“We have sent for Charlie; that is all. What other change is there possible? I hope perhaps my father may take some comfort when Charlie comes home.”
“Now that is just what I said,” said Mrs. Murray, growing a little more cheerful on this argument. “Doctor, I told you they would send for Charlie. He should be home now with his bairns, to bring them up in their own country; and India’s a weary place for children. You can never be happy about them. I am looking for my Mary’s two eldest, poor things! It will break their mother’s heart to part with them; but what can she do? Oh, yes, my dear; it will be a great happiness to me; but I cannot expect you to take any interest in that, and you in such trouble. Miss Jean is coming to-morrow to pay you her visit, May. I will say nothing to her about Charles; she will like best to hear that from you herself.”
“It is quite the right thing to do,” said the Doctor; “and we may be thankful that your brother Charles has always been very steady, and a married man, and all that. He will be a great comfort to you all, and a help to his father about the estate. Your father has got a great shake, Miss Marjory, and I doubt if he will ever be as strong to go about as he has been. Charles’s arrival is the very best thing that could happen. Always a steady lad, and able to take his part in the management of the property. He will be a comfort to you all.”
It was on Marjory’s lips to say that she wanted no comfort, and that the substitution of one brother for another gave her, on the contrary, an additional pang; but she restrained herself, and acquiesced silently, while Mr. Charles answered,
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Charlie will be a comfort when he comes.”
And then Marjory was once more folded in Mrs. Murray’s kind arms, and the doctor, with concentrated woe in his face, laid his hand upon her shoulder, and exhorted her to be resigned, as he took his leave. As the door opened, Fleming’s voice was heard exhorting another visitor to enter.
“Come in, sir, come this way,” said Fleming.
And Fanshawe, who stood in the recess of the bow-window, watching the whole proceedings, saw a young man enter shyly and with reluctance, whose appearance somehow entirely changed the placid feelings with which he had watched the Minister and the Minister’s wife. The new-comer came up to Marjory with eager, though hesitating, steps; he took her hand and held it, bowing over it so deeply that the spectator asked himself, in scorn, whether the fellow meant to kiss it. He had kissed that same hand himself in respect and sympathy not very long before; but the presumption of the stranger struck him as something inexcusable.
The visitor was a slim young man, with large dark eyes, and that “interesting” look which women are said to admire, and which men regard with savage scorn. Fanshawe was not handsome himself; his eyes were of no particular colour, and he was more muscular than interesting. Therefore his scorn was intensified. Instinctive dislike and enmity filled his mind, when he saw young Hepburn’s head bent so low over Marjory’s hand.
“I thought I might come to ask,” said Hepburn, hurriedly. “I did not hope to see you. I came in only because Fleming insisted, without any wish to thrust myself—Miss Heriot, you will be good and kind, as you always are. You got my note?”