The blood rushed in torrents to Marjory Falconer’s face.
“You cannot trust me!” she exclaimed. “Anne, I do not care for Mrs. Bairnsfather’s petty insults. I have been too careless of forms, perhaps—perhaps I have made people think me rude and wild, when I was only striving to reach a better atmosphere than they had placed me in—but you, Anne Ross—you to think me unworthy of confidence!”
“Hush—hush, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray do not begin to be suspicious—it does not become you at all. I had a brother once, Marjory—as people say, a most generous, kind, good brother—whose name lies under the blot of a great crime. He was innocent—but the world believed him guilty. I am going to try—by what quiet and humble means are in my power—to remove this undeserved stain. If I succeed, I shall have a very moving story to tell you: if I do not succeed, let us never speak of it again. In any case, I know you will keep my secret.”
Marjory pressed her friend’s hand, and did not speak. She remembered dimly having heard of some great sorrow connected with Mr. Ross’s (of Merkland) death, and was ashamed and grieved now, that she had pressed her inquiries so far. Marjory Falconer, like Lewis Ross, was learning lessons: the rapidly developing womanhood, which sent those vehement flushes to her cheek, and overpowered her sometimes with agonies of shame, was day by day asserting itself more completely. A few more paroxysms, and it would have gained the victory.
CHAPTER XXI.
BY the beginning of April, the Macalpines were finally settled; the majority of them being employed as laborers on Mr. Ferguson’s farms of Loelyin and Lochend. Roderick and his family occupied a cottage in the vicinity of the Tower. He was engaged as ploughman by Mrs. Catherine Douglas. Big Duncan remained with his people—their houses were now far apart—they were restless and ill at ease, feeling their dispersion as the Jews of old felt their captivity. These clinging local attachments are comparatively little known to people confined within the limits of cities, and living in the hired houses, which any caprice or revolution of fortune may make them change. It is not so with the “dwellers of the hills,” the whole circuit of whose simple lives for generations have passed under one roof; to whom the sun has risen and set behind the same majestic hills in daily glory, and whose native streamlet has a house-hold tongue, as familiar as the more articulate one of nearest kindred. A hope had sprung up in the breast of the Macalpines—a hope to which their yearning home-love gave vivid strength and power. Their chief would return: he would come back in renewed wealth and prosperity: he would lead them back to their own homes in triumph. This anticipation enlivened the sad pilgrimages, which the banished hillfolk made on those dewy spring evenings to their beloved glen. It needed some such hope to stifle the indignant grief and anger, which might have else blazed up in illegal vehemence, when the ejected Macalpines, in little parties of two and three, returned to Oranmore, to look upon their former homes, now desolate and blackened, with grass springing up on each household floor, and waving already from the broken walls—but they looked away, where, far over the wide-spreading low-country, there shone in the distance, the glimmer of the great sea; and prayed, in the fervor of their hope and yearning, for the home-coming of their chief. God speed the adventurer, landing even now on the sunny shores of the new world! How many hearts beat high with prayers and hopes for his return!
The sick lad, Kenneth, did not die: he lived to hold the name of the youthful Giles Sympelton in dearest honor and reverence, and to do him leal service in an after-time. Giles, with some reluctance, left the Tower, after a week’s residence there, to join his father—leaving Ada Coulter with the first sadness upon her, which she had experienced since her happy release from school.
In the middle of April, Anne set out upon her journey. With Mrs. Catherine’s full consent, Jacky was to accompany her. Anne’s departure excited some attention. There seemed to be a vague conception among the neighbors, that something of moment was concealed under this quiet visit to the south, of the very quiet Miss Ross, of Merkland. Jeanie Coulter wondered if she was going to be married. Mrs. Coulter endeavored to recollect if she had ever heard of the Rosses having relations in that quarter. Mr. Foreman said nothing, but, with that keen lawyer eye of his, darted into the secret errand at once, and already sympathized with the failure and disappointment, which he felt sure would follow.
Anne’s farewells were over—all but one—the day before leaving Merkland, she went up to the mill to say good-by to little Lilie. She found Mrs. Melder in ecstasies of wonder and admiration, holding up her hands, and crying, “Bless me!” as she unfolded one by one the contents of a box which stood upon the table. They consisted of little garments beautifully made—a profusion of them. Lilie herself was luxuriating over a splendid picture-book, after viewing with a burst of childish delight the pretty little silk frock which Mrs. Melder, in the pride of her heart, was already thinking would make so great a sensation when it appeared first in their seat in the front gallery (alias the mid loft) of Portoran kirk. Nothing less than a mother’s hand could have packed that wonderful box; its gay little muslin frocks, which Mrs. Melder “had never seen the like of, for fineness,” its inner garments of beautiful linen, its bright silken sashes, its story books, resplendent in their gilded bindings, its parcels of sweetmeats and toys. Mrs. Melder was overwhelmed—the grandeur and wealth of her little charge fairly took away her breath.
“And now when she’s won to an easier speech, Miss Anne,” said the good woman aside. “She calls me nurse—what think ye! it’s a wonderful bairn—and ye’ll hear her say lang words sometimes, that I’m sure she never learned frae me; it’s my thought, Miss Anne, that the bairn kent the English tongue afore she came here, and had either forgotten’t, or—atweel ane disna ken what to think; but this while she’s ta’en to speaking about her mamma. It’s a wonder to me that ony mother could hae the heart to part wi’ her.”