“Do not think of it,” said Christian. “We are all at peace now, Marion, living and dead; and he the safest, peacefullest, most joyous of us all.”
“And then he told us of Lilie,” said Marion after a long silence. “And how you, Anne, became attached to the little stranger child; and we listened, endeavoring to look as if we did not know or care—I wonder at myself how I succeeded.”
“And did you never tell him?” said Anne.
“No. Norman reserved it as a surprise to him when they should reach Strathoran. He wondered, I could see, why we were so anxious to come here, but he did not ask. Norman regards him almost as a younger brother. He is very anxious that he should have a situation more suitable for him, than the one he held at Buenos Ayres; but he will tell you his arrangements himself;—where is Norman?”
He was out, no one knew where he was.
He was at that moment stooping his lofty head, to enter the door-way of a solitary cottage—a very mean and poor one—at some distance from the Brig of Oran. Its inhabitant in former days had known Mr. Norman of Merkland well. She had been an old woman when he left home—she was a very old woman, decrepid and feeble, now; yet on the first day after his return, his kindly remembrance of old days carried the restored Laird, the great merchant, to the cottage of the “old Janet,” who had given him apples and bannocks in his youth.
And in the long walk they took, the father and son made many similar visits, to the great amazement of Lawrie, who knowing his father a reserved grave man, called proud by strangers, was very greatly at a loss how to account for these many friendships. The hearty kindliness of these old cottage people, in which there was fully as much affection as awe, and the frank familiarity of his father, puzzled Lawrie mightily. He did by no means understand it.
They had begun with Esther Fleming’s house—they ended with the Tower. Between these two, besides the cottage visitations we have mentioned, with all the joyful wonder of their recognitions, they visited a grave—a grave which had received another name since Norman Rutherford left his fatherland, and on which Lawrie read with awe and reverence, names of his ancestry the same as his own, and near the end, that of “Lawrence Ross, aged 15,” his own age, who was his uncle.
In the meantime, at a solemn private conference in the little room, Mrs. Catherine was receiving Archibald’s report.
“Mr. Sinclair’s proposal to me,” said Archibald, “is of so liberal a kind that I feel almost ashamed to accept it. Mr. Lumsden, the manager at Glasgow, has been received as junior partner into the firm, and is intended to succeed Mr. Sinclair at Buenos Ayres. Mr. Sinclair offers me Mr. Lumsden’s situation in Glasgow, in the meantime, as he says, with a speedy prospect of entering the house. He himself intends to withdraw, and he talks of my chance of taking his place in the firm. This for me, who went out a poor clerk only a year ago, looks ridiculously Utopian; but the managership—Mr. Lumsden’s situation, is sure—and it is higher than, in ordinary circumstances, I could have hoped to rise for years.”