“To her in the ordinary sense?  To her prospects of marriage and her standing in the eyes of the community?  No, Finlay.  No.  I have not heard the matter much referred to.  You seem to have taken none of the ordinary means—­you have not distinguished her in the eyes of gossip.  If you had it would be by no means the gravest thing to consider.  Such tokens are quickly forgotten, especially here, where attentions of the kind often, I’ve noticed, lead to nothing.  It is the fact, and not the appearance of it, that I speak of—­that I am concerned with.”

“The fact is beyond mending,” said Finlay, dully.

“Aye, the fact is beyond mending.  It is beyond mending that Advena Murchison belongs to you and you to her in no common sense.  It’s beyond mending that you cannot now be separated without such injury to you both as I would not like to look upon.  It’s beyond mending, Finlay, because it is one of those things that God has made.  But it is not beyond marring, and I charge you to look well what you are about in connection with it.”

A flash of happiness, of simple delight, lit the young man’s sombre eyes as the phrases fell.  To the minister they were mere forcible words; to Finlay they were soft rain in a famished land.  Then he looked again heavily at the pattern of the carpet.

“Would you have me marry Advena Murchison?” he said, with a kind of shamed yielding to the words.

“I would—­and no other.  Man, I saw it from the beginning!” exclaimed the Doctor.  “I don’t say it isn’t an awkward business.  But at least there’ll be no heartbreak in Scotland.  I gather you never said a word to the Bross lady on the subject, and very few on any other.  You tell me you left it all with that good woman, your aunt, to arrange after you left.  Do you think a creature of any sentiment would have accepted you on those terms?  Not she.  So far as I can make out, Miss Cameron is just a sensible, wise woman that would be the first to see the folly in this business if she knew the rights of it.  Come, Finlay, you’re not such a great man with the ladies—­you can’t pretend she has any affection for you.”

The note of raillery in the Doctor’s voice drew Finlay’s brows together.

“I don’t know,” he said, “whether I have to think of her affections, but I do know I have to think of her dignity, her confidence, and her belief in the honourable dealing of a man whom she met under the sanction of a trusted roof.  The matter may look light here; it is serious there.  She has her circle of friends; they are acquainted with her engagement.  She has made all her arrangements to carry it out; she has disposed of her life.  I cannot ask her to reconsider her lot because I have found a happier adjustment for mine.”

“Finlay,” said Dr Drummond, “you will not be known in Bross or anywhere else as a man who has jilted a woman.  Is that it?”

“I will not be a man who has jilted a woman.”