“Come,” said Mac in his turn, and taking her by the hand he led her downstairs.
Had the portmanteau been a coffin, containing some being beloved by Campanula, he could not have spoken more gently, or led her away from it more tenderly.
Downstairs the old, rough, gruff M’Gourley seemed very much perturbed.
Could he have found Leslie alone at that moment, a very regrettable scene might have ensued.
And yet at the bottom of all his anger and perturbation lay a golden gleam. If Leslie went off like this, Campanula would be all his (Mac’s) own.
He had no idea of marrying her, or anything of that sort; but he had an immense idea of possessing her all for himself.
He had, proposed to buy a half share in her at Nikko, and he would have made a bad bargain, for during the last five years he had possessed a full half share without paying a cent, unless we count the pounds and pounds expended on dolls, sweets, and so forth.
But this was not like having her all to himself: a creature to feed and clothe, to buy hairpins for and tabis, fans and sweets; to listen to of an evening, as her fingers strayed over the strings of a chamécen, or her tongue told fabulous tales of folk clad in fur or feathers.
All at once, as he paced the room, he turned to her, literally picked her up, hugged her, gave her a kiss, and said: “He’ll come back to you. Dinna greet; I canna stand it. I’ll be back and see you the morrow morn before he goes.”
He hurried out of the house, and went raging down the hill.