Mrs. Catherine touched, with her fingers, the smooth, clear cheek, which testified the firm and elastic health, both physical and mental, of its owner, and yet was so far removed from robustness.
“Anne, I believe you are able; you have my full consent, and God-speed. Mind you, what I have said to Lewis; it’s no one trial, or two, or three—time and patience, thought and labor; you must grudge none of them all. Tell me your plan.”
“Must we submit?” said Lewis. “Anne, is Mrs. Catherine’s judgment final? is there no appeal?”
“Silence!” said Mrs. Catherine, peremptorily; “who was speaking of appeal or judgment? There is a work to do, Lewis Ross; the thing is to get the fittest workman, and beware how we hinder him of his labor. We have tarried long enough; this is no a time to put further barriers in the road. Child, your plan?”
“I propose going to Aberford,” said Anne; “taking some trusty person with me, Mrs. Catherine. It is common, I hear, for people to go there, who seek sea air. I shall attract no attention; it does not matter much how long I stay. I can establish myself under the wing of some matron, and so escape the charge of impropriety. Then I shall go about the district, make acquaintance with every one to whom I can have access, and inquire with all zeal and all quietness. While questions from Lewis, and a lawyer-like person, like James Aytoun, might confuse the people, they will speak frankly to me. I will gossip with them, play with their children; get all possible scraps of recollectings and imaginings, and, perhaps, when the heap is winnowed, something worth going for.”
Mrs. Catherine bent her head gravely, and asked: “When?”
“Immediately,” said Anne; “at least, I should desire so. We have lost much time already.”
Mrs. Catherine rose, and went to the window. The sky was heavy and dark, lowering like some great gloomy forehead. It was laden with snow—large, dilated flakes, like those of fire upon Dante’s burning sand were falling one by one, upon the white earth. It was a feeding storm.
“Bonnie weather for the sea-side,” said Mrs. Catherine, returning to her seat. “You must go with a good excuse, child, not with an apparent falsehood on your tongue. ‘February fills the dyke, either with black or white.’ We are getting both of them this month. March is a blustering, wintry time, when there is little to be seen or heard tell of about the coast but shipwreck and disaster. April is pleasant in a landward place. You may go in April; it is too soon, but for the necessity’s sake you may go then—not a day sooner, at your peril. You are able and well? I understand your look, child—hold your peace. I would give a good year of my life—and I have few of them to spare, seeing I am trysted to abide in my present tabernacle, if the Lord will tell Archie Sutherland has won back his land—to see Norman Rutherford a free man on Oranside again; but I will not consent to put you in peril, child, for any prospective good. I say you shall go in April. I put my interdict upon you venturing before. I will give you your freedom in the last blast of the borrowing days. Not an hour sooner. Now, will you abide by my judgment, or will you not?”
Anne looked out uneasily. The heavy sky slowly beginning to discharge its load—the earth everywhere covered with that white, warm mantle—the gradually increasing storm. She submitted. Now, at least, it was impossible to go.