“The sphinx,” thought Allan, “is some inscrutable woman on our own hearth-stone.” He remembered the low sobbing he had heard in the wood, the bowed head, the unmistakable attitude of grief, and then he looked at Mary’s face dimpling with smiles, and at her pretty figure, brave in glistening silk and gold ornaments. And somehow, that night, she made him feel that she was the head of the House of Campbell, and the heiress of Drumloch.
The next day was the Sabbath. She was very particular about her religious duties; she went to kirk twice, she had the servants in the evening for catechism and parallel passages.
She gave Allan no opportunity of seeing her alone. On Monday morning, although it rained, she insisted on going to Glasgow; and she stayed in Glasgow until the following Wednesday evening. It was perhaps the first sensation of “snub” that Allan had ever received; and it annoyed him very much.
But on Wednesday night she seemed to relent, and she did all in her power to make their last dinner together one pleasant to remember. When she left her uncle and cousin to finish their wine, she left them well disposed to kindly confidence. For since Allan’s return from Fife he had not felt confidence possible. His father had asked no questions, and shown no disposition to discuss his plans. But at this hour he voluntarily renewed the subject.
“You went to Fife, I suppose, Allan?”
“Yes, sir. I was there two days.”
“And are you still in the same mind?”
“Nothing can change my mind on that subject, sir.”
“Time has worked greater wonders, Allan. However, I will venture no opinion for two years. When do you go Westward?”
“I shall leave for Liverpool by to-morrow night’s train. I shall sail on Saturday.”