Mrs. Oliphant

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.

In the afternoon of that day, Anne went, by appointment, to the Tower, to communicate Robert’s opinion to Mrs. Catherine.—She made a circuit by the mill, to see Lilie; for Mrs. Catherine and Archibald, she knew, had business in Portoran, and would not return early. It was a clear, bright, mild day, with a spring haze of subdued sunshine about it, reminding one, pleasantly, that the year “was on the turn.” Lilie was not at home.

“And I wish ye would speak to that outre lassie, Jacky Morison, Miss Anne,” said Lilie’s careful guardian. “She had the bairn away this morning, and trails her about to a’ kinds of out o’ the way places; in the wood, and on the hills; and I’m not sure in my ain mind, that it’s right to let the bairn wi’ the like o’ her.”

“Jacky is sure to be very careful,” said Anne.

“Na, it’s no sae muckle for that,” said Mrs. Melder; “though I have a cauld tremble whiles when I think o’ the water. Jacky’s no oncarefu. It’s a great charge being answerable for a stranger bairn, Miss Anne; but Lilie’s learning (it’s just a pleasure to see how fast she wins on) a’ manner o’ nonsense verses; and has her bit head fu’ of stories o’ knights and fairies, and I kenna a’ what. It’s Jacky’s doing and no ither. I am at times whiles far frae easy in my mind about it.”

“No fear,” said Anne, smiling. “Jacky will do Lilie no harm, Mrs. Melder.”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Melder, thoughtfully, “she’s no an ill scholar, to be sic a strange lassie; and has been lookit weel after at the Tower. She was here the other day, when the minister was in—that’s Mr. Lumsden—he had a diet[*] in my house, Miss Anne—and it wad have dune ye gude to have heard her at the questions. No a slip; and as easy in the petitions as in man’s chief end. They say,” continued Mrs. Melder, somewhat overpowered, “that she can say the hundred and nineteenth psalm a’ out, without missing a word.”

[*] A diet of examination. One of the periodical visits made by Scottish clergymen in former times, during which the household, and especially its younger members, were examined on the “Shorter Catechism,” the universal text-book of Scottish Theology.

Leaving the miller’s kindly wife a good deal reassured by these signs of Jacky’s orthodoxy, Anne proceeded towards the Tower. The highroad was circuitous, and long; and the direct and universally-used path ran along the northern bank of the river, through the grounds of Strathoran. The little green gate, near which Alice had met Mr. Fitzherbert, was at the opposite extremity of this by-way, where it entered the precincts of the Tower.—As she drew near the stile, at which the narrow path was admitted into the possessions of the fallen house of Sutherland, Anne heard voices before her. One of them, whose loud tone was evidently full of anger and excitement, she recognised at once as Marjory Falconer’s; and having heard of her former adventure with Mr. Fitzherbert, and gallant defence of little Alice, Anne hurried forward, fearing that her friend’s prompt ire, and impetuous disposition, had involved her in some new scrape. It was evident that Marjory had some intention, in raising her voice so high. Anne could hear its clear tone, and indignant modulation, before she came in sight of the speaker.

He would venture to take the airs of a chieftain upon him—he, an English interloper, a mushroom lord! “Pull away the branches, George: never mind, let them indict you for trespass if they dare.”

Anne had quickened her pace, and was now close to the stile. Miss Falconer, her face flushed, her strong, tall, handsome figure swelling stronger and taller than ever, as she pulled, with an arm not destitute of force, one great branch which had been placed with many others, across the stile, barring the passage, stood with her head turned towards Strathoran, too much engrossed to notice Anne’s approach. The Falcon’s Craig groom was laboring with all his might to clear away the other obstructions, his broad face illuminated with fun, and hot with exertion, enjoying it with his whole heart. Miss Falconer went on:

“A pretty person to shut us out of our own country—to eject our cottars—honester men a hundredfold than himself; a chief forsooth! does he think himself a chief? I would like to see the clan of Gillravidge. Pull away these barriers, George; if Mrs. Catherine does not try conclusions with him, I do not know her.”

“Marjory,” said Anne, “what are you doing?—what is the matter now?”

“Anne Ross, is that you?—the matter!—why, look here—here is matter enough to make any one angry—our road, that belonged to us and our ancestors before this man’s race or name had ever been heard of—look at it, how he has blocked it up—look at this ‘notice to trespassers’—‘to be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the law’—very well, let them prosecute!” continued Marjory, raising her voice, and sending a flashing, keen glance towards a corner of the adjoining plantation, “let them prosecute by all means—in five minutes more, they shall have some trespassers. These paltry little tyrants—these upstart Englishmen, daring, in a lowland country, and on poor Archibald Sutherland’s lands, to do what a highland chief would not venture on, on his own hills!”

“It must be some mistake, Marjory,” said Anne, “it is impossible any one could do this with the intention of insulting the whole countryside. It must be a mistake.”

“Mistake, indeed!—throw it into the Oran, George, throw it over the water,” cried Miss Falconer, as the groom raised in his arms an immense piece of wood, the last barrier to the passage. “We shall see that by-and-by—come, Anne.”

Marjory mounted the style, and sprang down in the Strathoran grounds on the other side. “Come, Anne, come.”

“Had we not better go the other way?” said Anne. “It is but subjecting ourselves to impertinence, Marjory. Nay, do not look contemptuous. I am not afraid of accompanying you, but I do think that Lewis and Ralph might manage this better than we can.”

Marjory threw back her head with an indignant, impatient motion. “Don’t be a fool, Anne. Come, I am going to the Tower. Lewis and Ralph indeed!”

“Well,” said Anne, “if they could not do it better, it would be at least more suitable. We shall only expose ourselves to impertinence, Marjory. Let us go round the other way.”

“Very well,” said Miss Falconer, turning away; “I will go alone.”

Anne crossed the stile. It was annoying to be forced into any altercation, such as was almost sure to ensue upon their meeting any of the dependents of Lord Gillravidge; at the same time, she could not suffer Marjory to go alone. George lifted a large, empty basket, and followed them, his hot, merry face shining like a beacon as he passed beneath the bare and rustling boughs.

Miss Falconer, with the large basket full, had been visiting a widow, whose only son had met with a severe accident, while engaged in his ordinary labor. The widow had some claim on the household of Falcon’s Craig—some one of those most pleasant and beneficial links of mutual good-will and service which unite country neighborhoods so healthfully, subsisted between the poor family and the great one, and as, on any grand occasion at Falcon’s Craig, the brisk services of Tibbie Hewit, the hapless young mason’s mother, would have been rendered heartily and at once, so the accident was no sooner reported to Miss Falconer, then she set out with her share of the mutual kindliness. We cannot tell what was in the basket, but Tibbie Hewit’s “press” was very much better filled when it went away empty, than when Miss Falconer entered her cottage.

“What a pity I have not my whip,” said Marjory, as, drawing Anne’s arm within her own, they passed on together. “You should have seen that cowardly fellow who stopped little Alice! what a grimace he made when he felt the lash about his shoulders! I say, Anne,”—Miss Falconer’s voice sank lower—”did you see them hiding in the wood?”

“Who, Marjory?”

“Oh! that ape with the hair about his face, and some more of them. I should not have pulled down their barricade, I dare say, if I had not seen them. But you do not think I would retreat for them?”

“I do think, indeed,” said Anne, looking hastily round, “that retreat would be by far our most dignified plan. Suppose they come down to us, Marjory, and we, who call ourselves gentlewomen, get involved in a squabble with a set of impertinent young men. I do think we are subjecting ourselves to quite unnecessary humiliation.”

A violent flush covered Marjory Falconer’s face—one of those overpowering rebounds of the strained delicacy and womanliness which revenged her escapades so painfully—the burning color might have furnished a hundred fluttering blushes for little Alice Atoun. But still she had no idea of yielding.

“Perhaps you are right, Anne. I did not think of that; but at least we must go on now. And think what an insult it is!—to all of us—to the whole country. We cannot suffer it, you know. Mrs. Catherine, I am sure, will take steps immediately.”

“Very likely,” said Anne.

Anne was revolving the possibility of crossing the Oran by the stepping-stones, which were about a quarter of a mile along, and so escaping the collision she dreaded.

“There, you see!” exclaimed Marjory, triumphantly; “there is a proof of the way we are dealt with, the indignities they put upon women! Neither Lewis nor Ralph would have the public spirit to resist such a thing as this. Oh! I can answer for Ralph, and I know Lewis would not. But one can be quite sure of Mrs. Catherine—one is never disappointed in her. Yet you will hear silly boys sneer at her, and think her estate would be better in their feeble hands, than in her own strong ones. I ask you, what do you think of that, Anne Ross—can you see no injustice there?”

“Injustice?” said Anne, laughing. “No, indeed, only a great, deal of foolishness and nonsense; both on the part of the silly boys, and—I beg your pardon, Marjory—on yours, for taking the trouble of repeating what they say.”

“Oh, very well!” said Miss Falconer, coloring still more violently, yet, with characteristic obstinacy plunging on in the expression of her pet opinions. “Yes! I know you think me very unwomanly; you pretend to be proper, Anne Ross—to set that sweet confection of gentleness, and mildness, and dependence, which people call a perfect woman, up as your model; but it’s all a cheat, I tell you! You ought to try to be weak and pretty, and instead of that, you are only grave and sensible. You ought to be clinging to Lewis, as sweet and timid as possible; instead of that, you are very independent, and not much given, I fancy, to consulting your younger brother. You’re not true, Anne Ross; you think with me, and are only quiet to cover it.”

“Hush!” said Anne; “do not be so very profane, Marjory.—Do you remember how the Apostle describes it; those words that charm one’s ear like music, ‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.’ Are not the very sounds beautiful? Mildness and gentleness are exceeding good things; but I do not set any sweet confection before me, for my model. Marjory! do you remember those other beautiful words; ‘Strength and honor are her clothing; she opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness?’ There is nothing weak about that, and yet that seems to me a perfectly womanly woman.”

Marjory Falconer did not answer.

“But I feel quite sure,” said Anne, smiling, “that when she opened her mouth with wisdom, she never said a word about the rights of women; and that when her husband went out to the gate, to sit among the elders, she did not think her own position, sitting among her maidens, a whit less dignified and important than his, or envied him in any way indeed. When you are tempted Marjory with this favorite heresy of yours, read that beautiful poem—there is not a morsel of confectionery about it; you can see the woman, whose household was clad in scarlet, and whose children rose up and called her blessed, and know her a living person, as truly as you know yourself. You call me quiet, Marjory; I intend to be demonstrative to-day, at least, and I do utterly contemn and abominate all that rubbish of rights of women, and woman’s mission, and woman’s influence, and all the rest of it; I never hear these cant words, but I blush for them,” and Anne did blush, deeply as she spoke; “we are one half of the world—we have our work to do, like the other half—let us do our work as honorably and wisely as we can, but for pity’s sake, do not let us make this mighty bustle and noise about it. We have our own strength, and honor, and dignity—no one disputes it; but dignity, and strength and honor, Marjory, are things to live in us, not to be talked about; only do not let us be so thoroughly self-conscious—no one gains respect by claiming it. There! you are very much astonished and horror-stricken at my burst. I cannot help it.”

“Very well! very well!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, clapping her hands. “Utterly contemn and abominate! Hear, hear, hear! who could have believed it of quiet Anne Ross?”

Anne laughed. “Quiet Anne Ross is about to dare something further, Marjory. See; when did you cross the stepping-stones?”

They had reached them; three or four large, smooth stones, lay across the stream, at a point where it narrowed; the middle one was a great block of native marble, which had been there, firm in its centre, since ever the brown Oran was a living river. The passage was by no means perilous, except for people to whom a wet shoe was a great evil. It is not commonly so with youthful people in the country; it was a matter of the most perfect unconcern to Marjory Falconer.

“When did I cross the stepping-stones? Not for a good twelvemonth. I challenge you, Anne; if we should stumble, there is no one to see us but George. Come along.”

And Marjory, in the close-fitting, dark-cloth pelisse, which her old maid at Falcon’s Craig congratulated herself “could take no scather,” leaped lightly from stone to stone, across the placid, clear, brown water. Anne, rejoicing in the success of her scheme, followed. So did George, somewhat disappointed, at losing the expected fun, of a rencontre with “some o’ the feckless dandy chaps at Strathoran,” and the demolition of the barricade at the other end of the way.

They had to make a considerable circuit before they reached the road; but Anne endured that joyfully, when she saw through the trees the hirsute Mr. Fitzherbert, and some of his companions, assembled about the second stile—Marjory saw them too—the deep blush of shame returned to her cheek in overpowering pain: she did not say anything, but did not feel the less for that. Did Anne, indeed, need to scheme, for the preservation of her dignity?

Little Lilie came running forth from Mrs. Euphan Morison’s room, to meet them, as they crossed the bridge. Lilie had wonderful stories to tell of her long rambles with Jacky. The delicate moss on the tomb of the legendary maiden in the graveyard of Oranside, received more admiration from the child’s quick sense of beauty, than it could elicit from the common-place mind of Bessie; for Lilie thought the graveyard was “an awfu’ still place—nae sound but the water rinning, slow—slow; and the branches gaun wave wave; and the leaves on the wind’s feet, like the bonnie shoon the fairies wear; and a’ the folk lying quiet in their graves.”

They were lingering without—the air was so very mild and balmy, as if some summer angel had broken the spell of winter for one day. Marjory leant against a tree; her clear, good face, more thoughtful than usual. Anne had seated herself on a stone seat, beside the threshold, and was bending over Lilie, and her handful of moss; while Jacky, like a brown elf, as she was called, hovered in the rear. Mrs. Catherine had not yet returned from Portoran.

“If ye please will ye go in?” asked Jacky.

“No, let us stay here, Anne,” said Miss Falconer. “Jacky, how did Mrs. Catherine go?”

“If ye please, she’s in the phaeton,” said Jacky.

“In the phaeton? oh!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, in a tone of disappointment; “and those steady wretches of ponies—there is no chance of anything happening to them—there is no hope of them running away.”

“Hope, Marjory?” said Anne.

“Yes, hope! If Mrs. Catherine could only be caught in that shut-up by-way herself. Anne, I would give anything, just to find her in it.”

“Here she comes,” said Anne, as the comfortable brown equipage, and its brisk ponies, came smartly up towards the door, driven by Archibald Sutherland. “Ask her to walk to the little gate with you, Marjory—she will do it. But be careful not to speak of it before Archibald.”

“Thank you for the caution,” said Miss Falconer, in an undertone. “I wont; but I had forgotten—”

The vehicle drew up. Mrs. Catherine alighted, and, at Marjory’s request, turned with her to the little gate, from the shady dim lane beyond which the barricaded stile was visible, which shut passengers out from the sacred enclosure of Strathoran.

Archibald sat down on the stone seat at the threshold, by Anne’s side. Lilie was very talkative—she had seen the little ruined chapel on Oranside for the first time that day.

“There’s grass upon the steps,” said Lilie, “and they’re broken—and then up high it’s a gray, but the branches, and they’re like the lang arms of the brown spirits on the muir that Jacky kens about. Ye would think they had hands waving—”

Anne patted the child’s head, bidding her describe this at another time: but Lilie was i’ the vein.

“And upon the wall there’s something white, printed in letters like a book—and down below, Oh, ye dinna ken what I found!—Jacky’s got it. It was a wee, wee blue flower, growing in a corner, where it could see naithing but the sky. Would that be the way it was blue?”

Anne could give no satisfactory answer, and Lilie went on.

“Jacky was to keep it for me, but I’ll give it to you, because it’s pretty,—like the Oran, in the gloaming, when the sky’s shining in the water. There’s no flower but it—no—” said Lilie, comprehending in one vast glance the whole wide sweep of hill and valley round her—infinite as it seemed to the child’s eyes; “no in the world—only it, and folk were sleeping below it. Jacky says the angels plant them—is that true? wait till I get it.”

The child darted away, and returned in a moment, bringing a small, wild, blue violet, one of those little, shapeless flowers, whose minute, dark leaves have so exquisite a fragrance. Anne took it from her, smiling, and repeating: “It will return in spring,” offered it to Archibald. He received it with some emotion.—This sole flower in the world, as Lilie said, brought to him from the grave of father and of mother—the only spot of earth in Strathoran where he was not a stranger. He accepted the emblem, fragrant of their memories, as it seemed, fragrant of hope and life in the dreary winter-time, and, with its promise breathing from its leaves: “It will return in spring!”

They were both silent and thoughtful: Archibald absorbed with these remembrances and anticipations, while Anne, sympathizing fully with him, was yet half inclined to blame herself for her involuntary exhilaration. The weight was lifted off Anne’s heart. It was no longer a dread and horror, that secret life of Norman’s but a thing to be rejoiced in, and to draw brightest encouragement from—a very star of hope.

The sound of wheels upon the road recalled her thoughts. Mrs. Catherine’s ponies had been led away by Johnnie Halflin. It was a shabby inn-gig, driven by one of the hangers-on of the ‘Sutherland Arms,’ in Portoran, which now drove up, and took the phaeton’s place. A young man, with a pleasant, manly face, alighted, and, looking at Anne and Archibald dubiously, stood hesitating before them, and, at last, with some embarrassment, asked for Mrs. Catherine.

Jacky darted forward to show him in, and, in a few minutes, reappeared, breathless, with the stranger’s card in her hand.—Archibald had gone in—Anne had risen, and stood looking towards the little gate, waiting for Mrs. Catherine and Miss Falconer.

“Oh! if ye please, Miss Anne—” exclaimed Jacky.

“Well, Jacky, what is it?”

Jacky held up the card—”Mr. James Aytoun.” “If ye please, Miss Anne, I think it’ll be Miss Alice’s brother.”

Anne hastened forward to tell Mrs. Catherine, somewhat disturbed by the information. She feared for Lewis. Lewis was not so confident in the truth of these letters as she, and might, betray his doubt to Alice Aytoun’s brother, a lawyer, skilled in discerning those signs of truth in the telling of a story, which Lewis would lack in his narrative.

Jacky stole back to the library: the fire was getting low, she persuaded herself, and while she improved it, she could steal long glances at the stranger, and decide that he was “like Miss Alice, only no half so bonnie.” When the mending of the fire was complete, she slid into a corner, and began to restore various misplaced books. James watched her for a minute or two with some amusement. Alice had spoken of this dark, singular, elfin girl. She lingered so long that he forgot her. At last a voice alarmed him, close at his ear.

“If ye please—”

He looked up—Jacky was emboldened.

“If ye please—Miss Alice—”

“What about Miss Alice?” asked James, kindly.

“Just, is she quite well, Sir?” said Jacky, abashed.

“Quite well, I am much obliged to you,” said James.

Jacky hovered still. Somewhat startled James Aytoun would have been, had he divined the eager question hanging upon her very lips:

“Oh, if ye please, will they no let her be married on Mr. Lewis?” but Jacky restrained her interest in Alice Aytoun’s fortunes, sufficiently to say: “Mrs. Catherine is coming, Sir!” and to glide out of the room.

“James Aytoun!” exclaimed Mrs. Catherine, as Anne interrupted the indignant declamation of Marjory Falconer, to inform her of the stranger’s arrival. “Ay! that is like a man; I am pleased with that. The lad must have, both sense and spirit.—Send down to Merkland for Lewis without delay, child, and come in with me to the library; the lad’s business is with you, more than me. I like the spirit of him; there has been no milk-and-water drither, or lingering here. Come away.”

They entered the house. “Marjory Falconer,” said Mrs. Catherine, “go up the stair, and wait till we come to you. Say nothing of yon to Archie; but, be you sure, I will stand no such thing from the hands of the evil pack of them—hounds!”

Marjory obeyed; and Mrs. Catherine and Anne entered the library. The young man and the old lady exchanged looks of mutual respect. James Aytoun’s prompt attention to this important matter, brought the full sunshine of Mrs. Catherine’s favor upon him. She received him after her kindest fashion.

“You are welcome to my house, James Aytoun; and it pleases me, that I can call a lad who give such prompt heed to the honor of this house kinsman. Are you wearied with your journey? or would you rather speak of the matter that brought you here at once?”

“Certainly,” said James, smiling in spite of himself, at this abrupt introduction of the subject, “I should much rather ascertain how this important matter stands, at once. Your letter surprised us very greatly, Mrs. Catherine; you will imagine that—and of course I feel it of the utmost consequence that I should lose no time in making myself acquainted with the particulars.”

“Wise and right,” said Mrs. Catherine, approvingly, “and spoken like a forecasting and right-minded man. Sit down upon your seat, James Aytoun, and you shall hear the story.”

James seated himself.

“Perhaps it would be well that I saw Mr. Ross?”

“I have sent for Lewis,” said Mrs. Catherine. “He will be here as soon as he is needed. This is his sister, Miss Ross, of Merkland. Anne, you are of more present use than Lewis—you will stay with us.”

They gathered round the table in silence. James Aytoun felt nervous and embarrassed—he did not know how to begin. Mrs. Catherine saved him from his difficulty.

“James Aytoun, it would be putting a slight upon the manly and straightforward purpose that brought you here, if we were going about the bush in this matter, and did not speak clearly.—Your father was murdered—shot by a coward hand behind him. The whole world has laid the act upon Norman Rutherford. I have believed the same myself for eighteen years. Listen to me! I am not given to change, nor am I like to alter my judgment lightly; but now I declare to you, James Aytoun, that, far more clearly than ever I held his guilt, do I believe, and am sure, that Norman Rutherford was not the man.”

James was uneasy under the gaze of those large, keen eyes, and did not wish either to meet the earnest look of Anne Ross, who seemed to be watching so eagerly for his opinion.

“I shall be most happy, Mrs. Catherine,” he said, “to find that you have proof—that Mr. Ross has proof—sufficient for the establishment of this. I have certainly no feelings of revenge; but the crime which deprived Alice and myself of a father must of necessity keep the two families apart. I could not consent to any further intercouse between Mr. Ross and my sister on any other terms than those you mention. But the evidence is fearfully strong, Mrs. Catherine. Since my mother received your letter, I have examined it again thoroughly, and so far as circumstantial evidence can go, it is most clear and overwhelming. I shall be most happy to be convinced that the world has judged erroneously; but you will excuse me for receiving it with caution; if this unhappy young man—I beg your pardon, Miss Ross—had been brought before any court in Scotland, with the evidence, he must infallibly have been found guilty.”

“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “you have the letters.”

Anne drew them from her breast—she had a feeling of insecurity when they were not in her own immediate possession.

“Had we not better wait till Lewis comes?”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherine. “What Lewis cares for, is the winning of the bairn Alice—what you care for, first and most specially, is the clearing of your brother’s disgraced name. Norman is safest in your hands, Anne. Read the letters.”

“Mr. Aytoun,” said Anne, with nervous firmness, “we have no systematic proof to lay before you. Anything which can directly meet and overcome the evidence of which you speak, remains still to be gathered—and it is possible, that this, on which we build our hopes, may seem but a very feeble foundation to you. In law, I suppose, it could have no weight for a moment: but yet to those who knew my brother Norman, and were acquainted with his peculiar temperament and nature, it carries absolute conviction.—I scarcely hope that it can have the same power of convincing you—but I pray you to receive as certainly true, before I read this, the judgment which all his friends pronounced upon my unhappy brother, before this dishonor came upon him. They call him the most truthful and generous of men: they distinguish him for these two qualities above all his compeers. Mrs. Catherine, I speak truly?”

“Truthful as the course of nature itself, which the Almighty keeps from varying. Generous as the sun that He hath set to shine upon the just and the unjust. Do not linger, Anne: read Norman’s letter.”

Anne lifted the letter, and glanced up at James before she began to read—his eyes were fixed upon her, his face was full of grave anxiety—convinced or unconvinced, she was sure at least of an attentive listener. She began to read—her voice trembling at first, as the quick throbbings of her heart almost choked it, but becoming hysterically strong, as she went on; her mind agitated as Norman’s was when he wrote that letter, eager like him, by what repetitions or incoherent words soever, that were strongest and most suitable for the urgent purpose, to throw off the terrible accusation under which he lay: it was like no second party reading an old letter; it was the very voice and cry of one pleading for life—for more than life—for lost good fame and honor.

James Aytoun’s eyes were steadily fixed upon her; and as she closed the letter, her whole frame vibrating, he drew a long breath—that most grateful of all sounds to the ears of a speaker who desires to move and impress his audience. Anne looked up eagerly and anxious. He had covered his face with his hand. Neither of them spoke; until, at last, James raised his head:

“May I see that letter, Miss Ross? Can you give it me?”

Anne had omitted the sentence in which Norman mentioned his escape. She folded it in, and handed him the letter. He read it again carefully, and yet again. Besides the earnest agony of its words, there was a mute eloquence about that yellow, timeworn paper. Blisters of tears were on it: tears of terrible grief—tears of tremulous hope. Its very characters, abrupt and broken as they were, spoke as with a living voice. Nothing false—nothing feigned, could be in the desperate energy of that wild cry, the burden of Norman’s self-defence: “I am innocent! I am innocent!”

“Miss Ross,” said James Aytoun, “there never was man convicted from clearer evidence than that which has persuaded the world of your brother’s guilt. I cannot comprehend it—my faith is shaken. I confess to you, that I feel this letter to be true—that I can no longer think of him as the murderer.”

Anne tried to smile—she could not. A stranger—a man prejudiced against Norman—the son of the dead. The tears came over her cheeks in a burst of joy. She thought it the voice of universal acquittal: she forgot all the difficulties that remained—Norman was saved.

The library-door opened, and Lewis entered. Mrs. Catherine rose, and presented him to James: the two young men shook hands with an involuntary cordiality, at which they were themselves astonished. Anne was conquering herself again; but joy seemed so much more difficult to keep in bounds, and restrain, than sorrow was. She had little experience of the first—much of the other. She started up, and laid her hand on Lewis’s arm.

“Lewis, Lewis! the way is clearing before us. Mr. Aytoun gives us his support. Mr. Aytoun thinks him innocent!”