Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“My dear Miss Ross,

“Your brother will have informed you of our failure. So far as I can at present see, we have used every possible means, and the only result is, a strengthening of the former evidence, and a more clear establishment of Mr. Rutherford’s apparent guilt. For my sister’s sake I began this, deeply anxious for a favorable issue. I feel only more anxious now, when I know, and have a personal interest in the nearest relatives of this unhappy young man, whom men call my father’s murderer. I cannot comprehend it. In this very clear and satisfactory evidence, I am entirely bewildered and confused. Everything I have gathered in my search has confirmed and strengthened the circumstances against him; and yet, by some strange perversity, everything I have heard has increased my conviction of his innocence.

“I write thus to you, because I feel that you are even more deeply interested in this than your brother. With my friend Lewis it is a secondary matter, and I am rather pleased that it should be. So that we are sufficiently satisfied not to withhold our consent to his engagement with Alice, he has no very engrossing interest in the matter; but with you – if I am wrong you will pardon me – it seems more deeply momentous and important. I also feel very greatly interested in it. If it were but in a professional point of view, it would claim my utmost attention.

“The evidence is very clear and full. Were it brought before any jury, there could not be the slightest doubt of the result. – But, with all the tales of generosity and kindness which yet make your brother’s memory fragrant in the district, and with his own very moving self-defence still further to counteract it, I have no hesitation in saying to you that this mass of evidence makes no impression upon my mind, but the very uneasy and painful one of doubt and apprehension. There is no certainty in it. All these things might have remained as they are, and yet your brother’s innocence be triumphantly vindicated – if, indeed, it had not been for that last fatal step of his flight. Is he now, truly, beyond the reach of either acquittal or condemnation? – does there remain only his name to vindicate?

“In the meantime there cannot be any nearer connexion between our family and yours. I regret it deeply – but it is impossible to forget that the murdered man is my father, and that while so much as a doubt remains, we must not dishonor the memory of the dead. You will understand and feel for us, I am sure. For my mother, especially, I must beg your sympathy: this matter has most painfully revived the bitterest time of her life; and while, like myself, her feelings – both for Alice’s sake, and his own – are all enlisted in favor of your brother, she feels, with me, that until we have some more satisfactory proof, nearer connexion is impossible.

“You will forgive me, if I speak harshly. I feel that you will understand the necessity more calmly than I should wish Lewis to do; and I am confidant that we can trust in your kind co-operation. In the meantime, I shall keep my eye on the district, and let no opportunity of throwing light upon this dark matter pass me. May I also beg your confidence? If there is any further particular of importance, trust me with it. So far as my ability goes, I shall leave no stone unturned; and will, I assure you, betray no confidence with which you may honor me.

    “Believe me, my dear Miss Ross,
    “Very sincerely yours.
    “James Aytoun.”

Anne was uneasy and perplexed: this sensible, generous, thoughtful James Aytoun, suspected her secret, and claimed to be trusted with it. Could she withhold it from him? And then, this fallen edifice of hope, with all the sickness of its indefinite deferring – what could be done, indeed? It seemed foolish – it seemed mere madness, the burning desire that rose within her, to hurry to the place herself, and see if the eager eyes of anxiety and sisterly yearning could discover nothing. Alas! were not James Aytoun’s eyes eager also? was not his mind trained and practised? It did not matter – Anne felt it impossible to stand still – to wait – until she had convinced herself that there was nothing more to learn. Esther Fleming’s eager repetition: “I lookit to you, Miss Anne, I aye lookit to you,” came back upon her, like a call from her father’s very grave. She wrote hastily to Lewis, begging him to return immediately; and then sat down to consider her plan. – It might be foolish – it might be Quixotic. Possibly she could do no good – but she must try.

CHAPTER XVIII

UPON the Friday Lewis returned home. Anne had walked out upon the Portoran road, looking for him, and met him a short distance from the gate of Merkland. He looked sulky and out of humor, and leaping from the gig, threw the reins to Duncan, and joined his sister.

“Well?” said Anne, when their first greeting was over, and Duncan out of hearing.

“Well,” said Lewis, “we are just where we were. I expected nothing better. We have not advanced a step.”

“I understand that,” said Anne; “but what of the Aytoun’s? – what understanding have you come to? – what arrangement about Alice?”

“Nothing – nothing,” said Lewis, hastily; “I tell you we are exactly where we were. My position is not in the least degree better than it was on the first day I knew this history – it is worse indeed, for you buoyed me up with hopes then of the great things we should discover – see what it has all come to.”

“You have surely made some arrangement – come to some understanding?” said Anne; “it is a quite useless thing to tantalize me, Lewis. Your engagement has not terminated – you have not given up – ”

“’Given up!” Lewis turned round indignantly. “I suppose you would like nothing better, my mother and you; but you’re mistaken, I tell you. All the mothers and sisters in the kingdom should not make me give up Alice – a pretty thing!”

“You are quite unreasonable, Lewis,” said Anne; “I do not want you to give up Alice – very far from that – I think you have been fortunate in winning so fresh and guileless a youthful spirit; but this impatience and petulance makes you unworthy of Alice Aytoun. At your years men should regard their own dignity more – you are not a boy now, Lewis.”

“I should think not,” was the angry response. It made him quiet nevertheless; these fits of ill-humor and peevishness were certainly neither dignified nor manly.

“What have you done then? how have you arranged?” said Anne.

“Oh, we must wait, they say. If it had been merely a few months, or even a year, I should not have thought anything of it: but this indefinite delay – to be as patient and dignified as you like, Anne, it is very disagreeable and painful.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Anne.

“And so, till some further evidence of Norman’s innocence can be procured – further! I should say until they can get any evidence – we must wait. James is to keep his eye on the district, he says, and lose no opportunity; that looks all very well, but if there is no evidence to be got, Alice and I may wait till our lives are spent in vain. It’s very hard, Anne; I do say so, however boyish you may think it.”

“I do not think that boyish, Lewis,” said Anne. “We must take measures more active than James’s mere watching the district. Lewis, it is my turn to be called childish now. You must let me try – I must go to this place myself.”

Lewis opened his eyes in consternation:

“You try! you go yourself! why, what on earth could you do? Anne, you are mad!”

“I am not mad, Lewis, in the least degree, and yet I must go to this place myself; it is not in self-confidence. I have patience more than you, and time less occupied; I never expected that this work could be done easily or soon. Lewis, I must go.”

They were entering the house as Anne spoke. Lewis did not answer her. He only shook his head impatiently. There was something humiliating in the very idea that she could accomplish a thing in which he had failed.

He met his mother dutifully and with proper respect and kindness. Mrs. Aytoun’s natural, unassuming dignity and entire sympathy with her children; the frank, affectionate, tender intercourse subsisting between them; the seemly regard for her opinion, which was no less apparent in her manly son, James, than in her gentle daughter, Alice, had charmed Lewis unconsciously. The absolute propriety and fitness of that natural honor and reverence made an involuntary impression upon him – an impression which now softened his voice and restrained his temper. With good training, and these righteous influences round him, Lewis was a hopeful subject yet.

“So you have returned as you went away?” said Mrs. Ross, when they had been some little time together.

“Yes,” said Lewis, “I should say worse, for I had some hope then, and I have none now.”

“I thought it was all nonsense,” said Mrs. Ross. “I knew you could make nothing of it.”

“You were wrong then, mother,” said Lewis, quickly. “We have got no evidence – but I believe now, what I did not believe when we left Merkland, that Norman is innocent.”

Anne looked up joyfully.

“Not that my believing it will do much good,” said Lewis, “when such a thing as definite proof is not to be had; but that the man, these people spoke of as young Redheugh could do a deliberate and cowardly murder is nearly impossible.”

“I thank you, Lewis,” exclaimed Anne. “I thank you for myself and for Norman!”

“But what good does it all do?” continued Lewis. “I may believe – but unless you can get other people to believe too, what is the use of it?”

“The use of it!” Anne’s lightened heart and shining eye bore witness to its use. “James Aytoun believes it also,” she said.

“Yes, James Aytoun believes it; but neither James nor you, Anne, will be satisfied with believing it yourselves. I don’t see what we’re to do. People judge by evidence – all the evidence is against him, and the only thing in his favor is an impression – well, I will go further – a kind of certainty – one can’t give any reason for it, it is the merest indefinite, impalpable thing in the world. There’s just a conviction that he is not guilty – there’s nothing to support it.”

“Well,” said Anne, cheerfully; “but the evidence to support it must be got, Lewis. It is foolish to think that a work like this could be done in so short a time, and with so small an expenditure of labor and patience. Your time is otherwise engaged – so is James Aytoun’s – he has his business to manage – you, your estate. I have nothing. I am and have been all my life, a very useless person; let me have the satisfaction of being of some service for once in my life.”

“Why, Anne,” exclaimed Lewis, “are you in your senses? what in the world could you do? Do you think I could ever listen to such a thing? Nonsense, nonsense – mind your own affairs like a good girl, and do not meddle with what is quite out of your sphere.”

Anne smiled, but with some pain – another person might have laughed frankly at the condescending superiority of the younger brother. It hurt her a little.

“Lewis, I have even more interest in this matter than you – many hopes there may be, and are, in your life. I have few. This of Norman’s return is the greatest of all – and what concerns my brother cannot be out of my sphere.”

“No – to wish for it – or to dream about it, or even to scheme for it,” said Lewis, “That’s all very well; but for anything else – why, what could you do, Anne – what could any woman do? You know nothing of the laws of evidence – you don’t know even how to make inquiries. You might go and spend money, and get the thing talked about, and written of in local newspapers. Content yourself, Anne, and leave it in our hands: you could do nothing more.”

Alice Aytoun could have done nothing more. Anne Ross felt very certain that she had no gift for spending money and getting herself talked about – that it might be possible for her to do something more. So she said:

“You do not convince me, Lewis. To discover truth, one does not need to be familiar with laws of evidence. I am not a lawyer, and could not go as a lawyer would; but I am Norman’s only sister, Lewis, and, as such, might find some fragments of truth favorable to him. I do not ask you to decide immediately – think of it, and then give me your sanction to my enterprise.”

“I am perfectly amazed, Anne – quite astonished,” exclaimed Mrs. Ross. “What can the girl be dreaming of? you go to collect evidence! – you accomplish what Lewis and Mr. Aytoun, and Robert Ferguson – trained lawyers have failed to do! I never heard of such self-confidence. I cannot comprehend it.”

Anne was roused out of her usual patience.

“Mother!” she said, “you have often called me very useless – I grant it, if you choose – I have at least not been undutiful. Hitherto, you know, I have been almost entirely guided by your pleasure. Here is one thing upon which I must exercise my own judgment —must, mother – it is no question of liking or disliking. I also have some affections, desires, wishes of my own. I am not merely an appendage – a piece of goods – forgive me if I speak hastily; but supposing that neither affection nor wish were in this matter, I have even a prior duty to Norman; I have my father’s command. Mother, I am no longer a girl – there is some other duty for me now, than mere obedience; I have rendered you that for three-and-twenty years: do not grudge me some exercise of my own faculties now.”

Mrs. Ross stared at her in open-eyed astonishment. Lewis had laughed at first – now he was graver. Mrs. Ross, with much obstinacy of her own, was one of those people who sometimes bluster, but always yield and quail before genuine, sober firmness.