Within a week after these agitating events, Archibald Sutherland, in
company with the anxious and attentive factor, rode into Portoran, to
meet the third individual of their council, Mr. Foreman, and engage in a
final consultation. During the days which had intervened since
Archibald's return, there had already been much discussion and
deliberation between the two good men, who took an interest so kindly in
his changed fortunes. Mr. Ferguson, who had a distant kinsman, the most
inaccessible and hypochondriacal of nabobs, and under whose ken had
passed various bilious, overgrown fortunes accumulated in the golden
East, gave his voice for India. Mr. Foreman, whose brother had grown
comfortably rich, on the shores of that river "Plate," whose very name
in mercantile mouths, seems to savor so pleasantly of golden harvests,
spoke strongly in favor of South America. Mr. Foreman had been
consulting with his minister, of whose business head, and clear
judgment, the good lawyer was becomingly proud, and slightly given to
boast himself; and it happened that, at that very time, Mr. Lumsden had
heard from his brother, the clever manager and future junior partner of
Messrs. Sutor and Sinclair's, great commercial house in Glasgow, that
Mr. Sinclair, the partner in Buenos Ayres, was in urgent want of an
intelligent and well-educated clerk, and had written to his partner and
manager, desiring them, either to send one of the young men in their
Glasgow office, or to employ one of higher qualifications, if need were,
and send him out without delay. Now it happened, wrote Mr. Lumsden's
brother, that the house of Sutor and Sinclair had divers other branches,
in different parts of the world, and their clerks of experience having
been drafted, one by one, to these, they were now left with none of
sufficient age, or acquirements, to suit the fastidious Mr. Sinclair,
whose letter had conveyed a delicate hint, that if it were possible, he
should desire a young man of some culture and breeding to fill the
vacant post. Mr. Lumsden's brother further explained, that this was a
quiet stroke at the less polished Mr. Sutor, who had previously sent a
clerkship, in the shape of a great hearty, joyous, enterprising cub, of
true Glasgow manufacture and proportions, born to make a fortune, but
unfortunately, not born either to be or look anything beyond the honest,
genial, persevering, money-making man he already was. Mr. Sinclair's
health was delicate; his mind, considering that he was a clever and very
successful merchant, pre-eminently so; and the choice of his
confidential clerk, puzzled Mr. George Lumsden and his principal sadly.
Mr. Foreman, on hearing of this, had written without delay to his
minister's brother, desiring to know whether poor Archibald--the ruined
laird--might have any chance of suiting so peculiar a situation. His
name, Mr. Foreman wrote somewhat proudly, was a sufficient voucher for
his personal acquirements; he had been unfortunate, but the youthful
madness which occasioned these misfortunes had been bitterly repented
of, and there was little doubt that his ability, and earnest endeavor to
redeem his lost ground, would carry him to the head of whatever he
attempted. When Mr. Ferguson and Archibald entered Mr. Foreman's private
room, they found him waiting in nervous expectation for an answer to
this letter. He knew the mail had come in; he had dispatched a messenger
to the post-office half an hour ago, and was fuming now over the
vexatious delay. In the meantime, however, he managed to explain the
matter to his visitors.
"From all that I can hear, Mr. Archibald, is just the thing for
you--without office drudging, and with a man who could understand and
sympathize with your feelings. I do think we have been fortunate in
hearing of it."
Archibald shook his head. "You are too ambitious for me, Mr. Foreman. I
would rather--it may be a sort of pride, perhaps, though pride sits ill
on me--I would, indeed, rather not have my feelings sympathized with by
strangers. I should prefer no manner of distinction.
"Well, well!" said Mr. Foreman, "neither there will be; only the
situation is a superior one, and you would have in it the best possible
opening."
"Don't think me ungrateful," said Archibald. "I shall be very glad of
it, if you think me at all likely to have the necessary qualifications.
But in business, you know, I want experience entirely. I almost want
even elementary knowledge."
"No fear of that," said Mr. Ferguson, "a good head and clear mind soon
master the details of business--but India!"
"Ah! has the little wretch come back at last?" cried Mr. Foreman,
darting into the outer office, and seizing upon his messenger, who,
lingering only to watch the progress of one most interesting game at
"bools," which came to a crisis just as he was passing, had returned
from the post-office with his load of letters. These were examined in a
moment; one bearing the square Glasgow post-mark selected, the others
tossed over in an indiscriminate heap to Walter, and Mr. Foreman,
opening his letter hurriedly, re-entered the room reading it. It was
decidedly favorable. Much of sympathy and compassion for the young man
shipwrecked so early, much of regret for the downfall of an old house
(for Mr. Lumsden was a north countryman, and knew the Sutherland family
by name) were in it; but these Mr. Foreman kept to himself. The prudent
manager of Messrs. Sutor and Sinclair's Glasgow house, was rather
dubious, as to a young man, who had managed to ruin himself at
five-and-twenty, being quite a suitable person for a merchant's trusted
and confidential clerk; but proposed that Mr. Sutherland should come,
for a month or two, to the Glasgow counting-house, to acquire a
knowledge of the business, and enable them to form a better judgment of
him, on personal knowledge. Mr. Lumsden's words were quite kind, and
perfectly respectful, yet Mr. Foreman delicately softened them as he
read, and when he had concluded, looked triumphantly from Archibald to
Mr. Ferguson.
"Well, gentlemen; what do you say?"
The factor gave in his adhesion; his own vague hope from India could not
stand before a definite proposal like this. "It looks well, Mr.
Archibald; upon my word, I do think it looks well."
"It is quite above my expectations," said Archibald. "I am perfectly
ready to enter upon my probation at once--without delay. I accept your
friend's offer without the least hesitation, Mr. Foreman; write him, I
beg, and tell him so, and let the time be fixed for the commencement of
my apprenticeship--and then, if I satisfy my new employers--then, for
the shores of that luxurious Spain in the west, and such prosperity as
Providence shall send me there. Nay, nay; you look sorrowfully at me, as
if I mocked myself; I do not--my second beginning is more hopeful than
my first. I will do no dishonor--I trust--I hope I shall do no further
dishonor to your kindness, or my father's name: only let us have it
settled upon, and begun as early as possible, Mr. Foreman. I have no
time to lose."
"I am glad! I am delighted!" exclaimed the honest lawyer, "to see you
take it so well. If the first disagreeables were but over!"
"Never mind the first disagreeables, Mr. Foreman," said Archibald,
cheerfully. "I shall be the better of difficulties to begin with--if I
only were begun."
"We will not linger about that," said Mr. Foreman, catching the
contagion of his client's cheerfulness, which, to tell the truth, was
more in seeming than reality. "I shall write to Mr. Lumsden at once."
Other arrangements had to be made before they left Portoran--the
transfer of Alexander Semple's lease to Mr. Ferguson being the principal
matter which occupied them. Semple was a soft, spiritless man, of
indolent temper; and no enterprise, and the bleak, unprofitable acres
were certain to remain as unprofitable and bleak as ever during his
occupancy. Already many times Mr. Coulter had sighed over them, and
poured into the ears of their listless tenant vain hints, and unheeded
remonstrances. Mr. Coulter was most pleasantly busied now devising the
means for their fertilization, and, in company with Mr. Ferguson, had
already taken various very long, wearisome, and delightful walks, partly
from a neighborly regard for the interests of the broken man, and partly
from his own entire devotion to his respectable and most important
science, advising with the new farmer as to the various profitable and
laborious processes necessary for these unpromising and barren fields.
The rental Archibald Sutherland insisted should remain in the factor's
hands, or in Mr. Foreman's hands, or in the Portoran branch of the
British Linen Company's Bank, if his zealous friends insisted on that,
his own resolution being to spend nothing beyond the income he worked
for, however small that might be at first. His own tastes had always
been simple, and money the mere bits of gold and scraps of paper--had
become precious in his eyes. There was little fear either that he should
ever be a worshipper of the golden calf--the unrighteous Mammon. But
Strathoran--his home--his birth-place--the house of his fathers!
He saw its turrets rising from among the trees as he turned his horse's
head from the pleasant threshold of Woodsmuir, to which he now paid his
first visit. These fair slopes and hollows, the brown moor running far
northward, the gray hills in the distance, with the red glory of the
frosty January sunlight on their bare, uncovered heads. What were they
now to him? What? Dearer, more precious than ever; the aim to which he
looked forward through a dim vista of hard-working years; a prize to be
won; a goal to be attained; a treasure to be brought by his own toil!
Was there no sickening of the heart, as the young man, born and nurtured
in that proud old house of Strathoran, the heir of all its inherited
honors, looked forward to the lifetime of toil that lay before him,
obscure, ignoble, unceasing? The office in Glasgow where he should be
put on trial, and have the strange new experience of unknown masters, on
whose favor depended all his prospects; the still more dim and unknown
counting-house of Buenos Ayres, with its exile and estrangement from
home-looks and language. Was not his heart sickening within him? No! Who
that has felt his pulses quicken, and his heart beat, at the
anticipation of a clear and honorable future, filled only with
unencumbered labor, a healthful frame, a sound mind, and a great aim in
view, could ask that question? Sickness, deadly and painful, overpowered
Archibald Sutherland's heart when he looked _behind_; that wild
lee-shore of weakness, those fierce rocks of temptation and passion upon
which his fortune and his honor had made disastrous shipwreck. These are
the things to sicken hearts and crush them, not the bracing chill air
that swept the path to which he began to bind his breast. The hill was
steep, the way long, rough, laborious. What matter? There was hope, and
mental health, and moral safety in his toils; a definite aim at its
summit; an All-guiding Providence, giving strength to the toiler, and
promising a blessing upon every righteous effort, to uphold and bear him
on.
The cloud that had passed over that little, blue-eyed, gentle girl at
the Tower--the new interest which occupied the mind of Mrs. Catherine,
were known to Archibald in some degree, and interested him deeply. But
the great secret--that Norman lived yet to be toiled, and hoped, and
prayed for--was not communicated to either Archibald or Alice. They knew
only that their friends believed him unjustly accused, and intended to
labor for proof of that--proof which might be difficult enough to find,
after the lapse of so many years--but the fact of the engagement between
Lewis and Alice, was quite sufficient to account for the suddenly
awakened anxiety concerning Norman's innocence.
The first week of the new year was past: the next day little Alice was
to return home. They were all sitting in Mrs. Catherine's inner
drawing-room, about her cheerful tea-table--Mrs. Catherine herself,
Alice, Anne, Archibald, and Lewis. The spirits of the young people had
risen; they were all hopeful, courageous, and conversing with that
intimate and familiar kindliness which unites so much more closely and
tenderly on the eve of a parting than at any other time. Alice was to
sing to them--to sing as Anne and Archibald begged--that song of the
'Oran' which had moved them so deeply on the night of the new year. The
sweet young voice had grown more expressive since that time; the gentle,
youthful spirit had passed through greater vicissitudes in that week
than in all its previous bright lifetime, and, therefore, the song was
better rendered--its tinge of sadness--its warm breath of hope--
"Ah, pray, young hearts, for the sad wayfaring man!"
Anne met Archibald's eyes with a supplicating glance in them as the
melody ended. Her own were wet with sympathetic tears. Yes, for him who
must count so many years of toil before he could see the evening star
rise calm on the home-waves of Oran, she echoed the prayer, but more
deeply, and with a thrill of still devouter earnestness, for that exiled
brother who already had borne the burden of the long laborious day, so
far from home and all its comforts, so far from hope and honor.
Alice sang again, a pretty little pastoral song of the district, which
was a favorite with Lewis. He was leaning over her chair, and Anne,
approaching Mrs. Catherine, took the opportunity of asking her about
this ballad--whether it really had any connexion with Norman, or was but
linked to him, by her own fancy.
"It is Norman's song," said Mrs. Catherine. "Ye know, child, that I like
ballads that have the breath of life in them. Langsyne, Norman left that
with me; the author of it was some student lad about Redheugh, that he
liked well, and it has lain bye me ever since. I desired the bairn
Alison to learn it. I am an auld fuil to heed such bairnly things,
child; but it pleased me to hear her father's daughter singing that.
There was a kind of forgiveness and peace in it to the memory of the
unhappy callant.--It was a foolish fancy, was it not, for an auld wife?
But silence! let us hear her."
And so, next morning, little Alice, very sadly, and with many tears,
went away; Lewis and Anne accompanying her to Portoran. Alice wore a
little ring of betrothal upon her slender finger, and carried with her a
letter from Mrs. Catherine, stating all the circumstances of her
engagement, and their conviction that they could prove to Mrs. Aytoun's
satisfaction the innocence of Norman. It had been thought best that
Lewis should not write himself, until Mrs. Catherine had explained his
peculiar position to the mother and brother of Alice; and they had
arranged that he should follow her, very shortly, to Edinburgh, to
present himself to her family, and urge his suit in person.
Very sad also was the leave-taking of Bessie and her friends at the
Tower. Johnnie Halflin had bought a pretty little silk handkerchief for
her, which Bessie, in simple fidelity, vowed never to part with. Jacky
had bestowed a book, and some very beautiful moss, from a gray, old
tombstone in the graveyard on Oranside, which, tradition said, covered
the last resting-place of the heroine of an old, pathetic ballad,
current in the countryside. Bessie let the book slide thanklessly to the
bottom of her little "kist," and was sadly at a loss what to do with the
moss, which however, was finally thrust into the same repository. Poor
Jacky had chosen her parting presents unhappily.
And at last, they were away. The frost had broken, through the night,
and it was another of those dull, drizzling, melancholy winter days.
Lewis placed Alice, carefully wrapped up, and protected from the cold,
in the corner of the same coach in which she had seen him first. Little
Bessie was seated by her side, and leaving the Tower and all its
pleasant neighborhood lying dark behind her, Alice Aytoun was whirled
away home.
It cost her no inconsiderable amount of exertion and self-denial to have
the tears and sadness sufficiently overcome to meet her mother's
greeting as she wished to do. But Alice schooled herself bravely, like a
little hero, and conquered. They were home, in the old familiar room, by
the well-known fireside. Mrs. Aytoun was smiling, as she had not smiled
before since Alice went away. James was half-ashamed of being so
unusually joyous. They had all her news to hear, all her three months'
history over again, in spite of the long recording letters.
"And what is this?" said Mrs. Aytoun, taking her daughter's small white
hand, upon which glittered the little token ring. "Is this another of
those delicate gifts of Mrs. Catherine's?"
Little Alice could not answer; the blood flushed over her face and neck.
She stammered and trembled. Mrs. Aytoun looked at her, in alarm and
wonder.
"Read this letter, mother," whispered Alice, at last, putting Mrs.
Catherine's letter into her mother's hands, and sinking upon a stool at
her feet. "It will tell you all."
James had left the room, a minute before. Mrs. Aytoun, somewhat
agitated, opened the letter, and Alice laid her head upon her mother's
knee, and hid it in the folds of her dress. Mrs. Aytoun read:
"I herewith send back to you, kinswoman, your pleasant bairn, who
has been a great comfort and solace to me, though my old house was
maybe too dark a cage for a singing bird like her. I am by no means
confident either whether I will ever undertake the charge of any
such dangerous gear again; for in the ordinary course of nature,
the bit gay spirit and bonnie face of her have been making mischief
in Strathoran; and besides having my door besieged by all manner of
youthful company, there is one lad, who, I am feared, has crossed
my threshold too often, maybe, for your good pleasure.
"The lad is Lewis Ross, of Merkland, a gallant of good outward
appearance and competent estate, with no evil condition that I can
specially note about him, except having arrived at that full period
of years, when it is the fashion of young men to give themselves
credit for more wisdom than any other mortal person can see. In
other things, so far as I can judge, the two are well enough
matched: for Lewis is the representative of a family long settled
in the countryside, and has his lands free of any burden or
encumbrance, besides being in all matters of this world a prudent,
sensible, and managing lad.
"I would have put in a reservation, however, till your pleasure was
known, but doubtless the deliberate ways of age differ from the
swift proceedings of youth; and the two had plunged themselves
beyond power of redemption, before I had any inkling of the matter.
I see no good way of stopping it now, and I think you may trust
your Burd Alice in the hands of Lewis Ross, without fear.
"And now, kinswoman, there comes a graver and darker matter into
the consideration. I will not ask you if ye mind the beginning of
your widowhood. It is pain and grief to me to say a word that may
bring that terrible season back to ye, even in the remembrance;
only it has so happened, in the wonderful course of Providence,
that it should have an unhappy connection with the troth-plighting
of these two bairns. Kinswoman you are younger than me, and have
seen less of this world's miseries, though your own trials have not
been light. But what think you of a young man, in the bloom of his
years and his hopes, with a pleasant heritage and a fair name,
suddenly covered with the shame and dishonor of a great
crime--threatened with a shameful death--exposed to the hatred of
all men, that bore the love of God and their neighbors in honest
hearts,--and him innocent withal? What think you of a
lad--generous, upright, honorable--as true and single-minded a
youth as the eye of day ever looked upon, suddenly plunged into a
horror of darkness like this--knowing himself everywhere condemned,
yet, in his true and honest heart, knowing himself guiltless? I
say, what think you of this? Was there ever a darker or more
terrible doom, in this world of ills and mysteries?
"I knew him--kinswoman, from his birth-year to the time of his
blight, I knew this unhappy heart: the truthfulness of him--the
honoring of others above himself, that was inherent in his simple,
manly nature--the strength of gentleness and patience, that might
have been crowning an old and wise head, instead of being yoked
with the impetuous spirit of youth! All this I knew; and yet,
painfully and slowly, I also was permitted to believe that his pure
hand had blood upon it--that he had done this crime.
"My eyes are opened. I am humbled to the ground in my rejoicing,
that I should have dared, even in my own secret spirit, to malign
the gracious nature I knew so well. Kinswoman, the violent death of
your husband, by whom or wherefore done I know not, brought this
sore doom undeserved upon Norman Rutherford. The bridal tryst of
your pleasant bairn Alice, will clear his dishonored name again.
"You think he killed your husband. I am not given to hasty
judgment, nor am I easily misguided. He did not do it; and when I
tell you that your bairn Alison is plighted to a near kinsman of
Norman Rutherford's, I lay my charge upon you not to let your heart
sink within you, or suffer the bairn's bit gentle spirit to be
broken again. I pledge you my word, that they will seek no further
consent from you, till Norman's righteousness is clear to your eyes
as the morning light. There are two urgent reasons pressing them--I
am meaning Lewis Ross, and his sister, my own Anne,--on this work;
the winning of your pleasant bairn and the clearing of their
brother's lost fame and honor.
"For he is their brother, their nearest kin. Again, I charge you,
think of this terrible doom laid upon a gallant of as clear and
lofty a spirit as ever was in mortal knowledge; and let the
mother's heart within you have compassion on his name. Shut not
your mind against the proof--it may be hard to gather--and take
time and patience; but if mortal hands can compass it, it shall be
laid before you soon or syne.
"Lewis Ross (trusting you will receive him) will shortly tell you
of this himself, with his own lips; and having maybe some right of
counsel, in virtue of my years, and of our kindred, it is my prayer
that you put no discouragement in this way.
"Be content to wait till the proof is brought to you; and break not
the gentle spirit of the bairn, by crossing her in the first
tenderness of her youth.
CATHERINE DOUGLAS."
Mrs. Aytoun was greatly agitated. James had entered the room, and stood
in silent astonishment, as he looked at Alice clinging to her mother's
knee, and the letter trembling in Mrs. Aytoun's hand. "Mother--Alice--what
has happened? What is the matter?"
Mrs. Aytoun handed the letter to him in silence, and, lifting her
daughter up, drew her close to her breast: "My Alice! my poor, simple
bairn! why did I let you away from me?"
The girl clung to her mother, terrified, ashamed, and dizzy.--She
trembled to hear some fatal sentence, parting her for ever from Lewis.
She fancied she could never lift up her blushing face again, to speak of
him, even if that terror were withdrawn: she could only lean on that
kind breast, and cling, as is the nature of such gentle, dependent
spirits. Anne Ross's words were true.--Had Mrs. Aytoun but said that she
must never see Lewis again, poor little Alice would have submitted
without a struggle, and would have been right; she was safe in that wise
guidance--she was not safe in her own.
But Mrs. Aytoun's motherly lips gave forth no such arbitrary mandate.
She rose, still holding Alice within her arm. "James," she said, "that
letter is a most important one: read it carefully.--We will join you
again by-and-by."
And leading and supporting her drooping daughter, Mrs. Aytoun went to
her own room, and, seating herself there, began to question Alice.
And then the whole stream came flowing forth, hesitating and broken; how
Lewis had travelled with her, and had been constantly at her side, ever
since that momentous journey; how Anne had been her patient, kind,
indulgent friend; how at last, upon that eventful New year's night,
Lewis and herself had been alone together--and then--and then--there
followed some incoherent words, which Mrs. Aytoun could comprehend the
purport of; how Anne came in, looking so chill and pale, and
horror-stricken; how Mrs. Catherine next day took her into the little
room, and almost broke the gentle heart that was beating so high now,
with anxiety and suspense; how Anne returned at night with voice as
tender and hand as gentle as her mother's telling her that Norman was
innocent; and then, how glad and happy they had all been together
again--and then--if her mother could only see him--if she could only see
Anne--they could tell her so much better!
Mrs. Aytoun was still anxious and pale, but her tremor of agitation was
quieted.
"She must be a very kind, good girl, this Anne, Alice."
Alice breathed more freely--if her mother had been very angry, was her
simple reasoning, she would not have spoken so.
"She is very good--very kind, mother--like you, gentler than Mrs.
Catherine; but she is not a girl, she is older than--than Lewis."
Mrs. Aytoun smiled.
"How old is Lewis?"
The simple little heart began to beat with troubled joy.
"He is twenty-one, mother. It was his birthday just a week after I went
to the Tower."
Mrs. Aytoun did not speak for some time.
"Alice," she said at last, "I must see this Lewis, and consult with
James, before I make any decision--in the meantime you will be very
patient, will you not?"
"Oh, yes, yes--I do not care how long--only--if you saw him, mother, if
you just saw him, I know how you would like him!"
"Would I?" said Mrs. Aytoun, smiling: "well, we shall see; but now dry
your eyes, and let us go back to James again."
They returned to the parlor. James sat at the table, the letter lying
before him, and his face exceedingly grave. He was very much disturbed
and troubled. He did not well see what to do.
For some time there was little conversation between them--the mother and
son consulted together with their grave looks. Little Alice, again
sadly cast down, sat silent by the fireside. At last her brother
addressed her with a sort of timidity, blushing almost as she did
herself, when he mentioned the name.
"Alice, when does Mr. Ross come to Edinburgh?"
Mr. Ross! so cold it sounded and icy--would not Lewis be his brother?
"In a fortnight," murmured Alice.
"A fortnight! then, mother, I think my best plan is to go down to
Strathoran myself and make inquiries. In a matter which involves two
such important things as the happiness of Alice, and the honor of our
family, there is no time for delay. I shall start to-morrow."
"Can you spare the time?" said his mother--while Alice looked up
half-glad, half-sorrowful--it might keep Lewis from coming to
Edinburgh--at the same time, James was so sure to be convinced by
Lewis's irresistible eloquence, and the gentler might of Anne.
"I must spare it, mother," was the answer, "my ordinary business is not
so important as this. What do you think--am I right?"
"Perfectly right, James," said his mother, promptly, "I was about to
advise this myself; and if you find anything satisfactory to report, you
can bid this Lewis still come. I shall want to see who it is, who has
superseded me in my little daughter's heart."
"Oh, no, mother--no, no," cried Alice, imploringly. "Do not say that."
James Aytoun rose and laid his hand caressingly upon his little sister's
fair hair. She had been a child when he was rising into manhood. He
thought her a child still--and with the grave difficulties of this, very
unexpected problem, which they had to solve, there mingled a
half-mirthful, half-sad, sort of incredulous wonder. Little Alice had
done a very important piece of business independently and alone. Little
Alice had the sober glory of matronhood hanging over her fair, girlish
forehead. Little Alice was engaged!