Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“Speed thy labor o’er land and sea,Home and kindred are waiting for thee!”

The remainder of the month passed quietly away; the little world of Strathoran was unusually still. Jeanie and Ada Mina Coulter began to weary for the marriage, which rumor said would shortly bring a very youthful, blue-eyed bride to Merkland, and for the festivities and party-givings consequent thereupon. Miss Falconer was unusually quiet. Walter Foreman, John Coulter and their set, had scarcely any new feats or new speeches of Marjory’s to make mirthful comments on. She was becoming intimate with a sober, stout, cheerful, elderly lady, who wore one unvarying dress of black silk, and was Mr. Lumsden’s (of Portoran) unmarried elder sister. Miss Lumsden had taken a decided liking for the strange, wild, eccentric girl, whose exploits kept all the parish amused; and had resided one whole fortnight in the immediate vicinity of the Falcon’s Craig stables and kennel, in order to assist and counsel her young friend in the onerous duties of housekeeping. To Miss Lumsden’s honor be it spoken, she returned to the orderly and quiet Manse, more stanchly Miss Falconer’s friend than ever, and that in spite of the very decided hand with which Marjory held the reins of government at Falcon’s Craig, barely admitting counsel, and by no means tolerating assistance.

Mr. Foreman, to the great amazement of Lord Gillravidge and his friends, had served upon them sundry mystic papers, interdicting them from their obstruction of the by-way. Lord Gillravidge resisted, and the case was to be tried before the Court of Session.

Mrs. Catherine’s stately quietude was broken by the successive charges of this legal war; the old lady entered into it keenly, anathematizing with no lack of vehemence the “hounds” who were usurping the possession of the dignified house of Strathoran. – The more than ordinary stillness of the district brought out the excesses of Lord Gillravidge’s household in prominent and bold relief. The country people told sad tales of these – exaggerated no doubt by their own simple habits, and by their thorough dislike to the new-comer; but still possessing some foundation of truth.

Lewis Ross, with James Aytoun and Robert Ferguson, were hard at work in the fair parish on the south bank of “the Firth,” where stood the desolate mansion of Redheugh, and where Arthur Aytoun met his fate. Lewis and James were resident in the village inn, Robert had his quarters in a comfortable farm-house at some distance from them. They were pursuing their inquiry with all diligence. In Lewis’s letters to Anne, were recorded the long walks they took, the long conversations in peasant houses, to which they were compelled to submit, in return for the scraps of information gathered, the immense quantity of country gossip, with which the history was interlarded, and the very slow progress they made in their search. Many of the elder cottagers of the district, remembered “young Redheugh” well, and spoke of his character, Lewis said, as Esther Fleming and Mrs. Catherine had done; but, though there was much affectionate respect for his youthful goodness, and much pity for his terrible fate, there was no doubt of his guilt among them, and they concluded their history of him, with an “Eh, Sirs! but mortal flesh is weak when it’s left to itsel; to think o’ sae mony guid gifts coming to sic an end!” Lewis did not know well what to do; he could see no hope.

Early in February they returned to Edinburgh from whence came the following letter to his anxious sister:

“My dear Anne,

“We have at last abandoned the search in despair – there is nothing to be made of it – I thought so before we began. We have awakened the attention of the district, and will, I fear, have to pay the penalty in some newspaper paragraphs resuscitating the whole story, which is disagreeable enough certainly – otherwise we have done nothing.

“I told you that we had, the other day, called at the cottage of the man, who was the first to discover Mr. Aytoun after the murder. This man was an important witness. He had been employed about Redheugh, and was a spectator of the quarrel between Aytoun and Norman. It had reference to a young lady, between whom and Norman there was a rumored engagement; whether Aytoun knew this, or not, I cannot tell, but he spoke disparagingly of the girl, who was of inferior rank. Norman resented the slighting words with the utmost vehemence and passion; so much so, that the man feared some immediate collision between them. This was prevented, however, by some chance interposition, which he does not very clearly recollect. Norman was called away, and Mr. Aytoun returned home.

“It was his daily custom to walk in this wood, though one would fancy from the character they give him, that he was by no means of a contemplative kind. He seems rather to have been one of those cool men, who take prudent means to recover themselves from the dissipation of one night, in order that they may be fit for the dissipation of the next. So it was his habit to walk in this wood early in the morning, and Norman knew it. Our informant was something of an artist, Anne. You should have heard his homely description of the stillness and beauty of the wood, as he went through it, returning from his morning’s work, to breakfast; ‘the sun was shining as clear as if there was naething below that dauredna be seen, or needit to shrink from the sight of man; and the innocent water running blythe beneath the trees, and the sky spreading calm aboon a’, as if violence had never been dune in sicht of its blue e’e;’ heightening the serenity of his background by all those delicate touches, that the terrible discovery he was about to make might stand out in bolder relief. You will say I treat this with indifference, Anne, but indeed, you are mistaken. I know Norman better, and am more interested in his fate now, (not to speak of my own individual interest in the result) than when I left Merkland.’

“To resume the story. Our informant going carelessly forward through the wood, came suddenly upon the body of the murdered man, which had fallen, breaking down the low bushes and brushwood upon the waterside. I need not tell you his horror, nor how he describes it. He procured assistance immediately, and conveyed the body home, and afterwards returned to ascertain whether there were any traces visible of the murderer. He says, he never doubted for a moment – the last night’s quarrel and estrangement, the cold sneers of Aytoun, and Norman’s passionate vehemence, left him, as he thought, no room for doubt. His strong suspicion became absolute certainty, when on returning, he found, lying below some thick underwood, a light fowling-piece, bearing Norman’s initials and arms. His story differs in no point from the evidence given by him at the time, and there mingles with it a compassion and regret for Norman, which make its truthfulness still more apparent. When I ventured to suggest, that in spite of all these condemnatory circumstances, the criminal might still be another person, he shook his head. ‘I wad gie twa and a plack, Sir, to ony man that could prove that to me; na, bluid winna hide. If ony man living had spilt it, it wad have been brought hame to him before now.’ To such a statement one could make no answer. I confess, I left him utterly hopeless; what can we do further?

“The other man, who met Norman upon that fatal morning, leaving the wood, is dead; but his widow lives, and remembers her husband’s story perfectly. Norman, the widow says, was smiling and cheerful, humming a tune, and apparently in high spirits, and stopped on his way to greet her husband kindly, as was his wont; for she, too, testifies to the uniform goodness and gentleness of “young Redheugh.” It was a mystery to her husband, she says, to the last day of his life, how a man, newly come from such a deed, with the blood of a fellow creature and a friend warm on his hand, should have smiles on his face, and kindness on his tongue, to an indifferent passer-by.

“I cannot understand it either, Anne. It is the one thing, above all others, which staggers me. A calculating, cool, reasoning man, who even, at such a time, could think of the chances of a favorable evidence, might have been supposed capable of this – even then, I fancy there is hardly anything of the kind on record. But an impulsive, generous, sensitive man, such as universal testimony concurs in representing Norman – one cannot comprehend it. If the gaiety had been forced, the man must have observed it – it would have been an additional evidence of his guilt – but it was not so. The favorite tune – the elastic, joyous manner – the frank greeting! I cannot reconcile these with the idea of his guilt. If it had not been for this one very indistinct and impalpable piece of evidence, which, like his own letter, may influence the mind, but can have no legal force as proof, I should at once have given up the search, and taken refuge in the certainty of his guilt.

“All inquiries as to any other suspected party have proved entirely fruitless. Every circumstance had pointed so clearly to Norman, that, as I think, anything inculpating another, must have faded from the memories of the people as quite unimportant.

“James Aytoun looks very grave: he does not say much, and I cannot guess his opinion. He has been very zealous and active in the search, and has conducted it, as it seems to me, with great prudence and wisdom. I think he is very much disappointed. I even think that he still retains a lingering conviction of Norman’s innocence, and is, like myself, bewildered and uncertain what step to take, or what to do.

“From Mrs. Aytoun I have received just such a reception as you might have expected from the mother of James and Alice. Tremulously kind, almost tender to me for her daughter’s sake, yet often lost in long reveries of silent sorrow. No doubt this search, recalling all the circumstances of her widowhood to Mrs. Aytoun’s mind, has cost her much pain. I think, however, that, to speak modestly, they don’t altogether dislike me. So far as worldly matters go, we, you know, hold our heads higher than they do, and I cannot help hoping that people so sensible and friendly as James Aytoun and his mother, will not, in the spirit of a darker age, allow this old and forgotten crime to hinder the happiness of their gentle Alice. I have improved my time sufficiently, I trust, to ensure that that same happiness is not very safe, if I am denied a share in it. I intend, to-morrow, to have an explanation with them, and ascertain definitely what are our future prospects. I need not say how gentle, and sympathizing, and affectionate – how entirely like herself, in short, our little Alice is.

“I have not much fear of the eclaircissement to-morrow. They will, very likely, impose some probation upon us. We are both young enough to tolerate that – but that they can steadily refuse their consent to a connection (as I flatter myself) so proper and suitable, an advantageous settlement for Alice, which will secure alike her happiness and her external comfort, I cannot believe. I shall, likely, return some time this week. Let Duncan meet me in Portoran on Friday. If I do not come, it does not matter much – the old man will be the better for the drive.

“Lewis Ross.”

Beside the letter of Lewis was another, the handwriting of which Anne did not know. She had few correspondents, and opened it wonderingly. It was from James Aytoun.

“My dear Miss Ross,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not doubt it,” said Anne.

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

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

Lewis opened his eyes in consternation:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne looked up joyfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne was roused out of her usual patience.

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