These days passed on in suspense and anxiety to Mrs. Catherine.
Uncertain what to believe or disbelieve, concerning the young man in
whose fortunes she was so deeply interested, her strong spirit chafed
and struggled in its compulsory inactivity. Nor did Lewis's report of
Mrs. Duncombe's friends, in any degree still her anxiety. Fashionable
ladies stood low in Mrs. Catherine's opinion at all times; and her
strong nationality aggravated tenfold her dislike to fashionable ladies
in Paris--French or semi-French. Had it not been for Alice, Mrs.
Catherine herself would have been on her way to Paris ere now. But
unwilling to send the girl abruptly home, and riveted besides by a
hundred little ties, which made her absence from the Tower (she had not
left it since her sorrowful journey, thirty years' ago, from Sholto's
island grave) seem an impossibility; she waited--we are constrained to
admit, not patiently--for further tidings, inclined to hope sometimes
that Mr. Foreman's benevolent surmise might be well-founded; and anon,
cast down, and venting her grief in a show of bitter indignation at "the
prodigal that could sell his birthright."
Many solitary hours were spent during that anxious fortnight (for mails
travelled tardily thirty years ago) in the little room--and many
wrestlings of secret, silent prayer these narrow walls were witness to.
Jacky, gliding hither and thither in her elfin ubiquity, could hear Mrs.
Catherine's step shake the floor; and listened in tremulous awe and
reverence sometimes to those often-repeated words, the burden of Mrs.
Catherine's anxiety: "Isabel Balfour's one son--that might have been
_your_ firstborn, Sholto Douglas!" But Jacky, with a sentiment of honor
peculiar to herself, kept her knowledge of Mrs. Catherine's trouble,
jealously within her own mind, and in the intervals of her heterogeneous
occupations, and no less heterogeneous studies, wove dreams of that
young Laird of Strathoran, over whom Mrs. Catherine prayed and
mourned--and creating for his especial service, some such wondrous
vassal as the Genii of Aladdin, conjured Sholto Douglas back to life and
lands again, and made the prodigal his heir and son.
Little Bessie, Alice Aytoun's maid, did not know what to make of that
strange, thin, angular girl, with her dark keen face, and eccentric
motions, and singular language. Bessie, plump, rosy and good-humored,
looked on in wondering silence as Jacky sat on the carpet in the
library, bent almost double over some mighty old volume from those heavy
and well-filled shelves--was inclined to laugh sometimes, yet checking
herself in mysterious reverence, revolved in her mind the possibility
of Mrs. Catherine's frequent epithet "you elf"--having in it some shadow
of truth. Bessie had read fairy tales in her day, and knew that in these
authentic histories there were such things as changelings--could this
strange Jacky be one? The flying footsteps, and bold leaps and
climbings, which Bessie did not venture to emulate, gave some color to
the supposition, so did these out-of-the-way studies and singular
expressions; but Jacky withal was not malicious, nor evil-tempered, and
Bessie paused before condemning her. On consulting Johnnie Halflin on
the subject, she found him as much puzzled as herself.
"For ye see," said Johnnie, "she was never at the schule--and look till
her reading! I was three--four year at it mysel, the haill winter; for
ye ken in this part, Bessie, it's no' like a toun--there's the beasts to
herd all the summer and other turns, till the shearing's by; but I wad
rather hae a day's kemping with that illwilly nowt that winna bide out
o' the corn, than sit down to the books wi' Jacky. She kens best herself
where she learnt it."
"And look how she speaks," ejaculated Bessie.
"Speaks! ye have not heard her get to her English--it's like listening
to the leddies. No Mrs. Catherine ye see, for one canna think what words
_she_ says--ye just ken when ye hear her, that ye maun do what ye're
bidden in a moment; but Jacky! ye would think she got it a' out of
books--whiles, when ye anger her--"
"Eh, Johnnie! yonder she is, coming fleeing down the hill," cried little
Bessie in alarm, as a flying figure paused on a ridge of the steep
eminence above them, and drew itself back for a final race to the
bottom. "Look! ye would think she never touched the ground."
"Whist, whist," said Johnnie, apprehensively, "she can hear ony sound
about the place, as quick as Oscar, and Oscar's the best watch in the
parish--be quiet, Bessie."
The youthful gossips were standing, during their gloaming hour of
leisure, at the back of a knot of outhouses, barns, and stables, and
Jacky came sweeping down upon them out of breath.
"Are you there, Johnnie Halflin? is that you, Bessie? Has my mother been
in the barn yet?--whisht, there she's speaking."
"No, it's Jean," said the lad; "the cow's better, and Jean said she
would never let on there had been onything the matter wi't, or else the
puir beast would be killed wi' physic. Ye needna tell on her, Jacky--ye
wadna like to harm a bonnie cow like yon, yoursel."
"And we'll no' tell on you," added Bessie.
"I'm no caring," was the quick response, "whether ye tell on me or
no--only if you do, Bessie, I'll never be friends with ye again; and if
you do, Johnnie, ye'll catch grief. Guess where I've been."
"Scooring ower the hills on a heather besom," said Johnnie, "seeking the
fairies--they say ye're one yoursel."
A sweep of Jacky's energetic arm sent Johnnie staggering down the path.
"I have been down at Robert Melder's mill, and there's a bairn there--a
little girl--Bessie, ye never saw the like of it!"
"Is't a' dressed in green, and riding on a white powny?" said Mrs.
Catherine's youthful servingman, returning to the charge.
"Ye're a fuil," retorted Jacky, flushing indignantly, "how do the like
of you ken what's true and what's a fable? There was a lady once, that
led a lion in her hand--_you_ dinna ken what that means--and if there
were gentle spirits lang syne in the air, what do you ken about them?
Bessie, come with me the morn, and see the little bairn. I like to hear
her speak; she says words like what you hear in dreams."
Jacky's companions indulged in a smothered laugh.
"Has she wings?" asked the lad.
"I will throw ye into the Oran, Johnnie Halflin," cried Jacky, in wrath;
"if ye do not hold your peace in a minute. Miss Anne saved her life, and
she speaks a strange language that naebody kens; and she's from a
strange country; and she's like--"
"Oh, I saw her mysel," interrupted Johnnie, "a bit wee smout, wi' her
frock burning--saved her life! how grand we're speaking! I could have
done't mysel, a' that Miss Anne did, and made nae work about it--only I
had Merkland's horse to haud."
"I have seen a face like it," said Jacky, thoughtfully, "a' but the
eyes."
"Eh, and isna Mr. Ross a fine young gentleman?" said little Bessie.
Bessie was glad to seize upon the first tangible point.
"How would ye like to bide constant in Strathoran, Bessie," said Johnnie
Halflin, "down bye at Merkland? Eh, disna Mr. Lewis gie weary looks up
at the easter tower?"
Bessie bridled, and drew herself up with pleased consciousness, as her
mistress's representative.
"I wonder at ye, Johnnie! how can ye speak such nonsense?"
"Is't Miss Aytoun Mr. Lewis looks up for?" inquired Jacky.
Her companions answered with a laugh.
"I think," said the boy, "for my ain part, that there's not a young
leddy in a' Strathoran like Miss Aytoun. She's out-o'-sight bonnier than
Miss Anne."
Jacky pushed him indignantly away.
"A fine judge you are. Like a big turnip your ain sel. A clumsy Swede,
like what they give to the kye. But, Bessie, do you think Mr. Lewis is
in--" Jacky hesitated, her own singular romance making it sacrilege to
speak the usual word in presence of those ruder comrades: "do ye think
Mr. Lewis _likes_ Miss Alice? he's no courting her?"
Bessie smiled, blushed, and looked dignified.
"O, Jacky, how do I ken?"
"Does Miss Alice like _him_?"
"Jacky, what a question! Miss Alice disna tell me."
Jacky looked at her inquisitively, and finishing her share of the
conversation in her own abrupt fashion, shot into the byre to see the
ailing cow, from whence she soon after stole into the Tower, where an
irksome hour of compulsory stocking-knitting, in the comfortable
housekeeper's-room of Mrs. Euphan Morison, awaited Mrs. Euphan's
reluctant daughter. The room was a very cosy room in all things, but its
disagreeable odor of dried and drying herbs; and Jacky, after a reproof
from her mother, so habitual that it had sunk into a formula, took her
customary seat and work. Bessie joined her, by-and-bye, with some little
piece of sewing that she had to do for Miss Aytoun, and Johnnie Halflin,
less dignified, betook himself to the kitchen fire, to read, or joke, or
doze the evening out.
The time drew near when Mrs. Catherine's doubts concerning Archibald
Sutherland were to be solved. The strong old lady grew nervous on these
dim mornings, and opened her letter-bag with a tremor in her hand; but
when the latest day had come, there was still no letter from Paris.
Impatiently she tossed them out. There were two or three letters of
applicants for her vacant farm, the closely-written sheet of home-news
for Alice, business-notes of various kinds, but nothing from the
prodigal, whose interests lay so near her heart. She lifted them all
separately again, turned out the bag--in vain. Her clear eye had made no
blunder in its first quick investigation. Mrs. Catherine's brow
darkened. Alice hardly dared to approach timidly, and withdraw her own
letter from the little heap. Not that the face of her kinswoman
expressed anger, but it bore the impress of some unknown mental
struggle, which Alice, in the serene light of her girlish happiness, did
not even know by name.
So Alice stole up stairs to the fireside of her bright dressing-room, to
read the long mother's letter, overflowing with tender counsel and
affection, and to weave fair dreams--dreams of joy and honor to that
gentle mother, and all things pleasant and prosperous to James--round
one unacknowledged centre of her own. Pleasant are those bright
dream-mists of youthful reverie, with their vague fairy-land of
gladness--pleasant to weave their tinted web, indefinitely rich and
glorious, over that universe of golden air, with its long withdrawing
vistas--the wealthy future of youth.
But Mrs. Catherine sat still alone, her head bent forward, her keen eyes
looking into the blank depths of a mirror on the wall, as though, like
the hapless lady in the tale, she could read the wished-for tidings
there. The door opened slowly. Jacky, with some strange intuitive
knowledge of her mistress's anxiety, had been on the outlook from the
window of the west room, and had now glided down stairs to report. Mrs.
Catherine raised her head sharply as the girl's prefatory "If you
please!" fell on her ear.
"What ist', you elf?"
"If you please," continued Jacky, "it's Mr. Ferguson, the Strathoran
factor, gallopping up the waterside like to break his neck!"
Mrs. Catherine started to her feet.
"Take him to the library--I will be down myself in a moment. Are you
lingering, you fairy? Away with you!"
Jacky vanished, and Mrs. Catherine walked hastily through the room.
"He will have gotten tidings!" And then she was still for a moment, in
communion with One mightier than man, nerving herself for the "tidings,"
whatever they might be.
Jacky stood at the open door as Mr. Ferguson gallopped up, but he did
notice the unusual haste with which he was hurried into the library. A
cold dew was on his honest forehead; regret and grief were in his kindly
heart; the familiar ordinary things about him bore a strange look of
change. The difference was in his own agitated eyes, but he did not
think of that. Mrs. Catherine stood before him, calm and stern, in the
library.
"Mr. Ferguson, you have gotten tidings?"
The firm, strong figure reeled in Mr. Ferguson's dizzy eyes.
"Mr. Ferguson, you are troubled. Has the prodigal done his worst? Sit
down and calm yourself. I am waiting to hear?"
The factor sat down. Mrs. Catherine did not, but, clasping her hands
tightly together, stood before him and waited.
"I have bad news, Mrs. Catherine," said Mr. Ferguson; "worse news, a
hundred times, than ever I suspected--than ever you could expect.
Strathoran is fallen--ruined! No hope--no possibility of saving him! It
is all over!" And the strong man groaned.
"How and wherefore?" said Mrs. Catherine, sternly.
"He has sold his estate--parted with his home and his land to some
titled sharper in Paris. Sold! he has done worse--still more
dishonorable and fatal than that, he has _gambled_ it away; what his
father spent years to redeem, and set free _for him_, he has staked on
the chances of a game. Bear with me, Mrs. Catherine, if I speak
bitterly. The young man has disappointed all my hopes--ruined
himself--what will become of him?"
Mrs. Catherine stood with her head bowed down, but otherwise firmly
erect, and silent.
"What will he do?" repeated the distressed factor, "what can he do? land
and name, fortune and character, all lost. What has he left, as he
says, but despair--with his prospects too, his fair beginning. O, it is
enough to make a man distracted! What have they done, that unhappy race,
that they should be constantly thus--father and son, a wise man and a
prodigal, the one wasting his substance and his inheritance, the other
denying himself the lawful pleasures of a just life to win it back
again."
"Comfort yourself, Robert Ferguson," said Mrs. Catherine, bitterly, as
drawing forward a chair with emphatic rapidity, she seated herself at
the table, "there will be no son of the name again to waste years in
building up the house of Strathoran: their history has come to an
end--fitly ended in a rioter and a prodigal."
The factor looked up deprecatingly, the very words which his excitement
brought to his own lips, sounding harsh from another's.
"Mrs. Catherine, Mr. Archibald is young. When other lads were leaving
school or entering college, he was launched upon the world his own
master, with a great income and a large estate.--You know how easily the
light spirit of youth is moved, but you cannot know how the way of a
young man is hedged in with temptations--Mrs. Catherine!" the factor
raised his hand in appeal.
"Speak not to me," said Mrs. Catherine, "I know! yes truly, I know more
than you think, or give me credit for. Temptations! and what is
obedience that has never been tried, or strength that has not been
exercised in needful resistance? I bid ye listen to me, Robert
Ferguson--was there not a test appointed in Eden? and would you set
youself to say that the fool of a woman (that I should say so, who am of
her lineage and blood!) might be justified for her ill-doing, because
the fruit hung fair upon the tree, and tempted the wandering eye of her?
Think better of my judgment and bring no such pleas to me."
"What can I bring? What can I say?" said Mr. Ferguson, in a low voice.
"Is he to be left to live or die, as he best can, in yon strange
country? Are we to let him sink into a professional gamester, like the
men who have ruined him? I speak wildly.--He would never do that. I
myself must seek, in some other place, a livelihood for my family; and I
will get it; for my work is clear before me, and it is known that I can
do what I undertake; but for him, Mrs. Catherine, with no friend in this
wide world but yourself, who can give him efficient help--with not an
acre but these poor lands of Loelyin and Lochend, which are still
entailed; and, worse than all that, with his best years lost, his
principles unsettled, and a stain upon his name--what is to become of
him?"
"He will drink the beverage he has brewed," said Mrs. Catherine,
harshly. "He will have the reward of the waster, as I have told you
before now. Let him take his wages--let him want now, as he has sinfully
wasted. It is his righteous hire and reward."
"And you can see that, can think of that, and not stretch out a hand to
him?" cried the factor, nervously, as he rose from his chair. "Except my
hand and my head, Mrs. Catherine Douglas, I have no inheritance; and
your estate yields gold to you, greater every year; but, before I see
want come to Strathoran's son, I will labor night and day. The
professions are open to him yet.--His mother's uncle was a Lord of
Session; his father's cousin was the greatest physician in Edinburgh. I
bid you good morning, Mrs. Catherine. I have to write to Mr. Archibald,
without loss of time."
"Sit down upon your seat, this moment," said Mrs. Catherine,
authoritatively, "and do not speak to me like a fool, Robert Ferguson.
Let me hear Archie Sutherland's story, the worst and the best of it; and
spend a pound of your own siller on the rioter, at your peril! As if I
did not know one lad at the college was enough for any man. Sit down
upon your seat, and tell me the whole story, as I bid you, this moment;
or I vow to you, that your young advocate, if he had his gown the morn,
shall get no pleas of mine!"
Mr. Ferguson sat down, well pleased, and taking out a letter, laid it
silently before Mrs. Catherine. The letter was long, blurred, uneven,
and written, as it seemed, in hurried intervals, with breaks and
incoherent dashes of the pen between. It was not either very clear or
very coherent; but it told how rent and distracted the writer's heart
and spirit were, and what a ceaseless struggle raged and contended
there. The large soft folds of Mrs. Catherine's shawl shook as if a wind
had stirred them, but she did not speak; the moisture gathered thick
beneath her large eyelid, but was not shed, for Mrs. Catherine was not
given to tears. At last she closed the letter carefully, occupying much
more time in the operation than was necessary, and endeavored to assume
her former caustic tone to hide her graver emotions. "A fine story to
come to a gentlewoman withal! well, Mr. Ferguson, and what is it your
purpose that I should do for your rioter?"
"I do not know--I have not been able to think," said the factor, himself
moved even to weeping: "that something must be done, and that
immediately, is clear. If I had not been coming to you for assistance,
Mrs. Catherine, I should have come for advice, for how to proceed I
cannot see."
There was a considerable pause--at length, Mrs. Catherine started from
her seat and resumed her quick pacing of the room.
"Wherefore are we losing time--send a message home, to Woodsmuir to bid
them put up a change of apparel for you; ride into Portoran and get what
siller will be needful--do not be scrupulous--and go your ways this very
day, or, if it be too far spent, at the latest the morn, to the
prodigal. I would go myself, but the witless youth, as I see by his
letter, is feared for me, and you can maybe travel with less delay.
Bring him home. Strathoran can shelter him no longer, but the
dwelling-place of Sholto Douglas can never be closed upon Isabel
Balfour's son. I say to you, lose no time, Robert Ferguson." Mrs.
Catherine rang the bell energetically. "Write to your wife about the
needful raiment. Archie Sutherland has slept in young Robert's cradle.
She will not grudge the trouble."
Mr. Ferguson did not wait to reflect, but with all speed, drew paper and
ink towards him and began to write.
"Let Andrew or Johnnie be ready in a moment to ride to Woodsmuir," said
Mrs. Catherine, as Jacky appeared at the door; "and tell your mother to
send in refreshments for Mr. Ferguson. Begone, you imp--what are you
waiting for?"
"If you please," said Jacky, "it's Mr. Foreman himsel in the gig--will I
bring him in?" and, without waiting for an answer, the girl disappeared.
"Mr. Foreman himself," repeated Mrs. Catherine. "What new trouble is
coming now?--they are ever in troops."
Mr. Ferguson raised his head uneasily and paused in his writing. The
excited curiosity of both suggesting some further aggravation of the
great misfortunes they already knew.
Mr. Foreman entered the room gravely, and with care in his face--greeted
Mrs. Catherine in silence, and starting, when he saw Mr. Ferguson,
asked; "It is true, then?"
"True?--Ay, beyond doubt or hoping," said Mrs. Catherine, bitterly. "The
prodigal has made an end of his house and name. I was right, Mr.
Foreman, and you were wrong. The hairy fool had been sent on no less an
errand than to see the value of the prey. Grant me patience!--how am I
to see daily before me, some evil animal, such as could herd with cattle
like you, reigning in the house of the Sutherlands?"
"How have you heard, Mr. Foreman?" said the factor, anxiously. "Has Mr.
Archibald written to you himself?"
"No," said Mr. Foreman, "I have got my information from a most
disagreeable source. I received a letter to-day from the solicitors of
Lord Gillravidge, touching the conveyance of the property. Have you the
intelligence direct from Mr. Sutherland? I came up immediately to let
Mrs. Catherine know."
"I have a letter," said Mr. Ferguson. "It is indeed all over. He has
lost everything except the entailed lands of Loelyin and Lochend, and
the farm of Woodsmuir, upon which my own house stands, and it, you know,
is mortgaged to its full value. All the rest is gone. Mr. Archibald is
ruined."
There was a pause again, broken only by the sound of Mrs. Catherine's
footsteps, as she walked heavily through the room.--These grave, kind
men, Archibald Sutherland's factor and agent, who had known him all his
life, were almost as deeply affected with his sin and misfortune as
though he had been an erring son. Mr. Foreman broke the silence by
asking:
"What do you intend to do?"
"Mrs. Catherine advises me to start immediately for Paris," said Mr.
Ferguson. "We all of us know how bitterly Mr. Archibald will reproach
himself, now that all self-reproach is unavailing. I will endeavor to
bring him home--to the Tower, I mean; and then--I do not well know what
we are to do. But we must try to rouse his mind (it is a vigorous one,
if it were but in a purer atmosphere,) to shape out for itself another
course. I was about to ride into Portoran to make immediate preparation
for my journey."
"Your letter, Mr. Ferguson," said Mrs. Catherine, as Jacky again
appeared at the door. "Let Andrew--is it Andrew?--lose no time! Here,
you elf! Have you anything else to advise, Mr. Foreman? I myself would
start in a moment, but that I think Mr. Ferguson would do it better. The
lad's spirit is broken, doubtless, and I might be over harsh upon him.
Give me Archie's letter."
Mrs. Catherine's large grey eyelid swelled full again, and she seated
herself at the table.
"I have nothing else to advise," said Mr. Foreman, abstractedly. "I
think it is very wise, and you should start at once, Mr. Ferguson.
But--" The lawyer paused. "Is it not possible to do anything? Could no
compromise be made? Better mortgage the land (it was mortgaged heavily
enough in his grandfather's time--I remember how old Strathoran was
hampered by paying them off,) than suffer it to pass altogether out of
his hands. Could nothing be done? Mrs. Catherine, if such an arrangement
were possible, would you not lend your assistance?"
Mrs. Catherine raised her eyes from the letter.
"To what end or purpose? That he might have the freedom of losing the
land again, if it were won back to him by the spending of other folks'
substance? George Foreman, it is not like your wisdom to think of such a
thing. A penniless laird--a shadow, and no substance--with a false rank
to keep up, and nothing coming in to keep it up withal? I will not hear
of it! Gentlemen, I have made up my mind; out of yon hot unnatural air
of artificial ill, the lad must come down to the cold blast of poverty,
if he is ever to be anything but a silken fule, spending gear unjustly
gotten, in an unlawful way. I say I will have no hand in giving back
plenty and ease to Archie Sutherland, till he has righteously wrought
and struggled for the same. Bring him back to my house, Robert
Ferguson. He has lost the home and the lands of his fathers. Let him see
them in the hands of an alien, and then let him gird his loins to a
right warfare, and win them back again. With God's blessing, and man's
labor, there is nought in this world impossible. I hope to live to see
him win back his possessions, as I have seen him lose them. If he does
not, he deserves them not."
"Write to him so," said Mr. Ferguson, eagerly. "It is the spur he needs.
Let me have a letter, so hopeful and encouraging, to carry with me, Mrs.
Catherine. Mere reproach would do evil, and not good. You are perfectly
right. A struggle--a warfare--that is the true prescription. Write to
Mr. Archibald yourself--it will have more effect than anything I can
say."
Mr. Foreman sighed, and felt almost inclined to withdraw his adherence
from those reformers who aim at the abolition of entails. At length, and
slowly, he signified his consent.
"Yes--yes: Mrs. Catherine is right. I believe it is the wisest way.
But--"
Mr. Foreman paused again. A strange master in Strathoran--the kindly
union of the country broken in upon by one who, if they judged rightly,
had done grievous ill to Archibald Sutherland. A painful film came over
the lawyer's eyes. It seemed like treason to the trust reposed in him by
"Old Strathoran" thus to suffer his son's downfall.
"You are losing time," said Mrs. Catherine. "Robert Ferguson, the day is
wearing on. Ye will not be able to leave Portoran the night. Start with
the first coach the morn's morning. Do not tarry a moment. Mind how long
the days will be to a spirit in despair; and come to me when you are
returning from Portoran if there is time. I will write to the unhappy
lad."
Thus dismissed, both gentlemen took their leave, the factor receiving a
parting adjuration to "take sufficient siller--be not scrimpit. Ye will
have many charges in so long a journey; and, as I have said, Robert
Ferguson, lay out a pound of your own siller upon this dyvour at your
proper peril! I will visit your iniquity upon the head of your young
advocate, if ye venture to do such a thing.--Mind!"
Mrs. Catherine seated herself at her library table as the factor and the
lawyer rode away together, and began to write to Archibald Sutherland--a
hurried letter, swiftly written. It ran thus:
"I have heard of your transgression and calamity, Archibald
Sutherland, and write as I need not tell you, in sore grief.
Nevertheless, I have neither time nor leisure to record my
lamentations, nor do I think that tears from old e'en--the which
are bitter in the shedding--are things to make merchandise of for
the mending of young backsliders. At this moment, I have other
matters in hand. I see by your letter to Mr. Ferguson (a better man
than I fear you will ever be), that you are yourself cast down, and
in grief, as it is meet you should be. See that it be for the sin,
and not for the mere carnal consequences, and so there will be the
better chance for a blessing on your repentance.
"And boy, rise up and come back to the country that brought you
forth, out of that den of sin and iniquity. The house of your
fathers is open to you no longer--the house of Sholto Douglas can
never be shut upon Isabel Balfour's son. Come back to me--you shall
not be my heir, for the lands of my fathers must descend to none
that cannot keep them firmly, and guide them well; but whatsoever
is needful for you to begin your warfare, lies ready for your
claiming. I say your warfare, Archie Sutherland, for I bid you not
come home to dally through an idle life or waste more days.--Come
home to fight for your possessions back again--come home to strive
in every honorable and lawful way to win back the good land you
have lost--come home, I say, Archie Sutherland, to redeem your
inheritance by honest labor, and establish your house again, as it
was established by the first Sutherland that set foot on Oranside.
The road is clear before you. You have gotten all the siller wasted
now that you can get to waste. I command you, as there is anything
in this life you set a value on, to throw these evil things behind
you, and gird yourself for a warfare--a warfare that will be
neither light nor brief, but that will be--what your past life has
not been--just and honorable, a work for a man, not a witless and
sinful dalliance for a silly youth, a play for a fevered bairn.
"I have a burden of years upon me as you know, and may have but a
small distance between me and the kirkyard of Strathoran, therefore
I lay my charge upon you to be speedy with your labor. My kin and
youthful neighbors are round about me, Archie Sutherland, (all but
Sholto my one brother, that I left lying in the cold earth of a
strange country,) but they are dwelling in silent cities, where no
living thing can tarry. Boy! let me see hope breaking upon you,
before I lay down my head beside them. My time is short. Turn to
this work, Archie Sutherland, that I may carry better tidings with
me, to your father and your mother, in the good land where they are
resting from their labor. To your warfare I command you, young man,
that I may see your prosperity as I have seen your down-come. Come
home to the house of your mother's oldest friend, come home without
delay (and I charge you that what honor remains to your name may be
preserved--to bring home to me that wilful girl, your sister
Isabel) to your just work, that I may not go down with a sore heart
to my last dwelling-place.
"CATHERINE DOUGLAS."
Mr. Ferguson returned to the Tower on his way to Woodsmuir, and received
this letter, with many messages and charges besides, especially
addressed to Isabel Sutherland, whom Mrs. Catherine, in the excitement
of her grief for Archibald, had almost forgotten. Mr. Ferguson was to
leave Portoran with the night-coach for Edinburgh; and, again, the
perforce quietude of waiting fell upon the aged lady of the Tower.