Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“Well, well, Mr. Coulter, I’ll not gainsay you; but to tell the truth, I’ve no notion of making young lads of family and breeding amateur ploughmen – I beg your pardon, Mr. Coulter, I mean no affront to you – you look upon it as a science, I know, and doubtless so it is; but – you see if Archie Sutherland could fall in with such an opening, as was waiting ready for me when I went to India, he might be home again, a wealthy man, before your harvests were grown.”

“James,” interposed Mrs. Coulter, “you are not looking at our young people – how happy they all seem, poor things. I do not think you have seen my Ada, Mr. Ambler, since she returned from Edinburgh.”

Mr. Ambler adjusted his spectacles, with a smile. “No, I dare say not. Is that her with Lewis Ross? No, that’s Mrs. Catherine’s little friend. Ay, ay, I see her – like what her mother used to be, in my remembrance. Mrs. Coulter, you must have great pleasure in your fine family.”

Mrs. Coulter smiled, well pleased.

“Do you know, Mr. Ambler,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, “who that Miss Aytoun is?”

“Who she is? No, indeed, except a very bonnie little girlie. She is that, without dispute; but Mr. Foreman will know. Mr. Foreman, can you tell Mrs. Bairnsfather who that young lady is, at Lewis Ross’s hand?”

“Miss Aytoun, ma’am, a relative of Mrs. Catherine’s,” said the lawyer.

“We know that,” said Mr. Ambler. “Is that all her history? Aytoun – Aytoun – I have surely some associations with that name myself.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Foreman, dryly. “She comes from the south country; her mother lives in Edinburgh, I believe, and is of a good family. I do not know anything further of the young lady, Mrs. Bairnsfather; that is, nothing at all interesting.”

“Which means,” said Mrs. Coulter aside to her husband, as their little group increased, and the conversation became more general, “that Mr. Foreman knows something very interesting about that pretty little girl. Mrs. Catherine is a client of his. Perhaps he thinks of Miss Aytoun for Walter. James, will you call Jeanie to me?”

And so, in quiet talk, in that bright drawing-room, these ladies and gentlemen – all possessing their average share of kindliness – had decided upon the ruin of Archibald Sutherland, who sat this same night in yonder brilliant Parisian saloon, with the fatal dice trembling in his hand, in all the wild, delirious gaiety of a desperate man; and in their flood of easy conversation, had touched upon another centre of crime and misery, darker and more fatal still, the facts of which lingered in the lawyer-like memory of Walter Foreman’s father, and even attached some dim associations, in Mr. Ambler’s mind, to Alice Aytoun’s name. Strange domestic volcano, over which these slippered feet passed so heedlessly! How often, in quiet houses, and among quiet people, are mighty sins and mighty miseries passed by as lightly!

CHAPTER V

SLEEPY, weary, and uncomfortable, the household of Merkland reluctantly bestirred itself next morning. Mrs. Ross rose ill-humored from very weariness. Duncan, and May, and Barbara, were all more than ordinarily stupid; and Mr. Ambler, of Smoothlie, with all his neatness and finicality, was still in the house. The imperturbable Mr. Ambler was first in the breakfast-parlor, joking Anne on her pale cheeks, and Lewis on his last night’s conquests – fully prepared to do justice to the edibles of the breakfast-table, and not, in any degree, inclined to forgive the sleepiness which had mangled these delicate Oran trout, and sent up the eggs hard-boiled; for Mr. Ambler, by right of his comfort-loving old bachelorship, was excused everywhere for discussing matters of the table more minutely than ordinary strangers were privileged to do, and had besides, as Lewis Ross’s guardian, a familiar standing at Merkland.

“Bless me, Madam,” said Mr. Ambler, “your cook must have been up all the hours of the night. Sleepy huzzies! Why, I myself was not in bed till two o’clock, and here I am, as fresh as ever I was. And just look at this trout – as beautiful a beast as was ever caught in water – broken clean in two! It’s quite shocking!”

“Are there never any such incidents in Smoothlie, Mr. Ambler?” asked Mrs. Ross, somewhat sharply.

“Accidents, Madam! Do you call that an accident – the massacreing of a delicate animal like a trout? No, I send Forsyth to the kitchen every morning to superintend; and Forsyth, by long practice, has arrived at perfiteness, as the old proverb says. – Better try a bit of one though, Lewis, mangled though they be, than hurt your stomach with these eggs; they’re indigestible, man – like lead. Send me your plate; here is not a bad bit.”

“There is a kipper beside you, more carefully cooked, Mr. Ambler,” said Anne, smiling.

“Thank you, Anne, my dear; but I never take kippered trout when I can get fresh, fit for the eating. Lewis, man, what makes you yawn so much? It’s very ill-bred.”

Lewis laughed. Mrs. Ross looked displeased. “Poor boy, he is fatigued. No wonder, after all his exertions yesterday.”

“Fatigued! Nonsense. What should fatigue him?” said Mr. Ambler. “Take my word for it, Mrs. Ross, it’s just an idle habit, and not genuine weariness. A young man, like Lewis, fatigued with enjoying himself! – on his one-and-twentieth birthday, too! Who ever heard the like? When I was in India (which is neither the day nor yesterday) I have seen me up till far on in the night, and yet astir and travelling a couple of hours before sunrise. – What would you say to that, Lewis? No; so far as I can see, our young generation are more likely to be spoiled by indolence than overwork.”

“Indolence! that’s quite too bad, Mr. Ambler,” said Lewis. – ”Bear me witness, Anne, how I have been running about since I arrived at Merkland. I don’t think I have had a couple of hours to myself since I came home.”

“Lewis,” said Mr. Ambler, “what was yon I heard last night of Archie Sutherland? That little round body, Mrs. Bairnsfather, was enlightening us all as to Strathoran’s affairs. She says the lad is ruined.”

Lewis shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t say, Mr. Ambler. I am not so deeply read in economics as the good lady. Archie’s an extravagant fellow: but – oh! if I say any more, I shall have Anne upon me. Never mind, he’s a fine fellow, Archie.”

“Anne?” said Mr. Ambler, inquisitively. “Ay, what is Anne’s special interest in Archie Sutherland? Well, I will ask no questions.”

“My special interest in Archie Sutherland, is a figment of my brother’s lively imagination, Mr. Ambler,” said Anne, quietly, “produced by what inspiration I do not know; but repeated, I suppose, because it annoys me.”

“Well, you can pay him back in his own coin,” said the old gentleman. “Oh, you need not look innocent, Lewis. Do you think nobody noticed you last night hanging about that pretty little girl of Mrs. Catherine’s? Bless me! Anne, my dear, what is the matter?”

Anne had turned very pale, and felt a deadly sickness at her heart, as she saw the color rising over Lewis’s cheek, and the conscious smile of pleasure and embarrassment hovering about his lip. But Mrs. Ross spoke before she could render any reason for her change of countenance.

“Miss Aytoun, indeed! Upon my word, Mr. Ambler, your ward is indebted to you – after all the pains that have been bestowed upon him, and all the advantages he has had, to think he could be attracted by yon little animated doll. Nonsense! Lewis will look higher, I confidently hope.”

“Upon my word, you dispose of me very summarily,” said Lewis, half laughing, half angry. “Mr. Ambler, will you put my mother in remembrance of those cabalistic forms of yesterday, which made me master of my own person and possessions. I suppose I may be very thankful, though, that you did not make me over to Miss Falconer – eh, Mr. Ambler?”

“Miss Falconer would not take you, Lewis,” said Mr. Ambler, coolly. “I will trouble you for the toast, Anne, and – yes, I will take the marmalade, too – do not alarm yourself, Lewis, you are in no danger from Miss Falconer.”

Lewis looked piqued. It was more agreeable to feel himself a prize, than to be told so very coolly that he was in no danger from Miss Falconer, and the pleasant flattery of those blue eyes of Alice Aytoun’s, which had looked up to him so gladly last night, returned upon him in consolatory fascination. His mother’s interference, too, excited a spirit of opposition and perversity, which stimulated the remembrance; and when Mr. Ambler had happily ridden away, Lewis beguiled Anne into going out with him, and, before long, their walk terminated at the door of the Tower, whither Alice Aytoun had seen them approaching, from her high window, and glided softly into the drawing-room, with her gay heart fluttering, that she might at once meet and welcome Miss Ross.

“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “Alison Aytoun has a petition to make to you. She wants you to protect her when she goes to Falcon’s Craig. I, myself, as you know, am not given to visiting; besides that, at this time, I am taken up with graver matters. I would like you to take the bairn there to-morrow.”

“Oh, if you please, Miss Ross,” pleaded Alice.

“For the Tower is dreary enough for a young thing,” continued Mrs. Catherine, “At all seasons. Lewis, they are always quickening the speed of travel: how soon could a letter be answered from Paris?”

“Oh, in a week or two,” said Lewis, carelessly. “A fortnight, I dare say. But no one ever accused me of punctuality, Mrs. Catherine, so I cannot say exactly.”

“The more shame to you,” said Mrs. Catherine. “A silly youth bragging of a short-coming! Truly, Anne, I count it an affliction that folk must bear with the lads through their fool-estate, before ye can find an inkling of sense in any man. Alison, has Miss Ross consented to take charge of you? and will you go, Anne?”

“I shall be very glad,” said Anne, as Alice hung round her. “But is not Marjory related to Miss Aytoun?”

“It’s past counting, that kindred,” said Mrs. Catherine; “we could reckon it in my generation, that is with Alison’s grand-mother and the last family of Falconers passing the father of Ralph and Marjory, who was an only son, and died young – a poor peasweep he was, that might never have been born at all, for all the good he did! – and it was only a third or fourth cousinship then. I want the bairn to go to Falcon’s Craig, more for a diversion to her, than any other thing: and doubtless we must have festivities of our own, also. I will borrow your French serving-man from you, Lewis, to teach us a right manner of rejoicing.”

“You shall have him, with all my heart,” said Lewis, with some offended dignity; “only, I fear John would not take his orders from Mrs. Morison. He is too sensitive.”

“Set him up!” exclaimed Mrs. Catherine. “Sensitive, truly! Then you must e’en keep him and humor him yourself, Lewis. I am plaguit enough in my own household. There is Euphan Morison waylaying me with herbs. I caught her my ownself, this very morning, wileing the bairn Alison into poisoning herself with a drink made from dockens: the odor of them has not left me yet.”

“It was only camomile,” whispered Alice.

“Never you heed what it was,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Unwholesome trash that she calls good for the stomach, as if a bairn like Alison had any call to know whither she had a stomach or no! I have no patience with them. Jacky, you evil spirit, what are ye wanting now?”

“If you please,” said Jacky, “It’s Mr. Foreman – ”

Mrs. Catherine started.

“Where is he?”

“And a strange man with him, dressed like a gentleman,” continued Jacky. “They’re in the library, Mrs. Catherine.”

Mrs. Catherine rose hurriedly.

“Bairns, you will tarry till I come back. I am not like to be long.”

Mr. Foreman, the acute, and sagacious writer of Portoran, was seated in the library when Mrs. Catherine entered, and a man of equivocal appearance, bearded like the pard, who had been swaggering round the room, examining, with an eye of assumed connoisseurship, the dark family portraits on the wall, turned round at the sound of her step to make an elaborate bow. Mrs. Catherine looked at him impatiently.