“Well, you see, Mr. Mackenzie,” he was beginning, “you must make this excuse for him—”
But Mackenzie put aside Lavender at once. It was all about Sheila that he wanted to know. There was no anger in his words; only a great anxiety and sometimes an extraordinary and pathetic effort to take a philosophical view of the situation. What had Sheila said? Was Sheila deeply interested in the young man? Would it please Sheila if he was to go in-doors and give at once his free consent to her marrying this Mr. Lavender?
“Oh, you must not think,” said Mackenzie, with a certain loftiness of air, even amidst his great perturbation and anxiety—“you must not think I hef not foreseen all this. It wass some day or other Sheila will be sure to marry; and although I did not expect—no, I did not expect that—that she would marry a stranger and an Englishman, if it will please her, that is enough. You cannot tell a young lass the one she should marry; it iss all a chance the one she likes, and if she does not marry him it is better she will not marry at all. Oh, yes, I know that ferry well. And I hef known there wass a time coming when I would give away my Sheila to some young man; and there iss no use complaining of it. But you hef not told me much about this young man, or I hef forgotten; it is the same thing whatever. He has not much money, you said—he is waiting for some money. Well, this is what I will do, I will give him all my money if he will come and live in the Lewis.”
All the philosophy he had been mustering up fell away from that last sentence. It was like the cry of a drowning man who sees the last lifeboat set out for shore, leaving him to his fate. And Ingram had not a word to say in reply to that piteous entreaty.
“I do not ask him to stop in Borva; no, it iss a small place for one that hass lived in a town. But the Lewis, that is quite different; and there iss very good houses in Stornoway.”
“But, surely, sir,” said Ingram, “you need not consider all this just yet. I am sure neither of them has thought any such thing.”
“No,” said Mackenzie, recovering himself, “perhaps not. But we hef our duties to look at the future of young folks. And you will say that Mr. Lavender hass only expectations of money?”
“Well, the expectation is almost a certainty. His aunt, I have told you, is a very rich old lady, who has no other near relations, and she is extremely fond of him, and would do anything for him. I am sure the allowance he has now is greatly in excels of what she spends on herself.”
“But they might quarrel, you know—they might quarrel. You hef always to look to the future; they might quarrel and what will he do then?”
“Why, you don’t suppose he couldn’t support himself if the worst were to come to the worst? He is an amazingly clever fellow—”