Both, after he had closed his observations, mused for some time, when the baronet, rising and pacing to and fro, as was his custom, at length asked—­“Well, my lord, what say you?  Are we never to come to a conclusion?”

“My determination is simply this, my dear baronet,—­that, if you and Miss Gourlay are satisfied to take Lord Dunroe, with all his imperfections on his head, I shall give no opposition.  She will, unless he amends and reforms, take him, I grant you, at her peril; but be it so.  If the union, as, you say, will be the result of mutual attachment, in God’s name let them marry.  It is possible, we are assured, that the ‘unbelieving husband may be saved by the believing wife.’”

“I am quite satisfied, my lord, with this arrangement; it is fair, and just, and honorable, and I am perfectly willing to abide by it.  When does your lordship propose to return to us?”

“I am tired of public life, my dear baronet.  My daughter, Lady Emily, who, you know, has chiefly resided with her maiden aunt, hopes to succeed in prevailing on her to accompany us to Glenshee Castle, to spend the summer and autumn, and visit some of the beautiful scenery of this unknown land of ours.  Something, as to time, depends upon Dunroe’s convalescence.  My stay in England, however, will be as short as I can make it.  I am getting too old for the exhausting din and bustle of society; and what I want now, is quiet repose, time to reflect upon my past life, and to prepare myself, as well as I can, for a new change.  Of course, we will be both qualified to resume the subject of this marriage after my return, and, until then, farewell, my dear baronet.  But mark me—­no force, no violence.”

Sir Thomas, as he shook hands with him, laughed—­“None will be necessary, my lord, I assure you—­I pledge you my honor for that.”

The worthy baronet, on mounting his horse, paced him slowly out of the grounds, as was his custom when in deep meditation.

“If I don’t mistake,” thought he, “I have a clew to this same mysterious gentleman in the inn.  He has seen and become acquainted with Lucy in Paris, under sanction of her weak-minded and foolish mother.  The girl herself admitted that her engagement to him was with her consent.  Dunroe, already aware of his attentions to her, becomes jealous, and on meeting him in London quarrels with him, that is to say, forces him, I should think, into one;—­not that the fellow seems at all to be a coward either,—­but why the devil did not the hot-headed young scoundrel take steadier aim, and send the bullet through his heart or brain?  Had he pinked him, it would have saved me much vexation and trouble.”

He then passed to another train of thought—­“Thomas Gourlay,—­plain Thomas Gourlay—­what the devil could the corpse-like hag mean by that?  Is it possible that this insane scoundrel will come to light in spite of me?  Would to Heaven that I could ascertain his whereabouts, and get him into my power once more.  I would take care to put him in a place of safety.”  He then touched his horse with the spurs, and proceeded to Red Hall at a quicker pace.