“It is that dreadful Braelands’s business. That insolent, selfish, domineering old woman has ruined us socially. I wish I had never seen her face.”
“You seemed to be fond enough of her once.”
“I never liked her; I now detest her. The way she treated Archie’s wife was abominable. There is no doubt of that. Father, I am going to take this situation by the horns of its dilemma. I intend to marry Archie. No one in the county can afford to snub Braelands. He is popular and likely to be more so; he is rich and influential, and I also am rich. Together we may lead public opinion—or defy it. My name has been injured by my friendship with him. Archie Braelands must give me his name.”
“By St. Andrew, he shall!” answered the irritable old man. “I will see he does. I ought to have considered this before, Marion. Why did you not show me my duty?”
“It is early enough; it is now only eight months since his wife died.”
The next morning as Archie was riding slowly along the highway, the Admiral joined him. “Come home to lunch with me,” he said, and Archie turned his horse and went. Marion was particularly sympathetic and charming. She subdued her spirits to his pitch; she took the greatest interest in his new political aspirations; she listened to his plans about the future with smiling approvals, until he said he was thinking of going to the United States for a few months. He wished to study Republicanism on its own ground, and to examine, in their working conditions, several new farming implements and expedients that he thought of introducing. Then Marion rose and left the room. She looked at her father as she did so, and he understood her meaning.
“Braelands,” he said, when they were alone, “I have something to say which you must take into your consideration before you leave Scotland. It is about Marion.”
“Nothing ill with Marion, I hope?”
“Nothing but what you can cure. She is suffering very much, socially, from the constant association of her name with yours.”
“Sir?”