“I think keeping out of the way of temptation might be a better proof of his wisdom,” said Mr Dawson coldly. “I doubt, Jean, your aunt is getting wearied. She should be allowed to go.”
But Jean had long ago sent word to Nannie that her mistress was to stay at Saughleas for the night. The young people did not linger much longer. George went out with them to the gate, and did not return till the rest had gone upstairs. Nor did they see him in the morning. He had taken an early breakfast and gone away long before any one was down.
On each of the three days that passed before Jean and her brother went away, George went to his aunt’s house as was his daily custom; but he scarcely saw Marion. The first day she had gone out, the next his father was with him, and the third time there were several of Marion’s young companions with her, so that no word passed between them till the day of Tam Saugster’s marriage.
“If marriage it could be called,” said some of Tam’s indignant friends, “going off on the sly as gin he were ashamed o’ himsel’.”
They were by no means ashamed of themselves. Tam and Annie went quietly to the manse with Tam’s father and mother, where Miss Dawson and her brother and Marion Calderwood and Maggie and Robbie Saugster were waiting for them, and they “got it putten ower quaietly,” as Tam’s father rather discontentedly said. His judgment doubtless approved of “a teetotal” marriage in Tam’s case, but neither his taste nor his sense of the fitness of things was satisfied. Who had a better right to feast their friends and “fill them fou” on such an occasion than the Saugsters? And to go back to Tam’s house just to tea and jelly and fushionless sweet cakes!—It might be prudent, but it wasna pleasant, and any thing but creditable, in his father’s opinion.
And while he grumbled secretly the bride’s mother, poor Mrs Cairnie, openly resented and railed at the manner of the marriage as mean, and as a confession of most shameful weakness on Tam’s part. Even shrewd and sensible Mrs Saugster, though joyful over her returned prodigal and thankful to escape the risks attending a marriage as usually ordered in their rank of life, even she did not think it wrong to connive at the brewing of a steaming bowl of “toddy” for the comforting of the old folks when Tam and his wife had set out on their week of pleasure, and all the rest of the young folk were gone away.
It was a “bonny nicht,” Jean said, as they lingered in their walk down the street. Over the soft glow of sunset fading in the west hung the pale new moon, and a star showed here and there among the grey wreaths and flakes of cloud that floated far beneath the blue. The tide was out, and over the sands came the soft “lap, lap” of tiny waves, with a sound more restful than silence. They stood still a minute at the point where they were to turn into the High-street.
“We may as well go home the long way. It is not late yet,” said Jean.
“Going home the long way,” meant turning back, and going over the sands, the mile that lay between the town and the Tangle Stanes, and they turned with one accord.
“It is our last night for a while,” said Jean, and scarcely another word was spoken till they found themselves climbing the broken path that led to the High Rocks. The night air blew cool from the sea, and Jean led the way to the sheltered seat a little further down. The two girls sat down together, and George stood above them with folded arms, looking out upon the sea.