ANNEhad fairly started upon her voyage of discovery. The beginning of it cost her many thoughts. She had half advanced to various peasant wives, whom she saw at cottage doors, screaming to unruly children, or out upon the universal “green,” superintending their little bleaching—and had as often shrunk back, in painful timidity, which she blamed herself greatly for, but could not manage to overcome. It was quite different among the well-known cottages of Strathoran, though even with them, Anne would have felt visits of condescension or patronage unspeakably awkward and painful. Now this constitutional shyness must be overcome. Walking along the high road, a considerable way beyond the village of Aberford, she suddenly came upon a desolate mansion-house. The broken gate hung by the merest tag of hinge; the stone pillars were defaced and broken. What had formerly been ornamental grounds before the house, were a jungle of long grass, and uncouth brushwood. Bushes grown into unseemly straggling trees, beneath the shadow of which, thistles and nettles luxuriated, and plumes of unshorn grass waved rank and long, as if in the very triumph of neglect. The house-door hung as insecurely as the gate—the steps were mossy and cracked—the windows entirely shattered, and in some cases the very frames of them broken. Behind, the gardens lay in a like state of desolation. Here and there a cultivated flower, which had been hardy enough to cling to its native soil, marked among wild blossoms, and grass, and weeds, a place where care and culture had once been. Upon a mossed and uneven wall some fruit-trees clung, rich with blossoms: it had been an orchard once. In the midst of another waste and desolate division stood the broken pedestal of a sun-dial; a sloping wilderness ascended from it to the low windows of what seemed once to have been a drawing-room. A spell of neglect was over it all, less terrific than that still horror which a poet of our own time has thrown over his haunted house, but yet in the gay wealth and hopefulness of spring, striking chill and drearily upon the observer’s eye. Anne examined it with curious interest; she could suspect what house it was.
A little further on she came upon a cottage of better size and appearance than most, with a well-filled little garden before its door, and knots of old trees about it. It was the house of a “grieve,” or farm overseer, a rising man in his humble circle, whose wife aimed at being genteel. She stood in the door, basking in the sun, with her youngest baby in her arms; the good womanhad a multitude of babies; the latest dethroned one was tumbling about at her feet. Anne bent over the little gate to ask the name of the forlorn and desolate house she had just past.
“Oh, that’s Redheugh,” said Mrs. Brock, the grieve’s wife.
Anne lingered, and held out her hand to the hardy little urchin scrambling in the garden. Mrs. Brock looked as if she would quite like to enter into conversation:
“Be quiet, Geordie; ye’ll dirty the lady’s gloves.”
“No, no,” said Anne, taking the small brown hand into her own. “I am very fond of children, and this is a fine, sturdy little fellow.”
“Ye’ll be a stranger, I’m thinking?” said Mrs. Brock. “There’s few folk in our parish that dinna ken Redheugh.”
“Yes,” said Anne. “I am quite a stranger; what is the reason it lies so deserted and desolate?”
“Ye’ll be come to the sea-side?” pursued Mrs. Brock; “it’s no often we have folk out frae Edinburgh sae early in the year. Is’t no unco cauld for bathing?”
“I should think it was,” said Anne smiling, “but I have never, bathed yet.”
“It’ll be just for the sea air?” continued Mrs. Brock. “Are ye bideing far frae here, Mem, if yin may ask?”
“I am living a good way on the other side of Aberford,” said Anne.
“Oh, and ye have had a lang walk, and it’s a warm day. Get out of the road, Geordie; will ye no come in and sit down? ye’ll be the better for the rest?”
Mrs. Brock, as we have before said, had an ambition to be genteel. Now Anne Ross with her very plain dress, and quite simple manners, was eminently ladylike, and might be a desirable acquaintance. Anne accepted the invitation, and setting the strong little urchin, whom his mother knocked about with so little delicacy, on his feet, she led him in with her.
Mrs. Brock’s parlor was a temple sacred to company, and holidays. Its burnished grate, and narrow mantlepiece, elaborately ornamented with foreign shells; brilliant peacock feathers waved gracefully over the gilded frame of the little square mirror; the carpet was resplendent in all the colors of the rainbow. There were sturdy mahogany chairs, and a capacious haircloth sofa—the two ends of a dining-table stood in the middle of the room, elaborated into the brightest polish—the center piece was placed against the wall, and decorated with a case of stuffed birds. Mrs. Brock paused at the door, and contemplated it all with infinite complacency. It was something to have so grand a place to exhibit to a stranger.
“Take a seat on the sofa, Mem; ye’ll be wearied wi’ your langwalk. Geordie, ye little sinner, wad ye put your dirty shoon on the guid carpet? Get away wi’ ye.”
Mrs. Brock bundled the little fellow unceremoniously out, and seated herself opposite her guest.
“You have a fine view,” said Anne.
“Is’t no beautiful? They tell me there’s no a grander sight in the world than just the Firth and Fife. Yonder’s the Lomonds, ye ken, and yon muckle hill, even over the water, that’s Largo Law. My mother was a Fife woman—I have lived at Colinsbrugh mysel; and we can see baith Inchkeith and the May in a clear day, no to speak o’ the Bass. We’re uncommonly well situate here; it’s a fine house altogether.”
“It seems so, indeed,” said Anne.
“Ye see the only ill thing about it is, that it’s no our ain.—George was uncommon keen to have had the house the bairns were a’ born in. He’s an awfu’ man for his bairns.”
“Very natural,” said Anne.
“Oh, ay, nae doubt it’s natural, but it’s no ilka body that has the thought; he wad have gien twa hunder pounds for the house; twa clear hunder—it’s no worth that siller, ye ken, but it’s just because we’ve been in’t sae lang. But Miss Lillie wadna hear o’t; it’s no every day she could get an offer like that, and they canna be sae weel off as to throw away twa hunder pounds, ane would think.”
“Is this Miss Lillie’s house?” said Anne.
“Ay—ye’ll ken Miss Lillie it’s like?”
“No,” said Anne, “I do not know her, but I have heard her name.”
“There’s bits of conveniences a’ through it,” said Mrs. Brock, “that had been putten up when they were bideing here themsels; and the garden behint. Miss Lillie beggit George to keep the flowers right, and he takes uncommon pains with them. He’s a guid-hearted man, our George; ye’ll no often meet wi’ the like of him.”
“And that house of Redheugh,” said Anne; “why is it so neglected and desolate?”
“Eh, bless me!” said Mrs. Brock, “have ye no heard the story?”
“What story?” said Anne.
“Eh, woman!” exclaimed the grieve’s wife, forgetting her good manners in astonishment. “Ye maun have been awfu’ short time hereabout, if ye havena heard the story of the Laird o’ Redheugh.”
“I only arrived yesterday,” said Anne.
“Weel, it’s no ill to tell. The young gentleman that aught it killed a man and was drowned himsel when he was trying to escape:it’s just as like the Book o’ Jonah as anything out o’ the Bible could be. There was a great storm, and the ship he was in sank; he couldna carry the guilt of the pluid over the sea. They say murder wouldna hide if ye could put a’ the tokens o’t beneath North Berwick Law. It made an awfu’ noise in the countryside at the time, but it’s no muckle thought o’ now, only a’body kens what gars the house lie desolate. Folk say ye may see the gentleman that was killed, and Redheugh himsel in his dreeping claes, like as if he was new come up from the bottom of the sea, fighting and striving in the auld avenue—aye at midnight o’ the night it was done—butye’llno believe the like o’ that?”
“No,” said Anne vacantly; she did not know what she answered.
“Weel, I never saw onything myself—but they say the spirit’s ill to pacify, that’s met wi’ a violent death—and I wad just be as weel pleased no to put myself in the way. I have aye an eerie feeling when I pass the gate at night. After a’ ye ken, there’s naething certain about it in Scripture—maybe the dead can come back, maybe they canna—ane disna ken. I think it’s aye best to keep out of the gait.”
“It is, no doubt, the most prudent way,” said Anne, smiling.
“Ye wad, maybe, like to see the garden, Miss—”
Mrs. Brock was mightily anxious to know who her visitor was.
“Ross,” said Anne.
“Weel, Miss Ross, I am sure ye’ll be pleased wi’ the garden—will ye come this way?”
Anne followed. The garden was in trim order—well kept and gracefully arranged. Spring flowers, with their delicate hopeful fragrance and pale hues, were scattered through the borders. The blossom on the lilac bushes was already budded, and the hawthorn had here and there unfolded its first flowers.
“But the simmer-house, Miss Ross,” said Mrs. Brock.
The summer-house was not one of the ordinary tea-garden abominations. It was a knoll of soft turf, the summit of which had been formed into a seat, with a narrow space of level greensward for its footstool. Over it was a light and graceful canopy, with flowering plants more delicate and rare, than are generally seen in cottage gardens, clustering thickly over it, while the foliage of some old trees, growing at the foot of the hillock, made a rich background. From its elevated seat, you could see the slopes of Fife lying fair below the sun, and the gallant Forth between.—Anne stood and gazed round her in silence. She could see the dark trees, and high roof of Redheugh at her other hand; how often might Norman, in his happy years long ago, have stood upon this spot? Yet here it shone in its fresh life and beauty, when all that remained of him, was dishonor and desolation!
But there was in this a solemn, silent hope which struck Anne to the heart. Christian Lillie had entreated, as her tenant said, that these flowers should be carefully tended. Christian Lillie would not part with the house. Was she not looking forward, then, to some future vindication—to some home-coming of chastened joyfulness—to some final light, shedding the radiance of peace upon her evening time?
Anne had to sit down in Mrs. Brock’s parlor again, and suffer herself to be refreshed with a glass of gooseberry wine, not quite so delectable as Mrs. Primrose’s immortal preparation, before she was permitted to depart. Mrs. Brock had another decanter upon her table, filled with a diabolical compound, strongly medicinal in taste and odor, which she called ginger wine, and which Anne prudently eschewed—and a plate of rich “short-bread,” at which little Geordie, tumbling on the mat at the door, cast longing loving looks. Mrs. Brock hoped Miss Ross would come to see her again.
“It’s just a nice walk. Ye maun come and tak’ a cup o’ tea when George is in himsel. He’s an uncommon weel-learned man, our George—he could tell ye a’ the stories o’ the countryside.”
Anne had to make a half promise that she would return to avail herself of the stores of George Brock’s information, before his admiring wife released her.
She had overcome her repugnance a little—it was a tolerable beginning so far as that went—but how dark, how hopeless seemed the prospect! There was no doubt in that confident expression—no benevolent hope that Norman might be guiltless! She had been told so long before, and had come to Aberford, in the face of that. Yet the repetition of it by so many indifferent strangers discouraged her sadly—her great expectation collapsed. Only a steady conviction in her brother’s innocence, a solemn hope of vindication to him, living or dead, upheld her in her further way.
In the evening she wandered out upon the sands. It was a still night, wrapped in the gray folds of a mistier gloaming, than she had before seen sinking over the brilliant Firth. Anne hovered about the enclosure of Schole. The dreary house had a magnetic attraction for her. She stood by the low gate, close to the water, and looked in. The high foliage of the hedge hid her—gate itself was the only loophole in the thick fence, which surrounded the house on all sides. There was light in the low projecting window, which dimly revealed a gloomy room, furnished with book shelves. At a sort of study table, placed in the recess of the window, there sat a man bending over a book. His face was illuminated by the candle beside him. A pale, delicate face it was, telling of a mind nervously susceptible, a spirit answering to every touch, with emotionso intense and fine, as to make the poetic temperament, not a source of strength and mighty impulse, as in hardier natures, but a well-spring of exquisite feebleness—a fountain of pensive blight and beauty. The snowy whiteness of his high, thin temples, the long silky fair hair upon his stooping head, heightened the impression of delicate grace and feebleness. He looked young, but had, in reality, seen nearly forty years of trouble and sorrow. His brow was almost covered by the long, thin white fingers that supported it. He was absorbed in his book.
A strange resemblance to Christian Lillie was in the student’s pale and contemplative face. There could be no doubt that he was her invalid brother—and yet how strangely unlike they were!
Anne turned to pursue her walk along the dim sands. A faint ray of moonlight was stealing through the mist, silvering the water, and the long glistening line of its wet shores here and there. In the light, she caught a glimpse of a slow advancing figure. Fit place and time it was, for such a meeting—for the tall dark outline and slow step, could belong to but one person. Anne trembled, and felt her own step falter. They had never yet heard each other’s voices, yet were connected by so close a tie—were wandering upon this solitary place, brooding over one great sorrow—perhaps tremulously embracing one solemn hope.
When they met, she faltered some commonplace observation about the night. To her astonishment, Christian Lillie replied at once. It might be that she saw Anne’s agitation—it might be that she also longed to know Norman’s sister. That she knew her to be so, Anne could not doubt: her melancholy contemplation of Merkland—her evident start and surprise, when they formerly met upon the sands, made that certain.
“Yes,” said Christian Lillie, in a voice of singular sadness, “it is a beautiful night.”
The words were of the slightest—the tone and manner, the drawing in of that long breath, spoke powerfully. This, then, was her one pleasure—this gentle air of night was the balm of her wearied spirit.
“The mist is clearing away,” said Anne, tremulously. “Yonder lights on the Fife shore are clear now—do you see them?”
“Ay, I see them,” was the answer. “Cheerful and pleasant they look here. Who knows what weariness and misery—what vain hopes and sick hearts they may be lighting.”
“Let us not think so,” said Anne, gently. “While we do not know that our hopes are vain we still have pleasure in them.”
“I have seen you more than once before,” said Christian Lillie. “You are not, or your face is untrue, one to think of vain pleasure at an after-cost of pain. Hopes!—I knew what they were once—I know now what it is to feel the death of them: what think youof the vain toils that folk undergo for a hope? the struggle and the vigils, and the sickness of its deferring? I see light burning yonder through all the watches of the night—what can it be but the fever of some hope that keeps them always shining? I saw yours in your window last night, when everybody near was at rest but myself. What is it that keeps you wakeful but some hope?”
“You know me then—you know what my hope is?” said Anne, eagerly.
“No,” said Christian. “Tell it not to me. I have that in me that blights hope—and the next thing after a blighted hope, is a broken heart. It is wonderful—God shield you, from the knowledge—how long a mortal body will hold by life after there is a broken heart within it! I think sometimes that it is only us who know how strong life is—not the hopeful and joyous, but us, who are condemned to bear the burden—us, who drag these days out as a slave drags a chain.”
“Do not say so,” said Anne. Her companion spoke with the utmost calmness—there was a blank composure about her, which told more powerfully even than her words, the death of hope.—”There can be no life, however sorrowful, that has not an aim—an expectation.”
“An aim?—ay, an aim! If you knew what you said you would know what a solemn and sacred thing it is that has stood in my path, these seventeen years, the ending of my travail—an expectation! What think you of looking forward all that time, as your one aim and expectation—almost, God help us, as your hope—for a thing which you knew would rend your very heart, and make your life a desert when it came—what think ye of that? There are more agonies in this world than men dream of in their philosophy.”
“Are we not friends?” said Anne. “Have we not an equal share in a great sorrow that is past—I trust and hope in a great joy that is to come? Will you not take my sympathy?—my assistance?”
Christian Lillie shrank, as Anne thought, from her offered hand.
“An equal share—an equal share. God keep you from that—but it becomes you well: turn round to the light, and let me see your face.”
She laid her hand on Anne’s shoulder, and, turning her round, gazed upon her earnestly.
“Like—and yet unlike,” she murmured. “You are the only child of your mother? she left none but you?”
“Except—”
“Hush, what would you say?” said Christian, hurriedly.—”And you would offer me sympathy and help? Alas! that I cannottake it at your, hands. You have opened a fountain in this withered heart, that I thought no hand in this world could touch but one. It is a good deed—you will get a blessing for it—now, fare you well.”
“Shall I not see you again?” said Anne.
Christian hesitated.
“I do not know—why should you? you can get nothing but blight and disappointment from me, and yet—for once—you may come to me at night—not to-morrow night, but the next. I will wait for you at the little gate; and now go home and take rest—is it not enough that one should be constantly watching? Fare you well.”
Before Anne could answer, the tall, dark, gliding figure was away—moving along with noiseless footstep over the sands to the gate of Schole. She proceeded on herself, in wonder and agitation—how shallow was her concern for Norman in comparison with this; how slight her prospect of success when this earnest woman, whose words had such a tone of power in them, even in the deepness of her grief, declared that in her all hope was dead. It was a blow to all her expectations—nevertheless it did not strike her in that light. Her anticipation of the promised interview, her wonder at what had passed in this, obliterated the discouraging impression. She was too deeply interested in what she had seen and heard, to think of the stamp of hopelessness which these despairing words set on her own exertions. That night she transferred her lights early from her little sitting-room to the bed-chamber behind. That was a small matter, if it gave any satisfaction to the melancholy woman, the light from whose high chamber window she could see reflected on the gleaming water, after Miss Crankie’s little household had been long hours at rest.
The next day was a feverish day to Anne, and so was the succeeding one. She took long walks to fill up the tardy time, and made acquaintance with various little sunbrowned rustics, and cottage mothers; but gained from them not the veriest scrap of information about Norman, beyond what she already knew—that he had killed a man, and had been drowned in his flight from justice—that now the property, as they thought, was in the king’s hands, “and him having sae muckle,” as one honest woman suggested, “he didna ken weel what to do wi’t. Walth gars wit wavor—It’s a shame to fash him, honest man, wi’ mair land that he can make ony use o’—it would have been wiser like to have parted it among the puir folk.”
On the afternoon of the day on which she was to see Christian Lillie again, Anne lost herself in the unknown lanes of Aberford. After long wandering she came to the banks of a little inland water, whose quiet, wooded pathway was a great relief to her, afterthe dust and heat of the roads. She stayed for a few minutes to rest herself; upon one hand lay a wood stretching darkly down as she fancied to the sea. She was standing on its outskirts where the foliage thinned, yet still was abundant enough to shade and darken the narrow water; a little further on, the opposite bank swelled gently upward in fields, cultivated to the streamlet’s edge—but the side on which she herself stood, was richly wooded along all its course, and matted with a thick undergrowth of climbing plants and shrubs and windsown seedlings. The path wound at some little distance from the waterside through pleasant groups of trees. Anne paused, hesitating and undecided, not knowing which way to turn. A loud and cheerful whistle sounded behind her, and looking back, she saw a ruddy country lad, of some sixteen or seventeen years, trudging blythely along the pathway; she stopped him to ask the way.
“Ye just gang straight forenent ye,” said the lad, “even on, taking the brig at Balwithry, and hauding round by the linn in Mavisshaw. Ye canna weel gang wrang, unless ye take the road that rins along the howe of the brae to the Milton, and it’s fickle to ken which o’ them is the right yin, if ye’re no acquaint.”
“I am quite a stranger,” said Anne.
“I’m gaun to the Milton mysel,” said the youth. “I’ll let ye see the way that far, and then set ye on to the road.”
Anne thanked him, and walked on briskly with her blythe conductor, who stayed his whistling, and dropped a step or two behind, in honor of the lady. He was very loquacious and communicative.
“I’m gaun hame to see my mother. My father was a hind on the Milton farm, and my mother is aye loot keep the house, now that she’s a widow-woman. I’ve been biding wi’ my uncle at Dunbar. He’s a shoemaker, and he wanted to bind me to his trade.”
“And will you like that?” said Anne.
“Eh no—I wadna stand it; I aye made up my mind to be a ploughman like my father before me; sae my uncle spoke for me to the grieve at Fantasie and I’m hired to gang hame at the term. So I cam the noo to see my mother.”
“Have you had a long walk?” said Anne.
“It’s twal mile—it was eleven o’clock when I started—I didna ken what hour it is noo. It should be three by the sun.” Anne consulted her watch; it was just three; the respect of her guide visibly increased—gold watches were notable things in Aberford.
“I thought yince of starting at night. Eh! if I had been passing in the dark, wadna I hae been frighted to see a leddy thonder.”
“Why yonder?” said Anne, “is there anything particular about that place?”
“Eh!” exclaimed the lad, “do ye no ken? there was a man killed at the fit of thon tree.”
Anne started. “Who was he?” she asked.
“I dinna mind his name—it’s lang, lang ago—but he was a gentleman, and my father was yin ’o the witnesses. Maybe ye’ll have seen a muckle house, ower there, a’ disjasket and broken down. George Brock, the grieve lives near the gate o’t—it’s no far off.”
“Yes, I have seen it,” said Anne.
“Weel, the gentleman that killed him lived there—at least a’body said it was him that did it—I have heard my father speak about him mony a time.”
“And what was your father a witness of?” said Anne.
“Oh, he met Redheugh coming out of the wood—only my father aye thought that he bid to be innocent, for he was singing, and smiling, and as blythe as could be.”
“And your father thought him innocent?” said Anne eagerly.
“Ay—at least he thought it was awfu’ funny, if he had killed the man, that he should be looking sae blythe. A’ the folk say there was nae doubt about it, and sae does my mother, but my father was aye in a swither; he thought it couldna be. Here’s the Milton, and ower yonder, ye see, like a white line—yon’s the road—it’s just the stour that makes it white; and if ye turn to the right, and haud even on, ye’ll come to the toun.”
Anne thanked him, and offered some small acknowledgment, with which the lad, though he took it reluctantly, and with many scruples, went away, whistling more blythely than ever. How little did the youthful rustic imagine the comfort and hope and exhilaration which these thoughtless words of his had revived in his chance companion’s heart!
There had been one in this little world, who, in the midst of excitement, and in the face of evidence, and the universal opinion of his fellows, held Norman innocent. Anne thanked God, and took courage—there was yet hope.
She waited nervously for the evening; when the darkness of the full night came stealing on, she glided along the sands to the gate of Schole.
The projecting window was dark; there seemed to be no light in the whole house. She looked over the gate anxiously for Christian—no one was visible—dark ever-green shrubs looking dead and stern among the gay spring verdure, stood out in ghostly dimness along the garden; the house looked even more gloomy and dismal than heretofore, and the night was advancing.
Anne tried the gate; it opened freely. She went lightly alongthe mossed and neglected path to the principal door. It was evidently unused, and in grim security barred the entrance; she passed the projecting window again, and with some difficulty found a door at the side of the house, at which she knocked lightly.
There was evidently some slight stir within; she thought she could hear a sound as of some one listening. She knocked again—there was no response—she repeated her summons more loudly; there was nothing clandestine in her visit to Christian.
She fancied she could hear steps ascending a stair, and echoing with a dull and hollow sound through the house. Presently a window above was opened, and the face of an old woman, buried in the immense borders of a white night-cap, looked out:
“Eh! guid preserve us. Wha are ye, disturbing honest folk at this hour o’ the night; and what do ye want?”
“Is Miss Lillie not within?” said Anne in disappointment.
“Miss Lillie! muckle you’re heeding about Miss Lillie; its naething but an excuse for theftdom and spoliation; but I warn ye, ye’ll get naething here. Do ye ken there’s an alarm-bell in Schole?”
“I am alone,” said Anne, “and have merely come to see Miss Lillie, I assure you. You see I could do you no injury.”
“And how div I ken,” said the cautious portress a little more gently, “that ye havena a band at the ither side of the hedge?”
“You can see over the hedge,” said Anne, smiling in spite of her impatience, “that I am quite alone. Pray ask Miss Lillie to admit me; she will tell you that I came by her own appointment.
“A bonnie like hour for leddies to be visiting at,” said the old woman; “and how div ye ken that Miss Lillie will come at my ca’?”
“Pray do not keep me waiting,” said Anne, “it is getting late. Tell Miss Lillie that I am here.”
“And if I were gaun to tell Miss Lillie ye were here, wha would take care o’ the house, I wad like to ken? Ye’re no gaun to pit your gowk’s errands on me. If I had the loudest vice in a’ Scotland, it wadna reach Miss Lillie, an I cried till I was hoarse.”
“You don’t mean to say,” exclaimed Anne, “that she is not at home!—that Miss Lillie has left Schole?”
“Ay, deed div I—nothing less. Mr. Patrick and her gaed away last night’ to see their friends in the west country. Is that a’? If ye had a hoast like me, and were as muckle fashed wi’ your breath, ye wadna have keeped your head out of the window sae long as I have done.”
“Did she leave no word?” said Anne, “no message—or did she say when she would return?”
“Neither the tane nor the tither: she never said a word to me, but that they were gaun to the west country to see their friends. What for should they no? They are as free to do their ain pleasure as ither folk.”
Anne turned away, greatly disappointed and bewildered.
“Be sure you sneck the gate,” screamed the careful guardian of Schole, “and draw the stane close till’t that ye pushed away wi’ your fit.”
Anne obeyed, and proceeded homeward very much downcast and disappointed. She had expected so much from this interview, and had looked forward to it so anxiously. Why should they avoid her? For what reason should the nearest relatives of Norman’s wife, flee from Norman’s sister? She herself had hailed, with feelings so warmly and sadly affectionate, the idea of their existence and sympathy—perhaps of their co-operation and help. Now Christian’s words returned to her mind in sad perplexity. She could find no clue to them. The house of Schole looked more dreary and dismal than ever. She felt a void as she looked back to it, and knew that the watcher, whose light had fallen upon the still waters of the Firth through all the lingering night, was there no longer. She left her watch at the window early, and, with a feeling of blank disappointment and loneliness, laid herself down to her disturbed and dreaming rest—very sad, and disconsolate, and unsettled—seeing no clear prospect before her, nor plan of operation.
THEbright weeks of May stole on rapidly, and Anne had made no advance in her search. Little Alice Aytoun, when she came to visit her, clung round her neck anxiously, lifting up beseeching eyes to her face, but Anne had no word of hopeful answer to give. Her own heart was sinking day by day; the window of Patrick Lillie’s study was still shut up and dark; the old servant whom they had left behind them could give no information as to their return. Anne was compelled to confess to herself that her plan had failed—that except for her dim and mysterious knowledge of these singular Lillies, she had not made a single step of progress.
Then Lewis wrote letters, slightly querulous, requiring her presence at home—and Mrs. Catherine sent one characteristic note promising, “if ye will be a good bairn and come back, maybe to go with ye myself, when the weather is more suiting for theseaside.” She was doing no good in Aberford; so with a heavy heart Anne returned home.
The first day after her arrival at Merkland, she visited the Mill. With what strange feelings swelling in her heart did she draw the child to her side, and take into her own its small soft hand. The little strange exotic Lilie, the wonder of the quiet parish—was she indeed a Lilias Rutherford?—a daughter of the banished Norman?—her own nearest kin and relative?
“Jacky Morison’s been up this morning already, Miss Anne,” said Mrs. Melder. “Indeed, and ye may think muckle o’ yoursel, Lilie my woman—baith leddy and maid comin anceerrant to see ye, the first thing after their home-coming. She’s an awfu’ strange lassie yon, Miss Anne; ane would think she had gotten some word o’ the bairn that naebody else kens. She was aye unco fond o’ her, but now it’sMissLilie every word.”
Strange indeed! these intuitive perceptions of Jacky’s puzzled Anne greatly.
“That was what they called Lilie at home,” said the child thoughtfully.
“Ay, listen till her; I dinna misdoubt it, Miss Anne—the folk that sent a’ yon bonnie things, maun be weel off in this world.”
“Will you come and walk with me, Lilie?” said Anne: “see what a beautiful day it is.”
The child assented eagerly, and trying on her bonnet, Anne led her out. They went to the foot of the tree on which were carved the names of those two exiles—Norman and Marion. It was a fit resting-place for their sister and their child. Anne seated herself on the turf, and placed Lilie by her side.
“Can you tell me where your home is, Lilie?”
“Away yonder,” said Lilie, “far away, over the sea.”
“And what like is it?” said Anne, “do you remember?”
“A bonnie, bonnie place—where there’s brighter light and warmer days; and grand flowers far bigger than any in Strathoran; but its lang, lang to sail, and whiles there were loud winds and storms, and Lilie wasna weel.”
“Would you like to go home, Lilie?” said Anne.
“I would like to go to mamma. I would like to go to my own mamma; but—mamma doesna call yon place home.”
“What does she call it, Lilie?”
“When mamma was putting Lilie into the big ship, she said Lilie was coming home; and maybe she would come hersel for Lilie.”
“And how did she look when she said that?” said Anne.
The child began to cry.
“She put down her head—my mamma’s bonnie head—downinto her hands, this way; and then she began to greet, like me—oh, my mamma!”
Anne drew the little girl’s head into her lap, and wiped away the tears. “You would be very glad to see mamma, Lilie, if she came here? she will come perhaps some day.”
“Do you ken my mamma?” said Lilie eagerly. “Did she tell you she was coming?”
“No,” said Anne, “but when she comes, you will take my hand, and say, ‘Mamma, this is my friend;’ will you not, and introduce me to her?”
The child looked brightly up:
“Eh, Lilie will be blythe! blythe!—but if mamma were coming, what would Lilie call you?”
“You would call me aunt,” said Anne, her eyes filling as she looked upon the little face lying on her knee. “Your Aunt Anne that found you out, when you came a little stranger to the Mill.”
Lilie rose to wind her small arms round Anne’s neck.
“But you’re no Lilie’s aunt—I wish you were Lilie’s aunt—then you would take me to live at Merkland.”
“Would you like to live at Merkland, Lilie?”
“Whiles,” said the child; “no in bonnie days like this, but whiles—Jacky says I’m a lady—am I a lady?”
“Not till you are old, like me; you will be a lady then.”
“But Jacky says I’m ayounglady,” reiterated Lilie; “does Jacky no ken?”
“We will ask mamma when she comes,” said Anne.
The little face became radiant:
“Eh! when mamma comes!—will you be glad too, like Lilie?—and will they a’ be there? Papa and Lawrie? What way do you put your head down? then your eyelashes come upon your cheek, and then you grow like—”
“Like whom, Lilie?”
“My papa. If mamma comes, will they a’ come—papa and Lawrie?”
“Who is Lawrie, Lilie?” The name was a still further corroboration; there was something touching in the exile calling his son by his father’s name.
“Lilie’s brother. He is near as tall as you, and he’s like papa.”
“And you think I am like papa,” said Anne, tremulously.
“Whiles, when you hold down your head, and look sad.”
“Does papa look sad?”
“No,” said Lilie, “but when you look as if you would greet, then you grow like him; and Lawrie never greets, and yet he’s like him, too. What way is that?”
“And do they call you Miss Lilie at home?” said Anne, at once to evade the difficult question submitted to her, and to ascertainsomething of the worldly comforts of her banished brother. Mrs. Melder’s guess was no doubt correct: the box which had been sent to Lilie could come from nopoorhouse.
“No papa, or mamma, or Lawrie, but the maids and English John, and Jose—for papa’s no like Robert Melder; he’s a rich gentleman.”
“And why did they send you here?” exclaimed Anne, more as expressing her own astonishment, than addressing the child.
“Lilie was very ill—had to lie in her bed—mamma thought I would die, and it was to get strong again. See,” Lilie disengaged herself from Anne, and ran away along the bank of the Oran, returning ruddy and breathless, “Lilie’s strong now.”
“And why did you not tell me this before?” said Anne.
“Lilie didna mind—Lilie didna ken how to speak;” and the child looked confused and bewildered. By means of her broken sentences, however, Anne made out that Lilie had been brought home by a Juana, a Spanish nurse, and had been accustomed to hear the servants in her father’s house speak the liquid foreign tongue, which she was already beginning to forget. That being suddenly brought into the rustic Scottish dwelling, and seeing, with the quick perception of a child, that its inhabitants were of the same rank as her former attendants, the child had naturally fancied that their language must also be, not the cultivated English, the speaking of which was an accomplishment, but the more ornate tongue which she had been accustomed to hear among their equals in her own country. Then Mrs. Melder’s dialect still further puzzled the lonely child, who, under the care of Juana, had spoken nothing but Spanish during the voyage, which she thought so long a one, so that the ideas of the little head became quite perplexed and ravelled; and it was not until she had mastered in a considerable degree this new Scottish tongue, that the more refined words learned from “mamma” began to steal once more into her childish memory.
But Anne’s attempted questioning, respecting the person who brought Lilie to the Mill, produced no satisfactory answer. The remembrance had become hazy already; and save for a general impression of discomfort—one of those vague indefinite times of childish suffering and unhappiness, which are by no means either light or trivial, howsoever we may think of them, when we are involved in more mature calamities, Lilie’s memory failed her. She could give no account of the interim, between her voyage under the government of Juana, and her transference to the rule of Mrs. Melder.
To Mrs. Catherine, Anne had said little of the Lilies—to Lewis nothing. Their connexion with Norman had nothing to do with the proof of his innocence, and though Christian Lilie’s strangewords had occupied her own mind night and day since she heard them, she yet did not think it either necessary or prudent to make them a matter of conversation.
Again, she remained in so much doubt about this singular brother and sister—their strange seclusion, and grief, and inactivity—their mysterious and abrupt removal, which evidently was to avoid meeting her, perplexed herself so much that she did not venture to confide even in Mrs. Catherine. She brooded over her secret by herself; she slept little—rested little—took long, solitary, meditative walks, and much exercise, and felt herself more than ever abstracted from the busy little world about her. She was becoming a solitary, cheerless woman, cherishing in silent sadness one great hope; a hope with which strangers might not intermeddle—which was foolishness to her own nearest friends—which might never be realized upon this earth—nevertheless a hope in which her whole nature was concentrated—the very essence and aim of her being.
She did not even reveal to Mrs. Catherine her suspicion her hope, that Lilie was the child of her banished brother. She cherished it in her own mind as a secret strength and comfort. She endeavored in all gentle ways to supply the want of the mother after whom the little heart yearned, and she was successful. Lilie began to call her aunt—to watch in childish anxiety for her daily visits—to wander about anywhere, unwearied and joyous, so long as Anne was leading her, and to look to her at all times as her dearest friend and protector. Then these childish confidences—these snatches, of dear remembrance of the far-away mamma—these glances into the household of the exile! Anne drew new invigoration, strength, and hope from these, in the darkest time of her depression.
Yet all endeavors for her great end were stayed—no one lifted a hand in the cause of the injured man—no one made any exertion to deliver him. In the bright sunshine of that leafy month of June her heart sickened within her. She longed to return again to the place where something might be done, where with a prospect of success, or without it, she might still labor; she might still engage in the search.
In the meantime, everything went on peaceably in the parish of Strathoran. Jeanie Coulter and Walter Foreman had made up their mind, and were speedily to be married. Ada Mina, in the glory of being bridesmaid and bride’s sister, had almost forgotten Giles Sympelton. Marjory Falconer was very remarkably quiet; she was “beginning to settle.” Mrs. Bairnsfather said, maliciously, “and it was high time.” Mr. Ferguson’s work was advancing in the bleak lands of Lochend and Loelyin. Mr. Coulter and he were very busy, and in high spirits. Lord Gillravidge hadleft Strathoran. The fair country, in the height of its summer beauty, had no attractions for Lord Gillravidge. There was no game to slaughter, and other kind of excitement, the quiet Norland parish had never possessed any.
Mr. Fitzherbert was left behind; he was now lord paramount at Strathoran, and a very great man, intensely detested by the Macalpines of Oranmore, and spoken of with bitter derision and disdain by all the other inhabitants of Strathoran. He had displeased Lord Gillravidge by being the occasion of Giles Sympelton’s desertion, and was left behind half as a punishment for that offence, and half as a promotion for counter-balancing good offices. Mr. Fitzherbert’s feelings concerning it were of the same mixed description. He was immensely bored with the intolerable weariness of the country, while at the same time he enjoyed his temporary lordship, and ordered and stormed magnificently in the desecrated house of the Sutherlands.
We should not have intruded ourselves into his disagreeable presence had that been all. But Mr. Fitzherbert in his dreariness, when he had exercised his petty despotism to its full extent—had cursed the servants, bullied Mr. Whittret, and asserted his predominance in various other pleasant and edifying ways—was forced to invent further amusement for himself. Surely, there never was an unhappy individual with small brains and a craving for excitement more miserably placed.
It chanced one day that Flora Macalpine, Mrs. Ferguson’s very pretty and very bashful nurserymaid, unwarily entered the contested by-way, while walking with the Woodsmuir children. Mr. Fitzherbert met her there, and the first harsh sound of his command to leave the road, was very much less disagreeable than the softening of tone which followed. Mr. Fitzherbert began to admire the pretty Highland girl, and to venture to express to her his admiration—to her, a Macalpine! Flora hurried from the by-way with her charge, in burning shame and indignation.
But Mr. Fitzherbert was not to be got rid of so easily. Flora did not know the might ofennuiwhich made him seek out her quiet walks, and waylay her so perseveringly. She avoided him in every possible way; but still he found means to persecute her with his odious flattery and attentions. Flora was engaged, moreover, and tall Angus Macalpine, her handsome bride-groom elect, and Duncan Roy, her brother, were equally irate, and equally contented to have a decided personal plea for punishing the obnoxious jackal of Lord Gillravidge. So Flora reluctantly suffered herself to be made a party in a plan, which should ensnare her tormentor, and pour out upon him, in full flood, the rage and contempt of the Macalpines.
It was a beautiful evening in June: Mr. Fitzherbert had justreceived from Lord Gillravidge the much wished-for call to London.
In great glee he put the letter in his pocket, took his hat, and sallied out. His splendid hair, his magnificent whiskers and moustache were in the most superlative order. Flora Macalpine had intimated to him bashfully that she would be in the contested by-way, near the stepping-stones, at seven o’clock; it is always pleasant to be victorious. Mr. Fitzherbert had no doubt that the power of his fascinations had smitten the simple cottager, and accordingly in perfect good-humor with himself, and very much disposed to accept Flora’s homage, with the utmost condescension, he set out for the stepping-stones.
Close by the trysting place, in the slanting June sunlight, screening himself with the thick foliage of a “bourtree-bush,” stood tall Angus Macalpine watching for his prey. Flora, nervous and trembling, stood beside him; she felt she was very much out of place, and did not at all like her position, but that strong, thickset little brother of hers, Duncan Roy, was squatting at her feet, concealing the flaming red head, which might have alarmed their victim, among the surrounding leaves, and Angus, bending down his handsome head with its curling fair hair, and healthful, good-looking face, was very carefully supporting her, and guarding against her running away. So, after all, there was nothing improper in it, and she could not help herself. The idea of the compulsion comforted Flora.
Footsteps approached by-and-by. It was not Mr. Fitzherbert. It was George, the Falcon’s Craig groom, and Johnnie Halflin, to whom Duncan Roy had communicated some hint of his intention. The punishment was far too just, the fun far too good, for these mischief-loving lads to let it slip. They had come to assist the Macalpines. George was making horrible faces. His veins were perfectly swoln with the might of his suppressed laughter. Johnnie had a little pink pocket-handkerchief—a keepsake from Bessie—thrust bodily into his capacious mouth. The Macalpines were graver; a quiet glee was shooting from the eyes of Duncan Roy, and Angus sometimes smiled—but the smile was an angry one.
“But, Angus,” whispered Flora; “mind, you maun promise that you’ll no hurt him?”
“I’ll try,” was the emphatic response.
“Eh! but Duncan—Angus! Dinna hurt him, for ony sake.—Just fear him, or I’ll rin away this moment.”
It was easier said than done. That mighty arm of Angus Macalpine’s might have restrained a man of his own inches without any particular strain.
“We’ll no hurt him, Flora,” said Duncan encouragingly,—”We’llonly douk him, forbye—Listen! There he is—in behint the bush, lads. Angus, let Flora go.”
It was indeed Fitzherbert. They could hear his swaggering step as he advanced, whistling gaily.
“I’ll whistle ye!” exclaimed the angry Angus, in a strong undertone. “If ye were ance in my hands, my lad, ye’ll whistle or ye get out again!”
Flora had only time to speak another earnest remonstrance, when her admirer appeared.
The ambush had been skilfully contrived. The unsuspected Fitzherbert advanced gaily. Poor Flora trembled and shrank back—the instinctive delicacy of her simple womanly nature overpowering her with shame. To meet this odious man at all, if it were but for a second, was a disgrace to her, even though Angus and Duncan were waiting at her side.
Mr. Fitzherbert began a gallant speech—he attempted to take Flora’s hand. The girl shrank back to the shelter of the bourtree-bush—and in another moment, Fitzherbert was struggling in the stalwart arms of Angus Macalpine—an embrace as unexpected as it was overpowering.
“Haud the ill tongue of ye!” exclaimed Duncan Roy, as he seized the struggling legs of the unhappy adventurer, and held him fast. “If ye say another word, ye shall rue it a’ your days.”
“Do you want to rob me?” cried Fitzherbert. “I haven’t my purse on me, good fellows. Let me go, or you shall suffer for it.”
“Rob ye!” Tall Angus Macalpine seized his collar with an exclamation of disgust, and shook him violently. “Rob ye! Ye pitiful animal, wha would file their fingers with your filthy siller! Duncan, give me the plaid.”
The other two auxiliaries were standing by expending their pent-up laughter, Johnnie Halflin bestirred himself now, to hand to Angus one of the plaids that lay on the grass beside him.
Threats, entreaties, vociferation, rage, all were in vain. The plaid was bound tightly round the unhappy Fitzherbert, strapping his arms to his side. Then Duncan confined in like manner his struggling feet. Then they laid him down on the grass.
“Hushaba!” sung Johnnie Halflin as, with laughter not to be suppressed, they viewed the ludicrous bondage of their foe. “Eh, man, ye’re a muckle baby to lie there, and do naething but squeal.”
“What gars ye no fight wi’ your neives, like a man?” cried George.
“Do you no see? He’s putting a’ his strength into the feet of him. See, woman Flora, he’s walopping like the fishes in the Portoran boats when they’re new catched.He’snew catched, too. Gie him a taste o’ the water.”
“If ye had dune what ye had to do against us, like a man,” saidAngus Macalpine, solemnly, addressing the miserable captive, who lay prone before these shafts of rustic wit, upon the grass at their feet, “we might have throoshen ye like a man, and gi’en ye fair play; but because ye’re a vermin that have creeped in to quiet places, where there was nae man to chastise ye—and because ye have tried to breathe your ill breath into the purest heart in a’ Strathoran, ye shall hae only a vermin’s punishment. Duncan, ye can get your shears. I’ll haud the sheep.”
Duncan advanced in grim mirth, holding a pair of mighty shears. Angus knelt down upon the grass, and held Fitzherbert with his arm. The operation commenced. The punishment was the bitterest they could have chosen. Duncan Roy squatting at his side, with methodic composure and malicious glee, began to clip, and cut away, in jagged and uneven bits, his cherished whiskers, his beautiful moustache, his magnificent hair. The victim roared and groaned, entreated and threatened, in vain—the relentless operators proceeded in their work—the scissors entered into his soul.
A light, quick step came suddenly along the path. They did not hear it, so overwhelming was the laughter of the lookers-on, till Marjory Falconer stood in the midst of them. Duncan’s scissors suddenly ceased. The victim looked up in momentary hope, and again shrank back despairing. He by no means desired to throw himself upon the tender mercies of Miss Falconer.
“What is the matter?” cried Marjory. “Flora, are you here! What is the matter? what are they about?”
“Oh! Miss Falconer,” exclaimed Flora who, between shame and laughter, was now in tears, “it’s the gentleman from Strathoran—and it’s Duncan and Angus—and he wouldna let me be, and they’re—”
An involuntary burst of laughter choked Flora’s penitence.—The lifted head of her brother, with its look of comic appeal, as he held up his shears before Miss Falconer, and silently asked her permission to proceed—the grim steadfastness with which Angus continued to hold the victim on the grass—the vain attempt of Miss Falconer to look gravely displeased and dignified—the fierce struggles of Fitzherbert—Flora could not bear it: she ran in behind the bourtree-bush.
Marjory stood undecided for a moment. She had great influence with the Macalpines and their class, as a strong and firm character always has. She thought for an instant of what people would say, almost for the first time in her life. Then she looked at the ludicrous scene before her—the just punishment of poor Flora’s persecution. The prudent resolution faded away—she yielded to the fun and to the justice. She could not put her veto upon it.
“George, do you go home—you are not wanted. Duncan, have you finished?”
“Na,” said the rejoicing Duncan, beginning with double zeal to ply his redoubtable shears. “He’s a camstarie beast, this ane—he tak’s lang shearing—but we’re winning on, Mem.”
George reluctantly turned away. His mistress’s orders were not to be trifled with, he knew. Little Bessie’s pink handkerchief was in Johnnie Halflin’s mouth again. Flora remained behind the bourtree-bush, terrified to look upon her tormentor’s agonized face. Marjory Falconer looked on.
The blood was rushing in torrents to her hot cheeks already.—She could have put an end to this if she would: instead of that she had encouraged it. She had yielded to the mirthful impulse: now she was paying the penalty in one of her overpowering agonies of shame.
“Now—now!” she exclaimed, as Duncan, with methodic accuracy, finished his operation on one side of Mr. Fitzherbert’s fiery countenance, “that will do now—let him go.”
The operators looked up in disappointment.
“Do let him go; let me see him released before I leave you.”
Duncan and Angus looked at each other.
“Weel,” said Angus, smiling grimly, “he’s gey weel; ye’ll think again, my lad, before ye offer to lay your filthy fingers on a Macalpine, or ony ither lass in the countryside. Now, Duncan—”
They began to free him from his bondage. Angus took one end of the plaid which confined his arms—Duncan the other. The process was satisfactory, but by no means gentle; over and over they rolled him, and when the hapless Fitzherbert found himself at last at liberty, he was lying within the green verge of the Oran—the soft waters embracing him. His first struggle threw him further in; and when he rose at last, spluttering with wrath and water, his clothes wet, his face scarred with the pebbles, and shorn of its hirsute glories—all his tormentors were gone. Light of foot, and conversant with all the by-ways, they had dispersed, considerably against the will of the Macalpines, but in obedience to the command of Miss Falconer, and the entreaties of Flora.
In burning rage and mortification Mr. Fitzherbert stalked back to Strathoran. In the distance, upon the other side of the river, he could see the retreat of the Macalpines; it was a fruitless thing vowing vengeance upon them. He had done his worst; they were out of his power.
But Mr. Fitzherbert’s mortification and rage reached a climax when he looked upon his sad mutilation—cruel as Hanun the son of Nahash, and his artful counsellors of the children of Ammon, the scissors of the remorseless Duncan had swept away one entirehalf of Mr. Fitzherbert’s adornments. It must all go, cherished and dearly beloved as it was—the flowing luxuriance of the one side must be sacrificed to the barbarous stubble of the other.—Alas the day! How should he meet Lord Gillravidge! how account for the holocaust! Mr. Fitzherbert was fitly punished—he was in despair.
Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be!—nor like the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was impossible—no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame—but it deepened her repentance.
“Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?” she asked as she entered Merkland.
“Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne’s in,” said Duncan, preceding her leisurely to Mrs. Ross’s parlor. “She’s in her ain room—according to her ain fashion. There’s nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a bird, ye may tak my word for’t she’ll no live ony way lang.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Marjory. “Is Miss Ross ill?”
“Na. I’m no saying she’s ill,” was the cautious answer; “but taking lang flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to pingle her lane at a seam; I say it’s a clear tempting o’ Providence, Miss Falconer, and I have tell’t Miss Anne that mysel.”
Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne’s room. “Come in,” said Anne. Marjory entered.
The window was open—the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its thick fringe of foliage was parted here andthere. Anne leant upon the window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim shores of the Forth in the still evening-time—the long, low, sighing of the waters—the desolate, gloomy house behind—the tall, gaunt figure stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand—these were before her constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be.
She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed, thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not speak, she turned round.
“Marjory, is that you?”
“What are you thinking of, Anne?” said Marjory. “What makes you dream and brood thus? There you have been gazing out these two minutes, as fixedly as if you saw something of the greatest interest. I am quite sure you don’t know what you are looking at, and, had I come forward suddenly, and asked you what river that was, you would have faltered and deliberated before you could be certain it was the Oran. I know you would. What is it all about?”
Anne smiled.
“It is not so easy to tell. You put comprehensive questions, Marjory.”
“And here are you making yourself ill!” exclaimed Marjory, impetuously; “dreaming over something which no one is to know; walking alone, and sitting alone, and defrauding yourself of proper rest and relaxation, and altogether, as plainly as possible endeavoring to manufacture a consumption. I say, Anne Ross, what is it all about? I have a right to know—we all have a right to know; you don’t belong to yourself. If you were not Anne Ross, of Merkland, I should begin to suspect we had some love-sickness on our hands.”
“And if you were any one else but Marjory Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, I should be very angry,” said Anne, smiling.
“Never anything reasonable from you since you came home; never a call upon any one but Mrs. Melder. Nothing but patient looks, and paleness, and reveries! I don’t see why we should submit to it, Anne Ross. I protest, in the name of the parish—it is a public injustice!”
“Very well, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray be so good as sit down now, and do not scold so bitterly. Did you come all the way from Falcon’s Craig for the sole purpose of bringing me under discipline?”
Marjory Falconer put up her hands to her cheeks to hide the vehement blushes which rushed back again; then, as she recalled the story she had come to tell, its ludicrous points overcame theshame, and she laughed with characteristic heartiness. There was not, after all, so very much to be ashamed of; but, as everybody exaggerated the extravagance of everything done by Marjory Falconer, so Marjory Falconer felt herself bitterly humiliated in the recollection ofescapadeswhich young ladies of much greater pretensions would only have laughed at.
“What is it, Marjory?” said Anne.
The fit of shame returned.
“Oh! not much. Only I have been making a fool of myself again.”
Anne expressed no wonder; she only drew her friend into a chair, and asked:
“How?”
“I am going to tell you. I came here at once, you see, lest some one else should be before me with the news. Ah! and there you sit as cool and calm as though I were not entering my purgatory!”
“I don’t want to tease you further,” said Anne, “or I should say that when people make purgatories for themselves, it behoves them to endure patiently.”
“Very well: you don’t intend to be sympathetic. I am quite satisfied. Now for my confession. Most unwittingly and innocently, I premise, was I led into the snare. Anne Ross! turn away from the window, and keep your glances within proper bounds. If your eyes wander so, I shall forget my own foolishness in yours—and I don’t choose that.”
Anne obeyed, and Marjory told her story—sometimes overwhelmed with her own passionate humiliation, sometimes bursting into irrepressible mirth. It was very soon told. Anne looked annoyed and vexed. She did not speak. It was the sorest condemnation she could have given.
“You have nothing to say to me!” exclaimed Marjory, the hot flood burning over her cheek, and neck, and forehead. “You think I am clearly hopeless now. You think—”
“I think,” said Anne, “that Marjory Falconer, whom malicious people blame for pride, is not half proud enough.”
“Not proud enough!”
It was difficult to believe, indeed, when one saw the drawing-up of her tall, fine figure, and the flashing of her eye.
“Yes, I understand. You would be proud enough were you Ralph; then, for everything brave, and honorable, and true, the fame of the Falconers would be safe in your hands: but you are not proud enough, being Marjory. I fancy we should inhabit a loftier atmosphere than these boyish frolics could find breath in, Marjory; an atmosphere too pure and rare to carry clamorous voices, whatever may be their burden.”
“Gentle and mild,” said Marjory, attempting a laugh, which would not come; “perfumed and dainty. I am no exotic, Anne; I must breathe living air. I cannot breathe odors.”
Anne rose, and lifted her Bible from the table.
“The sublime of mild and gentle belongs to One greater than us; but I don’t want to compel you to these. Look here, Marjory.”
Marjory looked—read.
“ ‘Strength and honor are her clothing,’ ” and bowed her head, in token of being vanquished.
“You have nothing to oppose to my argument,” said Anne, smiling. “You are obliged to yield without a word. Let me convince you, Marjory, that we stoop mightily from our just position, when we condescend to meddle with such humiliating follies as the rights of women—that we do compromise our becoming dignity when we involve ourselves in a discreditable warfare, every step in advance of which is a further humiliation to us. I forgive you your share in this exploit with all my heart. I am not sorry the man is punished, though I would rather you had not been connected with his punishment. It is not very much, after all; but I do declare war against these polemics of yours—all and several.—I would have you more thoroughly woman-proud: it is by no means inconsistent with the truest humility. I would have you like this portrait; men do not paint in such vigorous colors now. Strength and honor, Marjory; household strength, and loftiness, and purity—better things than any imaginary rights that clamor themselves into mere words.”
Marjory was half angry, half smiling.
“Very gentle, and calm, and proper, for an example to me; and so nobody does us any injustice—nobody oppresses us? Very well: but I did not know it before.”
“Nay,” said Anne, playfully; “that is not what I said. But: