Ah, well! That was all past now, and good had come out of it to George. But would he ever forget? Would there ever come to his son’s home in future years one who would be to him all that Mary Keith had been to him. “He has not forgotten her,” he said to himself, remembering his pale looks when first his eyes fell on Elsie’s sister. But he was young yet, scarce five and twenty, and his life was before him, and all might be well. At any rate nothing could be changed now.
He had a troubled, restless night, and the first sight he saw when he looked out in the early morning was Marion walking up and down among the flowers. She was walking slowly, with a graver and more thoughtful face than she was used to wear in his presence. She saw the beautiful things around her, for she stooped now and then over a flower as she passed, and touched tenderly the shining leaves as she bent her head beneath the overhanging branches. But she was evidently thinking of other things, and paused now and then looking out upon the sea.
“A strong, fair woman,” he said. “She will make a man of James Petrie, if there’s stuff enough in him to work on—which I doubt. If they love one another—that is the chief thing, as Jean says, and the folk that ken them both will mostly think that she has done well.”
Miss Jean went in to Portie that day, having her own special work to attend to there, and it was understood that for this time the visit at Saughleas was over.
Marion went to the Castle with the rest, but she did not go with them to Mr Petrie’s house to pass the evening. She came straight to Miss Jean’s, having Mr James Petrie as her escort, and it so happened that Mr Dawson met them both on their way thither.
“Something has come to her since morning,” he thought as he watched her approaching.
She was walking rapidly and steadily, carrying her head high and looking straight before her, with the air of being occupied with her own thoughts, rather than with Mr Petrie’s eager, smiling talk.
“I’ll hear about it from Jean,” said Mr Dawson to himself, with a feeling of discomfort which he did not care to analyse.
But he heard nothing from Miss Jean. If she had any thing to tell, it could not be that which he had at first expected to hear. For young Mr Petrie, whom he saw as he saw him every day, did not carry himself like a triumphant lover, neither did he look downcast, as though he had met with a rebuff. He was just as usual, seemingly content with himself and with the world generally.
“I dare say it was but my own imagination,” said the old man, wondering a little that he thought about it at all.