“For he is their brother, their nearest kin. Again, I charge you, think of this terrible doom laid upon a gallant of as clear and lofty a spirit as ever was in mortal knowledge; and let the mother’s heart within you have compassion on his name. Shut not your mind against the proof—it may be hard to gather—and take time and patience; but if mortal hands can compass it, it shall be laid before you soon or syne.
“Lewis Ross (trusting you will receive him) will shortly tell you of this himself, with his own lips; and having maybe some right of counsel, in virtue of my years, and of our kindred, it is my prayer that you put no discouragement in this way.
“Be content to wait till the proof is brought to you; and break not the gentle spirit of the bairn, by crossing her in the first tenderness of her youth.
CATHERINE DOUGLAS.”
Mrs. Aytoun was greatly agitated. James had entered the room, and stood in silent astonishment, as he looked at Alice clinging to her mother’s knee, and the letter trembling in Mrs. Aytoun’s hand. “Mother—Alice—what has happened? What is the matter?”
Mrs. Aytoun handed the letter to him in silence, and, lifting her daughter up, drew her close to her breast: “My Alice! my poor, simple bairn! why did I let you away from me?”
The girl clung to her mother, terrified, ashamed, and dizzy.—She trembled to hear some fatal sentence, parting her for ever from Lewis. She fancied she could never lift up her blushing face again, to speak of him, even if that terror were withdrawn: she could only lean on that kind breast, and cling, as is the nature of such gentle, dependent spirits. Anne Ross’s words were true.—Had Mrs. Aytoun but said that she must never see Lewis again, poor little Alice would have submitted without a struggle, and would have been right; she was safe in that wise guidance—she was not safe in her own.
But Mrs. Aytoun’s motherly lips gave forth no such arbitrary mandate. She rose, still holding Alice within her arm. “James,” she said, “that letter is a most important one: read it carefully.—We will join you again by-and-by.”
And leading and supporting her drooping daughter, Mrs. Aytoun went to her own room, and, seating herself there, began to question Alice.
And then the whole stream came flowing forth, hesitating and broken; how Lewis had travelled with her, and had been constantly at her side, ever since that momentous journey; how Anne had been her patient, kind, indulgent friend; how at last, upon that eventful New year’s night, Lewis and herself had been alone together—and then—and then—there followed some incoherent words, which Mrs. Aytoun could comprehend the purport of; how Anne came in, looking so chill and pale, and horror-stricken; how Mrs. Catherine next day took her into the little room, and almost broke the gentle heart that was beating so high now, with anxiety and suspense; how Anne returned at night with voice as tender and hand as gentle as her mother’s telling her that Norman was innocent; and then, how glad and happy they had all been together again—and then—if her mother could only see him—if she could only see Anne—they could tell her so much better!