He called at the office on his way to the railway station, and he was met
by the manager with an exclamation of peculiar satisfaction. "No one could
be more welcome at this hour, Mr. Allan," he said; "we were all longing
for you. There is bad news from Russia."
"My father?"
"Is very ill. He took a severe cold in a night journey over the Novgorod
Steppe, and he is prostrate with rheumatic fever at Riga. I had just told
Luggan to be ready to leave by to-night's train for Hull. I think that
will be the quickest route."
"I can catch the noon train. I will call in an hour for money and advices,
and go myself."
"That is what I expected as soon as I saw you. Have you heard that Miss
Campbell is very ill?"
"No. Is she at Drumloch? Who is caring for her?"
"She is at Drumloch. Dr. Fleming goes from Glasgow every day to consult
with the Ayr doctor. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Leslie, is an old servant, she
was with Miss Campbell's mother; forbye, Fleming says, she has with her a
young lady friend who never leaves the sick room night or day."
"I was just going out to Drumloch, but that is now neither possible nor
desirable. I could be of no use to Miss Campbell, I can be everything to
my father."
Allan had only one call to make. It was upon a middle-aged man, who had
long been employed by their house in affairs demanding discernment and
secrecy. Few words passed between them. Allan laid a small likeness of
Maggie on the table with a £100 Bank of England note, and said, "Simon
Fraser, I want you to find that young lady for me. If you have good news
when I return, I will give you another hundred pounds."
"Have you any suggestions, Mr. Allan? Is she in Glasgow?"
"I think so. You might watch churches and dressmakers."
"Am I to speak to her?"
"Not a word."
"Shall I go to the office with reports?"
"No. Keep all information until I come for it. Remember the lady is worthy
of the deepest respect. On no account suffer her to discover that you are
doing for me what unavoidable circumstances prevent me from doing myself."
An hour after this interview Allan was on his way to Riga. In every life
there are a few sharp transitions. People pass in a moment, as it were,
from one condition to another, and it seemed to Allan as if he never could
be quite the same again. That intangible, un-namable charm of a happy and
thoughtless youth had suddenly slipped away from him, and he was sure that
at this hour he looked at things as he could not have looked at them a
week before. And yet extremities always find men better than they think
they are. His love and his duty set before Allan, he had not put his own
happiness for one moment before his father's welfare and relief. Without
delay and without grudging he had answered his call for help and sympathy.