Gradually Alexander joined; between them, whether he would or no, they forced a word or two from John; and these fell so tremulously, and spoke so eloquently of a mind oppressed with dread, that Mr. Nicholson relented. At length even he contributed a question: and before the meal was at an end all four were talking even freely.
Prayers followed, with the servants gaping at this newcomer whom no one had admitted; and after prayers there came that moment on the clock which was the signal for Mr. Nicholson’s departure.
“John,” said he, “of course you will stay here. Be very careful not to excite Maria, if Miss Mackenzie thinks it desirable that you should see her.—Alexander, I wish to speak with you alone.” And then, when they were both in the back-room: “You need not come to the office to-day,” said he; “you can stay and amuse your brother, and I think it would be respectful to call on Uncle Greig. And, by-the-by” (this spoken with a certain—dare we say?—bashfulness), “I agree to concede the principle of an allowance; and I will consult Dr. Durie, who is quite a man of the world and has sons of his own, as to the amount. And, my fine fellow, you may consider yourself in luck!” he added, with a smile.
“Thank you,” said Alexander.
Before noon a detective had restored to John his money, and brought news, sad enough in truth, but perhaps the least sad possible. Alan Houston had been found in his own house in Regent Terrace, under care of the terrified butler. He was quite mad, and instead of going to prison, had been taken to Morningside Asylum. The murdered man, it appeared, was an evicted tenant who had for nearly a year pursued his late landlord with threats and insults; and beyond this, the cause and details of the tragedy were lost.
When Mr. Nicholson returned for dinner they were able to put a despatch into his hands:—“John V. Nicholson, Randolph Crescent, Edinburgh.—Kirkman has disappeared; police looking for him. All understood. Keep mind quite easy.—Austin.” Having had this explained to him, the old gentleman took down the cellar key and departed for two bottles of the 1820 port. Uncle Greig dined there that day, and cousin Robina, and, by an odd chance, Mr. MacEwen; and the presence of these strangers relieved what might have been otherwise a somewhat strained relation. Ere they departed the family was welded once more into a fair semblance of unity.
In the end of April John led Flora—or, let us say, as more descriptive, Flora led John—to the altar, if altar that may be called which was indeed the drawing-room mantelpiece in Mr. Nicholson’s house, the Reverend Dr. Durie posted on the hearthrug in the guise of Hymen’s priest.
The last I saw of them, on a recent visit to the north, was at a dinner-party in the house of my old friend Gellatly Macbride; and after we had, in classic phrase, “rejoined the ladies,” I had an opportunity to overhear Flora conversing with another married woman on the much canvassed matter of a husband’s tobacco.
“O yes!” said she; “I only allow Mr. Nicholson four cigars a day. Three he smokes at fixed times—after a meal, you know, my dear; and the fourth he can take when he likes with any friend.”
“Bravo!” thought I to myself; “this is the wife for my friend John!”