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Updated: May 5, 2025
Some were sent back to Moffat in charge of the lads who rode the extra tracers used in snowy weather for the few miles of heavy collar-work out of Moffat; of the rest, loaded with the mail-bags, MacGeorge led one, Goodfellow, the coachman, another; and the two set off for Tweedshaws, accompanied by a man named Marchbanks, the Moffat roadman, who had been a passenger on the coach.
He had been convinced for some time that one of the next things he should hear would be that Julia Dallow had arranged to marry either Mr. Macgeorge or some other master of multitudes.
And the little knot of faithful admirers who, according to custom, daily assembled by one's and two's about the inn door at Moffat to wait the coming of the coach their one excitement agreed that "MacGeorge would gang on if the de'il himsel' stude across the road." MacGeorge was guard of the mail-coach, a fine, determined man, an old soldier, one imbued with abnormally strong sense of duty.
She opened and closed her fan looking down at it while she submitted to his mild violence. "All I want is that when a man like Mr. Macgeorge talks to you you shouldn't appear bored to death. You used to be so charming under those inflictions. Now you appear to take no interest in anything. At dinner to-night you scarcely opened your lips; you treated them all as if you only wished they'd go."
Snow still fell in the morning, but the worst of the storm seemed over when Marchbanks again started to try for Tweedshaws to ascertain if MacGeorge and Goodfellow had won their way through.
"He'll be where you'll never be unless you change." "To be where Mr. Macgeorge is not would be very much my desire. Therefore why should I change?" Nick demanded. "However, I hadn't the least intention of being rude to him, and I don't think I was," he went on. "To the best of my ability I assume a virtue if I haven't it; but apparently I'm not enough of a comedian."
It was but four miles to Tweedshaws, yet before they had struggled through half the distance the horses had come to a standstill, utterly blown and exhausted; nothing could get them to stir forward, or longer to face the drift. Marchbanks suggested that now at length they might reasonably turn and fight their way back. Goodfellow hesitated. "What say ye, Jamie?" he asked of MacGeorge.
Only when you challenge me and overhaul me not justly, I think I must confess the simple truth, that there are many of your friends I don't delight in." "Oh your idea of pleasant people!" Julia lamented. "I should like once for all to know what it really is." "I can tell you what it really isn't: it isn't Mr. Macgeorge. He's a being almost grotesquely limited."
It struck him there was nothing he couldn't work for enough with her to be so worked with by her. Presently he said: "You want to be sure the man you marry will be prime minister of England. But how can you be really sure with any one?" "I can be really sure some men won't!" Julia returned. "The only safe thing perhaps would be to-marry Mr. Macgeorge," he suggested. "Possibly not even him."
Many have been the snowy years since that in which MacGeorge threw away life for duty's sake.
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