“Let me tell ye what I ken,” interrupted the nurse, “and then ye can give me your full trust. I claim nothing less from your mother’s bairn. Miss Anne, your brother Norman lies under the reproach of a black crime—the blackest that man can be blotted wi’. Folk think that he is dead, and he is guilty; he is not either the one nor the other. He is a living and an innocent man!”
Anne’s whole frame thrilled with joy as the words were said.—Solemn as was the testimony of the dead, and deeply as her hapless brother’s self-defence moved her, the words seemed surer and more hopeful when a living voice pronounced them.
“I want you to tell me everything, Esther,” she said, eagerly.—”I have Norman’s letter, and my father’s testimony, but, except these, I have heard little. This morning I was in despair, because I knew that Norman lived, and believed that he was guilty. Now, I can do anything. His innocence is all I care for. Tell me what can be done to prove his innocence—rather, I should say, tell me every circumstance, Esther—tell me all you know.”
“I care about his innocence also,” said Esther. “Yes, living or dead, I care about that first. But, Miss Anne, ye dinna ken—ye canna fathom how dearly I care about himsel. He was laid in my arms a helpless, greeting bairn, the first day o’ his life; wi’ my ain hands I put his first mortal claes about him—my boy!—my gallant, mirthful boy! And to think of him spending his best years toiling in a strange country, wi’ a dark end hanging ower him, his name cursed, and his lands lost!—and him an innocent man! Oh! I have thought upon it till my heart was like to burst!”
“Why did you not tell me?” said Anne. “We have lost years! Esther, there might have been something done long ago, if you had only told me.”
“I durstna,” said the nurse. “I was feared to whisper to mysel that he was living, for fear of trouble; but now, Miss Anne, now, ye have your work before ye—and a strange work it is for a young lady. But ye maunna shrink or fail.”
“I will not—do not fear me,” said Anne. “Only tell me, Esther—tell me everything you know—let us lose no more time.”
“It’s a lang story,” said Esther, “and ye maun let me tell ye my ain way, Miss Anne, as I have thought it ower in my ain spirt, money a time, looking for this day. Maybe, if ye haena patience wi’ me, I may mak it no sae clear. It’s a lang story, and, to understand it right, ye bid to ken his nature. I maun begin at the beginning.”
Anne assented, and Esther went on. “Miss Anne, he was the sweetest bairn that was ever putten into mortal hands for earthly upbringing. I think I can see him before me yet; aye the head o’ them a’ in their wild plays, and never out o’ mischief; but, for a’ that, as gentle as a lamb. I used to tell them, when they came in to me wi’ torn claes and dirty shoes, and blythe, black faces, that they were the plagues o’ my life—eh! Miss Anne, the ill o’ thae idle words—they were its very joy and sunshine; my blythe callants!—my bonnie, brave, pleasant bairns!
“For Mr. Norman was alike in age wi’ my Willie, and the twa were like brithers; they lay in the same cradle, and were nursed in the same arms—puir, feckless, withered arms, as they are noo!—and I had a conceit that they were like ane an ither, though Mr. Norman was head and shouthers higher than Willie, and had eyes like stars in a frosty nicht, and hair as dark as the clouds; and Willie was blue-e’ed and fair-haired, like his father before him. Ony way, they were like in spirit; the very look of them was heartsome in a house.