It was dark ere she returned and then someone tall and soldierly rose out of the shadows of the little sitting-room of the inn which she used as her own. For an instant her heart leapt. Then she saw it was Andrew Fraser.
"There's nothing wrong, is there?" she asked hastily.
"I'm no that sure," he replied unsteadily, and then his outstretched hands found hers, warm almost compelling in their fierce yet tender clasp.
"Marrion, Marrion, my dear," he said hoarsely, "ye're bringing wae into yure life! Oh, dinna draw away frae me, I'm not come to tell ye I love you; that's sure! You know that, Marrion, if you know anything. But listen! You cou'dna marry me. That's sure, too; d'ye think I can't feel that, too, Marrion? Right through to the very cauld core o' my heart, an' it's cauld, Marrion--it's deathly cauld!" He paused, and the girl in his passionate hold shivered.
"It makes me cauld, too, Andry," she half-sobbed, "deathly cauld. You're meybe worth more than he is, but--but I canna help myself."
Andrew's voice grew firmer.
"An' I canna help it either, my dear. But if ye canna marry me, why sou'd you not marry him?"
She shook her head. "I willna tie him down," she interrupted hoarsely. "I willna do him harm!"
"It's no harm!" he urged. "See you, lassie; would ye rather hae a Lord Drummuir wi' a wife like yersel', or a Lord Drummuir like to the auld man at the Castle now? I'm no sayin', mind you, that he wad be just as his father, but--well, I hae lived wi' the major these eight years, and I ken fine he needs a guide--why, my dear, since ye cam here, he's away to his bed like a lad to sleep like a child; an' there's a play-actin' woman at the theaytre in Glasgi' that had laid hands on him and thocht she'd got him; but he's just escapit the snare like a bird from a fowler. Sae ye might do good, not harm." There was a pause.
"Ye mean well, Andry," she said softly, "but--but he hasn't really asked me to--to marry him."