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 M E R K L A N D. 
 
 A STORY 
 
 SCOTTISH LIFE. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 PASSAGES IX THE LIFE OF MRS. MARGARET MAITLAXD. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 185L
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 M E E K L A N D. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " A maid whom there were none to praise. 
 And very few to love." 
 
 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 "But may not Mrs. Catherine's visitor 
 belong to another family? The name is not 
 uncommon." 
 
 " You will permit me to correct you, Miss 
 Ross. The name is by no means a common 
 name ; and there was some very distant con- 
 nexion, I remember, between the Aytouns and 
 Mrs. Catherine. I have little doubt that this 
 girl is his daughter." 
 
 " Mother ! mother !" exclaimed the first 
 speaker, a young lady, whose face, naturally 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MERKLAND. 
 
 grave and composed, bore tokens of unusual 
 agitation. " It is impossible ; Mrs. Catherine, 
 considerate and kind as she always is, could 
 never be so cruel." 
 
 "I am quite at a loss for your meaning, 
 Anne." 
 
 " To bring her here — to our neighbourhood," 
 said Anne Ross, averting her eyes, and disre- 
 garding her stepmother's interruption, " where 
 we must meet her continually, where our name, 
 which must be odious to her, will be ringing 
 in her ears every day. I cannot believe it. 
 Mrs. Catherine could not do anything so bar- 
 barous." 
 
 Mrs. Ross, of Merkland, threw down her 
 work, and pushed back her chair from the table : 
 
 " Upon my word, Anne Ross, you turn more 
 absurd every day. What is the meaning of 
 this ? — our name odious ! I should not like 
 Lewis to hear you say so." 
 
 " But Lewis does not knqw this terrible 
 story," said Anne. ' . 
 
 " And never shall," replied Mrs. 'Ross. 
 " Neither can your brother's crime make my. 
 son's name odious to any one. I fancied you 
 knew that Norman was called by your mother's 
 name ; and this Aytoun girl, if she knows any-
 
 MERKLAND. 3 
 
 thing of it at all, will have he^rd of him as 
 Rutherford, and not as Ross." 
 
 "But Mrs. Catherine — she at least cannot 
 be ignorant, cannot have forgotten : who could 
 forget this ? and my mother was her friend !" 
 
 "The friendship has descended, I think," 
 said Mrs. Ross, with a sneer, " as you seem 
 to imagine feuds should. I suppose you think 
 this girl's brother, if she has a brother, w^ould 
 be quite doing his duty if he demanded satis- 
 faction from Lewis, for a thing which happened 
 when the poor boy was a mere infant? But 
 be not afraid, most tender and scrupulous sister. 
 People have better sense in these days." 
 
 Anne Ross turned away, grieved and silenced ; 
 her conversations with her stepmother too often 
 terminated so : and there was a long pause. 
 At last she said, timidly, as if desirous, and yet 
 afraid of asking further : " And my father 
 never knew how he died ?" 
 
 Mrs. Ross glanced hurriedly at the door: 
 " He did not die." 
 
 A.nne started ^dolently. " Norman, my bro- 
 ther? I beseech you to tell me, mother, is he 
 not dead ?" 
 
 " Ah, there is Duncan back, from Portoran," 
 said Mrs. Ross, rising. " Letters from Lewis, 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MERKLAND. 
 
 no doubt. How slow they are !" And she 
 rang the bell vehemently. 
 
 The summons brought in a maid, struggling 
 with the buckle of Duncan's letter-bag, which 
 was opened at length, and gave to Mrs. Ross's 
 delighted eyes the expected letters from her only 
 son : but Anne sat apart, shivering and trembling 
 with a great dread — a secret, most sad and ter- 
 rible ; a tale of dishonour, and crime, and misery, 
 such as might chill the very heart to hear. 
 
 "And there's a letter frae the Tower, Miss 
 Anne," said the maid, giving her a note. " Dun- 
 can got it at the Brig, frae Johnnie Halflin, and 
 Johnnie was to wait, fishing at the minnins, till 
 Duncan gaed back wi' the answer, if there was 
 to be ony answer." 
 
 " There is no answer. May," said Anne, glanc- 
 ing over the brief epistle ; and May withdrew 
 reluctantly, having obtained no news of Maister 
 Lewis, or his wanderings, wherewith to satisfy 
 her expectant audience in the kitchen, 
 
 The letter of Lewis was a long one, and Anne 
 had time to travel listlessly again and again 
 over the angular and decided characters of her 
 ancient friend. 
 
 "My Gowan," said the singularly-folded black
 
 MERKLAND. O 
 
 letter-looking note, " you will come to the Tower 
 to-morrow. I am expecting Alison Aytoun at 
 night ; and seeing the world has gotten two new 
 generations (to keep within the truth) since I 
 myself was done with the company of bairns, 
 I am in need of your counsel how we are to 
 brighten the bedchamber and other apartments, 
 so as will become the presence of youthheid. 
 For undoubtedly in this matter, if I am like any 
 mortal person, it is like Issachar in the prophecy 
 (no to be profane), for there is Elspat Henderson, 
 my own woman, that would have out the old 
 red satin curtains (that are hker black than red 
 now, as you wiU mind), to put upon the bed, and 
 Euphan Morison, her daughter, is for no cur- 
 tains at all, for the sake of health (pity me, 
 Gowan, that have doctors among my serving- 
 women!), and Jacky, Euphan's daughter (be 
 thanked that she has but one !) has been gather- 
 ing dahlias and sunflowers, and such other un- 
 wholesome and unyouthful things, to put in the 
 poor bairn Alison's room, wherewith I have near 
 brought a fever upon myself, first with the evil 
 odour of them, and then with flyting upon the 
 elf Jacky. So mind you come to the Tower, 
 like a good bairn, as ye are, and have aye been, 
 as early in the day as ye can win ; and at no
 
 6 MERKLAND. 
 
 hand after twelve of the clock, seeing that I 
 have many things to say to you. 
 
 "Catherine Douglas." 
 
 For the third or fourth time, Anne's eyes had 
 travelled down to that firm and clear signature, 
 when an exclamation from her stepmother roused 
 her. " Lewis will be home before his birthday ! 
 Lewis will be here on Friday ! I believe you 
 are more concerned about that girl coming to 
 the Tower. Do you hear me, Anne? On 
 Friday your brother will be home." 
 
 There were only two days to prepare for his 
 coming ; and before Anne had finished her hasty 
 perusal of the letter which Mrs. Ross permitted 
 her to see, the house was full of joyful bustle 
 and unwonted glee — for the frigid soul of its 
 mistress melted under the influence of her son, 
 as if his words had been very sunbeams. By 
 nature she was neither amiable nor generous ; 
 but the mother's love, in its first out-gushing, 
 almost made her both. 
 
 And she had known the details of that dark 
 mystery too long, and had too little liking for 
 her husband's unhappy son, to sympathize at all 
 with Anne's horror and agony. And so Mrs. 
 Ross, of Merkland, bustled and rejoiced in her
 
 MERKLAND. 7 
 
 selfish gladness, while Anne, longing to ask, and 
 yet afraid of rude repulse, or angry reprimand, 
 sat silently, with a heavy heart, beside her. At 
 length, when they were about to separate for the 
 night, Anne took courage. 
 
 " Mother," she said, " I do not wish to dis- 
 turb you, in so happy an occupation as this, but 
 only one word — ^Norman, poor Norman, you 
 said he did not die." 
 
 " Upon my word, Anne, I think you might 
 choose a better time for those disagreeable in- 
 quiries," said Mrs. Ross, impatiently. 
 
 " He is my brother," said Anne, " and with 
 such a dreadful history. Mother, is Norman 
 alive?" 
 
 "How can I tell?" cried Mrs. Ross. 
 *' You ought to desire most earnestly, Anne, 
 both for his sake and your own, that he may be 
 peacefully dead. Your father, I know, received 
 a letter from him, secretly, after the ship w^as 
 lost. He had escaped the wreck ; but that is 
 seventeen years ago." 
 
 " And did he confess ?" said Anne, eagerly. 
 
 " Confess ! Criminals do not generally do 
 that. No, no, he professed his innocence. I 
 may find you the letter sometime. There, will 
 not that do ? Go to your room now."
 
 8 MERKLAND. 
 
 " And will you not tell Lewis ?" said Anne. 
 
 " Tell Lewis !" exclaimed Mrs. Ross, " why 
 should I grieve my boy? He is but his half- 
 brother." 
 
 Anne turned away without another word and 
 went quietly up stairs — not to her own apart- 
 ment first, but to a dusty attic lumber-room, 
 seldom entered, except by herself. In one dark 
 corner stood a picture, its face to the wall. 
 Anne placed her candle on the floor, and kneel- 
 ing down turned the portrait — a frank, bold, 
 generous face, half boy, half man, with its un- 
 shadowed brow and clear eyes, that feared no 
 evil. 
 
 " Lewis is but my half-brother also," said 
 Anne Ross, replacing the picture with a sigh ; 
 " but Norman was my mother's son." 
 
 The house and small estate of Merkland 
 were situated in one of the northern counties of 
 Scotland, within some three or four miles of a 
 little post-town which bore the dignified name 
 of Portoran. The Oran water swept by the 
 side of its small port, just before it joined its 
 jocund dark-brown waters to the sea, and vari- 
 ous coasting vessels carried its name and its 
 traffic out (a little way) into the world. The 
 parish in which Merkland stood, boasted at
 
 MERKLAND. 9 
 
 least its three Lairds' houses — there was Stra- 
 thoran, the lordliest of aU, with its wide acres 
 extending over three or four adjacent parishes. 
 There was the Tower, with its compact and 
 richly-cultivated lands, the well-ordered property 
 of Mrs. Catherine Douglas; and, lastly, there 
 was Merkland — the home of a race of vio:orous 
 Rosses, renowned in former generations for its 
 hosts of sons and daughters, and connected by 
 the spreading of those strong and healtliful off- 
 shoots, with half of the families of hke degree 
 in Scotland. The children of the last Ross of 
 Merkland had not been \4gorous — one by one, 
 in childhood, and in youth, they had dropped 
 into the family grave, and when the infant 
 Anne was born, her wornout mother died, 
 leaving besides the newborn child, only one son. 
 His mother's brother long before had made 
 this Norman, his heir. At the same time, in 
 consideration of his independent inheritance, 
 and his changed name, he had been excluded 
 from the succession to his father's lands. So 
 Mr. Ross of Merkland, in terror lest his estate 
 should have no worthier proprietor than the 
 sickly little girl whose birth had cost her mo- 
 ther's life, married hastily again. When Lewis 
 and Anne were still only infants, Norman 
 
 B 3
 
 10 MERKLAND. 
 
 Rutherford left his father's house to take pos- 
 session of his own — and then some terrible 
 blight had fallen upon him, spoken of in fearful 
 whispers at the time, but almost wholly for- 
 gotten now. A stranger in the district at the 
 time our history begins would only have learned, 
 after much inquiry, that Norman, escaping from 
 his native country with the stain of blood upon 
 his hands, proved a second Jonah to the ship in 
 which he had embarked, and so was lost, and 
 that grief for his crime had brought his father's 
 grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. But the 
 difference of name, and the entire silence main- 
 tained by his family concerning him, had puz- 
 zled country gossips, and restrained the voice of 
 rumour, even at the time. Now his remem- 
 brance had almost entirely passed away, and in 
 another week Lewis Ross, Esq., of Merkland, 
 would be of age. 
 
 But the whole dreadful tale in all the dark- 
 ness of its misery had been poured into Anne's 
 ears that day. She had known nothing of it 
 before. Now, her stepmother thought, it was 
 full time she should know, because — a reason 
 that made Anne shrink and tremble — Mrs. 
 Ross felt convinced that the girl who was so 
 soon to be a visitor at the Tower, could be
 
 MERKLAND. 1 1 
 
 no other than the daughter of the murdered 
 man. 
 
 " The south room, May^he had it when he 
 was a boy," said Airs. Ross, as Anne entered 
 their breakfast-room the next morning. " I 
 wish there had been time to get some of the 
 furniture renewed; but I dare say Le\m will 
 like to see it as he left it. Do you not think 
 so, Anne ?" 
 
 " He was aye such a kindly callant," inter- 
 posed May. 
 
 Mrs. Ross looked dubious. 
 
 " You must remember, May, that my son is 
 no longer a boy. This day week he wUl take 
 the management of his affairs into his own 
 hands. He left us a youth, but he returns a 
 man." 
 
 " And I was just thinking that mysel', mem," 
 said May ; " and Duncan says it behoves us to 
 ca' the young Laird by his ain name, Merkland, 
 noo — and no Mr. Le\^is ; but I aye think the 
 auld way's the kindliest." 
 
 " Lewis will be changed, if he does not like 
 the kindhest best," said iVnne. 
 
 " Ah, that may be," said Mrs. Ross; "but 
 there is something due to — Well, where were 
 we. Ay, the south room. I know you keep it
 
 1 2 MERKLAND. 
 
 in good order, May, but we must have it on 
 Friday shining hke — " 
 
 " Like a new prin, mem," said May, as Mrs. 
 Ross paused for a simile ; " and so it shall, and 
 you may tmst that to me." 
 
 " Yes, Lewis w^ill be quite a man," said Mrs. 
 Ross, leaning back in her chair with a smile. 
 " I should think he would be a good deal 
 browned, Anne — I have been thinking so all 
 the morning." 
 
 " Oh ! and he'll hae a buirdly presence," 
 said May, " like his father before him. The 
 Rosses have aye been grand men to look upon. 
 They say the young Laird langsyne — " 
 
 " Was not in the least degree like what my 
 son will be," said Mrs. Ross, stiffly, while Anne 
 grew pale. "You will see that my orders are 
 strictly attended to. May, and let Duncan come 
 to me whenever we have had breakfast. Take 
 your place, Anne." 
 
 Discomfited by her abrupt dismissal. May 
 took her departure, muttering between her teeth : 
 
 " Ane wad think it was a crime to speak a 
 guid word o' the auld leddy's bairns ! Weel, an 
 ane but kent what became o' him at the hinder 
 end. I wad like to see the man in a' Strathoran 
 like the young Laird langsyne."
 
 MERKLAND. 13 
 
 " Anne," said Mrs. Ross, somewhat sternly, 
 as May withdrew, leaving Anne's heart vibrating 
 painfully with her indiscreet reference ; *' was it 
 to-day that Mrs. Catherine expected her visitor ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 " And to-day you are engaged to go to the 
 Tower ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Anne. " But I can send Duncan 
 with an apology, if you wish it. I did not 
 know that Lewis was likely to arrive so soon 
 when I received Mrs. Catherine's note." 
 
 " Send Duncan ! no, indeed ! " said !Mrs. 
 Ross. " There would be Httle profit in wasting 
 his time to save yours. Duncan is the most 
 useful person about Merkland." 
 
 " And I the most useless," said Anne, sigh- 
 ing. " It grieves me deeply, mother, that it 
 should be so." 
 
 Mrs. Ross threw back her head slightly, 
 expressing the peevish scorn which she did not 
 speak, and Anne returned to her tea-making; and 
 so they sat till their joyless meal was ended : each 
 the sole companion and nearest connexion of 
 the other, and yet so utterly separated in all that 
 constitutes true fellowship. 
 
 The clear light of the October sun was 
 shining on the waters of Oran, and its tinted,
 
 14 MERKLAND. 
 
 overshadowing leaves, when Anne emerged from 
 among the trees that surrounded Merkland, and 
 took her solitary way to the Tower. Her heart 
 was heavy within her, her step irregular, her 
 brow clouded. The great secret of the family 
 had fallen upon her spirit with all the stunning 
 force of a first grief, and vainly she looked about 
 her for comfort, finding none. 
 
 How many times had May's admiring men- 
 tion of the " Young Laird langsyne" called 
 forth upon her lips a sad smile of affectionate 
 sorrow for the dead brother whom she never 
 saw. How often had she marvelled at the old 
 nurse's stern summary of his end : *' He died a 
 violent death !" How often hngered with sor- 
 rowful admiration over his picture in the attic 
 lumber-room ! And now his name had become 
 a name of fear ! The stain of blood was upon 
 him ! A Cain ! a murderer ! 
 
 Not dead ! Anne's hasty steps passed quick 
 over the narrow pathway, with its carpeting of 
 fallen leaves. In what pain — what misery, must 
 that bhghted life have passed ! Whither might 
 that guilty soul have wandered, seeking, in crowd 
 or in solitude, to hide itself from its own fearful 
 consciousness, and from its angry God ! In 
 privation, in danger, in want, in sin, unfriended
 
 MERKLAND. 1 5 
 
 and accursed, and alone, with none to speak to 
 him of mercy, of hope, of Divine forgiveness ! 
 And this was her brother ! her mother's son ! 
 
 It was like some dreadful dream — but not 
 like a dream could it be shaken off. How often 
 in her childish imaginings, long ago, had she 
 dreamed of the dead Norman li\ang again, her 
 friend and protector ! Now how bitter and 
 strong that unavailing %Aish, that God had 
 indeed stricken him in his early youth, and laid 
 him in the peaceful family grave unstained. 
 Again and again those dark particulars rolled 
 back tipon her in bitter waves, swelling her 
 grief and horror up to agony. And that the 
 daughter of the slain man should come here — 
 here, to have daily intercourse %^dth the nearest 
 kindred of her father's murderer ! The idea 
 was so terrible, that it produced a revulsion. 
 She tried to beheve that it w^as not so — that it 
 could not be possible. 
 
 Again and again she stopped, and would have 
 turned back, and yet a strange fascination drew 
 her on. There was a link of terrible connexion 
 between herself and this girl, and Anne's spirit 
 throbbed to bursting with undefined and con- 
 fused pui-poses. She could not trust herself 
 alone, therefore* she put force upon her strug-
 
 1 6 MERKLAND. 
 
 gling heart, as she had learned to do long years 
 ago, and passed on to the Tower. 
 
 For the stepdaughter of Mrs. Ross, of Merk- 
 land, had small reason to think of this many- 
 sided world as a place of happiness. In a 
 household which had barely means enough to 
 support its station, and provide for the some- 
 what expensive wanderings of its heir, she was 
 the one dependent, and Anne had ripened into 
 some three- an d-twenty years, and was no longer 
 a girl. She felt how useless she was in the 
 eyes of her clever stepmother ; she felt the 
 lethargic influence of having no aim, and deep 
 down in that hidden heart of hers, which few 
 others knew, or cared to know, sorrow and pain 
 had been dwelling long, like Truth, in the well 
 of their own solitary tears. 
 
 She was now proceeding to the house of her 
 most dear and especial friend : an ancient 
 lady, whose strong will swayed, and whose w^arm 
 heart embraced all who came within their in- 
 fluence, and whose healthful and vigorous spirit 
 was softened in a manner most rare and beautiful 
 by those delicate perceptions and sympathies 
 which form so important an element in the con- 
 stitution of genius. Mrs. Catherine Douglas 
 had seen the snows of sixty winters. For more
 
 MERKLAXD. 1 7 
 
 than thirty of these, her strong and kindly 
 hand had held absolute dominion at the Tower, 
 yet of the few admitted to her friendship and 
 confidence, Anne Ross, the neglected step- 
 daughter of Mrs. Ross, of Merkland, an ill-used 
 child, a slighted woman, held the highest place. 
 
 The October sun was gleaming in the brown 
 waters of Oran as Anne approached the Tower. 
 A gray, old, stately place it was, defiant of 
 storm alike and siege, with deep embrasures on 
 its walls meant for no child's play, and court- 
 yard that had rung to martial music centuries 
 ago, in the days of the unhappy Stuarts. Deep 
 W'oods stretched round it, tinted with autumn's 
 fantastic wealth of colouring. The Oran ran so 
 close to the strong, heavy, battlemented wall, 
 that in the old warlike days, it had been the 
 castle-moat, but the drawbridge was gone, and 
 there was peaceful access now, by a light bridge 
 of oak. A boat lay on the stream, moored to 
 an overhanging rock, by which Mrs. Catherine 
 herself was wont to make the brief passage of 
 the Oran. It was a favourite toy of Anne's 
 also, in her happier moods, but she was too 
 heavy of. heart to heed it now. 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine is in the library. Miss 
 Anne," said Mrs. Euphan Morison, the portly,
 
 18 MERKLAND. 
 
 active housekeeper, whose medical propensities 
 so frequently annoyed her mistress ; and thread- 
 ing the dark passages familiarly, Anne passed 
 on alone. 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine is in the library. Miss 
 Anne," repeated a dark, thin, elfin-like girl, 
 who sat on the sill of a deep window, reading, 
 and hiding her book beneath the stocking 
 which she ought to have been knitting, as she 
 threw furtive glances to the door of the house- 
 keeper's especial sanctum : " but there's gentle- 
 men with her. It's a business day." 
 
 " I suppose you may admit me, Jacky," said 
 Anne. " Mrs. Catherine expects me." 
 
 " Mr. Walter Foreman's in, Miss Anne," 
 said Jacky. 
 
 " And what then ?" said Anne, smiling. 
 
 " And Mr. Fergusson, the factor from 
 Strathoran," said the girl, gravely, taking up, 
 with a look of abstraction, some dropt loops in 
 her neglected stocking. 
 
 " Then I will go to the drawing-room," said 
 Anne. " Tell me, Jacky, when Mrs. Catherine 
 is disengaged." 
 
 "And Miss Anne," said Jacky, starting, as 
 Anne was about to pass on, " the young 
 lady's coming."
 
 MERKLAND. 1 9 
 
 " So I have heard," said Anne. 
 
 "And she's to get the mid-chamber," said 
 Jack\^ "and the chairs have come out of the 
 big room in the west tower. You never saw 
 them. Miss Anne. Will you come ?" And 
 Jacky jerked her thin, angular frame oif her 
 seat, and threw^ down book and stocking. 
 
 " What have you been reading, Jacky ?" said 
 Anne. 
 
 The sharp, dark face owned an involuntary 
 flush, and the furtive eyes glanced back to the 
 housekeeper's closed door. " It w^as only the 
 Faery Queen." 
 
 " The Faery Queen ! Jacky, these are 
 strange studies for you." 
 
 "There's nae ill in it," muttered the girl, 
 angrily. 
 
 " I did not say there was," said Anne ; " and 
 you need not transfix me with those sharp eyes 
 of yours, because I wondered. But, Jack}', your 
 mother would not be pleased with this." 
 
 " It's no' the chief end of man to work stock- 
 ings," murmured the girl. 
 
 " No, surely," said Anne ; " nor yet to read 
 poems. Come, Jacky, let me see the mid- 
 chamber." 
 
 Jacky seized the book, deposited it in a dark
 
 20 MERKLAND. 
 
 niche below the window, and glided away before 
 Anne up the broad stone stairs, to the room 
 which the united skill of the household had been 
 decking for a bower to little Alice Aytoun. The 
 mid-chamber, as its name imports, occupied the 
 front of the building, between the two round 
 towers, that rose grimly with their dark turrets 
 on either side. It was a room of good propor- 
 tions, with two deep windows, looking out on the 
 windings of the Oran, and commanding a view 
 of the little town, seated on the point where the 
 river poured itself into the sea. The country 
 looked rich and gay in its russet colouring, and 
 here and there you could see the harvest labour- 
 ers in a half-reaped field — for the harvests were 
 late beneath the northern sky of Strathoran. 
 A little way below, the unpretending house of 
 Merkland stood, peacefully among its trees ; on 
 the left hand, the plain church and substantial 
 Manse basked in the sunbeams ; and the broad 
 sea, flashing beneath the light, belted its blue 
 breadths around the landscape. Anne stood at 
 the window, and looked out, as in a dream; 
 dim, misty, spectral visions floating before her, 
 in which were ever mingUng her unhappy wan- 
 dering brother, and the unconscious girl who 
 should look forth on that same scene to-night.
 
 MERKLAND* 21 
 
 " Its no' SO much here," said Jacky, glancing 
 round, and looking complacently on a great 
 bunch of dahlias and hollyhocks, rudely inserted 
 in an uncouth china vase. "The room's just 
 as it aye is, except the flowers — will you come 
 in here, Miss Anne ?" 
 
 Anne followed, thinking little of the arrange- 
 ments which she came to superintend. The 
 room they entered was small and rounded, 
 occupying as it did, a corner of the eastern 
 tower. Its deep-set window was toward the 
 sunrising — towards the hills, too, and the sea — 
 and Anne paused upon the tlireshold, in wonder 
 at the unwonted preparations made for this 
 youthful visitor. In one end of the room stood 
 a great wardrobe of richly-carved oak. There 
 was an ancient piano, also, and little tables 
 laden with weU-chosen books, and the antique 
 chairs looked richly sober in their renovation, 
 heightening the air of olden romance which 
 hung about this lady's bower. The blooming 
 plants in the window were the only things new, 
 and pertaining to the inmiediate present. Grace- 
 ful and pure in its antique delicacy, the small 
 apartment was a bower indeed. 
 
 "But Mrs. Catherine," said Jacky, "would 
 let me put no flowers here — only a big
 
 22 MERKLAND. 
 
 branch of barberries that I slipped in my- 
 sel.' " 
 
 The branch of barberries was, indeed, pro- 
 jecting fantastically from the rich frame of the 
 mirror on the wall. 
 
 " I think you may let Mrs. Catherine have 
 the whole merit of this, Jacky," said Anne, 
 taking it down ; " and do you have a ramble 
 through the garden, and find something more 
 fragrant than those sunflowers. You will 
 get some roses yet — run, Jacky. Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine — " 
 
 " Is trysted with undutiful bairns," said the 
 lady herself, entering the room. " And where- 
 fore did ye not come to me, Gowan, and me in 
 urgent need of counsel? And wherefore did ye 
 not open the door, ye elf, Jacky, unless ye be 
 indeed a changeling, as I hae aye thought ye, and 
 were feared for learned words ? Come down 
 with me this moment, Gowan ! Ye can fiddle 
 about these bonnie things when there is no 
 serious matters in hand. I am saying. Come 
 with me !" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine Douglas was tall and stately, 
 with a firm step, and a clear voice, strong con- 
 stitutioned, and strong spirited. In appearance 
 she embodied those complexional peculiarities
 
 MERKLAND. 23 
 
 which gave to the fabled founder of her house 
 his far-famed name — black hair, streaked \\ith. 
 silver, the characteristic pale complexion, and 
 strongly-marked features, harmonising perfectly 
 in the hue — she was dark-grey. It seemed 
 her purpose, too, to increase the effect by her 
 dress. At all times and seasons, IMrs. Cathe- 
 rine's rich, rustling, silken garments were grey, 
 of that peculiar dark-grey which is formed by 
 throwing across the sable warp a slender waft 
 of white. In winter, a shawl of the finest 
 texture, but of the simple black and white 
 shepherd's check, completed her costume. In 
 summer, its soft, fine folds hung over her chair. 
 No rejoicing, and no sorrow, changed Mrs. 
 Catherine's characteristic dress. The lustrous 
 silken garment, the fine woollen shawl, the 
 cap of old and costly lace remained unchanged 
 for years. 
 
 " It is a new vocation for me, Gowan," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, as Anne followed her down 
 stairs, " to set myself to the adorning of rooms ; 
 but when my serving-women must have their 
 divers notions concerning them, I bid to put to 
 my own hand, unless I had wanted the stranger to 
 be terrified with the aspect of my house — 
 which I do not, for — Look back, Gowan, is
 
 24 MERKLAND. 
 
 that elf Jacky behind ye with her sharp lugs — I 
 am thinking they have but scrimp up-putting in 
 Edinburgh, and it's my wish that the bairn 
 should be duly attended to here. But I have 
 matters more instant on my hand this day." 
 
 They reached the library door as Mrs. 
 Catherine spoke, and she entered, while Anne 
 lingered behind. Another voice, the brisk one 
 of Walter Foreman, the young Portoran writer, 
 began to speak immediately, but was summarily 
 interrupted by Mrs. Catherine's clear tones : 
 
 *' I tell ye you're a gowk, Walter Foreman, 
 as was your father before ye — it's in the blood. 
 Ye say he was a kinsman. Ay, doubtless, as if 
 I did not ken that. And was not James 
 Aytoun as near of kin to him as me, and Ralph 
 Falconer nearer. To think of any mortal, in 
 his senses, passing over the promising lads, to 
 leave siQer to me ! Me, that have an abundance 
 for my own turns, and none to be heir to either 
 my land or my name. Speak not to me. 
 Walter Foreman, I say the man was daft !" 
 
 " But even if he were," said Mr. Walter 
 Foreman, as Anne entered the library, "you 
 would surely never think, Mrs. Catherine, of 
 contesting the validity of a will made in your 
 own favour."
 
 MERKLAND. 25 
 
 " And who said I would not, if it seemed 
 right in my own eyes?'^ said Mrs. Catherine, 
 indignantly. " Come here, Gowan ; you are 
 not blinded with the glamoiu* of siller, as this 
 callant is. Robert Falconer, the merchant (the 
 third son of old Falcon's Craig), is dead, and 
 passing over his own near kin, that needed it 
 (besides leaving the most feck of his siller to 
 hospitals, which may be was right, and may 
 be no, I have not time to enter upon it), the 
 auld fuil — that I should speak so of a man that 
 is gone to his account — has left by his will 
 a portion of siller, ten thousand pounds, no less, 
 to me : me, that have no manner of use for it ; 
 that ken not even what to do with it. I am 
 thankful to ye, Mr. Fergusson, ye would learn me 
 an easy way of putting it out of my hand ; but 
 I must consider, first, with your permission, 
 whether I have any right to take it in." 
 
 Mr. Fergusson, the Strathoran factor, smiled. 
 " It is not often, Mrs. Catherine, that people 
 receive legacies as you do." 
 
 " No — neither, I am hoping, are there many 
 left like this," said Mrs. Catherine ; " but truly, 
 gentlemen, that is no fault of yours, that I 
 should flyte upon you for it. Come back to 
 me this day week, Mr. Fergusson ; and ye can 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 MERKLAND. 
 
 come also, Walter Foreman, unless your father, 
 who has more discretion, has the time to spare ; 
 only ye are not an ill callant, either ; and in 
 that space, I will have taken counsel what I 
 should do." 
 
 Mr. Fergusson and the young lawyer took 
 their leave ; and Mrs. Catherine turned to 
 Anne : " Heard ye ever the like of it, Gowan ? 
 To leave siller to me ! You did not ken the 
 man; but Ralph Falconer, of Falcon's Craig, 
 is his grand-nephew, and James Aytoun is also 
 sib to him by the mother's side : and I, that am 
 but his cousin, three times removed, forbye 
 having my own share of this world's goods, 
 and none to come after me — undoubtedly the 
 man was daft !"
 
 MERKLAND. 27 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 *' I saw a drop of pearly dew 
 
 Upon a wildflower's open cup, 
 In its small globe the sky was blue, 
 
 The morning sun was up. 
 It trembled there, before my sight 
 A little universe of light. 
 
 " I saw it at the close of day. 
 
 When even crossed the hills afar ; 
 And its small arch of sky was gray 
 
 And pale — a woodland star. 
 So the yomig peaceful soul, said I, 
 Takes form and fashion from the sky." 
 
 The October sun rose brilliantly upon ancient 
 Edinburgh, throwing the strong radiance of its 
 russet gold upon the noble outline and antique 
 grandeur of the historic city, and shone joyously 
 
 c 2
 
 28 MERKLAND. 
 
 into a family room, where a small household 
 round their breakfast table were discussing the 
 journey which that fair-haired, smiling girl, 
 half-timorous, half-exultant, was to undertake 
 that day. The white hair upon the mother's 
 placid forehead was belied by the fresh cheek 
 and dewy Hquid eye, from which time had not 
 taken the brightness. Her son was entering 
 upon the strongest years of manhood, with 
 sense and intelligence shining in his face. Her 
 daughter was a girl, just emerging from the 
 child's mirth and unrestrained gaiety, into those 
 sensitive, imaginative years, which form the 
 threshold of graver life — 
 
 '* Standing with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood sweet." 
 
 " But, mother," exclaimed Alice Aytoun, sud- 
 denly, "Miss Douglas will see at once that 
 Bessie has not been my maid at home." 
 
 " Miss Douglas !" cried her mother. " Alice, 
 did I not tell you that you were on no account 
 to call her Miss. Remember always, Mrs. 
 Catherine. And she knows very well that we 
 are not able to keep a maid for you, and will 
 understand that Bessie is for a companion on
 
 MERKLAND. 29 
 
 the way, and in some sense a protector. If you 
 stay long, you can send her home." 
 
 " And be alone in the strange place, mother," 
 said Alice, the sunshine fading, for a moment, 
 from her face. 
 
 " How long will it be strange, Alice ?" said 
 her brother. " How many acquaintances will 
 you make in a week ?" 
 
 The sunshine flushed back again. 
 
 " And Mrs. Catherine — is she very eccentric, 
 mother ? I hope I shall like her." 
 
 " I hope still more, Alice," said Mrs. Aytoun, 
 smiling, " that she may like you. Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine has many friends who could serve James ; 
 and then, you know, she has no heir. So be as 
 fascinating as possible." 
 
 " Mother !" exclaimed James, " this worldly 
 wisdom sounds strangely from your lips. We 
 do not send Alice away to pay court to Mrs. 
 Catherine Douglas for her estate's sake." 
 
 " By no means," said Mrs. Aytoun. " I 
 have heard Mrs. Catherine spoken of often as a 
 most kind, loveable person, in her own peculiar 
 way; and I accepted her invitation to Alice 
 gladly, not because she has an estate unheii'ed, 
 but because — for various reasons, indeed — but 
 the other, by the way. You are a landless laird
 
 30 MERKLAND. 
 
 yourself, James, and I am not quite so stoical as 
 to despise a good inheritance." 
 
 "Do you know any of Mrs. Catherine's 
 neighbours, mother ?" said Alice, whose atten- 
 tion, sadly distracted by anticipation, had alto- 
 gether wandered during this discussion of mo- 
 tives. " The people I am likely to meet, do 
 you know any of them ?" 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Aytoun, " I never was at 
 the Tower ; and my mother left the neighbour- 
 hood young, and died so soon, too, that I have 
 had very little connexion with her friends or 
 native place. Indeed, it surprised me, that Mrs. 
 Catherine should remember our relationship at 
 all : but she is one of the most generous persons 
 possible, I have heard often; and no doubt 
 wishes to give you a glimpse, Alice, of the world 
 you should enter on now." And Mrs. Aytoun 
 gave a very quiet sigh. 
 
 " Nonsense, mother 1" said her son, ener- 
 getically. "Alice stands in no need of generosity : 
 and I should fancy a set of North Country 
 lairds could be very little superior to the society 
 we have here, landless though we be " 
 
 " There are most gentlemanly and intellectual 
 men in the North Country, James," said Mrs. 
 Aytoun, quietly shifting her premises.
 
 MERKLAND. 3 1 
 
 " No doubt of it, mother ; but not better 
 than we have in Edinburgh." 
 
 Mrs. Aytoun drew her hand over her 
 daughter's fair curls, and made no answer ; con- 
 fessing to herself, that a North Country laird 
 would be, in her eyes, a more suitable partner 
 for her Alice, than any rising W.S., or poor 
 advocate of all James Aytoun's friends. 
 
 Alice's trunks were standing, corded and 
 ready. Little Bessie, the daughter of a woman 
 who had been Mrs. Aytoun's nurse in better 
 times, and who was her humble agent and 
 assistant in all emergencies now, sat in the 
 kitchen in aU the glory of a new shawl and 
 bonnet, a brevet ladies-maid ; and it was nearly 
 time to start. Mrs. Aytoun had yet to pack 
 some small, forgotten tendernesses in a basket, 
 with tremulous mother-anxiety, half-pleased, 
 half-sorrowful, while James stood, watch in 
 hand, warning her of the flight of those quick 
 moments and of the possible starting of the 
 coach before her cares w^ere at an end. 
 
 At last, they left the house, established Alice 
 in the cosiest corner, set little Bessie by her 
 side, gave the guard all manner of instructions 
 to attend to their comfort, and waited till the 
 vehicle should start.
 
 32 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Mind, Alice," whispered Mrs. Aytoun, 
 anxiously ; " always to call her Mrs. Catherine," 
 and, in a moment more, Alice had lost sight of 
 the compelled smile on her mother's pale face, 
 and had started on her first journey from 
 home. 
 
 She was seventeen only, and her he^^rt was 
 bounding high within her. The October morn- 
 ing was so bright and invigorating, the beau- 
 tiful world so new and so unknown. A tran- 
 sitory qualm passed over the unclouded, youth- 
 ful spirit, as she thought it not right, perhaps, 
 to rejoice at leaving home, but that passed 
 speedily. A temporary anxiety as to the un- 
 known Mrs. Catherine, whom she was hasten- 
 ing to see; but that disappeared also. The 
 brilliant dreams that had been rising by day 
 and night, since that momentous invitation 
 came, floated together in indistinct brightness 
 before her. The red October sunbeams, the 
 bracing October breeze, the beautiful landscapes 
 on that northern road — though these danced but 
 indistinctly in her eyes, a part of the exhilara- 
 tion of spirit, yet scarcely things rejoiced in for 
 their own beauty — filled up her gladness to over- 
 flowing. The little heart at her side danced 
 too, in its degree, as blythcly, for after the
 
 MERKLAND. 33 
 
 young lady herself, in the great house to which 
 they journeyed, was not the young lady's maid 
 next in dignity. 
 
 At one of the stages of the journey, a hypo- 
 condriac old gentleman, who had been the only 
 other tenant of the coach, became faint, and 
 declared himself unable to remain in the inside ; 
 whereupon, after some delay, an outside passen- 
 ger was prevailed upon to exchange. A by no 
 means unpleasant exchange, for the new comer 
 was a young man of good looks, and frank, 
 prepossessing manners, to whom the innocent, 
 youthful face, with its blue eyes and fair curls 
 might, or might not, have been an inducement 
 to descend. 
 
 The beauty of the road became more articu- 
 late after that, as the polite stranger, apparently 
 well-acquainted with the way, took care to point 
 out to his young fellow-traveller its various 
 points of interest, and imperceptibly, Alice 
 scarce knew how, they glided into confidential 
 conversation. For Strathoran, the stranger said, 
 was his home and birth-place, whither he was 
 retm-ning after a long absence, and Mrs. 
 Catherine Douglas was one of his oldest friends 
 — he had known her all his life. So the hours 
 wxnt on, quick and pleasantly, and the long 
 
 c 3
 
 34 MERKLAND. 
 
 miles gradually dwindled down. Her new 
 friend talked, Alice thought, as few could talk, 
 and interspersed his comments on their present 
 road so gracefully, with anecdotes of other 
 roads, world-famed and wonderful, which she 
 had read of often, but which he had seen. 
 
 He told her of her kinswoman, too, and of 
 the Tower, and hinted how her ow^n gentle 
 presence would brighten the old walls and recall 
 ts youth again, till Alice, with all these magic 
 influences about her, began to discover that this 
 journey, instead of the weary means of reaching 
 a wished-for destination, was in itself a young 
 Elysium, un thought of, and delightful — the 
 first homage rendered to the youthful w^oman, 
 no longer a child: the first sign of her 
 entrance into that fair world of more eventful 
 life, whose air seemed now so golden with 
 smiles and sunshine. 
 
 The dim lights of Portoran began to blink 
 at last through the mists of the October night, 
 and by and bye, the coach stopped at the door 
 of the principal inn, in the main street. Already 
 Alice could perceive various individual loungers 
 without, touching their hats as they caught a 
 glimpse of her companion, and while she herself 
 began to wonder how she was to travel the
 
 MERKLAND. 35 
 
 remaining five or six miles to the To\Yer, the 
 head of a tall and gaunt, elderly woman, dressed 
 in stiff old-fashioned garments, looked in at the 
 coach window. 
 
 " Is Miss Aytoun here f * said a harsh voice. 
 
 Alice answered timidly to her name. 
 
 " Quite safe ; but very weary I am afraid," 
 said the gentleman. " Mistress Elspat, you 
 have forgotten me, I see. How are they all at 
 the Tower ?" 
 
 "Bless me, Mr. Lewis, is't you?" said the 
 stately Mrs. Elspat Henderson, own woman to 
 Mrs. Catherine Douglas, of the Tower. " Wha 
 would have thought of meeting you here ? 
 They're a' well. Sir. I left Miss Anne there 
 even now ; but the carriage is waiting for the 
 young lady. The carnage is waiting, Miss 
 Aytoun." 
 
 And, beginning to tremble, with a revulsion 
 of all her simple apprehensions and timidity, 
 Alice Aytoun was transferred to Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's comfortable carriage, and leaving Lewis 
 Ross at the inn door, looking after her, rolled 
 away through the darkness to the Tower. 
 
 It was not a pleasant change ; to leave the 
 cheerful voice and vivacious conversation of Lewis, , 
 for those formal questions as to her journey, and
 
 36 MERKLAND. 
 
 the terrified stillness of little Bessie, as she sat 
 tremulously by Mrs. Elspat's side. Alice had 
 scarcely ever seen before the dense darkness of 
 starless nights in so wide and lonely a country, 
 and as she looked out through the carriage 
 window, and saw, or fancied she saw the body 
 of darkness floating round about her, the 
 countless swimming atoms of gloom that filled 
 the air, her bounding heart was chilled. The 
 faint autumnal breeze, too, pouring its sweep- 
 ing, sighing lengths, through those endless walls 
 of trees ; the excited throb of her pulse when in 
 some gaunt congregation of firs, she fancied she 
 could trace the quaint gables and high roof of 
 some olden dwelling-place ; the disappoint- 
 ment of hearing in answer to her timid ques- 
 tion that the Tower was yet miles away ! Alice 
 sank back into her corner in silence, and closed 
 her eyes, feeling now many fears and mis- 
 givings, and almost wishing herself at home. 
 
 At last the voice of the Oran roused her ; 
 there was something homelike in its tinkling 
 musical footsteps, and Alice looked up. Dimly 
 the massy Tower was rising before her, planting 
 its strong breadth firmly upon its knoll, like 
 some stout sentinel of old. The great door was 
 flung wide open as they approached, and a
 
 MERKLAND. 37 
 
 flood of light, and warmth, and kindliness beam- 
 ing out, dazzled and made denser the inter- 
 vening gloom. Foremost on the broad thres- 
 hold, stood a yoimg lady, whose graver and 
 elder womanhood, brought confidence to the 
 throbbing girlish heart ; behind stood the portly 
 Mrs. Euphan Morison — the elfin Jacky, and 
 furthest back of all, a tall figure, enveloped 
 in the wide soft folds of the gray shawl, Mrs. 
 Catherine's characteristic costume. Little Alice 
 alighted, half stumbling in bashful awkward- 
 ness, the young lady on the threshold came 
 forward, took her hand, and said some kindly 
 words of welcome. Jacky curtsied ; the tail 
 figure advanced. 
 
 *'I have brought ye the young lady — Miss 
 Aytoun, Mem," said Mrs. Elspat Henderson, 
 and Alice lifted her girlish face, shy and blush- 
 ing, to the scrutiny of her ancient kinswoman. 
 Mrs. Catherine drew the young stranger for- 
 ward, took her hand, and looked at her ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 " A bit bonnie countenance it is," she said 
 at last, bending to kiss the white forehead of 
 the tremulous Alice. " Ye are welcome to my 
 house, Alison Aytoun. Gowan, the bairn is
 
 38 MERKLAND. 
 
 doubtless cold and wearied. Do you guide her 
 up the stair." 
 
 Up the fine old staircase, into the inner 
 drawing-room, which was Mrs. Catherine's 
 especial san(;tum, with its warm colours, and 
 blazing fire, and shining tea equipage. Little 
 Alice had to close her blue eyes perforce, daz- 
 zled as they were, that no one might see the 
 happy dew that gathered in them. The con- 
 trast was so pleasant, and forthwith the bounding 
 of that gay heart, and all its bright dreams and 
 sunshiny anticipations came flushing back again. 
 
 " And so you had a pleasant journey," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, kindly, when after a half hour 
 which Alice had spent arranging her dress, half 
 in awe, and more than half in pleasure, in the 
 beautiful apartment called her dressing-room, 
 they were seated at table — Anne Ross presiding 
 over the massy silver tea-pot, and hissing urn : 
 "and were not feared to travel your lane ? 
 Jacky, ye elf! what call had ye to open that 
 door, and let in a draft upon us ? The bairn 
 will get her death of cold." 
 
 " If ye please. Miss Anne," said Jacky, reso- 
 lutely holding the door of the outer room open, 
 as she kept her ground.
 
 MERKLAND. 39 
 
 " Come in, ye fairy, and shut the door," 
 commanded Mrs. Catherine. 
 
 The girl obeyed, casting long sharp glances 
 from under her dark eyebrows at the wondering 
 Alice. 
 
 " If ye please. Miss Anne, my grandmother 
 says — " 
 
 " What, Jacky ?" 
 
 Jacky had paused to ascertain who it was 
 that the young stranger was like, and muttered 
 a private memorandum of her discovery before 
 she went on. 
 
 " It's the wee picture in the w^est room — my 
 grandmother says. Miss Anne, that Mr. Lewis 
 — but she bade me say, Merkland — " 
 
 "What of him, Jacky?" said Anne, rising 
 hastily. 
 
 " If ye please. Miss Anne, he came to Port- 
 oran in the coach with the young lady, the 
 night." 
 
 " Came to Portoran to-night !" repeated 
 Anne, " then you must let me leave you imme- 
 diately, Mrs. Catherine. I must hasten to tell 
 my mother, if indeed Lewis is not at home 
 already." 
 
 " Aw^ay with you down the stairs, ye elf," 
 cried Mrs. Catherine, " and see if the horses are
 
 40 MERKLAND. 
 
 put up yet; and if they're no', let Simon be 
 ready to drive Miss Ross to Merkland. Gowan, 
 doubtless you must go, but mind the bairn 
 Alison is not used to such company as a sture 
 auld wife like me, and be soon back again." 
 
 " I wiU bring Lewis to see you to-morrow, 
 Mrs. Catherine," said Anne, as she hastily bade 
 Alice good night. 
 
 " It must have been your brother who tra- 
 velled with me, Miss Ross," said Alice. " He 
 said he had been abroad, and knew Mrs. 
 Catherine — and he was very kind. Will you 
 thank him for me ?" 
 
 Anne Ross felt herself shrink and tremble 
 from the touch of the small soft hand, the inno- 
 cent frank look of the girlish face — the child of 
 the slain man, whose blood was on Norman's 
 hand ! 
 
 A strange contrast — the little throbbing happy 
 heart, whose slight fears, and shy apprehensions, 
 scarcely graver than a child's, had trembled and 
 palpitated so short a time before, in the same 
 vehicle which carried down to Merkland, so 
 grave a burden of grief, so few hopes, so many 
 sorrows, in Anne's maturer spirit — for before her 
 there lay no brilliant heritage of unknown good 
 to come. One vision was in her very heart
 
 MERKLAND. 41 
 
 continually — a wandering, sorrowing, sinning 
 man, buffeting the wind, striving through the 
 tempest, enveloped with ever}^ physical attribute 
 of miser\^, and carrying its essence in his soul. 
 It is only those who have mourned and yearned 
 for such, who can know how the sick heart, in 
 its anxious agonies, conjures up storm, and 
 blast, and desolation, to sweep around the be- 
 loved head, of whose sin and wanderings it 
 knows, yet. knows not where those w^anderings 
 are — the pain without, symbolizing and height- 
 ening the darker pain within, with one of those 
 touches of tragic art, which grief does so 
 strangely excel in. 
 
 Lewis had not arrived when Anne reached 
 Merkland, but he came shortly after ; and the 
 stir of joy incident on his arrival united the 
 family more closely together than was usual for 
 them. Mrs. Ross's cold bright eyes were wet 
 with tears of joy that night, and her worldly 
 spirit melted into kindliness ; and the presence 
 of Lewis gave his only sister a greater share in 
 the household and its rejoicings. He stood be- 
 tween her stepmother and her, the nearest rela- 
 tive of each, linking them together. Lewis had 
 been two years away. He had gone, a fair- 
 haired youth, with a gay party from Strathoran,
 
 42 MERKLA.ND. 
 
 who, seizing the first opportunity of restored 
 peace, set out to those sunny continental coun- 
 tries frorii which mere tourists had been excluded 
 so long. He was a man now, bronzed and 
 bearded, and with the independent manners of 
 one who had been accustomed in all matters to 
 guide and direct himself. There were various 
 particulars of that same independence which 
 jarred upon Anne's delicate feelings. A consi- 
 derable remainder of boyish self-importance, and 
 braggadocio — a slight loudness of tone, and 
 flippancy of expression ; but there was the 
 excitement of his home-coming, to excuse these 
 faults in some degree. 
 
 " And the Buncombes, Lewis," asked Mrs. 
 Ross, when the first burst of welcome was over, 
 and they were seated by the fireside, discussing 
 his journey — " where are they now?" 
 
 " Oh, Buncombe's in Gibraltar," said Lewis, 
 '* with his regiment of course. Buncombe can't 
 afford to choose his residence — he must have 
 his fuU pay. A dull life they have of it, 
 yonder." 
 
 " And how does Isabel Sutherland like that, 
 Lewis ?" said Anne. 
 
 " Isabel Sutherland ? Mrs. Buncombe, do 
 you mean ? Why you don't think she's one of
 
 MERKLAND. 43 
 
 the garrison ! She's not such a fool, I can tell 
 you!" 
 
 " Where is she then, if she is not with her 
 husband ?" said Anne, wonderingly. 
 
 " What an innocent you are, sister Anne 1" 
 said Lewis, laughing. " Why, she's one of the 
 * unattached,' as Gordon says. I left her in 
 Paris with Archie. You have no idea what a 
 moody, gloomy fellow Buncombe's grown. 
 I should think he was enough to frighten any- 
 body !" 
 
 " He was always a bilious-looking man, " 
 said Mrs. Ross ; " and yet Isabel ran away with 
 him." 
 
 " Ah ! there's no accounting for the taste of 
 young ladies," said Lewis, lightly. " I should 
 think she would be more likely to run away 
 from him, than with him, now. But you 
 should see their menage in Paris ! Archie's the 
 man for all that." 
 
 " How do you mean, Lewis ?" said Anne. 
 
 "You used to like him — eh, Annie?" said 
 Lewis. "Don't break your heart — it's all up 
 with that now. But, I can tell you, he makes 
 the money fly finely." 
 
 Anne's face flushed deeply — perhaps with the 
 faintest shadow of pain at that intelligence,
 
 44 MERKLAND. 
 
 more than did merely belong to her regret for 
 the folly of an old neighbour and early com- 
 panion — but certainly with a painful feeling of 
 the levity and carelessness of Lewis. 
 
 " Well, Lewis," said Mrs. Ross ; " I should 
 think Archibald Sutherland could afford it pretty 
 well. The old people must have saved a great 
 deal, they lived so quietly. Strathoran is a good 
 estate. Archie does not need to be so frugal as 
 you." 
 
 " Frugal !" echoed her son. " I wish you 
 only saw. But, unless you did, with your quiet 
 Scotch notions, you could have no idea of it. 
 If Archie Sutherland is not poorer than w^e are, 
 Fm mistaken." 
 
 " Oh !" said Mrs. Ross ; " that will be the 
 reason they are thinning the woods. Then 
 why don't they come home and economize ?" 
 
 " Come home 1" cried Lewis. " Home to 
 this dull Strathoran after Paris ! It's not such 
 an easy thing, I can tell you, mother. But, to 
 be sure, one never knows the true reason. I've 
 heard Archie often wishing for home — perhaps 
 he is afraid of falling in love with Anne." 
 
 "At all events, Lewis," said Anne, gravely, 
 " whatever Archie Sutherland fears, you are not 
 afraid of giving me pain."
 
 MERKLAND. 45 
 
 " Don't be absurd, Anne," said Mrs. Ross. 
 " The poor boy's first night at home, to begin 
 ^vith these airs of yours !" 
 
 Lewis saw the painful flush upon Anne's 
 face — the look of deep humiliation with which 
 she turned away her head, and his heart smote 
 him. 
 
 " I did not think you were so easily hurt. 
 Nonsense, Anne ! It was mere thoughtlessness, 
 I assure 'you. 1 would not give you pain for 
 anything." 
 
 Alas ! there were many things for which 
 Lewis Ross would have been content to pain 
 any one in the world. But Anne was easily 
 mollified, and he ran on : 
 
 " I met a httle fairy of a girl in the coach, 
 to-day. She was going to the Tower, to %asit 
 Mrs. Catherine. Hallo ! what's the matter, 
 Anne ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Anne, forcing a smile on the 
 lip which she had felt quiver a moment 
 before. 
 
 " How pale you were ! " said Lewis. " I 
 thought you were ill. I must go up to see Mrs. 
 Catherine to-morrow. How does she wear, the 
 old lady ? She must be getting very ancient 
 now. But that girl is a pretty little thing. .
 
 46 MERKLAND. 
 
 Who can she be — do you know, Anne ? I 
 thought of her being a companion, or some- 
 thing of that kind ; but there was a little maid, 
 with her." 
 
 " A relative of Mrs. Catherine's," said Anne, 
 faintly. 
 
 " A relative — oh ! What if she cuts you 
 out !" said Lewis. " I should have thought 
 you sure of a good place in Mrs. Catherine's 
 will, Anne. But there is no saying what a httle 
 fairy like that may do." 
 
 Anne Ross felt the pang of dependence bit- 
 terly that night. Lewis was too like his mother 
 to make it light to her ; and portionless, with her 
 plain face, and fastidious taste, what could she 
 ever look for but dependence. Marriage, that 
 necessity, often enough an unhappy one, to which 
 so many young women in her position must 
 look, as to a profession, for home and means, 
 could never be a matter of mercenary conve- 
 nience to Anne, and honourable earning of her 
 own bread was an impossibility. And from her 
 own sombre prospects she could turn for relief 
 to so few of the things or people around. 
 Lewis, so carelessly unfeeling and indifferent, so 
 blunted in perception — Norman, whose very life 
 was so great a dread to her, remaining before
 
 MERKLAND. 47 
 
 her mind's eye for ever — and even the sunny, 
 youthful face at the Tower, which had lifted its 
 blue eyes so trustfully to her own — why did its 
 remembrance, and Lewis's light words of com- 
 ment on its girlish comeliness, strike so deep a 
 chill of fear into her heart ? Ah ! clouds deeply 
 gathering, hea\dly brooding over this nook of 
 still and peaceful country, what new combina- 
 tions were your dark mists to form ? 
 
 Alice Aytoun by this time was snugly settled 
 in the Tower, and had already written a little 
 note, overflowing with innocent pride and joy- 
 ousness to her mother at home, describing that 
 most cheerful of all inner drawing-rooms, and 
 dwelling fully upon the glories of her own 
 apartments, the car\'ed wardrobe, the old piano, 
 the beautiful flowers; mentioning, too, in the 
 postscript, in the very slightest manner, a 
 " young gentleman," who had pointed out all 
 the places to her on the way, and who turned 
 out to be Miss Ross's brother, though who Miss 
 Ross was, Alice did not stay to particularize. 
 And after the letter was \\Titten, Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine, whose eyes had been lingering on the 
 youthful face with most genial kindliness, began 
 to play \Nith her in talk, half childish, and
 
 48 MERKLAND. 
 
 wholly affectionate, as with some toy of unknown 
 construction, whose capabilities she did not yet 
 quite see. Jacky, too, with those quick, side- 
 long glances, as she went jerking in and out at 
 every possible opportunity, had commenced her 
 study of the young stranger's character, and 
 quickened by admiration of the simple pretty 
 face, was advancing in her study as quickly as 
 her mistress. The minds of the stately old 
 lady and the elfin girl came to conclusions 
 strangely similar. There rose in them both an 
 instinctive impulse of kindly protection, natural 
 enough in Alice Aytoun's aged kinswoman, but 
 contrasting oddly with the age and position of 
 Jacky Morison. 
 
 Anne and Lewis visited the Tower next day. 
 In the Sutherlands, of whom Lewis brought 
 tidings so unfavourable, Mrs. Catherine was 
 deeply interested, and listened while he spoke 
 of them, with many shakings of her head, and 
 doubts and fears. 
 
 " Trysted to evil," she exclaimed, as Lewis 
 told her in his careless way, of Mrs. Dun- 
 combe's Paris life. "Did I not say nothing 
 good could come of the bairn that left the 
 sick bed of her mother, for the sake of a
 
 MERKLAND. 49 
 
 strange man ; ay, and made the sick-bed — a 
 death-bed by the deed. Lewis, is't the lad's 
 fault, think ye, or is't hers ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that there is much fault 
 in it," said Lewis. " It's not a formal sepa- 
 ration, you know ; only Isabel's living with her 
 brother, because it is, beyond dispute, plea- 
 santer to live in Paris than in Gibraltar. You 
 don't know really — you can have no idea." 
 
 " Think ye so ?" said Mrs. Catherine, 
 quickly, " ay, callant, ye craw crouse ; but 
 maybe there are folk living who kent such 
 places and things, before ye were born, or 
 any word of ye. Wherefore does Isabel Suther- 
 land no return to the house of her fathers, if 
 she cannot dweU with the man she left father 
 and mother for ?" 
 
 "There is no accounting for these things," 
 said Lewis, with a slight sneer. 
 
 " Lewis Ross," said Mrs. Catherine, '' hold 
 your peace ; you are but a caUant, and should 
 leave that to your elders. Go wan, I am sore 
 grieved for Archie Sutherland ; if e\il comes to 
 the lad, it will be as hard to me, as if evil were 
 coming upon you." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 50 MERKLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " The monumental pomp of age, 
 Was with that goodly personage." 
 
 WORDSWORTH, 
 
 During the following week there were great 
 preparations and much bustle in Merkland, for 
 Lewis's birthday was to be celebrated with un- 
 wonted festivities, and all Mrs. Ross's energies 
 were aroused to make an appearance worthy 
 the occasion. All the Lairds' families round 
 about had received invitations to the solemn 
 dinner-party, at which Lewis Ross was, for the 
 first time, to take his father's place. There was 
 to be a dinner, too, in the Sutherland Arms, at 
 Portoran, of the not very extensive tenantry of 
 Merkland, at which the landlord and his un-
 
 MERKLAND. 5 1 
 
 derlings laughed in their sleeves, contrasting it 
 secretly with the larger festi\dties which had 
 hailed the majority of the youthful Sutherland 
 of Strathoran, whose continued absence from 
 his ow^n home, gave occasion for so many sur- 
 misings. But yet, on a small scale, as they 
 were, these same Merkland festivities were a 
 matter of some moment in the quiet country- 
 side. Alice Aytoun's gay heart leaped breath- 
 lessly at the thought of them, and many anxious 
 cogitations had risen under her fair curls, touch- 
 ing that pretty gown of light silk, which was 
 her only gala dress. Whether it was good 
 enough to shine in that assemblage of rural 
 aristocracy, and how it would look beside the 
 beautiful robes which, Bessie reported, the 
 Misses Coulter, of Harrows, had ordered from 
 Edinbui'gh for the occasion. Alice had serious 
 doubts — her only consolation under which was 
 Bessie's genuine admiration ; and thought within 
 herself, with a sigh, that if she had to go to 
 many parties, the same dress would not do 
 always, and her mother, at home, could not 
 afford to order beautiful robes for her, as Mrs. 
 Coulter could ; however, that was still in the 
 future, and but a dim prospective evil. 
 
 Lewis Ross, in those busy days, had many
 
 52 MERKLAND. 
 
 errands to the Tower, and on his fine horse 
 gallopping down the brae, looked, as Alice 
 thought, the very impersonation of youthful 
 strength, and courage, and gay spirits. And 
 Merkland was a pretty house, with its deep 
 bordering of woods, and its quiet home-land- 
 scape, of cultivated fields and scattered farm- 
 houses. Alice almost thought she preferred its 
 tamer beauty, to the wide expanse of hills and 
 valleys, of wandering river, and broad sea, upon 
 which she looked out, from the deepset window 
 of her chamber in the eastern tower. 
 
 All the parish was stirred to welcome Lewis, 
 and other parishes surrounding Strathoran, 
 added the pressure of their kindliness. He was 
 in the greatest request everywhere. From gay 
 Falcon's Craig to the sober Manse, from drowsy 
 Smoothlie to the bustling homestead of Mr. 
 Coulter, of Harrows, everybody delighted to 
 honour the youthful heir of Merkland. Lewis 
 did all that good- will and good horsemanship 
 could do, to renew his acquaintance with them 
 all. He gallopped to Falcon's Craig, and spent 
 a gay night with the bold Falconers. He met 
 Ualph by appointment next day, to follow the 
 hounds. He made a visit to Smoothlie, and 
 curbed his horse into compulsory conformity to
 
 MERKLAND. 53 
 
 the sober paces of Mr. Ambler's respectable 
 pony, as that easy, quiet old gentleman, ^Yho 
 was conjoined ^^ith Mrs. Ross in the guardian- 
 ship of her son, accompanied him to Merkland. 
 And Lewis inspected the stock at Harrows, and 
 dropped in at the Manse, to chat awhile with 
 Mrs. Bairn's father ; yet, \N'ith all these labours 
 on his hand, did yet insist, in the excess of his 
 brotherly solicitude, on accompanying his re- 
 luctant sister Anne to the Tower, the day before 
 he came of age. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine sat in her library, that 
 day, in grave deliberation — ^sdth young Walter 
 Foreman, and Mr. Fergusson, the Strathoran 
 factor, again beside her. The table was strewed 
 with papers, and the two gentlemen were press- 
 ing something to which she objected, upon the 
 firm old lady. 
 
 "The siller is mine," she said, "be it so. 
 The man (I will say no ill of him, seeing he was 
 a kinsman of my ain, but that he was a fuil, 
 which is in no manner uncommon) is dead, and 
 his will can have no more changes ; frail folk 
 as we are, that can never be counted on for our 
 steadfastness, till we are in our graves! But 
 allowing that the siller is my ain — is it a lawful 
 purpose, I ask of you, Mr. Fergusson, to build
 
 54 MERKLAND. 
 
 Up with it, the fuil-pleasures of a prodigal — 
 alack, that I should call his mother's son so ! 
 while I may have other righteous errands to 
 send it forth upon ?" 
 
 " It is to build up the old house of Strath- 
 oran. It is to save your friend's son," said the 
 factor, with an appealing motion of his hand. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine was moved, and did not 
 answer for a moment. 
 
 " The lad was left well in this world's goods,^' 
 she said, at last. " A fairer course was never 
 before mortal man. An honourable name, a 
 good inheritance, the house of his fathers over 
 his head, and a countryside looking up to him. 
 What could he seek more, I ask you, Mr. Fer- 
 gusson ? And where is the lad ? Revelling in 
 yon land of playactors, and flunkies, and knick- 
 nackets: consorting with a herd of buzzing 
 things, that were worms yesterday, and will be 
 nothing the morn. Speak not to me ; I have 
 seen suchlike with my own eyes. He must 
 have his feasts, and his flatterers, forsooth ! and 
 the good land, that God gave him, eaten up for 
 it. Bonnie-dyes, and paintings, and statues said 
 he? And if it were even so (and the callant, 
 Lewis Ross, says otherwise), should he take the 
 poor man's lamb for that, think ye? — the
 
 MERKLAND. 55 
 
 farmer's honest gains, that he toils for, with the 
 care of his mind, and the sweat of his brow ?" 
 
 The lawyer and the factor exchanged glances. 
 
 " I beg you to do us justice, Mrs. Catherine," 
 said Mr. Fergusson, deprecatingly : " that was 
 done in no case but in Mr. Swing's ; and the 
 land is really worth considerably more now than 
 when he got his former lease." 
 
 " And whose praise is that ?" said Mrs. Ca- 
 therine, sharply. "No' in any manner the 
 laird's, who never put a finger to the land. Do 
 you not know w^ell yourself, Robert Fergusson, 
 that Andrew Ewing's tack had but four years to 
 run, when by the good hand of Pro\4dence, 
 giving him a discreet wife, \^dth siller, he was 
 set on improving the land ? Has he not spent 
 his profits twice told upon it ? And, before he 
 has time to reap a just harvest, the prodigal 
 must come in, to take a tithe off the gains of 
 the honest man. I take ye to witness, that the 
 welfare of the lad, Archie Sutherland, Isabel 
 Balfour's son, lies near my own heart, but I can- 
 not shut my eyes to this evil." 
 
 " It was done in no other case," repeated Mr. 
 Fergusson. 
 
 " Was there any other tack out," retorted 
 Mrs. Catherine, " that the hunger of siller
 
 56 MERKLAND. 
 
 could have its aliment on ? You are a discreet 
 man, Mr. Fergusson, and you, Walter Foreman, 
 with your business-breeding, should have some 
 notion of the value of siller. Is it no' a deep 
 sea that ye are asking me to throw this portion 
 into ? A hungry mouth that, the more ye fill 
 it, will but gape and gaunt the more ? So far 
 as the siller is mine, have I not gotten it to use 
 it well, as my light goes ? — to succour the widow 
 and fatherless, maybe — no' to pamper the unna- 
 tural wants of a waster and a prodigal ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine," said the factor, " hear me 
 speak before you make this decision. I do not, 
 by any means, defend Strathoran. I have taken 
 it upon me, indeed, bot'h to warn and to entreat 
 him to give up this ruinous — I will not say 
 criminal — course, he is embarked on : and I 
 have received from him, in return, letters that 
 would melt your heart. Why he persists in 
 what he acknowledges to be wrong, I cannot 
 tell ; and I do not defend him. He has got 
 into the vortex, I suppose, and cannot extricate 
 himself. But his father built up my fortunes, 
 Mrs. Catherine, and so long as anything can be 
 done, I will not forsake his son. This season- 
 able relief may save him : without this, his 
 affairs are hopelessly entangled, and Strathoran
 
 MERKLAND. 7 
 
 must cease to be the home of the Suther- 
 lands." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine leaned her head upon her 
 hand, and did not speak. At length, looking 
 up, she saw, through the opposite window, 
 Anne Ross and Lewis coming up the waterside, 
 to the Tower. 
 
 " You will leave me a time, for further 
 thought," she said, slowly. " Put the papers 
 out of yon keen callant's sight, or go into an- 
 other room. You will hear tidings of your 
 prodigal from Lewis, Mr. Fergusson ; and doubt- 
 less you ken him well enough, Walter, being 
 birds of a feather. Euphan Morison, send 
 lunch for the gentlemen into the dining-parlour, 
 and tell Miss Ross I am w^aiting for her, in the 
 little room." 
 
 So speaking, Mrs. Catherine rose and left 
 the library, her face shadowed with deeper 
 gravity than" was its wont — her step slow and 
 heavy, and proceeded through many winding 
 passages, to a locked door, in the furthest angle 
 of the western wing. She opened it wdth a key 
 which hung from her neck, and entered a small 
 apartment furnished with the most meagre sim- 
 plicity. It contained but two chairs and a small 
 table, and from the deep diamond-paned win- 
 
 D 3
 
 58 MERKLAND. 
 
 dow, you could only see the steep side of a hill, 
 rough with whins and crags, which sprang 
 sheer upward from the back of the Tower. 
 Upon the wall hung a fine portrait — a noble, 
 thoughtful, manly face, resembling Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's, except in so far as its flush of strong 
 manhood was different from the aspect of her 
 declining years. It was her brother, whose un- 
 timely death had cast its heavy shadow over her 
 own womanly maturity ; and the room was 
 Mrs. Catherine's especial retirement, whither 
 she was wont to come in her seasons of most 
 solemn and secret prayerfulness, or at some 
 crisis when her deliberations were grave enough 
 to require the entire attention of her whole 
 earnest mind. Upon the table lay a large 
 Bible — other furniture or adornments there were 
 none. In elder days, when the Douglases of 
 the Tower professed the faith of Rome, it might 
 have been called the lady's oratory: in these 
 plainer times it was only " the little room ;" yet 
 was surrounded with the awe, which must 
 always environ the strugglings of a strong spirit, 
 however faintly known to the weaker multitude 
 around. Mrs. Catherine paced up and down 
 its narrow limits, moved in her spirit, and 
 expressing often her strong emotion aloud.
 
 MERKLAND. 59 
 
 " Isabel Balfour," she murmured to herself, 
 stopping as she passed, to turn upon the picture 
 a look of deep and sorrowful affection. *' Ay, 
 Sholto, it is her bairn, her firstborn, the son of 
 her right hand. If ye were here, Sholto Doug- 
 las, w^here ye should have been, but for God's 
 pleasure, what would ye spare for Isabel's son, 
 that should have been yours also, and a 
 Douglas? I envied you your bride and your 
 bairns, Strathoran, for his sake that I left lying 
 in foreign earth, and now your home is left to 
 you desolate — woe's me ! woe's me !" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine turned aw^ay and paced the 
 room again, with quick and uneasy steps : 
 " Unrighteous ? I ken it is unrighteous ; but 
 if he had been Sholto's son, what would I no' 
 have done for him, short of sin? and he is 
 Isabel's—" 
 
 A footstep approached, through the passage, 
 as she spoke, and controlling herself instantly, 
 Mrs. Catherine opened the door to admit Anne 
 Ross. 
 
 " What is the matter?" exclaimed Anne, as 
 she entered. "What has happened, Mrs. 
 Catherine, that you are here ?" 
 
 " Nothing, but that I am in a sore srrai 
 and am needing counsel," said Mrs. Catherine,
 
 60 MERKLAND. 
 
 closing the door ; "sit down upon that seat, 
 Gowan, that I may speak to you." 
 
 Anne silently took the chair, and Mrs. 
 Catherine seated herself at the other side of the 
 small tahle, with her dead brother's picture 
 looking down upon her from the w^all. 
 
 " Gowan," she said, gravely, '* ye have 
 heard the history of Sholto Douglas, and I need 
 not begin and tell it here again. Look upon 
 him there, in the picture, and see what manner 
 of man he was. And you have heard of Isabel 
 Balfour, the trysted bride of the dead, and how, 
 when he had been in his grave but two twelve- 
 months, she was wedded to Strathoran. I 
 blamed her not, Gowan, though I myself was 
 truer to the memory of my one brother; but 
 wherefore am I speaking thus ? There are two 
 lads, Gowan, to whom I may do service. One 
 is, as I have heard, an honourable and upright 
 young man, born to better fortune than he has 
 inherited, and toiling manfully, as becomes the 
 son of a good house ; besides that, there is a 
 kindred of blood between us. And the other 
 is a dyvour, wasting his substance, and dis- 
 honouring his name in a strange country. I 
 am in a strait between the twain, which will I 
 help, and which will I pass by ?"
 
 MERKLAND. 6 1 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine," said Anne, anxiously, 
 " what can I say ? I fear that I can see whom 
 you mean ; but how can I advise ?" 
 
 " The well-doing lad is James Aytoun, the 
 brother of the bairn Alice," said Mrs. Catherine, 
 " who is working an honourable and just work 
 to win back the inheritance of his fathers. 
 The dyvour is Isabel Balfour's one son — that 
 might have been your first-bom, Sholto Douglas! 
 and I am in a sore struggle between my reason 
 and my liking. The callant has gotten in to my 
 inmost heart, as if he had been truly Sholto's 
 son, and I cannot see him fall." 
 
 There was a long silence — for many motives 
 deterred Anne from attempting, w^hat at any 
 time she would have done with reluctance, to 
 offer counsel to the clear and mature judgment 
 of Mrs. Catherine ; and she rightly judged that 
 her ancient friend had all the strength of 
 secretly-formed resolution to combat the scruples 
 which Anne could not help sympathizing with, 
 though in her also, so many kindly feelings 
 pleaded for Archibald Sutherland — a prodigal, 
 indeed, but still the frank and joyous comrade 
 of hey childish days, the " young Strathoran" of 
 her native district. 
 
 At last, Mrs. Catherine rose.
 
 62 MERKLAND. 
 
 " It must be done," she exclaimed. " Bear 
 me witness, Gowan, that I do it against my 
 judgment. I take the siller to feed the false 
 wants of the waster, that should help the 
 honourable man in his travail. I do it, know- 
 ing it is ill, but I cannot see the lad a ruined 
 man. Let us away. I will blind myself with no 
 more falsets ; the thing is wrong, but we must 
 do it — come !" 
 
 Anne followed without speaking. Mrs. 
 Catherine locked the door, and, leaning on her 
 heavily, led her up stairs. Alice Aytoun was 
 in the drawing-room ; Mrs. Catherine sent Anne 
 thither, and went herself to seek for something 
 in her own room. She had intended offering 
 substantial help to James Aytoun, and now, 
 when the warmth of her feelings for Archibald 
 Sutherland baulked her benevolent intent, she 
 turned with an involuntary impulse to make 
 some atonement to Alice. 
 
 It had been a very dull morning for Alice — 
 Mrs. Catherine was unusually grave at break- 
 fast, and since breakfast Alice had been alone 
 — then she saw Lewis and Anne walking arm- 
 in-arm up Oranside to the Tower, and for a long 
 half-hour had waited and wondered in tantalis- 
 ing loneliness, vainly expecting that they would
 
 MERKLAND. 63 
 
 join her, or she be summoned to them. But 
 they did not come, and AKce, wearied and dis- 
 appointed, was venting some girlish impatience 
 on the piano, and indulging in a sort of fi-etful 
 wish for home — quiet, affectionate home, where 
 such sHght neglects and forgetfulness never 
 could take place — but, while the thought was 
 being formed, Anne stood beside her. 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Ross, " exclaimed Alice, " I 
 thought you were never coming," and through 
 the fair curls the slightest side-glance was 
 thrown to the closed door, which testified that 
 Anne now came alone. " I saw you coming 
 up by the water, and I have waited so long." 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine had some business \Nith 
 me," said Anne : "and Lewis, I think, is de- 
 tained below with other visitors. And what do 
 you think of our Strathoran now. Miss Ay- 
 toun?" 
 
 " Oh ! a great deal," said Alice ; " only I 
 have not seen Strathoran itself — Mr. Suther- 
 land's house — yet. I am to go to Falcon's 
 Craig, Mrs. Catherine says, after to-morrow. 
 Miss Falconer was here yesterday — riding." 
 
 " And you hked her, did you not ?" said 
 Anne, smihng. 
 
 Alice looked dubious.
 
 64 MERKLAND. 
 
 "Yes, very well. But is she not more 
 like a gentleman than a lady, Miss Ross ?" 
 
 " Tell her so yourself to-morrow," said Anne, 
 " and she will think you pay her a high compli- 
 ment." 
 
 Alice shook her head. 
 
 " 1 should not mean it for that, Miss Ross ; 
 but Mrs. Catherine said you would perhaps 
 go with me to Falcon's Craig. Will you ? 
 I should be half afraid if I went alone." 
 
 " Feared for Marjory Falconer !" said Mrs. 
 Catherine, entering the room. " If once she 
 kent her own spirit, it is not an ill one ; and I 
 see not wherefore she should scare folk. I wot 
 well you are not feared, Gowan. See, bairns, 
 here are some bonnie dyes to look at, the time I 
 am away. Ye are to wear them the morn's 
 night, Alison Aytoun, according to your plea- 
 sure. They belong to yourself. And see you 
 go not away, Gowan, till I come back again. I 
 will send the caUant Lewis up to hold ye in 
 mirth. For myself, I have things to take me 
 up, other than mirthful." 
 
 Alice advanced timidly to the table as Mrs. 
 Catherine left the room. What might be within 
 that mysterious enclosure of morocco ? Anne 
 smilingly anticipated her. Rich ornaments of
 
 MERKLAND. 65 
 
 pearls, more beautiful than anything the simple, 
 girlish eyes had ever looked upon before. Alice 
 did not know how to look, or what to say ; 
 only her heart made one great leap of dehght — 
 all these were her own ! How^ pleased and 
 proud, not for the gift alone, but for the kind- 
 ness that gave it, would be the mother's heart at 
 home ! 
 
 Mrs. Catherine descended slowly, and, resum- 
 ing her seat in the librar}-, called the young law- 
 yer and the factor to her presence, and dismissed 
 Lewis to the pleasanter company up stairs. 
 Mr. Fergusson, one of those acute, sagacious, 
 well-informed men, who are to be met with so 
 frequently in the middle class of rural Scotland, 
 came with looks of anxious expectation, and 
 Walter Foreman, of whom his independent 
 client did not deign to ask counsel, took his 
 place again, with secret pique, fancying himself 
 at least as good an adviser as the plain and 
 quiet stepdaughter of Mrs. Ross, of Merk- 
 land. 
 
 " Mr. Fergusson," said Mrs. Catherine, " I 
 have made up my mind. Ye shall have the 
 siller. Thank me not. I do that which I ken 
 is wrong, and which I would have done for no 
 mortal but Isabel Balfour's son. Ye can get
 
 66 MERKLAND. 
 
 the papers made out at your convenience, and 
 tell me the name of his dwelling. I will write 
 to the ill-doer myself." 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Mr. Fergusson, eagerly, 
 " I beg you will not give yourself so much 
 trouble, Mrs. Catherine. I will myself write to 
 Strathoran immediately, and tell him of your 
 kindness." 
 
 " Doubtless," said Mrs. Catherine : " but 
 v^herefore should I not have my word of exhor- 
 tation, as well as another? Write me down 
 Archie Sutherland's address. I could get it 
 from Lewis Ross, but I do not choose that; 
 and let the siller be paid to Mr. Fergusson, 
 Walter Foreman — that is, I am meaning w^hen 
 the papers are ready — for mind that 1 do not 
 give this siller, I only lend it on a wadset." 
 
 " On -the lands of Lochend and Loelyin," 
 said Mr. Fergusson. " Of course, Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine." 
 
 A slight smile of triumph hovered about the 
 factor's mouth. Mrs. Catherine perceived it. 
 
 " On which I will have the annual rent paid 
 to a day," she said, with some sternness, " as 
 if I were the coldest stranger that ever heard of 
 Archie Sutherland's needs or ill-doings, and, I 
 trow, that is a wide word. If I had not pur-
 
 MERKLAND. 67 
 
 posed SO, I might have given him the siller, for 
 what is it to a woman of years like me ? Truly, 
 my own spirit bears me witness, that I would 
 give that threefold, if it were mine to give, with 
 a light heart, to restore the prodigal to the 
 house of his fathers, as innocent as he went 
 away. Let the business be done, Walter Fore- 
 man ; doubtless, you will be taken up with the 
 ploy to-morrow, and will be putting it off till 
 after that." 
 
 "We can get it done immediately," said 
 Walter, somewhat sullenly. 
 
 "What ails ye, caliant?" said Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine. " Should I have taken counsel with ye 
 on the secrets of my ain spirit, think ye ? — me 
 that am given to take counsel of no man. Be 
 content, Walter Foreman — ye are not an iQ 
 caliant, but have overmuch favour for your ain 
 wisdom, as is common at your years. If ye 
 live to count threescore, ye wlQ be a humbler 
 man." 
 
 " Our success is a most fortunate thing for 
 Strathoran," said Mr. Fergusson, as they left 
 the Tower. " But the letter — I would not 
 receive such a letter as Mrs. Catherine will 
 write, on such a subject, for the half of his 
 estate."
 
 68 MERKLAND. 
 
 Walter Foreman shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " And yet she has the greatest regard for 
 him. Mrs. Sutherland was betrothed to Mrs. 
 Catherine's brother, when he died, people say ; 
 and it is her strange adoration of his memory 
 that makes her so fond of young Strathoran. 
 A singular consequent, one would think.^' 
 
 *' Mrs. Catherine is altogether singular," said 
 Mr. Fergusson, " and not to be judged as people 
 of the world are." 
 
 And when the night was far spent, and Alice 
 had carried her bounding heart, and her new 
 possessions, into her own bright apartment, and 
 was electrifying little Bessie there, with a 
 glimpse of the wondrous beauty of those pearls, 
 and trying them on before the mirror on the 
 walls, and listening with bursts of gay laughter 
 to Bessie's guesses of their value — sums im- 
 mense and fabulous to the simplicity of both, 
 yet, nevertheless, in truth, not greatly exceeding 
 their true worth — Mrs. Catherine sat in the 
 library alone, writing her letter, her strong 
 features swept by deep emotion often, and her 
 steady hand shaken. The course which the 
 young man was pursuing, was in every way the 
 most repulsive to her feelings. Sin it appeared 
 in the eyes of her strong, unswerving, pure
 
 MERKLAND. 69 
 
 religion — dishonour to her nice sense of up- 
 rightness and independence. His foreign 
 residence and likings shocked her warm, home- 
 affections, her entire nationality, and the possible 
 alienation of his lands from the name and 
 family in whose possession they had been so 
 long, alarmed ahke fear and prejudice ; for Mrs. 
 Catherine, boasting her own pure descent from 
 the " dark-grey man," was no enemy to the law 
 of entail. His sister, too, and her separation 
 from the husband for whom she had left her 
 mother's sick-bed — all these things poured in 
 upon Mrs. Catherine's mind, increasing her agi- 
 tation, and hallowed, as all her fears were, by that 
 strange visionary tenderness, so thoroughly in 
 imison with her strong character, despite its ro- 
 mance, which clung around those who might have 
 been the children of that dearest brother Sholto, 
 whose mortahty, so much as remained of it, lay 
 treasured in yon lone burying-ground in far 
 Madeira, upon whose sunny shore he died. 
 
 " Archibald Sutherland," ^^Tote Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine, " I have been hearing tidings of ye, wliich 
 have carried a sword into my inmost heart ; 
 and though I might well write in anger, seeing 
 that though I am not of your kin, ye were in
 
 70 MERKLAND. 
 
 my arms a helpless bairn, before ye were in the 
 arms of any mortal — it is in grief rather that I 
 speak to you. Wherefore is there neither fire- 
 light nor candlelight in the house of Strathoran? 
 Is the home of your fathers no' good enough for 
 a son that puts in jeopardy their good fame ? 
 Is the roof that sheltered Isabel Balfour in her 
 bridal days, too mean for Isabel Sutherland? 
 or wherefore is it, that with your fair lands and 
 good possessions ye are dwelling in a strange 
 and ungodly country? Father and mother ye 
 have none to warn ye. Answer to me, Archie 
 Sutherland, who have known ye all your days, 
 wherefore it should be so. Think ye that 
 among the flattering fuils that are about ye, 
 there is one that would lose a night's sleep, 
 if Strathoran and all belonging to it, were 
 swept into the sea? Come back to your own 
 dwelling-place : witless and prodigal as ye have 
 been, there is not a hind in the parish but 
 would lament over the desolate house of your 
 fathers. Think ye that it is a small thing, the 
 leal liking and respect of a whole countryside, 
 come down to you as a heritage ? or is it your 
 will to give up that for the antics of a papistical 
 and alien race ? I say to you, come back to your 
 own house, Archie Sutherland. There is nei-
 
 MERKLAND. 7l 
 
 ther healthfulness nor safety — let alone good 
 fame and godliness, a man's best plenishing for 
 this world and the next — in the course ye are 
 running now. 
 
 " Think not that I wTite this because I have 
 sensed ye with siller. Over the son of Isabel 
 Bal/our, the sister of Sholto Douglas has a 
 right of succom* and counsel, warning and re- 
 proof. Gallant 1 if ye had been my own — if in 
 God's good pleasure ye had borne the name of 
 my one brother — the dearest name upon this 
 earth to me — what is there that ye might not 
 have claimed at my hands? What is there 
 now, that would be for your o\mi good, that I 
 would hesitate to do ? — but far be it from me, 
 who mind your mother's travail for the new 
 birth in ye, the w^hich in all mortal seeming 
 has not yet been granted to her prayers — to 
 prop up your goings in a way of ill-doing. Of 
 what good is it to the world, I ask you, Archie 
 Sutherland, that you have been made^upon it, a 
 living man with a mind within ye, and a 
 heaven over you ? Who is the better for the 
 light that God has put into your earthen 
 vessel ? A wheen dancing, singing fuils, that 
 ken not either the right honour, or the grave 
 errand of a man into this world. Shame upon
 
 72 MERKLAND. 
 
 you, the son of a stalwart and good house, to 
 be wasting in hairnly diversion, the days you 
 will never see again, till you meet them before 
 the Throne. Listen to me, Archie Sutherland — 
 return to your own house, and to such a 
 manner of life as becomes an honourable and 
 upright man, and I give ye my word — the 
 worth of which, ye maybe ken — that for dis- 
 entangling ye from the unhealthful meshes of 
 borrowed siller, the means shall not be to 
 seek. 
 
 " Unto your sister Isabel, I have ever been a 
 prophet of evil ; nevertheless, she bears the 
 name, and, in a measure, the countenance, of 
 Sholto's Isabel and mine. If she wiU not 
 return to the lawful shelter and rule of her own 
 house, let her come to Strathoran, or, if it likes 
 her, to the Tower. Do you think, or does she 
 think, that the very winged things that are 
 about ye, their own sillie selves, honour the wife 
 for disregarding her natural right ? The bond 
 w^as of her own tieing; she liked him better 
 than father and mother once — does she like 
 him less now than she likes ill-fame, and slight 
 esteem ? If it is so, let her come home to me, 
 her mother's earliest and oldest friend. Bairns! 
 — bairns ! there is more to provide for than the
 
 MERKLAND. 73 
 
 pleasure of the quick hours that are speeding 
 over ye. Purity before God, honour in the 
 sight of men : are your spirits blinded within ye, 
 that ye cannot perceive the twain ? 
 
 " Catherine Douglas." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 74 MERKLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 '* A party in a parlour." 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 The festive morning dawned at last, a 
 vigorous, red October day, and all about and 
 around Merkland was bustle and preparation. 
 
 "Duncan," cried Bell the cook, her face 
 looming, already red and full, through a mist ; 
 " when was that weary man, Rob Partan, to 
 send up the turbot ?" 
 
 " Punctual at eleven," said the laconic 
 Duncan. 
 
 " Eh ! man, Duncan," said May, " have ye 
 tried on your new livery yet ? — is't no grand ?" 
 
 " Hout, ye silly tawpie," responded Duncan,
 
 MERKLAND. 75 
 
 "has the like o' me leisure, think ye, to be 
 minding about coats and breaks like your 
 haverel kind ?" 
 
 " Eh !" exclaimed Bell, " what has possessed 
 me ! There's no a clove in a' the house and 
 they need to be in — I kenna how mony 
 things. You maun afF to Portoran, Duncan, 
 gallopping ; there's no a minute to be lost." 
 
 " Duncan," cried Johnnie Halflin, the boy at 
 the Tower, who, with sundry other articles, had 
 been lent for the occasion, " I've casten doun 
 a jar o' the Smoothlie honey, and it's broken 
 twa o' the bottles, Man, come afore the leddy 
 sees't." 
 
 " Duncan," said Barbara Genty, Mrs. Ross's 
 own especial attendant. " You are to go up to 
 the parlour, this minute. Ye were sent for 
 half an hour ago." 
 
 " Conscience !" exclaimed the overwhelmed 
 Duncan, " is there twa of us, that ye are rug- 
 ging and riving at a man in that gate ? Get 
 out o' my road, ye young sinner, or there shall 
 be mair things broken than bottles ! I'm com- 
 ing, Bauby. Woman Bell, could ye no hae 
 minded a'thing at ance ?" 
 
 Above stairs, Mr. Lewis's servant, who had 
 left Merkland a loutish lad, and returned glisten 
 
 E 2
 
 76 MERKLAND. 
 
 ing in Parisian polish and refinement, a superfine 
 gentleman, was condescendingly advising with 
 Mrs. Ross, as to the garniture of the dinner- 
 table. Things were so arranged in the Hotel 
 
 de , John said ; for Monsieur Charles, Mr. 
 
 Sutherland's major-domo, had a style of his 
 own. But for the country, John fancied this 
 would do very well. Mrs. Ross had dismissed 
 Anne, an hour before, to her own room, as use- 
 less ; and half- offended, with the airs of her 
 son's dignified servant, was yet not above hear- 
 ing the style of the Hotel de , and in some 
 
 degree making it her model, certain that Pari- 
 sian fashion had not penetrated to any other 
 house in the district, and well-pleased to take 
 the lead. For the gay parties at Falcon's Craig, 
 and the stately festivities at the Tower, had an 
 individuality about them which had always been 
 wanting in Merldand, and Mrs. Ross had re- 
 solved to outshine all to-day. 
 
 Anne, meanwhile, sat up stairs, busied with 
 her ordinary work. She was the seamstress of 
 the family, and the post was not by any means 
 a sinecure. 
 
 The guests began to arrive, at last. Mr. 
 Ambler, of Smoothlie, emerged from his dress- 
 ing-room, neat as elderly, finical gentleman
 
 MERKLAND. 77 
 
 could be, with his carefully arranged dress, and 
 wig, savouring of olden times. Mr. Ambler 
 had been in India once, and alluded to the fact 
 on all occasions ; albeit, an indulged only son, 
 with the snug enough of his lairdship to fall 
 back upon, he had returned in the same vessel 
 which took him, out. But though Mr. Ambler 
 was too fond of slippered ease to try his fortune 
 imder the burning sun of the East, his voyage 
 supplied him with an inexhaustible fund of con- 
 versation, innocently self-complacent, in which 
 India and its wonders had a place all incompati- 
 ble with his brief experience of them. 
 
 Dashing in, full gallop, came the Falconers — 
 the gay, bold brother and sister, fatherless and 
 motherless, and entirely unrestrained in any way, 
 whose wild freaks afforded so much material for 
 gossip to the countrj^side. Then in a method- 
 ical, business-like trot, came in the sleek horses 
 and respectable vehicle of Mr. Coulter, of Har- 
 rows ; the Manse gig ; the stately carriage of 
 Mrs. Catherine, and other conveyances, whose 
 occupants we need not specify by name. The 
 room was filled, AHce Aytoun had never in 
 her life been at so great a party. 
 
 She could distinguish on yonder sofa, in the 
 comer, Mrs. Bairnsfather's black satin gown,
 
 78 MERKLAND. 
 
 side by side with the strong thrifty hued silk of 
 Mrs. Coulter, of Harrows. The Misses Coulter, 
 in their Edinburgh robes, were near their 
 manrima. They were very well-looking, wxll- 
 dressed girls ; but Alice's own silk gown bore a 
 comparison with theirs, and their ornaments 
 were nothing like those delicate pearls. The 
 discovery emboldened little Alice Aytoun, and 
 took away her sole existing heaviness. She was 
 fully prepared to enjoy herself. 
 
 The stately dinner, and all its solemnities, 
 were over at last. The real pleasure of the 
 evening was commencing ; the company form- 
 ing into gay knots; and Lewis doing the 
 honours, with so rare a grace, that his mother 
 almost forgot her own duties in admiration of 
 her son. Alice Aytoun admired him, too. The 
 pretty little stranger had become a sort of centre 
 already, with the gayest and most attractive of 
 all those varied groups, about her — and Lewis 
 let no opportunity pass of offering his homage. 
 Even on Mrs. Catherine's strong features, as 
 she sat near her charge, there hovered a mirth- 
 ful smile. Mrs. Catherine herself was not dis- 
 pleased that the debut of her little stranger 
 should be so much a triumph. 
 
 " A pretty girl — there is no doubt of that,"
 
 MERKLAND. 79 
 
 said the good-humoured Mrs. Coulter. " James, 
 do you not think she is hke our Ada ? See, 
 the heads of the two are together, and Jeanie 
 is behind them, with young Walter Foreman. I 
 declare that lad is constantly hovering about 
 Jeanie. Ah, Mrs. Bairnsfather, we have many 
 cares who have a family !" 
 
 " No doubt," said the little, fat, round-about 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather, the childless minister's wife, 
 whose cares, diverted from the usual channel of 
 children-loving, expended themselves upon the 
 many comforts of herself, and her easy, com- 
 fortable husband. " You must be troubled in 
 various ways now that the young people have got 
 to man's estate, and woman's. But what were 
 you calling Miss Adamina, Mrs. Coulter? I 
 noticed a change in the name." 
 
 Mrs. Coulter looked slightly confused. 
 
 " You see, Mrs. Bairnsfather, it is a cumbrous 
 name — four syllables — and we must have some 
 contraction. When they were all bairns, they 
 used to call her Edie, poor thing; but that 
 would not do now; and at school she got 
 Ada, and it really is a prettier name, and quite 
 a good diminutive : so we just adopted it." 
 
 " Dear me ! is that it ?" said Mrs. Bairns-
 
 80 MERKLAND. 
 
 father. " When I got the last note from Harrows 
 I saw it was 'A. M. Coulter.' And that's 
 it!" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Coulter. "Ada Mina — 
 they are two very pretty names." 
 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather coughed a short sarcastic 
 cough of wonder, and Mrs. Coulter continued : 
 
 " Oh ! there is John beside httle Miss 
 Aytoun. Is he not like his father, Mrs. 
 Bairnsfather? James, did you not say that 
 Miss Aytoun was a relative of Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's?" 
 
 " Ay, my dear," said Mr. Coulter. " Mrs. 
 Catherine told us so herself — you recollect ? or 
 was it to me she said it? So it was — when 
 she was looking at yon new patent plough of 
 John's." 
 
 " I wonder," said Mrs. Bairnsfather, " who is 
 likely to get the Tower? In the course of 
 nature, it cannot be very long in Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's hands, and it's a good estate." 
 
 "Wonderfully improved in my time," said 
 Mr. Coulter. " Mrs. Catherine is not without 
 a notion of the science of agriculture, which, to 
 the shame of landed proprietors, is generally so 
 much neglected. The low lands at Oran
 
 MERKLAND. 8 1 
 
 Point were but moor and heather in my memory, 
 but they grow as fine barley now as any in the 
 countr}^" 
 
 " VVell, I suppose no one can say that Mrs. 
 Catherine neglects her carnal interests," said 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather, with a professional sigh. 
 Her husband was known among his shrewd 
 parishioners to be greatly more observant of 
 temporal than spiritual matters, and his wife, 
 conscious of a failing in that respect, was 
 w^ont to assume at times a technical solemnity. 
 
 " I believe Mrs. Catherine is a very excellent 
 woman in every respect," said the good-humoured 
 and uncensoiious Mrs. Coulter, " and cares as 
 little about money, for money's sake, as any one 
 can possibly do ; but she thinks it a duty to use 
 well and improve what Providence has given her, 
 as you do yourself, James, though, to be sure, 
 we have more motive, with a young family 
 rising round us." 
 
 " I was very much struck yesterday," said 
 Mr. Coulter, " with the contrast between the 
 Tower fields, and the adjoining lands \\ithin the 
 bounds of Strathoran. There is a place where 
 the three estates meet — Mrs. Catherine's, Mr. 
 Sutherland's, and mine. You recollect the little 
 burn, my dear, which that silly maid of yours 
 
 E 3
 
 82 MERKLAND. 
 
 fell into last Hallow-e'en? well, it is there. 
 Mrs. Catherine's stubble-fields stretch to the 
 very burnside — mine are turnips — uncommonly 
 fine Swedes ; but, on the other side, spreading 
 away as far as you can see, is the brown moor 
 of Strathoran, miles of good land wastefuUy 
 lost, besides breeding by the thousand these 
 small cattle of game, to destroy our corn." 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs. Bairnsfather, mysteriously, 
 " I hear the Sutherlands are not in the best 
 way." 
 
 *' Poor things ! they are young to be out in 
 the world alone," said Mrs. Coulter ; " and 
 Isabel was a wilful girl at all times. I gathered 
 from what Lewis Ross said, that they were 
 living very gaily ; but perhaps you have heard 
 more ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather shook her head. 
 
 " It is a melancholy thing to think of the 
 downfal of an old family !" 
 
 " Hout ! Mrs. Bairnsfather," said Mr. 
 Coulter ; " you are taking it too seriously. 
 Strathoran can stand a good deal. It wiU take 
 more than one lad's extravagance to bring 
 down the family, I trust ; and young Suther- 
 land used to have good sense and discretion. I 
 spoke to him of draining Loelyin before he
 
 MERKLAND. 83 
 
 went away, and he really had very just ideas on 
 the subject. No, no ; let us hope there will be 
 no ruin in the case." 
 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather shook her head again. 
 
 " I have no objection to hope the best, Mr. 
 Coulter; but it is no uncommon thing to be 
 disappointed in hopes ; and, if what 1 hear be 
 true, there is more room for fear." 
 
 " What's this," said Mr. Ambler, approach- 
 ing the little group, as he made a leisurely, 
 chatting, circuit round the room — " hoping and 
 fearing, Mrs. Bairnsfather? Is it about these 
 happy-looking young people of ours, and the 
 future matches that may spring from their 
 pairings — eh, Mrs. Coulter?" 
 
 Mrs. Coulter smiled, and glanced over to 
 where Walter Foreman lingered by her Jeanie's 
 side. They were a handsome couple, and Walter 
 had a nice little improvable property, inherited 
 from his mother. There was no saying what 
 might come to pass. 
 
 " No, Mr. Ambler," said Mrs. Bairnsfather, 
 " we were speaking of poor young Strathoran ;" 
 and, from the depths of her fat bosom there 
 came a mysteriously pathetic sigh. 
 
 " Strathoran ! what's happened to the lad ?"
 
 84 MERKLAND. 
 
 exclaimed Mr. Ambler. " Lewis Ross left him 
 well and merry — no accident I hope ; but Lewis 
 has not been a week at home yet : there is little 
 time for any change in his fortunes." 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Ambler," said Mrs, Bairnsfather, 
 " it is not aye weU to be merry. I have heard 
 from those who know, that young Mr. Suther- 
 land's gay life is putting his lands in jeopardy ; 
 they say he'll spend a whole year's income 
 sometimes in a single night, poor ill-ad\ised 
 lad ! I happened to mention it to Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine, but she turned about upon me, as if I was 
 to be any better of Strathoran's downfal, which 
 I am sure I never meant, nor anything like it." 
 
 " Bless me !" said Mr. Ambler, "I am con- 
 cerned to hear that — I am grieved, do you 
 know, to hear that. Is it possible? Why, I 
 always thought Archie Sutherland was a wise 
 lad — a discreet lad of his years." 
 
 Mrs. Bairnsfather shook her head. 
 
 " Archibald Sutherland ruined !" continued 
 Mr. Ambler, *' no, it's surely not possible — it 
 must have been an ill-wisher that said that. 
 Why, Strathoran is as big as Falcon's Craig 
 and Smoothlie put together — ay, and even ye 
 might slip in a good slice off Merkland.
 
 MERKLAND. 85 
 
 Ruined ! it's not possible. When I came home 
 from India I heard of old Strathoran sa^dng — 
 I do not recollect the amount, I always had a 
 bad memory for figures — but a great sum every 
 year. It must be a false alarm, Mrs. Bairns- 
 father." 
 
 " Very well, gentlemen," said Mrs. Bairns- 
 father, " it's no concern of mine ; but a little 
 time will show that I am correct." 
 
 " Bless me !" repeated Mr. Ambler, " then 
 the lad must go to India, that is clear — he may 
 do great things in India. You see when I was 
 there myself, there was the best opening for a 
 lad of talent that could possibly be ; but I had 
 a yearning for home. I was always uncom- 
 monly fond of home, and so I am only a country 
 Laird, when I might have been a Nabob. But 
 if he were once in India I would have no fear 
 for him — he would soon get up again." 
 
 " India, Mr. Ambler !" exclaimed Mr. Coul- 
 ter, " no doubt there are fortunes to be made 
 in India; but / fancy it's a shame to us to 
 send our sons away to seek gold, when it is 
 lying in our very fields for the digging — agri- 
 culture — " 
 
 " What's that you're saying, Mr. Coulter ?"
 
 86 MERKLAND. 
 
 exclaimed the Laird of Smoothlie. " Gold ! 
 where is't man? we'll all take a hand at that 
 work, if it were but for poor auld Scotland's 
 sake, who has ever been said to have but a 
 scrimp providing of the precious metal." 
 
 " There are harvests lying in the cold breast 
 of the great Strathoran moor," said the agricul- 
 turist, energetically, " of more import to man, 
 Mr. Ambler, than if its sands were gold. If 
 what we hear of Archibald Sutherland is true, 
 he may never be able to do it now ; but a sen- 
 sible man, with sufficient capital, might double 
 the rent-roll of Strathoran." 
 
 Mr. Ambler looked slightly contemptuous. 
 
 " 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 
 faU 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
 
 MERKLAND. 87 
 
 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 re- 
 turned from Edinburgh." 
 
 Mr. Ambler adjusted his spectacles, with a 
 smile. " No, I dare say not. Is that her \Yith 
 Lewis Ross ? No, that's Mrs. Catherine's little 
 friend. Ay, ay, I see her — like w^hat 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 dis- 
 pute ; but Mr. Foreman will know. Mr. Fore- 
 man, 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.
 
 88 MERKLAND. 
 
 " She comes from the south country; her 
 mother Hves 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 pos- 
 sessing 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 con- 
 versation, 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
 
 MERKLAND. 89 : 
 
 i 
 
 mind, to Alice Aytoun's name. Strange do- [ 
 
 mestic volcano, over which these slippered feet | 
 
 passed so heedlessly ! How often, in quiet j 
 
 houses, and among quiet people, are mighty sins j 
 
 and mighty miseries passed hy as lightly ! ;
 
 90 MERKLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " After feasting cometh sorrow, 
 The glad night hath the weary morrow." 
 
 Sleepy, weary, and uncomfortable, the house- 
 hold of Merkland reluctantly bestuTed itself 
 next morning. Mrs. Ross rose ill-humoured 
 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-parlour, 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,
 
 MERKLAND. 91 
 
 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 ex- 
 cused ever}^where 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 !Merk- 
 land. 
 
 " Bless me. Madam," said ^Mr. Ambler, 
 " your cook must have been up aU the hours 
 of the night. Sk^epy 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 accidents in 
 Smoothlie, Mr. Ambler?" asked ^Irs. 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 per- 
 fiteness, as the old proverb says. Better try 
 a bit of one though, Lewis, mangled though
 
 92 MERKLAND. 
 
 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 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 over- 
 work." 
 
 " Indolence ! that's quite too bad, Mr. Am-
 
 MERKLAND. 93 
 
 bier," said Lewis. " Bear me witness, Anne, 
 how I have been iiinning 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 
 1 heard last night of Archie Sutherland ? That 
 little round body, Mrs. Bairnsfather, was en- 
 lightening 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^ xArchie." 
 
 "Anne?" said Mr. Ambler, inquisitively. 
 " Ay, what is Anne's special interest in Archie 
 Sutherland ? Well, I ^vill 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 re- 
 peated, 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 no- 
 body noticed you last night hanging about that
 
 94 MERKLAND. 
 
 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 colour 
 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 coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " 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
 
 MERKLAND. 95 
 
 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 flatter}^ of those blufe 
 eyes of Alice Aytoun's, which had looked up to 
 him so gladly last night, returned upon him in 
 consolatory fascination. His mother's inter- 
 ference, too, excited a spirit of opposition and 
 perversity, which stimulated the remembrance ; 
 and when Mr. Ambler had happily ridden awa}^, 
 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. 
 
 " Gowan," 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 ye ken, 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." 
 
 r*^^
 
 96 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, Miss Ross," pleaded 
 Alice. 
 
 " For the Tower is dreary enough for a young 
 thing," continued Mrs. Catherine, " at all sea- 
 sons. Lewis, they are aye quickening the speed 
 of travel : how soon could a letter be answered 
 from Paris ?" 
 
 " Oh, in a week or two," said Lewis, care- 
 lessly. " A fortnight, I dare say. But no one 
 ever accused me of punctuality, Mrs. Catherine, 
 so I cannot say exactly." 
 
 " The more shame to ye," said Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine. " A silly callant bragging of a short- 
 coming ! Truly, Go wan, I count it an affliction 
 that folk must bear with the lads through their 
 fuil-estate, before ye can find an inkling of sense 
 in any man. Alison, has Miss Ross consented 
 to take charge of ye ? and will ye go, Gowan ?" 
 
 " 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 genera- 
 tion, that is with Alison's grandmother and the 
 last family of Falconers passing the father 
 of Ralph and Marjory, who w^as an only son,
 
 MERKLAND. 97 
 
 and died young — a poor peasweep he was, that 
 might never have been born at aU, 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 divert to her, than 
 any other thing : and doubtless we must have 
 festi^^ties of our ain, also. I will borrow your 
 French serving-man from you, Lewis, to learn 
 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 ye must e'en keep 
 him, and humour 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 odour 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 ken whither she had a stomach 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 merklaNd. 
 
 or no ! I have no patience with them. Jacky, 
 ye evil spirit, what are ye wanting, now ?" 
 
 " If ye, please," said Jacky, " it's Mr. Fore- 
 man — " 
 
 Mrs. Catherine started. 
 
 " Where is he ?" 
 
 " And a strange man with him, dressed like 
 a gentleman," continued Jacky. "They're in 
 the hbrary, 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. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Foreman, have ye brought me 
 any tidings ?" 
 
 " I have brought you no direct tidings, Mrs. 
 Catherine, but this," — Mr. Foreman looked 
 dubiously at the stranger — " this gentleman^ 
 whom I met accidentally in Portoran, is charged
 
 MERKLAND. 99 
 
 with a mission, the particulars of which I 
 thought you would like to know, being deeply 
 interested in Mr. Sutherland." 
 
 *' Maiden aunt," murmured the stranger. 
 "Ah! I see." 
 
 " You seem to have clear e'en, Sir," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, sternly. " Mr. Sutherland will 
 be a friend of yours, doubtless ?" 
 
 " Ah ! a fine young fellow — most promising 
 lad !" was the answer. '' Might be a credit to any 
 family. I have the honour of a slight acquaint- 
 ance. Nothing could be more edifying than his 
 walk and conversation, I assure you, Madam." 
 
 " I will thank ye to assure me of what I ask, 
 and trouble your head about no more," said 
 Mrs. Catherine. " Are the like of you acquaint — 
 I am meaning, is Archibald Sutherland a friend 
 of yours?" 
 
 " Verj^ intimate. My friend Lord Gillra\idge 
 and he are. Astonishing young man. Madam, 
 my friend Lord Gillravidge — missed church 
 once last year, and w^as quite overcome with 
 contrition — so much comforted by Mr. Suther- 
 land's Christian friendship and fraternity — quite 
 delighted to be a spectator of it, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " I was asking you about Archibald Suther- 
 
 F 2
 
 100 MERKLAND. 
 
 land, Sir," said Mrs. Catherine, standing stiffly 
 erect, as the stranger threw himself into a chair 
 unbidden, " and in what manner the Hke of you 
 were connected with him. I am waiting for 
 your answer." 
 
 " A long story, Madam," said the stranger, 
 coolly, " of friendly interest and mutual good 
 offices. I have seen Mr. Sutherland often with 
 my friend Lord G., and was anxious to do him 
 a service — my time being always at my friends' 
 disposal." 
 
 " Mr, Foreman," exclaimed Mrs. Catherine, 
 *' ken ye the meaning of all this ? Ye are a 
 lawyer, man ; see if ye cannot shape questions 
 so as they shall be answered." 
 
 " Your friend Lord GiUravidge is intimately 
 acquainted with Mr. Sutherland ?" interrogated 
 Mr. Foreman. 
 
 " Precisely — delightful ; dwelling together in 
 unity, like — " 
 
 " And Mr. Sutherland is in embarrassed cir- 
 cumstances ?" continued Mr. Foreman, impelled 
 by an impatient gesture from Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine. 
 
 The stranger turned round with a contraction 
 of his forehead, and gave a significant nod. 
 
 " A most benevolent young man — kind-
 
 MERKLAND. 101 
 
 hearted people are always being tricked by 
 impostors, and made security for friends — merely 
 temporar}^ — does him infinite credit, I assure 
 you, Madam." 
 
 " Assure me no lees !" exclaimed Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine. " What have ye to do — a paltry trickster 
 as ye are — with the lad Archie Sutherland : 
 answer me that ?" 
 
 "Madam!" exclaimed the stranger, rising 
 indignantly, and assuming an attitude. 
 
 " The lady is aware of Mr. Sutherland's 
 embarrassments, " interposed Mr. Foreman, 
 *' and is putting no inquiries touching the 
 cause. Your friend, Lord Gillravidge, Mr. — " 
 
 " Fitzherbert, Sir, said the stranger. 
 
 " Mr. Fitzherbert has served Mr. Sutherland 
 in a pecuniary way ?" 
 
 Mr. Fitzherbert bowed. 
 
 " And you are charged with a mission of a 
 peculiar kind to Strathoran. Might I beg you 
 to explain its nature to Mrs. Catherine Douglas, 
 a lady who is deeply interested in your friend's 
 friend, Mr. Sutherland." . 
 
 The stranger looked perplexed, gracefully 
 confused, and hung back, as if in embarrassment 
 and diffidence. 
 
 " The fact is, Madam, I am placed in quite a
 
 102 MERKLAND. 
 
 peculiar position— -a mission strictly confidential, 
 intrusted to me — friendly inquiries — which 1 
 have no authority to divulge. I beg I may not 
 be questioned further." 
 
 " Mr. Fitzherbert, fortunately, was less delicate 
 with me, Mrs. Catherine," said Mr. Foreman. 
 " Mr. Sutherland, Madam, is in treaty for the 
 sale of Strathoran — for some portion of the 
 estate, at least, and this gentleman is commis- 
 sioned to report upon it, as he tells me, before 
 the bargain is completed." 
 
 " Not fair — against all principles of honour," 
 exclaimed Mr. Fitzherbert. " A mis-statement. 
 Madam, I assure you ; merely some shooting- 
 grounds. Mr. Sutherland is no sportsman 
 himself, and my friend. Lord Gillravidge, is a 
 keen one. Amicable exchange — nothing 
 more." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine stood firmly erect ; gazing 
 into the blank air. The shock was great to 
 her ; for some moments she neither moved nor 
 spoke. 
 
 " I appeal to yourself. Madam," resumed the 
 stranger. " / investigate farms and fields. I, 
 fresh from the most refined circles: do I 
 look like a person to report upon clods and 
 cattle ?"
 
 MERKLAND. 103 
 
 The voice startled Mrs. Catherine from her 
 fixed gravity. 
 
 " I will come to you by-and-by, Mr. Fore- 
 man," she said. " Gather the story as clear as 
 may be — at present, I cannot be fashed with 
 strangers." 
 
 A slight, emphatic motion of her hand con- 
 veyed her desire that the friend and emissary of 
 Lord Gillravidge should be dismissed as speedily 
 as possible, and turning, she left the room. 
 
 " Spoilt it aU," exclaimed Fitzherbert, as the 
 door closed, " never have any commerce with 
 lawyers — bad set — Scotch especially — keen — 
 iU-natured. What harm would it have done 
 you, old gentleman, if I had pleased the old 
 lady about her nephew, and got her, perhaps, to 
 come down with something handsome ? I 
 always like to serve friends myself — wanted to 
 put in a good word for Sutherland — but it's all 
 spoiled now." 
 
 "You expect to see more of Strathoran, I 
 suppose," said Mr. Foreman; "good sport on 
 the moor, they tell me, Mr. Fitzherbert, and 
 you say Lord GiHraxadge is a keen sportsman." 
 
 " Keen in most things," said the stranger, 
 with an emphatic nod. " Sharp — not to be 
 taken in — simple Scotch lad no match for
 
 104 MERKLAND. 
 
 Gillravidge — serves him right, for thinking he 
 was. But I say, old gentleman, don't be ill- 
 natured and teU the aunt — let him have a fresh 
 start." 
 
 "It is to be a sale, then ?" said the lawyer, 
 " is your friend really to buy Strathoran ?" 
 
 The stranger laughed contemptuously. 
 
 " Has Sutherland got anything else, that you 
 ask that ? all the purchase money's gone already 
 — nothing coming your way, old gentleman — all 
 the more cruelty in you preventing me from 
 speaking a good word for him to his aunt." 
 
 " Was the bargain concluded when you 
 left?" said Mr. Foreman. 
 
 " Very near it," was the reply. " Why, he's 
 been plunging on deeper in Gillravidge's debt 
 every night. I say it was uncommonly merciful to 
 think of taking the land — an obscure Scotch 
 place, with nothing but the preserves worth 
 looking at; but Gillravidge knows what he's 
 about." 
 
 Half an hour aftervvards, Mrs. Catherine re- 
 entered the library. The obnoxious visitor was 
 gone, and Mr. Foreman sat alone, his brow 
 clouded with thoughtfulness. He, too, had known 
 Archibald Sutherland's youth, and in his father 
 had had a friend, and the kindly bond of that
 
 MERKLAND. 105 
 
 little community drew its members of all ranks 
 too closely together, to suffer the overthrow of 
 one without regret and sympathy. 
 
 " Is it true — think ye it is true?" said Mrs. 
 Catherine. 
 
 " I can think nothing else," said Mr. Fore- 
 man, gravely ; " there is but one hope — that 
 strange person who left the Tower just now tells 
 me that the bargain was not completed. Mr. 
 Fergusson's letter, telling Strathoran of the ad- 
 vance you were willing to make, Mrs. Catherine, 
 may have reached him in time to prevent this 
 calamity." 
 
 "I cannot hope it — I cannot hope it," said Mrs. 
 Catherine, vehemently. *' It is a race trysted to 
 evil. Do you not mind, George Foreman, how the 
 last Strathoran was held down aU his days, with 
 the burdens that father and grandsire had left 
 upon him ? Do you not mind of him joining 
 with his father to break the entail, that some of 
 the debts might be paid thereby? and now, 
 when he has laboured all his life to leave the 
 good land clear to his one son, must it be lost to 
 the name and blood? George Foreman, set 
 your face against the breaking of entails ! I 
 say it is an unrighteous thing to give one of a 
 race the power of disinheriting the rest \ to put 
 
 F 3
 
 106 MERKLAND. 
 
 into the hands of a callant like Archie Suther- 
 land, fatally left to his own devices, the option 
 of overthrowing an old and good house — I say 
 it is unrighteous, and a shame !" 
 
 Mr. Foreman made no answer — well enough 
 pleased as he might have been that in this par- 
 ticular case, the lands of Strathoran had been 
 entailed, he yet had no idea of committing him- 
 self on the abstract principle, and Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine continued : 
 
 " What is he to do ? what can the unhappy 
 prodigal do, but dree the weird of the waster — 
 want. I cannot stand between him and his 
 righteous reward — 1 will do no such injustice. 
 Where did you meet with the ne'er-do-weel that 
 brought you the tidings, Mr. Foreman? a fit 
 messenger no doubt, with his hairy face, and 
 his leeing tongue." Mrs. Catherine groaned. 
 *' Ye are well gone to your rest, Isabel Balfour, 
 before ye saw your firstborn herding with cattle 
 like yon !" 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Foreman, " that you are 
 anticipating evil which is by this time averted, 
 Mrs. Catherine. At the very crisis of Strath- 
 oran*s broken fortunes, your seasonable assist- 
 ance would come in; and, on such a tempera- 
 ment as his, I should fancy the sight of the
 
 MERKLAND. 107 
 
 precipice so near would operate powerfully. I 
 know how it has acted on myself, who ought to 
 have more prudence than Mr. Sutherland, if 
 years are anything I came here to advise you 
 to withdraw your money, when there was such 
 imminent danger of loss — and here I am, build- 
 ing my own hopes and yours on the fact of its 
 being promised.'' 
 
 Mrs. Catherine w-as pacing heavily through 
 the room. 
 
 " What care I for the siller," she exclaimed, 
 sternly. " What is the siller to me, in com- 
 parison with the welfare of Isabel Balfour's son ? 
 Doubtless, if aU the rest is gone, there is no 
 need for throwing aw^ay that with our eyes open ; 
 but what share in my thoughts, think ye, has 
 the miserable dirt of siller, when the fate of the 
 lad that might have been of my own blood, is 
 quivering in the balance ? George Foreman, ye 
 are discreet and judicious, but the yeUow mam- 
 mon is overmuch in your mind. What is it to 
 me that leave none after me — that am the last 
 of my name ?" 
 
 " I think we may depend on the last state- 
 ment of that strange messenger — that Fitzher- 
 bert," said Mr. Foreman, endeavouring gently 
 to lower the excitement of his client, " that he
 
 108 MERKLAND. 
 
 came down to examine, and would have his 
 report to make, before the transaction was 
 finished. Your letter must reach Strathoran, 
 Mrs. Catherine, before this fellow can return. 
 Depend upon it, the immediate danger is averted. 
 Mr. Sutherland has good sense and judgment : 
 he must by this time have perceived the danger, 
 and receded from it." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine seated herself in gloomy 
 silence. 
 
 " And if he has," she said, after a long 
 pause, "if he has saved himself for this mo- 
 ment, what then ? He has sown the wind, and 
 think ye he can shun its harvest ? What has 
 he to trust to ? principle, honour, good fame, 
 the fear of God, the right regard to the judg- 
 ment of his fellows which becomes" every man — 
 has he not thrown them all away ? What is 
 there, then, to look to in his future, if it be not 
 a drifting before every wind, a running in every 
 stray path, a following of aU things that have 
 the false glitter upon them, whatsoever ill may 
 be below ? I am done with hope for the lad : 
 there is nothing to guide him, nothing to re- 
 strain him. I must e'en take fear to my heart, 
 and look this grief in the face." 
 
 " He is quite young," said Mr. Foreman ;
 
 MERKLAND. 109 
 
 " there is abundant time and room for hope, 
 Mrs. Catherine. I feel assured we have erred 
 on the side of fear. A shrewd lad, like Strath- 
 oran, surely could not be fascinated to his de- 
 struction, in society which can tolerate that man, 
 Fitzherbert. Depend upon it, we have over- 
 rated the dangers; and that, by this time, 
 Mr. Sutherland has taken warning, and with- 
 drawn. A pretty counsellor I am, after all ! 
 — I should have sent Walter — coming here to 
 advise you to withdraw your money, and now 
 felicitating myself that it is given." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine became more cheerful at last, 
 before the kind-hearted Portoran writer took 
 his departure, and admitted the chances in 
 favour of his hopes. Archibald had been 
 shrewd and sensible, and could not surely be so 
 ruinously involved as to put his whole estate in 
 peril; nevertheless, dreary visions, such as he 
 had read in books of modern travel, of haggard 
 gamesters risking their all upon a cast — staking 
 wealth, and hope, and honour, in the desperate 
 game, and marking its loss with the ghastly 
 momento of blood, the hopeless death of the 
 suicide — rose darkly before the lawyer's eyes, as 
 he rode home — home, to pleasant competence 
 and unobtrusive refinement, and to a family of
 
 110 MERKLAND. 
 
 sound principle and cultivated intellect, in whose 
 healthful upbringing and clear atmosphere ficti- 
 tious excitement had no share. 
 
 And Mrs. Catherine went up .stairs, gravely, 
 to her cheerful inner drawing-room, and looking 
 on the youthfiil faces there — the peaceful house- 
 hold looks, suggesting anything rather than 
 misery and crime — forgot her terrors for Isabel 
 Balfour's son, warm as her interest in him 
 was. 
 
 Haggard, desolate, hopeless, with no roof 
 which he could justly call his own to shelter 
 him, and with a dreary blank before him, where 
 the teeming dreams of a bright future were 
 wont to be, Archibald Sutherland stood that 
 night, in the strange alien country, a ruined 
 man.
 
 MERKI-AND. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 " One who, long ago, 
 Had lost the dearest jewel of her life ; 
 And through this melancholy length of years, 
 Had ever watched, and gazed, and groped in vain, 
 For trace of her lost joy returning back again." 
 
 Tiresome as the manifold preparations for 
 a feast may be, there is something especially 
 drear}' and full of discomfort in the bustle of 
 setting to rights, which comes after : dismantled 
 rooms undergoing a thorough purification, be- 
 fore they can once more settle Mown into their 
 everyday look and aspect ; servants, in a chaos 
 and frenzy of orderliness, turning the house 
 into a Babel — a kitchen saturnalia; mistresses 
 toiling in vain to have the work concluded bit
 
 112 MERKLAND. 
 
 by bit; and all this without the stimulant of 
 expected pleasure to make it bearable. 
 
 Mrs. Ross rather liked such an overturn, 
 and had it commenced gaily in the first relief 
 of Mr. Ambler's departure; so that when 
 Lewis and Anne returned from the Towner, there 
 was no place of refuge for them, save in the 
 small library, which Lewis had already appro- 
 priated as his own peculiar place of retirement. 
 
 Mrs. Ross had long taken a malicious plea- 
 sure in excluding Anne from aU share in the 
 economics of Merkland, in which, indeed, her 
 own active habits and managing disposition 
 could brook no divided empire ; and it was not, 
 therefore, any super refinement of feeling which 
 called Anne Ross out after ^her daily task was 
 over, into the silent evening air, upon the quiet 
 side of Oran. It is true that there were delicate 
 tones of harmony there, which few ears could 
 appreciate so well as her own ; but the first 
 yearning of these human spirits of ours, is for 
 the sympathy of other human spii'its, and it is 
 oftenest disappointment in that, which at once 
 makes us seek for, and susceptible to, the mild 
 pity and silent companionship of the wide earth 
 around us. 
 
 A long, invigorating walk she had, the little
 
 MERKLAND. 113 
 
 river modulating its voice, as she could fancy, to. 
 bear her musings gentle company. Strangely 
 accordant was that plaintive harmony of nature. 
 Wan leaves dropping one by one, the stillness 
 so great that you could hear them faU : the wide 
 air ringing with its tremulous, silent music : the 
 pleasant voice of Oran blending in low cadence, 
 " most musical, most melancholy." These gra- 
 duated tones had been significant and solemn to 
 Anne's spirit all her life long — from the dreamy 
 days of childhood, so strangely grave and 
 thoughtful, with all their shadowy array of 
 haunting ghosts and angels, those constant com- 
 rades of the meditative child — up through the 
 long still years of youth, unto this present time 
 of grave maturity, of subdued and chastened 
 prime. Other and mightier things, springing 
 from heaven and not from earth, the presence 
 of that invisible Friend, whose brotherhood of 
 human sympathy circles His people, no less ten- 
 derly than His divine strength holds them up, 
 were with her in her solitude ; and the lesser 
 music of His fair universe wrought its fitting 
 part in the calming of the troubled spirit : 
 pensive, shadowy, calm, and full of that strange 
 spiritual breath, which Time has, in his mo- 
 mentary lingering between the night and day.
 
 114 MERKLAND. 
 
 A lonely, unfrequented path, winding by 
 Oranside, to a little clunap of houses, not very 
 far off, almost too few to be dignified by the 
 name of hamlet, ran close to the high, encir- 
 cling hedge, which shut in at that side the 
 grounds of Merkland. Not far from the prin- 
 cipal entrance was a little gate, across which the 
 branches nearly joined, and which was never 
 used, except by Anne herself, in her solitary 
 rambles. She lingered at it, before she entered 
 again — her dark dress scarcely distinguishable 
 from the thick boughs behind her, as she leant 
 upon the lintel. There was some one approach- 
 ing on the road, whom Anne regarded with 
 little interest, thinking her some resident of the 
 hamlet, returning to her home ; but as the pas- 
 senger came in front of Merkland, she suddenly 
 stopped, and standing still upon the road, gazed 
 on the quiet house. Her head was turned 
 towards the gate, and Anne, startled into atten- 
 tion, looked upon it wonderingly — an emaci- 
 ated, pale face, that spoke of suffering, with 
 large, dark, spiritual eyes, beaming from it, as 
 eyes can beam only from faces so worn and 
 wasted. Wistfully the long, slow look fell upon 
 Merkland ; standing there, so firm, serene, and 
 homelike, its light shining through the trees.
 
 MERKLAND. 115 
 
 And then Anne heard an inarticulate murmur, 
 as of muttered words, and the cadence of a 
 deep, long sigh, and the stranger — for the wan 
 face, and thin, tall figure, were too remarkable to 
 have escaped her notice, had the passer-by been 
 other than a stranger — went forward upon the 
 darkening path, scarce noting her, Anne 
 thought, as the figure glided past her, like a 
 spirit. 
 
 The image would not leave her mind. The 
 pale, worn face — the wistful, searching eyes — 
 haunted her through that night, and mingled 
 with her dreams. Strange visions of Norman, 
 such as now filled her mind continually, 
 received into them this stranger's spiritual 
 face. Dangers, troubles, the whole indefinite 
 horde of dreaming apprehensions and embarrass- 
 ments clung round those wistful eyes, as round 
 a centre. Anne could scarcely believe next 
 morning, when she awoke, with the remembrance 
 so clear upon her mind, that it was not some 
 supernatural presence, lingering about her still. 
 
 The morning was very bright, and clear, and 
 cold, for October w^as waning then into the 
 duskier w^inter ; and Anne, remembering her 
 engagement with Alice, laid her work by early,
 
 116 MERKLAND. 
 
 and prepared to walk up to the Tower. She 
 met Lewis, booted and spurred, at the door. 
 
 " Are you going to the Tower, Anne ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," was the answer. 
 
 *' Well, don't be surprised if you find me at 
 Falcon's Craig before you." 
 
 " At Falcon's Craig, Lewis ! What errand 
 have you there ?" 
 
 " May I not make a friendly call as well as 
 yourself?" said Lewis, gaily. " Besides, I shall 
 take care of you, on the way home. How do I 
 know that the Strathoran roads are quite safe 
 for young ladies ?" 
 
 "But I thought you were afraid of Miss 
 Falconer ?" said Anne. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Ambler relieved me of that fear, 
 you know. She wouldn't have me, he said. 
 Very fortunate, for she will never get the offer." 
 
 " Mr. Ambler was quite right," said Anne, 
 uneasily. " But, Lewis, do not go, pray — take 
 another morning for your call at Falcon's Craig. 
 Your mother will be grieved and irritated — do 
 not go to-day." 
 
 " My mother !" Lewis drew himself up with 
 all the petulant dignity peculiar to his years.
 
 MERKLAND. 117 
 
 " Upon my word, Anne, you are perfectly mis- 
 taken if you think I have come home to be 
 restrained and chidden like a schoolboy ! 
 Grieved and irritated ! because that pretty little 
 Miss Aytoun happens to be of the party, I 
 suppose. You are a foolish set, you women, 
 forcing things upon a man's consideration, 
 which, if you had but let him alone — " 
 Lewis drew himself up again, and let the end 
 of his sentence evaporate in a smile. 
 
 " I was not thinking of — I mean it is not for 
 Miss Aytoun," said Anne, anxiously ; " but 
 your mother wants to consult you, Lewis. 
 There are so many matters of business to attend 
 to that you should manage yourself. Do not go 
 to-day." 
 
 " Don't fear me !" said Lewis, confidently. 
 " I vdll attend to my business, too. We shall 
 soon see who is strongest in that respect. Here, 
 Duncan !" 
 
 Duncan had brought his master's horse to 
 the door, and stood at some distance, holding 
 the bridle. 
 
 " Good morning, Anne !" cried Lewis, as he 
 mounted and cantered gaily out. " I am off to 
 Falcon's Craig." 
 
 Anne would gladly have broken her appoint-
 
 118 MERKLAND. 
 
 merit now, had that been possible, but, as it was 
 not, she too set out on her way to the Tower. 
 A comfortable pony-carriage — Mrs. Catherine's 
 favourite vehicle — stood at the gate as she entered, 
 and up stairs in her bright dressing-room Alice 
 Aytoun was hastily wrapping herself in the 
 costly furs — Mrs. Catherine's latest present — 
 which she had already spent so much time in 
 admiring. 
 
 " Gowan," said Mrs. Catherine, during the 
 moment in which they were left alone together, 
 "let Lewis come to me the morn ; or is he 
 with you to-day ?" 
 
 " He spoke of meeting us at Falcon's Craig, 
 and returning with us," said Anne. 
 
 " Bring him to me, then, when ye come 
 back," said Mrs. Catherine. " I am feared there 
 is little hope for the lad, Archie Sutherland, 
 Gowan, and I am solicitous to hear from Lewis 
 what kind of friends his sister Isabel has. If 
 the lad is ruined (which the Almighty avert, if 
 it be His pleasure !) what is the wilful fuil of a 
 girl to do ? A man may win back guid fame, 
 even if it be once lost — and that is a sore fight 
 — but a woman can never ; and if she be left in 
 that fremd place her lane, with an evil-speaking 
 world, that judges other folk as it kens it should
 
 MERKLAND. 119 
 
 be judged itself, I say to you, Gowan, what is 
 the inconsiderate fail to do ?" 
 
 " Captain Duncombe will surely come to take 
 care of his wife," said Anne. 
 
 " What ken ye about Captain Duncombe ?" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Catherine. " I will go myself 
 to bring Isabel Balfour's ill bairn home to my 
 ain house, Gowan — the fittest place for her to be. 
 I will leave her to the tender mercies of no ill- 
 conditioned man, well though she may deserve 
 it ; that is if things come to the worst with 
 Archie. Bri.:;2: Lewis to me when ye come 
 back, Gowan. I would ken what kind of folk 
 she has her friends among." 
 
 In a few minutes after, attended by Johnnie 
 Halflin, the two young ladies drove over the 
 bridge on their way to Falcon's Craig. 
 
 The road was pleasant, and Alice was so very 
 gay and full of happiness, that Anne's heart 
 expanded in involuntarj^ sympathy. The girl 
 had been so tenderly guarded through all her 
 seventeen years, so hedged about with domestic 
 love and protection, and did so trustingly 
 rely now upon the kindness of all about her, 
 that few could have been harsh enough to 
 disappoint the reliance of the youthful spirit, or 
 teach it suspicion. It was, besides, an alto-
 
 120 MERKLAND. 
 
 gether new enjoyment to Anne, to have any- 
 thing loveable looking up to her as Alice did. 
 It suited her graver nature to be trusted in, and 
 leaned upon. The depths in Anne's spirit 
 began to stir ; tenderness as of a mother's to 
 spread its protecting wing over the " little one" 
 beside her. Might she not make some secret 
 atonement — might she not by tenderest care, 
 and sympathy, and counsel, in some slight 
 degree, make up the loss which her brother's 
 hand had inflicted upon that unconscious girl ? 
 
 They reached Falcon's Craig at last. It was 
 a great, rambling, gaunt, old house, standing 
 high and bare, with inartistic turrets, and un- 
 sightly gables, on the summit of a rock. The 
 perpendicular descent behind was draped with 
 clinging shrubs and ivy, but the situation gave 
 a bleak, cold, exposed look to the house. Nor 
 had any precautions been taken to amend this. 
 Trees and shrubs before the door grew rough 
 and unkempt as nature had let them grow. 
 The grass upon the lawn waved high and rank, 
 great rows of hollyhocks and sunflowers shed 
 their withered leaves and ripe seed below the 
 windows. The much-trodden path, at the 
 further end, which led to the stables, and the 
 presence of one or two lounging grooms, told
 
 MERKLAND. 1 2 1 
 
 the enjoyments of the Laird of Falcon's Craig, 
 and explained, in some degree, the inferior culti- 
 vation of the neighbouring fields — fields over 
 which Mr. Coulter, of Harrows, with a good- 
 humoured desire to see all around him as pros- 
 perous as himself, shook his head and groaned. 
 
 The visitors alighted, and were shown into 
 Miss Falconer's heterogeneous drawing-room. 
 The lady herself lay upon a sofa near the fire, 
 with a newspaper in her hand. Alice Aytoun 
 did not like the appearance of the reclining 
 figure, in its bold, manlike attitude, and kept 
 close to Anne's side. 
 
 " Anne Ross !" exclaimed Miss Falconer, 
 springing up with an energy which made the 
 room ring; " why, I should as soon have 
 thought of Merkland coming to see me bodily, 
 as you. How do you do ? How are you, 
 little Miss Aytoun ? Tired of the Tower yet ?" 
 
 " No," said Alice, drawing back, instinc- 
 tively. 
 
 " Don't be afraid ; I won't hurt you," said 
 Miss Falconer, with a laugh. " Well, Anne, 
 how do you get on in Merkland ? Mrs. Ross 
 will be good and dutiful now, when Lewis is at 
 home." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 MERKLAND. 
 
 " You must ask Lewis himself," said Anne ; 
 " he is here now, is he not ?" 
 
 The face of Alice, which had been somewhat 
 in shadow, brightened. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Lewis is here," said Miss Fal- 
 coner ; " gone with Ralph to these everlasting 
 stables. Take notice, Miss Aytoun, that when 
 gentlemen come to Falcon's Craig, it is Ralph's 
 horses and dogs they come to see, and not 
 his sister. I say this, that you may not be 
 jealous." 
 
 Little Alice blushed, and drew up her slight 
 young figure, with some budding dignity. " I 
 have nothing to be jealous of. Miss Falconer." 
 
 Miss Falconer laughed again. " WeU, we 
 wiU not say anything before Anne. Anne is 
 taking lessons from Mrs. Catherine, in state 
 and gravity. How did you come ? In that 
 little phaeton, I declare, with these two sober 
 ponies, that I have known aU my life. You 
 never ride now, Anne ?" 
 
 " I do not remember that I ever did," said 
 Anne. " We keep few horses in Merkland ; 
 and besides, Marjory, there are not many ladies 
 of your nerve and courage." 
 
 " Miss Aytoun," said Miss Falconer, gaily,
 
 MERKLAND. 123 
 
 " do you ever flatter ? Anne, you see, knows 
 my weak point, and attacks me accordingly. 
 She thinks I rather pride myself on these two 
 unsafe qualities of nerve and courage. Well, 
 and why should we he cooped up within four 
 walls, and sentenced to do propriety all our 
 lives ? The bolder a man is, the more he is 
 thought of; but let one of us hapless women 
 but stir a step beyond the line, and we have 
 ' improper, indecorous, unwomanly,' thundered 
 in our ears from every side." 
 
 " Then you will not acknowledge the pro- 
 verbial ti-uth of what everybody says?" said 
 Anne. 
 
 "Not a bit," said Miss Falconer, boldly. 
 " Why should not I follow the hounds as 
 briskly, and read that political article," she 
 pointed to the paper she had thrown down, 
 " with as much interest as my brother ? I do, 
 it is true ; but see how all proper mammas draw 
 their pretty behaved young ladies under their 
 wings, when I approach. You all desert me, 
 you cowards of women ; I have only men's 
 society to fall back upon." 
 
 " But did you not tell us just now that you 
 liked that best ?" ventured little Alice Ay toun. 
 
 G 2
 
 1 24 MERKLAND. 
 
 " No, not I. Perhaps I do, though ; but I 
 did not say it." 
 
 '* Then, after all," said Anne, " the mistake 
 is not in what we quiet people call decorous, 
 and proper, and feminine ; but only that you, 
 with your high spirits and courage, have the 
 misfortune to be called Marjory, instead of 
 Ralph ; that is all ; for here, you see, are Miss 
 Aytoun and myself, and all the womankind of 
 Strathoran to back us, who have no ambition 
 whatever to follow the hounds, nor any very 
 particular interest in the leading article. It is 
 merely an individual mistake, Marjory. Acknow- 
 ledge it." 
 
 " Not I," exclaimed Miss Falconer ; *• it is 
 a universal oppression of the sex. They try to 
 reason us down first, these men ; and failing 
 that, they laugh us down : they will not be able 
 to accomplish either, one of these days. There ! 
 how you turn upon me with that provoking 
 smile of yours, Anne Ross ! What are you 
 thinking of now ?" 
 
 '* Do you remember a little poem — I think of 
 Southey's," said Anne, smiling — " about the 
 great wars of Marlbro' and Prince Eugene, 
 long ago ? I was thinking of its owerword,
 
 MERKLAND. 125 
 
 Marjory — ' What good came of it at last ? said 
 little \Yilhelmine.' " 
 
 " Ah, that is just like you," said Miss Fal- 
 coner ; " coming down upon one with your 
 scraps of poetry, when one is speaking common 
 sense. Oh, you need not raise your eyebrows ! 
 I tell you I am speaking quite reasonably and 
 calmly ; and we shall see, one day." 
 
 " But, Miss Falconer," inquired Alice, timidly, 
 " what shall we see ?" 
 
 " See ! Why, a proper equality between men 
 and women, as we were created," said Miss Fal- 
 coner, vehemently. " No more bandaging up 
 om- minds, as they do the feet of the poor girls 
 in China — oppressing us for their own whims, 
 everywhere ! Xo more shutting us out of our 
 proper share in the management of the world — 
 no more confining us in housekeepers' rooms 
 and nurseries, to make preserves, and dress 
 babies !" 
 
 " Are the babies to be abolished, then ?" said 
 Anne. " For pity's sake, Marjory, do not sen- 
 tence the poor little things to masculine muses. 
 Farewell to aU music or harmony, then. If 
 we are to dress babies no more, let it be 
 ordained, I pray you, that there shall be no more 
 babies to dress !"
 
 126 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Nonsense, Anne !" exclaimed Marjory Fal- 
 coner, loudly ; '* you want to ridicule all I say. 
 You are content with the bondage — content to 
 be regarded as a piece of furniture, a household 
 drudge, a pretty doll." 
 
 '^ Hush !" said Anne; "spare me the adjec- 
 tive. I am in no danger of your last evil. 
 And see how Miss Aytoun looks at you." 
 
 " Never mind," said Miss Falconer ; " Miss 
 Aytoun will sympathise with me, I am sure; 
 every true woman must. See how they smile 
 at our opinions — how they sneer at our judg- 
 ment — * Oh, it's only a woman.' I tell you, 
 Anne Ross, all that will be changed by-and-bye. 
 We shall have equal freedom, equal rights — our 
 own proper dignity and standing in the world." 
 
 " And how will it change our position ?" said 
 Anne. 
 
 " How obtuse you are ! Change our posi- 
 tion ! Why it will make us free — it wiU eman- 
 cipate us — it will — " 
 
 " Particulars, particulars, Marjory ?" 
 
 Miss Falconer paused. 
 
 " We shall not be thought unfit any longer 
 to do what men do ; our equal mental power 
 and intelligence shall be recognised. We shall 
 have equal rights — we shall be free !"
 
 MERKLAND. 127 
 
 Anne looked up smiling. 
 
 " ' And what good came of it at last ? said 
 little Wilhelmine.' " 
 
 Miss Falconer started from her seat in anger, 
 and walked quickly through the room for a 
 moment, Alice looking on in wonder and alarm. 
 At last Marjory approached the table, looked 
 Anne in the face, half smiling, half angry, and 
 replied, in a burst : 
 
 *' * Nay, that I cannot tell/ quoth he, 
 But 'twas a glorious victory !' " 
 
 Conversation less abstract followed, when 
 Lewis and Ralph joined them ; and not long 
 after, Anne and Alice resumed their places in 
 the phaeton, and turned homewards, Lewis 
 riding by their side. Anne's spirits had won- 
 derfully Hghtened during their drive, and now 
 she defended Marjory Falconer, almost gaily, 
 against the laughing and half-contemptuous 
 attacks of Lewis. 
 
 " Marjor}^ arms all the silly lads in the parish 
 with flippant impertinences about women and 
 their rights. Miss Aytoun," she said. " I did 
 not mean you, Lewis, so there is no occasion for 
 drawing yourself up. Yet Marjory has some 
 strength, and much kindHness of spirit. And
 
 128 MERKLAND. 
 
 when she has once got rid of those foolish no- 
 tions, which she will when she has matured a 
 little—" 
 
 Anne stopped abruptly. She had noticed 
 before the tall, stooping figure of a woman ad- 
 vancing towards them, and could recognise now, 
 as the passenger approached, the w^an face, and 
 wistful, melancholy eyes, which had made so 
 deep an impression upon her imagination, when 
 she saw them on the previous night, looking so 
 sorrowfully on Merkland. A very remarkable 
 face it was, which the stranger now lifted to 
 them, as she passed slowly on, speaking in its 
 emaciated lines of mental struggle more than 
 bodily sickness ; and with its strange habitual 
 look of wistful search, as if its eyes had been 
 exercised by constant watching, and had sought 
 about vainly for some hope or gladness never to 
 be found again. Anne met her steadfast, melan- 
 choly look for a moment ; in another she had 
 passed on. 
 
 " What is the matter, Anne ?" said Lewis. 
 
 Anne drove on awhile, in silence. 
 
 " Did you not observe that face ?" 
 
 ** What face ? I saw a woman passing, who 
 stared at you, as you did at her ; don't be sen- 
 timental, Anne : some shopkeeper's wife, from
 
 MERKLAND. ] 29 
 
 Portoran, who has been at the mill. What 
 were you saying of Marjory Falconer *? Go 
 on." 
 
 Anne went on. 
 
 " She will mature by-and-bye, and come out 
 of these follies a sensible woman. You shake 
 your head, Lewis. She will never be of the 
 gentlest ; but sensible, and kindly, and vigorous, 
 I believe she will be, one day. There is often 
 some eccentricity about strength, in its develop- 
 ment." 
 
 " Hear, hear," cried Lewis. " Do you ob- 
 serve how Anne turns her periods. Miss Aytoun? 
 Marjor}- will keep a chau* for you, Anne, in some 
 of her feminine colleges, when she has accom- 
 plished the rights of women. !Moral philosophy ! 
 I hope they w^ill give you an LL.D." 
 
 They reached the mill as Lewis spoke. It stood 
 near the spot Mr. Coulter had spoken of, 
 " where three lairds' lands met ;" and the burn 
 was intercepted for the uses of the mill, just 
 before it joined its w^aters to the Oran. 
 
 Anne drew up her ponies at the end of the 
 little bridge, which gave access to the miller's 
 dwelling. Alice had never seen this picturesque 
 corner of the Oran banks, and Amie proposed 
 giving her a glimpse of the bright interior of 
 
 G 3
 
 1 30 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mrs. Melder's pleasant house : she was anxious 
 hcTself to ask the miller's wife if she knew any- 
 thing of the singular stranger, whose appear- 
 ance had interested her so much. 
 
 So Johnnie Halflin scrambled down from his 
 perch behind, to hold Lewis's horse, much won- 
 dering what motive they could have for calling 
 on Mrs. Melder; and Alice lingered on the 
 grassy bank, that sloped down to the riverside, 
 from Mrs. Melder's door, to ask questions and 
 to admire. The grey mill buildings, and mighty 
 revolving wheel, and rush of foaming water, as 
 the bairn, like some brown mountain urchin, 
 ran, boisterous, from its labours into the placid 
 Oran, giving life and animation to the stream 
 it increased, were worthy of admiration even 
 more genuine than that of Alice, whose little 
 heart was beating very pleasantly, from various 
 causes, which she had not skill, if she had had 
 inclination, to analyze. 
 
 But the cottage door was suddenly flung open, 
 a loud scream startled them, and, turning 
 round alarmed, they saw a child flee out, its little 
 frock blazing, its face distorted with pain and 
 fear. Alice screamed, and clung to the arm of 
 Lewis, Lewis called to the boy, and sprang 
 irresolutely forward himself, not knowing what
 
 MERKLAND. 131 
 
 to do ; Johnnie Halflin scampered off in terror, 
 holding firmly the bridle of his charge, and the 
 child, blinded with fear, and scorched with pain, 
 flew forward madly. Anne snatched from the 
 carriage a large, rough plaid, threw herself 
 before the little girl, and wrapped it closely 
 round her. The child struggled — Anne pressed 
 the long, wide folds closer and closer round her, 
 extinguishing the flames with her hands. The 
 terrified miUer's wife ran to her assistance — so 
 did Lewis, and at last, very much frightened, 
 and considerably scorched, but with no serious 
 injury, the child was carried into the house, 
 where Alice followed timidly, pressing the small 
 hand of the sufferer within her own, and mur- 
 muring kindly words to stiU its weeping. It 
 was a little girl of some six years, and moaned 
 out its childish lamentations in broken words of 
 some strange^ sweet, foreign tongue. The rem- 
 nants of its burnt dress, too, were not like the 
 ordinary garments of peasant children, and Mrs. 
 Melder herself had no family. 
 
 " God be thankit ye were passing by. Miss 
 Anne !" exclaimed Mrs. Melder. " I am the 
 silliest body mysel that was ever putten in a 
 strait. Eh ! do ye no hear my heart beating ? 
 — and the stranger bairn I"
 
 132 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Whose is it, Mrs. Melder ?" asked Anne, as 
 they undressed the moaning child, and laid her 
 on the wooden bed which formed part of the 
 furniture of the homely apartment. 
 
 " And that is just what I cannot tell ye, Miss 
 Anne," said the miller's wife. " It was left wi' 
 me by ane — ye wad meet her on the road. She 
 wasna put on like a lady, but she wasna a com- 
 mon body cither — it was clear to see that. 
 We've had a dreary house, Robert and me, 
 since little Bell (ye'll mind her, Miss Anne ?) 
 was ta'en from us, twa year syne come Martin- 
 mas, and the stranger leddy had heard tell o't, 
 and thocht, as she said, that I wad be guid to the 
 wean — as I will, doubtless, piiir, innocent thing ! 
 — wha could be otherwise ?" 
 
 " And where did she come from ?" inquired 
 Anne, as she assisted in applying some simple 
 remedies. 
 
 " The bairn ? Na, how can I tell you that, 
 Miss Anne, when I dinna ken mysel?" 
 
 " No, no ; I mean the lady," said iVnne, 
 hurriedly. " I saw her— a very remarkable- 
 looking person she is. Is the child her own ?" 
 
 " Na ; she said no, ony way," said Mrs. 
 Melder. "Whaever it belongs to, they think 
 shame o't, that's sure. Waes me, Miss Ross !
 
 MERKLAND. 133 
 
 the ill that there is in this world ! She has 
 been living at the brig for a day or twa back, 
 and the bairn wi' her. I am doubtful it was but 
 a daftlike thing, taking a bairn when ane kens 
 nought o' its kindred. But the house was 
 dreary. Where there has been a w^ean in a 
 dwelling, it makes an unco odds when the 
 light o' its bit countenance is lifted away, 
 and my heart warmed to the puir wee thing, 
 sent out frae its ain bluid. So I took it, ye 
 see, Miss Ross, and Robert he didna oppose. 
 It's to bide twa years — if w^e're a' spared as 
 lang — and the stipend for it is twenty pund, and 
 the siller's lying in Mr. Foreman the WTiter's 
 hands — so we canna come to ony loss. It's an 
 uncommon bairn a'thegither o't, and speaks in a 
 tongue neither Robert nor me can make ony- 
 thing o'. It maun have come frae some far 
 pairt — was ye speaking, my lamb ?" 
 
 Anne beckoned Lewis forward as the child 
 murmured again some incoherent words. 
 
 " What language is it? — I do not recognise 
 the tongue." 
 
 " It is Spanish," said Lewis. " Strange ! 
 Where did the child come from, Mrs. Mel- 
 der ?" 
 
 The miller's wife repeated her stoiy, and,
 
 1 34 MERKLAND. 
 
 promising to call at the house of the doctor on 
 their way homeward, and send him up to the 
 little patient, her visitors left her, and proceeded 
 on their way, disturbed by no further incident, 
 except in Anne's mind, by the strange excite- 
 ment of interest with which this story moved 
 her. She could not banish the stranger's pale 
 face from her mind, nor forget the pitiful look 
 of the little child, in whose soft features she 
 thought she could trace some', resemblance, 
 moaning out its feeble complaint in that strange 
 language, uncomprehended, and alone.
 
 MERKLAND. 135 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 *' The madness ends. 
 But with it ends the ancient heritage, 
 The honour of the old pure name. The son, 
 From the just page of old and kind remembrance, 
 Hath blotted out the names of all his fathers." 
 
 These days passed on in suspense and 
 anxiety to Mrs. Catherine. Uncertain what to 
 believe or disbelieve, concerning the young man 
 in whose fortunes she was so deeply interested, 
 her strong spirit chafed and struggled in its 
 compulsory inactivity. Nor did Lewis's report 
 of Mrs. Buncombe's friends, in any degree still 
 her anxiet}\ Fashionable ladies stood low^ in 
 Mrs. Catherine's opinion at aU times ; and her 
 strong nationality aggravated tenfold her dislike
 
 1 36 MERKLAND. 
 
 to fashionable ladies in Paris — French or semi- 
 French. Had it not been for Alice, Mrs. 
 Catherine herself would have been on her way 
 to Paris ere now. But unwilling to send the 
 girl abruptly home, and riveted besides by a 
 hundred little ties, which made her absence 
 from the Tower (she had not left it since her 
 sorrowful journey, thirty years' ago, from 
 Sholto's island grave) seem an impossibility ; 
 she waited — we are constrained to admit, not 
 patiently — for further tidings, inclined to hope 
 sometimes that Mr. Foreman's benevolent sur- 
 mise might be well-founded; and anon, cast 
 down, and venting her grief in a show of bitter 
 indignation at " the prodigal that could sell his 
 birthright." 
 
 Many solitary hours were spent during that 
 anxious fortnight (for mails travelled tardily 
 thirty years ago) in the little room — and many 
 wrestlings of secret, silent prayer these narrow 
 walls were witness to. Jacky, gliding hither 
 and thither in her elfin ubiquity, could hear Mrs. 
 Catherine's step shake the floor ; and listened in 
 tremulous awe and reverence sometimes to those 
 often-repeated words, the burden of Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's anxiety : " Isabel Balfour's one son — that 
 might have been your firstborn, Sholto Doug-
 
 MERKLAND. 13/ 
 
 las !'' But Jacky, with a sentiment of honour 
 peculiar to herself, kept her knowledge of Mrs. 
 Catherine's trouble, jealously within her own 
 mind, and in the interv^als of her heterogeneous 
 occupations, and no less heterogeneous studies, 
 wove dreams of that young Laird of Strathoran, 
 over whom Mrs. Catherine prayed and mourned 
 — and creating for his especial service, some 
 such wondrous vassal as the Genii of Aladdin, 
 conjured Sholto Douglas back to life and lands 
 again, and made the prodigal his heir and son. 
 
 Little Bessie, Alice Aytoun's maid, did not 
 know what to make of that strange, thin, an- 
 gular girl, with her dark keen face, and eccentric 
 motions, and singular language. Bessie, plump, 
 rosy and good-humoured, looked on in wonder- 
 ing silence as Jacky sat on the carpet in the 
 library, bent almost double over some mighty 
 old volume from those heavy and well-filled 
 shelves — was inclined to laugh sometimes, yet 
 checking herself in mysterious reverence, re- 
 volved in her mind the possibility of Mrs. 
 Catherine's frequent epithet " ye elf" — having 
 in it some shadow of truth. Bessie had read 
 fairy tales in her day, and knew that in these 
 authentic histories there were such things as
 
 138 MERKLAND. 
 
 changelings — could this strange Jacky be one ? 
 The flying footsteps, and bold leaps and climb- 
 ings, which Bessie did not venture to emulate, 
 gave some colour to the supposition, so did 
 these out-of-the-way studies and singular ex- 
 pressions ; but Jacky withal was not malicious, 
 nor evil-tempered, and Bessie paused before 
 condemning her. On consulting Johnnie Hal- 
 flin on the subject, she found him as much 
 puzzled as herself. 
 
 " For ye see," said Johnnie, " she was never 
 at the schule — and look till her reading ! I 
 was three — four year at it mysel, the haill 
 winter ; for ye ken in this pairt, Bessie, it's no' 
 like a toun — there's the beasts to herd a' the 
 simmer and ither turns, till the shearing's by ; 
 but 1 wad rather hae a day's kemping with that 
 illwilly nowt that winna bide out o' the corn, 
 than sit down to the books wi' Jacky. She kens 
 best herself where she learnt it." 
 
 *' And look how she speaks," ejaculated 
 Bessie. 
 
 " Speaks ! ye haena heard her get to her 
 Enghsh — it's like listening to the leddies. No 
 Mrs. Catherine ye see, for ane canna think what 
 words she says — ye just ken when ye hear her.
 
 MERKLAND. 1 39 
 
 that ye maun do what ye're bidden in a mo- 
 ment ; but Jacky ! ye would think she got it a' 
 out o' books — whiles, when ye anger her — " 
 
 " Eh, Johnnie ! yonder she is, coming fleeing 
 down the hill," cried little Bessie in alarm, as a 
 flying figure paused on a ridge of the steep 
 eminence above them, and drew itself back for 
 a final race to the bottom. " Look ! ye would 
 think she never touched the ground." 
 
 " Whisht, whisht," said Johnnie, apprehen- 
 sively, " she can hear ony sound about the place, 
 as quick as Oscar, and Oscar's the best watch 
 in the parish — be canny, Bessie." 
 
 The youthful gossips were standing, during 
 their gloaming hour of leisure, at the back of a 
 knot of outhouses, byres, and stables, and Jacky 
 came sweeping down upon them out of breath. 
 
 " Are you there, Johnnie Halflin ? is that 
 you, Bessie ? Has my mother been in the byre 
 yet? — whisht, there she's speaking." 
 
 " No, it's Jean," said the lad ; " the cow's 
 better, and Jean said she would never let on 
 there had been onything the matter wi't, or else 
 the puir beast would be kiUed wi' physic. Ye 
 needna tell on her Jacky — ye w^adna like to 
 pushun a bonnie cow like yon, yoursel." 
 
 " And we'll no' tell on vou," added Bessie.
 
 140 MERKLAND. 
 
 " I'm no caring," was the quick response, 
 *' whether ye tell on me or no — only if you do, 
 Bessie, I'll never be friends with ye again ; and 
 if you do, Johnnie, ye'll catch grief. Guess 
 where I've been." 
 
 " Scooring ower the hills on a heather be- 
 som," said Johnnie, " seeking the fairies — they 
 say ye're ane yoursel." 
 
 A sweep of Jacky's energetic arm sent John- 
 nie staggering down the brae. 
 
 " I have been down at Robert Melder's mill, 
 and there's a bairn there — a little girl — Bessie, 
 ye never saw the like of it !" 
 
 " Is't a' dressed in green, and riding on a 
 white powny?" said Mrs. Catherine's youthful 
 servingman, returning to the charge. 
 
 " Ye're a fuil," retorted Jacky, flushing in- 
 dignantly, " how do the like of you ken what's 
 true and what's a fable ? There was a lady once, 
 that led a lion in her hand — you dinna ken what 
 that means — and if there were gentle spirits 
 lang syne in the air, what do you ken about 
 them? Bessie, come with me the morn, and 
 see the little bairn. I like to hear her speak ; 
 she says words like what you hear in dreams." 
 
 Jacky's companions indulged in a smothered 
 laugh.
 
 MERKLAND. 141 
 
 '• Has she wings ?" asked the lad. 
 
 " I will throw ye into the Oran, Johnnie 
 Halflin," cried Jacky, in wrath; " if ye do not 
 hold your peace in a minute. Miss iVnne saved 
 her life, and she speaks a strange language that 
 naebody kens ; and she's from a strange 
 country ; and she's like — " 
 
 " Oh, I saw her mysel," interrupted Johnnie, 
 " a bit wee smout, wi' her frock burning — saved 
 her life ! how grand we're speaking ! I could 
 have done't mysel, a' that Miss Anne did, and 
 made nae work about it — only I had Merk- 
 land's horse to baud." 
 
 " I have seen a face like it," said Jacky, 
 thoughtfully, " a' but the e'en." 
 
 " Eh, and isna Mr. Ross a fine young gentle- 
 man ?" said little Bessie. Bessie was glad to 
 seize upon the first tangible point. 
 
 *' How would ye hke to bide constant in 
 Strathoran, Bessie," said Johnnie Halflin, ''down 
 bye at Merkland? Eh, disna Mr. Lewus gie 
 weary looks up at the caster tower ?" 
 
 Bessie bridled, and drew herself up with 
 pleased consciousness, as her mistress's repre- 
 sentativ^e. 
 
 *' I w^onder at ye, Johnnie ! how can ye speak 
 such nonsense ?"
 
 142 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Is't Miss Aytoun Mr. Lewis looks up for ?" 
 inquired Jacky. 
 
 Her companions answered with a laugh. 
 
 " / think," said the boy, " for my ain part, 
 that there's no a young leddy in a' Strathoran 
 like Miss Aytoun. She's out-o'-sight bonnier 
 than Miss Anne." 
 
 Jacky pushed him indignantly away. 
 
 " A fine judge you are. Like a big turnip 
 your ain sel. A clumsy Swede, like what they 
 give to the kye. But, Bessie, do you think Mr. 
 Lewis is in — " Jacky hesitated, her own sin- 
 gular romance making it sacrilege to speak 
 the usual word in presence of those ruder com- 
 rades : " do ye think Mr. Lewis likes Miss 
 Alice ? he's no courting her ?" 
 
 Bessie smiled, blushed, and looked dignified. 
 
 " O, Jacky, how do I ken ?" 
 
 " Does Miss Alice like him .?" 
 
 " Jacky, what a question ! Miss Alice disna 
 tell me." 
 
 Jacky looked at her inquisitively, and finish- 
 ing her share of the conversation in her own 
 abrupt fashion, shot into the byre to see the 
 ailing cow, from whence she soon after stole 
 into the Tower, where an irksome hour of com- 
 pulsory stocking-knitting, in the comfortable
 
 MERKLAND. 143 
 
 housekeeper's-room of Mrs. Euphan Morrison, 
 awaited Mrs. Euphan's reluctant daughter. The 
 room was a very cosy room in all things, but 
 its disagreeable odour of dried and drying herbs ; 
 and JaLckVj after a reproof from her mother, so 
 habitual that it had sunk into a formula, took 
 her customary seat and work. Bessie joined 
 her, by-and-bye, with some little piece of 
 sewing that she had to do for Miss Aytoun, 
 and Johnnie Halflin, less dignified, betook him- 
 self to the kitchen fire, to read, or joke, or doze 
 the evening out. 
 
 The time drew near when Mrs. Catherine's 
 doubts concerning Archibald Sutherland were to 
 be solved. The s'trong old lady grew nervous 
 on these dim mornings, and opened her letter- 
 bag with a tremor in her hand ; but when the 
 latest day had come, there was still no letter 
 from Paris. Impatiently she tossed them out. 
 There were two or three letters of applicants for 
 her vacant farm, the closely- written sheet of 
 home-news for Alice, business-notes of various 
 kinds, but nothing from the prodigal, whose 
 interests lay so near her heart. She lifted them 
 all separately again, turned out the bag — in 
 vain. Her clear eye had made no blunder in its 
 first quick investigation. Mrs. Catherine's brow
 
 144 MERKLAND. 
 
 darkened. Alice hardly dared to approach 
 timidly, and withdraw her own letter from the 
 little heap. Not that the face of her kinswoman 
 expressed anger, but it bore the impress of some 
 unknown mental struggle, which Alice, in the 
 serene light of her girlish happiness, did not even 
 know by name. 
 
 So Alice stole up stairs to the fireside of her 
 bright dressing-room, to read the long mother's 
 letter, overflowing with tender counsel and afl'ec- 
 tion, and to weave fair dreams — dreams of joy 
 and honour to that gentle mother, and all things 
 pleasant and prosperous to James — round one 
 unacknowledo;ed centre of her own. Pleasant 
 are those bright dream-mists of youthful reverie, 
 with their vague fairy-land of gladness — plea- 
 sant to weave their tinted web, indefinitely rich 
 and glorious, over that universe of golden air, 
 with its long withdrawing vistas — the wealthy 
 future of youth. 
 
 But Mrs. Catherine sat still alone, her head 
 bent forward, her keen eyes looking into the 
 blank depths of a mirror on the wall, as 
 though, like the hapless lady in the tale, she 
 could read the wished-for tidings there. The 
 door opened slowly. Jacky, with some strange 
 intuitive knowledge of her mistress's anxiety,
 
 MERKLAND. 145 
 
 had been on the outlook from the window of the 
 west room, and had now glided down stairs to 
 report. Mrs. Catherine raised her head sharply 
 as the girl's prefatory " If you please !" fell on 
 her ear. 
 
 "Whatisf, ye elf?" 
 
 " If ye please," continued Jacky, " it's Mr. 
 Fergusson, the Strathoran factor, gallopping up 
 the waterside like to break his neck !" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine started to her feet. 
 
 " Take him to the library — I will be down 
 myself in a moment. Are ye Hngering, ye 
 fair}^ ? Away with ye !" 
 
 Jacky vanished, and Mrs. Catherine walked 
 hastily through the room. 
 
 " He will have gotten tidings !" And then 
 she was still for a moment, in communion with 
 One mightier than man, nerving herself for the 
 " tidings," whatever they might be. 
 
 Jacky stood at the open door as Mr. Fergus- 
 son gaUopped up, but he did not notice the 
 unusual haste with which he w^as hurried into 
 the librar}^ A cold dew was on his honest 
 forehead ; regret and grief were in his kindly 
 heart; the famihar ordinary things about him 
 bore a strange look of change. The difference 
 was in his own agitated eyes, but he did not 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 MERKLAND. 
 
 think of that. Mrs. Catherine stood before 
 him, calm and stern, in the library. 
 
 " Mr. Fergusson, ye have gotten tidings ?" 
 
 The firm, strong figure reeled in Mr. Fer- 
 gusson's dizzy eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Fergusson, ye are troubled. Has the 
 prodigal done his worst ? Sit down and calm 
 yourself. I am waiting to hear ?" 
 
 The factor sat down. Mrs. Catherine did 
 not, but, clasping her hands tightly together, 
 stood before him and waited. 
 
 " I have bad news, Mrs. Catherine," said 
 Mr. Fergusson ; " worse news, a hundred times, 
 than ever I suspected — than ever you could 
 expect. Strathoran is fallen — ruined ! No 
 hope — no possibility of saving him ! It is aU 
 over !" And the strong man groaned. 
 
 " How and wherefore ?" said Mrs. Catherine, 
 sternly. 
 
 " He has sold his estate — parted with his 
 home and his land to some titled sharper in 
 Paris. Sold ! he has done worse — still more 
 dishonourable and fatal than that, he has gam- 
 hied it away; what his father spent years to 
 redeem, and set free for him^ he has staked on 
 the chances of a game. Bear with me, Mrs. 
 Catherine, if I speak bitterly. The young man
 
 MERKLAND. 147 
 
 has disappointed all my hopes — ruined himself — 
 what will become of him ?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine stood with her head bowed 
 down, but otherwise firmly erect, and silent. 
 
 " What will he do ?" repeated the distressed 
 factor, " what can he do ? land and name, for- 
 tune and character, all lost. What has he left, 
 as he says, but despair — with his prospects too, 
 his fair beginning. O, it is enough to make a 
 man distracted ! WTiat have they done, that 
 unhappy race, that they should be constantly 
 thus — father and son, a wise man and a pro- 
 digal, the one wasting his substance and his 
 inheritance, the other denying himself the law- 
 ful pleasures of a just life to win it back again." 
 
 *' Comfort yourself, Robert Fergusson," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, bitterly, as drawing forward a 
 chair with emphatic rapidity, she seated herself 
 at the table, " there will be no son of the name 
 again to w^aste years in building up the house 
 of Strathoran : their history has come to an end 
 — fitly ended in a dyvour and a prodigal." 
 
 The factor looked up deprecatingly, the very 
 words which his excitement brought to his own 
 lips, sounding harsh from another's. 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine, Mr. Archibald is young. 
 When other lads were leaving school or entering 
 
 H 2
 
 148 MERKLAND. 
 
 college, he was launched upon the world his 
 own master, with a great income and a large 
 estate. You know how easily the light spirit 
 of youth is moved, but you cannot know how 
 the way of a young man is hedged in with 
 temptations — Mrs. Catherine 1" the factor raised 
 his hand in appeal. 
 
 " Speak not to me," said Mrs. Catherine, " I 
 ken ! yes truly, I ken more than ye think, or 
 give me credit for. Temptations ! and what is 
 obedience that has never been tried, or strength 
 that has not been exercised in needful resist- 
 ance ? I bid ye listen to me, Robert Fergus- 
 son — was there no a test appointed in Eden ? 
 and would ye set yourself to say that the fuil 
 of a woman (that I should say so, who am of 
 her lineage and blood !) might be justified for 
 her ill-doing, because the fruit hung fair upon 
 the tree, and tempted the wandering e'en of 
 her ? Think better of my judgment and bring 
 no such pleas to me." 
 
 " What can I bring ? What can I say ?" 
 said Mr. Fcrgusson, in a low voice. " Is he to 
 be left to live or die, as he best can, in yon 
 strange country ? Are we to let him sink into 
 a professional gamester, like the men who have 
 ruined him ? I speak wildly. He would never
 
 MERKLAND. 149 
 
 do that. I myself must seek, in some other 
 place, a livelihood for my family; and I will 
 get it ; for my work is clear before me, and it 
 is known that I can do what I undertake ; but 
 for him, Mrs. Catherine, with no friend in this 
 wide world but yourself, who can give him 
 efficient help — with not an acre but these poor 
 lands of Loelyin and Lochend, which are still 
 entailed ; and, worse than all that, with his 
 best years lost, his principles unsettled, and a 
 stain upon his name — what is to become of 
 him ?" 
 
 " He wiQ drink the browst he has brewed," 
 said Mrs. Catherine, harshly. " He will enter 
 on the weird of the waster, as I have told you 
 before now. Let him take his wages — let him 
 want now, as he has sinfully wasted. It is his 
 righteous hire and reward." 
 
 " And you can see that, can think of that, 
 and not stretch out a hand to him ?" cried the 
 factor, nervously, as he rose from his chair. 
 " Except my hand and my head, Mrs. Catherine 
 Douglas, I have no inheritance ; and your estate 
 \delds gold to you, greater every year ; but, 
 before I see want come to Strathoran's son, 
 I will labour night and day. The two profes- 
 sions are open to him yet. His mother's uncle
 
 150 MERKLAND. 
 
 was a Lord of Session ; his father's cousin was 
 the greatest physician in Edinburgh. I bid you 
 good morning, Mrs. Catherine. I have to 
 write to Mr. Archibald, without loss of time." 
 
 " Sit down upon your seat, this moment," 
 said Mrs. Catherine, authoritatively, " and do 
 not speak to me like a fuil, Robert Fergusson. 
 Let me hear Archie Sutherland's story, the 
 worst and the best of it ; and spend a pound 
 of your own siller on the dyvour, at your 
 peril ! As if I did not know one lad at the 
 college was enough for any man. Sit down 
 upon your seat, and tell me the whole story, 
 as I bid you, this moment ; or I vow to you, 
 that your young advocate, if he had his gown 
 the morn, shall get no pleas of mine !" 
 
 Mr. Fergusson sat down, well pleased, and 
 taking out a letter, laid it silently before Mrs. 
 Catherine. The letter was long, blurred, un- 
 even, and written, as it seemed, in hurried 
 intervals, with breaks and incoherent dashes of 
 the pen between. It was not either very clear 
 or very coherent ; but it told how rent and dis- 
 tracted the writer's heart and spirit were, and 
 what a ceaseless struggle raged and contended 
 there. The large soft folds of Mrs. Catherine's 
 shawl shook as if a wind had stirred them,
 
 MERKLAND. 151 
 
 but she did not speak ; the moisture gathered 
 thick beneath her large eyelid, but was not shed, 
 for Mrs. Catherine was not given to tears. At 
 last she closed the letter carefully, occupying 
 much more time in the operation than was 
 necessary, and endeavoured to assume her former 
 caustic tone to hide her graver emotions. " A 
 bonnie story to come to a gentlewoman withal ! 
 well, Mr. Fergusson, and what is it your purpose 
 that I should do for your dyvour ?" 
 
 "I do not know — I have not been able to 
 think," said the factor, himself moved even to 
 weeping : " that something must be done, and 
 that immediatelv, is clear. If I had not been 
 coming to you for assistance, Mrs. Catherine, I 
 should have come for advice, for how to proceed 
 I cannot see." 
 
 There was a considerable pause — at length, 
 Mrs. Catherine started from her seat and re- 
 sumed her quick pacing of the room. 
 
 " Wherefore are we losing time — send a 
 message home to Woodsmuir to bid them put 
 up a change of apparel for ye; ride into Por- 
 toran and get what siUer wiU be needful — do not 
 be scrimpit — and go your ways this very day, or, 
 if it be too far spent, at the latest the morn, to 
 the prodigal. I would go myself, but the
 
 152 MERKLAND. 
 
 witless callant, as I see by his letter, is feared 
 for me, and you can maybe travel with less 
 delay. Bring him home. Strathoran can 
 shelter him no longer, but the dwelling-place of 
 Sholto Douglas can never be closed upon Isabel 
 Balfom-'s son. I say to you, lose no time, 
 Robert Fergusson." Mrs. Catherine rang the 
 bell energetically. " Write to your wife about 
 the needful raiment. Archie Sutherland has 
 sleeped in young Robert's cradle. She will not 
 grudge the trouble." 
 
 Mr. Fergusson did not wait to reflect, but 
 with all speed, drew paper and ink towards him 
 and began to write. 
 
 " Let Andrew or Johnnie be ready in a 
 moment to ride to Woodsmuir," said Mrs. 
 Catherine, as Jacky appeared at the door; "and 
 tell your mother to send in refreshments for 
 Mr. Fergusson. Begone, ye imp — what are ye 
 waiting for ?" 
 
 " If ye please," said Jacky, " it's Mr. Fore- 
 man himsel in the gig — will I bring him in?" 
 and, without waiting for an answer, the girl 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Mr. Foreman himself," repeated Mrs. 
 Catherine. " What new trouble is coming 
 now ? — they are ever in troops."
 
 MERKLAND. 153 
 
 Mr. Fergusson raised his head uneasily and 
 paused in his writing. The excited curiosity 
 of both suggesting some farther aggravation of 
 the great misfortunes they already knew. 
 
 Mr. Foreman entered the room gravely, and 
 with care in his face — greeted Mrs. Catherine in 
 silence, and starting, when he saw Mr. Fergus- 
 son, asked : " It is true, then ?" 
 
 " True ? — Ay, beyond doubt or hoping," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, bitterly. "The prodigal has 
 made an end of his house and name. I was 
 right, Mr. Foreman, and ye were wrong. The 
 hairy fuil had been sent on no less an errand 
 than to see the value of the prey. Grant me 
 patience ! — how am I to see daily before me, 
 some evil animal, such as could herd with 
 cattle like yon, reigning in the house of the 
 Sutherlands ?" 
 
 " How have you heard, Mr. Foreman ?" said 
 the factor, anxiously. " Has Mr. Archibald 
 written to you himself?" 
 
 " No," said Mr. Foreman, " I have got my 
 information from a more disagreeable source. I 
 received a letter to-day from the solicitors of 
 Lord Gillravidge, touching the conveyance of 
 the property. Have you the intelligence direct 
 
 H 3
 
 154 MERKLAND. 
 
 from Mr. Sutherland ? I came up immediately 
 to let Mrs. Catherine know." 
 
 " I have a letter," said Mr. Fcrgusson. " It 
 is indeed all over. He has lost everything 
 except the entailed lands of Loelyin and Loch- 
 end, and the farm of Woodsmuir, upon which 
 my own house stands, and it, you know, is 
 mortgaged to its full value. All the rest is 
 gone. Mr. Archibald is ruined." 
 
 There was a pause again, broken only by the 
 sound of Mrs. Catherine's footsteps, as she 
 walked heavily through the room. These grave, 
 kind men, Archibald Sutherland's factor and 
 agent, who had known him all his life, were 
 almost as deeply affected with his sin and mis- 
 fortune as though he had been an erring son. 
 Mr. Foreman broke the silence by asking : 
 
 " What do you intend to do ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine advises me to start imme- 
 diately for Paris," said Mr. Fergusson. " We 
 all of us know how bitterly Mr. Archibald will 
 reproach himself, now that all self-reproach is 
 unavailing. I will endeavour to bring him 
 home — to the Tower, I mean ; and then — I do 
 not well know what we are to do. But we must 
 try to rouse his mind (it is a vigorous one, if it
 
 MERKLAND. 155 
 
 were but in a purer atmosphere), to shape out 
 for itself another course. I was about to ride 
 into Portoran to make immediate preparation for 
 my journey." 
 
 " Your letter, Mr. Fergusson," said Mrs. 
 Catherine, as Jacky again appeared at the door. 
 " Let Andrew — is it Andrew ? — lose no time ! 
 Here, ye elf ! Have ye anything else to ad\dse, 
 Mr. Foreman ? I myself would start in a 
 moment, but that I think Mr. Fergusson would 
 do it better. The lad's spirit is broken, doubt- 
 less, and I might be over harsh upon him. Give 
 me Archie's letter." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine's large grey eyelid swelled full 
 again, and she seated herself at the table. 
 
 " I have nothing else to advise," said Mr. 
 Foreman, abstractedly. " I think it is very 
 wise, and you should start at once, Mr. 
 Fergusson. But — " The lawyer paused. 
 " Is it not possible to do anything ? Could 
 no compromise be made? Better mortgage 
 the land (it was mortgaged heavily enough 
 in his grandfather's time — I remember how 
 old Strathoran was hampered by paying 
 them off)? than suffer it to pass altogether out of 
 his hands. Could nothing be done ? Mrs. 
 Catherine, if such an arrangement were possi- 
 ble, would you not lend your assistance ?"
 
 156 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine raised her eyes from the 
 letter. 
 
 " To what end or purpose ? That he might 
 have the freedom of losing the land again, if it 
 were won back to him by the spending of other 
 folks' substance ? George Foreman, it is not 
 like your wisdom to think of such a thing. A 
 tulchan laird — a shadow, and no substance — 
 with a false rank to keep up, and nothing coming 
 in to keep it up withal ? I will not hear of it ! 
 Gentlemen, I have made up my mind ; out of 
 yon hot unnatural air of artificial ill, the lad 
 must come down to the cold blast of poverty, if 
 he is ever to be anything but a silken fule, 
 spending gear unjustly gotten, in an unlawful 
 way. I say I will have no hand in giving back 
 plenty and ease to Archie Sutherland, till he has 
 righteously wrought and struggled for the same. 
 Bring him back to my house, Robert Fergusson. 
 He has lost the home and the lands of his 
 fathers. Let him see them in the hands of an 
 alien, and then let him gird his loins to a right 
 warfare, and win them back again. With God's 
 blessing, and man's labour, there is nought in 
 this world impossible. I hope to live to see 
 him win back his possessions, as I have seen 
 him lose them. If he does not, he deserves 
 them not."
 
 MERKLAND. 157 
 
 " Write to him so," said Mr. Fergusson, 
 eagerly. " It is the spur he needs. Let me 
 have a letter, so hopeful and encouraging, to 
 carry with me, Mrs. Catherine. Mere reproach 
 would do evil, and not good. You are per- 
 fectly right. A struggle — a warfare — that is 
 the true prescription. Write to Mr. Archibald 
 yourself — it will have more effect than anything 
 I can say." 
 
 Mr. Foreman sighed, and felt almost inclined 
 to withdraw his adherence from those reformers 
 who aim at the ahoUtion of entails. At length, 
 and slowly, he signified his consent. 
 
 " Yes — yes : Mrs. Catherine is right. I 
 believe it is the wisest way. But — " 
 
 Mr. Foreman paused again. A strange 
 master in Strathoran — the kindly union of the 
 country broken in upon by one who, if they 
 judged rightly, had done grievous ill to Archi- 
 bald Sutherland. A painful film came over the 
 lawyer's eyes. It seemed like treason to the 
 trust reposed in him by " Old Strathoran" 
 thus to suffer his son's downfall. 
 
 " You are losing time," said Mrs. Catherine. 
 '* Robert Fergusson, the day is wearing on. Ye 
 wiU not be able to leave Portoran the night. 
 Start with the first coach the morn's morning.
 
 158 MERKLAND. 
 
 Do not tarry a moment. Mind how long the 
 days will be to a spirit in despair ; and come 
 to me when you are returning from Portoran 
 if there is time. I will write to the unhappy 
 lad." 
 
 Thus dismissed, both gentlemen took their 
 leave, the factor receiving a parting adjuration 
 to " take sufficient siUer — be not scrimpit. Ye 
 will have many charges in so long a journey ; 
 and, as I have said, Robert Fergusson, lay out a 
 pound of your own siller upon this dyvour at 
 your proper peril ! I will visit your iniquity 
 upon the head of your young advocate, if ye 
 venture to do such a thing. — Mind !" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine seated herself at her library 
 table as the factor and the lawyer rode away 
 together, and began again to write to Archibald 
 Sutherland — a hurried letter, swiftly written. It 
 ran thus : 
 
 " I have heard of your transgression and 
 calamity, Archibald Sutherland, and write as I 
 need not teU you, in sore grief. Nevertheless, 
 I have neither time nor leisure to record my 
 lamentations, nor do I think that tears from old 
 e'en — the which are bitter in the shedding — are 
 things to make merchandise of for the mending
 
 MERKLAMD. 159 
 
 of young backsliders. At this moment, I have 
 other gear in hand. I see by your letter to 
 Mr. Fergusson (a better man than I fear you 
 will ever be), that you are yourself cast down, 
 and in grief, as it is meet you should be. See 
 that it be for the sin, and no for the mere carnal 
 consequences, and so there will be the better 
 chance for a blessing on your repentance. 
 
 " And callant, rise up and come back to the 
 country that brought ye forth, out of that den 
 of sin and iniquity. The house of your fathers 
 is open to ye no longer — the house of Sholto 
 Douglas can never be shut upon Isabel Balfour's 
 son. Come back to me — ye shall not be my 
 heir, for the lands of my fathers must descend 
 to none that cannot keep them firmly, and 
 guide them w^ell ; but w^hatsoever is needful for 
 ye to begin your warfare, lies ready for your 
 claiming. I say your w^arfare, Archie Suther- 
 land, for I bid ye not come home to dally 
 through an idle life or waste more days. Come 
 home to fight for your possessions back again — 
 come home to strive in every honourable and 
 law^ful way to win back the good land ye have 
 lost — come home, I say, Archie Sutherland, to 
 redeem yoiu* inheritance by honest laboiu*, and 
 establish yoiu- house again, as it w^as established
 
 1 60 MERKLAND. 
 
 by the first Sutherland that set foot on Oran- 
 side. The road is clear before ye. Ye have 
 gotten all the siller wasted now that ye can get 
 to waste. I command ye, as there is anything 
 in this life ye set a value on, to throw these evil 
 things behind ye, and gird yourself for a war- 
 fare — a warfare that will be neither light nor 
 brief, but that will be — what your past life has 
 not been — just and honourable, a work for a 
 man, no a witless and sinful dalliance for a silly 
 callant, a play for a fevered bairn. 
 
 " I have a burden of years upon me as ye 
 ken, and may have but a small distance be- 
 tween me and the kirkyard of Strathoran, 
 therefore I lay my charge upon ye to be speedy 
 with your labour. My kin and youthful neigh- 
 bours are round about me, Archie Sutherland, 
 (all but Sholto my one brother, that I left lying 
 in the cold earth of a strange country), but 
 they are dwelling in silent cities, where no living 
 thing can tarry. Gallant ! let me see hope 
 breaking upon ye, before 1 lay down my head 
 beside them. My time is short. Turn to this 
 work, Archie Sutherland, that I may carry 
 better tidings with me, to your father and your 
 mother, in the good land where they are resting 
 from their labour. To your warfare I com-
 
 MERKLAND. 161 
 
 mand ye, young man, that I may see your pros- 
 perity as I have seen your down-come. Come 
 home to the house of your mother's oldest 
 friend, come home without delay (and I charge 
 ye — that what honour remains to your name 
 may be presented — to bring home to me that 
 wilful girl, your sister Isabel) to your just work, 
 that I may not go down with a sore heart to 
 my last dwelling-place, 
 
 " Catherine Douglas." 
 
 Mr. Fergusson returned to the Tower on his 
 way to Woodsmuir, and received this letter, 
 with many messages and charges besides, espe- 
 cially addressed to Isabel Sutherland, whom 
 Mrs. Catherine, in the excitement of her grief 
 for Archibald, had almost forgotten. Mr. Fer- 
 gusson was to leave Portoran with the night- 
 coach for Edinburgh; and, again, the perforce 
 quietude of waiting fell upon the aged lady of 
 the Tower.
 
 162 MERKLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. • 
 
 *• Thou canst not labour any field, 
 But it to thee shall increase yield ; 
 Thou canst not sow thee any seed, 
 But it shall render fruit and bread. 
 And think not, then, vain soul, that thou 
 In sin's rathe land canst toil and plough. 
 Except thou take thine honest gains. 
 The bitter harvest of thy pains." 
 
 PURITAN HYMN. 
 
 Other two weary slow-paced weeks woi-e 
 through, before Mrs. Catherine heard any fur- 
 ther tidings of her prodigal. At last Mr. Fer- 
 gusson's hurried intimation of his arrival in 
 Paris came at once to satisfy and to stimulate 
 her anxiety — for Mr. Fergusson's brief epistle 
 said emphatically that it was well he had lost
 
 MERKLAND. 163 
 
 no time in setting out upon his journey, and 
 that he found "Mr. Archibald" in sorest need 
 of some steadfast friend about him. A few 
 days after there came a more expHcit letter. 
 Mr. Fergusson had found poor Archibald 
 Sutherland in the strong grip of despair. Loss 
 of fortune had brought loss of friends — not one 
 of all his former guests or flatterers remained to 
 comfort him in his poverty; and save for the 
 jealous solicitude mth which he guarded his 
 sister, Mr. Fergusson believed that his reckless 
 desperation would have laid him ere now in the 
 grave of the suicide. But Isabel, ^^ilful, im- 
 petuous and admired as she was, bound her 
 fierce guardian to his hated life — still courted in 
 these gay circles, for the wit and beauty which 
 all this burden of calamity could not diminish, 
 the ruined man stalked by her side everywhere, 
 like some intruding spectre, casting a blight 
 upon the smiles that woke no congenial sun- 
 shine in his ghostly face. The treachery which 
 he had felt surrounding himself — the w^aming 
 of Mrs. Catherine's letters had awakened him 
 to a wild anxiety for Isabel : he could not bear 
 her absence from him. Regardless of sneers and 
 inuendos — regardless of contempt and indiffe- 
 rence, he followed his sister wherever she went,
 
 1 64 MERKLAND. 
 
 and scowled away from her in his gaunt pride 
 and anger, whosoever ventured upon any show 
 of admiration. But no human spirit could bear 
 that fierce tension long; and when his factor's 
 home face looked in upon him, so clear, upright, 
 and manlike, with all its respectfiil kindliness of 
 sympathy, the heart of Archibald Sutherland 
 burst from its compulsory hardihood, and melted 
 into very weakness. None knew or could ap- 
 preciate better than he, the thoroughly honour- 
 able character of Mr. Fergusson — none better 
 knew the warm kindliness of that pleasant 
 home of Woodsmuir, which the factor had left 
 for the discomforts of a long journey and a 
 strange country, to aid and succour him — him, 
 the prodigal, the destroyer of his father's house. 
 Tears, strange to the eyes of the broken man, 
 fell copiously over Mrs. Catherine's letter — a 
 time of strange incoherence followed, and when 
 Mr. Fergusson wrote again, it was from the 
 sick room where Archibald Sutherland lay, 
 prostrate in body and mind, in the wild heat of 
 fever, struggling for his life. 
 
 Mr. Fergusson wrote with unwonted pathos 
 of that strange phantom of terror for Isabel, 
 which haunted his patient's mind by night and 
 day — the one consistent thread through all that
 
 MERKLAND. 165 
 
 delirious chaos — of how the wilful sister in the 
 pride of her wit and beauty heard it first from 
 her brother's raving lips with indignant anger, 
 haughtily blaming the manly watcher by that 
 brother's bedside whose place she did not offer 
 to take ; but how, at last, the " weeping blood 
 of woman's breast" was reached by that wail of 
 agony, and Isabel gave up her gaieties, and took 
 her place in the sick room, soothing the sufferer 
 by her ver}^ presence. But Mr. Fergusson did 
 not tell, how unweariedly he himself watched 
 by that bed of fever, and when doctor and 
 attendant despaired, still hoped against hope — 
 nor how, when feeble, and pale, and worn out, 
 the convalescent could raise his head again, it 
 was the strong arm of his Strathoran factor that 
 held him up — it was the kindly tongue of home 
 that gave thanks for his recovery. 
 
 But long weeks had lengthened into months 
 during Archibald's illness, and the dark short 
 days of December were rising, in their chill 
 alternations of frost and rain, upon the northern 
 skies of Strathoran, when Mr. Fergusson re- 
 turned home. He came alone, for Captain 
 Buncombe had joined his wife and brother-in- 
 law in Paris, and was to be their escort to 
 England. Captain Buncombe had got a con-
 
 166 MERKLAND. 
 
 siderable accession of fortune, by the death of 
 some friend, during the time of Archibald's 
 convalescence, and had managed to effect an 
 exchange into a regiment stationed near London, 
 whither his wife had no objection to accom- 
 pany him. The saturnine Captain was some- 
 thing touched by his hapless brother-in-law's 
 emaciated appearance, and had no objection to 
 travel leisurely home for his convenience, though 
 protesting many times, with unnecessary fer- 
 vour, that, when once at home, he could do 
 nothing for him ; and Mr. Fergusson, whose 
 own affairs imperatively called for his presence, 
 and whose strength had been wasted by long 
 confinement, reluctantly left his patient, and 
 returned to Strathoran alone. 
 
 In the meantime, changes had taken place 
 there : bevies of English sportsmen had arrived 
 with Lord GiUravidge at his newly- acquired 
 property — gamekeepers and grooms, a whole 
 village full, overbrimmed its quiet precincts. 
 Rough Ralph Falconer, condescendingly noticed 
 at first, in acknowledgment of his kindred 
 pursuits, was shrinking from the neighbour- 
 hood already fairly overcrowed and put down, 
 endeavouring to hide his mortification under 
 bitter laughter. Bitterly upon them, " pilgarlic
 
 MERKLAND. 167 
 
 dandies," " hairy fuils," " idle cattle," poured 
 the full flood of Mrs. Catherine's derision. 
 The countryside was stirred with unwonted 
 excitement. An Englishman, alien to their 
 blood, and contemptuous of their Church — the 
 supplanter, besides, of an old and long estab- 
 lished family, in a district peculiarly tenacious 
 of hereditary loves and hatreds, — the new Lord 
 of Strathoran had all the strongest feelings of 
 his neighbours arrayed against him. 
 
 The new Lord of Strathoran was supremely 
 indifferent. The countryside and its hkings 
 and dislikings, were not of the remotest conse- 
 quence to him. 
 
 And little Alice Aytoun was beginning to 
 receive gentle and tender hints from Edinburgh, 
 that the original limits proposed for her visit, 
 had been considerably overpassed. She had 
 forgotten, in the unconscious selfishness of a 
 light heart, how lonely the Edinburgh parlour 
 would be, during the long days which her 
 mother spent there alone — for Alice's entree 
 into the festi\dties and party-givings of that 
 quiet district, which her inexperience called 
 " the world," had been a triumph — and with so 
 much homage laid at her little feet, and so 
 much girlish delight and laughing wonder, in
 
 168 MERKLAND. 
 
 receiving that strange, new tribute of admira- 
 tion, it was scarcely wonderful that the Edin- 
 burgh parlour, with its quiet dwelling at home, 
 and brief domestic circle, seemed almost sombre 
 in the contrast. It was arranged, however, that 
 Alice should return home after the new year, 
 and, her conscience eased of some compunctions 
 it had, respecting neglect of her mother, Alice 
 looked forward to the especial merrj^-makings of 
 that blythe season with a light heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, Anne Ross's ingenuity was vainly 
 exercised in devising expedients to occupy her 
 brother, and divert him from those frequent 
 visits which it had become his pleasure to pay 
 at the Tower. Lewis found numberless errands 
 — alleged consultations with Mrs. Catherine, at 
 which his mother fumed silently in sullen 
 dignity — pretences for advising with the shrewd 
 factotum of Mrs. Catherine's finely-cultivated 
 home-farm, concerning those fields immediately 
 adjoining Merkland which Mr. Coulter advised, 
 putting on some scientific regimen — or even a 
 rare fungus, or delicate moss to show to Miss 
 Aytoun, who began to be interested in that 
 beautiful science of botany which Lewis himself 
 had taken up so suddenly. 
 
 These visits, and the too certain end to
 
 MERKLAND. 169 
 
 which they tended, pained Anne deeply, over- 
 powered her, indeed, sometimes with sick bewil- 
 derment, the more that in the present state of 
 matters, she was perfectly powerless. Any step 
 of her's might precipitate Lewis, so jealously 
 alive to interference as he was, and make that 
 certain, which was now only feared and depre- 
 cated, so Anne, like her fiiend in the Tower, had 
 to wait perforce for the regular course of events, 
 and with an anxiety stiU more intense and 
 painful than Mrs. Catherine's What but woe 
 and mishap could come from this unhappy 
 intercourse ? What but pain and disappointment 
 and sorrow to these two youthful hearts. 
 
 Anne could perceive that it annoyed her 
 stepmother; that Mrs. Ross, with her over- 
 weening partiality for, and pride in her only 
 son, was inclined to take his attention to Alice 
 Aytoun as a personal slight and injury to her- 
 self But it was not because a connection so 
 terrible existed between the families already — 
 Alice had no friends to elevate the standing, 
 nor portion to increase the wealth of her future 
 partner, and therefore Mrs. Ross frowned upon 
 the growing devotion of Lewis, and already, in 
 many a peevish altercation and sarcastic allusion, 
 had brought in Alice Aytoun's name — fanning 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 MERKLAND. 
 
 thereby the flame which she hoped to extin- 
 guish. 
 
 And during these months, the little girl, so 
 strangely brought to Oran Mill, was learning 
 the tongue of her new home rapidly. A strange 
 junction, the liquid Spanish, which fell on 
 Jacky's visionary ear so pleasantly, " like the 
 words folk hear in dreams," made, mingled 
 with these soft syllables of the homely, Scottish 
 tongue, broken from what harshness soever 
 might originally be in them, by the child's 
 voice of lisping music. Mrs. Melder had been 
 told to call her Lilias, and aifection had already 
 contracted the name into the famihar diminutive 
 of "Lihe." A strange exotic lily the child 
 seemed with her small, pale features and olive- 
 tinted cheek, and flood of dusky silken hair, 
 and she had become already a wonder in the 
 parish. 
 
 Mrs. Coulter sent for the miller's wife on 
 some small pretext of business, that she 
 might see her little lodger, and Lilie 
 returned from Harrows laden with fruit, 
 and toys, and sweetmeats, and leaving little 
 Harry Coulter, the agriculturist's Benjamin, 
 struggling with desperate energy to follow her, 
 and hopelessly in love. Lilie had even been
 
 MERKLAND. 171 
 
 taken to the Tower, and half smothered with 
 caresses from Alice, had received from Mrs. 
 Catherine strange looks of musing melancholy, 
 and one abrupt expression of wonder — 
 
 "Who was she like?" 
 
 Miss Falconer herself had gallopped a couple 
 of miles out of her way, and stopped at the 
 Mill, with her horse in a foam, to make ac- 
 quaintance with the little Donna. Jacky had 
 constituted herself her bodyguard and attendant, 
 and carried her off whole days on solitary ram- 
 bles among the hills. There were few of all the 
 circle round who were not interested in the 
 stranger child. 
 
 But no one received so great a share of 
 Lilie's regard, or was so powerfully attracted 
 towards her, as Anne Ross. There was a new 
 pleasure now in the long walks, which had a 
 half hour's playful intercourse with Lilie to 
 make them cheerful ; and Anne again and again 
 repeated her inquiries concerning the stranger 
 who had left the child with Mrs. Melder, with- 
 out however eliciting anything new. 
 
 " She wasna put on like a lady," repeated the 
 miller's wife. " My ain muckle shawi, wi' the 
 border, w^as worth tw^a o' the ain she had on, 
 and naething but a printed goun. But I have 
 
 I 2
 
 172 MERKLAND. 
 
 seen folk in silks and satins, Miss Anne, that 
 had a commoner look — no that she was bonnie 
 — but you saw her yoursel." 
 
 " Yes/' said Anne ; " she was a very remark- 
 able looking person." 
 
 " Na, but the e'en of her ! They made me 
 that I near sat down and grat — they had sic a 
 wistful, murning look in them. The bairn's are 
 no unlike. Haud up your head, Lilie, my lamb — 
 only it wad tak watching and sorrow, if I'm no 
 far mistaken, to gie her yon look. Waes me, 
 Miss Anne ! it spoke o' a sair heart !" 
 
 " But Lilie's are bright and happy, " said 
 Anne, drawing the child closer to her, and look- 
 ing affectionately upon the little face, from 
 which shone eyes deep enough in their Hquid 
 darkness to mirror forth great sorrows. " We 
 must not let grief come near Lilie." 
 
 " Lilie blythe — blythe ? " said the child, 
 clinging to her side. " Lilie no like happy. 
 Blythe is bonnier ! Lilie go the morn — up — 
 up !" 
 
 "To the hills, Lilie?" 
 
 " Up — up !" said the child, imitating with 
 feet and hands the motions of climbing. " Lilie 
 look away far — at the water." 
 
 " At the Oran, Lilie ?"
 
 MERKLAND, 173 
 
 "Where he go to?" asked Lilie, pointing 
 through the window to the brown, foaming 
 water — " rinning fast ? Wliere he go to ?" 
 
 " To the sea, Lilie," said Anne. 
 
 " Yes — yes," said the child. ** Lilie once 
 sail upon the sea ; row — row — in a big boat. 
 Lihe likes to look at it." 
 
 *' Were you alone, Lilie ?" said Anne. " Was 
 no one with you ?" 
 
 The child did not understand. 
 
 " A big boat — big — big — bigger than yon !" 
 Lilie had seen Mrs. Catherine's little vessel on 
 the Oran, and had been greatly interested in it. 
 " Lilie ran about," and the child eked out her 
 slender vocabulary with the universal language of 
 signs, " and saw the sea ; but the water did not 
 come upon Lilie." 
 
 " And was there no one to take care of Lilie ?" 
 said Anne. " No one to put on her little frock, 
 and to comb these pretty curls ?" 
 
 The child looked up thoughtfully for a moment, 
 and then, hiding her face in Anne's lap, burst 
 out into a passion of tears, moaning out in her 
 own language a lamentation over her " good 
 nurse, her Juana," with all the inconsolable vehe- 
 mence of childhood. 
 
 " She has done that before," said Mrs. Mel-
 
 1 74 MERKLAND. 
 
 der. " Can ye make onything o' the words, 
 Miss Anne ? I hae gotten to ken the sound o' 
 them, though neither Robert nor me can make 
 ony sense o' the outlandish tongue. Lilie, my 
 lamb, whisht, hke a guid bairn, and dry your 
 e'en ! See what a bonnie book Miss Anne has 
 brocht ye, and pictures in't ! 
 
 " There's mony o' the neighbours wonder at 
 us," continued Mrs. Melder, as the child, when 
 its fit of weeping was over, clambered up upon the 
 table in the window, and sat there, in enjoyment 
 of the picture-book, " for taking a bairn we ken 
 naething about ; and ye may think it daftlike 
 too. Miss Anne. But the house was waesome 
 wi' Robert out a* day, and the bit thing had a 
 pitiful look wi't, and the leddy — for she bid to 
 be a leddy, though she was plain enough put on 
 — pleaded wi' me in sic a way that I couldna 
 withstand it ; and we're clear o' a' loss, wi' the 
 siller being in Mr. Foreman's hand; and the 
 bairn — puir wee desolate thing, cast off by its ain 
 bluid — is a fine bairn, now that she's learning to 
 speak in a civilised tongue. My ain Bell, if the 
 Almighty had spared her, would hae been about 
 Lilie's age. Eh, Miss Anne ! a young lady like 
 you canna ken what a sore dispensation that 
 was ! But we maun a' dree our ain weird.'*
 
 MERKLAND. 1 75 
 
 " And do you think the lady could be Lilie's 
 mother ?" said Anne, after a pause. 
 
 " It's hard to say," said Mrs. Melder ; " but I 
 am maistly inclined to think no, Miss Anne, for ye 
 see the bairn disna greet after her the way she did 
 the now, when ye asked her wha came hame wi' 
 her ; and the leddy hersel, though she beggit me 
 to be careful o' the bairn, did not keep her in 
 her sight till the last moment, as a mother 
 would have done ; and when she went by the 
 Mill, Robert says — for he was watching — that 
 she never stopped to look back ; sae I think she 
 may have been a friend further off, Miss Anne, 
 but she couldna be Lilie's mother." 
 
 " Strange !" said Anne, " that any friend, 
 above all a mother, should send away a child so 
 interesting !" 
 
 " Ay, Miss Anne," said Mrs. Melder ; " but 
 the like o' you disna ken. There are bitterer 
 things in this world than even grief. Ane canna 
 tell. It may be a shame and a disgrace to some 
 decent family, that that wee thing, pleasant as she 
 is, has ever drawn breath — and the lady may be 
 some kin of the mother's, bringing it away out 
 o' Jhe sight o' kent folk and friends. The like 
 of that is ower common. Eh, pity me ! there's 
 nae counting the wiles o' the enemy ! There's
 
 176 MERKLAND. 
 
 Strathoran, ye see, and the gentlemen that's in't, 
 playing at their cartes and their dice, they tell 
 me, on the very Sabbath day itsel ! Is't no 
 enough to bring a judgment on the country- 
 side ? If auld Strathoran — honest man — could 
 but look down into his ain house the noo, I 
 canna think but what it would make his heart 
 sair — even yonder. He was a guid man, auld 
 Strathoran, though he did put Mr. Bairnsfather 
 into the parish." 
 
 " Was that wrong, Mrs. Melder ? " said 
 Anne. 
 
 " The Apostle says we're no to speak evil o' 
 the ruler o' our people," said Mrs. Melder ; 
 " but, eh, Miss Anne, he's wersh and unprofita- 
 ble. When I was in my trouble and sorrow 
 (and wha can tell how dark the earth is, and 
 a'thing in't, when ane is bereaved o' their first- 
 born — their ae lamb !) Robert brought the 
 minister, thinking he could speak a word o' 
 comfort to me ; and what think ye he said, 
 Miss Anne? No that I was to look to my 
 Lord that had gathered my lamb to his ain 
 bosom, out of a' the ills o' this world, but that 
 I was to be reasonable and calm, and bear the 
 trouble wi' fortitude, because it couldna be 
 helpit. That was a' the comfort he had to speak
 
 MERKLAND. 177 
 
 to a distracted woman, whose ae baim was in its 
 grave ! But he never had ony weans himsel." 
 
 "And you do not come to the Church, 
 now ?" said Anne, holding out her hand, as Lihe 
 descended from the table, and came to her side 
 again. 
 
 " Na ; we were ance gaun to the Meeting, 
 Robert and me, for the Seceder minister preaches 
 guid doctrine, but we couldna think to leave the 
 Kirk. My father was an elder for twenty year — 
 sae we aye waited on till Mr. Lumsden came to 
 Portoran. Eh, Miss Anne, he's a grand man ! 
 They say there's no the hke o' him in the haill 
 Presbytery !" 
 
 " What is this, Lilie ?" cried Anne. 
 
 Lilie had brought her new " Shorter Cate- 
 chism," that much-prized text-book of Presby- 
 terian Scotland, to point out the lessons which 
 she was to repeat to Robert Melder, on the 
 Sabbath afternoon, according to the venerable 
 and excellent custom of such religious hmnble 
 households ; and insisted upon repeating her 
 former " questions" and the first Psalm she had 
 learnt in her new language. 
 
 Anne took the book, well pleased, and lis- 
 tened, while Lilie repeated that beautiful pro- 
 position in which all Scotland for centuries has 
 
 I 3
 
 178 . MERKLAND. 
 
 learned to define the chief end of man, and 
 then, with sonnc slight stammering and uncer- 
 tainty, went on : 
 
 *' That man hath perfect blessedness, 
 "Who walketh not astray." 
 
 The first verse was repeated, and Lilie stayed 
 to remember the second. 
 
 " Eh," cried Mrs. Melder, " hasna she come 
 uncommon fast on ? but I wish ye would speak 
 to Jacky Morison, Miss Anne, she's learning 
 the bairn nonsense ballants and — " 
 
 " He shall be like a tree that grows 
 Near planted by a river," 
 
 burst out Lilie triumphantly. 
 
 " Which in his season yields his fruit. 
 And his leaf fadeth never. 
 And all he doth shall prosper well — " 
 
 The child paused — accomphshed the next 
 three lines with prompting, and then made a 
 stop. 
 
 " Lilie no mind now — Lihe show you the 
 tree."
 
 MERKLAND. 1 79 
 
 Anne suffered herself to be drawn out — the 
 tree which Lilie fancied must be the one meant 
 in the Psalm, was an oak which stood upon a 
 swelling hillock close by the Oran. When they 
 came near, the child's w^andering attention was 
 caught by some carving on the rude and gnarled 
 trunk. 
 
 " What's that?" she asked. 
 
 Anne read it, wonderingly : 
 
 " Norman R. R. Marion L." 
 
 Beneath were two longer lines : 
 
 *' Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways, 
 The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days 
 Fade from our sight." 
 
 and a date. The carmgs were near the root, 
 and might have been done by some one sitting 
 on the grassy bank below. Anne had some 
 difficulty in deciphering them, and when she 
 had led her httle charge home, returned alone 
 to trace the moss-grown characters again. The 
 date was seventeen years before — Norman R. R. 
 Could it he possible that some other bore that 
 name — or was it indeed a record of some by- 
 gone pleasant musing of her unhappy brother's,
 
 180 MERKLAND. 
 
 before name, and fame, and fortune were lost 
 in that dark crime — before the mark of Cain 
 was sealed upon his brow ? 
 
 And were there yet greater depths in this 
 calamity than she knew, and more sufferers; 
 the Marion who shared his happier thoughts — 
 who was she ? or how had Norman's blight, so 
 much more dreadful than death, fallen upon 
 her? 
 
 The dusky December weeks passed on, and, 
 on the last night of the year, a tall man, closely 
 enveloped in a plaid, walked softly up the dark 
 avenue towards the house of Strathoran. He 
 seemed to know its turns and windings well, as 
 keeping under covert of the thickest trees, he 
 hastily approached the house ; — once near it, he 
 crossed the path quickly to gain the obscurity 
 of its shadow, and then walked round it several 
 times without manifesting any desire of enter- 
 ing. It was a very dreary night — the ground 
 was thoroughly soaked with recent rains, and 
 heavy clouds drifted in dark masses over the 
 sky, of whose dull leaden surface, and wading 
 afflicted moon you could see occasional glimpses, 
 as these gloomy hosts of vapours were parted by 
 the wind. A fitful glance of the moon fell now 
 and then upon the stranger's face. It was pale
 
 MERKLAND. 181 
 
 and resolute, and rigid, like the face of one 
 undergoing some terrible surgical operation, to 
 endure which manfully his every nerve was 
 strained. He paused at last opposite a brilliant 
 window, and retreating backward, raised himself 
 by aid of a tree, so that he could look in. 
 Through the closed curtains he could see a party 
 of gentlemen sitting at their wine — the sound 
 of their laughter, and gay voices, reached him 
 on his watch. With keen eyes he surveyed the 
 unconscious revellers, marked every face, took 
 in, as it seemed, every particular of the scene, 
 and then descending, took his way again through 
 the solitary avenue, and turning as before into a 
 side path, reached the highway unseen. On- 
 ward he went, walking very quickly for full two 
 dreary miles, and arrived at last not at any 
 dwelling of man, but at a sohtary graveyard, 
 stiQ and solemn, lying upon Oranside, in the 
 midst of w^hich rose the ruined walls of an 
 ancient chapel, moss-grow^n, and clad with 
 chnging ivy. The alarm which called forth the 
 parishioners of more southern districts, night 
 after night, to watch their dead, had not reached 
 the distant stillness of Strathoran, and the 
 stranger entered unmolested and unseen. He 
 directed his steps to the chapel, climbed the
 
 1 82 MERKLAND. 
 
 broken stair, and entered the small unroofed 
 apartment, with its ruined walls, and traihng 
 ivy, and floor of lettered flags, bearing upon 
 them the names of those who slept below — for 
 this was the burial-place of the long-descended 
 Sutherlands of Strathoran. Another uncertain 
 glance of the wan moon directed him to a 
 marble tablet in the wall, by the side of which 
 he stood long in the dreary silence, motionless 
 and still, himself like some dark statue, mocking 
 the dead with empty honour. Hugh Suther- 
 land and Isabel his wife, lay underneath the 
 watcher's feet ; and the son to whom they had 
 left so fair a heritage, and who had visited their 
 grave two twelvemonths since, bearing a name 
 of universal honour, and looking forth upon a 
 smiling future, through natural tears that be- 
 came him well — stood there now, tearless and 
 stern in the thick gloom of night — a houseless, 
 joyless man. 
 
 " I have obeyed," said Archibald Sutherland, 
 leaning upon the ruined wall. " I have re- 
 turned to see my father's house in the hands of 
 an alien to his blood — and now what remains ?" 
 His knees were bent upon the stone that 
 covered the dust of father and of mother — his 
 brow pressed to the tablet that chronicled their
 
 MERKLAND. 1 83 
 
 names ; and the ruined man in his extremity, 
 poured out his full heart into the ear of One 
 who heareth always, and never more certainly 
 than when the voice of supplication rises to 
 Him " out of the depths." " Who shall stand 
 before thee if thou markest iniquity ? yet is 
 there forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest 
 be feared, and plenteous redemption." 
 
 Yes, that remained — omnipotent, over all, 
 in His tender mercy, the God whose plentiful 
 redemption encircles with its arms of divine 
 compassion, its every returning prodigal — the 
 loving-kindness that turns no supplicant away. 
 The sympathy most wonderful and strange of 
 all, w^hich " touches" — the heart of the Incarnate 
 God with " a fellow-feeling for our infirmities 1" 
 — these remained — greater than all sorrows of 
 the earth. 
 
 So with less sternness in his pale face, and 
 less despair in his heart, Archibald Sutherland 
 retraced his steps, and turned to the humble 
 fisher's house far down the Or an, the inhabit- 
 ants of which had recently come to the district, 
 and knew not either the name or the quality of 
 the stranger whom they had reluctantly agreed 
 to shelter for the night. 
 
 He had hovered that same evening in cover
 
 1 84 MERKLAND. 
 
 of the darkness, in the neighbourhood of the 
 Tower — had passed the hospitable walls of 
 Woodsmuir, and looked through the bare trees 
 at Merkland ; but drawing back in painful 
 shame, had not dared to enter, or make himself 
 known to any of them all — they all had house- 
 holds, kindred, warm friends about them. He 
 only was alone. 
 
 The next night, with his plaid wrapped as 
 closely about him as before, and serving as a 
 disguise, he passed along Oranside in the dark- 
 ness, turning his steps to the Tower. He could 
 not delay longer — already perhaps in the bitter 
 pain of last night's trial, he had delayed too 
 long, and in passing those wide-spreading fields 
 and plantations, once his own, but in which 
 now the meanest hind dwelling among them 
 had more share than he, he felt that last night's 
 trial might be indefinitely prolonged. He came 
 to the Tower at last, and found it also gay and 
 full of light. The hall-door was open, and 
 within stood a knot of servants. The door of 
 Mrs. Euphan Morison's snug room was ajar, and 
 showed Duncan from Merkland, and Mr. Coul- 
 ter's grave man-servant sitting comfortably by 
 the fireside, while the Falcon's Craig groom, 
 and Mr. Foreman's lad, and one or two younger
 
 MERKLAND. 1 85 
 
 attendants, stood among Mrs. Catherine's maid- 
 servants in the hall, listening to the music 
 above. 
 
 " Jacky, ye monkey, shut that door," cried 
 Mrs. Euphan Morison. " Idle hizzies clavering 
 nonsense, and decent folk like to get their death 
 o' cauld. I wad advise ye to tak hame some o' 
 that horehound-balsam \^^' ye, Duncan — it's un- 
 common guid for hoarseness. I made it with 
 my ain hand." 
 
 Jacky darted forward to do her mother's 
 bidding ; and Archibald felt the girl's keen eye 
 pierce his disguise in a moment. She paused, 
 looked at him. " If ye please, will I teU Mrs. 
 Catherine ?" 
 
 " Yes — but wait, Jacky, let me go up stairs." 
 
 Jacky went gravely forward before him, and 
 drawing his plaid more closely over his face, 
 Archibald followed her unobserved. The girl 
 led him to a small apartment which opened 
 into that well-remembered drawing-room, and 
 without saying a word, left him there. He sat 
 down and waited. Ah ! these gay sounds of 
 mirth and music, how bitterly they mock sick 
 hearts. A sort of hope had inspired him, as 
 he felt himself once more in shelter of these 
 stately walls, but now, wdthin hearing of the
 
 186 MERKLA.ND. 
 
 sounds of pleasure and rejoicing, his heart again 
 sank within him. There was no place for him 
 — homeless and hopeless, there. As he listened, 
 a simple voice began to sing — words chiming 
 strangely in with his changed fortunes, 
 
 " Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways, 
 The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days 
 
 Fade from our sight. 
 A dimness steals upon the earth and heaven, 
 
 Blended of gloom and light ; 
 Shuts its soft eyelid o'er day's azure levin. 
 And shades with its soft tints the glories of sweet even 
 
 To sober- toned night. 
 
 " From his deep cradle the woods among 
 His russet robes waving free. 
 The Oran with his kindly tongue. 
 
 Is travelling to the sea. 
 He rushes to the ocean old, 
 
 In sparkling wave and foam, 
 And out into that trackless wold 
 Bears the kind voice of home. 
 
 Wayfaring man, far on the sea, 
 Listen how he calls to thee ! 
 
 " Warm household lights are shining out 
 
 His rugged channel o'er, 
 111 plants of malice, and guile, and doubts 
 
 Ne'er blossom on his shore. 
 There is Peace in her matron's gown and hood, 
 
 Her footsteps never roam,
 
 MERKLAND. 187 
 
 And Hope is in pleasant neighbourhood, 
 And strength is strongest at home. 
 
 Thy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan. 
 Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man ! 
 
 "The Oran's ringing voice he hears. 
 
 The great sea waves among. 
 
 To yon far shore the ripple bears 
 
 The Oran's kindly tongue. 
 Yet he labours on, and travels far, 
 
 For years of toil must glide. 
 Before he sees the even star 
 Rise calm on Oranside. 
 
 Speed thy labour o'er land and sea. 
 Home and kindred are waiting for thee ! 
 
 " The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days. 
 Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways. 
 
 Fade from our sight. 
 And night and day he labours as he can. 
 
 Far from home's kindly hght. 
 His foot is weary, and his cheek is wan, 
 Ah ! pray, young hearts, for the sad wayfaring man 
 
 Labouring this night." 
 
 The air was very simple — beginning and 
 ending in a low pathetic strain, and with a 
 quicker measure for the intervening verses — but 
 the music was but a soft chiming breath, bear- 
 ing along the words. Archibald Sutherland 
 leaned his head upon his hands, the burden
 
 188 MERKLAND. 
 
 floating dizzily through his mind. Alas ! for 
 him, beginning his wayfaring so painfully, 
 neither home nor kindred waited. He heard a 
 step approach — a hand gently open the door of 
 communication, and raised his head, a sad 
 calmness possessing him. Among the gay 
 hearts, divided from him only by that wall, 
 there might be some one, whose prayer of 
 gentle pity, would indeed rise for the wayfaring 
 man.
 
 MERKLAND. 189 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " He didna trow't, the browst he brewed 
 Wad taste sae bitterly." 
 
 OLD SONG. 
 
 Anne Ross was seated near Mrs. Catherine's 
 piano when Alice Aytoun took her place at it 
 timidly, and placing a sheet of manuscript music 
 before her, began her song. Anne started in 
 tremulous wonder as it commenced. Most 
 strange to hear these words repeated by a Hving 
 voice at aU — stranger stiU that they should fall 
 from Alice Aytoun's. With breathless interest 
 she Hstened as the lines flowed on. The w^ay- 
 faring man in toil, and danger, and sorrow^ 
 hearing in the ripple of the great sea, far away 
 in some strange country, the kindly call of the
 
 190 MERKLAND 
 
 Oran to home and kindred. Her cheeks grew 
 pale — her lips quivered. How could this be 
 twined into Norman's history? — or was AUce un- 
 consciously murmuring out the low, sad prayer 
 of its conclusion for her father's murderer ? 
 
 The tears were swelling in Anne's eyes as 
 the song concluded; and Ralph Falconer who 
 stood near had addressed to her some sneering 
 compliment on her sensibility, when Jacky stole 
 behind her chair, and whispered something in 
 her ear. Anne recollected herself instantly, 
 and, approaching Mrs. Catherine, communi- 
 cated to her Jacky's intelligence. Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine started — rose from her seat — wavered a 
 moment, and then restraining her emotions, sat 
 resolutely down again. 
 
 " See, Gowan, there is the key of the little 
 room. Take the dyvour there — I will come 
 myself when I can. Tell him that — ." Anne 
 turned to obey. "And, Gowan — bid Euphan 
 Morison have a good fire kindled in the red 
 room, and tell Andrew he is to hold himself 
 ready to wait on Mr. Archibald — and, Gowan — 
 be kindly to the unhappy callant. It behoves 
 me to be stern myself, but there is no such 
 bondage upon you." 
 
 When Archibald Sutherland lifted his head
 
 MERKLAND. 191 
 
 it was Anne Ross who stood before him, her 
 eyes shining wet, her face full of sympathetic 
 sorrow. She held out her hand, and advanced 
 towards him. 
 
 " Mr. Sutherland — Archibald." 
 
 " Anne !" said the broken man. They 
 shook hands ; there needed no more speech ; 
 perfect and cordial sympathy, of no exaggerated 
 sort, but such as does sometimes, and should 
 always subsist between those who have passed 
 childhood and early youth together, was between 
 them in a moment. There was no story told — 
 no compassion claimed ; but, in the pressure of 
 Anne's hand, and the subdued kindness of her 
 look, the fall heart felt itself eased, and leaned 
 upon the unexpressed sympathy as with the 
 confidence of nearest kindred. There were no 
 words ; but Anne knew how Archibald's spirit 
 was wading like the moon in clouds and dark- 
 ness ; and Ai'chibald felt that Anne, in the con- 
 fidence of ancient kindness, was ready to hope 
 and believe all things for his final deliverance and 
 welfare. 
 
 "You will not go in," said Anne, gently. 
 " There is a large party, and some strangers." 
 
 " No — no," said Archibald. " I regret now
 
 192 MERKLAND. 
 
 that I came at all to-night. I would be a strange 
 spectre, disturbing your merrymaking, Anne.'* 
 
 " Merrymaking ! With some of us, at least, 
 there is not much of that," said Anne. " Lewis 
 is home, Archibald ; you must see him. But 
 now will you come with me to the little room ? 
 Mrs. Catherine will come herself immediately.'* 
 
 '' To the little room ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the house is full, and aU the other 
 apartments are occupied," said Anne ; " that is 
 all. Mrs. Catherine has been looking for you, 
 Archibald." 
 
 They left the room together, and, to the great 
 wonder of the congregated listeners in the hall, 
 descended the stair, and turned through a dark 
 passage to Mrs. Catherine's place of especial 
 retirement — the little room. Archibald entered, 
 and Anne, leaving him, hastened to Mrs. 
 Euphan Morison's apartment, to convey to her 
 Mrs. Catherine's orders, in immediate execution 
 of which a reluctant maid was hurried up 
 stairs. 
 
 And Archibald Sutherland seated himself 
 alone, fearing the interview which Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine made stiU more important and solemn by 
 ordaining that it should take place there. The
 
 MERKLAND. J 93 
 
 firm, dark face of Sholto Douglas looked down 
 upon him from the wall, and fascinated his rest- 
 less eyes. There seemed a lofty purity of reproof 
 in those fine lineaments, over which the pallor 
 of death had fallen, before Mrs. Catherine's 
 only brother had told out an equal number of 
 years with himself. Sholto Douglas, in his 
 early prime of manhood, laid in a foreign grave, 
 the odour of a stainless name, and strong faith, 
 numbering him among those just, w^ho shall be 
 held in everlasting remembrance. Archibald 
 Sutherland, in the wreck of hope and fortune, 
 and good fame, preserving barely life. Ah ! 
 who would not rather have chosen the solitary 
 grave in far Madeira, in which all sin and un- 
 certainty lay dead, and where, above flower}^ 
 sod, and gray headstone, there blossomed one 
 sublime and stedfast hope, as sure and true as 
 heaven. 
 
 Archibald could not bear, what seemed the 
 cold reproving scrutiny of that noble pictured 
 face, and laying his arms upon the table, he 
 bent dow^n his head upon them. He fancied 
 he could hear the music and gay voices still. 
 Anne had left him. Mrs. Catherine Hngered in 
 her coming ; even in this household, the only 
 one in the cold world around him, in which he 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 MERKLAND. 
 
 thought himself secure of welcome, the ruined 
 man was nothing; bitter thoughts swelled up 
 within his worn and wearied spirit, despair 
 came back like a flood upon his heart; ex- 
 hausted in health, broken in mind, disgraced 
 in name — what remained for the once joyous 
 heir of Strathoran, but poverty, neglect, and 
 death. 
 
 Large gray eyes, made larger by the dew 
 that swelled beneath their lids, were looking on 
 him, as thus he sank further and further, into 
 that horror of great darkness. Mrs. Catherine, 
 whose slow step he had not heard approaching, 
 in the tumult of his own thoughts, stood by 
 him silently ; her strong features moved by the 
 contest between severity and tenderness. 
 
 " Archibald Sutherland," she said, harshly. 
 The young man started, but did not lift his 
 head. " Archie, my man !" Her large hand 
 was upon his hair, stroking it softly, as if the 
 head it covered had been a child's. He looked 
 up. " Ye have sinned against your own spirit, 
 and in the sight of God ; but ye are hame to 
 your own country, and under a kindly roof. 
 Archie Sutherland, give me your hand, and let 
 byganes be byganes between us." 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes, during
 
 MERKLAND. 195 
 
 which, Mrs. Catherine grasped Archibald's 
 trembling hand in one of her's, and with 
 the other, smoothed down his dark hair, wet 
 as it was, with the cold dew of mental pain, 
 " Archie !" she repeated, " there have many 
 waves passed over your head since I laid my 
 hand upon it last : waves of sorrow and shame, 
 and waves of sin, Archie Sutherland — but yet 
 — be silentj and hsten to me — yet I pray, as 
 I prayed when we parted, that the blessing of 
 the God of our fathers may be about ye, 
 callant, at this time, and for ever ! Look up, 
 and hear me. Let trouble, and toil, and hard- 
 ship come, as the Lord will ; hft up youi' head 
 in His presence, Archie Sutherland, and phght 
 me your word, that in your further w^arfare, 
 manfully and honestly, and in the strength of 
 His name, ye will resist sin. I fear no other 
 thing in this earth, be it the sorest pain that 
 ever WTung mortal flesh ; but \\ith a deadly 
 fear do I tremble for that ! That ye will strive 
 against it night and day, that ye w^ill give place 
 to it — no, not for an hour — that wherever ye 
 may be, in joy, or in tribulation,, in peace, or in 
 strife — ye will remember the One name where- 
 by w^e can be saved, and resist iniquity, if need 
 
 K 2
 
 196 MERKLAND. 
 
 be unto blood. Your word, Archie Sutherland, 
 I am waiting for your word.'* 
 
 And solemnly, with lifted hand, and tremu- 
 lous voice, the word was plighted. " With all 
 the strength of a sad man, honestly, and in 
 truth. Remembering the one name whereby 
 we can be saved, and in the strength of Him 
 who has overcome sin. God succour me !" 
 
 The flush faded from his thin cheek, his 
 hand fell. Mrs. Catherine stood still by his 
 side, in the same attitude, her hand lying 
 fondly upon his hair, and there was again an 
 interval of silence. " The angel that redeemed 
 me from all evil, bless the lad. Archie, be of 
 good cheer. Who kens the ways of the Lord ? 
 We are tried, but we are not forsaken." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine seated herself opposite him, 
 and looked into his face. " Ye are white and 
 thin, Archie, spent with that weary trouble — and 
 ye have been walking upon the damp road in the 
 night air, like an imprudent lad, as ye are, and will 
 have wet feet, doubtless. Go up to your room 
 like a good callant, and change them, and then, 
 Archie, my man, we are all friends together. 
 Come in, and see Lewis Ross, and the rest of 
 them, for I have a houseful the night." 
 
 "I am not fit for any company," said the young
 
 MERKLAND. 197 
 
 man. " I should go in among them like a ghost. 
 Mrs. Catherine, I have obeyed you to the letter. 
 Last night, I saw my father's house in the pos- 
 session of strangers. Last night, I saw that man 
 in my father's seat. I have not shrunk from the 
 fuU trial, and now there is no probation so hard, 
 no struggle so bitter, but I am willing to embrace 
 it, if I may but have a. prospect of redeeming 
 what I have sinfully lost ; although it be only 
 to die when all is done, beneath the roof where 
 my fathers have Hved and died before me." 
 
 A sympathetic light kindled in Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's eye; but the wasted young man beside 
 her, needed soothing and rest, as she saw, and 
 after her own fashion she comforted him. 
 " Archie, I am in years, and there is no wish 
 so near my heart, as to see your work done 
 before I go hence ; but to do your work ye 
 must be strong, and to be strong, ye must rest ; 
 this is no a time to speak of d}ing. I ken no 
 man in this world, that has a chain to life as 
 strong as ye have yourself, Archie Sutherland, 
 if it be the Lord's will, and truly, I have little 
 broo of a man, with a labour before him, turn- 
 ing to death for ease and idleset. I doubt not, 
 there are many years before ye yet, blyther than 
 these ; but we will have time to speak of that
 
 198 MERKLAND. 
 
 hereafter. Go up to your room, Archie. It 
 will mind ye of your schule days, to have 
 Andrew about ye again, and come down when 
 ye are ready, to the little east room to me. Ye 
 must even be a good bairn, and do my bidding 
 the night." - 
 
 Mrs. Catherine rose. Archibald rose too, in 
 obedience. The strong old lady took the arm 
 of the weak and exhausted young man, and 
 half supporting him, went with him herself to 
 the door of the red-room, where a cheerful fire 
 was shining upon the warm colour of curtains 
 and furniture, while Andrew, with his grey hair 
 dressed, and his best livery donned, in honour 
 of the company, stood waiting at the door : the 
 same room, with all its arrangements perfectly 
 unchanged ! the same friendly' and well-known 
 face, that had been wont to hover about him in 
 kindly attendance in those joyous boyish days ! 
 The prodigal had returned home — the des- 
 pairing man had entered into an atmosphere 
 rich and warm with hope. Archibald threw 
 himself into the old fire-side chair, and hid his 
 face again in his hands, overpowered with a 
 momentary weakness, from whose tears the 
 strength of steadfast resolution and grateful 
 purpose sprang up boldly, rising over bitterness
 
 MERKLAND. 199 
 
 and ruin and grief in sober triumph, the begin- 
 ning of better days. 
 
 But Archibald did not make his appearance 
 in Mrs. Catherine's drawing-room that night. 
 With the shame of his downfal strong upon 
 him, and feeling so bitterly the disruption of all 
 the ties which formerly bound him in kindly 
 neighbourship to these prosperous people, who 
 knew his fall and humiliation alone, and did not 
 know his painful stiiiggles and sore repentance, 
 he shrank from meeting them ; and when, 
 having entered the little east-room, he told Mrs. 
 Catherine w^hat pain her kind \\ish to cheer 
 him would inflict upon him, she did not repeat 
 her commands. 
 
 " But J will meet ye half-way, Archie," she 
 said, " Robert Fergusson, your good friend and 
 honourable steward is laboiu*ing at this time 
 redding up the tangled odds and ends of your 
 affairs, and it is meet you should see him and 
 render him right thanks for his leal sersdce. 
 Ye ought to have gone to Woodsmuir first. I 
 know not any mortal ye are so much indebted 
 to. Go your ways to the library and shut the 
 door — I will send over for Mr. Fergusson. Na — 
 ye shall not stir over my door in a damp night 
 till ye have won back your strength again — and
 
 200 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mr. Foreman is here, Archie ; would ye like me 
 to send him down ? or are ye able to stand it ?" 
 
 " Quite able," said Archibald, hastily. " Ask 
 Mr. Foreman to come to me, Mrs. Catherine. 
 With all your kindness, I yet cannot rest tiU I 
 see something definite before me. I have lost 
 too much time already, and Mr. Foreman is an 
 old and kind friend. I do not deserve so many. 
 Let him come to me, if, indeed, he will come — 
 I need counsel sorely." 
 
 Mrs Catherine made a gesture of impatience. 
 " And I am trysted with these young fuils, and 
 cannot win down beside ye to put in my word. 
 Mr. Foreman will come blythely, Archie — go 
 your ways, and be careful of shutting the door, 
 that ye may not be disturbed. Andrew, let 
 Johnnie Halflin ride to Woodsmuir without a 
 moment's delay. If he tarries on the road, it will 
 be at his peril; and give my compUments to 
 Mr. Fergusson — or stay — Archie, write a word 
 yourself." 
 
 Established in the library, Archibald wrote a 
 hasty note to Mr. Fergusson, and in a moment 
 after heard Johnnie Halflin, with many argu- 
 ments, persuading an unwilling pony to face 
 the damp, chill blast, which swept so mourn- 
 fully through the naked woods, and over the
 
 MERKLAND. 201 
 
 sighing Oran, and at last gallopping off on the 
 road to Woodsmuir, the footsteps of his shaggy 
 little steed sounding in unsteady leaps, as it 
 struggled to turn its head from the wind, and 
 regain its comfortable stable. 
 
 Various groups in Mrs. Catherine's drawing- 
 room were whispering already reasons for her 
 absence. 
 
 "I am afraid, Mrs. Catherine is not weU," 
 said Mrs. Coulter, sympathetically. " Her face 
 has had a look of trouble all the night." 
 
 " Perhaps it is some unpleasant visitor," 
 suggested Mrs. Baimsfather. " I thought she 
 was agitated." 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine agitated," cried Walter 
 Foreman, " you might as soon shake the 
 Tower." 
 
 " Hold your peace. Sir," said his father. 
 " These young men are constantly speaking 
 of things they don't comprehend. Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine feels much more deeply than you \^^ll ever 
 do." 
 
 Walter looked up amazed. His father's eyes 
 were uneasily fixed upon the door; his face 
 anxious and full of care. 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs. Bairnsfather, shaking her 
 head pathetically, "it has been a great grief 
 
 K 3
 
 202 MERKLAND. 
 
 to her this downcome of young Strathoran. A 
 fine hfe he led in Paris, by all accounts ; he will 
 surely never come home, to be a burden on 
 Mrs. Catherine." 
 
 Mr. Foreman turned round impatiently, as if 
 to answer, but evidently checking with some 
 difficulty an angry reply, looked again towards 
 the door. 
 
 " Poor Archibald," said the kindly Mrs. 
 Coulter, " this is not a time for his friends to 
 desert him. Dear me, there is Mr. Ambler 
 persuading Jeanie to sing. Jeanie, my dear, 
 mind what a cold you have got." 
 
 " Just, ' Auld Robin Gray,' for the benefit 
 of the seniors," said Mr. Ambler, " the first 
 notes will call Mrs. Catherine back again." 
 
 Jeanie Coulter seated herself at the piano, 
 Walter Foreman took his place behind her. 
 The " seniors" prepared to listen — the younger 
 part of the company to whisper and exchange 
 smiles and glances, the long ballad being too 
 much for their patience. 
 
 " Do you think it can be young Strathoran 
 who has arrived ?" whispered Mrs. Bairnsfather. 
 
 Mrs. Coulter nodded impatiently, resenting 
 the interruption of Jeanie's song. 
 
 "No that new fangled nonsense, Jeanie my
 
 MERKLAND. 203 
 
 dear," said Mrs. Catherine, entering. " You 
 ken the tune Lady Anne wrote it for — a right 
 breath to carry forth the story on — no that — as 
 if sick hearts were like to play with a melody, 
 and did not just seek the needful breath of 
 music to send forth their sorrows withal." 
 
 " You knew Lady Anne, Mrs. Catherine ?" 
 said Jeanie Coulter, playing with the keys, and 
 finding this a proper opportunity for the hesita- 
 tion and coyness necessar}^ to set off her pretty 
 voice and tasteful singing. 
 
 " Ay, I knew Lady Anne — ye aU ken that ; 
 sing your baUad, Jeanie Coulter, and do not 
 keep us waiting. Mr. Foreman, I have a word 
 to say to you." 
 
 The word was said. Mr. Foreman in haste, 
 and not without agitation, left the room, and 
 Mrs. Catherine herself stood near the piano 
 listening to the music. Jeanie Coulter did the 
 ballad — than which it seems to us, there is no 
 history of more perfect beauty and pathos in all 
 the stores of our Scottish tongue, rich though 
 it be in such — full justice. The tremulous sad 
 music stole through the room, arresting even 
 Alice, though she was rising then nearly to the 
 climax of her girhsh happiness — " I wish I were 
 dead, but I'm no like to dee." What strange
 
 204 MERKLAND. 
 
 avalanche of trouble could ever bring such 
 words as these from Alice Aytoun's lips? It 
 was impossible. 
 
 Yet under that same roof was one, whose 
 youthful beginning had been more prosperous 
 than Alice Aytoun's, schooling himself to pa- 
 tience, as again and again the pain of his past 
 transgressions came back upon him like a flood. 
 Agent and factor had both taken their place 
 beside him in the library — the lamp shone upon 
 the somewhat sharp profile of Mr. Foreman, 
 with its deepset acute eyes and deliberative 
 look — upon the healthful, hardy, honest face of 
 Mr. Fergusson, browned by exposure, and in- 
 stinct with earnest sympathy and kindness — 
 and upon Archibald Sutherland's wan and 
 downcast countenance, with its mark of past 
 sickness, and present melancholy humility ; they 
 were discussing his future career. 
 
 " I will tell you what I propose for myself, 
 Mr. Archibald," said Mr. Fergusson. " My 
 occupation is gone, as you know, in respect to 
 the estate of Strathoran. Now there is Loelyin 
 and Lochend the entailed lands — you will re- 
 member that Alexander Semple is in them, and 
 there are three years of his lease to run ; but 
 Semple has little capital and no enterprise, and
 
 MERKLAND. 205 
 
 I think would be glad to get rid of his lease 
 and try a more productive farm. It is poor 
 land." 
 
 Archibald looked up vaguely, not seeing what 
 the factor's remarks tended to. 
 
 " The land is poor but improvable," con- 
 tinued Mr. Fergusson ; " and the farm of 
 Woodsmuir, w^hich I have occupied myself, is in 
 excellent condition. I believe that with capital 
 and perseverance, the value of these entailed 
 lands might be more than doubled, and Mr. 
 Coulter, a practical man of high authority, bears 
 me out." 
 
 Archibald shook his head sadly : 
 " We have no capital, Mr. Fergusson." 
 " We have thought of that," said Mr. Fer- 
 gusson ; " but your friends — Mrs. Catherine 
 for example — have, and this w^ould be no 
 temporary relief, but a certain benefit." 
 
 " I see," said Archibald ; " and yet it is im- 
 possible. 'My most kind friends, do not think 
 it is pride — of all things there is none that 
 would become me w^orse than that ; but I am 
 quite unfit for this trial. I question if now, 
 with my mind excited and imsettled as it has 
 been, T could endure the placid routine of a 
 farmer's life anywhere. I have rather been
 
 206 MERKLAND. 
 
 looking forward to unceasing labour of a more 
 engrossing kind, as the only wholesome disci- 
 pline for me ; but here it is impossible — to live 
 within sight of Strathoran, to reap the bitter 
 fruits of my folly day by day, without intermis- 
 sion, upon my own alienated land — it would kill 
 me — I could not do it, I could do anything but 
 that." 
 
 The factor had been waiting eagerly, with his 
 hand lifted. " Certainly not — surely not — we 
 never could think of such a thing, Mr. Archi- 
 bald. You must hear out my plan. What I 
 propose is, that I, who have some knowledge of 
 agriculture, and a taste for it, should take these 
 farms into my own hand. I have consulted 
 Mr. Coulter, and will have the fiill benefit of 
 his advice ; and I am confident of Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's assistance. In such an investment, ca- 
 pital is perfectly secure, and subject to no vicissi- 
 tudes — very few, at least ; and I fully believe, 
 that, carefully and scientifically cultivated, we 
 may quadruple the poor two hundred a year it 
 yields now : so that, in addition to your own 
 success, which I have no doubt is certain, if 
 you throw your whole strength into any profes- 
 sion, there will be, in not very many years, a 
 property of seven or eight hundred a year wait-
 
 MERKLA.ND. 207 
 
 ing for you. The original property, Mr. Ar- 
 chibald, with opportunity of adding to it, per- 
 haps, bit by bit, from the rest of the estate — " 
 
 Archibald Sutherland extended his hand si- 
 lently, and grasped his factor's. " My punish- 
 ment is to be overpowered with undeserved 
 kindness," he said, his voice trembling. " My 
 obligations to you already transcend thanks, 
 Mr. Fergusson, and yet you increase them." 
 
 Mr. Fergusson resumed his statement hastily, 
 as if ashamed of the emotion which wet his own 
 eyes, and brought a kindred tremor to his voice. 
 " I have grown grey in the district, Mr. Archi- 
 bald, and w^ould Hke ill to leave it now. My 
 whole family were bom in Woodsmuir. I have 
 long been a theoretical farmer, you know ; and 
 now I will get some of my favourite crotchets 
 put into practice. We shall come into collision 
 — Mr. Coulter and I," continued the factor, 
 with a kind of hysterical attempt at a joke, 
 which broke down woefully ; " but we will, at 
 least, have a fair field for our respective hobbies ; 
 and the prospect of so great an increase, Mr. 
 Archibald, is worth w^orking for." 
 
 " Yes, to the worker," said Archibald ; " but 
 what justice can there be, Mr. Fergusson, in
 
 208 MERKLAND. 
 
 you devoting years to increase my income ? 
 The fruit of your improvements is clearly your 
 own — not mine." 
 
 " There ! there !" said Mr. Foreman, break- 
 ing in impatiently. " The fact is, Fergusson, 
 that you should have just put in your proposal 
 without any preface to make it hazy. Mr. Fer- 
 gusson takes Alexander Semple's place, at Alex- 
 ander Semple's rent, Mr. Sutherland — that's his 
 proposal — continues so, till his improvements 
 are fairly and honestly paying, and then re- 
 mains your tenant at the advanced rent : we 
 will see that he does not offer you too little. 
 As for the capital, that is our concern ; I will 
 undertake that." 
 
 Archibald Sutherland said some incoherent 
 words of thanks, he did not himself know what 
 — neither did his hearers, as Mr. Fergusson 
 shook his grey eye-lash free of some encumbering 
 moisture, and Mr. Foreman coughed, and cleared 
 his throat. There was a brief pause. 
 
 " And for yourself, Mr. Archibald ?" said the 
 lawyer. 
 
 " For myself, I do not know. I have formed 
 no definite plan. Give me your counsel : I am 
 ready to do anything."
 
 MERKLAND. 209 
 
 " The bar ?" suggested Mr. Foreman. 
 
 " Medicine ?" ventured the factor. 
 
 Archibald shook his head. " I am no longer 
 a youth, and could ill spare years now for study. 
 Do you know what a great work I am pledged 
 to, Mr. Foreman ? No less than winning back 
 what I have lost, and doing it in Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's lifetime. You smile. It looks like a 
 sick fancy, does it not ? — yet it is a fancy that 
 stirs me in every vein. I must work, gentle- 
 men — I must work ; how hardly I do not care ; 
 work for mere mercenan^ gain. I shall not 
 gain honour \Yith my schoolfellow Robert, 
 Mr. Fergusson; that is beyond my reach. I 
 must toil to the utmost of my strength to re- 
 gain my birthright. I can afford to lose no 
 time." 
 
 Mr. Foreman had smiled gravely w^hen Ar- 
 chibald began, but the smile settled down into 
 a look of earnest attention before he concluded. 
 He thought the hope futile, no doubt ; but it 
 was a hope; and his was not the hand to 
 snatch it rudely from the grasp of a fallen man. 
 
 '' Business ?" said Mr. Fergusson, half aloud. 
 " He must be embarked in business — but 
 how?"
 
 210 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Listen to me/' said Archibald, becoming 
 stronger, as it seemed, when his own fate came 
 under discussion. " My friends, I must go 
 abroad; I can neither rest nor work well at 
 home — at this time, at least. Let me go alone, 
 as humbly as may be. I will put myself under 
 mercantile training at first, if you think it ne- 
 cessary. My own idea is — I have some poor 
 pride, perhaps, in letting you see that I am not 
 too proud for my fallen fortunes — that I should 
 get a clerk's situation in some commercial 
 house abroad — I do not care where — arid work 
 my way upward, as I can. I have no money ; 
 and what bare influence I could command, 
 would help me little, I fancy. Let me make 
 this experiment, with no adventitious help of 
 patronage or introduction. If I fail, I will 
 promise to return upon your hands again, 
 trusting that your kindness will counsel the 
 unhappy waif once more ; but I hope not to 
 fail. All the details remain to be considered. 
 When or how I am to endeavour to begin, I 
 have not thought ; and for whatever your kind- 
 ness and better knowledge can suggest, I am 
 in your hands." 
 
 Neither of his grave counsellors spoke for
 
 MERKLAND. 211 
 
 some minutes ; at last, Mr. Foreman said : 
 " You are right, Mr. Archibald. I thought of 
 that myself, formerly, but imagined foolishly, 
 that you would shrink from trade. Your reso- 
 lution is proper and wise ; but remember — I do 
 not wish to discourage you, but there are only a 
 very few, who rise from the class of clerks into 
 that of merchant princes. We are apt, in these 
 days, to form mercantile romances for our- 
 selves ; there are some very wonderful instances, 
 I grant, but they are rare." 
 
 " As in all other professions," said Mr. Fer- 
 gusson, watching the changes of Archibald's 
 face anxiously ; " but talent and \'igour still 
 more rarely remain in the humblest class. You 
 are wearied, Mr. Archibald ; let us adjourn this 
 discussion. We can meet in Portoran in a day or 
 two, if you are able," continued the factor, 
 turning with all the solicitude of a nurse to his 
 late patient, " if you are sure you are able," 
 
 And with that agreement, Archibald, indeed 
 thoroughly exhausted and worn out, parted with 
 his kind advisers, and retired to his room, 
 where he feU asleep in dreamy peace, and 
 strange unwonted quiet, in the pleasant, ruddy 
 twilight, which the fire made, as it glimmered
 
 212 MERKLAND. 
 
 in its shooting lights, and depths of fantastic 
 shadow, through the familiar room. 
 
 The slight excitement of Archibald's arrival 
 over, Anne returned to the company, with Alice 
 Aytoun's song still ringing in her ear. Strange 
 it was, how every passing event seemed to have 
 some link of incoherent connection with Nor- 
 man's terrible history. The stranger child in 
 Mrs. Melder's cottage ; the unconscious Alice ; 
 the magic threads were extending themselves in 
 all directions. Anne almost feared to see new 
 faces, to make new friends. Norman's image 
 was growing before her eyes, filling up the 
 whole horizon of that dim future. If she shoiJd 
 meet himself ! the wandering Cain might, with 
 a strange fascination, such as she had read of, 
 seek his own birthplace, ere he died ; the idea 
 was fearful — a constant haunting dread, sur- 
 rounding her like a mist wherever she went. 
 
 The evening wore on, and as the guests 
 began to disperse, Anne, in virtue of her 
 standing in the household, had various parting 
 courtesies to pay ; to stand at the hall door, 
 while Mrs. Coulter's carriage was packed 
 with the many members of her family ; to see 
 Miss Falconer away, and Mrs. Bairnsfather ;
 
 MERKLAND. 213 
 
 and when she returned to look for Le^sds, the 
 drawdng-room was nearly empty. Lewis was 
 not there, neither was Alice Aytoun. The door 
 communicating with the Httle east room was 
 ajar, and Anne entered, seeking her brother. 
 The room was dimly lighted with one candle. 
 Who stood at its further end? Lewis Ross 
 and Alice Aytoun, hand in hand. Anne stood 
 silent, on the threshold, in chill, fear and appre- 
 hension, her head bent forward, her eyes fixed 
 upon them. Little Alice, drooping, blushing, 
 leaning on her companion. Lewis, triumphant, 
 proud, meeting his sister's gaze with a smiling 
 defiance. Anne stood still, seeing all, and could 
 not speak. In another moment, Alice had 
 glided towards her, thrown her slight arms 
 round her waist, and was clinging to her like 
 a child. 
 
 " Anne, be her sister," said Lewis, with un- 
 usual emotion. Anne smiled a sickly smile, 
 as in a painful dream, laid her hand uncon- 
 sciously upon the girl's fair hair, felt Alice start, 
 and shiver at the touch of her cold fingers, and 
 then, hastily disengaging herself, left the room, 
 her very brain reehng, leaving Lewis enraged, 
 and Alice grieved and alarmed, in the very
 
 2 1 4 MERKLAND. 
 
 fulness of her joy. It was all over now ; the 
 fatal engagement was made, and what remained 
 but to blight the girlish gladness, and pour 
 upon Lewis's startled ears, the knowledge of 
 that fatal crime, which stood like a spectre 
 between his betrothed and him.
 
 MERKLAND. 2 1 5 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 *' A maze of doubt, a labyrinth of dread, 
 Ah ! for Hope's golden thread — 
 Although 'twas shght as ever fairy wove, 
 To guide him through the dark and gloomy groTe." 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Lewis Ross and his sister walked home 
 together in silence and alienation. Lewis was 
 sullenly indignant, while Anne, still overpowered 
 by that whirl of agitation, pain, and fear, felt 
 grateful for Duncan's officious attendance v/ith 
 his lanthorn, which precluded any conversation 
 of a private kind, betsveen her brother and her- 
 self. In her first shock and bewilderment, she 
 knew not what to do — whether to communicate 
 her secret at once, or to delay until she herself
 
 2 1 6 MERKLAND. 
 
 knew the terrible story more perfectly. She 
 determined on the latter course, before they 
 reached Merkland, and pained still further by 
 her brother's averted looks, and sullen silence, 
 whispered : " Lewis, forgive me, 1 knew not 
 what I was doing," as they entered the house. 
 Lewis took no notice, but went angrily into the 
 parlour, in which his mother usually sat. A fit 
 of ill-humour had prevented Mrs. Ross from 
 accompanying them to the Tower — the same 
 cause had afflicted her with headache, and 
 sent her to her room, fuU two hours before 
 they returned home, and to Anne's satisfaction, 
 there was no family intercourse of any kind that 
 night. 
 
 Once safe in the shelter of her own apart- 
 ment, she sat through the dead hours of that 
 chill January night, labouring to form some 
 plan for her further proceedings. She could 
 not concentrate her mind upon them — shooting 
 off, now here, now there, those floods of dis- 
 tempered thoughts refused that bondage — now 
 called back from a long and vivid picturing of Nor- 
 man's desolate and hopeless way, and Norman's 
 blighted life — now from recalling in strange 
 caprice the girlish gaiety and sunny future of 
 Alice Aytoun, dwelling upon its bright particu-
 
 MERKLAND. 217 
 
 lars, as if to exaggerate the gloom that now 
 lowered over the gladness of those youthful 
 days. The host of indefinite and conflicting 
 purposes, which terminated aU these discursive 
 wanderings of thought, would not be recon- 
 ciled. Crowding about her like so many phan- 
 toms, they even stifled the voice of her appeal 
 to that One counsellor from whom it was Anne 
 Ross's constant wont to seek wisdom and guid- 
 ance. Confused words, meaningless and often 
 repeated, swelled up from her heart, constantly 
 — a mere vacant cry of agony — for her mind 
 was wandering all the while, from point to 
 point, in aimless and bewildered speed. 
 
 With but the slight difi'erence, that, for an 
 hour or two, these confused thoughts, remaining 
 as active as before, took upon them the yet 
 more fantastic garb of dreams ; her mind con- 
 tinued in the same state of excited agitation 
 during the whole night, and it was only when 
 the chiH morning began to break, grey and 
 faint, through the dark clouds of the east, that 
 springing from her feverish sleep and unhappy 
 fancies together, Anne girded herself for the 
 work that lay before her. To see Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine, and ascertain beyond doubt that Alice was 
 the daughter of that Aytoun who fell by Nor- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 MERKLAND. 
 
 man's hand — that seemed her first step. To 
 learn as fully and clearly as might be the parti- 
 culars of the tragedy itself, and if possible, to 
 get possession of Norman's letter to her father, 
 which Mrs. Ross had mentioned, and which, 
 with foolish procrastination for which she now 
 blamed herself, Anne had shrunk from seeking. 
 If she had but accomplished these necessary 
 preliminaries, Anne hoped that her mind might 
 acquire more coherence, and that she might be 
 able to resolve what was best to be done, for 
 making known the secret to Alice and Lewis — 
 the two individuals most deeply concerned. 
 
 Dressing herself hastily, she left Merkland, 
 and took the path up Oranside, which led to 
 the Tower. Anne was privileged to have ad- 
 mittance at all times, and knew that Mrs. 
 Catherine was, comparatively, an early riser. 
 The path was damp and slippery — the morning 
 coming in, in clinging garments of wet mist, 
 grey, drizzling and disconsolate, with blasts of 
 thin rain, sweeping now and then in her face. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine was seated in her small dress- 
 ing room, w^hich was immediately over " the 
 little room" — and like it looked out upon the 
 bare ascent of the hiU behind the Tower. She 
 was dressed, all but the large soft grey shawl
 
 MERKLAND. 219 
 
 which her stately attendant Mrs. Elspeth Hen- 
 derson was carefully unfolding; and seated in 
 an easy chair by the fireside, was having her 
 usual half-hour's gossip with her " gentlewo- 
 man." 
 
 " And so you think Anne Ross is looking 
 ill, Elspat," said Mrs. Catherine ; " it's my 
 hope you and your wise daughter have no 
 design upon the puir bairn. Mind, I wiU have 
 no doctoring of my Gowan. I believe Euphan 
 Morison is daft ! — my best cow in the dead- 
 thraw with her abominations ! I wiU not have 
 it, Elspat, though she is your daughter. My 
 household shall be poisoned with physic at the 
 win of no woman." 
 
 " Euphan walks according to her lights, 
 Madam," responded Mrs. Elspat; "but if ye 
 ask my opinion, I wad say that Miss Ross 
 needit spiritual physic, and no temporal: the 
 bitter herbs o' repentance and grace, and no 
 camomile and wormwood — though I hold with 
 Euphan doubtless that the last are of service in 
 their place." 
 
 " Hold with Euphan — a braw authority 
 truly !" said Mrs. Catherine. " Spiritual physic, 
 bitter herbs — ye are all foils together, the whole 
 household and lineage of ye ! No that I am 
 
 L 2
 
 220 MERKLAND. 
 
 saying we are, any of us, above grace and re- 
 pentance — forbid fhat such a profane thing 
 should come from my lips, but — Elspat Hen- 
 derson what are ye groaning at? — the bairn 
 Gowan is more simple and devout than the 
 whole tribe of ye." 
 
 Mrs. Elspat Henderson looked meek and in- 
 jured. 
 
 " It would ill become me, Madam, to main- 
 tain that anything is, when it's your pleasure to 
 say it is not. Nevertheless, it's my privilege to 
 lift up my testimony to the iniquity of human- 
 kind, aU and haill. We are all perverse, yea 
 we have gone out of the way — we have toge- 
 ther become unprofitable ; there is none — " 
 
 " Woman, woman, hold your peace," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, " as if I was like to hold inhe- 
 rent ill of light import — me that have seen its 
 outbreaking, time after time, in lives that the 
 world called pure, and no less in my own. 
 Carry your testimony to your Maker's presence, 
 Elspat Henderson, and mind that ye stand sole 
 there, and cannot ghde out of your ain private 
 evil in the cover of a 'we.' And what is your 
 special ill-will at Anne Ross ? what is her mis- 
 deed the now ?" 
 
 Mrs. Elspat gave a prolonged sigh.
 
 MERKLAND. 221 
 
 " That ye should have so puir an opinion of 
 me, as to throw such a blame on your auld and 
 faithful servant. Me, a special ill-\Nill at the 
 young lady ! it's my hope I will never be so far 
 left to mysel, frail vessel as I am." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine groaned. 
 
 " Is it your purpose to drive me out of all 
 patience, Elspat Henderson '? Truly, if the 
 three of ye are no enough to banish peace from 
 any mortal, I am no judge. What cause of 
 censure have ye, then, if I am no to say iU-will 
 against my Gowan ? What has she done ?" 
 
 Mrs. Elspat coughed solemnly. 
 
 "Miss Ross has been looking uncommon 
 white and thin. Madam, since ever the day that 
 Miss Aytoun came to the Tower ; and if ye'll 
 notice yoursel how she looks steadfast at Miss 
 Ahce, and syne grows white, as if she would 
 swarf away, you'll see that what I am saying is 
 true, neither less nor mair." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine seemed struck, and did not 
 answer immediately. Her attendant approached 
 with the shawl. Mrs. Catherine took it, and 
 wrapped it round her. 
 
 " Ay !" she exclaimed at last, " and what 
 does your wisdom make of that ?" 
 
 " If there is a sore evil under the sun," said
 
 222 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mrs. Elspat, oracularly, " it is envy, and a 
 jealous ill-will at folk better gifted and better 
 likit than oursels. Far be it from me to lay a 
 hard word upon a young lady like Miss Ross, 
 but — " 
 
 "Elspat Henderson!" said Mrs. Catherine, 
 angrily, " your learned daughter will be waiting 
 on ye for her breakfast. Go your ways down 
 the stair, and, between this time and the morn, 
 look me out the Psalm that gives a righteous 
 reward to him that slanders his neighbour pri- 
 vately. I wot well David, honest man, let his 
 pen fall ajee when he wrote it * him,' and no 
 ' her ' — and see that ye coin no more scandal out 
 of the ill mists of your ain brain to rouse my 
 wrath withal. Ye may leave the room, Mrs. 
 Elspat Henderson — I have no further need of ye." 
 
 The cowed attendant withdrew, and Mrs. 
 Catherine seated herself in stately indignation. 
 By-and-by her face grew calmer, graver. The 
 suggestion awakened a new train of thought, 
 and roused anxieties and fears, hitherto, in the 
 pre-occupation of her mind, never dreamed of. 
 Anne Ross's light tap at the door came when she 
 was deeply engaged in these, and Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine rose and opened it with some anger remain- 
 ing in her face.
 
 MERKLAND. 223 
 
 " Gowan !" she exclaimed ; " at this time in 
 the morning — through the mist — and with 
 trouble in your face ! What is the matter ?" 
 
 Anne entered, and sat down to recover her 
 breath, and re-arrange her thoughts. Mrs. 
 Catherine closed the door carefully, and, resum- 
 ing her seat, looked in Anne's face and waited. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter, Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine," said Anne, smiling faintly ; " that is — 
 they are all well in Merkland, and I — I just 
 wanted to consult you — to ask your ad\dce." 
 
 " Speak out, Gowan," said Mrs. Catherine. 
 " It is something not common that has brought 
 ye here this morning. Tell me what it is. 
 Does it concern Archie ?" 
 
 " No, no," said Anne. " Something far more 
 — I mean just a little matter connected with 
 ourselves — I should say myself, rather, for 
 neither Mrs. Ross nor Lewis know my errand. 
 Mrs. Catherine — " 
 
 " Gowan, speak out," exhorted her friend. 
 
 " You will think it very foolish," said Anne, a 
 sickly ray of hope breaking upon her as the 
 time of certain know- ledge drew so near, " I 
 only wanted to ask you about Miss Aytoun's 
 family. I mean — Miss Aytoun — Alice — is her 
 father ahve ?"
 
 224 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine regarded her for a considera- 
 ble time in silence. Anne felt the long, firm 
 look, a death knell to her last hope, and re- 
 turned it with a strange, callous steadiness, such 
 as comes occasionally in the extremity of trial, 
 imparting to the sufferer a fictitious strength. 
 
 " Her father is not alive. Wherefore do you 
 ask me, Gowan ?" 
 
 The unnatural flicker of hope rose again. 
 
 " Where did he die, and how ? I beseech 
 you to tell me, Mrs. Catherine !" 
 
 " Gowan," said Mrs. Catherine, gravely ; " for 
 what purpose do you seek to ken ? Wherefore 
 do you question me so ?" 
 
 " Where did he die, and when, and how ?" 
 repeated Anne. " Answer me, Mrs. Catherine 
 — do not hesitate — I am prepared." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine paused long before she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " The place was a country place — far south 
 from this ; the time was seventeen years ago ; 
 the way was — " Mrs, Catherine paused again. 
 " To what purpose is this questioning, Gowan ? 
 It is a matter that concerns you not." 
 
 " The way was — ?" repeated Anne, clasping 
 her hands eagerly. 
 
 " The way was — he was killed," said Mrs.
 
 MERKLAND. 225 
 
 Catherine, in abrupt haste. " Shot, as men 
 shoot beasts. Anne Ross, I brought the bairn 
 Alison to my house, because she was an innocent 
 bairn that I wanted to do a kindness to, and no 
 because of her parentage." 
 
 Anne heard the words, but did not discern 
 their meaning, and sat, in the blind, fainting 
 sickness that possessed her, repeating them to 
 herself, unconsciously. 
 
 " Gowan, Gowan !" said Mrs. Catherine, in 
 alarm. " What ails ye ? What have ye heard ? 
 I am meaning, why have ye come to me with 
 such a question ?" 
 
 " One other — only one," said Anne, recollect- 
 ing herself. " Mrs. Catherine, who was it — 
 who was the murderer ?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine made an appealing motion 
 with her hand, and did not answer. 
 
 But Anne was perfectly self-possessed again. 
 
 " Was it Norman ?" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine did not speak ; it was not 
 necessary. The answer was far too legibly 
 written in the long, steadfast look of grief and 
 sympathy which she fixed upon her companion's 
 face. 
 
 And so they sat in silence for some minutes, 
 
 L 3
 
 2*26 MERKLAND. 
 
 too deeply moved and engrossed for words. At 
 length Anne started up. 
 
 " That is all," she said, hurriedly. " I must 
 go now. I have much to do." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine rose also, took her hand, and 
 led her back to her seat. 
 
 " Ye shall not leave my house, Gowan, till I 
 hear more of this. Who was so cruel as to tell 
 ye this sorrowful story ? and what is it that ye 
 have to do ?" 
 
 Anne sat down again, mechanically. 
 
 " Gowan," said Mrs. Catherine ; '* I have 
 never spoken Norman's name in your hearing, 
 nor suffered it to be spoken. Who has told ye 
 a terrible story, which was buried in grief and 
 forgetfulness long ago, when the unhappy lad 
 found his grave under the sea ? It is not kent 
 in the countryside, for the deed was done far 
 from here, and your father hung back, and took 
 no note, outwardly, of the miserable callant's 
 fate. He was right maybe. / would not have 
 done the like — but that is little matter. Who 
 told ye?" 
 
 " Found his grave under the sea !" murmured 
 Anne, unconsciously. 
 
 " What say ye, Gowan ?"
 
 MERKLAND. 227 
 
 " It was Mrs. Ross," said Anne, " when Miss 
 Aytoun came first to the Tower, she told me 
 that she feared this was his daughter. Oh ! 
 Mrs. Catherine, why did you not keep her 
 separate from us ? If we had not been brought 
 so much together, this could not have happened." 
 
 " Gowan," said Mrs. Catherine, " there is 
 something on your mind yet, which is not 
 known to me ; the story is a woeful story, dark 
 enough to cause sore grief; but it is over and 
 past, and there is some living dread upon ye. 
 What has happened "?" 
 
 Anne looked up — she could not find words 
 to communicate her "living dread" — she only 
 murmured " Lewis." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine started. " Lewis ? Gowan, 
 what is it ye mean? No that there is any- 
 thing — No, no, what gars me fear that — there 
 can be no liking between the two." 
 
 " There is, there is," said Anne. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine rose, and walked through the 
 room uneasily. 
 
 " It must be put to an end — immediate — 
 without delay. I brought the bairn here to do 
 her a kindness, no to give her a sore heart. 
 Gowan, Lewis must not enter my house again 
 tiD Alison Avtoun is home. She is but a bairn
 
 228 MERKLAND. 
 
 — it can have gone no further than the slight 
 liking of a hoy and a girl. Where were my 
 e'en that I did not see the peril? Gowan, it 
 must end this very day — better the dinnle of a 
 sudden pairting — better that each of them 
 should think they were slighted by the other, 
 than that it should ever come to an explanation 
 between them, and then to the rendering of 
 reasons — it must go no further." 
 
 "It is too late," said Anne ; " there has 
 already been an explanation between them. 
 Mrs. Catherine, they are engaged." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine paced up and down the small 
 apartment with quick steps. 
 
 " I am compassed with troubles ! no sooner 
 seeing my way out of one, than another opens 
 before me. Gowan, my puir bairn, I am a 
 selfish fule to think of my own gray head, when 
 the burden falls the heaviest on your young one. 
 What will we do? there is a purpose in your 
 e'en as I can see — tell me what it is." 
 
 Anne did not know how to proceed : she 
 could not betray Norman's secret even to Mrs. 
 Catherine. 
 
 " I will tell Lewis," she said, " and perhaps, 
 Mrs. Catherine — I do not know what is best to 
 be done with poor Alice, so happy and young
 
 MERKLAND. 229 
 
 as she is — perhaps you will tell her — not all — 
 but something to excuse Lewis." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine shook her head. 
 
 " It will not do. It will not do. If I 
 excuse Lewis, she will think it is but some 
 passing thing that awhile will wear away. No, 
 Gowan, no, if the bairn hears anything, she 
 must hear all." 
 
 " I will tell Lewis," said Anne ; " but I must 
 first learn the whole of this dreadful story more 
 perfectly. I thought of going to old Esther 
 Fleming : she was Norman's nurse, Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine — is she likely to know of this ?" 
 
 " I mind much of it myself," said Mrs. 
 Catherine, but ye will get it better from Esther 
 Fleming than from any other mortal. I have 
 been taken up with many diverse things, but 
 Norman and her own son were year's bairns, 
 and Norman was the hght of Esther Fleming's 
 e'en. Your father made no endeavour to help 
 the miserable young man, Gowan. I ken what 
 ye would say — there was no time — and it is 
 true — for the deed had not been two days 
 dune, when he was on the sea — be thankful, 
 Gowan, that he perished in the sea and did not 
 die a shameful death." 
 
 Anne trembled — the consciousness of her
 
 230 MERKLAND. 
 
 secret overpowering her as if it had been guilt. 
 Alas ! over the head of the murderer the shame- 
 ful death impended still. 
 
 " Did the family know?" she asked, her 
 mind becoming strangely familiar with the 
 subject : ** could they know of Norman's rela- 
 tionship to Lewis ?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Catherine. " When Ar- 
 thur Aytoun died, his wife was a young thing, 
 dwining in her health, and oppressed with 
 many troubles; for I have heard that he was 
 far from a good man. James Aytoun was but 
 a bairn then, and Alison was not born ; besides 
 that, they were strangers in that countryside, as 
 well as Norman — being from the south — and 
 would know little of him but his name. Mrs. 
 Aytoun is a woman of a chastened spirit, 
 Gowan ; she kens the unhappy lad has answered 
 for his guilt langsyne before his Maker ; and 
 think not that she will keep his name in the 
 mother's heart of her, in any dream of ven- 
 geance." 
 
 Anne could not answer : her secret lay upon 
 her like a cloud, weighing her down to the 
 very earth. 
 
 *' I must tell the bairn," continued Mrs. Ca- 
 therine, as if consulting with herself; "ay, I
 
 MERKLAND. 231 
 
 must tell the bairn, that she may ken, without 
 dreeing any sick weird of waiting, that there is 
 a bar between Lewis and her that cannot be 
 passed over — that there is a stern and terrible 
 conclusion put to the dreams of their youthheid. 
 Gowan, it is a sore weight to lay upon a spirit 
 innocent of all sorrow." 
 
 Anne assented silently. 
 
 " And ye will have a harder battle with the 
 callant," said Mrs. Catherine. " Gowan, there 
 are bairns in this generation that w^ould fain in- 
 herit the rights and possessions of their fathers, 
 without the ills and the wrongs. Take tent of 
 Le^^as, lest he endeavour to hold this black deed 
 lightly. I will not have it. The blood that a 
 Ross spilt must never be joined in near kindred 
 to another Ross. There is a deadly bar be- 
 tween the houses. Forgiveness there may be, 
 full and free — I doubt it not — but union never. 
 Mind, there can be no softening — no forgetting. 
 The spirit that w^as sent to its account in vio- 
 lence and haste, by Norman's hand, w^ould rise 
 to bar that ill-trysted betrothal. It must end." 
 
 Anne rose. " I w^ill go," she said. " I 
 parted from Lewis last night in anger, because 
 I had no kind word to say to Alice when he 
 bade me be her sister. I must hasten now to
 
 232 MERKLAND. 
 
 learn these terrible details more accurately. 
 Lewis might refuse to believe a story which 
 came so suddenly upon him, and came for 
 such a purpose, if I did not know it all. T 
 must go now." 
 
 " You will get it best from Esther," said 
 Mrs. Catherine. " I ken she has brooded, in 
 secret, over his sin and his death, since ever his 
 sun set in yon terrible waves of blood-guiltiness. 
 Gowan, my bairn !" Mrs. Catherine paused, 
 laid her hand upon Anne's drooping head, and 
 went on, her voice sounding low and solemn. 
 " The Lord uphold and strengthen ye for your 
 work ; the Lord guide ye with the uplifting of 
 His countenance, and give ye to walk fii'm in 
 the midst of tribulation, and no to falter or be 
 weary in the way." 
 
 Once out again upon Oranside, Anne felt 
 the oppression of her terrible secret grow upon 
 her to suffocation. " He is alive ! he is alive !" 
 — the words came bursting to her lips ; she felt 
 tempted, in the strange, almost irresistible, in- 
 sanity of the moment, to proclaim it aloud, as 
 she hurried along ; running sometimes, with a 
 sick feeling of escaping thereby from the phan- 
 tom that overshadowed her inmost heart. The 
 crime itself seemed to become dimmer, in its
 
 MERKLAND. 233 
 
 far distance. The thought that Norman was 
 alive, laden with his fearful burden of remorse 
 and blood-guiltiness, abiding perchance the 
 shameful death of the murderer, filled her whole 
 being almost to frenzy, and, with its circle of 
 possibilities, curdled her very blood with terror. 
 
 Mrs. Ross and Lewis were about sitting down 
 to breakfast, when Anne returned to Merkland, 
 and the domestic horizon was anything but 
 clear. Lewis, forgetful of his last night's sullen 
 petulance, was in high spirits — spirits so high 
 as to aggravate his mother's ill-humour. She 
 grudged that he should have found so much 
 pleasure at the Tower ; and, sneering at Mrs. 
 Catherine, w^hose unquestioned superiority had 
 alw^ays galled her, kept up a biting war of 
 inuendo and covert sarcasm. 
 
 " A pleasant morning for walking. Miss 
 Ross," she said, as Anne took her seat at 
 the table. 
 
 " Why, Anne, have you been out?" ex- 
 claimed Lewis. '* You have good taste cer- 
 tainly, so far as weather goes. Where do you 
 go to, so early in the morning ?" 
 
 " Oh, no doubt she has been at the Tower," 
 said Mrs. Ross. " Duncan and May will be
 
 234 MERKLAND. 
 
 going next. We are possessed with a Tower 
 fever. I presume you were making tender 
 inquiries after Mr. Sutherland, Miss Ross? 
 At this time, of course, it is quite sentimental 
 and romantic to entertain a friendship — nay, 
 perhaps, something warmer than friendship — 
 for the interesting unfortunate." 
 
 " I might have asked for poor Archibald," 
 said Anne, " if I had thought of him at all ; 
 but 1 did not remember even that he had come 
 home." 
 
 " Then you have been at the Tower ?" 
 
 Anne hesitated. " I did go in to see Mrs. 
 Catherine," she said, falteringly. 
 
 Lewis looked up gratefully, and smiled upon 
 her with a smile which said, " I thank you ;" 
 before which Anne shrank, and turned away her 
 head. 
 
 " I do not know how we shall get on in the 
 ordinary affairs of life," continued Mrs. Ross, 
 " while this Towner madness lasts. I should 
 like to know wherein the fascination lies. One 
 can understand a passing infatuation, in a boy 
 like Lewis ; but for you, Anne, who should have 
 some idea of propriety and decorum, to be visit- 
 ing the house, where you knew that young man
 
 MERKLAND. 235 
 
 had arrived at night, so very eariy in the morn- 
 ing — I really am amazed; I do not under- 
 stand it." 
 
 Anne blushed painfully : Lewis drew himself 
 up in towering indignation. " Passing infatua- 
 tion !"— " a boy like Lewis !" 
 
 There was a fortunate diversion made, how- 
 ever, by the entrance of May, with letters, and 
 until their meal was ended, there was a cessa- 
 tion of hostilities, though Mrs. Ross still kept 
 up a fugitive fire, hitting right and left, 
 Lewis and Anne alternately. The breakfast 
 over, Lewis rose to leave the room. 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed his mother. " I suppose 
 you are going to the Tower." 
 
 " Yes, mother," said Lewis, gravely, " I am 
 going to the Tower ; and when I return I shall 
 have something to tell you, which, as it will be 
 .of great importance to me, I hope you will 
 receive calmly, and in a more gentle spirit." 
 
 He left the room. Mrs. Ross followed him 
 with her eyes in astonishment, and then going 
 to the window, watched him turn up Oranside. 
 Anne sat in terror, lest she should be ques- 
 tioned as to the mystery of Lewis' words, but 
 fortunately, she was not. Mrs. Ross sat down, 
 and took her sewing. Anne had done so be-
 
 236 MERKLAND. 
 
 fore, and the two ladies pursued their work in 
 silence. 
 
 The needle trembled in Anne's excited 
 fingers; she felt the acceleration of her pulse, 
 she heard the loud, quick throbbing of her 
 heart. The silence became awful ; she fancied 
 Mrs. Ross could hear her fingers stumbling at 
 every stitch. " Mother," she said, looking up 
 at last. " I have a great favour to ask of you." 
 
 Mrs. Ross glanced at her impatiently. 
 "Well; what is it?" 
 
 "You spoke to me once, of a letter — a 
 letter," continued Anne, growing bolder, as 
 she steadied her voice, " which my unhappy 
 brother, Norman, wrote to my father ; you said 
 I might see it some time, mother !" 
 
 " Upon my word, girl, I believe you want to 
 drive me mad," exclaimed Mrs. Ross, angrily. 
 " You see me half distracted, with the wilfulness 
 and regardlessness of Lewis, and you bring in 
 your own foolish fancies, and your brother's 
 shameful story, as if I had not enough to vex 
 me without that. Try to come down to ordi- 
 nary life a little, and do not torment me with 
 your chimeras." 
 
 "This is no chimera," said Anne, "nor 
 whim, nor fancy, nor anything of the kind;
 
 MERKLAND. 237 
 
 it is of the gravest importance that I should 
 see that letter. It is not even curiosity, though 
 I need hardly be blamed for feeling deep interest 
 in the history of my brother. For the sake of my 
 father's memon^, and for the sake of Lewis, the 
 two bonds between us, give me Norman's letter. 
 I will ask nothing further of you ; this I must 
 beg and plead for, this you must give me." 
 
 Mrs. Ross stared angrily in her face, resent- 
 ing, and yet something impressed by the very 
 strange tone of command, which, impelled by 
 the vehemence of her feelings, mingled with 
 Anne's entreaty. At last she rose, and walk- 
 ing quickly to her desk, opened it, and took 
 from an inner drawer a small key, which she 
 threw upon the table. 
 
 " There ! let me have no further heroics ; 
 that is the key of an old bureau of your father's, 
 which you will find upstairs among the lumber. 
 The letter is in some of the drawers. At least, 
 don't let me have any further trouble about it. 
 I yield to you now, only to take away from you 
 the power of tormenting me at another time." 
 
 Anne did not pause to note the ungracious 
 manner in which her petition was granted ; but 
 laying by her work nervously, she took the key, 
 and hurried upstairs. The old bureau, of dark
 
 238 MERKLAND. 
 
 carved wood, stood dusty and damp in a recess, 
 and Anne had to draw aside boxes of moulder- 
 ing papers, and articles of broken furniture, 
 before she reached it. The picture stood in her 
 way; she knelt down again, delaying in her 
 ver}^ eagerness, now, that the long wished-for 
 letter was within her reach, to look upon the 
 portrait; so bold, and frank, and open, in its 
 flush of manly boyhood. Was that the face of 
 a murderer ? 
 
 Her fingers trembled so with haste and agi- 
 tation, that she could scarcely open the man} 
 drawers, and examine their contents. In the last 
 of all she found the letter, wrapped in a large 
 sheet of paper, within which was something 
 written, in the tremulous scratchy hand, which 
 Anne knew to be her father's. With Nor- 
 man's letter before her, she yet paused to read 
 the comment of the dead — a comment which 
 startled her into wild agitation, and still wilder 
 hope. 
 
 " To my children, Anne and Lewis Ross : 
 
 " I am a dying man, and will never see either 
 
 of you arrive at years to be trusted with such a 
 
 secret ; but I charge you, when this packet 
 
 comes to your hands, to give earnest heed to it,
 
 MERKLAND. 239 
 
 as you value the last words of your father. I 
 am standing in the presence of my Lord, with 
 death at my door, a hoary-headed man, bent 
 to the grave with trouble, and I leave to you who 
 come after me, my solemn con\^ction that 
 Norman Rutherford, your brother, is innocent 
 of the crime laid to his charge. The whole 
 course of his past Hfe is before me, and my eyes 
 are clear w^ith looking upon death face to face. 
 This blood is not upon Norman's hand. Listen 
 to his own words, children ; and believe with me 
 that his words are true. A frail and stricken 
 man, I have done nothing to clear him of the 
 imputed guilt ; but as a special heritage, I leave 
 this work to you. His blood is in your veins ; 
 he is your nearest kindred. Children of my old 
 age, save my son Norman ! As you would 
 have a blessing on your own youth and prospe- 
 rity, remember the desolate exile in his wander- 
 ings, and clear his name and fame. My eye is 
 waxing heavy, and my hand weak — it is the 
 beginning of death. Anne, sole child of his 
 mother ! Lewis, heir of my name ! my charge 
 is upon you. I appeal you to the throne of 
 Him, who, in the fulness of His glor}*, forgot 
 not this fallen world, but left a heavenly king- 
 dom to save and die for it — if you disregard the
 
 240 MERKLAND. 
 
 last petition my lips will ever utter on this earth. 
 My son Norman is innocent of this blood — 
 clear him of the blot upon his name — bring 
 him back to die peacefully in his own land, and 
 the blessing of the God who binds up the 
 broken-hearted, be about you all, for evermore. 
 
 " Lawrence Ross." 
 
 Anne laid down the letter, her eyes full of 
 grateful tears, almost joyful in their tremulous 
 solemnity. There was sorrow, and labour, and 
 darkness in the way — there was not crime. The 
 blessed belief came into her soul in solemn sun- 
 shine — the cloud rolled off her head. A strange 
 invigoration was in every vein. Norman was 
 alive ! alive to receive the triumphant acquit- 
 tal of justice — alive to be saved ! She opened 
 his letter, her tears falling thick upon it : other 
 drops had fallen there before — the tears of the 
 old man's agony. She read it. 
 
 " Before you see this, they will have told you 
 that I am a murderer. It is not so, father : 
 believe a despairing man, it is not so. Arthur 
 Aytoun has done me wrong : but I would not 
 have put a hair of his head in peril. I would 
 have guarded him with my own life. Wherever
 
 MERKLAND. . 241 
 
 he is, be it in joy or misery, he bears me wit- 
 ness, before God, that I am innocent of his 
 blood. Father, my heart is Hke to burst. What 
 can I say to you — my hand is clean. I am in- 
 nocent ! — I am innocent I there is no blood upon 
 my soul. And yet I dare not venture to trust 
 myself to a trial, v\-ith every circumstance against 
 me. I have nothing for it but flight. To-night 
 I go further away — I know not where — under 
 cover of the darkness, like a felon and a cri- 
 minal, as men will call me. It gnaws at my 
 very heart. I w^ould rather have died a thou- 
 sand times — a cold-blooded, cowardly murderer ! 
 Father, father ! you wiU not beheve it of youi' 
 son ! 
 
 " They would find me guilty if I remained — 
 they could not fail to find me guilty — and the 
 disgrace of a fugitive will be less upon our house 
 and name than the disgrace of a convicted mur- 
 derer, dying a shameful death. It is Hke a 
 coward to fly. I am a coward. I do not dare 
 to meet that fatal judgment. I could not bear 
 to hear myself called guilty, with my innocence 
 strong in my heart. I have a suspicion, too — a 
 terrible fear and suspicion — and I must fly. 
 Father, I can say no more, even to you. I am 
 a sinful man before God ; but my hand is as 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 MERKLAND. 
 
 pure of blood, as when I stood beside you on 
 Oranside, before death had ever entered Merk- 
 land. They know in Heaven — if they can see 
 my unhappy fortunes — my mother, Lawrence, 
 Edward — they know that I am innocent. I do 
 not know what I say. My thoughts are wan- 
 dering hke a sick man's. Father, I am inno> 
 cent ! 
 
 " Marion is with me — she is my wife. We 
 have escaped from the sea in peril of our lives — 
 they will tell you I have perished in it — I would 
 I had, but for Marion. Father, you may never 
 hear from me, or of me, again ; but again re- 
 member, I am innocent — this blood does uot 
 stand between God and me. Why this fearful 
 cloud has covered us, He knows who sent it. 
 It may depart yet, in His good time. For 
 this unjust world, farewell, father. We will 
 meet where there are no false accusations — where 
 God himself shall vindicate the right. I become 
 patient — I become trustful. Father, pray — pray 
 that I may live to be cleared of this horror — that 
 the curse may be taken from my name — that I 
 may be acknowledged guiltless. 
 
 "N. R. R." 
 
 Norman Rutherford's sister was kneeling be-
 
 MERKLAND. 243 
 
 fore his portrait — her clasped hands holding her 
 forehead, her eyes raining hot tears, her soul 
 poured out before God. Norman was alive — 
 could be prayed for, hoped for, toiled for. The 
 curse was turned into a blessing. The path was 
 wintry stiU, and bare, and laborious : but that 
 horrible spectre of blood was gone; and the 
 majestic presence of justice, and the clear rays 
 of hope, were on the way instead. She was 
 able for aU labour, all patience, all sorrow in his 
 cause. Norman was innocent. 
 
 Anne rose at length, folded the precious letters 
 carefully, placed them in her bosom, and then 
 hastily descended the stair, and set out again for 
 the old nurse's cottage, to learn, according to 
 her original intention, the particulars of this 
 dark history there. The Oran moaned no 
 more, but only murmured plaintively, between 
 his banks, the kindly song of home ; and Anne, 
 as she passed under the trees, almost with a 
 Hght heart, murmured to herself the prayer of 
 Alice Aytoun's song — for the wayfaring man. 
 
 M 2
 
 244 MERKLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " His earliest mortal breath waffed sweet 
 Upon this withered cheek of mine. 
 My music was his pattering feet, 
 His smile was my sunshine. 
 
 "On bridal and on bridegroom gane, 
 My widow-heart now lingers never. 
 But blessings on my gallant bairn, 
 I think of him for ever." 
 
 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 Esther Fleming, Norman Rutherford's 
 nurse, lived in a cottage by herself, not far from 
 Merkland. When the first Mrs. Ross's first 
 son was born, Esther had entered her service as 
 " bairns'-maid," had left it again to be married, 
 and after a brief period of two years had re-
 
 MERKLAND. 245 
 
 turned a youthful widow, with one boy infant of 
 her own, between whose birth and Norman's 
 there was but some brief interval of weeks. 
 Esther had remained the head of Mrs. Ross's 
 nursery through the vicissitudes of all the suc- 
 ceeding years; had received into her charge 
 infant after infant of Mrs. Ross's family, and 
 with grief, less only than the mother's, had seen 
 the tender blossoms fall one by one into the 
 family grave : but Norman was peculiarly her 
 own — a tie especially tender attached the gene- 
 rous, manly boy, to his foster-mother ; and when 
 her own handsome sailor-lad, returned from his 
 first voyage, stood up to measure his height with 
 that of his playmate and comrade, Esther's 
 overflowing eye looked with scarce less partial 
 pride upon Norman Rutherford than upon Wil- 
 liam Fleming. When Mrs. Ross herself died, 
 the little Anne became the object of Esther's 
 devoted and unceasing care, although her removal 
 from Merkland to the cottage she now occupied 
 took place before the second marraige of Mr. 
 Ross ; but even after that event, bitterly as the 
 faithful servant resented it, Esther continued, for 
 her delicate nurseling's sake, to hold her footing 
 in Merkland, and to pay daily visits to her old 
 dominion in the nurser\', asserting against all
 
 246 MERKLAND. 
 
 comers, and in the face of the new darlhig, 
 Lewis himself, the rights and privileges of 
 " Miss Anne." But when Anne was still 
 a child, a blight fell upon Esther Fleming: 
 the selfsame blight, which brought the gray 
 hairs of Norman Rutherford's father in sorrow^ 
 to the grave. The old nurse, stronger, or more 
 tenacious of life, had borne her sorrow silently, 
 and marked it more by her utter seclusion from 
 the rustic society round her, than by any other 
 demonstration. She had a little niece living 
 with her, to manage her small domestic con- 
 cerns, and except through this girl and Anne, 
 Esther had no intercourse with the world — the 
 very brief and quiet world — about her. Her 
 house stood on a high bank of the Oran, with a 
 pathway winding before it; and the grassy 
 descent, dark with old trees and bushes, shelv- 
 ing steeply down behind. Within, the little 
 dwelling consisted of two apartments, perfectly 
 clean and neat (as is, indeed, much more usual 
 in our Scottish cottages than southern readers 
 give us credit for), though without any attempt 
 at ornament, except the two or three small pro- 
 file portraits of children, which hung over the 
 mantelpiece of the outer room, the only existing 
 memorials of the dead sons and daughters of
 
 MERKLAND. 247 
 
 the house of Merkland, which Esther had 
 rescued from their disgrace, in the lumber-room, 
 after Mr. Ross's death. 
 
 The nurse herself, in her gown and petticoat 
 of dark print, and white cap bordered svith 
 narrow lace, and carefully-kept hood of black 
 velvet, sat sewing by the fire, making shirts for 
 her sailor son, then far away in a man-of-war, 
 toiling upon the sea. Esther was alone, so there 
 was no obstacle in the way of Anne's errand. 
 
 " Esther," she said, when she had delayed 
 nervously for some time, in indifferent conversa- 
 tion, " I have come to ask you about a very 
 grave matter, of which I only heard recently. 
 A secret, Esther — you know — " 
 
 She paused. Esther looked up gravely in her 
 face, and then, rising, closed the door. 
 
 "Mr. Norman?" she asked, in a verj' low 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes," said Anne. *' You know it all, 
 Esther?" 
 
 " God be thanked that has put it in your 
 heart to ask," said the nurse, solemnly. " Yes, 
 Miss Anne, I ken. It has been Ipng heav)^ on 
 my heart since ever that cloud fell upon my boy. 
 I have lookit to you — I have aye lookit to you. 
 Ye are like your mother, and will not falter.
 
 248 MERKLAND. 
 
 Oh, Miss Anne ! if ye but kent how it has lain 
 upon my heart !" 
 
 Anne looked at her inquisitively, uncertain 
 how far her knowledge went, or whether it was 
 safe to speak to her of Norman, as alive. 
 
 " Ye are doubtful of me. Miss Anne," said 
 Esther. " I see it in your eye. What of this 
 story do ye ken yoursel ? Have ye heard it 
 
 all r 
 
 Anne faltered. 
 
 " I do not know, Esther. I have heard — " 
 
 " Let me tell ye what / ken," interrupted the 
 nurse, " and then ye can give me your fiill trust. 
 I claim nothing less from your mother's bairn. 
 Miss Anne, your brother Norman lies under the 
 reproach of a black crime — the blackest that man 
 can be blotted wi'. Folk think that he is dead, 
 and he is guilty ; he is not either the tane nor 
 the tither. He is a living and an innocent 
 man !" 
 
 Anne's whole frame thrilled with joy as the 
 words were said. Solemn as was the testimony 
 of the dead, and deeply as her hapless brother's 
 self-defence moved her, the words seemed surer 
 and more hopeful when a living voice pronounced 
 them. 
 
 " I want you to tell me everj^thing, Esther,'
 
 MERKLAND. 249 
 
 she said, eagerly. " I have Norman's letter, 
 and my father's testimony, but, except these, I 
 have heard httle. This morning I was in 
 despair, because I knew that Norman lived, and 
 believed that he was guilty. Now, I can do 
 anything. His innocence is all I care for. Tell 
 me what can be done to prove his innocence — 
 rather, I should say, tell me every circumstance, 
 Esther — tell me all you know." 
 
 " I care about his innocence also," said Esther. 
 "Yes, hving or dead, I care about that first. 
 But, Miss Anne, ye dinna ken — ye canna fathom 
 how dearly T care about himsel. He was laid in 
 my arms a helpless, greeting bairn, the first day 
 o' his life ; wi' my ain hands I put his first 
 mortal claes about him — my boy ! —my gallant, 
 mirthful boy ! And to think of him spending 
 his best years toiling in a strange countr}', wi' a 
 dark end hanging ower him, his name cursed, 
 and his lands lost ! — and him an innocent man ! 
 Oh ! I have thought upon it till my heart was 
 like to burst !" 
 
 " Why did you not tell me ?" said Anne. 
 " We have lost years ! Esther, there might 
 have been something done long ago, if you had 
 only told me." 
 
 " I dui-stna," said the nurse. " I was feared 
 
 M 3
 
 250 MERKLAND. 
 
 to whisper to mysel that he was living, for fear 
 of scathe ; but now, Miss Anne, now, ye have 
 your work before ye — and a strange work it is 
 for a young lady. But ye maunna shrink or 
 fan." 
 
 " I will not — do not fear me," said Anne. 
 ** Only tell me, Esther — tell me everything you 
 know — let us lose no more time." 
 
 " It's a lang story," said Esther, " and ye 
 maun let me tell ye my ain way. Miss Anne, as 
 I have thocht it ower in my ain spirit, mony a 
 time, looking for this day. Maybe, if ye haena 
 patience wi' me, I may mak it no sae clear. It's 
 a lang story, and, to understand it right, ye bid 
 to ken his nature. I maun begin at the begin- 
 ning." 
 
 Anne assented, and Esther went on. " Miss 
 Anne, he was the sweetest bairn that was ever 
 putten into mortal hands for earthly upbring- 
 ing. I think I can see him before me yet; 
 aye the head o' them a' in their wild ploys, 
 and never out o' mischief; but, for a' that, as 
 gentle as a lamb. 1 used to tell them, when 
 they came in to me wi' torn claes and dirty shoon, 
 and blythe, black faces, that they were the 
 plagues o' my life — eh ! Miss Anne, the ill 
 o' thae idle words — they were its very joy
 
 MERKLAND. 251 
 
 and sunshine ; my blythe callants ! — my bonnie, 
 brave, pleasant bairns ! 
 
 " For Mr. Norman was ages wi' my Willie, 
 and the twa were like brithers ; they lay in the 
 same cradle, and were nursed in the same arms 
 — puir, feckless, withered arms, as they are 
 noo ! — and I had a conceit that they were like 
 ither, though Mr. Norman was head and 
 shouthers higher than Willie, and had een like stars 
 in a frosty nicht, and hair as dark as the clouds ; 
 and Willie was blue-e'ed and fair-haired, like his 
 father before him. Ony way, they were like in 
 spirit ; the very look of them was heartsome in 
 a house. 
 
 " But there w^as ae thing special. Miss Anne, 
 about your brother ; a thocht o' his ain comfort 
 or pleasure never entered his head ; he had a 
 sunshine within himsel that keepit him aye 
 cheery ; and the bits o' dawting, and good things, 
 and makings o', that ither bairns fecht for, he 
 heeded not, though I never saw a laddie that 
 liket better the quietest mark of kindliness : 
 only, if there was onything like a privilege or an 
 honour, he w^ould aye have it wared on the rest ; 
 no jealous and grudging, like as ye will see 
 some bairns, that are learned to pretend to do 
 the like, and no to be selfish ; but with a blythe
 
 252 MERKLAND. 
 
 spark shining in his e'e, enjoying the good 
 thing, whatever it was, far mair than if he had 
 gotten it himsel. 
 
 " It might be because Mr. Lawrence was aye 
 dehcate, and bid to get his ain way ; but the 
 maist of it, without doubt, was in the nature. 
 My ain Willie was a kindly callant, as need to 
 be; but I have seen him (wha was only a 
 poor man's son, and no equal to the young 
 Laird), standing out against Mr. Lawrence in 
 his pets, when Mr. Norman gaed way, in his 
 blythe, frank manner, without sae much as a 
 thocht about ony pride o' his ain ; and I have 
 kent him, mony a time, when ony o' them were 
 in the wrang, taking the wyte upon himsel. 
 
 " Ye wiE think I am dwelling on thae auld 
 stories ower lang, Miss Anne ; but I see them 
 — I think I can see them on Oranside, Mr. 
 Lawrence sitting, white and thin, on the bank, 
 watching them ; and my ain twa, my beautiful 
 laddies ! as wild in their innocent play as twa 
 foals on a lee: and the cut fingers, and the 
 torn breeks, and the fa's into Oran : waes me ! 
 what were a' their bits o' tribulations but just 
 another name for joy ? 
 
 " Weel, Mr. Lawrence died, as ye ken. If 
 he was petted whiles, it was wi' sickness and
 
 MERKLAND. 253 
 
 suifering — pain that the young spirit could ill 
 thole, and that awfu' cough; but he was a 
 blessed bairn, and departed as calm and pleasant 
 as an angel gaiui hame — as truly he was, puir 
 lamb ! — out of a world that had held nothing 
 but ill to him ; and the other bairns dwined 
 away from the house o' Merkland. Eh ! Miss 
 Anne, ane canna read thae sore and sorro\^'ful 
 dispensations ! To think that there should be 
 sae mony blythe families round about, wi* no 
 ae wee head lifted out among them, and a' the 
 Mistress's lilies gathered — a' but Mr. Norman ; 
 and ye wad have thocht the rest had left a por- 
 tion of their hfe to him, as that strange lassie, 
 Jackie Morison, was saying to me out of a book 
 of ballants, about three knights — aye as the tane 
 was kiUed, the spirit and the strength of him 
 entered into the tither ; but that's a fule story. 
 So, as I was saying, ye micht have thocht it 
 was so wi' Mr. Norman ; for, the mair death 
 there was in the house, the stronger and fuller 
 of life he grew. Ye may think. Miss Anne, 
 how the Mistress's heart was bound up in her 
 one son, growing among tears and troubles, 
 like a strong young tree by the waterside. 
 
 " And then she died hersel. He wad be 
 haiU eighteen then, maistly a man ; and ye
 
 254 MERKLAND. 
 
 wad have thocht his heart would burst. For 
 months after that, he used to come in and sit 
 beside me in the nursery, never speaking a 
 word. We were the truest mourners in Merk- 
 land, him and me, and maybe it made us like 
 ane anither a' the better. 
 
 *' It was a dreary year, that first year after your 
 mother died ; but there were drearier years to 
 come. The twelvemonth was just out, when 
 it began to be whispered in the countryside 
 that Merkland was courting a new wife. I 
 could have felled the first body that said it to 
 me, and Mr. Norman flew upon Duncan, in the 
 greatest passion I ever saw him in, for dauring 
 to mint at sic a word ; but the rumour rose, for 
 a' that (folk said it was because Mr. Norman 
 had been pitten aside frae inheriting Merkland, 
 because he was to take his uncle's name, and 
 sae noo there was nae heir), till I put it to the 
 Laird my ain sel — ye may think it bauld. Miss 
 Anne, but I had been about the house a' his 
 married life. That very night — for I wasna 
 likely to bide wi' a strange woman in my mis- 
 tress's seat — I was sorting my bits of odds 
 and ends to gang away ; and looking at you, 
 sleeping in your wee bed, and murning for ye, 
 an innocent lamb, left to the cold mercies of a
 
 MERKLAND. 255 
 
 stepmother, when Mr. Norman came in. I saw, 
 by the white look of him, in a moment, that he 
 had been hurt and wounded to the very heart 
 (and so he was), for his father had tell't him. 
 Eh ! Miss Anne, to think that he could tell the 
 fine, manly, grown-up lad, that nae mortal could 
 help being proud o' ; and that was liker being 
 marriet himsel than hearing tell o' his father. 
 
 " So he sat down by the fireside and covered 
 his face wi' his hands, and did not say a word 
 to me — only I heard him moaning to himsel, 
 * O, mother, mother !' Nae wonder — we were 
 wearing our murnings still, and she had been 
 but ae twelvemonth gone. 
 
 " So the marriage-day came at last. I had 
 flitted into this house the week afore — and 
 there were mony folk at the wedding, only Mrs. 
 Catherine, and Strathoran's lady, and some 
 more, wouldna come, ; and when they sought 
 Mr. Norman, he wasna to be found far or near 
 — where think ye he spent that day, Miss 
 Anne ? at his mother's grave ! 
 
 *' Ye're wearj'ing on me — it's just because 
 it's a' sae clear in my ain mind — I canna help 
 it; but I am coming to the time noo. Mr. 
 Norman ye ken, had an inheritance o' his ain 
 by the mother's side. Your uncle, Mr. Ruther-
 
 256 MERKLAND. 
 
 ford, of Redheugh, was a bachelor gentleman, 
 and died three or four years before your mo- 
 ther — and Mr. Norman was his heir. He was 
 to take both the land and the name, and I have 
 heard it was a better property than Merkland, 
 only it was far south by this, on the ither side 
 o' Edinburgh. Mr. Norman was to bide wi* 
 his father till he came of age, and a sore and 
 weary time it was, for this Mrs. Ross couldna 
 bear the sicht of him, and he likit her as ill. I 
 maistly wished for his ain sake that the time 
 was come, though it was a sore thought to me 
 that I was to have the sicht o' him, gladdening 
 my auld e'en (I wasna sae auld then either) 
 nae mair. 
 
 " And at last his one-and-twentieth birthday 
 came, and he gaed away. I did not see him after 
 that for a whole year The light of my eyes 
 was ta'en from me. Miss Anne — I had little 
 pleasure of my life, for both my boys were away. 
 
 " Willie had served out his prenticeship, and 
 was sailing second-mate in a timber ship to the 
 Baltic; but that time he had ta'en a langer 
 voyage, to India and thereaway, and didna came 
 hame till the year was out. The very next day 
 after WiUie came, Mr. Norman arrived on a 
 visit at Merkland, and the first body he came to
 
 MERKLAND. 257 
 
 see, after his father, was just my very sel — and 
 what do ye think he had been devising in the 
 kindness of his heart for mv Willie? There 
 was a schooner lying at Leith on sale, and Mr. 
 Norman had made an offer for't, for Willie's 
 sake, and no ither, to make him captain ; and 
 when they had rested themsells a week at hame, 
 Mr. Norman took Willie away to Leith wi' him 
 to see the ship. Weel, Miss Anne, a'thing was 
 bricht for baith o' them when they gaed away ; 
 but when they got to Leith, and had near set- 
 tled about the boat, my puir Willie, being 
 maybe ower proud and uplifted about the 
 honour, and the grand prospect, was careless o' 
 himself; and the first word that came to me 
 was, no that he was captain of Mr. Norman's 
 ship, but that he was pressed, and ta'en away 
 to some of the muckle English sea-towns on 
 the east coast, to be a common man afore the 
 mast in a man-o'-war." 
 
 Esther paused to wipe her eyes with her 
 apron. 
 
 " Eh, Miss Anne, thae sore and humbling 
 providences ! just when ane thocht a'thing was 
 prosperous and full of promise, to be cast down 
 into the very depths — my heart was sick within 
 me. I had no more spirit for onything, but
 
 258 MERKLAND. 
 
 just gaed about the house like a ghaist, and 
 caredna to spin, as the lass says in the sang. 
 Mr. Norman did his endeavour to free my puir 
 laddie, but it couldna be — and ye may think 
 what a cloud fell upon me, dwelling here my 
 lane, and my son far away in the dangers o' the 
 war, where, if he were spared, I couldna see him 
 for years. 
 
 " Mr. Norman came seldom back to Merk- 
 land after that. He likit Mrs. Ross ill at all 
 times, and I think he reproached himsel for no 
 being carefu' enough of Willie, though I naever 
 blamed him — no for a moment; but onyway 
 he was a'thegither pairted from his ain auld 
 hame — no that he forgot us ; there was aye the 
 tither bit present coming to me, at New-year's 
 times, and his birth-days and the like; and 
 many braw claes and toys, and things, to your- 
 sel. Miss Anne, that ye didna get the half o' — 
 
 *' So three years ran out, and ae day when I 
 happened to be up at Merkland, on some errand 
 concerning yoursel, ye came to me, Miss Anne, 
 wi' a paper in your hand, to let me hear ye 
 read (ye were six years auld then). So I got the 
 paper — ye had slipped it out o' the lockit book- 
 case in the library, the time your papa was 
 writing a letter, and didna see ye. I mind the
 
 MERKLAND. 259 
 
 very words ye said — because I likit to see the 
 papers — and so I did, to see what word there 
 was about the war, and if there was ony tidings 
 of Willie's ship. Sae I got it, and began to 
 read it, the time Mr. Lewis and you were play- 
 ing at my fit. 
 
 " Eh ! Miss Anne ; I mind the bits of words 
 that came in upon me now and then, when I 
 was looking at that awful paper, as if I had 
 heard them in a fever. There was the haill 
 story of the murder in't ; of how Mr. Norman 
 and Mr. Aytoun had had a bitter quarrel the 
 night before, and parted in anger — and how, the 
 next morning, Mr. Aytoun was found lying 
 dead in a lone place by a waterside — and how a 
 man, gaun to his work, had met Mr. Norman 
 coming, like from the same place, just about 
 the time the deed bid to hae been dune — and 
 there was mair than that still — a gun was 
 found in the wood, and the gun was Mr. 
 Norman's, and when the officers gaed to take 
 him up, he had fled, no man kent whither. 
 My e'en were reeling in my head, but 1 could 
 read it for a' that — I didna lose a word ; and in 
 anither place there was mair news — the mur- 
 derer, as they daured to ca' him, had been 
 traced into a Holland boat, and there was
 
 260 MERKLAND. 
 
 certain word of it, that it was wrecked, and all 
 on board lost, so he had come, they said, to 
 speedy punishment. I ken not now, how I 
 had strength to do it ; but I rose up the mo- 
 ment I was done, and went down into the 
 library myseF — what cared I at that time, if I 
 had met a' the leddies in the land ? — to put it 
 back secretly into the book-case again. Your 
 father was sitting in the library, Miss Anne, a 
 changed man ; the white on his face was the 
 white of death, and he was trembling hke as 
 with the cauld, and had the darkest woe in his 
 e'e, that I ever looked upon. I put down the 
 paper on the table, and he started, and looked 
 up at me. There was never a word said be- 
 tween us ; but we were equal in our terrible 
 sorrow. He kent that, and so did I. 
 
 " I know not how I gaed hame that day ; it 
 was a bonnie day in June, but I thocht that the 
 sky, and the earth, and the trees, were a' black 
 alike, and the running of the Oran was hoarse 
 and loud, like the wild sea that was flowing 
 ower my dear, dear bairn. It was before my 
 eyes night and day, sleeping and waking. I 
 kent he couldna have done it out of evil counsel 
 or malice, but he micht have done it in passion. 
 The sinking ship, and the storm, and the black
 
 MERKLAND. 261 
 
 sky, and my pleasant laddie in the midst, wi' 
 bluid on his hand, and despair in his soul ; oh. 
 Miss Anne ! 
 
 " A month past in that way. I dauredna 
 face Merkland, and he never came near me, 
 and I thocht not there was any hope for Mr. 
 Norman ; I never doubted he was dead. In the 
 beginning of July, I got a letter from Willie, 
 telling me his ship was lying in Leith Roads, 
 and I was to come and see him. So I put up 
 a bit bundle, and took some Ipng siUer, and 
 set out upon the road. I wanted to buy some 
 bits of things the puir laddie needed, and so I 
 couldna afford to tak the coach, but walked 
 every fit, and a weary road it was. So Willie 
 met me in my cousin's house in the Citadel, and 
 whenever our first meeting was ower, he came 
 after me to the room I was to sleep in, and 
 shut the door, and I saw there was trouble in 
 his face. So I did not doubt he had heard. 
 * Mother,' he said to me, * I have news to tell 
 you.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Willie !' said I. ' I ken, I ken ; it 
 has near broken my heart.' 
 
 " So Willie went to the door again, and saw 
 it w^as safe shut, and said he, ' Mother, what 
 do ye ken ?'
 
 262 MERKLAND. 
 
 " ' About Mr. Norman, my dear laddie/ said 
 I ; * that he has been left to himself, and done a 
 terrible crime, and died a terrible death. Oh, 
 that we had but kent that he repented; oh, 
 that we had ony token that the Lord had 
 visited his soul.' 
 
 " ' Mother,' said Willie, very low, ' do ye 
 need me to tell you that he didna do it ? Do 
 you no ken that yoursel ? O, mother ! mo- 
 ther ! him that wouldna have harmed the worm 
 at his fit.' 
 
 " ' Ane disna ken — ane canna tell,' said I ; 
 ' he never did it wi' purpose and counsel, 
 Willie ; but he may have been beguiled by 
 passion. God send that it hasna been counted 
 to him.' 
 
 *'* Mother,' said Willie. ^Whisht! mind 
 that a precious life is hinging on't. I have 
 seen Mr. Norman.' 
 
 " Miss Anne, I thought I would have fa'en 
 at his feet, for what could I think, but that it 
 was the unquiet spirit my puir laddie had seen. 
 
 " ' Mother,' said Willie, ' God has saved 
 him out o' the sea, near by a miracle. Mr. 
 Norman is a living man, and an innocent man. 
 The hand that saved him will clear him in its 
 ain guid time ; but he bade me tell you. He
 
 MERKLAND. 263 
 
 couldna bear, he said, that folk that had kent 
 him, and hkit him weel should think he had 
 done that crime ; and he minded me that folk 
 could pray for a living man, and coiJdna for a 
 dead, and bade me tell you, mother.' 
 
 " * O, Willie !' said I, ' wherefore did he 
 flee ? — the right would have been proved, if he 
 had but waited for the trial.' 
 
 " ' I canna tell ye, mother,' said Willie, ' but 
 he said a'thing was against him ; and it was 
 borne in on my mind, that he j abused wha had 
 dune the deed, and that it was ane he likit weel 
 and was walling to suffer for — ye ken his 
 nature — but mind, that was only a fancy o' my 
 ain, for he did not mint a word of it to me.' 
 
 " ' And where was he, Willie ?' said I ; 
 ' where was my dear laddie ? — was he out of 
 pern ?" 
 
 " ' It was in a town on the Holland coast,' 
 said Willie, ^ a bit sma place, less than Port- 
 oran. They had travelled there on fit, from 
 the place where the boat was cast away ; and 
 Mr. Norman was waiting till there should be 
 some ship sailing from Rotterdam to India. 
 He said to me, mother, that he would never 
 daur write hame again ; but if he died he would 
 cause that word should be sent baith to Merk-
 
 264 MERKLAND. 
 
 land and you — but as lang as ye didna hear, ye 
 were to mind and pray for him, as a living and 
 sorrowful man, and no to think he was dead.' 
 
 " ' My laddie !' said I, ' my dear bairn ! — oh, 
 that the Lord would bring forth His righteous- 
 ness as the noonday, and His judgment as the 
 morning light. Ye said they, Willie — was there 
 onybody wi' him ?' 
 
 " * Yes, mother,' said Willie ; * Mr. Norman 
 was married the nicht before he fled, and there 
 was a young lady with him. She didna belang 
 about Strathoran — I never saw her before, but 
 Mr. Norman said that in the wreck, she was 
 braver than him, though she was a bit genty, 
 delicate-looking thing. Mr. Norman took me 
 in to see her, and tell't her 1 was his foster- 
 brother and friend. He is aye Hke himsel^^ 
 thinking on pleasuring me, in the midst o' a' 
 his ain trouble — and she gaed me her hand wi' 
 a sorrowful smile, that made me like to greet — 
 and whiles when he was speaking to me, when 
 his grief was like to get the better of him, she 
 put her bit little hand on his arm, and said, 
 " Norman, Norman," and then he aye calmed 
 down again.' 
 
 " So that was a' that Willie had to tell, and 
 in little mair than a week after that, his ship
 
 MERKLAND. 265 
 
 sailed again, and when I was on my road hame, 
 I went first of a' to the place where the deed 
 was done. Its on the south side o' the Firth, 
 far down — but I could find out naething there, 
 except that everybody blamed Mr. Norman, and 
 naebody would believe but what he was the 
 murderer. 
 
 "And since then, Miss Anne — it's seventeen 
 years past in the last July — I have been a be- 
 reaved woman, for Willie never came hame but 
 ance, when the war was ended, and that was just 
 for a while, for he had pleased his captain unco 
 weel, and was made gunner in the ship, and he 
 had got used wi' their life, and liked it, so he 
 just gaed back. He said to me, I mind, that 
 he might aye be in the way of hearing tidings of 
 Mr. Norman, and would come hame ^^'ithout 
 delay if there was ony guid word. But word, 
 guid or bad, there has been nane since that 
 time. Miss Anne ; a wear}^ time it has been to 
 me — but your brother is a living man, and the 
 work is not too late." 
 
 " What can be done ?" said Anne ; " what 
 can be done ?" 
 
 She felt an impulse to rise and hurry to the 
 work at once. She felt it a sin to lose a moment. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 MERKLAND. 
 
 Yet all the difficulties rose up before her. What 
 steps to take — what to do ! 
 
 " Miss Anne," said Esther ; " I have pon- 
 dered it, and ower again pondered it in my ain 
 mind since I came hame frae that weary journey, 
 and often I have been on the point of gaun 
 away back again, to see if I could hear onything 
 mair. But what I would bid ye do, would be 
 to gang, or to get some of thae keen writer 
 chiels to gang, cannily, without letting on what 
 they want, to do their endeavour to find out if 
 onybody else in that countryside had an ill-will 
 at Mr. Aytoun : he was a wild man, I heard, 
 and nae doubt had enemies — and if ony other 
 man had been seen leaving the wood that awful 
 morning bye Mr. Norman. There's been alang 
 time lost, but I've thought often, it micht maybe 
 put the real sinner aff his guard, and so he micht 
 be easier found. Miss Anne, that is the way, 
 sac far as I can see. Ye maun try and find the 
 true man that did it, living or dead." 
 
 "And bring disgrace and ruin into some 
 other peaceful family, Esther," said Anne, sadly. 
 " It is a terrible alternative !" 
 
 " Miss Anne," said Esther, " my dear lad- 
 die Norman maun be saved, if I should gang
 
 MERKLAND. 267 
 
 away mysel. I aye waited for you. I had no 
 thocht ye wad falter. The work is a sore and 
 painfid work, but if ye will not do it, that have 
 better power, I will try myself." 
 
 " I had no thought of faltering, Esther," 
 said Anne. " I only said it was a very sad 
 and terrible alternative, and so it is — if William 
 was correct — if we are to endeavour to prove 
 the guilt of one whom Norman was willing to 
 sacrifice name and fame for, it is only so much 
 the more painful. Yet I do not falter — you 
 say truly, Norman must be saved — if it is 
 within human power to clear his name, he 
 shall be saved. But, oh ! for guidance — for 
 wisdom !" 
 
 When Anne left the house, Esther accom- 
 panied her to the door, earnestly urging upon 
 her the necessity of losing no time. To lose 
 no time ! — no, surely ; when, for all Alice 
 Aytoun's sunny lifetime, Norman had been an 
 outcast and an exile. 
 
 And the " Marion !" — who was this who had 
 not deserted him in the midnight of his 
 calamity ? this who had been bolder amidst 
 the perils of the wreck than he, and who had 
 gone with him to the unknown far country, 
 the outcast's wife? Anne's imagination no 
 
 N 2
 
 268 MERKLAND. 
 
 longer pictured him iilone, abroad beneath 
 sweeping blast and tempest. A calmer air 
 stole over the picture. It might be from some 
 humble toiling home — not bright, yet with a 
 chastened sunshine of hope and patience about 
 it still — that the tidings of restored honour and 
 fortune should call the exile, and the exile's 
 household, rejoicing to their own land.
 
 MERKLAND. 269 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Oh ! there lie such depths of woe 
 In a young bhghted spirit. Manhood wears 
 A haughty brow, and age has done with tears, 
 But youth bows down to misery in amaze. 
 At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days. 
 And thus it was with her." 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Lewis Ross found but a cold welcome at 
 the Tower from its aged mistress. Why she 
 addressed him with so much reserve, and with- 
 out even the familiar harshness of her usual 
 manner, Lewis could not understand, and it 
 roused his indignation mightily. He, an inde- 
 pendant man, a landed proprietor of influence 
 a travelled, educated gentleman, to be over
 
 270 MERKLAND. 
 
 borne by the caprices and prejudicies of a set 
 of old women ! His dignity was hurt, his 
 petulant pride roused. He certainly was con- 
 scious of doing simple Alice Aytoun some 
 considerable honour, and did not fancy there 
 was anything unnatural in his mother thinking 
 that he might have done better — but to control 
 his liberty — to think that by all this coldness 
 and discouragement, they could change the 
 current of his inclination and affections — it 
 was quite too much. Lewis did not feel by 
 any means inclined to submit to it. He felt, 
 too, that Archibald Sutherland shrank from 
 his not very delicate questionings, and that, 
 beyond all doubt, he himself, Lewis Ross, of 
 Merkland, important person as he was, was 
 decidedly de trop in the Tower. 
 
 Even Alice felt it, as she sat in her corner by 
 the window, that delicate embroidery, which 
 she wished to finish for a cap to Mrs. Catherine, 
 before she returned home, trembling in her 
 small fingers, and her heart beating loud and 
 unsteadily. Mrs. Catherine had been so tender 
 to herself this morning, almost as if she knew 
 — it was so strange that she should be cold to 
 Lewis. Mrs. Catherine left the room for a 
 moment: Lewis approached the window, and
 
 MERKLAND. 271 
 
 whispered a petition, that she would meet him 
 at " the little gate." Alice did not say no. 
 *' Immediately," whispered Lewis. " I have a 
 great deal to say to you." 
 
 Alice laid down her embroidery, and leaving 
 the room, stole tremulously up stairs, to put on 
 her bonnet and shawl, and steal tremulouslv 
 down again, and out to her first tryste. The 
 little gate stood on a shady by-way, or "loan- 
 ing," which ran by Oranside through the 
 grounds of Strathoran and the Tower. Lewis 
 joined her immediately. He had much to say 
 to her — much that was very pleasant to hear, if 
 it was not very wise, nor even very connected 
 and relevant, for Lew^s, spite of his boyish 
 pride and self importance, felt truly and deeply, 
 so far as little Alice was concerned, and had 
 not escaped the ameliorating effect of that in- 
 fluence, which, according to the gay old epicu- 
 rean of our Scottish baUad-writers, " gives one 
 an air, and even improves the mind." The 
 youthful couple wandered through the loaning, 
 unconscious in their own dreamy happiness of 
 the chill wind that swept through its high bare 
 hedges, till nearly an hour had passed. But 
 Alice suddenly saw, through the gap in the 
 hedge, Miss Falconer riding quickly to the
 
 272 MERKLAND. 
 
 Tower; she came, by appointment, to bid 
 Alice good-by, and so that most pleasant 
 ramble must, of necessity, be terminated. Alice 
 accompanied Lewis a little further down the 
 lane, lest Marjory's quick eye should discover 
 him, and then they parted. 
 
 She was to leave the Tower in a week ; but 
 too pleasantly absorbed to think even of that, 
 Alice went lightly along the dim loaning, with 
 its high rustling hedges, and borders of wet 
 herbage. Only one little grief lay within the 
 glad heart, which began to throb now with 
 deeper happiness — Anne ; why would not 
 Lewis Ross's sister acknowledge, last night, her 
 agitated, shame-faced, simple embrace? It 
 was the only way which Alice could think 
 of, for intimating to Anne the connexion now 
 formed between them ; and she trembled again, 
 to remember the cold hand that had been laid 
 upon her head, the look of sharp silent pain, 
 that had fallen upon Lewis and herself as they 
 stood together, in the first confidence of their 
 betrothal — Anne, who had always been so kind 
 and gentle to her ! It made Alice uneasy, 
 as she went dreamily forward, until brighter 
 imaginations came to the rescue, and Anne's 
 neglect sank into the background, in presence
 
 MERKLAND. 273 
 
 of that more immediate sunshine, the warmer 
 devotion of Lewis. 
 
 Loud gay voices startled her, when she had 
 nearly reached the little gate, and looking up, 
 she saw a couple of gentlemen approaching, 
 w^hom she immediately knew to belong to Lord 
 Gillravidge's not very orderly household at 
 Strathoran. The aforesaid little gate was the 
 boundary of Mrs. Catherine's property, so Alice 
 was then in the grounds of Strathoran — the 
 gentlemen were returning home. Alice pro- 
 ceeded quickly, eager to pass them, for their 
 loud tone startled her, and she was near 
 enough to hear a rude compliment aimed at 
 herself, which sent the womanly blood to her 
 cheek in indignation. They met at last, and 
 suddenly extending their arms, the strangers 
 barred her passage. Little Alice's heart beat 
 like a frightened bird. She ran to each side of 
 the road, only to shrink back again from the 
 rude hands extended towards her ; she looked 
 back to see if there was any chance in flight, 
 she lifted her simple face imploringly to them, 
 and said : " Pray, let me pass ; pray, gentlemen, 
 let me pass." They laughed at her ; poor little 
 Alice was in despair. 
 
 One of the strangers was the " hairy fule," 
 
 N 3
 
 274 MERKLAND. 
 
 who had visited Mrs. Catherine. Jacky's ex- 
 pressive description of him : " A man, dressed 
 like a gentleman," was emphatically correct. 
 The other was a simple, foohsh, fair-haired lad, 
 who, besides some boyish admiration of the 
 pretty girl, thought this interruption of her 
 progress a pleasant frolic, and good fun. There 
 was no other way of entering the precincts of 
 the Tower, except by the gap in the hedge, 
 which the timid Alice did not dare to venture 
 on, and so she renewed her prayer : " Pray, 
 let me go on ; pray, gentlemen, let me pass." 
 
 A crash of the boughs behind her, made 
 Alice turn her head. Marjory Falconer, riding- 
 whip in hand, came springing through the gap. 
 " What is the matter, Alice ?" cried Miss Fal- 
 coner ; " who obstructs you ? Gentlemen, be 
 so good as give way." 
 
 The gentlemen laughed. The house of Fal- 
 coner, like the house of Seton in old days, was 
 of prompt ire, and its sole daughter did it no 
 discredit. "This is great impertinence," ex- 
 claimed Marjory ; " pass immediately, or — " 
 she gave an emphatic flourish of her whip. 
 
 A louder laugh than before bade her de- 
 fiance ; in another moment an unhesitating cut 
 of the ready whip made the younger of the two
 
 MERKLAND. 275 
 
 spring aside. Alice flew past, and Marjory 
 lingered for an instant to sweep a few short, 
 sharp lashes over the amazed Fitzherbert, whose 
 strange grimace of rage sent his young comrade 
 into a fit of laughter, and earned for Marjory 
 a full forgiveness of his own individual stroke. 
 " There !" cried Marjory Falconer, as she closed 
 the gate behind her, her face shining ^\^th 
 mingled mirth and anger. " You can boast 
 that you have had the honour of being horse- 
 whipped by a lady." 
 
 Little Alice was running on, in a great 
 tremor, to the Tower. " What is the mat- 
 ter?" said her dehverer, laughing, as she over- 
 took her. " What a trembling, frightened bird 
 you are, little Alice Aytoun. WTiy, we have 
 had an adventure : only, to be correct, it should 
 have been Lewis Ross who delivered you, and 
 not I : is it so ? Ah, I am afraid he has been 
 doing damage here, this same Lewis Ross. 
 It is a great shame — these men monopolize 
 everything ; one cannot even get a nice little 
 girl kept to oneself." 
 
 Alice drew herself up. It was not quite pro- 
 per that she, the head elect of an important 
 house like Merkland, \\ith a shadow of matronly 
 dignity upon her fair brow already, should be
 
 276 MERKLAND. 
 
 spoken of as a little girl. " I was so glad you 
 came, Miss Falconer. It was very foolish, per- 
 haps ; but they frightened me." 
 
 " And you had no whip, even if you had 
 been bold enough to use it," said Miss Fal- 
 coner, laughing, as she gathered up the train of 
 her riding-habit, which had escaped from her 
 hand, and bore sundry marks (no uncommon 
 thing, however) of its contact with the damp 
 path. " You may be thankful it was my inde- 
 corous, unfeminine self, and not any of the pro- 
 prieties. Suppose it had been Jeanie Coulter — 
 why, they would have caught you both." 
 
 " But Miss Coulter is a very nice girl; is 
 she not ?" said Alice. 
 
 " Oh ! exceedingly — as nice a girl as could be ; 
 and will be as good-looking, and proper, and 
 sensible a Mrs. Walter Foreman, as it will be 
 possible to find in the county ; as proper, and 
 not quite so good-looking, and more sen- 
 sible, than you will be, when you are Mrs. Lewis 
 Ross ; for she has come to years of discretion, 
 you know, and you are only a little girl." 
 
 Ahce did not like all this. " I wonder at 
 you, Miss Falconer ! I am sure it is far better 
 to be what you call proper than — " Alice- 
 hesitated ; *' I mean, no one thinks Mrs. Ca-
 
 MERKLAND. 277 
 
 therine, and Mrs. Coulter, and Miss Ross 
 weak, because they are always like what ladies 
 should be." 
 
 Miss Falconer laughed. " Well done, 
 my little Mentor; but, for all that, confess 
 that I was of more serv^ice to-day, with my 
 good stout arm, than if I had been always like 
 what ladies should be. Miss Lumsden is stay- 
 ing with me at the Craig : I had a bold pur- 
 pose of getting my poor mother's old phaeton 
 hunted up, and driving her over to see you ; 
 but we cannot compass a vehicle, we Falconers, 
 so I had to give it up. It is just as well. 
 Miss Lumsden (she's John Lumsden's, of 
 Portoran, sister) would have been shocked. 
 I shall take your advice, little Miss Aytoun ; 
 I shall abstain from shocking people unneces- 
 sarily, after this, when I can help it." 
 
 This was better : the little matron elect was 
 pleased to have her ad\4ce taken, and so ven- 
 tured further. '* And, Miss Falconer, don't be 
 angry — wouldn't it be better not to speak so ? 
 I don't like — I mean Anne Ross does not like — 
 she says it makes foolish people laugh, and be 
 impertinent." 
 
 Miss Falconer's face became crimson. Miss 
 Falconer drew up her tall, handsome figure, to
 
 278 MERKLAND. 
 
 its full height, and looked haughty for a mo- 
 ment. Alice was afraid. 
 
 ''There! that will do. You will be able 
 to give gentle reproofs, by-and-by, beautifully; 
 only you must not experiment on me much, 
 you know, lest I should grow angry. No, no ; 
 do not lift up those blue eyes of yours so piti- 
 fully. I am not angry now — but I am some- 
 times, and I should not like you to see 
 me so." 
 
 The straightforward httle Alice looked up in 
 wonder, fancying that the blunt, strong, un- 
 schooled mind beside her, might be in the habit 
 of giving way to ungovernable and wild fits of 
 passion, such as she had read of; it was all a 
 mistake. Marjory Falconer was by no means 
 so rude and unfeminine as she gave herself credit 
 for being, and had bitter compunctions of out- 
 raged delicacy sometimes, after those masculine 
 speeches, which revenged her womanhood com- 
 pletely. But the little world of Strathoran did 
 not know that — did not know either how the 
 strong and healthful spirit of the motherless, 
 ill-educated girl was forcing itself through a 
 rough process of development, and, like other 
 strong plants, was rank and wild in its growth, 
 and needed vigorous pruning — pi-uning which
 
 MERKLAND. 279 
 
 it would not fail, by-and-by, to manage for it- 
 self, with an unhesitating hand. 
 
 So the youthful people of Strathoran laughed, 
 and the elders hung back, and called her im- 
 proper and unfeminine; and thus the original 
 evil was increased by the grievance of which 
 she herself complained ; she was left to the com- 
 pany of men — men, moreover, of that rude, un- 
 cultured, sportsman class, her own superiority 
 over whom she felt bitterly, and asserted with 
 characteristic vehemence. 
 
 Alice Aytoun saw, when her visitor w^as gone, 
 stni more visibly than she had done in the 
 morning, that Mrs. Catherine w^as sad. She 
 could not help observing the long, wistful looks 
 bestowed upon herself — the hundred Uttle indul- 
 gences which Mrs. Catherine gave her that day, 
 as she would have given them to a sick child ; 
 and Alice wondered. These steadfast, compas- 
 sionate looks became painful at last, and there 
 was so great a chill of gravity and sadness about 
 the stranger, Archibald Sutherland, that Alice 
 carried that • tremulous happiness of hers — so 
 much deeper, and yet so much less exuberant 
 than it had been one little month ago — into her 
 own pretty room. 
 
 Bessie sat there sewing, and disconsolate.
 
 280 MERKLAND. 
 
 Johnnie Halflin had protested vehemently last 
 night that *' the Tower wadna be like itsel when 
 she gaed away." The Falcon's Craig groom 
 had particularly distinguished little Bessie by his 
 notice. Mr. Foreman's lad from Portoran had 
 bidden her " be sure and come soon back again," 
 when he shook hands with her. Jacky, with 
 her eldritch voice, had attempted to sing ' Bessie 
 Bell' in her honour — and to leave it all ! So little 
 Bessie sat sentimental and despondent in the 
 room, with some vision of breaking hearts, and 
 never being happy again, while her youthful 
 mistress sat down by the window, and looked 
 over to Merkland. 
 
 Ah ! that breadth of hazy air which hovered 
 between the house of Merkland and Alice Ay- 
 toun's chamber window, how full of beautiful 
 shapes it was — and how instinct with gladness 1 
 
 Mrs. Catherine dined at four — never later, 
 except on some very great and solemn occasion ; 
 and when dinner was over that day, and the 
 darkness of the long January night had begun, 
 Mrs. Catherine took her youthful kinswoman by 
 the arm, and led her away from the dining-room 
 without speaking. They did not go up stairs ; 
 they w^ent away through that dim passage, and 
 stopped at the door of the little room. Ahce
 
 MERKLAND. 281 
 
 was terrified. Mrs. Catherine unlocked the 
 door, drew the girl in with her, and closed it 
 again in silence. Alice's heart began to beat 
 loud, in awe and terror. What strange disci- 
 pline was this ? 
 
 There was a fire burning brightly ; the wan- 
 ing gloaming without gave the whins, that 
 almost touched the window, a ghostly look. 
 The gray crag above seemed to be looking in 
 with a pale, withered, inquisitive face. Mrs. 
 Catherine seated herself on one of the chairs, 
 and bade Alice take the other. The firelight 
 fell warm and bright upon that fine dark por- 
 trait on the opposite wall. There was a lamp 
 upon the table, but it was not lighted. Alice 
 sat trembling, silent, apprehensive. What could 
 Mrs. Catherine have to tell her ? 
 
 " Alison," said Mrs. Catherine, " do you see 
 that picture ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Alice, timidly. 
 
 The hght was hovering about it, shooting now 
 a spark of radiance into the eye, and now moving 
 in a strange, fantastic smile upon the lip. Alice 
 had heard from some of the \dsitors at the 
 Tower of Mrs. Catherine's brother, and knew 
 that this was his portrait. 
 
 " Ye ken who it is ? — my one brother, Sholto
 
 282 MERKLAND. 
 
 Douglas," said Mrs. Catherine. " Look at him 
 well. Do ye see how strong, and full of health, 
 and strength, and youthheid that face is, Alison ? 
 Look at him well." 
 
 Alice looked again wonderingly at the fine 
 face of Sholto Douglas. To her, as to Archi- 
 bald Sutherland, it looked loftily calm and pure, 
 removed far above all the changeful hopes and 
 fears of this " pleasing, anxious being." 
 
 " Alison," said Mrs. Catherine, " I want to 
 tell you the history of Sholto Douglas. Sit 
 quiet, and do not tremble, but listen to me." 
 
 Alice tried not to tremble — she could scarcely 
 help it. The ghostly inquisitive crag, behind 
 which she could fancy some malicious elf watch- 
 ing them — the dark whins pressing close to the 
 window — the dreary sough of the wind as it 
 swept through the bare trees without, and the 
 long passages within, moaning so eerie and 
 spirit-like — the calm, unmoved face looking 
 down from the wall — the comparative gloom of 
 this sacred and mysterious apartment — she 
 could not repress the involuntary thrill of fear 
 and wonder. 
 
 " Sholto Douglas was my one brother — we 
 were the sole children of our name," said Mrs. 
 Catherine, her utterance so slow and marked
 
 MERKLAND. 283 
 
 the while, that it was easy to recognise this as 
 the history of her great sorrow, " and I cannot 
 tell ye how dear we were to one another. Ye 
 are a bairn, yourself, of too gentle and quiet a 
 spirit. Ye cannot ken the loves and griefs of 
 harsher natures. 
 
 " We were never separate a day ; we were 
 bairns ; w^e grew up into youth ; we passed to 
 manhood and to womanhood hand in hand. 
 In his earliest flush of strength and manliness, 
 Sholto was aiTested on the way. I am a woman 
 now laden ^^^th years, and drawing near to the 
 grave, but, bairn, there is no earthly motive that 
 would rouse me to any work or labour hke the 
 remembrance of my brother Sholto, that I left 
 lying in foreign earth, thirty years ago. 
 
 " That is not the matter I have to speak of 
 first. When Sholto Douglas was in the strength 
 of his youthful manhood, he was trysted in 
 solemn betrothal, whereof I myself was a wit- 
 ness, to Isabel Balfour, the mother of the young 
 man who came to my house last night. She 
 was a gentle, pleasant, gladsome girl, hke your 
 own self, Alison Aytoun. I liked her well be- 
 fore for her own sake, and I hked her dearly 
 then for Sholto's. The day was set for the 
 bridal — the whole kindred were stirred to do
 
 284 MERKLAND. 
 
 them honour — there was nothing in their way, 
 hut joy, and blessings, and prosperity, as we 
 thought in our vain hope. Alison ! between 
 them there was the stern and sore shadow of 
 death, and they knew it not ! 
 
 " A week before his bridal day, Sholto came 
 home from Edinburgh a stricken man. I read 
 it in the doctor's face that came to see him first. 
 I saw it in the blood they took from him, till he 
 was worn and wasted to a shadow. The burn- 
 ing heat of his inflammation was on him the 
 day that should have been his bridal day — and 
 when he rose from that bed it was only to sink 
 into the terrible beauty of decline — with all its 
 dreams of health, and wild hopes, and sick 
 delusions. Be thankful, bairn, that no such 
 weird is laid upon you. 
 
 " I saw him dying before me day by day. 
 Into my heart there had never mortal man 
 entered but Sholto, my one brother ; and in his 
 prime of youthheid, with hopes thick about his 
 brow like the clusters of his hair, was the Lord 
 parting him from me. I could not hope — when 
 Isabel leant upon his chair, and looked into his 
 face — his cheek with its bright colour, and his 
 glorious e'en — and smiled and rejoiced, and said 
 he would be well, I turned from her, my heart
 
 MERKLAND. 285 
 
 within me sick unto death. I kent he was a 
 doomed man — I saw there was no hope. 
 
 " They said at last that the air of some 
 sunnier country would heal him of his trouble, 
 and I prepared for the journey ; anxiously I 
 pleaded with Isabel to go with us, that he 
 might have the comfort of her presence. Her 
 kindred would not let her — she thought it not 
 needful herself, neither did he : they would meet 
 again, he said, so soon in health and gladness. 
 I turned away from him — my heart was burst- 
 ing. I kent they would never meet again — 1 
 kent that I took him away to die. 
 
 " Alison, I saw the parting of the two. I saw 
 the sick hope in Isabel Balfour's face, and the 
 wan courage in Sholto's — their hearts misgave 
 them at that moment. There is a shadow of 
 fear upon all partings, and it was deepened upon 
 theirs. As for me, my sky could not weU be 
 darker — it was not fear with me, but a deadly 
 knowledge. 1 kent they would never meet 
 again. 
 
 " And so I went away with him — guarding 
 the young man that had been so strong and 
 healthful, from every blast of wind, as ye would 
 guard a sick bairn. I went with him to Italy — 
 to France — syne when he got no stronger
 
 286 MERKLAND. 
 
 took him away to that sunny island in the sea, 
 where so many are sent to die. His doom was 
 upon him — the Hght was in his e'en more glo- 
 rious than ever, the hectic was hurning on his 
 cheek. What was the soft air and the beau- 
 tiful days, in comparison with the might of 
 death. He died. I saw him laid in the cold 
 earth of a foreign country, far away from the 
 grave of his fathers, and turned in my desola- 
 tion to come back to my own country, my lane. 
 
 " Alison ! you do not ken the blackness of 
 darkness, the shadow of that terrible wing of 
 death. Think of it — think of my desolate 
 journey — think of my first parting with my one 
 brother. Could ye have borne a woe like that?" 
 
 Alice was weeping — she had forgot herself 
 and Lewis for the moment. Her gentle heart 
 could not fathom the stern depths of suffering, 
 which still swelled in Mrs. Catherine's larger 
 spirit, but she recognised the sovereignty of 
 grief, and answered with her tears : 
 
 " And there was the bride to come home to 
 — the desolate bride, that had been dreaming 
 vain dreams of pleasantness and hope to come. 
 A year before, ye would have thought that if 
 ever there were two fated to a bountiful and 
 gladsome lot, it was Sholto Douglas and his
 
 MERKLAND. 287 
 
 trysted bride. Now, she was stricken down in 
 her first agony, and he was lying in his stranger 
 grave. 
 
 " Ken ye, Alison, that there are woes like 
 that wherever there are living men ? — that 
 there is some shadow on every lot, how fair 
 soever, may be its beginning ? — that even the 
 like of you, in your youthheid and smiles, have 
 a weird to watch and weep through, every one 
 of ye for her own self, and not another ?" 
 
 Alice looked up — the tears stealing over her 
 cheeks, the " hysterica passio" swelling up in its 
 " climbing sorrow" in her tightened breast. 
 Her blue eyes looked feai-fully and anxiously in 
 Mrs. Catherine's face. This most sad history, 
 Alice felt, was the preface of some personal evil 
 to herself, some misfortune to Lewis. She 
 could not speak — she only looked imploringly 
 in sad fear and wonder into the face of her 
 kinswoman. 
 
 " My poor bairn !" said Mrs. Catherine, " ye 
 can think how^ Isabel mourned in her dark 
 solitude ? ye can feel for Isabel f 
 
 Alice started up, all her gay hopes and 
 girlish happiness floating away before that blast, 
 as such light things wiU float, and threw herself 
 unconsciously at Mrs. Catherine's feet, kneeling
 
 288 MERKLAND. 
 
 there in incoherent grief and terror, and hurying 
 her fair head in the lap of her kinswoman : 
 " What is it— what is it ? I will bear it — tell 
 me what it is." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine's hand lay upon her fair 
 hair in grave kindness. Mrs. Catherine bent 
 down. " Alison ! wherefore did ye not tell 
 me of this unhappy tryste, that has been 
 made between Lewis Ross and you?" 
 
 Alice could not look up ; trembling through 
 all her slight figure, she waited for the next 
 words. 
 
 " My bairn ! my poor fatherless bairn ! if 
 there was but any weight on my gray head 
 that could keep oif this sore stroke from your's ! 
 It is your appointed weird ; ye must be strong, 
 and listen to me. In the fulness of their joy 
 and hope, it pleased the Lord to sunder for 
 ever, in this world, the two I have told ye of 
 Alison ! there lies as deadly a bar between 
 Lewis Ross and you ; a bar that can never be 
 passed, or lifted away in this life. Ye may 
 hear of his welfare and prosperity, and he of 
 yours ; but in this world ye must be strangers. 
 It cannot last a day, this link between ye ; ye 
 cannot go a step further in this perilous road, 
 Alison !"
 
 MERKLAND. 289 
 
 One great convulsive throb had shaken the 
 slender frame that leant upon Mrs. Catherine's 
 knee. There was a moment's pause, and then 
 Alice rose, her tears dashed away, yet still noise- 
 lessly welling out, and a momentary flush of 
 womanly pride inspiring her girlish figure. " He 
 might have told me himself," she exclaimed, 
 passionately. " He need not have been afraid ; 
 I — I am not so foolish — I can bear it — my heart 
 wiU not break; he had no right to think — he 
 might have told me himself !" 
 
 Mrs. Catherine rose, and put her arm round 
 her. The girl turned away, and endeavoured 
 to release herself; endeavouring vainly also to 
 hide the large hot tears, that, spite of pride and 
 resentment, were falling passionately again. 
 
 " Alison," said Mrs. Catherine, " the callant 
 did not ken himself I cannot deny him jus- 
 tice, though I have little wish that you should 
 think of him more. He did not know him- 
 self. It will fall as hea\ily on him as it does 
 on you." 
 
 Alice endeavoured again to free herself, her 
 tears flowing more gently, and the weight and 
 oppression at once lifted off her youthful heart. 
 So long as change did not come upon either 
 herself or Lewis, what were external obstacles 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 MERKLAND. 
 
 to them, in their triumphant hope and affection? 
 But injured pride, and outraged feelings, made 
 her reject Mrs. Catherine's offered kindness. 
 Why should she interpose between these two ? 
 
 " Alison," said Mrs. Catherine, " listen to 
 me. If Lewis's heart were brimming full with 
 the greatest love that ever was in the heart of 
 mortal man, and if you yourself were clinging 
 to him as never woman clung before, yet must 
 ye part : there is no hope — no choice. Before 
 ever ye were born, there was a deadly bar laid 
 between Lewis Ross and you. It cannot be 
 passed : there is no hand in this world that can 
 lift it away : it is as unchangeable as death. 
 Bairn, I am speaking to you most sorrowfully. 
 I would not, for all my land, have laid this 
 burden on your young head, if there had been 
 either help or choice : there is none. Ye must 
 be parted. Alison, look at me." 
 
 Alison looked wistfully through her tears at 
 the strongly-marked stern face, now so strangely 
 moved and melted! She saw the steadfast, sor- 
 rowful, compassionate look, in which there was 
 no hope ; and, yielding to the pressure of the 
 encircling arm, leaned her head upon Mrs. Ca- 
 therine's shoulder, and nestled into her breast 
 like a grieved child.
 
 MERKLAND, 29 1 
 
 By-and-by, they had returned to their origi- 
 nal positions. Mrs. Catherine seated herself in 
 her chair again, and Ahce glided down pas- 
 sively, and lay Hke a broken lily, with her head 
 hidden in Mrs. Catherine's lap. She was 
 Situnned and overpowered. The gentle heart 
 lay in a kind of stupor, a dead and vacant sleep ; 
 she hardly felt it beat. The hope, and shame, 
 and anger, the very wonder and grief, seemed 
 gone ; yet in her crushed apathy, she hstened 
 — the faintest word, uttered near, would not 
 have been lost on the ears so nervously awake to 
 every sound. She was waiting for further con- 
 firmation of the strange fate pronounced upon 
 her. 
 
 " Are ye content?" said Mrs. Catherine, 
 lifting the fair head tenderly in her hand — 
 " are ye content to believe me, my poor bairn, 
 and to give up the gladness of your youthheid ? 
 Speak to me, Alison. I have maybe been 
 harsher than I should be with your gentle na- 
 ture, and I am asking ye to make a sore 
 sacrifice. For the sake of your kindly mother, 
 Alice ; for the sake of your honourable and 
 upright brother James ; for the memory's sake 
 of your dead father, whom ye never saw, I 
 ask ye to give up this stranger lad. He was 
 
 o 2
 
 292 MERKLAND. 
 
 nothing to ye three months ago. They have 
 nourished ye, and cherished ye, all the days of 
 your life. Believe me, Alison, my bairn, that 
 what I have told ye is true ; and, for their sake, 
 give up this Lewis Ross. The bar between ye 
 is deadly and unchangeable : ye cannot pass 
 it over, were ye to wait a lifetime." 
 
 Alice lifted her wan cheek from Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine's knee, and looked up with sad, beseeching 
 eyes. " What is it ? Tell me what it is ?" 
 
 " It niight do ye ill, but it could not do ye 
 good," said Mrs. Catherine. " Take my word, 
 Alison, and give me your promise. It is a thing 
 that cannot change — that nothing in this world 
 can make amends for. Alison, it is your weird 
 — it has been laid on ye, to prove what strength 
 ye have. Ye must make the sacrifice, hard 
 though it be." 
 
 " I have not any strength," murmured poor 
 little Alice, in her plaintive, complaining voice : 
 " I am not strong, and there is no one with me. 
 Mrs. Catherine, what is it? Tell me what 
 it is?" 
 
 " Bairn," said Mrs. Catherine, " ye would 
 need to be strong to listen to the story, and I 
 have withheld it to spare ye. Ye are but a frail, 
 young, silly thing, to have such troubles sha-
 
 MERKLAND. 293 
 
 dowing ye ; but it may be most merciful, in the 
 end, to let ye ken it all. Listen to me." Mrs. 
 Catherine paused for a moment, and then re- 
 sumed : " Ye have heard tell of your father, 
 and how he died a violent death ? Alison Ay- 
 toun, did you ever hear who it was that killed 
 him?" 
 
 Alice shivered, and glanced up in trembling 
 wonder. Mrs. Catherine went on : " The 
 name of him was Norman Rutherford. He 
 was a young man, as gallant and as generous 
 as ever breathed mortal breath. Why he was 
 left to himself in so dreadful a way, I cannot 
 tell. It will never be known on this earth. 
 Alison Aytoun, are ye hearing me ? Norman 
 Rutherford, your father's murderer, was the 
 nearest kindred of Lewis Ross ; he was his 
 brother !" 
 
 A long, low cr}' of pain, involuntary and un- 
 conscious, came from Ahce Aytoun's lips. She 
 turned from Mrs. Catherine's lap, and covered 
 her face with her hands. There was nothing 
 more to say or to hope ; and the mist and film 
 of her first sorrow blinded and stilled the girlish 
 heart, which beat so gay and high when that 
 dull morning rose. 
 
 By-and-by, she had wandered up stairs, and
 
 294 MERKLAND. 
 
 was in her own room alone. The room was 
 dim, and cheerless, and cold, she thought ; and 
 Alice laid herself down upon her bed, and hid 
 her sad, white face in the pillow, and silently 
 wept. The girlish light heart sank down under 
 its sudden burthen, without another struggle. 
 " I am not strong," murmured little Alice ; 
 " and there is no one with me." 
 
 There was no one with her. Never before 
 had any misfortune come to her youthful know- 
 ledge, which could not be shared. Now the 
 shrinking, delicate spirit, half child, half wo- 
 man, had entered into the very depths of a woe 
 which must be borne alone. The dull, leaden 
 darkness gathered round her ; the tears flowed 
 over her white cheek in a continuous stream ; and 
 into the dim, disconsolate air the plaintive young 
 voice sounded sadly, instinctively calling upon 
 its mother's name. Alice was alone !
 
 MERKLAND. 295 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Cold head that seeks no aidance from the heart, 
 Cold heart that can beat on in common measure, 
 And lift no voice in judgment. 
 
 And ye would bring a generous, noble soul. 
 With his sad, kingly robes of patience on him. 
 Before the bar of these, and think of justice !" 
 
 When Anne entered Merkland after her visit 
 to the nurse's cottage, and was proceeding, as 
 usual to her own room, she was stopped by 
 Duncan. 
 
 " Miss Anne," said Duncan, significantly, 
 " Merkland is in the parlour." 
 
 "Well, Duncan," said Anne, "what of that? 
 Does Lewis want me ?" 
 
 " Na, Fm no saying that," said the cautious
 
 296 MERKLAND. 
 
 Duncan ; " but I just thocht within mysel that 
 maybe ye were wanting to see the Laird ; and 
 he's in the parlour, and so's the mistress. Mr. 
 Lewis has been hame this half-hour." 
 
 Anne comprehended. The clouds of the 
 morning had broken into a storm, and Duncan, 
 with whom " Mr. Lewis," partly as a child of 
 his own training, and partly as the Laird of 
 Merkland, was a person of the very highest im- 
 portance, and not to be teased and incommoded 
 by " a wheen women," desired her interposition 
 to receive the tempest upon her own head, and 
 avert it from Lewis, as was the general w^ont, 
 when Anne made her appearance in the midst of 
 any quarrel between the mother and the son. 
 
 " I will return immediately, Duncan," she 
 said, as she ran up stairs to take off her cloak 
 and bonnet. 
 
 Duncan turned away satisfied. 
 
 '' A wheen, silly, fuils o' women, as they are 
 a', the haill sect o' them," he soliloquized, fret- 
 fully ; " wearing the very life and pith out o' the 
 lad, wi' their angers, and their makings o\ 
 First the tane, and syne the tither. Ane would 
 need a lang tack o' patience that ventured to 
 yoke wd' them, frae Job himsel, honest man, 
 doun to Peter Hislop, tne stock farmer at Went-
 
 MERKLAND. 297 
 
 nip Head. 'Deed, and the twa are in no man- 
 ner unlike, when ane has a talent for similarities. 
 They were baith rich in cattle, and had a jaud 
 of a wife to the piece o' them. Clavering, ill- 
 tongued randies, wearing out the lives of 
 peaceable men." 
 
 When Anne entered the room, she found 
 Lewis pacing back and forward in it, in 
 haste and anger, while Mrs. Ross sat leaning 
 back in her chair with the air of a besieger, who 
 has thrown his last bomb, and waits to see its 
 effect. 
 
 " I cannot believe it — I will not believe it !" 
 exclaimed Lewis, as Anne entered. " If it had 
 been so, I should have heard it before. Oh ! I 
 know you could not have kept this pleasure from 
 me so long, mother ! and I declare to you that 
 this stratagem — I say this unworthy stratagem 
 — only strengthens my determination. Anne," 
 continued Lewis, percei\dngher as he turned, in 
 his hasty progress from one end of the room to 
 the other, " you have heard this story — this 
 phantom of Norman — the murderer, as he is 
 called — which my kind mother has conjured up 
 to frighten me. Join with me in telling her it 
 is not true — that we are not to be deceived — 
 that we do not believe this !" 
 
 o 3
 
 298 MERKLAND. 
 
 Mrs. Ross endeavoured to toss her head as 
 contemptuously as was her wont — it would 
 not do ; the motion was spasmodic. She was 
 reaping the fruit of her own training, and the 
 ingratitude and rude anger of her only son, from 
 whom, indeed, she did not deserve this, stung 
 her to the heart. 
 
 " Lewis," said Anne, " you are behaving very 
 unjustly to yo\ir mother. Be calm, and do not 
 give way to anger so unseemly." 
 
 " Oh ! do not interrupt him," said Mrs. Ross, 
 " let him go on ; it is pleasant to insult his 
 mother." 
 
 Lewis turned from her angrily. 
 
 " This is not a time for any absurd punctilio, 
 Anne. Let me hear you say this is not true — 
 this story — this scheme. I will not submit to 
 it. Am I a boy, I wonder, that I am to be 
 frightened by such a — " 
 
 Mrs. Ross rose. The darling son — the only 
 child — to turn on his mother thus ! 
 
 " Lewis !" she said, her features twitching, her 
 voice husky. *' Beware !" 
 
 " Lewis !" said Anne ; " I cannot bear this 
 either ; it is mere madness : sit down quietly 
 and listen. Mother, I beg of you to sit down ; 
 forgive him this ; he does not know — he cannot
 
 MERKLAND. 299 
 
 comprehend. Lewis, when your mother told you 
 this very terrible story, she believed it true." 
 
 Mrs. Ross had been regarding Anne, whose 
 support she deser^^ed as little as she did the 
 insults of her son, with a face in which wonder 
 and shame were strangely blended. Now she 
 darted up a sharp, keen glance. 
 
 " Believed it true ! This from you, Anne 
 Ross — this from you !" 
 
 '' Bear with me, mother," exclaimed Anne ; 
 " and you, Lewis, be still, and hear me. I 
 believe with my whole heart that our brother, 
 Norman Rutherford, is innocent of this terrible 
 deed ; but, in the judgment of the world, he is 
 condemned long years ago. Every one thinks 
 him guilty. Not your mother only, but Mrs. 
 Catherine, and all who know the story, except 
 myself and one other. Lewis, I do not say how 
 unbecoming and unnatural this passion is, but 
 your mother has only told you, what I have been 
 eager to tell you through all these anxious 
 months. So far as common belief goes, you 
 have heard rightly." 
 
 '* But it is not true," said Lewis, doggedly, 
 throwing himself into a chair ; " you admit it is 
 not true. A scheme — a — " 
 
 " Mother, leave this to me," cried Anne,
 
 300 MERKLAND. 
 
 trembling as she saw the contortion of Mrs. 
 Ross's face. " It is no scheme, Lewis. You do 
 us cruel wrong in using such a word. It is true 
 in every particular, but in the one which has 
 given it all its bitterness to me. It is not true 
 that Norman is guilty. It is true that for 
 seventeen years — for all Alice Aytoun's sunny 
 lifetime — he has been expiating, in a foreign 
 country, the crime of another man. Do not 
 sneer, mother ; T cannot bear it. Do not turn 
 away, Lewis ; I will not be disbelieved. My 
 brother Norman is innocent ; the two hearts 
 that knew him, and loved him best, have put their 
 seal upon his truth, one bearing witness in the 
 clearsightedness of nearly approaching death, 
 the other cherishing it in her inmost heart as 
 the one hope of her waning years. Lewis, here 
 is your father's latest words and testimony. 
 Read it, and believe that it is true." 
 
 " What is true ?" exclaimed Lewis, starting 
 up, without, however, taking the letters which 
 Anne held out to him. " What is the mean- 
 ing of all this, Anne? My mother tells me 
 first, that this Norman killed the father of 
 Alice Aytoun, and then you come in, and tell 
 me that all the story is true, and yet that 
 Norman is innocent ; what do you mean ? I
 
 MERKLAND. 301 
 
 am not to be treated as a schoolboy. I shall 
 not submit to these mysteries ; tell me plainly 
 what you mean." 
 
 Anne looked anxiously at Mrs. Ross. 
 " Have you told him all ? Does he know 
 all, mother ?" 
 
 " I don't understand you, Anne," said Mrs. 
 Ross, sullenly. 
 
 Anne stood between them, baited by both, 
 her patience nearly breaking down. " Does he 
 know all ?" she repeated ; " does he know that 
 Norman is alive ? Lewis, have you heard that?" 
 
 Lewis walked through the room hastily, and 
 did not answer. He had heard it — it was clear ; 
 and Anne fancied that, like herself, the thousand 
 apprehensions connected wdth that secret were 
 overwhelming Lewis, that grief and fear for 
 their unhappy brother were swelling up in his 
 heart, too great for speech. 
 
 " Lewis," she continued, " you ask me what 
 I mean — I will tell you. This morning, and for 
 many a sorrowful and drearj^ morning before 
 this, I knew the history of Norman, as you 
 know it now. I knew that the stain of a great 
 crime was upon his name. I believed that 
 Alice Aytoun's father had fallen by his hand. 
 I knew that justice had set its terrible mark
 
 302 MERKLAND. 
 
 upon him, and that the world thought him 
 already dead ; yet, all the while, I knew he was 
 alive, still wandering, Cain-like, with his guilt 
 and his condemnation upon his head. Lewis ! 
 since Alice Aytoun came to the Tower, this has 
 haunted me night and day, waking and sleep- 
 ing ; it has tinged my every thought and every 
 dream ; it has never left my mind for an hour. 
 You thought I wished to put obstacles between 
 Alice Aytoun and you ; you were right, I did 
 so. I endeavoured in every possible way to 
 keep you separate. I schemed as I never 
 schemed before ; you know now the reason. I 
 wanted to preserve you both ; to save her 
 young heart from this cloud, and to keep you even 
 from knowing it, because it was your mother's 
 wish you should not know. Our plans are not 
 the best, and Providence has mercifully baulked 
 mine. Lewis, with you I am sure, as with me, 
 the one circumstance in Norman's calamity that 
 makes it bitter, is the crime. What happened 
 last night, driving me, as it did, almost to ab- 
 solute despair, drove me also to exertion. And 
 this morning, I found these precious letters — 
 look at them, Lewis — which clear Norman, 
 and which leave to us my father's dying charge, 
 to redeem the fame of his unjustly accused son.
 
 MERKLAND. 303 
 
 Lewis, take the letters ; they are addressed to 
 you no less than to me, and if we but discharge 
 our trust faithfully, all will be well." 
 
 Something moved by Anne's earnestness, 
 Lewis took the letters, and sat down to examine 
 them. Anne threw herself, exhausted, into a 
 chair ; the mental excitement of the morning, 
 and its sudden transition from despair to hope, 
 had worn her out. Mrs. Ross glanced from 
 the one to the other angrily, and cast keen 
 glances at the yellow tear-blotted letters in her 
 son's hand. He had laid down his father's 
 cover, and was reading vriih kindred keenness, 
 Norman's incoherent self-defence. The young 
 man's sharp, cold scrutiny, was httle like that 
 of one, whose present happiness depended upon 
 the truth of this ; his steady hand, and business- 
 like demeanour, revealed no deeper interest in 
 that cry of agony, than if its writer had been 
 the merest stranger, and not a much-suffering 
 brother. Anne watched him also, with com- 
 pressed lips, and anxious eyes ; she thought his 
 indifference firmness, or tried to think so, 
 though ver)^ differently, she knew, that utter- 
 ance of Norman's distress had entered into her 
 own heart. 
 
 He finished the letters ; but there came no
 
 304 MERKLAND. 
 
 exclamation of hope or thanksgiving from the 
 steady lip of Lewis. He folded them up care- 
 fully, and laid them on the table. Anne waited 
 in breathless anxiety. " Well," he said, coldly, 
 "and what do you think you can make of 
 these r 
 
 " Lewis !" exclaimed Anne. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought you would be disappointed. 
 It's not at all wonderful that you should 
 think these letters could do a mighty deal of 
 themselves, for you've no experience, you know 
 nothing of the world ; and yet, I thought you 
 had better sense, Anne. They're not worth a 
 rush." 
 
 Anne looked at him in amazement ; she 
 w^ould not understand his meaning. 
 
 " They prove nothing — nothing in this 
 world," said Lewis, with some impatience. 
 "An incoherent attempt to deny a crime, 
 which nobody could suppose he would like to 
 acknowledge, and simply my father's belief, that 
 w^hat his son said w^as true, to support it ; it is 
 quite nonsense, Anne ; nothing could be founded 
 upon such things." 
 
 " Yes ; I hope you will see the folly of that 
 romantic stuff," said Mrs. Ross ; " a man sacri- 
 ficing himself entirely, rather than venture to
 
 MERKLAND. 305 
 
 stand a trial ! Depend upon it, Anne Ross, 
 your brother Norman had his senses better 
 about him than you ; he fled, because he knew 
 that his only chance of escape was in flight, you 
 may take my word for that. And now that 
 you are satisfied, Lewis ; now that you have re- 
 ceived the testimony of some one you can 
 credit, that your mother has not told you a 
 lie ; you will not hesitate, I trust, to take the 
 only honourable step that remains for you, and 
 immediately give up your very foolish engage- 
 ment with this girl." 
 
 Lewis looked up indignantly. 
 
 " I am old enough certainly to manage that 
 for myself. I shall make my own decision." 
 
 Mrs. Ross rose, lowering in sullen anger, and 
 left the room ; and Anne, pale and excited, rose 
 to claim her letters. The youth's heart was 
 moved within Lewis Ross at last, in spite of aU 
 his premature prudence, and worldly wisdom ; 
 he met his sister's inquisitive, searching look, 
 with his own face more subdued and milder. 
 
 " WeU, Anne ?" 
 
 Anne lifted the letters. 
 
 " Is it possible, Lewds — is it possible, that 
 you can have read these, and remain uncon- 
 vinced? Has my father's charge no weight
 
 306 MERKLAND. 
 
 with you? Has Norman's distress no power? 
 I cannot believe it — you feel as I do, Lewis, 
 that Norman is not guilty." 
 
 " I don't know, Anne — I can't see it," said 
 Lewis, leaning his head on his hand. " Here is 
 every chance against him — every circumstance, 
 and nothing in his favour but these two inco- 
 herent rambling letters. He was an excitable 
 nervous person himself, and my father was an 
 old man, almost in his dotage. I have my 
 mother's authority for saying so — and what is 
 their mere assertion against all the evidence ?" 
 
 " What evidence, Lewis?" 
 
 " Oh, I have seen it all !" said Lewis, waving 
 his hand : " my mother had the papers ready for 
 me when I came in ; she has hoarded them up, 
 I fancy, to let me have the pleasure. If you 
 had not said it, Anne, I should never have be- 
 lieved that the Norman Rutherford she told me 
 of was any brother of ours ; but since he is — 
 the evidence it seems to me is irresistible. No, 
 I can't say these letters convince me. It may 
 be all very well to maintain a friend's innocence 
 to the world, but between ourselves, you know, 
 I see nothing in them." 
 
 Anne turned from him impatiently. 
 
 *' Well !" exclaimed Lewis, " upon my word
 
 MERKLAND. 307 
 
 you bait and badger a man till he does not 
 know his own mind. What would you have 
 me do, Anne? Shall 1 go away and labour 
 to find this Norman, and beg him to take 
 Merkland off my hands, and permit me to 
 remain his very humble servant? "What do 
 you mean ? what would you have me do ?" 
 
 " I would have you do the duty of a son 
 and a brother," said Anne ; " and if you will 
 not do it, I warn you, Lewis, that I take this 
 work upon myself, however unsuitable it may 
 be for a woman. You have a special stake in 
 it, Lewis — you must see that, till this mystery 
 is cleared, Alice Aytoun is unapproachable to 
 you ; the brother of her father's accused mur- 
 derer can be nothing to her, but a stranger 
 whom she must shrink from and avoid. I 
 know how this will crush poor Alice, but she is 
 far too gentle and good a girl to go to any pas- 
 sionate extreme. You would speak of prejudice, 
 and revenge, and arbitrary custom, Lewis : it is 
 nonsense to say that ; but were it only custom 
 and prejudice, Alice will be ruled by it. She 
 will not see you again." 
 
 " Will she not ?" exclaimed Lewis, triumph- 
 antly, " we shall soon see. I don't mean to do 
 anything tragical or high-flown, Anne, there's
 
 308 MERKLAND. 
 
 an end of it. Thanks to the difference of name, 
 Alice knows nothing of this, and I do not see 
 the remotest occasion for her ever knowing. / 
 shan't tell her certainly. I intend to write to 
 her mother to-day — you need not look horrified 
 — this shall not keep me back an hour. Why 
 should it? I had no hand in her father's 
 murder ; and as for Norman, I am very sorry, 
 but I cannot help him in . any way. If he has 
 not deserved this by his guilt, he has by his 
 folly ; and it's not to be expected, I fancy, that I 
 should entirely sacrifice myself for the sake of a 
 half-brother whom I never saw — more particu- 
 larly as the chances are, that the sacrifice would 
 do him no good, and only waste my time, and 
 make me unhappy." 
 
 " And have you no fear of Mrs. Aytoun and 
 her son ?" inquired Anne, in a low voice. 
 
 " No ; the difference of name is very fortu- 
 nate — how should any one suppose that a 
 Rutherford in the east was the brother of a 
 Ross in the north ? Besides, if they had any 
 suspicion, I hope they are sufficiently anxious 
 about Alice and her happiness, to keep it to 
 themselves. We are not in the age of feuds 
 now, sister Anne : don't trouble yourself about
 
 MERKLAND. 309 
 
 " If we are past feuds, we are not past na- 
 ture," said Anne, hastily. " Lewis, I saw Mrs. 
 Catherine this morning. I could not rest till I 
 had ascertained whether there was any hope, 
 that Alice was not this man's child. Mrs. 
 Catherine knew the reason of my inquiries and 
 agitation, and exclaimed immediately that you 
 must not see Alice again ; before this time 
 Alice knows aU, and however you might hope 
 to weaken the impression it will make upon her 
 — and you could not succeed even in that, for 
 Alice with all her gentleness would do nothing 
 so abhorrent to natural feeling and universal 
 opinion, were her heart to break — you know 
 very well that it would be folly to attempt 
 moving Mrs. Catherine. She will not permit 
 your engagement to continue, Lewis — you may 
 be sure of that." 
 
 Lewis burst forth into indignant exclamations : 
 " Who dared to interfere between Alice and 
 him? who would venture, for a crime done 
 before her birth, to hinder their happiness ?" 
 
 " Lewis," said Anne, " this is quite useless. 
 I do not want to interfere between Alice and 
 you. I believe the great obstacle is removed, 
 and that with but proper exertion on your own 
 part, you may at once secure your purpose, and
 
 310 MERKLAND. 
 
 deliver our poor Norman ; but, as for daring 
 and venturing, would Mrs. Catherine hesitate, 
 think you ? would Alice Aytoun's brother be 
 afraid ? Lewis, you are mistaken : it may break 
 poor Alice's girlish heart — far too young for 
 such a weight — but it will not make her rebel- 
 lious ; it will lead her to no unwomanly extreme : 
 she will submit 1" 
 
 Lewis was for a time passionate and loud, 
 inveighing against them all for keeping him in 
 ignorance, blaming Anne for telling Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine, and indulging in a thousand extravagances. 
 Anne stood calmly beside him, and bore it all, 
 too deeply bent on her own object to heed 
 these effusions of passion. 
 
 " And supposing it possible," exclaimed 
 Lewis, sitting down again, after his passion 
 had nearly exhausted itself — " supposing it pos- 
 sible to prove Norman innocent, what then ? 
 I don't see how my position is at all bettered. 
 What will I have to offer Ahce ? Some poor 
 thousand pounds, perhaps, that may be doled 
 out to me as the younger brother's portion — no 
 house, no certain means of living. I suppose 
 you would have me get a school in Portoran, 
 or apply for a situation in the Bank, or go into 
 a writer's office in Edinburgh," continued Lewis,
 
 MERKLAND. 311 
 
 bitterly, " and think I was anticipating love in a 
 cottage, when I spoke of Alice Aytoun !" 
 
 Anne could have said much — could have 
 begged and prayed him to believe that the 
 landless Lewis Ross, who had saved his brother, 
 would be a nobler man by far than the Laird 
 of Merkland, who had left his nearest relative 
 to languish out dishonoured days in a strange 
 country, uncared for and unsuccoured : but she 
 began to know better the material she had to 
 work upon. 
 
 "Norman has his own land, Lewis," she 
 said. " Had he remained at home, and had all 
 been well with him, you still would have in- 
 herited Merkland. I know that certainly." 
 
 " Is it so ?" said Lewis, eagerly. " If it is 
 legally so — if the estate is settled on me to the 
 exclusion of Norman, of course that puts the 
 matter in quite a different aspect. And so you 
 think he is innocent ?" 
 
 Lewis took the letters in his hand again. 
 
 " I do not think he is innocent, Lewis," said 
 Anne. " I may take your hcence of strong 
 speaking, in respect to this. I never had a 
 doubt — never a fear. I felt that he was 
 innocent. The joy was almost too much for 
 me this morning. Lewis, do not think at all —
 
 3 1 2 MERKLAND. 
 
 open your heart to feel the agony of Norman*s, 
 and you will know that he is not guilty !'* 
 
 " Sit down, Anne," said Lewis, more gently. 
 " I want to look at these letters again." 
 
 Anne sat down. Lewis opened the papers 
 and read them over carefully once more. He 
 did not say anything when he had finished, but 
 remained for some time in silence. Their own 
 internal force of truthfulness did not carry con- 
 viction to the cold, logical understanding of 
 Lewis ; he did not let his own heart have any 
 influence in the judgment : he thought of legal 
 evidence, not of moral certainty. 
 
 " And what would you advise should be 
 done ?" he said at length, as he met Anne's eye. 
 
 Anne repeated to him all the further particu- 
 lars whicli she had learned from Esther Fle- 
 ming, together with the nurse's suspicion that 
 Norman knew who was the murderer, and was 
 content thus far to suffer in his stead. Lewis's 
 interest was excited by the idea of discovering 
 the true criminal, but flagged again when Anne 
 told him how bootless Esther's inquiries had 
 been, and how widely spread was the conviction 
 of Norman's guilt — and again he repeated, 
 almost listlessly : " What would you have me 
 
 do r
 
 MERKLAND. 313 
 
 '* I would have you go to this place yourself 
 immediately, Lewis," said Anne. " I would 
 have you set out at once without the loss of any 
 more time, and yourself go among the people. 
 You will find many of them, no doubt, who 
 remember the story — it is not of a kind to be 
 forgotten. Act upon Esther's suggestion — 
 endeavour to find the real criminal — go over 
 the whole neighbourhood — spare no labour — no 
 trouble. It may be a work demanding much 
 time and much patience. Never mind that, the 
 result is worth the toil of a lifetime, and you, 
 Lewis, you have a special stake in it — there is a 
 definite reward for you." 
 
 But the work, albeit he had a special stake 
 in it, looked very different in the eyes of Lewis. 
 He did not answer for some time, and then 
 said : " It's entirely out of the question to go 
 myself. I could not do it. I have neither 
 time nor patience to expend so, but I'U tell you 
 what I'll do, Anne — I'll write to Robert Fer- 
 gusson — I saw him this morning lea^dng Woods- 
 muir to return to Edinburgh; he is a cool, 
 shrewd, lawyer-like lad. I'll trust it to him." 
 
 " But think of the danger to Norman in 
 making this secret known," exclaimed Anne. 
 
 ''We need not tell him that," said Lewis, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 3 1 4 MERKLAND. 
 
 " there is no occasion whatever for trusting him 
 with that. He can have some hint of what has 
 occurred lately, and that it is a matter of some 
 importance to us. I will write to him to-day. 
 Does that satisfy you, Anne ?" 
 
 There was no choice ; she was compelled to 
 be satisfied with it. The lawyer, no doubt, 
 might manage it best, yet Anne had an instinc- 
 tive confidence, in a search which should be 
 guided, not by business-like acuteness alone, but 
 by the loving energy of a heart which yearned 
 over the outcast Norman, the desolate exiled 
 brother. And Lewis spoke so coldly, " of some 
 importance" — how the strange limitation chilled 
 her heart. 
 
 " And I want you to do something for me in 
 return, Anne," said Lewis, looking at his watch. 
 " After dinner, come up with me to the Tower, 
 and tell your story to Mrs. Catherine and Alice, 
 your own way. You can do it better than I 
 could, for you have more faith in it than I — 
 altogether," he continued, rising, with a laugh : 
 "You are more a believing person than I am, I 
 fancy, Anne — no doubt it is quite natural — you 
 women receive whatever's presented to you — it's 
 all very right that you should — but something 
 more is required of us."
 
 MERKLAND. 315 
 
 Alas ! poor Lewis ! He did not know how 
 incomparably higher that faculty of belief was, 
 than his meagre and poor calculations ; nor 
 could comprehend the instant and intuitive 
 apprehension, which darted to its true conclu- 
 sion at once, and left him weighing his sands of 
 legal evidence so very far behind. 
 
 The evening was gusty, wild and melancholy, 
 one of those nights that make the fireside lights 
 look doubly cheerful; and just as little Alice 
 Aytoun crept disconsolately up stairs in the dark- 
 ness, Lewis and Anne left Merkland for the 
 Tower. They had not much conversation on 
 the way, for Anne was busied, chalking out a 
 plan of procedure for herself, should Robert 
 Fergusson's mission fail, and Lew^s had lighter 
 fancies, unwillingly obscured by some tinge of 
 the truths he had learned that day, to keep him 
 silent. There w^ere no lights in the accustomed 
 windows when they reached the Tower. Mrs. 
 Catherine's own sitting-room was dark, and 
 from the window^s of the dining-parlour, there 
 came only the red glimmer of firelight. Archi- 
 bald Sutherland sat there alone, as Mrs. Cathe- 
 rine and Alice had left him, and had been too 
 deeply engaged with his own thoughts to heed 
 the gathering darkness. 
 
 p 2
 
 316 MERKLAND. 
 
 "Mr. Archibald is in the dining-parlour," 
 said Jacky, opening the door, as she spoke, to 
 admit Lewis, and gliding back instantly to 
 Anne's side. With natural delicacy, the ser- 
 vants had followed Mr. Fergusson's example, 
 and when they could no longer call the broken 
 man " Strathoran," returned to the kindly name 
 of his boyhood. 
 
 "And if ye please. Miss Anne," continued 
 Jacky, looking up wistfully into Anne's face. 
 " Mrs. Catherine is in the little room." 
 
 Anne hesitated — Jacky 's keen eyes were 
 fixed upon her anxiously. "May I go in, I 
 wonder, Jacky?" 
 
 " If ye please. Miss Anne — " began the girl. 
 
 " What, Jacky ?" 
 
 " Miss Alice is no weel — I saw her gaun up 
 to her ain room, slow and heavy. Mostly ye 
 canna hear her fit, it's hke a spirit's — the night 
 it was dragging slow and sad-like, and I heard 
 her say — " 
 
 Jacky paused. 
 
 " What did you hear her say ?" 
 
 " It was in her ain room — I wasna listening, 
 Miss Anne, I just heard it — she said ' there is 
 no one with me' — low, low — like as if she was 
 in grief. Miss Anne, will ye go up to Miss
 
 MERKLAND. 3 1 7 
 
 Alice? There was naebody near her but me, 
 and she wasna wanting me. Will ye go, Miss 
 Anne ?" Jacky's keen eyes were softened with 
 an involuntary tear. 
 
 " I must see Mrs. Catherine first," said 
 Anne, passing on hurriedly to the httle room. 
 Jacky seated herself in the window-seat near 
 the library-door, in meditative solitude ; the 
 strange, chivalrous girl's heart within her beat- 
 ing high with plans of help and aid to that 
 gentle, weeping Alice, whom all the stronger 
 spirits round her seemed instinctively to join in 
 warding evil and trouble from. 
 
 The door of the Httle room was at once 
 opened to Anne, and she found Mrs. Catherine 
 within, the trace of a tear even visible upon her 
 sterner cheek. 
 
 " The poor bairn, Gowan !" she exclaimed. 
 " The poor, bit, silly, gentle thing ! I could 
 almost have seen yourself suffering, sooner than 
 her. If stronger folk feel it even more pain- 
 fully, there is aye a kind of struggle with their 
 sorrow ; but yonder, there w^as no strength to 
 make resistance, Gow^an. The trouble sank 
 down, Hke a stone, to the bottom of the bairn's 
 heart. I cannot get away from my e'en the 
 bit, wan, unresisting, hopeless look of her." 
 
 P 3
 
 3 1 8 MERKLAND. 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine !" exclaimed Anne, ** I 
 must go to her instantly. I bring hope. Do 
 not look at me in anger. I am speaking words 
 of truth and soberness : the matter does not 
 stand as you think — as I thought this morning. 
 Mrs. Catherine, Norman is innocent.'' 
 
 Mrs. Catherine made an emphatic motion 
 with her hand, as if commanding Anne to go 
 on ; and waited breathlessly. 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine, I have his own words to 
 build upon. I have the recorded conviction of 
 my father. Do you think they could be de- 
 ceived, to whom he was dearest upon earth? 
 My father, Esther, Marion his wife, who went 
 with him, they all believed him innocent — the 
 last, by sharing his fate. You could not but 
 believe his own words. He did not do it, Mrs. 
 Catherine. He is innocent." 
 
 Mrs. Catherine laid her hands upon Anne's 
 shoulders, and gazed with earnest scrutiny into 
 her face. 
 
 " His own words — sharing his fate — what 
 does the bairn mean ? Go wan, I thought there 
 was some other terror upon your mind, this 
 morning, that ye did not tell me. Is Norman 
 Rutherford alive P" 
 
 " Mrs. Catherine, his secret is safe with you,"
 
 MERKLAND. 3 1 9 
 
 said Anne, drawing the letters from her bosom. 
 " Norman is alive, unjustly condemned, and in- 
 nocent. We must prove that first : but take 
 these, and let me go to Alice." 
 
 " Sit down upon that seat, and wait," said 
 Mrs. Catherine, peremptorily. " I must see 
 the ground of your hope myself, before ye 
 sicken the silly bairn with what may be but a 
 false sunshine. Give me the papers, Gowan." 
 
 The lamp was speedily lighted, and Mrs. Ca- 
 therine seated herself to examine them. How 
 different was the keen interest inspiring the 
 strong face which bent over them, the eyes that 
 traced their incoherent Hues so rapidly, from the 
 cold examination of Lewis. How different the 
 conclusion. 
 
 " The Lord be thanked !" burst from Mrs. 
 Catherme's lips, as she came to the end of 
 Norman's letter. " The Lord, in His infinite 
 tenderness, be thanked for the comfort. Gowan, 
 what are ye hngering for ? Go to the bairn, 
 and give her the good news. It is meet that I 
 should be my lane. Hear ye, Gowan, go to the 
 bairn." 
 
 Anne needed no urging — she left the room 
 stantly, and hurried up stairs. 
 
 Alice's gay bower was dark — the fire burning
 
 320 MERKLAND. 
 
 dull and low : the very flowers drooping like 
 their mistress. Anne passed through the opened 
 door hastily, to the still darker and chiller bed- 
 chamber within, where she could see the girl's 
 slight figui-e lying on the bed. Alice was roused 
 by the approaching footstep, and said, as Anne 
 drew near her : 
 
 " Not now, Bessie ; leave me. I do not want 
 you now." 
 
 Anne advanced, and gently drew the hidden 
 cheek from the wet pillow. 
 
 " It is not Bessie," she said ; " it is I, Alice, 
 Anne Ross, your sister." 
 
 Alice raised her head. 
 
 " My sister ! Ah ! you do not know." 
 
 Her hair was thrown back in a . momentary 
 attempt at pride, and then Alice hid her face 
 again in her hands. It was as Mrs. Catherine 
 said ; the gentle little heart could offer no resist- 
 ance to this dull, dead weight of sorrow. 
 
 " I do know, Alice !" said Anne. " Look 
 up now, and do not weep. Lewis is waiting to 
 see you. Mrs. Catherine knows he is here — 
 Alice!" 
 
 " Is it not true ?" whispered Alice ; " is it not 
 true ? You would not call me Alice if it were 
 true. Oh ! Miss Ross, tell me."
 
 you let her ? i 
 
 to come back again i 
 
 should die !" 
 
 Anne smiled sadly. And yet it might 
 been so ; the gentle and weak may droop then 
 heads like flowers, and die ; the stronger must 
 live on, bearing undying griefs tlirough long 
 lifetimes : it is so appointed. Very sad was 
 this plaintive, murmuring sorrow from lips so 
 young. Sadder still was the conscious life of 
 that other more perfect woman of the ballad : 
 " I wish I was dead, but I'm no like to dee." 
 
 Jacky was hovering not far off^ with lights, 
 and Anne lifted her little patient tenderly, put 
 her dress in order, and led her down to the 
 cheerftd fireside of Mrs. Catherine's inner 
 drawing-room, where Lewis joined her by-and- 
 bye, and from the warm and hopeful air of
 
 ^xi vne 
 
 never doubt that 
 
 dt out of this great dark- 
 
 vvu time.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street,

 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
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