“It is from Mr. Fanshawe,” she said, with a consciousness for which she could have taken instant vengeance on herself; “he has gone to London. He said he would let me know where he had gone.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Charles; and Miss Jean’s eyes lighted up.
Marjory let the letter lie by her plate as if it was of no importance, but felt her cheeks grow hotter and hotter. Ridiculous! She determined to write him a most matter-of-fact reply, which should make an end of this discursive nonsense. If he thought she had leisure for a sentimental correspondence, she must convince him to the contrary; how absurd it was! And yet to be thus put upon a pedestal of absolute superiority, and worshipped in this covert way, is not in itself disagreeable. A little weakness stole about her heart; insensibly it occurred to her during the forenoon that there were several things she would like to consult him about. She slid the letter quietly into her pocket before she left the table. It happened to her to look at it again during the course of the day, just “to see what he had said” about his present occupations. As it happened he had not said anything. But how was Marjory to recollect that?
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Charles Heriot had not come to the High Street without an object. He had left Pitcomlie on the morning after Marjory left it, and had proceeded straight to his house in Edinburgh to review the capabilities of George Square; and he had not been very well satisfied with those capabilities. The house had not been inhabited since it had been in his possession. It was an excellent old-fashioned house, worth a dozen of the ordinary habitations which fall to your lot and mine, dear reader; but it was furnished with mere chairs and tables, bookcases and side-boards, not with any associations or kindly customs of use and wont. There was some old spindle-legged furniture, which had belonged to some Leddy Pitcomlie in the beginning of last century, with which Marjory could have made a quaint corner to live in, in one part, at least, of the chilly, uninhabited drawing-room, converting it all at once into such a chamber as some Jacobite lady might have received the Chevalier in, or where Mrs. Anne Keith might have discoursed to young Walter Scott. But Mr. Charles’s imagination was dulled by the vexations and embarrassments that possessed him, and he could not realize this; and his decision about George Square was that it would not do. The chain of habit was very hard to break with Mr. Charles; but when once broken, he was impatient, and almost lawless, rushing into any novelty that presented itself. The novelty in this case, however, was not extravagant. What he did was simply to take a house in St. Andrew’s for the summer; and it was this which he had come to intimate to the household in the High Street.
“Not but what Marjory would be very happy with you, poor thing,” he said to Aunt Jean; “perhaps more happy than I can hope to see her; but still it will be more of a change. After griefs like hers, and all that has happened, I have always heard that a change was the best thing; and as she’s used to me and my ways—”
“You need not apologize, Chairles Heriot,” said the old lady. “If I ever deluded myself I was to get a companion, it’s best to undeceive me; but I did not delude myself. I’m used to live alone, and no doubt after the first I would have gone back to my crabbed ways. But there’s one thing I must say. I’m fond of the girl, though she maybe does not give me credit for it, and she shall have all I’ve got to leave; I said in my haste she was my natural heir, and too natural, and a Miss Heriot doomed, all her days, like me. But mind this, if you take May away, I’ll no have her back. I give her to you on one condition, and that is, that you’ll marry her well. Marry that girrl, and marry her well, and you’ll have my blessing, and I’ll think better of ye, Chairles, than I’ve ever thought all your days.”
“Marry her, and marry her well!” cried Mr. Charles, in dismay; “and how am I to do that? I have never married myself, and neither have you.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” said Miss Jean, promptly. “The more reason that Marjory should; there’s enough of us poor dry trees, with nothing to leave behind. If you have any respect for the past generation, of which I’m the last representative, Charlie Heriot, you’ll do what I say. Marry her well; she’s worthy the trouble. She’ll make such a man’s wife as few men deserve, that’s my opinion. Mind, I’m not saying but what she might be mended; but marry her, and marry her well, Charlie, or you’ll get nothing from me.”
“Perhaps you would tell me how I’m to do it?” said Mr. Charles, with sarcastic seriousness.