“I do not think he is innocent, Lewis,” said Anne. “I may take your licence 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—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 any thing when he had finished, but remained for some time in silence. Their own internal force of truthfulness did not carry conviction 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 particulars which she had learned from Esther Fleming, 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?”
“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—endeavor to find the real criminal—go over the whole neighborhood—spare no labor—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’ll tell you what I’ll do, Anne—I’ll write to Robert Ferguson—I saw him this morning leaving Woodsmuir 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, “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 instinctive 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.