. It was good land, and he let it at
once, on his own terms, to Mr. Duff.</p>
<p>In the spring, affairs looked rather bad for him, and in the month
of May, he considered himself compelled to go to London: he had a
faith in his own business-faculty quite as foolish as any
superstition in Gormgarnet. There he fell into the hands of a
certain man, whose true place would have been in the swell mob, and
not in the House of Commons—a fellow who used his influence and
facilities as member of Parliament in promoting bubble companies.
He was intimate with an elder brother of the laird, himself member
for a not unimportant borough—a man, likewise, of principles that
love the shade; and between them they had no difficulty in making a
tool of Thomas Galbraith, as chairman of a certain aggregate of
iniquity, whose designation will not, in some families, be forgotten
for a century or so. During the summer, therefore, the laird was
from home, working up the company, hoping much from it, and trying
hard to believe in it—whipping up its cream, and perhaps himself
taking the froth, certainly doing his best to make others take it,
for an increase of genuine substance. He devoted the chamber of his
imagination to the service of Mammon, and the brownie he kept there
played him fine pranks.</p>
<p>A smaller change, though of really greater importance in the end,
was, that in the course of the winter, one of Donal's sisters was
engaged by the housekeeper at Glashruach, chiefly to wait upon Miss
Galbraith. Ginevra was still a silent, simple, unconsciously
retiring, and therewith dignified girl, in whom childhood and
womanhood had begun to interchange hues, as it were with the play of
colours in a dove's neck. Happy they in whom neither has a final
victory! Happy also all who have such women to love! At one moment
Ginevra would draw herself up—bridle her grandmother would have
called it—with involuntary recoil from doubtful approach; the next,
Ginny would burst out in a merry laugh at something in which only a
child could have perceived the mirth-causing element; then again the
woman would seem suddenly to re-enter and rebuke the child, for the
sparkle would fade from her eyes, and she would look solemn, and
even a little sad. The people about the place loved her, but from
the stillness on the general surface of her behaviour, the far away
feeling she gave them, and the impossibility of divining how she was
thinking except she chose to unbosom herself, they were all a little
afraid of her as well. They did not acknowledge, even to
themselves, that her evident conscientiousness bore no small part in
causing that slight uneasiness of which they were aware in her
presence. Possibly it roused in some of them such a dissatisfaction
with themselves as gave the initiative to dislike of her.</p>
<p>In the mind of her new maid, however, there was no strife, therefore
no tendency to dislike. She was thoroughly well-meaning, like the
rest of her family, and finding her little mistress dwell in the
same atmosphere, the desire to be acceptable to her awoke at once,
and grew rapidly in her heart. She was the youngest of Janet's
girls, about four years older than Donal, not clever, but as sweet
as honest, and full of divine service. Always ready to think others
better than herself, the moment she saw the still face of Ginevra,
she took her for a little saint, and accepted her as a queen, whose
will to her should be law. Ginevra, on her part, was taken with the
healthy hue and honest eyes of the girl, and neither felt any
dislike to her touching her hair, nor lost her temper when she was
awkward and pulled it. Before the winter was over, the bond between
them was strong.</p>
<p>One principal duty required of Nicie—her parents had named her
after the mother of St. Paul's Timothy—was to accompany her
mistress every fine day to the manse, a mile and a half from
Glashruach. For some time Ginevra had been under the care of Miss
Machar, the daughter of the parish clergyman, an old gentleman of
sober aspirations, to whom the last century was the Augustan age of
English literature. He was genial, gentle, and a lover of his race,
with much reverence for, and some faith in, a Scotch God, whose
nature was summed up in a series of words beginning with omni.
Partly that the living was a poor one, and her father old and
infirm, Miss Marchar, herself middle-aged, had undertaken the
instruction of the little heiress, never doubting herself mistress
of all it was necessary a lady should know. By nature she was
romantic, but her romance had faded a good deal. Possibly had she
read the new poets of her age, the vital flame of wonder and hope
might have kept not a little of its original brightness in her
heart; but under her father's guidance, she had never got beyond the
Night Thoughts, and the Course of Time. Both intellectually and
emotionally, therefore, Miss Machar had withered instead of
ripening. As to her spiritual carriage, she thought too much about
being a lady to be thoroughly one. The utter graciousness of the
ideal lady would blush to regard itself. She was both gentle and
dignified; but would have done a nature inferior to Ginevra's injury
by the way she talked of things right and wrong as becoming or not
becoming in a lady of position such as Ginevra would one day find
herself. What lessons she taught her she taught her well. Her
music was old-fashioned, of course; but I have a fancy that perhaps
the older the music one learns first, the better; for the deeper is
thereby the rooting of that which will have the atmosphere of the
age to blossom in. But then to every lover of the truth, a true
thing is dearer because it is old-fashioned, and dearer because it
is new-fashioned: and true music, like true love, like all truth,
laughs at the god Fashion, because it knows him to be but an ape.</p>
<p>Every day, then, except Saturday and Sunday, Miss Machar had for two
years been in the habit of walking or driving to Glashruach, and
there spending the morning hours; but of late her father had been
ailing, and as he was so old that she could not without anxiety
leave him when suffering from the smallest indisposition, she had
found herself compelled either to give up teaching Ginevra, or to
ask Mr. Galbraith to allow her to go, when such occasion should
render it necessary, to the manse. She did the latter; the laird
had consented; and thence arose the duty required of Nicie. Mr.
Machar's health did not improve as the spring advanced, and by the
time Mr. Galbraith left for London, he was confined to his room, and
Ginevra's walk to the manse for lessons had settled into a custom.</p>
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