Upon the Friday Lewis returned home. Anne had walked out upon the
Portoran road, looking for him, and met him a short distance from the
gate of Merkland. He looked sulky and out of humor, and leaping from the
gig, threw the reins to Duncan, and joined his sister.
"Well?" said Anne, when their first greeting was over, and Duncan out of
hearing.
"Well," said Lewis, "we are just where we were. I expected nothing
better. We have not advanced a step."
"I understand that," said Anne; "but what of the Aytoun's?--what
understanding have you come to?--what arrangement about Alice?"
"Nothing--nothing," said Lewis, hastily; "I tell you we are exactly
where we were. My position is not in the least degree better than it was
on the first day I knew this history--it is worse indeed, for you buoyed
me up with hopes then of the great things we should discover--see what
it has all come to."
"You have surely made some arrangement--come to some understanding?"
said Anne; "it is a quite useless thing to tantalize me, Lewis. Your
engagement has not terminated--you have not given up--"
"'Given up!" Lewis turned round indignantly. "I suppose you would like
nothing better, my mother and you; but you're mistaken, I tell you. All
the mothers and sisters in the kingdom should not make me give up
Alice--a pretty thing!"
"You are quite unreasonable, Lewis," said Anne; "I do not want you to
give up Alice--very far from that--I think you have been fortunate in
winning so fresh and guileless a youthful spirit; but this impatience
and petulance makes you unworthy of Alice Aytoun. At your years men
should regard their own dignity more--you are not a boy now, Lewis."
"I should think not," was the angry response. It made him quiet
nevertheless; these fits of ill-humor and peevishness were certainly
neither dignified nor manly.
"What have you done then? how have you arranged?" said Anne.
"Oh, we must wait, they say. If it had been merely a few months, or even
a year, I should not have thought anything of it: but this indefinite
delay--to be as patient and dignified as you like, Anne, it is very
disagreeable and painful."
"I do not doubt it," said Anne.
"And so, till some further evidence of Norman's innocence can be
procured--further! I should say until they can get _any_ evidence--we
must wait. James is to keep his eye on the district, he says, and lose
no opportunity; that looks all very well, but if there _is_ no evidence
to be got, Alice and I may wait till our lives are spent in vain. It's
very hard, Anne; I do say so, however boyish you may think it."
"I do not think _that_ boyish, Lewis," said Anne. "We must take measures
more active than James's mere watching the district. Lewis, it is my
turn to be called childish now. You must let me try--I must go to this
place myself."
Lewis opened his eyes in consternation:
"_You_ try! _you_ go yourself! why, what on earth could _you_ do? Anne,
you are mad!"
"I am not mad, Lewis, in the least degree, and yet I _must_ go to this
place myself; it is not in self-confidence. I have patience more than
you, and time less occupied; I never expected that this work could be
done easily or soon. Lewis, _I_ must go."
They were entering the house as Anne spoke. Lewis did not answer her. He
only shook his head impatiently. There was something humiliating in the
very idea that she could accomplish a thing in which he had failed.
He met his mother dutifully and with proper respect and kindness. Mrs.
Aytoun's natural, unassuming dignity and entire sympathy with her
children; the frank, affectionate, tender intercourse subsisting between
them; the seemly regard for her opinion, which was no less apparent in
her manly son, James, than in her gentle daughter, Alice, had charmed
Lewis unconsciously. The absolute propriety and fitness of that natural
honor and reverence made an involuntary impression upon him--an
impression which now softened his voice and restrained his temper. With
good training, and these righteous influences round him, Lewis was a
hopeful subject yet.
"So you have returned as you went away?" said Mrs. Ross, when they had
been some little time together.
"Yes," said Lewis, "I should say worse, for I had some hope then, and I
have none now."
"I thought it was all nonsense," said Mrs. Ross. "I knew you could make
nothing of it."
"You were wrong then, mother," said Lewis, quickly. "We have got no
evidence--but I believe now, what I did not believe when we left
Merkland, that Norman is innocent."
Anne looked up joyfully.
"Not that my believing it will do much good," said Lewis, "when such a
thing as definite proof is not to be had; but that the man, these people
spoke of as young Redheugh could do a deliberate and cowardly murder is
nearly impossible."
"I thank you, Lewis," exclaimed Anne. "I thank you for myself and for
Norman!"
"But what good does it all do?" continued Lewis. "I may believe--but
unless you can get other people to believe too, what is the use of it?"
"The use of it!" Anne's lightened heart and shining eye bore witness to
its use. "James Aytoun believes it also," she said.
"Yes, James Aytoun believes it; but neither James nor you, Anne, will be
satisfied with believing it yourselves. I don't see what we're to do.
People judge by evidence--all the evidence is against him, and the only
thing in his favor is an impression--well, I will go further--a kind of
certainty--one can't give any reason for it, it is the merest
indefinite, impalpable thing in the world. There's just a conviction
that he is not guilty--there's nothing to support it."
"Well," said Anne, cheerfully; "but the evidence to support it must be
got, Lewis. It is foolish to think that a work like this could be done
in so short a time, and with so small an expenditure of labor and
patience. Your time is otherwise engaged--so is James Aytoun's--he has
his business to manage--you, your estate. I have nothing. I am and have
been all my life, a very useless person; let me have the satisfaction of
being of some service for once in my life."
"Why, Anne," exclaimed Lewis, "are you in your senses? what in the world
could you do? Do you think I could ever listen to such a thing?
Nonsense, nonsense--mind your own affairs like a good girl, and do not
meddle with what is quite out of your sphere."
Anne smiled, but with some pain--another person might have laughed
frankly at the condescending superiority of the younger brother. It hurt
her a little.
"Lewis, I have even more interest in this matter than you--many hopes
there may be, and are, in your life. I have few. This of Norman's return
is the greatest of all--and what concerns my brother cannot be out of my
sphere."
"No--to wish for it--or to dream about it, or even to scheme for it,"
said Lewis, "That's all very well; but for anything else--why, what
could you do, Anne--what could any woman do? You know nothing of the
laws of evidence--you don't know even how to make inquiries. You might
go and spend money, and get the thing talked about, and written of in
local newspapers. Content yourself, Anne, and leave it in our hands: you
could do nothing more."
Alice Aytoun could have done nothing more. Anne Ross felt very certain
that she had no gift for spending money and getting herself talked
about--that it might be possible for her to do something more. So she
said:
"You do not convince me, Lewis. To discover truth, one does not need to
be familiar with laws of evidence. I am not a lawyer, and could not go
as a lawyer would; but I am Norman's only sister, Lewis, and, as such,
might find some fragments of truth favorable to him. I do not ask you to
decide immediately--think of it, and then give me your sanction to my
enterprise."
"I am perfectly amazed, Anne--quite astonished," exclaimed Mrs. Ross.
"What can the girl be dreaming of? _you_ go to collect evidence!--you
accomplish what Lewis and Mr. Aytoun, and Robert Ferguson--trained
lawyers have failed to do! I never heard of such self-confidence. I
cannot comprehend it."
Anne was roused out of her usual patience.
"Mother!" she said, "you have often called me very useless--I grant it,
if you choose--I have at least not been undutiful. Hitherto, you know, I
have been almost entirely guided by your pleasure. Here is one thing
upon which I must exercise my own judgment--_must_, mother--it is no
question of liking or disliking. I also have some affections, desires,
wishes of my own. I am not merely an appendage--a piece of
goods--forgive me if I speak hastily; but supposing that neither
affection nor wish were in this matter, I have even a prior _duty_ to
Norman; I have my father's command. Mother, I am no longer a girl--there
is some other duty for me now, than mere obedience; I have rendered you
that for three-and-twenty years: do not grudge me some exercise of my
own faculties now."
Mrs. Ross stared at her in open-eyed astonishment. Lewis had laughed at
first--now he was graver. Mrs. Ross, with much obstinacy of her own, was
one of those people who sometimes bluster, but always yield and quail
before genuine, sober firmness.
"What do you mean? What do you wish to do?" she asked, peevishly.
"Dutiful, obedient! ah, I have had a good daughter in you, without
doubt! You are your brother's own sister. By all means, devote yourself
to Norman. What right have I, who have only been a mother to you all
your life, in comparison with this brother Norman, whom you never saw?"
Anne was already sorry for her outburst; yet, in spite of herself, felt
indignant and impatient. This thraldom galled her grievously, yet she
knew it to be a necessary result of her dependence.
"Stay, mother," said Lewis, "let me be peacemaker, for once. You forget
how tired I am. Postpone your discussion till after dinner. We have had
civil war long enough; let us have peace now."
Anne withdrew to her own room. So did Lewis; and the discussion was at
an end.
What should she do? The few shillings in the end of her purse were all
inadequate for the journey, and the expense of residing, perhaps for
some considerable time, among strangers. That difficulty there was but
one way of overcoming. Anne could not rely upon the generosity of Lewis,
or his mother. To tell the truth, the finances of Merkland were in a
state of considerable attenuation. But she could rely, without
hesitation, upon Mrs. Catherine.
And there were further difficulties: how to go alone, and live alone, in
the strange, unknown place: how to forsake her ordinary habits, and take
to cottage visiting as indefatigably as an English Lady Bountiful. The
first she was rather uneasy about; the second was a trifle. Things which
were merely disagreeable, did not much distress Anne Ross: she was by no
means in despair even at those which most people called impossible; but
shrank with nervous delicacy from any, the very slightest, appearance of
evil.
After dinner, the conversation was renewed. Lewis had been somewhat
struck by Anne's assertion of some little claim to her own judgment. He
certainly did not think her so wise as himself, but he knew her quite
equal to various of his friends, whose claim to independent will and
action was quite indisputable. Only, she was a woman: that was all the
difference. Lewis resolved to be very enlightened and liberal, to let
his sister express her opinions freely, and himself to give a final and
impartial deliverance upon them.
"Did I mention, in my last letter, the people who had been so intimate
with Norman?" he asked, to begin.
"No," said Anne.
"An old woman referred us to them. She said it was a sister of theirs
who was the occasion of the dispute between Aytoun and Norman; a poor
girl who went to visit some friends in the west, about the time of the
murder, and died there of a broken heart. One believes in such things
when one hears stories like these. They live alone, in a great, gaunt
old house, a brother and sister."
"And what?" said Anne, eagerly.
"Oh, nothing. I have no story to tell. We could gather nothing from
them. The sister is a strange, emaciated, worn-out woman. James thought
she looked agitated; but save a burst of broken praise of 'poor
Redheugh'--I believe she even called him Norman--we elicited nothing
more. The brother is an invalid and hypochondriac; we caught a glimpse
of him, once or twice, wandering on the beach, but never could address
him. They seemed strange people, but had nothing to tell."
Anne did not speak. Her curiosity and interest were awakened.
"What a strange fellow," exclaimed Lewis, "that Norman must have been!"
"Strange!" said Mrs. Ross, "Yes, indeed, I should think he was. I know
we had little peace in Merkland, before he came of age."
"How he managed to make the country people all so fond of him,"
continued Lewis, disregarding his mother's interruption, "one can't
tell. And falling in love with a girl, of quite different rank.
Altogether, it's a strange story."
"What was their name?" said Mrs. Ross. "I thought you said they lived in
an old, great house, Lewis."
"So they do," said Lewis. "It is not their own, though.--They pay some
nominal rent, and take care of the place. Their name--what is their
name?--upon my word I don't recollect. I don't know that I ever heard
the surname. I remember the sister was called Miss Christian: but James
will know."
"And you are sure they know nothing?" said Anne.
"Yes; at least the sister gave us no information, and the brother, as I
told you, is a poor ailing creature--half crazy, the people say. He had
saved an old man from drowning, shortly before we reached the place, and
was very much elated about it."
"And their sister?" said Anne.
"Their sister was a very gentle, sweet girl--so runs the story--and was
much attached to Norman. The news of his flight was carried to her
abruptly by some officious person, and the consequence was, that the
poor girl broke her heart, and died. It is a very sad story. Alice
seemed to be able for nothing but crying when I told her."
Anne was ruminating in wonder and doubt--who then was the "Marion?" It
was impossible that this truthful, upright Norman should have his troth
plighted to two! Impossible that he could play one false! The doubt made
her heart sink: the weight of one sin is so much heavier than the
burden of a hundred misfortunes.
"Now Anne," said Lewis, "what has become of your famous resolution? Has
your heart failed you already? I am glad of it: better faint before you
enter the wood, than when you are on the way."
"I have no idea of fainting at all," said Anne, "unless, indeed, when we
have fairly emerged into the clear air again, with Norman honorably in
his own house, and Alice at Merkland--I may have leisure for fainting
then. Now, Lewis--listen to me, I beg, mother--I want you to consent
that I should go to this place--to Aberford--immediately, or if not
immediately, at least soon.--Let me have some one with me--May would do,
or old Esther Fleming. I can take quiet lodgings and live there,
professedly for the sake of sea air, if, indeed, any pretence is
necessary. Once there, with no other claim on my time, and patience
enough to bear any ordinary disagreeables, I may make quiet, noiseless
unsuspected investigations. Let me try; the matter is of consequence to
us all, and the expense will not be great. I beg that I may not be
hindered from making this endeavor; it may produce something--and if it
does not, there is nothing lost."
"Upon my word you take it very coolly," said Mrs. Ross. "I should like
to know why my son's means should be wasted in such an absurd
expedition. You will never make anything of it, it is quite nonsense:
besides, the idea of a girl going away from home, and living alone,
engaged in such a search!--perfectly improper! I am amazed at you,
Anne!"
Anne blushed deeply. It might, indeed, be called improper and
indecorous, and she was not given to neglect the veriest outer garment
and vesture of good fame; but for this, a matter so very dear and
precious, involving so many interests, a mere punctilio might surely be
disregarded--a ceremonial dispensed with.
"Mother!" she said, "if I were ill, you would not object to this: on the
mere order of a doctor, you would have thought it perfectly proper to
suffer me to go to the sea-side: how much more now, when interests so
great are at stake--Lewis and Norman--your hope and mine! Mother! let me
have your consent."
Lewis was touched. This Norman, whom she emphatically called her hope,
did not live at all in Anne's remembrance, except in the merest shadow.
He began to perceive how void of personal hopes and joys her life was.
There were some--deeper, graver, more earnest than his--foremost among
them, the deliverance and return of this exile brother; should he, her
nearest relative, dim and darken this great hope for her? Lewis forgot
himself, and his forgetfulness ennobled him.
"Anne," he said, "let us speak of this hereafter--nay, I mean soon; but
not--" he glanced at his mother, "not to-night."
Anne understood, and was satisfied. Lewis had turned peacemaker. Lewis
was devising means to turn his mother's ill-humor and undeserved
reproofs from her. All honor and praise to that kindly household of
Aytoun; the manly son, the gracious mother, the gentle little girl,
Alice, who had found out for him, and brought into the pleasant air of
day, the hidden heart of Lewis Ross.
The next morning, Lewis himself proposed a consultation with Mrs.
Catherine. Anne consented gladly, and they set out. The Oran was frozen
hard, and lay, a glittering road of ice, far below the high pathway of
crisp snow they were walking on, through which the topmost branches of
the buried hedge peered forth like wayside weeds. The snow lay three or
four feet deep, and it was intensely cold.
They found Mrs. Catherine in her ruddy inner room, hemming fine cambric
still. In the one article of linen, Archibald Sutherland was not likely
to find himself deficient for years. Lewis gave in his report. Mrs.
Catherine was disappointed.
"But it is no marvel to me, mind, though you yourself, Lewis, are in
trouble, as I see, that your skill, and wisdom, and great experience,
have failed in the first trial. Take good heart, boy; when you have come
to years, you will understand that men are not wont to win the head of
the contest, in the first trial. Set your breast to it, man; begin
again."
"Why, we have done everything, Mrs. Catherine," said Lewis.
"Ay! you are a clever chield, Lewis Ross. Is it a month since the two
gallants went away, Anne? Truly, I had no thought there were two such
giants under my roof yon bright January day--done everything!--in _four_
weeks! It is a comfort to folk of an older generation, that have worn
out lifetimes at one labor, to hear tell of the like of that."
Lewis did not know whether to laugh, or to be angry: acting on his new
notions of manliness, he chose the former. "Of course, Mrs. Catherine, I
mean everything we could do."
"Lewis," said Mrs. Catherine, "you are wrong; there is no man in this
world--at least, I have never heard name nor fame of him--that did
everything he could do in such a space of time; it is a delusion of
youth. You have girded yourself for the race, and have run hard for one
mile; you think ye have done all. Boy! you are neither footsore, nor
weary, nor sick at heart; what ails you to go on? I have known folk
struggling hard, that were all the three. Turn back, Lewis Ross, and
begin again."
"Mrs. Catherine," said Anne, "if Lewis returned, it would excite
curiosity; their investigations have aroused attention already. I think
it would not be wise. We came to consult you on a plan of mine. Mrs.
Catherine, they say, despairing men venture on forlorn hopes often. I am
not despairing, I am only useless; but I want Lewis to entrust this
forlorn hope to me."
"And I," said Lewis, "think it is a very foolish idea; but yet have no
reasonable defence to offer against it."
Mrs. Catherine looked at Anne earnestly.
"Are you able? that you would endeavor this I never doubted--have you
strength for it?"
"I? I am strong," said Anne, "you know that, Mrs. Catherine. I scarcely
know what sickness is."
Mrs. Catherine touched, with her fingers, the smooth, clear cheek, which
testified the firm and elastic health, both physical and mental, of its
owner, and yet was so far removed from robustness.
"Anne, I believe you are able; you have my full consent, and God-speed.
Mind you, what I have said to Lewis; it's no one trial, or two, or
three--time and patience, thought and labor; you must grudge none of
them all. Tell me your plan."
"Must we submit?" said Lewis. "Anne, is Mrs. Catherine's judgment final?
is there no appeal?"
"Silence!" said Mrs. Catherine, peremptorily; "who was speaking of
appeal or judgment? There is a work to do, Lewis Ross; the thing is to
get the fittest workman, and beware how we hinder him of his labor. We
have tarried long enough; this is no a time to put further barriers in
the road. Child, your plan?"
"I propose going to Aberford," said Anne; "taking some trusty person
with me, Mrs. Catherine. It is common, I hear, for people to go there,
who seek sea air. I shall attract no attention; it does not matter much
how long I stay. I can establish myself under the wing of some matron,
and so escape the charge of impropriety. Then I shall go about the
district, make acquaintance with every one to whom I can have access,
and inquire with all zeal and all quietness. While questions from Lewis,
and a lawyer-like person, like James Aytoun, might confuse the people,
they will speak frankly to me. I will gossip with them, play with their
children; get all possible scraps of recollectings and imaginings, and,
perhaps, when the heap is winnowed, something worth going for."
Mrs. Catherine bent her head gravely, and asked: "When?"
"Immediately," said Anne; "at least, I should desire so. We have lost
much time already."
Mrs. Catherine rose, and went to the window. The sky was heavy and dark,
lowering like some great gloomy forehead. It was laden with snow--large,
dilated flakes, like those of fire upon Dante's burning sand were
falling one by one, upon the white earth. It was a feeding storm.
"Bonnie weather for the sea-side," said Mrs. Catherine, returning to her
seat. "You must go with a good excuse, child, not with an apparent
falsehood on your tongue. 'February fills the dyke, either with black or
white.' We are getting both of them this month. March is a blustering,
wintry time, when there is little to be seen or heard tell of about the
coast but shipwreck and disaster. April is pleasant in a landward place.
You _may_ go in April; it is too soon, but for the necessity's sake you
may go then--not a day sooner, at your peril. You are able and well? I
understand your look, child--hold your peace. I would give a good year
of my life--and I have few of them to spare, seeing I am trysted to
abide in my present tabernacle, if the Lord will tell Archie Sutherland
has won back his land--to see Norman Rutherford a free man on Oranside
again; but I will not consent to put you in peril, child, for any
prospective good. I say you shall go in April. I put my interdict upon
you venturing before. I will give you your freedom in the last blast of
the borrowing days. Not an hour sooner. Now, will you abide by my
judgment, or will you not?"
Anne looked out uneasily. The heavy sky slowly beginning to discharge
its load--the earth everywhere covered with that white, warm mantle--the
gradually increasing storm. She submitted. Now, at least, it was
impossible to go.
Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Catherine took her into another room, and
interrogated her concerning her pecuniary arrangements for the journey.
Anne evaded the question, laughed at the scanty family of shillings in
her own purse, and spoke of Lewis.
"Child, you are a gowk after all," said Mrs. Catherine. "The lad needs
all his siller for himself. If there is anything to spare, let him use
it on bonnie dies to dress his little bride withal--though the bairn
Alison has a natural grace, and needs them less than most. But if you
say a word about siller to Lewis, you shall never enter my door again.
Mind! It is my wont to keep my word."
Within a week after this conversation, the last half of Mrs. Catherine's
prodigal outfit was hurriedly sent to Glasgow, where Archibald
Sutherland had made his first beginning with success and honor. The cold
lodging, to whose narrow and solitary fireside he returned, night after
night alone--the fat, Glasgow landlady, whose broad, good-humored face
began to smile upon him with a familiar kindliness, which the broken
laird blamed himself for almost shrinking from--the life of strange
labor--he was getting accustomed to them all.
The house which he had entered was a great one. The senior partner, Mr.
Sutor, a man of good mercantile descent, and capital business head,
lived at a considerable distance from Glasgow, in one of those
magnificent solitudes of hill and water, whither the merchants of St.
Mungo are wont to carry their genial wealth, and their fine houses. It
was within convenient distance of the "Saut Water," that irresistible
temptation and delight of every genuine Glaswegian. Mr. Sutor came up
frequently to business; he was still the active sagacious head of his
extensive establishment. The manager, Mr. George Lumsden, was as great a
man in his way. He lived in the dignified vicinity of Blytheswood
Square. He had a fine house, a well-dressed pretty wife, and beautiful
children; gave good dinners; visited baillies and town-councillors, and
had baillies and town-councillors visiting him, and was certain in a
very short time, to have his respectable name introduced into the firm.
He was moreover an active, intelligent man, almost intellectual in spite
of those absorbing cares of business, and worthy to call the minister of
Portoran brother. Had Archibald chosen, he might have made a tolerably
good _entre_ into the society of Glasgow, in the hospitable house of Mr.
Lumsden; but Archibald did not choose. His former folly, illness, and
repentance had both sobered and saddened him, and he desired to avoid
society--a desire which Mr. Lumsden kindly perceived; and after one or
two unhappy evenings, during which the sensitive young man had endured
in exquisite pain "the pity of the crowd," and suffered the sympathy of
indifferent strangers, Mr. Lumsden forbore pressing further invitations
upon him.
Messrs. Sutor and Sinclair's office was filled with young men--very
young men, most of them--adventurous scions of commercial Glasgow
families, foredoomed to push their fortunes, and to push them
successfully in every quarter of the globe. Youths who made immense
havoc among "grossets," strawberries, and all other delicacies of the
luxurious summer-time, sacred to Clydesdale orchards, and radiant with
the crowning glory of the Saut Water; nor in the gloomier season did
less execution among edibles and drinkables, by no means so delicate or
innocent--uproarious, laughter loving, practical-joking youths, among
whose noisy conclave Archibald Sutherland sat silent, grave, and sad, in
strange solitude.
Thoroughly respectable they would all be by-and-by, on English 'Change
and foreign market-place, and home counting-house--men who could lose
some few thousands without much discomposure, and whose custom was to
win them in tens and twenties. Yet one could pass so lightly over these
ruddy faces, to rest upon that pale one among them, with its secret
history--its grief--its hope--altogether forgetful that this was a hired
clerk, and that the cubs were young gentlemen, taken in at nominal
salaries, to learn their craft, and saving Mr. Sutor no inconsiderable
annual sum in the salaries of other hired clerks, whose services his
great business must have demanded but for them.
But Archibald discharged his duty well: so well, that Mr. Lumsden
formally pronounced his satisfaction--shortened his probation--and when
he had been but a month in the Glasgow counting-house, bade him prepare
immediately for his voyage. Archibald did so: wrote a long letter, and
received a short note of leave-taking from his sister Isabel--the
much-admired and gay Mrs. Duncombe--packed up his great outfit, placed
in his pocketbook Mrs. Catherine's long letter of pithy counsel and
tender kindliness; with these few words of grave farewell from Merkland;
and on a heavy day in February, took his last look of the fair West
Country, and its beautiful Clyde, and set sail for the New World.