“Mind what I say,” said Mrs. Catherine, “its only for a time. They shall recover their ancient holdings, every inch of them; their right to the land is as good as Archie’s; the clansman holds it on as clear a title as the chief. Mind, I put this in the bargain; that whenever the estate returns to its rightful owner, the Macalpines return to Oranmore.”
Mr. Ferguson’s eyes glistened. He seemed to be looking forward to some apocryphal future gladness, which he dared hardly venture to believe in, yet to which his heart could not choose but cling. God speed the adventurer in the new world!
Mr. Lumsden proceeded down stairs immediately, to visit the aged and sick who had been brought to the Tower: in a short time he returned. The guests young and old were more amalgamated than before; they were sitting in a wide circle round Mrs. Catherine’s chair. They did not perceive the minister’s entrance: for some reason known to himself he stepped behind the window-curtain. He was looking out upon the clear, cold, starry night.
“Bless me,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “Mr. Lumsden is in high favor with us all. It’s a wonder a fine young man like him has not got a wife yet.”
Marjory Falconer looked thundery; she had been aware of a private telegraphic sign made by the hand of a certain tall dark figure, which was looking out upon the night.
“All in good time,” said Mrs. Coulter, “he is but a young man yet.”
“How old would you say?” inquired Mrs. Bairnsfather.
“Oh! one or two and thirty perhaps—not more.”
“Not more!” Mrs. Bairnsfather had a vindictive recollection of sundry invasions of her husband’s parish. “I’ll warrant him a good five years older than that.”
“Well, well,” said the good-humored agriculturist. “He is not too old to be married yet, that is a consolation.”