“Anne!”
“I am quite serious. There are few amongst us who are ruled more than we need to be, Marjory. The best mind will always assert itself, in whomsoever it may dwell—we are safe in that.—The weak ought to be controlled and guided, and will be, wherever there is a stronger, whether man or woman.”
“Strange doctrines, these!” said Marjory Falconer. “I acknowledge myself outdone. I give up my poor little innovations. Why, Anne Ross, what would the proper people say? What would the Coulters—the Fergusons—the whole parish?”
“Perfectly agree with me,” said Anne, “when it had time to think about it, without being shocked in the least. The proper people. You forget that I am a very proper person myself.”
“So I did,” said Marjory Falconer, shrugging her shoulders, “so I did. Patronised by Mrs. Bairnsfather, highly approved by Mrs. Coulter and Mrs. Ferguson—I almost thought, just now, that you were as improper as myself.”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE summer had reached its height—the fervent month of July was waning, and Anne Ross’s cheek growing paler every day.—Very hard to bear this time of waiting was, harder than any toil or labor, more utterly exhausting than any weight of care and sorrow, which had opportunity and means of working! She hardly ventured to speak of returning to Aberford, for Mrs. Ross’s peevishness at the merest hint of such a wish, and the impatience of Lewis, were perfectly natural, she acknowledged. Her former journey, undertaken in opposition to their opinion, had produced nothing; she could not expect that they would readily yield to her again.
In the meantime tidings had come from Archibald Sutherland. He had reached his destination safely, and, under circumstances much more favorable than he could have hoped, had commenced his work. He had been able to render some especial service, the nature of which he did not specify, to his employer’s only son, a very fine lad of fourteen or fifteen, which within a few days of his arrival brought him into Mr. Sinclair’s house on the footing of a friend. Mr. Sinclair himself was, as common report said, a man of great enterprise in business, and notable perseverance, whose fortune was the work of his own hands; and blending with this, Archibald found a singular delicacy of tone and sentiment which pleased him greatly. A man of strong mould, whose “stalk of carle hemp,” was invested with rare intellectual grace and refinement—a household which, under the fervent skies of that strange Western World, remained still a Scottish household, looking back with the utmost love and tenderness to its own country and home—in the atmosphere of these, the broken laird found himself not long a stranger.
Mr. Sinclair had some knowledge of the North country—had heard of Archibald’s family, and on some long past occasion, had seen Mrs. Catherine. This was an additional bond. The family of the merchant lived a very quiet life in a country house in the vicinity of the town, having scarcely any visitors: Archibald Sutherland, with his attainments and abilities, was an acquisition to them.
His prospects were pleasant; they brightened the inner room at the Tower, and shed a ray of light even upon Anne’s reveries. Something more was needed, however, to shake off the lethargic sadness that begun to overpower her. Mrs. Catherine applied the remedy.