“I shared it too. When the thought came to me that my boy would be a great man, I nursed it, cherished it, made it my whole life's aim. We were not rich—I had not married for money”—and there was a faint show of pride in her lip—“yet, Harold must go, as he desired, to an English university. I said in my heart, 'He shall!' and he did.”
Angus looked at Mrs. Gwynne, and thought that a woman's will might sometimes be as strong and daring as a man's.
Alison continued—“My son had only half finished his education when fortune made the poor poorer. But Scotland and Cambridge, thank Heaven were far distant I never told him one word—I lived—it matters little how—I cared not! Our fortune lasted, as I had calculated it would, till he had taken his degree, and left college rich in honours—and then”——
She ceased, and the light in her countenance faded. Angus Rothesay gazed upon her as reverently as he had done upon the good angel of his boyish days.
“I said you were a noble woman, Alison Balfour.”
“I was a mother, and I had a noble son.”
They sat a long time silent, looking at the fire, and listening to the wind. There was a momentary interruption—a message from the young clergyman, to say that he was summoned some distance to visit a sick person.
“On such a stormy night as this!” said Angus Rothesay.
“Harold never fails in his duties,” replied the mother, with a smile. Then turning abruptly to her guest—“You will let me talk, old friend, and about him. I cannot often talk to him, for he is so reserved—that is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better son than my Harold.”
“I am sure of it,” said Captain Rothesay.