Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

And at last, they were away. The frost had broken, through the night, and it was another of those dull, drizzling, melancholy winter days. Lewis placed Alice, carefully wrapped up, and protected from the cold, in the corner of the same coach in which she had seen him first. Little Bessie was seated by her side, and leaving the Tower and all its pleasant neighborhood lying dark behind her, Alice Aytoun was whirled away home.

It cost her no inconsiderable amount of exertion and self-denial to have the tears and sadness sufficiently overcome to meet her mother’s greeting as she wished to do. But Alice schooled herself bravely, like a little hero, and conquered. They were home, in the old familiar room, by the well-known fireside. Mrs. Aytoun was smiling, as she had not smiled before since Alice went away. James was half-ashamed of being so unusually joyous. They had all her news to hear, all her three months’ history over again, in spite of the long recording letters.

“And what is this?” said Mrs. Aytoun, taking her daughter’s small white hand, upon which glittered the little token ring. “Is this another of those delicate gifts of Mrs. Catherine’s?”

Little Alice could not answer; the blood flushed over her face and neck. She stammered and trembled. Mrs. Aytoun looked at her, in alarm and wonder.

“Read this letter, mother,” whispered Alice, at last, putting Mrs. Catherine’s letter into her mother’s hands, and sinking upon a stool at her feet. “It will tell you all.”

James had left the room, a minute before. Mrs. Aytoun, somewhat agitated, opened the letter, and Alice laid her head upon her mother’s knee, and hid it in the folds of her dress. Mrs. Aytoun read:

“I herewith send back to you, kinswoman, your pleasant bairn, who has been a great comfort and solace to me, though my old house was maybe too dark a cage for a singing bird like her. I am by no means confident either whether I will ever undertake the charge of any such dangerous gear again; for in the ordinary course of nature, the bit gay spirit and bonnie face of her have been making mischief in Strathoran; and besides having my door besieged by all manner of youthful company, there is one lad, who, I am feared, has crossed my threshold too often, maybe, for your good pleasure.

“The lad is Lewis Ross, of Merkland, a gallant of good outward appearance and competent estate, with no evil condition that I can specially note about him, except having arrived at that full period of years, when it is the fashion of young men to give themselves credit for more wisdom than any other mortal person can see. In other things, so far as I can judge, the two are well enough matched: for Lewis is the representative of a family long settled in the countryside, and has his lands free of any burden or encumbrance, besides being in all matters of this world a prudent, sensible, and managing lad.

“I would have put in a reservation, however, till your pleasure was known, but doubtless the deliberate ways of age differ from the swift proceedings of youth; and the two had plunged themselves beyond power of redemption, before I had any inkling of the matter. I see no good way of stopping it now, and I think you may trust your Burd Alice in the hands of Lewis Ross, without fear.

“And now, kinswoman, there comes a graver and darker matter into the consideration. I will not ask you if ye mind the beginning of your widowhood. It is pain and grief to me to say a word that may bring that terrible season back to ye, even in the remembrance; only it has so happened, in the wonderful course of Providence, that it should have an unhappy connection with the troth-plighting of these two bairns. Kinswoman you are younger than me, and have seen less of this world’s miseries, though your own trials have not been light. But what think you of a young man, in the bloom of his years and his hopes, with a pleasant heritage and a fair name, suddenly covered with the shame and dishonor of a great crime – threatened with a shameful death – exposed to the hatred of all men, that bore the love of God and their neighbors in honest hearts, – and him innocent withal? What think you of a lad – generous, upright, honorable – as true and single-minded a youth as the eye of day ever looked upon, suddenly plunged into a horror of darkness like this – knowing himself everywhere condemned, yet, in his true and honest heart, knowing himself guiltless? I say, what think you of this? Was there ever a darker or more terrible doom, in this world of ills and mysteries?

“I knew him – kinswoman, from his birth-year to the time of his blight, I knew this unhappy heart: the truthfulness of him – the honoring of others above himself, that was inherent in his simple, manly nature – the strength of gentleness and patience, that might have been crowning an old and wise head, instead of being yoked with the impetuous spirit of youth! All this I knew; and yet, painfully and slowly, I also was permitted to believe that his pure hand had blood upon it – that he had done this crime.

“My eyes are opened. I am humbled to the ground in my rejoicing, that I should have dared, even in my own secret spirit, to malign the gracious nature I knew so well. Kinswoman, the violent death of your husband, by whom or wherefore done I know not, brought this sore doom undeserved upon Norman Rutherford. The bridal tryst of your pleasant bairn Alice, will clear his dishonored name again.

“You think he killed your husband. I am not given to hasty judgment, nor am I easily misguided. He did not do it; and when I tell you that your bairn Alison is plighted to a near kinsman of Norman Rutherford’s, I lay my charge upon you not to let your heart sink within you, or suffer the bairn’s bit gentle spirit to be broken again. I pledge you my word, that they will seek no further consent from you, till Norman’s righteousness is clear to your eyes as the morning light. There are two urgent reasons pressing them – I am meaning Lewis Ross, and his sister, my own Anne, – on this work; the winning of your pleasant bairn and the clearing of their brother’s lost fame and honor.

“For he is their brother, their nearest kin. Again, I charge you, think of this terrible doom laid upon a gallant of as clear and lofty a spirit as ever was in mortal knowledge; and let the mother’s heart within you have compassion on his name. Shut not your mind against the proof – it may be hard to gather – and take time and patience; but if mortal hands can compass it, it shall be laid before you soon or syne.

“Lewis Ross (trusting you will receive him) will shortly tell you of this himself, with his own lips; and having maybe some right of counsel, in virtue of my years, and of our kindred, it is my prayer that you put no discouragement in this way.

“Be content to wait till the proof is brought to you; and break not the gentle spirit of the bairn, by crossing her in the first tenderness of her youth.

    CATHERINE DOUGLAS.”

Mrs. Aytoun was greatly agitated. James had entered the room, and stood in silent astonishment, as he looked at Alice clinging to her mother’s knee, and the letter trembling in Mrs. Aytoun’s hand. “Mother – Alice – what has happened? What is the matter?”

Mrs. Aytoun handed the letter to him in silence, and, lifting her daughter up, drew her close to her breast: “My Alice! my poor, simple bairn! why did I let you away from me?”

The girl clung to her mother, terrified, ashamed, and dizzy. – She trembled to hear some fatal sentence, parting her for ever from Lewis. She fancied she could never lift up her blushing face again, to speak of him, even if that terror were withdrawn: she could only lean on that kind breast, and cling, as is the nature of such gentle, dependent spirits. Anne Ross’s words were true. – Had Mrs. Aytoun but said that she must never see Lewis again, poor little Alice would have submitted without a struggle, and would have been right; she was safe in that wise guidance – she was not safe in her own.

But Mrs. Aytoun’s motherly lips gave forth no such arbitrary mandate. She rose, still holding Alice within her arm. “James,” she said, “that letter is a most important one: read it carefully. – We will join you again by-and-by.”

And leading and supporting her drooping daughter, Mrs. Aytoun went to her own room, and, seating herself there, began to question Alice.

And then the whole stream came flowing forth, hesitating and broken; how Lewis had travelled with her, and had been constantly at her side, ever since that momentous journey; how Anne had been her patient, kind, indulgent friend; how at last, upon that eventful New year’s night, Lewis and herself had been alone together – and then – and then – there followed some incoherent words, which Mrs. Aytoun could comprehend the purport of; how Anne came in, looking so chill and pale, and horror-stricken; how Mrs. Catherine next day took her into the little room, and almost broke the gentle heart that was beating so high now, with anxiety and suspense; how Anne returned at night with voice as tender and hand as gentle as her mother’s telling her that Norman was innocent; and then, how glad and happy they had all been together again – and then – if her mother could only see him – if she could only see Anne – they could tell her so much better!

Mrs. Aytoun was still anxious and pale, but her tremor of agitation was quieted.

“She must be a very kind, good girl, this Anne, Alice.”

Alice breathed more freely – if her mother had been very angry, was her simple reasoning, she would not have spoken so.

“She is very good – very kind, mother – like you, gentler than Mrs. Catherine; but she is not a girl, she is older than – than Lewis.”

Mrs. Aytoun smiled.

“How old is Lewis?”

The simple little heart began to beat with troubled joy.

“He is twenty-one, mother. It was his birthday just a week after I went to the Tower.”

Mrs. Aytoun did not speak for some time.

“Alice,” she said at last, “I must see this Lewis, and consult with James, before I make any decision – in the meantime you will be very patient, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, yes – I do not care how long – only – if you saw him, mother, if you just saw him, I know how you would like him!”

“Would I?” said Mrs. Aytoun, smiling: “well, we shall see; but now dry your eyes, and let us go back to James again.”

They returned to the parlor. James sat at the table, the letter lying before him, and his face exceedingly grave. He was very much disturbed and troubled. He did not well see what to do.

For some time there was little conversation between them – the mother and son consulted together with their grave looks. Little Alice, again sadly cast down, sat silent by the fireside. At last her brother addressed her with a sort of timidity, blushing almost as she did herself, when he mentioned the name.

“Alice, when does Mr. Ross come to Edinburgh?”

Mr. Ross! so cold it sounded and icy – would not Lewis be his brother?

“In a fortnight,” murmured Alice.

“A fortnight! then, mother, I think my best plan is to go down to Strathoran myself and make inquiries. In a matter which involves two such important things as the happiness of Alice, and the honor of our family, there is no time for delay. I shall start to-morrow.”

“Can you spare the time?” said his mother – while Alice looked up half-glad, half-sorrowful – it might keep Lewis from coming to Edinburgh – at the same time, James was so sure to be convinced by Lewis’s irresistible eloquence, and the gentler might of Anne.

“I must spare it, mother,” was the answer, “my ordinary business is not so important as this. What do you think – am I right?”

“Perfectly right, James,” said his mother, promptly, “I was about to advise this myself; and if you find anything satisfactory to report, you can bid this Lewis still come. I shall want to see who it is, who has superseded me in my little daughter’s heart.”

“Oh, no, mother – no, no,” cried Alice, imploringly. “Do not say that.”

James Aytoun rose and laid his hand caressingly upon his little sister’s fair hair. She had been a child when he was rising into manhood. He thought her a child still – and with the grave difficulties of this, very unexpected problem, which they had to solve, there mingled a half-mirthful, half-sad, sort of incredulous wonder. Little Alice had done a very important piece of business independently and alone. Little Alice had the sober glory of matronhood hanging over her fair, girlish forehead. Little Alice was engaged!

CHAPTER XV

SEVERAL days before Alice left the Tower, Lewis had written to Robert Ferguson, the youthful Edinburgh advocate, of whose very early call to the bar his father was so justly and pleasantly proud, telling him all they knew and guessed of Norman’s history, except the one circumstance of his escape from the shipwreck; and explaining, in some slight degree, the immediate reason of their anxiety to clear their brother’s name from the foul blot that lay upon it. Very shortly after Alice Aytoun’s departure, an answer came to the letter of Lewis.

With quick interest, partly in that it was one of the first cases in which his legal wisdom had been consulted, and partly from the kindly feeling of neighborship, which is so warm in Scotland, the young lawyer embraced the search, and promised to go down instantly to the parish in which the deed was done, or even to engage the assistance of an acute writer, of experience in his craft, if Lewis thought that desirable. Mr. Robert, however, with a young man’s abundant confidence in his own power, fancied that he could accomplish the work quite as well alone. “He would go down quietly to the village,” he said, “taking care to do nothing which might put the true criminal, if he still lived, upon his guard; and as soon as he had procured any information, would report it to Lewis.”

The letter was satisfactory – the warm readiness of belief in Norman’s innocence pleased Anne. In such a matter, however strong one’s own faith may be, it is a great satisfaction to hear it echoed by other minds.