“Ye dinna mean she's coming here, to Carrig-na-curra?”
“It is even so! though I don't wonder at your finding it hard of belief.”
“It's mair than that—it's far mair—it's downright incredible.”
“I thought so, too; but my father cannot agree with me. He will not believe that this old barrack is not a baronial castle; and persists in falling back on what is past, rather than look on the present, not to speak of the future.”
“But she canna live here, Mark,” said Sir Archy, his mind ever dwelling on the great question at issue. “There's no'a spot in the whole house she could inhabit. I ken something of these French damsels, and their ways; and the strangers that go there for education are a' worse than the natives. I mind the time I was in Paris with his Royal———” Sir Archy coughed, and reddened up, and let fall his snuff-box, spilling all the contents on the floor.
“Gude save us, here's a calamity! It was real macabaw, and cost twa shillings an ounce. I maun even see if I canna scrape it up wi' a piece of paper;” and so, he set himself diligently to glean up the scattered dust, muttering, all the time, maledictions on his bad luck.
Mark never moved nor spoke the entire time; but sat with the open letter in his hand, patiently awaiting the resumption of the discussion.
“Weel, weel,” exclaimed Sir Archy, as he resumed his seat once more; “let us see the epistle, and perhaps we may find some clue to put her off.”
“My father insists on her coming,” said Mark, sternly.
“So he may, lad,” replied Sir Archy; “but she may ha'e her ain reasons for declining—dinna ye see that? This place is a ruin. Wha's to say it is no' undergoing a repair—that the roof is off, and will not be on for sax months to come. The country, too, is in a vara disturbed state. Folks are talking in a suspicious way.”