Маргарет Олифант
Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice
“Oh! Anne, are you not glad?” exclaimed little Alice: “we shall have Mr. Sutherland back again.”
Anne did not feel herself particularly called upon to express gladness, but she looked up inquiringly into Mrs. Catherine’s face.
“I said nothing of the lad coming home,” said Mrs. Catherine firmly. “Alison Aytoun, you are but a bairn, and will never be tried, so far as I can see the lot before you, by thoughts or purposes of a stern and troublous kind. It is other with you, Anne, as I know. This Archie Sutherland, has wasted with his riotous living the substance given in charge to him from his father, and from his father’s God. It is not meet he should come back unscathed to this leisure and honor; it is right he should clear himself by labor and toil, not of the sin before God, which is atoned for in a holier way, but of the sin in the sight of man. I say, I also would be sinning against a justice, which neither fails nor alters, and discouraging strong hearts that held upon their warfare manfully, when he fell under the hand of the adversary, were I bringing back Archie Sutherland at this time to the full honor and possessions of his father’s house. I will let him stay in his trial and probation, child, till he can show labor of his own hands, bravely done and like a man. The gallant is nearer to my own heart than ever man was, but Sholto my one brother; but it is meet he should render due justice after he has done evil.”
Anne bowed her head in silent acquiescence: she did not speak. Mrs. Catherine was right.
“But this must be looked to without delay,” said Mrs. Catherine, seating herself in her own great chair, while the gloaming shadows gathered darkly in the room; “we must buy his land back for him now. I will speak of it to Mr. Foreman this very night. Alison, go your ways, and sing to me the ballad of the wayfaring man.”
And in the soft shadowy gloaming, little Alice seated herself at the piano, and began to sing. You could scarcely perceive her fair head in the dreamy gloom of the large apartment. Further in, the red glow of the fire flickered ruddy on the stately form of Mrs. Catherine, bringing out with momentary flashes sometimes the shadow of her strong face in bold relief against the wall. Still more in the shade sat Anne, very still and thoughtful, looking at the old friend, and the young beside her, and thinking of others far away. Over them all were these low floating notes of music hopeful and sad —
Thy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan,
Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man!
Down stairs in the snug housekeeper’s room, a little party was assembled, merrier and younger than were wont to be seen within that especial sanctum of the famous Mrs. Euphan Morison. Mrs. Euphan herself had gone to Portoran, to make provision of many things necessary for the jubilee and festivities, which in the ensuing week were to be holden in the Tower. She was not to return till late that night, and Jacky had taken advantage of her absence.
Round the fire, in the early winter gloaming, sat little Bessie, Johnnie Halflin, Jacky herself and Flora Macalpine. There was to be a quiet reunion in the Tower that night, and Flora came, in attendance upon little Mary Ferguson, who was gaily engaged at that moment, in the hall, playing hide and seek with Lilie Rutherford.
The little company in the housekeeper’s room were very merry. Jacky was repeating to them that sad adventure of Sir Artegall, which ended in his captivity to the most contemptuous of Amazons, the warlike Radigund; with whispers innumerable, and stifled laughter, her companions listened, or pretended to listen.
At that time, the gig from the Sutherland Arms, which had formerly conveyed James Aytoun to the Tower, was tumbling along the high-road in the same direction again. At some little distance from the entrance to Mrs. Catherine’s ground, two gentlemen alighted, and dismissing it, ascended to the Tower.
One of them – he was bronzed by the beating of a sun more fervid than that of Scotland – was casting keen glances of joyous recognition round him – at the Tower – at Merkland – at a light in a high window there, which he fancied he knew, and still more eagerly at Strathoran in the dim distance. Its name had rung strangely in his ear from the tongue of the “crooked helper” at the inn, who drove their humble vehicle – ”mony thanks to ye, Strathoran.” It sent a thrill to the heart of Archibald Sutherland.
Yes, Archibald Sutherland! it was no other!
An older man leaned on his arm. In the darkness you could not distinguish particularly either his face or form; he was tall, with an elastic buoyant footstep, and was looking about him in a singular abrupt way, now here, now there, like a man in a dream.
They approached the Tower door – it was closed. Archibald’s friend had been eager hitherto, but now he lingered and seemed to wish delay. Archibald was entirely in the dark as to the reason. There was a ruddy light gleaming from a low window near at hand. The stranger drew near to look in, almost as if he knew it.
The room was full of the ruddy fire-light – the two dark figures at the window were quite unseen by those merry youthful people about the fire. Some one had slightly opened the window a little while before, for the room was very hot, and the door had been closed, that graver ears might not hear their laughter.
Jacky sat in the midst, her dark face glowing keen and bright. She was reciting vigorously that doleful adventure of the luckless Sir Artegall. The woman’s weedes put upon him by the disdainful Amazon; the white apron – the distaff in his hand, “that he thereon should spin both flax and tow;” his low place among the brave knights, whom he found “spinning and carding all in comely row;” and
“ – forst through penury and pyne,
To doe these works to their appointed dew,
For nought was given them to sup or dyne,
But what their hands could earn by twisting linen twyne.”
A very sad thing, doubtless, for the hapless Sir Artegall, and furnishing very sufficient occasion for the “deep despight” and “secret shame” of his lofty and royal Lady Britomart, but by no means calculated to impress any deep feeling of pity or compassion upon that somewhat ungovernable knot of youngsters. – Flora Macalpine, too kindly and good-humored to hurt Jacky’s feelings, had bent her head down upon her knee to hide her laughter; Johnnie Halflin leaned against the mantelpiece, shaking with secret earthquakes; Bessie had her head turned to the door, and was gazing at it steadily, and biting her rosy lip. They had all an awe of Jacky. It would not do, however. That picture, with its gradual heightening; at last the sad honor of the unfortunate knight, steadily spinning in his woman’s weedes, because his word was pledged to the despightful Radigund, – there was a general explosion – it was impossible to withstand that.
Jacky stopped suddenly, and withdrew from the laughters in lofty offence. She herself had a perception of the allegory, and was hurt and wounded at its reception, as we see greater people sometimes, whose myths a laughing world will persist in receiving as rather grotesque than sublime.
Jacky was almost sulky; she sat down in the shade, and turned her head resolutely away. Flora drew near to her in deprecatory humbleness. Jacky resisted and resented proudly.
Just then the door opened; the tall man, leaning on Archibald Sutherland’s arm, gave a nervous start. Archibald had begun to weary of his station here, at the window of the housekeeper’s room. His friend and employer, Mr. Sinclair was exhibiting a singular fancy to-night. He looked in wonderingly to see the reason of the sudden start.
It was only the entrance of two little girls; one of them blooming and ruddy, with radiant golden hair. The other paler, with a little frock of black silk, and eyes like the night – wistful, spiritual, dark.
“What ails Jacky?” said the new comer.
“Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Bessie eagerly, “we werena meaning ony ill; we only laughed.”
Lilie slid gently within Jacky’s arm – drew down the hand which supported her head, and whispered in her ear – the arm of Mr. Sinclair quivering all this time most strangely, as it leaned upon his friend’s.
“Dinna be angry,” whispered Lilie; “I want you to say Alice Brand. Mary never heard it; never mind them. Say Alice Brand to Mary and me.”
“Oh! ay, Jacky,” echoed Bessie and Johnnie together, “say Alice Brand; it’s a real bonnie thing.”
Jacky was mollified; after a brief pause, caressing Lilie, she began the ballad. Little Mary Ferguson, with the fire-light gleaming in her golden hair, stood, leaning on the shoulder of her favorite Flora. Lilie was at Jacky’s knee, lifting up her face of earnest childish interest, and listening with all her might. Without, in the darkness stood the stranger, eagerly looking in, and holding Archibald’s arm.
The first notes of Alice Aytoun’s song were sounding up stairs. Archibald Sutherland stood still, but with eyes that wandered somewhat, and a considerable weariness. This was a most strange freak of Mr. Sinclair’s – he could not comprehend it.
Her story possessed Jacky and inspired her. She rose as it swelled to its climax, and spoke louder. —
“It was between the night and day
When the Fairy folk have power
That I fell down in a sinful fray,
And twixt life and death was snatched away,
To the joyless, elfin bower.
But wist I of a woman bold,
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould
As fair a form as thine.
She crossed him once, she crossed him twice,
That lady was so brave;
The fouller grew his goblin hue,
The darker turned the cave,
She crossed him thrice, that lady bold,
He rose beneath her hand,
The fairest knight on Scottish mold,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!
’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood.” —
The quick elfin eye shot a glance out into the darkness, and saw the listening figures there; the well-known face of young Strathoran! Jacky steadily finished the verse – committed Lilie into the hands of Flora Macalpine, and shutting the door of the house-keeper’s room carefully behind her, opened the outer one, and admitted the strangers.
She conducted them up stairs in her own still, excited, elfin way; the fumes of the ballad hanging about her still. Mr. Sinclair grasped Archibald’s arm, as they reached the door of the inner room, and held him back. The plaintive hopeful music was floating out again upon the soft shadows of the darkening night.
“Speed thy labor o’er land and sea,
Home and kindred are waiting for thee.”
They entered, Jacky gliding in before them to light the candles which stood upon the table. Mrs. Catherine started up in overwhelming surprise – so did Anne and Alice. There was a loud exclamation, “Whence come you, gallant and what brings you home?” and a confused uncertain welcoming of Archibald. Then they became calmer, and he introduced Mr. Sinclair. At this stranger, Jacky when she brought the lights, had thrown a long, keen scrutinising glance. There seemed an agitated uncertainty about him, which contrasted strangely with his firm lip and clear eye. They were seated again at last. A mysterious agitation had fallen upon them all, which Archibald could not comprehend. To this new-comer Mrs. Catherine’s large gray eyes were travelling continually. Anne, with nervous timid glances, turned to him again and again. Mr. Sinclair himself, generally so frank, and full of universal sympathies, was confused and tremulous, speaking incoherently, and saying things which had no meaning; Archibald was greatly astonished – even little Alice Aytoun began to steal shy glances at the stranger.
Archibald made a sign to Anne, and rising went out – Anne followed. He was in high spirits, great in hope, and with prospects more cheering than he had ever dreamt of. He began to speak of them as she met him at the door.
“Who is he? who is he?” exclaimed Anne eagerly.
Archibald looked at her in amazement. “My employer and friend, Mr. Sinclair, Anne. What is the matter? I have come home with him at his own special desire. He intends – ”
Jacky had been hovering on the stairs. She came up to the door where they were standing, and looked at them wistfully, “Oh if ye please, Miss Anne – ”
“What is it, Jacky?”
Jacky could not tell what it was. She sat down on the stair, and put her hands up to her face, and began to cry – her excitement overpowering her.
“I cannot bear this,” said Anne, wringing her hands nervously. “Jacky,” she whispered in her ear – the girl shot down stairs like a spirit.
“Anne!” exclaimed Archibald, “something ails you. I beg you to tell me what it is.”
“Afterwards – afterwards – ” said Anne, hastily. “Go in now, Archibald. Jacky, come – ”
Jacky returned, leading little Lilie by the hand. Archibald in silent amazement, went in again to the inner drawing-room. Anne followed him with the child, her face deadly pale, her form trembling.
Mrs. Catherine had changed the position of the lights on the table – one of them threw the profile of the stranger in clear shadow on the wall – she was looking with a singular scrutiny on the face, and on the shade of it. Little Alice Aytoun looked almost afraid. Mr. Sinclair was as confused and agitated as ever.
Lilie came in – she drew near Archibald timidly, with some remembrance of having seen him before; behind her, Anne stood in stiff excitement, watching her motions.
Suddenly the child’s quick eye caught the stranger. Mr. Sinclair’s arms moved tremulously. Lilie looked – wavered – turned back – looked again, her dark eyes dilating – her face full of childish earnestness. The time – the distance – the slight child’s-memory – these did not make darkness enough, to veil from her remembrance the well-known face. The child sprang forward to the arms of the strong man, who sat trembling there under her simple scrutiny; she uttered a cry – Anne only could distinguish the latter words of it – they were enough, “My papa!”
And Mrs. Catherine rose, drawing up her stately figure to its full height, in solemn, judicial dignity, and advanced to the side of the father and child, “I bid you joyous, righteous, peaceful welcome; Norman Rutherford, I bid you welcome to your own name and land!”
And this was he! after eighteen years of labor and pain and banishment – an assumed name, a strange country, a toilsome life – in joy and peace and honor, Norman Rutherford had returned again to his own fatherland.
But their joy was too deep and still to bear recording; the manner of their rejoicing, the forms of their thankfulness were not such as we can dwell on. The serenity of deep and holy happiness, the exuberance of new-found blessings! – we cherish those things too deeply in our inmost hearts to speak of them; for we are very still, when we are very blessed, in Scotland!
At Portoran he had left Christian, Marion, and his son. He had promised to return to them immediately, with Anne and Lilie. Mrs. Catherine’s carriage was ordered for them, and they drove round by Merkland. Anne sat, her heart beating joyously, by the side of her new-found brother. Little Lilie was nestling in the darkness in her father’s arm, pouring forth a stream of questions about mamma and Lawrie. All the three were half weeping yet, in the tumult and excitement of their joy. The past, with all that was dark and painful in it, was lost in the present brightness; peace, security – the bond of tender and near relationship no longer a secret thing, but recognised now in joy and triumph, an abiding gladness all their days. The brother and sister united now for the first time in their lives, felt no restraining chillness of new acquaintanceship. They knew each other, and rejoiced, with tender pride and thanksgiving, in their kindred.
They stopped at Merkland – leading his child by the hand, and supporting Anne on his arm, Norman Rutherford entered the house of his fathers. His naturally buoyant step was restrained by a grave dignity; the memory of the dead hung over these walls – a thousand sad and potent remembrances were rising in the in the exile’s heart – but withal he had been doubted here. He knew that, as it seemed instinctively, and drawing his sister’s hand more closely through his arm, they entered Mrs. Ross’s sitting-room together.
He stood gravely at the door waiting for his welcome. Lilie looked up wonderingly in his face; he held her hand with such gentle firmness, that she could not run to the wondering grand-mamma, who sat there staring suspiciously at the new comers. Mrs. Aytoun rose – neglected wives, sad and sorrowful, remember those who feel for their hidden troubles delicately. She came forward, she looked at him, she held out her hands, “Welcome, welcome home.”
Mrs. Ross was looking at him now eagerly. James and Lewis had both risen – so did she. “Who is this, Anne?” exclaimed Lewis: “Lilie, who is this gentleman?”
Mrs. Ross’s better angel visited her for that white moment. She advanced before either Anne or Lilie could answer. “It is your brother, Lewis – your brother Norman; Norman, you are welcome home.”
And then a subdued and tender radiance came shining from the eyes of the returned son. He led Mrs. Ross to her chair – he called her mother. In the revulsion of his generous heart, thinking he had done her wrong, he forgot the dark wedding-day long ago which had brought her, a strange ruler, to Merkland, and which he spent by his own mother’s grave. With Lilie on the little stool at her feet, and Norman doing her reverence, and all the rest joyous and glad about her, Mrs. Ross forgot it also.
He was to return to Merkland, she insisted, with his wife, their sister, and their son. The old house would hold them all. Norman’s dark eyes brightened into deep radiance. He kissed the harsh step-mother’s hand – he had done her wrong.
Then he drew Anne’s arm through his own once more, and leaving Lilie in the carriage, in charge of Mrs. Catherine’s careful coachman, went down Oranside to Esther Fleming’s cottage; but in Esther’s recognition there was neither pause nor doubt. The manly bronzed cheek, the dark hair with its streaks of grey – she did not linger to look at these. She heard the light elastic step, the voice so dearly known of old – and it was her beautiful laddie, her bairn, her son – not the grave man, who had more than reached the highest arch of his life – about whose neck the old woman threw her withered arms, as she lifted up her voice and wept.
At last they reached Portoran. The Marion, the little sister of Christian Lillie, had a face of thoughtful gracious beauty, such as gladdens the eye and heart alike; a saintly peaceful face, in which the strength of Christian and the weakness of Patrick were singularly blended, for she was like them both. The plough of sorrow had not carved its iron furrows on her fair brow, as it had done on Christian’s. The sunshine of her smile was only chastened with natural tears for the dead brother who had gone to his rest; he was not her all in all as he had been Christian’s.
No, for the little girl rejoicing in a childish exuberance of joy and tenderness already in her arms; the beautiful, bold, gallant boy, who stood beside her chair; the radiant dark face of the father and husband looking upon them with tremulous delight and pride – had all a share. Christian too, whose heroic work was done, and the new-found sister Anne; there was warm room for them all in the large heart of Marion Rutherford. The burning fire of bitter grief had not intensified her love upon one – she was the family head, the house-mother – full of all gracious affections and sympathies, hopes and happiness.
CHAPTER XXXI
MRS. Ross was inspired – how or by what means we are not sufficiently good metaphysicians to be able to specify – but inspired she was! It might be that all the court that had been paid to her of late had softened the adamantine heart: it only concerns us to know that softened it was. She took immediate counsel with May; she had fires lighted in half a dozen bed-chambers. Then the wainscotted parlor was made radiant – a fire in its grate “enough,” as Duncan said with an involuntary grumble, “to keep the decent folk at the Brig of Oran in eliding frae this till Canlemas” – and additional candles upon its table. Then Mrs. Ross did something more wonderful than all this – the very climax and copestone of her unwonted melting of heart. She sent Duncan mysteriously up stairs to the attic lumber-room with secret instructions. May and Barbara lingered in wonder to what was coming.
A great thing was coming – covered with dust, and grumbling audibly, Duncan re-appeared in ten minutes, carrying in his arms a picture – the portrait of the lost son of the house of Merkland – the boy’s face of the exiled Norman, dethroned from its standing in his father’s house for eighteen weary year.
It was restored again now, and when Mrs. Ross having dismissed the servants sat down alone in her bright room, through the dark polished walls of which the warm lights were gleaming pleasantly, to wait for her guests; the unclouded sunshine of the bold, frank, fearless boy’s face shone upon her for the first time. It had enough of the indefinite family resemblance, to bring her own Lewis before her mind. Lewis had gone up to the Tower, but was to return immediately. His mother sat in the parlor alone, more cheerily than was her wont, for the blood was warming about her heart.
And then they arrived – the whole of them, with all their different manifestations of joy; the mother Marion starting in delight at what she thought the portrait of her own bright Lawrie, and Norman himself heaping up in such generous measure his delicate amends of honor and attention to the step-mother, whom he fancied he had wronged. She remembered him so different once, in his impetuous youth, that the compliment was all the greater now.
Christian and Anne sat by the fire in a quiet corner. Lawrie, proud of his new kindred, and bashfully exultant over them all, hovered between them and the uncle Lewis, whose good looks and independent young manhood already powerfully attracted the boy: while on either side of Mrs. Ross herself sat Norman and Marion, and Lilie loyal to the newly-come mamma, joining her childish talk to theirs; and all so willing and eager to do honor to the head of the household – the sole remnant of an older generation. Deep peace fell upon Merkland that night in all its many chambers – deeper than had been there before for years.
The evening was not far spent when Archibald Sutherland stole in among them, not unwelcome, and with him to the gate of Merkland – no further – came Marjory Falconer; she had one word to say to Anne. Anne went to her at the gate; it was almost a relief in all this gladness to have a minute’s breathing time.
“I came to congratulate you, Anne,” said Marjory breathlessly. The moon was up, and at some little distance a tall dark shadow fell across the Oran, which Anne smiled to see. “To wish you manifold joy of all the arrivals —all, Anne. If I come down to-morrow, will you introduce me to your brother?”
“Surely, Marjory,” said Anne, “but why not come to-night?”
“I might have come if you had married Ralph,” said Marjory laughing, “but as it is, a stranger must not intermeddle with your joy. No, no – but I shall come to see them all to-morrow. By the by – ”
“What, Marjory?”
“Oh, not much – only speaking of Ralph – I have found her at last; I have fairly laid my hands upon her. To-morrow I shall have her safely housed in Falcon’s Craig!”
“Who is it? – what do you mean?”
“The daughter of Nimrod! the mighty huntress! I have got her all safe, Anne. I invite you to a wedding at Falcon’s Craig in three months. I give them three months to do it in.”
“You should know the necessary time,” said Anne smiling. – ”Shall there not be two, Marjory?”
“Hush,” said Marjory gaily, “or I will retaliate. Now I must go. Mrs. Catherine is quite out of sorts for the want of you, Anne; and Alice is drooping as prettily as possible. Why did not your Norman come last night, and then we might – all of us – have rejoiced over him at the Tower?”
The next morning, the first excitement of their joy over, the three sisters sat together in the Merkland parlor. Mrs. Ross was superintending various domestic matters. Lewis was at the Tower. Norman had gone out with his son. Christian, Marion, and Anne were sitting together, with Lilie on her stool at their feet, communing “of all that was in their heart” – and that was much.
“It was very strange to us,” said Marion, “I cannot tell you how strange, to hear from Mr. Sutherland – of Merkland, of you, of ourselves. He told us our own story – so much as he knew of it, and sought our sympathy and pity for his friends. Strangely – most strangely – did we feel as he spoke.”
“I did not think Archie would have spoken of a thing so private,” said Anne.
“Nay, do not blame him,” said Marion. “He saved our Lawrie’s life a few days after his arrival; and that of course, even if he had possessed fewer good qualities of his own, must have at once opened our hearts, and our house to him. But we liked him for himself, and he seemed to like us; and then as we knew him better, the home he spoke of, the names he mentioned, were very music to Norman’s ears. I cannot tell you, Anne – you cannot fancy – how your brother has longed and yearned for the home we dared not return to.”
There was a pause.
“And then,” continued Marion, “as he gradually became, a member of our family, and a very dear friend, we gradually received his confidence. He spoke one night of ‘little Alice Aytoun.’ The name startled us both. Norman asked who she was – and then, Anne – by degrees we heard our own story – very sad and mysterious he thought it, although he knew not, Christian, the half of its sadness. But Anne, he said, was convinced of the innocence of her dead brother, and was full of hope for the vindication of his memory. ‘Who is Anne?’ I asked. Mr. Sutherland looked astonished for a moment, and then slightly embarrassed. He seemed to think it strange that there should be any one who did not know. Anne; and, sister Anne, he did you justice. We were strangely excited that night, Norman and I. I could not prevail upon him to go to rest. He walked about the room with a mixture of joy and fear on his face, that only people who have known such a position as ours could realize, repeating to himself, ‘Anne – the child – my little sister Anne!’ It was balm to him to think that you had faith in him, and hope for him; and yet he was full of fear lest he should endanger” —
Marion paused – the tears came into her eyes; she looked at Christian.
“Go on, Marion,” said Christian, leaning her head upon her hand. “Go on – he is safe now, and past all peril.”
“Our poor Patrick!” exclaimed his younger sister, “my gentle, broken-hearted, sad brother! At that time when the eighteenth year was nearly past, Norman was afraid – Norman was full of terror, lest any exertion made for him should disturb the peace of Patrick. He was as willing to suffer for him then, as he was when he went away – that terrible time!”
“Do not think of it,” said Christian. “We are all at peace now, Marion, living and dead; and he the safest, peacefullest, most joyous of us all.”
“And then he told us of Lilie,” said Marion after a long silence. “And how you, Anne, became attached to the little stranger child; and we listened, endeavoring to look as if we did not know or care – I wonder at myself how I succeeded.”
“And did you never tell him?” said Anne.
“No. Norman reserved it as a surprise to him when they should reach Strathoran. He wondered, I could see, why we were so anxious to come here, but he did not ask. Norman regards him almost as a younger brother. He is very anxious that he should have a situation more suitable for him, than the one he held at Buenos Ayres; but he will tell you his arrangements himself; – where is Norman?”
He was out, no one knew where he was.
He was at that moment stooping his lofty head, to enter the door-way of a solitary cottage – a very mean and poor one – at some distance from the Brig of Oran. Its inhabitant in former days had known Mr. Norman of Merkland well. She had been an old woman when he left home – she was a very old woman, decrepid and feeble, now; yet on the first day after his return, his kindly remembrance of old days carried the restored Laird, the great merchant, to the cottage of the “old Janet,” who had given him apples and bannocks in his youth.
And in the long walk they took, the father and son made many similar visits, to the great amazement of Lawrie, who knowing his father a reserved grave man, called proud by strangers, was very greatly at a loss how to account for these many friendships. The hearty kindliness of these old cottage people, in which there was fully as much affection as awe, and the frank familiarity of his father, puzzled Lawrie mightily. He did by no means understand it.
They had begun with Esther Fleming’s house – they ended with the Tower. Between these two, besides the cottage visitations we have mentioned, with all the joyful wonder of their recognitions, they visited a grave – a grave which had received another name since Norman Rutherford left his fatherland, and on which Lawrie read with awe and reverence, names of his ancestry the same as his own, and near the end, that of “Lawrence Ross, aged 15,” his own age, who was his uncle.
In the meantime, at a solemn private conference in the little room, Mrs. Catherine was receiving Archibald’s report.
“Mr. Sinclair’s proposal to me,” said Archibald, “is of so liberal a kind that I feel almost ashamed to accept it. Mr. Lumsden, the manager at Glasgow, has been received as junior partner into the firm, and is intended to succeed Mr. Sinclair at Buenos Ayres. Mr. Sinclair offers me Mr. Lumsden’s situation in Glasgow, in the meantime, as he says, with a speedy prospect of entering the house. He himself intends to withdraw, and he talks of my chance of taking his place in the firm. This for me, who went out a poor clerk only a year ago, looks ridiculously Utopian; but the managership – Mr. Lumsden’s situation, is sure – and it is higher than, in ordinary circumstances, I could have hoped to rise for years.”
