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Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice
And then, their minister standing by the while, Duncan Macalpine the elder, of Oranmore, rendered thanks to God.
Archibald Sutherland denied himself this gladness. It invigorated him in the dingy manager’s room of the Glasgow counting-house to hear of it, but he felt he had no claim to the triumph. Mr. Ferguson was there, radiant with honest glee, and Mr. Lumsden from Portoran, his face covered with a dark glow of simple delight and sympathy. And there was little Lilie, and Mary Ferguson, solemnly invited to take tea with Flora and Angus, on their first entry into their new house, and Anne and Marjory, with Lawrie for their gallant, were in charge of the children and a straggling back-ground of well-wishers from Merkland and the Tower, filled up the rear.
The months wore peacefully on. Esther Fleming’s son had returned to her, and only did not become captain of a schooner, which called Norman owner now, because he had enough, and preferred comfortably dwelling at home, greatly honored by his foster-brother, and very proud of the relationship, while, withal, his mother’s little housekeeper-niece did so seriously incline to hear his stories of sea perils and victories, that the rustic neighbors already in prophetic anticipation, had some half dozen times proclaimed the banns of William Fleming.
Norman Rutherford and his family were settled peacefully in the now bright and cheerful house of Redheugh. Anne was with them. Little Alice, the blythest of young wives, kept Merkland bright and busy. There was word in Edinburgh of some rich young Indian lady, who had thrown her handkerchief on James.
And before the three months were fully expired, Anne Ross accepted Marjory Falconer’s invitation, and was present at a wedding-party in Falcon’s Craig. A double wedding – at which Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, placed in the stout hand of Sophy Featherstonehaugh the reins of the ruder animal Ralph Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, and immediately thereafter submitted in his turn to the same important ceremony, performed in his case by the brother Robert, of Gowdenleas, in the midst of an immense assemblage of kindred, Andrew of Kilfleurs standing by.
And prosperous were these weddings. Good-humored, kindly, and of tolerable capacity, the bold Sophy had improved under her sister-in-law’s powerful tutorage. She had a firm hand. The boisterous Ralph felt the reins light upon him, yet was kept in bounds, and by-and-by Sophy left the management of wild horses entirely in his hands. She got other important things to manage – obstreperous atoms of humanity, wilder than their quadruped brethren, and scarce less strong.
And with her old chimeras scattered to the winds, in lofty lowliness, and chastened strength, Marjory Falconer entered her Manse, the minister’s stout-hearted and pure-minded wife. One hears no more of the rights of women now – bubbles of such a sort do not float in the rare atmosphere of this household – there is nothing in them congenial with the sunshine of its blythe order and freedom.
For granting that our Calvinism is gloomy, and our Presbyterian temperament sour, one wonders how universal this household warmth and joyousness should be beneath the roof-trees of those strong, pure men, whom the intolerant world upbraids with the names of bigot, hypocrite, and pharisee. One could wish to have this same intolerant bigot world make a tour of these Scottish Manses, from which it might return, perchance, able to give a rational judgment on the doctrine and order of Christ’s Holy Evangel, as we have held it in Scotland from the days of our fathers until now; at least might have its evil speaking hushed into silence before the devout might, which labors for the hire, not of silver and gold, but of saved souls – and the sunny godliness which is loftiest gain.
There is a rumor in the Lumsden family that, upon one evening shortly after the marriage, a certain chapter of the Epistle to the Ephesians, containing a verse which married ladies do mightily stumble at, was read in regular course: on which occasion, says the mirthful Sister Martha of the Portoran Manse, one could detect the shadow of a comic inflection in the voice of the household priest, while his wife with a certain grave doggedness, slightly bowed her strong head before the unpalatable command.
We cannot tell how the truth of this story may be, but Sister Martha laughs when she tells it, and Marjory blushes her violent blush, and the minister looks on with his characteristic smile of simple unsophisticated glee. But we can vouch for it, that Mrs. Lumsden of Portoran has become a renowned church-lawyer, mighty in the “Styles,” and great in the forms of process; whose judgment maintains itself triumphantly in face of a whole Synod, and whose advice in complicated matters, of edicts, or calls, or trials, youthful reverends scant of ecclesiastical jurisprudence, would do well to take.
Only there is growing up in the Manse of Portoran a host of little sun-burnt, dark-haired heads – all prosperity and increase to the sparkling eyes and bold brows of them! – over whose rejoicing band a little fairy sister, the joy of the minister’s heart, exercises her capricious sway, and sovereign tyranny. They are growing up, all of them, to call Marjory blessed – already for their generous nurturing “known in the gates” as hers – and hereafter still more to rejoice in the strong, gladsome, sunshiny nature to which they owe their healthful might and vigor. The prophecy and hope of her friend and counsellor is fulfilled in full: “Strength and honor are her clothing. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness.”
The months passed on, and lengthened into years. Archibald Sutherland, after good work in the manager’s room, entered the firm triumphantly as Norman’s successor; before that, he had succeeded to the well-ordered house in the vicinity of Blythswood Square, which had been occupied by his predecessor Mr. Lumsden. People said it certainly needed a mistress, and very wonderful were the rapidity of those successive occasions, on which the Laird of Strathoran, clear-headed as men called him, found it absolutely necessary to repair to Redheugh to seek counsel of his friend.
His sister Isabel had made a brilliant marriage; they had scarcely any intercourse – unless some new misfortune should befall her she was lost to her early friends. Mrs. Catherine and Mr. Ferguson, under Mr. Coulter’s advice, were managing his estate. Sentences oracular and mysterious were sometimes heard falling from Mrs. Catherine’s lips, in which the names of “Archie” and “Anne” were conjoined. The house of Strathoran had been thoroughly purified. Mrs. Catherine had made sundry important additions to its plenishing; it was always kept in such order, that its now prosperous and rising possessor might return to it, at once. Anne was resident at the Tower sometimes, and knew of these processes. They tended to some new change in the eventful life of Archie Sutherland.
The Rosses of Merkland were visiting the Rutherfords of Redheugh. In the large sunny drawing-room, from whose ample windows sloped a lawn of close and velvet greensward, the whole family were assembled. The elder Mrs. Ross was mollified and melted; the younger gay and rejoicing. Lewis was in high spirits – under the regimen approved and recommended by Mr. Coulter, Lewis hoped to raise the rent-roll of Merkland a half more than it had ever been. You could see now in the large wistful dark eyes of Christian Lillie, only the subdued and serious tone proper to those who have borne great griefs without brooding over them. There was an aspect of serene peace and healthful pleasure over all the house. The three sisters, Marion, Christian, and Anne, were sisters indeed.
Without was a merrier group. Lilie Rutherford, with her youthful gallant, Charlie Ferguson, now a High School boy, lodged in a closet of his brother Robert’s rooms, and frequent in his Saturday visits to Redheugh; and Lawrie, growing a young man now, as he thought, and dubious as to the propriety of keeping company with lesser boys and girls, to whom he was very patronizing and condescending, stood by the sun-dial; while in the background was Jacky, now waiting gentlewoman to Miss Lilias Rutherford, a very great person indeed, and little Bessie, young Mrs. Ross of Merkland’s own maid.
Lilie was coquetishly making inquiries of Bessie, touching the welfare of Harry Coulter, whereat Charlie Ferguson grew irate and sulky.
“And the young gentleman’s biding at the Tower,” said Bessie; “he’s a lord noo his ainsel – and he’s been twice at Harrows.”
“Who is that?” said little Lilie.
“Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Jacky, “it’s a young gentleman that was a lord’s son, and now he’s a lord himsel – and he’s gaun to be married to Mr. Harry’s sister.”
“Eh, Jacky, what gars ye say such a thing?” cried Bessie. “If ye please, Miss Lilie, naebody kens – only he’s been twice at Harrows; but maybe he’s no courting Miss Coulter for a’ that.”
“I should think not,” exclaimed Charlie Ferguson, indignantly. “Ada Coulter married to a lord! Yes, indeed – and they can’t talk of a single thing at Harrows but fat pigs, and prize cattle, and ploughing matches. Why, Lilie, do you mind what Harry gave you when you were at Merkland – a plough! what can ladies do with ploughs?”
“Mrs. Catherine has a great many ploughs, Charlie,” said Lilie, gravely – ”and it was very good of Harry; and Mary and me might have played with it all our lane, and we would not have needed you. I dinna like boats – folk can plough at hame – but in boats they go over the sea.”
“And, eh, Jacky!” exclaimed Bessie, curiously, as Charlie followed his capricious liege lady, to efface if he could this unfortunate recollection of Harry Coulter and his gift – ”isna young Strathoran awfu’ often at Redheugh?”
“He’s here whiles,” said Jacky, briefly.
“Johnnie Halflin says,” said Bessie, “and it’s a’ through the parish – and folk say Mrs. Catherine’s just waiting for’t, and that it’s to be in the Tower, and Mr. Lumsden is to do it, and Mrs. Lumsden kens a’ about it – ”
“About what?”
“Oh, ye just ken better than me for a’ you’ll no say – just that young Strathoran’s coming out of yon muckle reekie Glasgow, hame to his ain house, and then he’s to be married to Miss Anne. Tell us, woman, Jacky – I’ll never tell a mortal body again, as sure as I’m living.”
Jacky’s dark face lighted up – she knew this secret would bear telling, even though Bessie broke faith.
“We’re a’ gaun to the Tower at the New year – like the time Redheugh came hame; Miss Lilie and Miss Anne, and a’ the house – and young Strathoran’s to be there too. And Miss Anne has gotten a grand goun, a’ of white silk, shining like the snaw below the moon, and a shawl – ye never saw the like o’t – it’s as lang as frae Merkland to the Tower. And maybe something will happen then, and maybe no – Miss Anne wasna gaun to tell me!”
THE END1
A diet of examination. One of the periodical visits made by Scottish clergymen in former times, during which the household, and especially its younger members, were examined on the “Shorter Catechism,” the universal text-book of Scottish Theology.
