XII. A FORTUNATE JOURNEY. "Not by appointment do we meet delight "Marriage, and death, and division, Make barren our lives." THE HE mere "gummidging" of selfish pessimism never brings help or practical relief in trouble, and Angus was sure, in spite of his weariness and uncertainty, that he had done right to face his doubts. and fears, and so resolve them. With the calmness of decision he waited, scarcely noting anything around him except the general air of wealth and tasteful magnificence. Perhaps he was conscious also of a vague fear lest his unexpected presence should prove embarrassing to his mother. But if so, he had scarcely time to be unhappy about it, for in a very few minutes she appeared. He was standing on the hearth when the door opened, and he turned around and looked eagerly at the advancing woman. Her face was full of love and light. came toward him with her hands outstretched, and before he was conscious of his own movement he had clasped her to his heart. She "How handsome you are, mother!" was his first commonplace remark, and he held her at arm's length and let his gaze take in the strong, noble face and ample, yet not ungraceful form, fitly clothed in flowing silk. "How handsome you are! I am very proud of you." "When did you come to London, my dear lad?" "I have just arrived." "And you are tired, and sleepy, and hungry?" "Just so." She touched a bell, and it was promptly answered. "Park, take Mr. Bruce's valise into No. 2. See that the fire is good. Tell Gibson to carry there a pot of tea and some cold game and whatever is necessary for Mr. Bruce's refreshment." Then turning to Bruce, "I'll hear naething, and I'll say naething at this hour, Angus. You'll go and get yoursel' warmed, and fed, and rested, and then you'll put on the vera best o' your claithes and the finest o' your linen, and we twa will hae dinner thegither-we twa by oursels -for my Lady goes to Lord Gowrie's to dinner, and then you sall tell me a' that is in your heart, dear lad, and I will gie you whate'er comfort and help I can gie." She was taking him upstairs as she spoke, and in a few minutes he found himself alone in a handsome little parlor, the ante-room to a fine chamber, whose luxurious bed was almost overpoweringly inviting. But he was also hungry, and the tinkle of the glass and china, the refreshing odor of the tea, the cold game and pastry were equally tempting. He washed and ate and then slept as he had not done for many weeks-a deep, dreamless slumber, which filled him with a sense of rest from head to feet. He slept for hours; it seemed to him as if it must be morning when he opened his eyes. His mother, with a lighted wax candle in her hand stood at his side. She had been watching him asleep. for some moments, and she had felt how different was this face from the face of babyhood and boyhood. For when men sleep the soul comes to their face, as the water lily to the surface; and she saw its love and sorrow, its hope and fear, written upon the pallor of those white features. He opened his eyes and caught the love in hers, and he knew her instantly. He was sure he would have known her, even if there had been no word of explanation between them. She stooped and kissed him, and said: "Rise now, Angus, and dress yoursel' with your utmost care. We hae to think o' the servants, laddie; and for my sake, you must hold yoursel' to your topmost bent and place." "I will do whatever you wish, mother. What time is it? Have I slept long?" "A matter o' four hours. My lady is gane, and willna be back till after midnight. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, and I'll come back here for you. You sall tak' your ain mother on your arm first; there's nane here that hae mair than my right." He pondered her words as he dressed, but could make nothing of them; and he was proud and happy indeed to feel her on his arm as they passed slowly down the grand stairway. The dinner was a very fine one, and was served with the utmost nicety and care. They two alone partook of it. When it was over they went to a small parlor in the rear of the diningroom. Here Ann brought her knitting, and Angus sat down by her side. She asked him no direct question, and yet he felt her sympathy so kind and kindling that he had no hesitation in opening all his heart to her. He told her everything-how his love for Scotia began, and how it had been trammeled and controlled by the Colonel's confidence in him. "She loves me, mother, I know; or, at least, she did love me; and I have heard nothing from her directly since she went to Lady Yarrow, except "-then with reddening cheeks he confessed all about the valentine, his longing, his sin, and his remorse for his sin. "So you see, mother, I have been tossed about like a rudderless boat, and at last it came into my heart to 'go to mother.' I thought 'no one can do wrong in seeking a good mother's advice,' and this is why you find me here to-night." "My dear one, you have done right. Sae the lassie loves you?" "Indeed, I believe she does. And I do want to see her. Do you think I may call upon her? Can you tell me where Lady Yarrow lives? What hour of the day will be best to call?" There was a happy smile on Ann's face, as she answered: "Naething is likely to prevent you seeing her. I'll tak' vera gude care you do see her. And I dinna doubt but what a happy hour will come your way. My dear lad, what gude lassie wouldna love you? She is little to be blamed for it. You ken I saw her sister, when I was at Rodney House wi' you?" "Bertha? Oh, Bertha is nothing like Scotia !" "I'm gay glad o' that. I didna fall in love wi' Bertha Rodney, onyway. And I'm weel pleased you werna ta'en captive wi' her blinking black e'en. She had vera sweet words and ways, but I didna trust them; and sae I didna like them." Then Angus found his opportunity to describe the beauty and charm of the beloved Scotia. His language was so vivid and he set the girl so clearly before them, that Ann said: "Man! when did you see her last? Surely you were dreaming before dinner o' that tall, fair girl in the shiny white satin dress?” "Oh mother! if I could only see her again for five minutes I should be happy. Just five minutes, in which she should tell me truly if she loves me yet and will be my wife." "Weel, weel Angus, bide ye yet, and bide ye yet Ye never ken what will betide ye yet, This bonnie sweet lassie may fa' to your lot, Sae just be canty wi' thinking o' 't." In such conversation, with its side issues of the Rodneys and the Free Kirk, time sped very rapidly. The clock struck one. It was another day. Angus spoke of it with anxiety. "I have but a short time in London," he said. "I must try and see her to-day. Mother, whose house is this? I have not asked you before, because I thought every time you spoke you would tell me. But I ought to know, do you not think so?" 'Yes, I do; but I am thinking, likewise, that my lady willna be pleased to hae me tak' the words out o' her lips. I shall tell her as soon as she comes hame that you are here, and it's no unlikely she'll send at once for you. I thoct o' this likelihood, when I said, 'put on the best in your keeping"." As she was speaking, a carriage drove rapidly to the door, and there was the silent stir which is usually all that accompanies a return from an entertainment. A few sharp words to the sleepy porter-the clashing of the main doors-the slipping of the big bolts-and |