He sat down and listened, though often only with his outward ears, to her plan, by which Captain Rothesay might be saved from his difficulty.
“It is a merely nominal thing; I would do it myself, but a man's name would be more useful than a woman's. Yours will. My son Harold will at once perform such a trifling act of kindness for his mother's friend.”
“Of course—of course. Come, mother, tell me what to do; you understand business affairs much better than your son!” said Harold, as he rose to seek his guest.
Captain Rothesay scrupled a while longer; but at length the dazzling vision of coming wealth absorbed both pride and reluctance. It would be so hard to miss the chance of thousands, by objecting to a mere form. “Besides, Harold Gwynne shall share my success,” he thought; and he formed many schemes for changing the comparative poverty of the parsonage into comfort and luxury. It was only when the pen was in the young man's hand, ready to sign the paper, that the faintest misgiving crossed Rothesay's mind.
“Stay, it is but for a few days—yet life sometimes ends in an hour. What if I should die, at once, before I can requite you? Mr. Gwynne, you shall not do it.”
“He shall—I mean, he will,” answered the mother.
“But not until I have secured him in some way.”
“Nay, Angus; we 'auld acquaintance' should not thus bargain away our friendship,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with wounded pride—Highland pride. “And besides, there is no time to lose. Here is the acceptance ready—so, Harold, sign!”
Harold did sign. The instant after, glad to escape, he quitted the room.
Angus Rothesay sank on a chair with a heart-deep sigh of relief. It was done now. He eyed with thankfulness the paper which had secured him the golden prize.