George came home about the middle of July, and the preparations for May’s marriage were nearly completed by that time. Jean had determined that it was to be a very pretty wedding, and so it was; and having said this, little more need be said about it. It was like all other pretty weddings—that is to say like pretty weddings in the north. The guests were many, and merrier than wedding guests usually are in other regions.
Mr and Mrs Seldon came from London to be there, and other friends came from other places. George was “best man,” and there were many bridesmaids. Marion Calderwood was one of them, and Willie was an invited guest. But at the last moment Willie failed them, and the only reason given, was the unsatisfactory one of “business before pleasure.” On the very morning of the marriage he left home “for London, or Liverpool, or somewhere,—before I was up,” said Marion, who came early to put on her pretty bridesmaid’s dress in Jean’s room; and George, when May questioned him, said with absolute truth, that not a word had passed between him and Willie as to the reason of his going away.
Mr Manners might have cast some light on the matter, though he also could have said that no word had been spoken with regard to it. Intent on making the acquaintance of George, they had set out the night before the wedding for a long walk along the shore, and meeting young Calderwood, he turned at their invitation and went with them.
Probably Mr Manners learned more about both of them in listening to their conversation with each other than he would have had he had one of them to himself. As it was he enjoyed it much. They went far and before they returned the gloaming had fallen.
Standing for a moment at the point where the High-street of Portie turns off from the road which leads in one direction along the shore, and in the other out towards Saughleas, they heard a voice, familiar enough to George and Willie, coming through an open cottage window.
“Weel, weel! I maun be gaen. Ilka ane kens her ain trouble. And them that ha’e nane, whiles think they ha’e, and that’s as ill to thole till real trouble comes, and then they ken the difference. But I maun awa’ hame.”
Mrs Cairnie lingered, however, at the open door.
“Eh, woman! wha’s yon comin’ up the High-street? Wha would ha’e thought it? The Dawsons are on the top o’ the wave enow! Do ye no’ see, woman? Yon’s young Miss Jean’s Englishman.”
Mr Manners had not followed all the speech, but he understood the last part of it, and never doubted that it referred to himself, “though she has mistaken the lady’s name,” said he, turning laughing eyes on young Calderwood.
But Willie did not meet his look. He was looking down the High-street, and George was looking at Willie whose face had grown white through all its healthy brown. Mr Dawson was coming slowly up the street, and by his side there walked a young man large, and fair, and handsome; a gentleman evidently whom neither of them had ever seen before. A groom driving a dog-cart followed slowly after.