Angus made no reply to this speech, as he knew what Johnnie said was perfectly true, so having thus ascertained exactly how his marriage to Victoria would be taken, he rapidly finished his dressing and ran downstairs, leaving his faithful henchman shaking his grizzled head in dour Scotch fashion over the probable anger of Mactab.
"The daft bit laddie," commented Johnnie, folding up his master's clothes, "tae fly i' the face o' Providence aboot a lass. An' that auld Jeezebel whae dodders after her would like it fine, I'm thinking, tae see the lass Leddy Otterburn. I'll no tac' the responsibility on me. The laddie ma gang tae the auld Laird an' the meenister, an' they'll nay say aye, I misdoot me the Maister 'ull gang his ain gait for aw their skirling."
Meanwhile Angus was standing at the front door of the hotel, thinking over the conversation he had just had, and having a considerable amount of common sense saw that Johnnie Armstrong was correct in his remarks about Mactab. Being a man of great shrewdness and genuine piety he had attained a strong influence over the somewhat stern nature of Lord Dunkeld, who knew that Mactab's advice if not always palatable was essentially sound.
Lord Dunkeld had set his heart on the marriage of his only son with Miss Cranstoun, as that ill-favoured damsel was heiress to the estate adjoining that to which Angus was heir, and such a match would considerably increase the territorial possessions and influence of the Macjean family in the Border land.
Nevertheless Angus, though not a fortune hunter, knew that Victoria Sheldon was very wealthy, and in this democratic age an excellent match in every way, so provided his father was satisfied regarding the birth of the young lady (and the fact that her mother was a Macjean was greatly in her favour), there was a chance of success, especially if Mactab approved, of which, however, Angus was doubtful, for the minister greatly admired Miss Cranstoun owing to her assiduous attendance at the Kirk.
"Deuce take the whole lot of them," grumbled Otterburn, as he thought over all this. "I wish they'd let a fellow fix up his own life. One would think I had no feelings the way they order me about. That Cranstoun girl is as ugly as sin, and I don't see why I should marry her just because she's got the next estate to ours. Why doesn't my father marry her himself if he's so jolly anxious to get the property? As for Mactab, he ought to mind his own business instead of meddling with mine. Hang it, I won't stand it. I'm not engaged to that Cranstoun thing, so I can do as I like. Victoria goes away to-morrow, and Lord only knows when I'll see her again, so I'll take the bull by the horns and ask her to marry me. If she won't, there's no harm done, and if she will, the whole lot at Dunkeld can howl themselves hoarse for all I care."
Having, therefore, made up his mind in this impulsive manner, Otterburn, in order to give himself no time to change it, walked off in search of Victoria, to offer her the heart which his father fondly trusted was in the keeping of Miss Cranstoun of that ilk.
Miss Sheldon was seated in the Chinese room writing letters, and so absorbed was she in her occupation, that she did not hear Otterburn enter.
It was a lofty, fantastical apartment, with an oval roof tinted a dull grey, on which were traced red lines of a symmetrical pattern to resemble bamboo framing, and the walls were hung with Chinese paper, forming a kind of tapestry on which the artist, ignorant of perspective, had traced strange trees, brilliant birds, impossible towers, bizarre bridges, and odd-looking figures. In the four corners of the room, on slender pedestals, sat almond-eyed, burly mandarins, cross-legged, with their long hands folded placidly on their protuberant stomachs, and pagoda-shaped hats, with jingling bells on their pig-tailed heads. Chinese matting on the floor, lounging chairs of bamboo work, oblong tables, on which stood barbaric vases of porcelain, all gave this room a strange Eastern look, suggesting thoughts of crowded Pekin, the odour of new-gathered tea, and a vision of queer towers rising from the rice plains, under burning skies.
Otterburn was not thinking of the Flowery Land, however, as his mind was too full of Victoria, and he stood silently watching her graceful head bent over her writing, until, by that strange instinct which warns everyone that someone is near, she raised her eyes and saw him standing close to the door. "Oh, good morning," she cried gaily, as he advanced. "Sit down for a few moments, and don't interrupt me. I'm engaged in a most unpleasant task. Writing to Aunt Jelly."