The months travelled on peacefully; Jeanie Coulter and Walter Foreman
were married with all due mirth and rejoicing. Ada Mina was reigning
now, in the absence of all rival powers, acknowledged belle and youthful
beauty of Strathoran; and had been thrown into an immense flutter, to
the great dismay and manifest injury of a young Muirland laird from the
west, who had come to take lessons in agriculture from Mr. Coulter, and
was very assiduously paying court to Mr. Coulter's daughter--by a hint
from Mrs. Catherine, of a possible visit to the Tower of the Honorable
Giles. Little Harry Coulter, the Benjamin of Harrows, was more
desperately in love than ever with the stranger Lilie, now living at
Merkland, in her full dignity as Merkland's niece; and with his first
knife had already constructed, with mighty deliberation and care, a
splendid model of a patent plough, to be laid at the small feet of his
liege lady, who unfortunately had no manner of appreciation of patent
ploughs, and greatly preferred Charlie Ferguson's present, a boat--a
veritable boat with little white silken sails, elaborated in the
Woodsmuir nursery by Mary Ferguson and Flora Macalpine, and which could
actually, with a fairy cargo of moss and ruddy autumnal wild-flowers,
make genuine voyages upon the Oran, to the delight of Lilie and the
Woodsmuir party, and the immense disgust of Harry Coulter. Lilie was
becoming a great pet at Merkland, "evendown spoiled," as Mrs. Melder
said, with the slightest possible tinge of jealousy; the constant
companion and pupil of Anne, the plaything of Lewis, and even--so great
was the witchery of the fair fresh childhood--a favorite with Mrs. Ross
herself, whom aunt Anne taught Lilie to approach with the greatest
reverence, and to call grand-mamma--mamma would not do. Lilie stoutly
resisted the bestowal of that sacred name upon any individual except the
one enthroned in the loyal little heart, the _bonniest_ of all existent
ladies; the especial _mother_ of the loving child.
In the beginning of winter, Anne paid her promised visit to Christian,
carrying little Lilie with her. New life was budding again in the large
melancholy heart which had lived through a lingering death for so many
years. A deep sorrow, and tender remembrance of the dead carried about
with her in religious silence, shunning common sight and common comment,
did not prevent this. It was not meet that the griefs of such a spirit
should pass lightly away, or was it possible; but bordering the deep
stillness of that lasting sorrow were other holds on life. Hope for
Marion, the little sister of her happier days; reverent enjoyment of
God's mercies, which one who had bowed to His chastisements so long was
not like to hold lightly; a sympathy, exquisitely deep and tender, with
everything of nature, and much of humanity--all swelling up from the
strong vitality, healthful and pure and heaven-dependant, which God had
placed, as a fountain in his servant's heart, before He laid her mighty
load upon her.
Anne and the child remained for a considerable time with Christian. She
had settled again in the old cottage, and was already making
arrangements for the repair of Redheugh. When Anne parted with her, it
was in the confidence of meeting her again in the end of the year, when
Norman and Marion should have returned; a light passed over the wan
face, as Christian said those words, but still she did not say from
whence the exiles were to return. Anne could not press the question, and
the time was not very long to wait. Lilie returned with her to Merkland.
The year waned; the December days again darkened over the sky of
Strathoran. Mr. Lumsden of Portoran had refurnished his Manse, in a
style which utterly scandalized Mrs. Bairnsfather.--Some one presented
him with a whole library of additional books--the same individual that
had lately put into his hand money enough to build a school-house in the
hamlet at Oran Brig, at which already masons and joiners were working
merrily, and under whose shelter Mr. Lumsden himself had vowed to
preach, let the Presbytery storm as it pleased. Mrs. Bairnsfather moved
her husband to appeal the case to the Assembly this time, if the Synod's
thunders proved unavailing. Mr. Bairnsfather, very much disgusted as he
was--was dubious. A certain mighty man in an obscure Fife parish, lying
on the south side of the Tay--a wondrous visionary man, who seeing the
first experiments made with gas in the streets of the mighty cities,
had tubes laid for the conveyance of the same to the pleasant parlors of
that rural Manse of Kilmany, had discovered a mighty truth by that time,
and was beginning to throw the rays of it from that marvellous lamp of
his, over the Tay, to be over all Scotland ere long. The truth that
preaching proprieties would not do; that ministers of Christ's holy
evangel must preach Christ--nothing less, and that the name of the Lord
was the strong Tower--it and no other--in which purity of soul and life
could be kept unsullied and undimmed for ever. And vigorous athletic
forces, whose front rank, among other sons of Anak, stood that restless
man of might and labor, so long called fire-brand and fanatic, the Rev.
John Lumsden of Portoran, were pressing into the highest places of the
Church, with this greatest of Scottish men at their head. So Mr.
Bairnsfather sagaciously, over his gardening, resolved that it might be
well to proceed with caution in this matter, and that the eye of a
General Assembly in this great renewing of its youth, might see
shortcomings in his own ministerial life and conversation, not
particularly adapted for the light of the day; in consequence of which
prudent doubts Mr. Lumsden escaped a call to the bar of the supreme
judicatory of the Church.
He was not married yet, however, for Marjory Falconer was still
disconsolately, and in vain, looking out for some one who would do her
the especial favor of marrying Ralph.
Mrs. Ross was becoming reconciled to the inevitable marriage of Lewis.
It was to take place some time about the new year--the special period
depending upon the looked for arrival of Norman. Little Alice, with her
girlish kindness of heart, had put a decided negative upon Lewis's
proposal, that his mother should leave Merkland. Surely they could all
dwell together in unity. Alice had considerable confidence in her own
powers of charming. To a little bride of eighteen, whom all the stronger
natures round her instinctively conspired to guard and defend from evil,
the confidence was natural and becoming enough.
In the meantime, Alice had been plotting somewhat ineffectually to
direct the especial attention of that grave brother James of hers to
Anne, and Anne's to him. It by no means succeeded.--They were the best
friends in the world, but clearly, even to the solicitous eye of Alice,
as comfortably indifferent to each other as it was possible for very
good friends to be.
Mr. Ferguson's work went on prosperously in the bleak lands of Loelyin
and Lochend. The sides of the glen of Oranmore were covered with the
flocks of the Southland farmer. In the glen itself, those roofless walls
stood still desolate and silent, the end of many a stern pilgrimage made
by the ejected Macalpines, who from their cottages in the low-country,
and from fishing-boats on the wide seashore beyond Portoran, looked
forward constantly with silent prayers, and stern onwaiting for the
return of their chief, and the recovery of their homes.
He, this hapless chief of theirs, had heard ere now of their calamity,
and in an agony of bitter earnestness had plunged again into his labor,
his hope swelling within him, in a burst of force which made it almost
painful--for them--also like himself heirs of the soil--and for their
inheritance. It had been some relief to his burning eagerness, could he
have cried his war-cry as his ancestors did, and rushed on--
To the rescue! There never was deed of olden arms, or bold
knight-errantry more instinct with chivalrous honor and energy than
this, though the battle-field was counting-room and market-place, and
the wrestler a broken man!
Lord Gillravidge had returned to Strathoran, greatly to the chagrin of
his useful friend, Mr. Fitzherbert, who had been, through all the
intervening time laboriously endeavoring to convince his Lordship of the
insupportable _ennui_ of this out-of-the-world place of his. His
Lordship was more than half convinced; nevertheless there was excellent
shooting, and Lord Gillravidge filled his house with sportsmen, to the
defiance of _ennui_, which reigning supreme in presence of _one_ bore,
seems to be expected to dissipate itself in the society of twenty.
One evening late in the year, Mr. Fitzherbert chanced inconsiderately to
pass through the little hamlet at the Brig of Oran, after the darkening.
It was a beautiful, clear, frosty night.--Hardy, strong, red and blue
children, were sliding on the frozen Oran; young men and douce fathers,
had been tempted to join them. Cottage doors were open on all sides,
revealing homely interiors, partially lighted by the kindly firelight;
grandmothers seated by the firesides; mothers stirring with care and
pains-taking the mighty pot of wholesome "parritch" for their evening
meal; elder sisters, eager to be out upon the slide, rapidly, and with
much noise, putting upon the table bowls and plates to receive the same;
while some who had finished the process stood at the door calling
impatiently to boys and men, to "come in afore the parritch cules."
Through this peaceful place, Mr. Fitzherbert inconsiderately passed
alone. He had scarcely entered it, when he was recognised by a band of
children on the ice. The youngsters of the Brig of Oran were just in
such a state of exhilaration, as made them ready for mischief in all its
possible varieties. "Eh!" cried out a stout lad of fourteen, at the top
of his considerable voice, "younder's the man that Angus Macalpine shore
like a sheep at the stepping stanes!"
"Great cry and little woo!" shouted another, adding also the latter line
of the proverb, in all its ludicrous expressiveness.
"Eh man!" continued a third, "I wadna hae lain still, and gotten my head
cuttit when I wasna wanting it."
Mr. Fitzherbert was perfectly blind and dumb with rage; in the midst of
a chorus of laughter he hurried on.
"Never you heed, my man," said the shoe-maker's wife, known as "a randy"
beyond the precincts of the Brig of Oran, "ye've gotten new
anes--they're grown again."
"Grown again!" ejaculated a little old wifie, whose profession was that
of an itinerant small-ware dealer, and who was privileged as an
original, "grown again!" and she lifted her quick little withered hand
to Fitzherbert's face, as she glided in before him; "let-abee
shearing--I wad a bawbee the new anes wadna stand a pouk."
And secure in the protection of the hardy mason, under whose roof-tree
she was to receive shelter for the night, the old wifie extended her
fingers to the graceful ornament of hair which curled over Mr.
Fitzherbert's lip. We cannot tell what dread revelations might have
followed, had not Lord Gillravidge's unfortunate friend dashed the old
woman aside, and saved himself by flight. Poor old Nannie paid for her
boldness by a slight cut upon her withered brow--her host growled a
thundery anathema, and the well-disposed lads of the hamlet pursued the
fugitive with gibes and shoutings of revengeful derision up to the very
gate of Strathoran.
After which stimulating adventure, Mr. Fitzherbert's arguments became so
potent and earnest, that Lord Gillravidge was moved by them, and finding
likewise that Mr. Whittret turned out by no means the most honorable of
stewards, and that this great house was enormously expensive, his
Lordship took it into his serious consideration whether it might not be
the wisest course to get rid of Strathoran.
December passed away--the new year came, and still there were no tidings
of Norman. Anne became anxious and uneasy; but Christian's letters said,
and said with reason, that the delay of a week or so, was no unusual
matter in a long sea voyage. Where was he then, this exile brother?
Lewis was not to be put off so easily. He did not see why a matter of so
much importance as his marriage should be delayed for the uncertain
arrival of Norman. So the day was determined on at last; the ceremony
was to be performed at the Tower, by Mrs. Catherine's especial
desire--in the end of January; if Norman came before that time, so much
the better; if not they would go on without him.
A fortnight of the new year was gone already; the Aytouns had arrived at
the Tower. Mrs. Aytoun and her son, under the escort of Lewis, had gone
down to Merkland to pay a formal visit to Mrs. Ross. Anne was at the
Tower with Lilie. She had been there of late, even more than usual. It
was Mrs. Catherine's desire that her favorite should remain with her
permanently, when Alice had taken her place in Merkland. It pleased Anne
greatly to have the alternative, but until the return of Norman, she
made no definite arrangement.
The afternoon was waning--Alice was in very high spirits, a little
tremulous and even something excited. Her wedding-day began to approach
so nearly.
She had been sitting close by Anne's side, engaged in a long and earnest
conversation, wherein the elder sister had many grave things to speak
of, while the younger, leaning on her in graceful dependence, listened
and assented reverently, forgetting for the moment what a very important
little personage, she herself, the future Mrs. Ross of Merkland, was.
Mrs. Catherine entered the room suddenly, with a newspaper in her hand,
and a triumphant expression in her face. "Here is news, Anne, news worth
hearkening to. Did I not know the cattle would not be suffered to do
their evil pleasure long in the house of a good man? Now in a brief
hour, we will be clear of the whole race of them--unclean beasts and
vermin as they are. Look at this."
Anne started when she did so; it was a long advertisement setting forth,
in auctioneer eloquence, the beauties and eligibilities of the desirable
freehold property of Strathoran, which was to be offered for sale, on a
specified day in spring, within a specified place in Edinburgh.
"What think you of that?" said Mrs. Catherine. "We have smitten the
Philistines and driven them out of the land--a land that it is my hope
will be polluted with the footsteps of the like of them never more in my
day, though truly I am in doubt how we can get the dwelling purified, to
make it fit for civilized folk."
"And what do you mean to do?" said Anne, eagerly. "It may be bought by
some other stranger: it may be--"
"Hold your peace, Anne," said Mrs. Catherine; "are you also joining
yourself to the witless bairns that would give counsel to gray hairs. It
may be! I say it shall be! The siller will aye be to the fore, whether I
am or no, and think you I will ever stand by again, and let a strange
man call himself master of Strathoran--the house that Isabel Balfour
went into a bride, and went out of again, only to her rest? It has been
a thorn in my very side, this one unclean and strange tenant of it.
Think you I will ever suffer another?"
"And what then?" said Anne, with anxious interest.
"We must get it bought, without doubt," said Mrs. Catherine. "You are
slower of the uptake, Anne, than is common with you. Whether I myself
have, or have not, sufficient siller is another matter. There are folk
in Scotland, who know the word of Catherine Douglas, and can put faith
in it. Before three months are over our heads, an it be not otherwise
ordained, Archie Sutherland shall be master of his land again."
"Oh! Anne, are you not glad?" exclaimed little Alice: "we shall have Mr.
Sutherland back again."
Anne did not feel herself particularly called upon to express gladness,
but she looked up inquiringly into Mrs. Catherine's face.
"I said nothing of the lad coming home," said Mrs. Catherine firmly.
"Alison Aytoun, you are but a bairn, and will never be tried, so far as
I can see the lot before you, by thoughts or purposes of a stern and
troublous kind. It is other with you, Anne, as I know. This Archie
Sutherland, has wasted with his riotous living the substance given in
charge to him from his father, and from his father's God. It is not meet
he should come back unscathed to this leisure and honor; it is right he
should clear himself by labor and toil, not of the sin before God, which
is atoned for in a holier way, but of the sin in the sight of man. I
say, I also would be sinning against a justice, which neither fails nor
alters, and discouraging strong hearts that held upon their warfare
manfully, when he fell under the hand of the adversary, were I bringing
back Archie Sutherland at this time to the full honor and possessions of
his father's house. I will let him stay in his trial and probation,
child, till he can show labor of his own hands, bravely done and like a
man. The gallant is nearer to my own heart than ever man was, but Sholto
my one brother; but it is meet he should render due justice after he has
done evil."
Anne bowed her head in silent acquiescence: she did not speak. Mrs.
Catherine was right.
"But this must be looked to without delay," said Mrs. Catherine, seating
herself in her own great chair, while the gloaming shadows gathered
darkly in the room; "we must buy his land back for him now. I will speak
of it to Mr. Foreman this very night. Alison, go your ways, and sing to
me the ballad of the wayfaring man."
And in the soft shadowy gloaming, little Alice seated herself at the
piano, and began to sing. You could scarcely perceive her fair head in
the dreamy gloom of the large apartment. Further in, the red glow of the
fire flickered ruddy on the stately form of Mrs. Catherine, bringing out
with momentary flashes sometimes the shadow of her strong face in bold
relief against the wall. Still more in the shade sat Anne, very still
and thoughtful, looking at the old friend, and the young beside her, and
thinking of others far away. Over them all were these low floating notes
of music hopeful and sad--
Thy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan,
Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man!
Down stairs in the snug housekeeper's room, a little party was
assembled, merrier and younger than were wont to be seen within that
especial sanctum of the famous Mrs. Euphan Morison. Mrs. Euphan herself
had gone to Portoran, to make provision of many things necessary for the
jubilee and festivities, which in the ensuing week were to be holden in
the Tower. She was not to return till late that night, and Jacky had
taken advantage of her absence.
Round the fire, in the early winter gloaming, sat little Bessie, Johnnie
Halflin, Jacky herself and Flora Macalpine. There was to be a quiet
_reunion_ in the Tower that night, and Flora came, in attendance upon
little Mary Ferguson, who was gaily engaged at that moment, in the hall,
playing hide and seek with Lilie Rutherford.
The little company in the housekeeper's room were very merry. Jacky was
repeating to them that sad adventure of Sir Artegall, which ended in his
captivity to the most contemptuous of Amazons, the warlike Radigund;
with whispers innumerable, and stifled laughter, her companions
listened, or pretended to listen.
At that time, the gig from the Sutherland Arms, which had formerly
conveyed James Aytoun to the Tower, was tumbling along the high-road in
the same direction again. At some little distance from the entrance to
Mrs. Catherine's ground, two gentlemen alighted, and dismissing it,
ascended to the Tower.
One of them--he was bronzed by the beating of a sun more fervid than
that of Scotland--was casting keen glances of joyous recognition round
him--at the Tower--at Merkland--at a light in a high window there, which
he fancied he knew, and still more eagerly at Strathoran in the dim
distance. Its name had rung strangely in his ear from the tongue of the
"crooked helper" at the inn, who drove their humble vehicle--"mony
thanks to ye, Strathoran." It sent a thrill to the heart of Archibald
Sutherland.
Yes, Archibald Sutherland! it was no other!
An older man leaned on his arm. In the darkness you could not
distinguish particularly either his face or form; he was tall, with an
elastic buoyant footstep, and was looking about him in a singular abrupt
way, now here, now there, like a man in a dream.
They approached the Tower door--it was closed. Archibald's friend had
been eager hitherto, but now he lingered and seemed to wish delay.
Archibald was entirely in the dark as to the reason. There was a ruddy
light gleaming from a low window near at hand. The stranger drew near to
look in, almost as if he knew it.
The room was full of the ruddy fire-light--the two dark figures at the
window were quite unseen by those merry youthful people about the fire.
Some one had slightly opened the window a little while before, for the
room was very hot, and the door had been closed, that graver ears might
not hear their laughter.
Jacky sat in the midst, her dark face glowing keen and bright. She was
reciting vigorously that doleful adventure of the luckless Sir Artegall.
The woman's weedes put upon him by the disdainful Amazon; the white
apron--the distaff in his hand, "that he thereon should spin both flax
and tow;" his low place among the brave knights, whom he found "spinning
and carding all in comely row;" and
"---- forst through penury and pyne,
To doe these works to their appointed dew,
For nought was given them to sup or dyne,
But what their hands could earn by twisting linen twyne."
A very sad thing, doubtless, for the hapless Sir Artegall, and
furnishing very sufficient occasion for the "deep despight" and "secret
shame" of his lofty and royal Lady Britomart, but by no means calculated
to impress any deep feeling of pity or compassion upon that somewhat
ungovernable knot of youngsters.--Flora Macalpine, too kindly and
good-humored to hurt Jacky's feelings, had bent her head down upon her
knee to hide her laughter; Johnnie Halflin leaned against the
mantelpiece, shaking with secret earthquakes; Bessie had her head turned
to the door, and was gazing at it steadily, and biting her rosy lip.
They had all an awe of Jacky. It would not do, however. That picture,
with its gradual heightening; at last the sad honor of the unfortunate
knight, steadily spinning in his woman's weedes, because his word was
pledged to the despightful Radigund,--there was a general explosion--it
was impossible to withstand that.
Jacky stopped suddenly, and withdrew from the laughters in lofty
offence. She herself had a perception of the allegory, and was hurt and
wounded at its reception, as we see greater people sometimes, whose
myths a laughing world will persist in receiving as rather grotesque
than sublime.
Jacky was almost sulky; she sat down in the shade, and turned her head
resolutely away. Flora drew near to her in deprecatory humbleness. Jacky
resisted and resented proudly.
Just then the door opened; the tall man, leaning on Archibald
Sutherland's arm, gave a nervous start. Archibald had begun to weary of
his station here, at the window of the housekeeper's room. His friend
and employer, Mr. Sinclair was exhibiting a singular fancy to-night. He
looked in wonderingly to see the reason of the sudden start.
It was only the entrance of two little girls; one of them blooming and
ruddy, with radiant golden hair. The other paler, with a little frock
of black silk, and eyes like the night--wistful, spiritual, dark.
"What ails Jacky?" said the new comer.
"Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie," said Bessie eagerly, "we werena meaning
ony ill; we only laughed."
Lilie slid gently within Jacky's arm--drew down the hand which supported
her head, and whispered in her ear--the arm of Mr. Sinclair quivering
all this time most strangely, as it leaned upon his friend's.
"Dinna be angry," whispered Lilie; "I want you to say Alice Brand. Mary
never heard it; never mind them. Say Alice Brand to Mary and me."
"Oh! ay, Jacky," echoed Bessie and Johnnie together, "say Alice Brand;
it's a real bonnie thing."
Jacky was mollified; after a brief pause, caressing Lilie, she began the
ballad. Little Mary Ferguson, with the fire-light gleaming in her golden
hair, stood, leaning on the shoulder of her favorite Flora. Lilie was at
Jacky's knee, lifting up her face of earnest childish interest, and
listening with all her might. Without, in the darkness stood the
stranger, eagerly looking in, and holding Archibald's arm.
The first notes of Alice Aytoun's song were sounding up stairs.
Archibald Sutherland stood still, but with eyes that wandered somewhat,
and a considerable weariness. This was a most strange freak of Mr.
Sinclair's--he could not comprehend it.
Her story possessed Jacky and inspired her. She rose as it swelled to
its climax, and spoke louder.--
"It was between the night and day
When the Fairy folk have power
That I fell down in a sinful fray,
And twixt life and death was snatched away,
To the joyless, elfin bower.
But wist I of a woman bold,
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould
As fair a form as thine.
She crossed him once, she crossed him twice,
That lady was so brave;
The fouller grew his goblin hue,
The darker turned the cave,
She crossed him thrice, that lady bold,
He rose beneath her hand,
The fairest knight on Scottish mold,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!
'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood."--
The quick elfin eye shot a glance out into the darkness, and saw the
listening figures there; the well-known face of young Strathoran! Jacky
steadily finished the verse--committed Lilie into the hands of Flora
Macalpine, and shutting the door of the house-keeper's room carefully
behind her, opened the outer one, and admitted the strangers.
She conducted them up stairs in her own still, excited, elfin way; the
fumes of the ballad hanging about her still. Mr. Sinclair grasped
Archibald's arm, as they reached the door of the inner room, and held
him back. The plaintive hopeful music was floating out again upon the
soft shadows of the darkening night.
"Speed thy labor o'er land and sea,
Home and kindred are waiting for thee."
They entered, Jacky gliding in before them to light the candles which
stood upon the table. Mrs. Catherine started up in overwhelming
surprise--so did Anne and Alice. There was a loud exclamation, "Whence
come you, gallant and what brings you home?" and a confused uncertain
welcoming of Archibald. Then they became calmer, and he introduced Mr.
Sinclair. At this stranger, Jacky when she brought the lights, had
thrown a long, keen scrutinising glance. There seemed an agitated
uncertainty about him, which contrasted strangely with his firm lip and
clear eye. They were seated again at last. A mysterious agitation had
fallen upon them all, which Archibald could not comprehend. To this
new-comer Mrs. Catherine's large gray eyes were travelling continually.
Anne, with nervous timid glances, turned to him again and again. Mr.
Sinclair himself, generally so frank, and full of universal sympathies,
was confused and tremulous, speaking incoherently, and saying things
which had no meaning; Archibald was greatly astonished--even little
Alice Aytoun began to steal shy glances at the stranger.
Archibald made a sign to Anne, and rising went out--Anne followed. He
was in high spirits, great in hope, and with prospects more cheering
than he had ever dreamt of. He began to speak of them as she met him at
the door.
"Who is he? who is he?" exclaimed Anne eagerly.
Archibald looked at her in amazement. "My employer and friend, Mr.
Sinclair, Anne. What is the matter? I have come home with him at his own
special desire. He intends--"
Jacky had been hovering on the stairs. She came up to the door where
they were standing, and looked at them wistfully, "Oh if ye please, Miss
Anne--"
"What is it, Jacky?"
Jacky could not tell what it was. She sat down on the stair, and put
her hands up to her face, and began to cry--her excitement overpowering
her.
"I cannot bear this," said Anne, wringing her hands nervously. "Jacky,"
she whispered in her ear--the girl shot down stairs like a spirit.
"Anne!" exclaimed Archibald, "something ails you. I beg you to tell me
what it is."
"Afterwards--afterwards--" said Anne, hastily. "Go in now, Archibald.
Jacky, come--"
Jacky returned, leading little Lilie by the hand. Archibald in silent
amazement, went in again to the inner drawing-room. Anne followed him
with the child, her face deadly pale, her form trembling.
Mrs. Catherine had changed the position of the lights on the table--one
of them threw the profile of the stranger in clear shadow on the
wall--she was looking with a singular scrutiny on the face, and on the
shade of it. Little Alice Aytoun looked almost afraid. Mr. Sinclair was
as confused and agitated as ever.
Lilie came in--she drew near Archibald timidly, with some remembrance of
having seen him before; behind her, Anne stood in stiff excitement,
watching her motions.
Suddenly the child's quick eye caught the stranger. Mr. Sinclair's arms
moved tremulously. Lilie looked--wavered--turned back--looked again, her
dark eyes dilating--her face full of childish earnestness. The time--the
distance--the slight child's-memory--these did not make darkness enough,
to veil from her remembrance the well-known face. The child sprang
forward to the arms of the strong man, who sat trembling there under her
simple scrutiny; she uttered a cry--Anne only could distinguish the
latter words of it--they were enough, "My papa!"
And Mrs. Catherine rose, drawing up her stately figure to its full
height, in solemn, judicial dignity, and advanced to the side of the
father and child, "I bid you joyous, righteous, peaceful welcome; Norman
Rutherford, I bid you welcome to your own name and land!"
And this was he! after eighteen years of labor and pain and
banishment--an assumed name, a strange country, a toilsome life--in joy
and peace and honor, Norman Rutherford had returned again to his own
fatherland.
But their joy was too deep and still to bear recording; the manner of
their rejoicing, the forms of their thankfulness were not such as we can
dwell on. The serenity of deep and holy happiness, the exuberance of
new-found blessings!--we cherish those things too deeply in our inmost
hearts to speak of them; for we are very still, when we are very
blessed, in Scotland!
At Portoran he had left Christian, Marion, and his son. He had promised
to return to them immediately, with Anne and Lilie. Mrs. Catherine's
carriage was ordered for them, and they drove round by Merkland. Anne
sat, her heart beating joyously, by the side of her new-found brother.
Little Lilie was nestling in the darkness in her father's arm, pouring
forth a stream of questions about mamma and Lawrie. All the three were
half weeping yet, in the tumult and excitement of their joy. The past,
with all that was dark and painful in it, was lost in the present
brightness; peace, security--the bond of tender and near relationship no
longer a secret thing, but recognised now in joy and triumph, an abiding
gladness all their days. The brother and sister united now for the first
time in their lives, felt no restraining chillness of new
acquaintanceship. They knew each other, and rejoiced, with tender pride
and thanksgiving, in their kindred.
They stopped at Merkland--leading his child by the hand, and supporting
Anne on his arm, Norman Rutherford entered the house of his fathers. His
naturally buoyant step was restrained by a grave dignity; the memory of
the dead hung over these walls--a thousand sad and potent remembrances
were rising in the in the exile's heart--but withal he had been
_doubted_ here. He knew that, as it seemed instinctively, and drawing
his sister's hand more closely through his arm, they entered Mrs. Ross's
sitting-room together.
He stood gravely at the door waiting for his welcome. Lilie looked up
wonderingly in his face; he held her hand with such gentle firmness,
that she could not run to the wondering grand-mamma, who sat there
staring suspiciously at the new comers. Mrs. Aytoun rose--neglected
wives, sad and sorrowful, remember those who feel for their hidden
troubles delicately. She came forward, she looked at him, she held out
her hands, "Welcome, welcome home."
Mrs. Ross was looking at him now eagerly. James and Lewis had both
risen--so did she. "Who is this, Anne?" exclaimed Lewis: "Lilie, who is
this gentleman?"
Mrs. Ross's better angel visited her for that white moment. She advanced
before either Anne or Lilie could answer. "It is your brother,
Lewis--your brother Norman; Norman, you are welcome home."
And then a subdued and tender radiance came shining from the eyes of the
returned son. He led Mrs. Ross to her chair--he called her mother. In
the revulsion of his generous heart, thinking he had done her wrong, he
forgot the dark wedding-day long ago which had brought her, a strange
ruler, to Merkland, and which he spent by his own mother's grave. With
Lilie on the little stool at her feet, and Norman doing her reverence,
and all the rest joyous and glad about her, Mrs. Ross forgot it also.
He was to return to Merkland, she insisted, with his wife, their sister,
and their son. The old house would hold them all. Norman's dark eyes
brightened into deep radiance. He kissed the harsh step-mother's
hand--he had done her wrong.
Then he drew Anne's arm through his own once more, and leaving Lilie in
the carriage, in charge of Mrs. Catherine's careful coachman, went down
Oranside to Esther Fleming's cottage; but in Esther's recognition there
was neither pause nor doubt. The manly bronzed cheek, the dark hair with
its streaks of grey--she did not linger to look at these. She heard the
light elastic step, the voice so dearly known of old--and it was her
beautiful laddie, her bairn, her son--not the grave man, who had more
than reached the highest arch of his life--about whose neck the old
woman threw her withered arms, as she lifted up her voice and wept.
At last they reached Portoran. The Marion, the little sister of
Christian Lillie, had a face of thoughtful gracious beauty, such as
gladdens the eye and heart alike; a saintly peaceful face, in which the
strength of Christian and the weakness of Patrick were singularly
blended, for she was like them both. The plough of sorrow had not carved
its iron furrows on her fair brow, as it had done on Christian's. The
sunshine of her smile was only chastened with natural tears for the dead
brother who had gone to his rest; he was not her all in all as he had
been Christian's.
No, for the little girl rejoicing in a childish exuberance of joy and
tenderness already in her arms; the beautiful, bold, gallant boy, who
stood beside her chair; the radiant dark face of the father and husband
looking upon them with tremulous delight and pride--had all a share.
Christian too, whose heroic work was done, and the new-found sister
Anne; there was warm room for them all in the large heart of Marion
Rutherford. The burning fire of bitter grief had not intensified her
love upon one--she was the family head, the house-mother--full of all
gracious affections and sympathies, hopes and happiness.