The Crowdsourced Panopticon Jeremy Weissman
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- 8. ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD Lanham • Boulder • New York • London The Crowdsourced Panopticon Conformity and Control on Social Media Jeremy Weissman
- 9. Published by Rowman & Littlefield An imprint of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.rowman.com 6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL, United Kingdom Copyright © 2021 by Jeremy Weissman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: HB 978-1-5381-4431-2 PB 978-1-5381-4432-9 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020950817 ISBN 978-1-5381-4431-2 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-1-5381-4433-6 (electronic) ∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
- 10. For Becky, Mom, Dad, Lauren, Mike, Amanda, Matthew, Grandma Mary, Grandpa Abe, Grandma Jeanie, Grandpa Milt, Grandpa Lowell, my aunts, uncles, and cousins, my in-laws, Shaina, Maggie, and all my friends old and new.
- 12. vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction 1 PART I: CONFORMITY 5 1 The Human Animal in Civilized Society 7 2 Social Media as an Escape from Freedom 25 3 Meaninglessness in the Present Age 43 PART II: CONTROL 63 4 The Spectacular Power of the Public 65 5 P2P Surveillance 83 6 The Net of Normalization 101 PART III: RESISTANCE 119 7 Freedom from the Public Eye 121 8 Strategies of Resistance 139 Works Cited 159 Index 171 Contents
- 14. ix I cannot be grateful enough for George Khushf who dedicated an unbeliev- able amount of care and attention to this work and who strongly influenced many of the arguments herein through our extensive conversations on the subject matter and on my earlier drafts. I am also deeply grateful to Justin Weinberg, Jerry Wallulis, and Evan Selinger who all played extremely important roles in guiding this work. Thank you to Rowman & Littlefield International, Frankie Mace, Isobel Cowper-Coles, University of South Carolina and the Department of Philosophy, Heike Sefrin-Weis, Brian Murchison, Amy Jarrett, The Roger Mudd Center for Ethics, Washington and Lee University and the Department of Philosophy, and all the folks at Rosewood Market in Columbia, SC, for letting me hang out and write so much of this on their patio. Portions of this text were first published in Ethics and Information Technology in the article “P2P Surveillance in the Global Village” by Jeremy Weissman. Acknowledgments
- 16. 1 If you look around the world today, you may feel like the great sci-fi works of the twentieth century missed the mark or were at least off by several decades. The technological promises that were supposed to have emerged by now, the jetpacks, robot maids, are basically nowhere to be found. We don’t live underwater, nor do we live on the moon. Nobody’s made it to Mars, and there are no flying cars, let alone hoverboards. Just by glancing around it would appear that we are very far from the Jetsons-like future previous gen- erations were confident would arise by now, already two decades into the new millennium. Rather, for the moment at least, things look relatively the same as they have for a long time, with rolling cars, brick houses firmly planted on the ground, and no one floating in the sky. But, as the cyberpunk godfa- ther William Gibson is famously reported to have once said: “The future is already here—it’s just not very evenly distributed.” We are indeed already deep into “the future,” and by now it is finally being spread about a little more evenly. You just have to look a little harder. The biggest change is basically invisible. It is the Internet, and it is all around us. All of us are swimming in its waves nearly all the time. The next dramatic change has to do with the little universal computing devices in everybody’s pockets which we still antiquatedly refer to as phones. Here the changes are truly extraordinary. Today, around the world billions of people, even in the least technologically developed countries, carry in their pockets a technology that is light years beyond the most advanced computing power of the most advanced governments and corporations in the world from just a few decades ago, for a fraction of the cost. Through these powerful devices, we have become constantly plugged, en masse, into a vast global network. From there, we can universally transmit practically any information to anyone around the Introduction
- 17. 2 Introduction world instantaneously. This combination of a greatly expanding World Wide Web, combined with ubiquitous high-powered computing devices, represents perhaps the most dramatic science-fiction scenario that has already become a reality. It may be smaller and harder to see than flying cars, but it is utterly transforming society and the nature of being human in a way that flying cars will barely touch. We are today merging with our technologies, becoming more deeply intertwined with them than ever before. From out of our pockets, the resting place of the smartphone, the network is now creeping onto our wrists with smartwatches, and the network will soon likely settle squarely upon our faces with augmented reality glasses, literally immersing our senses in the informa- tion of the web. We will then virtually live inside the network. Soon enough from there these networked devices will likely creep inside many if not most people’s bodies. It’s a smooth continuum from on the body at all times to in the body at all times. What does it mean for the nature of human existence and social relations to be constantly plugged into a global network, one that is getting closer and closer technologically to the very source of our thoughts? At DEF CON 25, one of the world’s largest hacker conventions, the hacker “father-figure” Richard Thieme offered what might amount to a partial answer: At the heart of internet culture is a force that wants to know everything about you. We think of privacy as a human right, but we live in a Facebook age, when all that matters is publicity. . . . Privacy has meaning only for an individual. And we are no longer individuals. We believe in ourselves, but our selves are no longer our selves. We are not the same people who we once were.1 No longer ourselves? No longer individuals? That’s a rather shocking statement, and seems to fly in the face of common notions about the allegedly self-absorbed “i” generation. Yet maybe there is something to what he is say- ing. If we are completely intertwined with our devices, if information about us practically down to the level of our thoughts is constantly being transmit- ted to the global network, if we are just inches away from these devices being embedded directly into our brains, into our minds, becoming neurologically plugged into a global system, then where do we draw the line between the individual and society? That fundamental boundary seems to be dissolving. For some that might feel like a welcome relief, a relief from the burden of choice, a relief from the quest to be oneself, and a comforting dissolution of one’s individual being into the interconnected primordial soup of an ambi- ently aware global community. But for those of us who see individuality as being essential to liberty, and liberty being essential to self-realization and happiness, resisting this emerging techno-collective existence is imperative.
- 18. 3 Introduction This book is one attempt at such a resistance, of a resistance to an Internet cultural force that “wants to know everything about you,” and in a sense dis- solve individuality into an amorphous collectivity. To be clear, while privacy is disturbingly being whittled away in our technological society through multiple interlocking entities, including government and corporate agencies, this work is focused on the public of millions or billions of ordinary people around the globe, networked together, and able to peer into each other’s lives in a way that was never possible before. The networked crowd, through the Internet, has quickly grown larger than the population of any nation on Earth. At the same time, behind our screens, the crowd has become rather invisible and anonymous in digitized form. On the flipside, in front of our cameras, individuals are becoming hyper-exposed in a global broadcast that allows the networked collective to watch other people’s lives in often great detail on an ongoing basis. It is the interplay of these two forces, of the invisibility of the anonymous crowd, and the exposure of the individual before that crowd, boosted up exponen- tially through the power of our information and communication technologies (ICTs), that is a central focus herein. This book is a deep criticism of our current technological society and the culture surrounding the Internet, social media, and our “smart” devices. It is also a loud warning over the apparent trajectory we are heading toward based on current trends extrapolated out to the near future. I focus on the negative much more than the positive, but this is not to deny the many benefits these technologies may hold, but rather it is to raise alarm in order to mitigate dangers and strengthen whatever goods there might be. Right now we are not in desperate need of more praise for these existing and emerging ICTs. The majority of people on the planet have already adopted the Internet, social media, and smartphones arguably faster than any other technologies in his- tory and use them constantly throughout their days. If anything we badly need a reality check, to slow down, and to take stock of how these technologies are rapidly transforming society, and in what ways they may be changing things for the worse. I also paint some highly pessimistic socio-technological scenarios, espe- cially in the latter half of the book where we look at some technologies that are still relatively early in development like augmented reality glasses. I hope society does not become as chilling as some of the scenarios I portray, and I do not think such scenarios are technologically determined to occur. However, I think we can all admit that sometimes what would have seemed an almost unthinkably pessimistic possibility does come true. While some of the more dire scenarios I present have a lower risk of materializing than others, their dystopian nature warrants serious concern precisely so that we can attempt to act preemptively to mitigate their worst potentials while these
- 19. 4 Introduction technologies are still early in development and there is still time to prevent such problematic outcomes. This book is divided into three parts. Part I provides a normative critique of conformity in past and current institutions. I draw upon the works of Plato, Mill, Fromm, and Kierkegaard to see how their thinking can help shed light on the conformity effects of the Internet, social media, and smart devices. Part II is especially focused on emerging socio-technological trends and future scenario forecasts. Relying heavily on the work of Foucault, I provide less of a normative critique and more of an analysis of how the power of the public is beginning to be deployed through ICTs in a manner that infringes upon liberty through encroaching on privacy. Finally, in part III, I move to offering solutions as to how to resist this encroachment at individual, community, and broader collective levels including through the power of the state. NOTE 1. Paul Wagenseil, “Your Privacy Is Gone. You Just Don’t Know It Yet,” tom’s guide, last modified July 31, 2017, https://www.tomsguide.com/us/privacy-lost-def con25,news-25558.html.
- 22. 7 We begin with recounting the tale of the Ring of Gyges from Plato’s Republic. This ancient story provides perhaps the earliest philosophical dialogue on the ethical, legal, and social implications of surveillance. Of particular relevance to our discussion regarding privacy and social media, it highlights the way in which conformity to conventional morality and customs is maintained largely through ordinary people keeping an eye on one another, social pressure, and the power of reputation. According to the legend, Gyges was a lowly shepherd serving the ruler of Lydia, an Iron Age kingdom in ancient Greece. One day while out tend- ing to his flock, Gyges stumbled upon a mysterious hole in the ground torn wide open from a powerful earthquake. Venturing inside Gyges discovered a gigantic tomb holding the remains of an inhumanly large man wearing a golden ring. Compelled by the ring’s otherworldly quality, Gyges slid it off the enormous dead man’s finger and slipped it upon his own. At first nothing happened, but then with a little twist and turn of the ring, he suddenly completely vanished from sight. Gyges, this ordinary shepherd, discovered that he now possessed an extraordinary power beyond even that of the king: the power to become invisible at will. It quickly dawned upon him that invisibility may be the key to living out his wildest and darkest fantasies. So he devised a most devious plan. Once a month all the king’s shepherds would gather together to generate a report on the king’s flocks. At these meetings one of the shepherds would be sent to the royal court to deliver the update to him in person. With ring in hand, Gyges volunteered for the job. This was part of his plot. When he made his way to the castle, he twisted the ring on his finger, and vanished completely out of sight right in the court of the king. With the guards left dumbfounded, Gyges snuck past them and beelined straight to the Chapter 1 The Human Animal in Civilized Society
- 23. 8 Chapter 1 king’s quarters. There he found the queen and seduced her. Now with the queen as his lover, he conspired with her to steal the throne. He thereby slew the king, and took the kingdom of Lydia as his own. Gyges, the once lowly shepherd, got everything he secretly wanted, and all with the aid of his magic ring and its incredible power of invisibility.1 In Plato’s Republic, Glaucon recounts this tale during an encounter with Socrates. Socrates wants to argue that there is a real, fixed, external form of justice, and that to develop oneself in relation to this moral order is intrinsi- cally valuable with virtue its own reward. Glaucon, playing devil’s advocate, challenges Socrates with the legend of Gyges, in which he says that the “moral” of the story is that if one could become invisible then “No man would keep his hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what he liked out of the market, or go into houses and lie with anyone at his pleasure, or kill or release from prison whom he would, and in all respects be like a God among men.”2 Socrates must therefore contend with this objec- tion that morality is merely a guise that we use in order to maintain a good reputation among others and get ahead. If we could only become invisible, and thereby unaccountable for our actions, vice would be the true reward. In other words, we would be most happy if we had the power to act freely on our darker animalistic impulses—to act with unremitting aggression and selfishness in the pursuit and satisfaction of our own untold desires. The only reason we do not, he says, the only reason most of us act “morally” at all, is not because we find some ultimate value in being good for goodness sake, but rather because if we all had free reign to do what we really wanted, then we ourselves would become vulnerable to others seeking the satisfaction of their own selfish, unrestrained appetites in this wolf eat wolf world. Rather than take that risk, we instead collectively make an implicit com- promise with each other that we will not harm one another so that in return we will be afforded mutual protection. Otherwise, despite the temporary mania- cal highs of letting loose with our most primal instincts, we’d all be worse for the wear. This, Glaucon says, is the true, and ignoble, origin of justice; it is merely a submission to a lesser evil. It is better to go on a mutual diet than to eat and be eaten. Morality, according to this view, is therefore simply of instrumental value, that which allows one to earn a positive reputation, gain status, and reap the most rewards from society. Being immoral or amoral would probably make us most satisfied, if we could only get away with it. This contrarian, almost realpolitik view of morality, continues to echo across time and across civilizations. We see modern thinkers from Thomas Hobbes to Sigmund Freud defending a similar view on morality as that dev- ilishly presented by Glaucon. For those who wish to think better of human nature, that we are at heart only gentle and loving creatures who want to be “good,” these thinkers would implore us to look more soberly at our human
- 24. Discovering Diverse Content Through Random Scribd Documents
- 25. “Great cry and little woo!” shouted another, adding also the latter line of the proverb, in all its ludicrous expressiveness. “Eh man!” continued a third, “I wadna hae lain still, and gotten my head cuttit when I wasna wanting it.” Mr. Fitzherbert was perfectly blind and dumb with rage; in the midst of a chorus of laughter he hurried on. “Never you heed, my man,” said the shoe-maker’s wife, known as “a randy” beyond the precincts of the Brig of Oran, “ye’ve gotten new anes— they’re grown again.” “Grown again!” ejaculated a little old wifie, whose profession was that of an itinerant small-ware dealer, and who was privileged as an original, “grown again!” and she lifted her quick little withered hand to Fitzherbert’s face, as she glided in before him; “let-abee shearing—I wad a bawbee the new anes wadna stand a pouk.” And secure in the protection of the hardy mason, under whose roof-tree she was to receive shelter for the night, the old wifie extended her fingers to the graceful ornament of hair which curled over Mr. Fitzherbert’s lip. We cannot tell what dread revelations might have followed, had not Lord Gillravidge’s unfortunate friend dashed the old woman aside, and saved himself by flight. Poor old Nannie paid for her boldness by a slight cut upon her withered brow—her host growled a thundery anathema, and the well- disposed lads of the hamlet pursued the fugitive with gibes and shoutings of revengeful derision up to the very gate of Strathoran. After which stimulating adventure, Mr. Fitzherbert’s arguments became so potent and earnest, that Lord Gillravidge was moved by them, and finding likewise that Mr. Whittret turned out by no means the most honorable of stewards, and that this great house was enormously expensive, his Lordship took it into his serious consideration whether it might not be the wisest course to get rid of Strathoran. December passed away—the new year came, and still there were no tidings of Norman. Anne became anxious and uneasy; but Christian’s letters said, and said with reason, that the delay of a week or so, was no unusual matter in a long sea voyage. Where was he then, this exile brother? Lewis was not to be put off so easily. He did not see why a matter of so much importance as his marriage should be delayed for the uncertain arrival of Norman. So the day was determined on at last; the ceremony was to be
- 26. performed at the Tower, by Mrs. Catherine’s especial desire—in the end of January; if Norman came before that time, so much the better; if not they would go on without him. A fortnight of the new year was gone already; the Aytouns had arrived at the Tower. Mrs. Aytoun and her son, under the escort of Lewis, had gone down to Merkland to pay a formal visit to Mrs. Ross. Anne was at the Tower with Lilie. She had been there of late, even more than usual. It was Mrs. Catherine’s desire that her favorite should remain with her permanently, when Alice had taken her place in Merkland. It pleased Anne greatly to have the alternative, but until the return of Norman, she made no definite arrangement. The afternoon was waning—Alice was in very high spirits, a little tremulous and even something excited. Her wedding-day began to approach so nearly. She had been sitting close by Anne’s side, engaged in a long and earnest conversation, wherein the elder sister had many grave things to speak of, while the younger, leaning on her in graceful dependence, listened and assented reverently, forgetting for the moment what a very important little personage, she herself, the future Mrs. Ross of Merkland, was. Mrs. Catherine entered the room suddenly, with a newspaper in her hand, and a triumphant expression in her face. “Here is news, Anne, news worth hearkening to. Did I not know the cattle would not be suffered to do their evil pleasure long in the house of a good man? Now in a brief hour, we will be clear of the whole race of them—unclean beasts and vermin as they are. Look at this.” Anne started when she did so; it was a long advertisement setting forth, in auctioneer eloquence, the beauties and eligibilities of the desirable freehold property of Strathoran, which was to be offered for sale, on a specified day in spring, within a specified place in Edinburgh. “What think you of that?” said Mrs. Catherine. “We have smitten the Philistines and driven them out of the land—a land that it is my hope will be polluted with the footsteps of the like of them never more in my day, though truly I am in doubt how we can get the dwelling purified, to make it fit for civilized folk.” “And what do you mean to do?” said Anne, eagerly. “It may be bought by some other stranger: it may be—”
- 27. “Hold your peace, Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine; “are you also joining yourself to the witless bairns that would give counsel to gray hairs. It may be! I say it shall be! The siller will aye be to the fore, whether I am or no, and think you I will ever stand by again, and let a strange man call himself master of Strathoran—the house that Isabel Balfour went into a bride, and went out of again, only to her rest? It has been a thorn in my very side, this one unclean and strange tenant of it. Think you I will ever suffer another?” “And what then?” said Anne, with anxious interest. “We must get it bought, without doubt,” said Mrs. Catherine. “You are slower of the uptake, Anne, than is common with you. Whether I myself have, or have not, sufficient siller is another matter. There are folk in Scotland, who know the word of Catherine Douglas, and can put faith in it. Before three months are over our heads, an it be not otherwise ordained, Archie Sutherland shall be master of his land again.” “Oh! Anne, are you not glad?” exclaimed little Alice: “we shall have Mr. Sutherland back again.” Anne did not feel herself particularly called upon to express gladness, but she looked up inquiringly into Mrs. Catherine’s face. “I said nothing of the lad coming home,” said Mrs. Catherine firmly. “Alison Aytoun, you are but a bairn, and will never be tried, so far as I can see the lot before you, by thoughts or purposes of a stern and troublous kind. It is other with you, Anne, as I know. This Archie Sutherland, has wasted with his riotous living the substance given in charge to him from his father, and from his father’s God. It is not meet he should come back unscathed to this leisure and honor; it is right he should clear himself by labor and toil, not of the sin before God, which is atoned for in a holier way, but of the sin in the sight of man. I say, I also would be sinning against a justice, which neither fails nor alters, and discouraging strong hearts that held upon their warfare manfully, when he fell under the hand of the adversary, were I bringing back Archie Sutherland at this time to the full honor and possessions of his father’s house. I will let him stay in his trial and probation, child, till he can show labor of his own hands, bravely done and like a man. The gallant is nearer to my own heart than ever man was, but Sholto my one brother; but it is meet he should render due justice after he has done evil.”
- 28. Anne bowed her head in silent acquiescence: she did not speak. Mrs. Catherine was right. “But this must be looked to without delay,” said Mrs. Catherine, seating herself in her own great chair, while the gloaming shadows gathered darkly in the room; “we must buy his land back for him now. I will speak of it to Mr. Foreman this very night. Alison, go your ways, and sing to me the ballad of the wayfaring man.” And in the soft shadowy gloaming, little Alice seated herself at the piano, and began to sing. You could scarcely perceive her fair head in the dreamy gloom of the large apartment. Further in, the red glow of the fire flickered ruddy on the stately form of Mrs. Catherine, bringing out with momentary flashes sometimes the shadow of her strong face in bold relief against the wall. Still more in the shade sat Anne, very still and thoughtful, looking at the old friend, and the young beside her, and thinking of others far away. Over them all were these low floating notes of music hopeful and sad— Thy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan, Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man! Down stairs in the snug housekeeper’s room, a little party was assembled, merrier and younger than were wont to be seen within that especial sanctum of the famous Mrs. Euphan Morison. Mrs. Euphan herself had gone to Portoran, to make provision of many things necessary for the jubilee and festivities, which in the ensuing week were to be holden in the Tower. She was not to return till late that night, and Jacky had taken advantage of her absence. Round the fire, in the early winter gloaming, sat little Bessie, Johnnie Halflin, Jacky herself and Flora Macalpine. There was to be a quiet reunion in the Tower that night, and Flora came, in attendance upon little Mary Ferguson, who was gaily engaged at that moment, in the hall, playing hide and seek with Lilie Rutherford. The little company in the housekeeper’s room were very merry. Jacky was repeating to them that sad adventure of Sir Artegall, which ended in his captivity to the most contemptuous of Amazons, the warlike Radigund; with whispers innumerable, and stifled laughter, her companions listened, or pretended to listen.
- 29. At that time, the gig from the Sutherland Arms, which had formerly conveyed James Aytoun to the Tower, was tumbling along the high-road in the same direction again. At some little distance from the entrance to Mrs. Catherine’s ground, two gentlemen alighted, and dismissing it, ascended to the Tower. One of them—he was bronzed by the beating of a sun more fervid than that of Scotland—was casting keen glances of joyous recognition round him—at the Tower—at Merkland—at a light in a high window there, which he fancied he knew, and still more eagerly at Strathoran in the dim distance. Its name had rung strangely in his ear from the tongue of the “crooked helper” at the inn, who drove their humble vehicle—”mony thanks to ye, Strathoran.” It sent a thrill to the heart of Archibald Sutherland. Yes, Archibald Sutherland! it was no other! An older man leaned on his arm. In the darkness you could not distinguish particularly either his face or form; he was tall, with an elastic buoyant footstep, and was looking about him in a singular abrupt way, now here, now there, like a man in a dream. They approached the Tower door—it was closed. Archibald’s friend had been eager hitherto, but now he lingered and seemed to wish delay. Archibald was entirely in the dark as to the reason. There was a ruddy light gleaming from a low window near at hand. The stranger drew near to look in, almost as if he knew it. The room was full of the ruddy fire-light—the two dark figures at the window were quite unseen by those merry youthful people about the fire. Some one had slightly opened the window a little while before, for the room was very hot, and the door had been closed, that graver ears might not hear their laughter. Jacky sat in the midst, her dark face glowing keen and bright. She was reciting vigorously that doleful adventure of the luckless Sir Artegall. The woman’s weedes put upon him by the disdainful Amazon; the white apron —the distaff in his hand, “that he thereon should spin both flax and tow;” his low place among the brave knights, whom he found “spinning and carding all in comely row;” and
- 30. “—— forst through penury and pyne, To doe these works to their appointed dew, For nought was given them to sup or dyne, But what their hands could earn by twisting linen twyne.” A very sad thing, doubtless, for the hapless Sir Artegall, and furnishing very sufficient occasion for the “deep despight” and “secret shame” of his lofty and royal Lady Britomart, but by no means calculated to impress any deep feeling of pity or compassion upon that somewhat ungovernable knot of youngsters.—Flora Macalpine, too kindly and good-humored to hurt Jacky’s feelings, had bent her head down upon her knee to hide her laughter; Johnnie Halflin leaned against the mantelpiece, shaking with secret earthquakes; Bessie had her head turned to the door, and was gazing at it steadily, and biting her rosy lip. They had all an awe of Jacky. It would not do, however. That picture, with its gradual heightening; at last the sad honor of the unfortunate knight, steadily spinning in his woman’s weedes, because his word was pledged to the despightful Radigund,—there was a general explosion—it was impossible to withstand that. Jacky stopped suddenly, and withdrew from the laughters in lofty offence. She herself had a perception of the allegory, and was hurt and wounded at its reception, as we see greater people sometimes, whose myths a laughing world will persist in receiving as rather grotesque than sublime. Jacky was almost sulky; she sat down in the shade, and turned her head resolutely away. Flora drew near to her in deprecatory humbleness. Jacky resisted and resented proudly. Just then the door opened; the tall man, leaning on Archibald Sutherland’s arm, gave a nervous start. Archibald had begun to weary of his station here, at the window of the housekeeper’s room. His friend and employer, Mr. Sinclair was exhibiting a singular fancy to-night. He looked in wonderingly to see the reason of the sudden start. It was only the entrance of two little girls; one of them blooming and ruddy, with radiant golden hair. The other paler, with a little frock of black silk, and eyes like the night—wistful, spiritual, dark. “What ails Jacky?” said the new comer. “Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Bessie eagerly, “we werena meaning ony ill; we only laughed.”
- 31. Lilie slid gently within Jacky’s arm—drew down the hand which supported her head, and whispered in her ear—the arm of Mr. Sinclair quivering all this time most strangely, as it leaned upon his friend’s. “Dinna be angry,” whispered Lilie; “I want you to say Alice Brand. Mary never heard it; never mind them. Say Alice Brand to Mary and me.” “Oh! ay, Jacky,” echoed Bessie and Johnnie together, “say Alice Brand; it’s a real bonnie thing.” Jacky was mollified; after a brief pause, caressing Lilie, she began the ballad. Little Mary Ferguson, with the fire-light gleaming in her golden hair, stood, leaning on the shoulder of her favorite Flora. Lilie was at Jacky’s knee, lifting up her face of earnest childish interest, and listening with all her might. Without, in the darkness stood the stranger, eagerly looking in, and holding Archibald’s arm. The first notes of Alice Aytoun’s song were sounding up stairs. Archibald Sutherland stood still, but with eyes that wandered somewhat, and a considerable weariness. This was a most strange freak of Mr. Sinclair’s—he could not comprehend it. Her story possessed Jacky and inspired her. She rose as it swelled to its climax, and spoke louder.—
- 32. “It was between the night and day When the Fairy folk have power That I fell down in a sinful fray, And twixt life and death was snatched away, To the joyless, elfin bower. But wist I of a woman bold, Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mould As fair a form as thine. She crossed him once, she crossed him twice, That lady was so brave; The fouller grew his goblin hue, The darker turned the cave, She crossed him thrice, that lady bold, He rose beneath her hand, The fairest knight on Scottish mold, Her brother, Ethert Brand! ’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood.”— The quick elfin eye shot a glance out into the darkness, and saw the listening figures there; the well-known face of young Strathoran! Jacky steadily finished the verse—committed Lilie into the hands of Flora Macalpine, and shutting the door of the house-keeper’s room carefully behind her, opened the outer one, and admitted the strangers. She conducted them up stairs in her own still, excited, elfin way; the fumes of the ballad hanging about her still. Mr. Sinclair grasped Archibald’s arm, as they reached the door of the inner room, and held him back. The plaintive hopeful music was floating out again upon the soft shadows of the darkening night. “Speed thy labor o’er land and sea, Home and kindred are waiting for thee.” They entered, Jacky gliding in before them to light the candles which stood upon the table. Mrs. Catherine started up in overwhelming surprise— so did Anne and Alice. There was a loud exclamation, “Whence come you,
- 33. gallant and what brings you home?” and a confused uncertain welcoming of Archibald. Then they became calmer, and he introduced Mr. Sinclair. At this stranger, Jacky when she brought the lights, had thrown a long, keen scrutinising glance. There seemed an agitated uncertainty about him, which contrasted strangely with his firm lip and clear eye. They were seated again at last. A mysterious agitation had fallen upon them all, which Archibald could not comprehend. To this new-comer Mrs. Catherine’s large gray eyes were travelling continually. Anne, with nervous timid glances, turned to him again and again. Mr. Sinclair himself, generally so frank, and full of universal sympathies, was confused and tremulous, speaking incoherently, and saying things which had no meaning; Archibald was greatly astonished —even little Alice Aytoun began to steal shy glances at the stranger. Archibald made a sign to Anne, and rising went out—Anne followed. He was in high spirits, great in hope, and with prospects more cheering than he had ever dreamt of. He began to speak of them as she met him at the door. “Who is he? who is he?” exclaimed Anne eagerly. Archibald looked at her in amazement. “My employer and friend, Mr. Sinclair, Anne. What is the matter? I have come home with him at his own special desire. He intends—” Jacky had been hovering on the stairs. She came up to the door where they were standing, and looked at them wistfully, “Oh if ye please, Miss Anne—” “What is it, Jacky?” Jacky could not tell what it was. She sat down on the stair, and put her hands up to her face, and began to cry—her excitement overpowering her. “I cannot bear this,” said Anne, wringing her hands nervously. “Jacky,” she whispered in her ear—the girl shot down stairs like a spirit. “Anne!” exclaimed Archibald, “something ails you. I beg you to tell me what it is.” “Afterwards—afterwards—” said Anne, hastily. “Go in now, Archibald. Jacky, come—” Jacky returned, leading little Lilie by the hand. Archibald in silent amazement, went in again to the inner drawing-room. Anne followed him with the child, her face deadly pale, her form trembling.
- 34. Mrs. Catherine had changed the position of the lights on the table—one of them threw the profile of the stranger in clear shadow on the wall—she was looking with a singular scrutiny on the face, and on the shade of it. Little Alice Aytoun looked almost afraid. Mr. Sinclair was as confused and agitated as ever. Lilie came in—she drew near Archibald timidly, with some remembrance of having seen him before; behind her, Anne stood in stiff excitement, watching her motions. Suddenly the child’s quick eye caught the stranger. Mr. Sinclair’s arms moved tremulously. Lilie looked—wavered—turned back—looked again, her dark eyes dilating—her face full of childish earnestness. The time—the distance—the slight child’s-memory—these did not make darkness enough, to veil from her remembrance the well-known face. The child sprang forward to the arms of the strong man, who sat trembling there under her simple scrutiny; she uttered a cry—Anne only could distinguish the latter words of it—they were enough, “My papa!” And Mrs. Catherine rose, drawing up her stately figure to its full height, in solemn, judicial dignity, and advanced to the side of the father and child, “I bid you joyous, righteous, peaceful welcome; Norman Rutherford, I bid you welcome to your own name and land!” And this was he! after eighteen years of labor and pain and banishment —an assumed name, a strange country, a toilsome life—in joy and peace and honor, Norman Rutherford had returned again to his own fatherland. But their joy was too deep and still to bear recording; the manner of their rejoicing, the forms of their thankfulness were not such as we can dwell on. The serenity of deep and holy happiness, the exuberance of new-found blessings!—we cherish those things too deeply in our inmost hearts to speak of them; for we are very still, when we are very blessed, in Scotland! At Portoran he had left Christian, Marion, and his son. He had promised to return to them immediately, with Anne and Lilie. Mrs. Catherine’s carriage was ordered for them, and they drove round by Merkland. Anne sat, her heart beating joyously, by the side of her new-found brother. Little Lilie was nestling in the darkness in her father’s arm, pouring forth a stream of questions about mamma and Lawrie. All the three were half weeping yet, in the tumult and excitement of their joy. The past, with all that was dark and painful in it, was lost in the present brightness; peace, security—the
- 35. bond of tender and near relationship no longer a secret thing, but recognised now in joy and triumph, an abiding gladness all their days. The brother and sister united now for the first time in their lives, felt no restraining chillness of new acquaintanceship. They knew each other, and rejoiced, with tender pride and thanksgiving, in their kindred. They stopped at Merkland—leading his child by the hand, and supporting Anne on his arm, Norman Rutherford entered the house of his fathers. His naturally buoyant step was restrained by a grave dignity; the memory of the dead hung over these walls—a thousand sad and potent remembrances were rising in the in the exile’s heart—but withal he had been doubted here. He knew that, as it seemed instinctively, and drawing his sister’s hand more closely through his arm, they entered Mrs. Ross’s sitting-room together. He stood gravely at the door waiting for his welcome. Lilie looked up wonderingly in his face; he held her hand with such gentle firmness, that she could not run to the wondering grand-mamma, who sat there staring suspiciously at the new comers. Mrs. Aytoun rose—neglected wives, sad and sorrowful, remember those who feel for their hidden troubles delicately. She came forward, she looked at him, she held out her hands, “Welcome, welcome home.” Mrs. Ross was looking at him now eagerly. James and Lewis had both risen—so did she. “Who is this, Anne?” exclaimed Lewis: “Lilie, who is this gentleman?” Mrs. Ross’s better angel visited her for that white moment. She advanced before either Anne or Lilie could answer. “It is your brother, Lewis—your brother Norman; Norman, you are welcome home.” And then a subdued and tender radiance came shining from the eyes of the returned son. He led Mrs. Ross to her chair—he called her mother. In the revulsion of his generous heart, thinking he had done her wrong, he forgot the dark wedding-day long ago which had brought her, a strange ruler, to Merkland, and which he spent by his own mother’s grave. With Lilie on the little stool at her feet, and Norman doing her reverence, and all the rest joyous and glad about her, Mrs. Ross forgot it also. He was to return to Merkland, she insisted, with his wife, their sister, and their son. The old house would hold them all. Norman’s dark eyes
- 36. brightened into deep radiance. He kissed the harsh step-mother’s hand—he had done her wrong. Then he drew Anne’s arm through his own once more, and leaving Lilie in the carriage, in charge of Mrs. Catherine’s careful coachman, went down Oranside to Esther Fleming’s cottage; but in Esther’s recognition there was neither pause nor doubt. The manly bronzed cheek, the dark hair with its streaks of grey—she did not linger to look at these. She heard the light elastic step, the voice so dearly known of old—and it was her beautiful laddie, her bairn, her son—not the grave man, who had more than reached the highest arch of his life—about whose neck the old woman threw her withered arms, as she lifted up her voice and wept. At last they reached Portoran. The Marion, the little sister of Christian Lillie, had a face of thoughtful gracious beauty, such as gladdens the eye and heart alike; a saintly peaceful face, in which the strength of Christian and the weakness of Patrick were singularly blended, for she was like them both. The plough of sorrow had not carved its iron furrows on her fair brow, as it had done on Christian’s. The sunshine of her smile was only chastened with natural tears for the dead brother who had gone to his rest; he was not her all in all as he had been Christian’s. No, for the little girl rejoicing in a childish exuberance of joy and tenderness already in her arms; the beautiful, bold, gallant boy, who stood beside her chair; the radiant dark face of the father and husband looking upon them with tremulous delight and pride—had all a share. Christian too, whose heroic work was done, and the new-found sister Anne; there was warm room for them all in the large heart of Marion Rutherford. The burning fire of bitter grief had not intensified her love upon one—she was the family head, the house-mother—full of all gracious affections and sympathies, hopes and happiness.
- 37. CHAPTER XXXI. MRS. Ross was inspired—how or by what means we are not sufficiently good metaphysicians to be able to specify—but inspired she was! It might be that all the court that had been paid to her of late had softened the adamantine heart: it only concerns us to know that softened it was. She took immediate counsel with May; she had fires lighted in half a dozen bed- chambers. Then the wainscotted parlor was made radiant—a fire in its grate “enough,” as Duncan said with an involuntary grumble, “to keep the decent folk at the Brig of Oran in eliding frae this till Canlemas”—and additional candles upon its table. Then Mrs. Ross did something more wonderful than all this—the very climax and copestone of her unwonted melting of heart. She sent Duncan mysteriously up stairs to the attic lumber-room with secret instructions. May and Barbara lingered in wonder to what was coming. A great thing was coming—covered with dust, and grumbling audibly, Duncan re-appeared in ten minutes, carrying in his arms a picture—the portrait of the lost son of the house of Merkland—the boy’s face of the exiled Norman, dethroned from its standing in his father’s house for eighteen weary year. It was restored again now, and when Mrs. Ross having dismissed the servants sat down alone in her bright room, through the dark polished walls of which the warm lights were gleaming pleasantly, to wait for her guests; the unclouded sunshine of the bold, frank, fearless boy’s face shone upon her for the first time. It had enough of the indefinite family resemblance, to bring her own Lewis before her mind. Lewis had gone up to the Tower, but was to return immediately. His mother sat in the parlor alone, more cheerily than was her wont, for the blood was warming about her heart. And then they arrived—the whole of them, with all their different manifestations of joy; the mother Marion starting in delight at what she thought the portrait of her own bright Lawrie, and Norman himself heaping up in such generous measure his delicate amends of honor and attention to the step-mother, whom he fancied he had wronged. She remembered him so different once, in his impetuous youth, that the compliment was all the greater now.
- 38. Christian and Anne sat by the fire in a quiet corner. Lawrie, proud of his new kindred, and bashfully exultant over them all, hovered between them and the uncle Lewis, whose good looks and independent young manhood already powerfully attracted the boy: while on either side of Mrs. Ross herself sat Norman and Marion, and Lilie loyal to the newly-come mamma, joining her childish talk to theirs; and all so willing and eager to do honor to the head of the household—the sole remnant of an older generation. Deep peace fell upon Merkland that night in all its many chambers—deeper than had been there before for years. The evening was not far spent when Archibald Sutherland stole in among them, not unwelcome, and with him to the gate of Merkland—no further—came Marjory Falconer; she had one word to say to Anne. Anne went to her at the gate; it was almost a relief in all this gladness to have a minute’s breathing time. “I came to congratulate you, Anne,” said Marjory breathlessly. The moon was up, and at some little distance a tall dark shadow fell across the Oran, which Anne smiled to see. “To wish you manifold joy of all the arrivals—all, Anne. If I come down to-morrow, will you introduce me to your brother?” “Surely, Marjory,” said Anne, “but why not come to-night?” “I might have come if you had married Ralph,” said Marjory laughing, “but as it is, a stranger must not intermeddle with your joy. No, no—but I shall come to see them all to-morrow. By the by—” “What, Marjory?” “Oh, not much—only speaking of Ralph—I have found her at last; I have fairly laid my hands upon her. To-morrow I shall have her safely housed in Falcon’s Craig!” “Who is it?—what do you mean?” “The daughter of Nimrod! the mighty huntress! I have got her all safe, Anne. I invite you to a wedding at Falcon’s Craig in three months. I give them three months to do it in.” “You should know the necessary time,” said Anne smiling.—”Shall there not be two, Marjory?” “Hush,” said Marjory gaily, “or I will retaliate. Now I must go. Mrs. Catherine is quite out of sorts for the want of you, Anne; and Alice is
- 39. drooping as prettily as possible. Why did not your Norman come last night, and then we might—all of us—have rejoiced over him at the Tower?” The next morning, the first excitement of their joy over, the three sisters sat together in the Merkland parlor. Mrs. Ross was superintending various domestic matters. Lewis was at the Tower. Norman had gone out with his son. Christian, Marion, and Anne were sitting together, with Lilie on her stool at their feet, communing “of all that was in their heart”—and that was much. “It was very strange to us,” said Marion, “I cannot tell you how strange, to hear from Mr. Sutherland—of Merkland, of you, of ourselves. He told us our own story—so much as he knew of it, and sought our sympathy and pity for his friends. Strangely—most strangely—did we feel as he spoke.” “I did not think Archie would have spoken of a thing so private,” said Anne. “Nay, do not blame him,” said Marion. “He saved our Lawrie’s life a few days after his arrival; and that of course, even if he had possessed fewer good qualities of his own, must have at once opened our hearts, and our house to him. But we liked him for himself, and he seemed to like us; and then as we knew him better, the home he spoke of, the names he mentioned, were very music to Norman’s ears. I cannot tell you, Anne—you cannot fancy—how your brother has longed and yearned for the home we dared not return to.” There was a pause. “And then,” continued Marion, “as he gradually became, a member of our family, and a very dear friend, we gradually received his confidence. He spoke one night of ‘little Alice Aytoun.’ The name startled us both. Norman asked who she was—and then, Anne—by degrees we heard our own story —very sad and mysterious he thought it, although he knew not, Christian, the half of its sadness. But Anne, he said, was convinced of the innocence of her dead brother, and was full of hope for the vindication of his memory. ‘Who is Anne?’ I asked. Mr. Sutherland looked astonished for a moment, and then slightly embarrassed. He seemed to think it strange that there should be any one who did not know. Anne; and, sister Anne, he did you justice. We were strangely excited that night, Norman and I. I could not prevail upon him to go to rest. He walked about the room with a mixture of joy and fear on his face, that only people who have known such a position
- 40. as ours could realize, repeating to himself, ‘Anne—the child—my little sister Anne!’ It was balm to him to think that you had faith in him, and hope for him; and yet he was full of fear lest he should endanger”— Marion paused—the tears came into her eyes; she looked at Christian. “Go on, Marion,” said Christian, leaning her head upon her hand. “Go on—he is safe now, and past all peril.” “Our poor Patrick!” exclaimed his younger sister, “my gentle, broken- hearted, sad brother! At that time when the eighteenth year was nearly past, Norman was afraid—Norman was full of terror, lest any exertion made for him should disturb the peace of Patrick. He was as willing to suffer for him then, as he was when he went away—that terrible time!” “Do not think of it,” said Christian. “We are all at peace now, Marion, living and dead; and he the safest, peacefullest, most joyous of us all.” “And then he told us of Lilie,” said Marion after a long silence. “And how you, Anne, became attached to the little stranger child; and we listened, endeavoring to look as if we did not know or care—I wonder at myself how I succeeded.” “And did you never tell him?” said Anne. “No. Norman reserved it as a surprise to him when they should reach Strathoran. He wondered, I could see, why we were so anxious to come here, but he did not ask. Norman regards him almost as a younger brother. He is very anxious that he should have a situation more suitable for him, than the one he held at Buenos Ayres; but he will tell you his arrangements himself;—where is Norman?” He was out, no one knew where he was. He was at that moment stooping his lofty head, to enter the door-way of a solitary cottage—a very mean and poor one—at some distance from the Brig of Oran. Its inhabitant in former days had known Mr. Norman of Merkland well. She had been an old woman when he left home—she was a very old woman, decrepid and feeble, now; yet on the first day after his return, his kindly remembrance of old days carried the restored Laird, the great merchant, to the cottage of the “old Janet,” who had given him apples and bannocks in his youth. And in the long walk they took, the father and son made many similar visits, to the great amazement of Lawrie, who knowing his father a reserved
- 41. grave man, called proud by strangers, was very greatly at a loss how to account for these many friendships. The hearty kindliness of these old cottage people, in which there was fully as much affection as awe, and the frank familiarity of his father, puzzled Lawrie mightily. He did by no means understand it. They had begun with Esther Fleming’s house—they ended with the Tower. Between these two, besides the cottage visitations we have mentioned, with all the joyful wonder of their recognitions, they visited a grave—a grave which had received another name since Norman Rutherford left his fatherland, and on which Lawrie read with awe and reverence, names of his ancestry the same as his own, and near the end, that of “Lawrence Ross, aged 15,” his own age, who was his uncle. In the meantime, at a solemn private conference in the little room, Mrs. Catherine was receiving Archibald’s report. “Mr. Sinclair’s proposal to me,” said Archibald, “is of so liberal a kind that I feel almost ashamed to accept it. Mr. Lumsden, the manager at Glasgow, has been received as junior partner into the firm, and is intended to succeed Mr. Sinclair at Buenos Ayres. Mr. Sinclair offers me Mr. Lumsden’s situation in Glasgow, in the meantime, as he says, with a speedy prospect of entering the house. He himself intends to withdraw, and he talks of my chance of taking his place in the firm. This for me, who went out a poor clerk only a year ago, looks ridiculously Utopian; but the managership —Mr. Lumsden’s situation, is sure—and it is higher than, in ordinary circumstances, I could have hoped to rise for years.” “I am glad of it—I am heartily glad to hear it, Archie,” said Mrs. Catherine. “That you should leave your lawful labor is no desire of mine; but I have that to tell that concerns you more than even this. Have you heard any tidings yet, of the cattle you left in Strathoran?” Archibald changed color, and said “No.” “Then it has not been told you that your father’s house is within your reach again; that Strathoran is to be sold.” “To be sold!” Archibald started to his feet; his temples began to throb, his heart to beat—within his reach and yet how very far removed, for where could he find means to redeem his inheritance. “To be sold!” “Yes. Archie Sutherland, to be sold—what say you to that?” He did not say anything to it; he pressed his hand to his brow and groaned.
- 42. “What ails you? sit down upon your seat this moment, and hearken to me; what say you to that?” “I have nothing to say, Mrs. Catherine; it takes from me my great hope. There is no possibility of recovering it now, and what chance is there of any opportunity again. It is not likely to change hands thrice in one life-time.” “Archie,” said Mrs. Catherine, “you are but a silly heart, after all. I thought not to have seen the beads on your brow for this matter. Sit down upon your seat I bid you, and hearken to me. I am not without siller as you know, seeing it is no such great space of time since a Laird of Strathoran made petition to me, to serve him in this Mammon; that you should have forgotten. I was slow then, for you were in the way of evil, Archie; but ill as you were, you know I was nearly tempted to cast away my siller, into the self-same mire in which you lost Strathoran, for the sake of Isabel Balfour and him that was her trysted bridegroom.—Now, Archie Sutherland, it is my hope that your eyes are opened to see the right course of man; which is not idleset and the mean pleasures of it, but honorable work and labor that the sun may shine upon, and God and your fellows see. Think not that I mean the making of siller; I mean a just work, whatsoever, is appointed you, to be done in honor and bravery, and in the fear of God. So as it is my hope you perceive this at last, you shall have your lands again, Archie. Not, that I desire you to return to Strathoran, as if you had never done ill. Go your ways and labor: you will return a better and a blyther man, that you have redeemed your inheritance with the work of your own hands. In the meantime, I myself will redeem it for you; I give you back the name your fathers have borne for ages. See that it descends to your bairns for their inheritance, Strathoran. And now I see Norman Rutherford at the door; go and take counsel with him for your further travail and leave me to my meditations.” And with kindly violence Mrs. Catherine shut the door of her sanctuary upon the bewildered Archibald—then she seated herself opposite the portrait of her brother, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. “Ay, Sholto Douglas, he is Isabel’s son, and what would you have left undone for the bairn of Isabel?—and if he had been yours also, what is there within the compass of mortal might, that I would have halted at for him? He is Isabel’s son—and it had not been ordered in a darker way, he would have been your first-born, Sholto Douglas; the shadow of your tenderness is upon the youth —he has none in this earth so near to him as me.”
- 43. That day, there were various visitors at Merkland—Mrs. Catherine, the Aytouns, Marjory Falconer; they met together at night in the Tower, all joyous, hopeful, and at peace. But in the vicinity of the Tower, that evening, there hovered a knot of stalwart men, uncertain as it seemed whether to enter or no. The younger ones were for pressing forward; the most eager among them was Angus Macalpine, himself longing to become the head of a household, and remembering Flora’s limit “no till we get back to the glen;” but the highest and most potent of the group hung back. “Man, Duncan, we’re no wanting to vex him. I’ve as muckle honor for the Laird as on a’ man o’ my name—only it’s our right to have an answer. If he’s no gaun to buy back the land, maybe we could make favor wi’ whaever does. We belong to the ground, and the ground to us, Duncan—we’ve a right to seek an answer at the hands of our chief.” “It a’ sounds very just that, Angus,” said Big Duncan Macalpine; “but the Laird’s a distressed man, that hasna siller to give for the redemption of his inheritance and ours. Think ye onything but extremity could have garred him time the lands as he did? or think ye there can be siller enough gathered in ae year to buy back Strathoran? I tell ye, lads, I ken the Laird, and if he’s maybe wasted his substance like a prodigal—I dinna dispute he has, and we’re a’ bearing the burden—he keeps aye a kind heart. Now, here are we, coming to him, young men and auld of us, that have been hunted from our hames. He kens it’s his wyte, and he kens he canna mend it; and what can we do but gie him a sair heart, and what can he say but that it grieves him? If he had the power we wad be hame again the morn; but he hasna the power, and wherefore should we make his cup bitterer wi’ putting our calamity before him and saying it’s his blame?” The reasoning of Big Duncan was strong like himself—the men fell back —but Angus was still eager. “The auld man at the ingleside wrestles night and day to get quiet deein’ in his ain house in the glen. He’s wandered in his mind since ever yon weary day—aye, when he’s no at his exercise—he’s clear enough then; and if ye heard him, just to get hame that he may fa’ asleep in peace, ye wadna be sae faint-hearted. I’m no meaning that you’re faint-hearted either; but the Laird hasna had sae muckle thought o’ us, that we should be sae mindfu’ o’ him.”
- 44. “You’re an inconsiderate lad, Angus,” said Big Duncan; “but for the auld man’s sake we may wait a while here. Maybe the Laird may pass this gate —yonder’s somebody.” “It’s the Laird,” exclaimed Angus—forward as he had been before, he shrank back now. The man who had opposed the measure was left to be the spokesman. Archibald had observed them from a window, and came towards them rapidly. Duncan lifted his bonnet—no servile sign, as smaller spirits in the arrogance of their so-called equality would assert, but the independent respect of an honorable poor man, who in his chief’s good fame had an individual stake, and was himself honored. He was at some loss how to frame his speech. “I trust,” said Archibald, hastily, “I trust I shall have it in my power very shortly to redress your wrongs. You have suffered innocently—I justly; but we have both had some trials of faith and patience since we last met. Trust me the power shall not be in my hands a moment sooner than the will, to make amends to you for your loss—the bitterest hour of all this bitter twelvemonth was the one in which I heard of your wrong. There are two months yet between us, and the time which shall decide the proprietorship of Strathoran. I hope then, through my friend’s help, to be able to redeem my inheritance and yours—if I succeed, have no fear—I will not spend an hour in unnecessary delay till you again enter Oranmore in peace.” These men did not cheer him—we are by no means loud in our demonstrations in Scotland—but their rough features moved and melted, and some eyelids swelled full. Archibald was a little excited too. “So far as I have caused this, Macalpines, you forgive your chief?” He held out his hand—it was grasped with a silent fervor which spoke more eloquently than words. Tall Angus Macalpine, who touched his chief’s hand last of all, could have thrown himself down at his feet, and craved his pardon. He did not do that; but would have rejoiced with mighty joy, as he flew down Oranside that night, to tap at the nursery window of Woodsmuir and carry Flora the news, to have had an opportunity of douking, knocking down, or in any way discomfiting “ony man that daured to mint an ill word of the Laird!” Upon the appointed day little Alice Aytoun was married—Ada Mina Coulter, as having experience of the office, serving her in the capacity of
- 45. bridesmaid, while Anne and Marjory were merely lookers on; the latter not without consideration of the proprieties of this same momentous ceremony, so soon to be repeated in a case where she could not be merely a spectator. For Marjory’s bold experiment was succeeding beautifully. Her visitor, Sophy Featherstonehaugh, the mighty huntress over whom she exulted, was half a Northumbrian, and half a maiden of the Merse—the daughter of a foxhunting Squire, a careless, good-humored, frank, daring girl, who could guide a vicious horse, or sing you “a westerly wind, and a cloudy sky,” with any sportsman in the land. Poor Sophy was an only child—motherless from her infancy; the lands of her weak, boisterous, indulgent father were strictly entailed, and he seemed to have deadened any fatherly anxieties he might have had for leaving his daughter penniless, by fooling her to the top of her bent, so long as he remained lord of his own impoverished acres. But he died at last—and with an immense mastery over horses, and sufficiently cunning in all sports of the field to have filled the place of huntsman to some magnifico, and withal with a dowry of two hundred pounds, Sophy Featherstonehaugh, the daughter of an old and honorable family, was thrown upon the charities of the world. A precise aunt in Edinburgh, with a great nursery-full of children, gave her a reluctant invitation. The innocent lady fancied Sophy’s services might be turned to good account as a sort of unpaid nursery-governess. She was not long in discovering her mistake. Sophy had not been a week in charge, when the walls of the nursery rang with a shrill “Tally-ho!” of many juvenile voices. The next morning, Master Harry demanded from his astonished papa a horse, and coolly proposed turning over his pony to his sister, little Sophy, who earnestly seconded the embryo sportsman. Their mother was dismayed. She resolved to have a solemn forenoon conference with her unpaid nursery-governess, to ascertain what all this meant. When she reached the schoolroom door, she paused to listen. Alas! it was not any lesson that kept that little group so steadily round their teacher. It was one of those barbarous ballads with which a “northern harper rude” horrified the ears of the cultured Marmion, in Norham’s castled keep, celebrating the exploits of a Featherstonehaugh. The aunt stood horror-stricken at the door —not long, however, for Sophy, with her loud, frank, good-humored voice, was already transgressing still more unpardonably, and in a moment after the boisterous chorus of “A hunting we will go—eho—eho—eho!” pierced
- 46. the ears of the hapless mother, ringing from the shrill, united voices of all her children. There was no more to be said after that: in unutterable wrath, poor Sophy was sent off immediately, in spite of her indignant remonstrances, and her twenty years, to a boarding-school in the neighborhood of Strathoran, the principal of which was informed of her past riotous behavior, and begged, with much bitterness by the aunt, to do what she could to make the girl human. The girl’s bold spirit rose at this—she, a Featherstonehaugh? But she had no kindred in the wide world to turn to, and even her poor two hundred pounds was mulcted for the payment of the year’s stipend to the boarding- school. In these circumstances, Marjory Falconer became acquainted with her, and in a week thereafter, free from all governesses, or attempts to humanize, the bold Featherstonehaugh was triumphantly reining the wildest horse in the Falcon’s Craig stables, while Ralph rode in delight and admiration by her side, and Marjory, standing at the door, said joyously, within herself: “She has a firm hand—she can hold the reins—she will do!” Marjory was by far too wise, however, to trust Ralph with her intention; but she made much of the frank, good-humored Sophy, and looked forward in good hopes. The day arrived for the re-purchase of Strathoran, and Mr. Foreman and Mr. Ferguson, in the abscence of all competitors, joyfully redeemed the inheritance of Archibald Sutherland, at a price considerably below its real value. “Come light—gang light,” said the lawyer, emphatically. “We give them more for it than they gave us.” There had been negotiations entered into with the Southland sheep- farmer, whose farm comprised the glen of Oranmore, and he readily accepted in lieu of it, for the justice sake, and to oblige the Laird, an equal extent of land elsewhere. In wild eagerness, the Macalpines threw themselves into their glen, and wrought so furiously at their dismantled houses, that in a very short time after the sale the longed-for homes stood complete again, ready for the joyful flitting. And then, upon a balmy day of early April the clansfolk returned, in solemn procession, to their home. The bustle of removal was over—the
- 47. lofty tone of those mountain people made a grave ceremonial of their return. In the glen, beneath the soft, blue sky, and genial spring sunshine, they gathered together to thank God; and, with the blue heights rising over them, and the fair low-country swelling soft and green at their feet, and the peaceful cottar houses round, with fire upon their hearths, and lowly, protecting roofs once more, they lifted up their voices in psalms: “Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling place In generations all, Before Thou ever hadst brought forth The mountains great and small. Ere ever Thou hadst formed the earth, Or all the world abroad, Even Thou from everlasting art To everlasting God.” And then, their minister standing by the while, Duncan Macalpine the elder, of Oranmore, rendered thanks to God. Archibald Sutherland denied himself this gladness. It invigorated him in the dingy manager’s room of the Glasgow counting-house to hear of it, but he felt he had no claim to the triumph. Mr. Ferguson was there, radiant with honest glee, and Mr. Lumsden from Portoran, his face covered with a dark glow of simple delight and sympathy. And there was little Lilie, and Mary Ferguson, solemnly invited to take tea with Flora and Angus, on their first entry into their new house, and Anne and Marjory, with Lawrie for their gallant, were in charge of the children and a straggling back-ground of well- wishers from Merkland and the Tower, filled up the rear. The months wore peacefully on. Esther Fleming’s son had returned to her, and only did not become captain of a schooner, which called Norman owner now, because he had enough, and preferred comfortably dwelling at home, greatly honored by his foster-brother, and very proud of the relationship, while, withal, his mother’s little housekeeper-niece did so seriously incline to hear his stories of sea perils and victories, that the rustic neighbors already in prophetic anticipation, had some half dozen times proclaimed the banns of William Fleming. Norman Rutherford and his family were settled peacefully in the now bright and cheerful house of Redheugh. Anne was with them. Little Alice, the blythest of young wives, kept Merkland bright and busy. There was
- 48. word in Edinburgh of some rich young Indian lady, who had thrown her handkerchief on James. And before the three months were fully expired, Anne Ross accepted Marjory Falconer’s invitation, and was present at a wedding-party in Falcon’s Craig. A double wedding—at which Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, placed in the stout hand of Sophy Featherstonehaugh the reins of the ruder animal Ralph Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, and immediately thereafter submitted in his turn to the same important ceremony, performed in his case by the brother Robert, of Gowdenleas, in the midst of an immense assemblage of kindred, Andrew of Kilfleurs standing by. And prosperous were these weddings. Good-humored, kindly, and of tolerable capacity, the bold Sophy had improved under her sister-in-law’s powerful tutorage. She had a firm hand. The boisterous Ralph felt the reins light upon him, yet was kept in bounds, and by-and-by Sophy left the management of wild horses entirely in his hands. She got other important things to manage—obstreperous atoms of humanity, wilder than their quadruped brethren, and scarce less strong. And with her old chimeras scattered to the winds, in lofty lowliness, and chastened strength, Marjory Falconer entered her Manse, the minister’s stout-hearted and pure-minded wife. One hears no more of the rights of women now—bubbles of such a sort do not float in the rare atmosphere of this household—there is nothing in them congenial with the sunshine of its blythe order and freedom. For granting that our Calvinism is gloomy, and our Presbyterian temperament sour, one wonders how universal this household warmth and joyousness should be beneath the roof-trees of those strong, pure men, whom the intolerant world upbraids with the names of bigot, hypocrite, and pharisee. One could wish to have this same intolerant bigot world make a tour of these Scottish Manses, from which it might return, perchance, able to give a rational judgment on the doctrine and order of Christ’s Holy Evangel, as we have held it in Scotland from the days of our fathers until now; at least might have its evil speaking hushed into silence before the devout might, which labors for the hire, not of silver and gold, but of saved souls—and the sunny godliness which is loftiest gain. There is a rumor in the Lumsden family that, upon one evening shortly after the marriage, a certain chapter of the Epistle to the Ephesians,
- 49. containing a verse which married ladies do mightily stumble at, was read in regular course: on which occasion, says the mirthful Sister Martha of the Portoran Manse, one could detect the shadow of a comic inflection in the voice of the household priest, while his wife with a certain grave doggedness, slightly bowed her strong head before the unpalatable command. We cannot tell how the truth of this story may be, but Sister Martha laughs when she tells it, and Marjory blushes her violent blush, and the minister looks on with his characteristic smile of simple unsophisticated glee. But we can vouch for it, that Mrs. Lumsden of Portoran has become a renowned church-lawyer, mighty in the “Styles,” and great in the forms of process; whose judgment maintains itself triumphantly in face of a whole Synod, and whose advice in complicated matters, of edicts, or calls, or trials, youthful reverends scant of ecclesiastical jurisprudence, would do well to take. Only there is growing up in the Manse of Portoran a host of little sun- burnt, dark-haired heads—all prosperity and increase to the sparkling eyes and bold brows of them!—over whose rejoicing band a little fairy sister, the joy of the minister’s heart, exercises her capricious sway, and sovereign tyranny. They are growing up, all of them, to call Marjory blessed—already for their generous nurturing “known in the gates” as hers—and hereafter still more to rejoice in the strong, gladsome, sunshiny nature to which they owe their healthful might and vigor. The prophecy and hope of her friend and counsellor is fulfilled in full: “Strength and honor are her clothing. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness.” The months passed on, and lengthened into years. Archibald Sutherland, after good work in the manager’s room, entered the firm triumphantly as Norman’s successor; before that, he had succeeded to the well-ordered house in the vicinity of Blythswood Square, which had been occupied by his predecessor Mr. Lumsden. People said it certainly needed a mistress, and very wonderful were the rapidity of those successive occasions, on which the Laird of Strathoran, clear-headed as men called him, found it absolutely necessary to repair to Redheugh to seek counsel of his friend. His sister Isabel had made a brilliant marriage; they had scarcely any intercourse—unless some new misfortune should befall her she was lost to her early friends. Mrs. Catherine and Mr. Ferguson, under Mr. Coulter’s
- 50. advice, were managing his estate. Sentences oracular and mysterious were sometimes heard falling from Mrs. Catherine’s lips, in which the names of “Archie” and “Anne” were conjoined. The house of Strathoran had been thoroughly purified. Mrs. Catherine had made sundry important additions to its plenishing; it was always kept in such order, that its now prosperous and rising possessor might return to it, at once. Anne was resident at the Tower sometimes, and knew of these processes. They tended to some new change in the eventful life of Archie Sutherland. The Rosses of Merkland were visiting the Rutherfords of Redheugh. In the large sunny drawing-room, from whose ample windows sloped a lawn of close and velvet greensward, the whole family were assembled. The elder Mrs. Ross was mollified and melted; the younger gay and rejoicing. Lewis was in high spirits—under the regimen approved and recommended by Mr. Coulter, Lewis hoped to raise the rent-roll of Merkland a half more than it had ever been. You could see now in the large wistful dark eyes of Christian Lillie, only the subdued and serious tone proper to those who have borne great griefs without brooding over them. There was an aspect of serene peace and healthful pleasure over all the house. The three sisters, Marion, Christian, and Anne, were sisters indeed. Without was a merrier group. Lilie Rutherford, with her youthful gallant, Charlie Ferguson, now a High School boy, lodged in a closet of his brother Robert’s rooms, and frequent in his Saturday visits to Redheugh; and Lawrie, growing a young man now, as he thought, and dubious as to the propriety of keeping company with lesser boys and girls, to whom he was very patronizing and condescending, stood by the sun-dial; while in the background was Jacky, now waiting gentlewoman to Miss Lilias Rutherford, a very great person indeed, and little Bessie, young Mrs. Ross of Merkland’s own maid. Lilie was coquetishly making inquiries of Bessie, touching the welfare of Harry Coulter, whereat Charlie Ferguson grew irate and sulky. “And the young gentleman’s biding at the Tower,” said Bessie; “he’s a lord noo his ainsel—and he’s been twice at Harrows.” “Who is that?” said little Lilie. “Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Jacky, “it’s a young gentleman that was a lord’s son, and now he’s a lord himsel—and he’s gaun to be married to Mr. Harry’s sister.”
- 51. “Eh, Jacky, what gars ye say such a thing?” cried Bessie. “If ye please, Miss Lilie, naebody kens—only he’s been twice at Harrows; but maybe he’s no courting Miss Coulter for a’ that.” “I should think not,” exclaimed Charlie Ferguson, indignantly. “Ada Coulter married to a lord! Yes, indeed—and they can’t talk of a single thing at Harrows but fat pigs, and prize cattle, and ploughing matches. Why, Lilie, do you mind what Harry gave you when you were at Merkland—a plough! what can ladies do with ploughs?” “Mrs. Catherine has a great many ploughs, Charlie,” said Lilie, gravely —”and it was very good of Harry; and Mary and me might have played with it all our lane, and we would not have needed you. I dinna like boats— folk can plough at hame—but in boats they go over the sea.” “And, eh, Jacky!” exclaimed Bessie, curiously, as Charlie followed his capricious liege lady, to efface if he could this unfortunate recollection of Harry Coulter and his gift—”isna young Strathoran awfu’ often at Redheugh?” “He’s here whiles,” said Jacky, briefly. “Johnnie Halflin says,” said Bessie, “and it’s a’ through the parish—and folk say Mrs. Catherine’s just waiting for’t, and that it’s to be in the Tower, and Mr. Lumsden is to do it, and Mrs. Lumsden kens a’ about it—” “About what?” “Oh, ye just ken better than me for a’ you’ll no say—just that young Strathoran’s coming out of yon muckle reekie Glasgow, hame to his ain house, and then he’s to be married to Miss Anne. Tell us, woman, Jacky— I’ll never tell a mortal body again, as sure as I’m living.” Jacky’s dark face lighted up—she knew this secret would bear telling, even though Bessie broke faith. “We’re a’ gaun to the Tower at the New year—like the time Redheugh came hame; Miss Lilie and Miss Anne, and a’ the house—and young Strathoran’s to be there too. And Miss Anne has gotten a grand goun, a’ of white silk, shining like the snaw below the moon, and a shawl—ye never saw the like o’t—it’s as lang as frae Merkland to the Tower. And maybe something will happen then, and maybe no—Miss Anne wasna gaun to tell me!”
- 52. THE END. Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: 1. Strathoram=> Strathoran {pg 16} 2. Its not so much here=> It’s not so much here {pg 19} 3. hypocondriac=> hypochondriac {pg 24} 4. Little Allice=> Little Alice {pg 26} 5. dont=> don’t {pg 29} 6. strangers character=> stranger’s character {pg 30} 7. Mrs. Euphan Morrison=> Mrs. Euphan Morison {pg 26} 8. downfal=> downfall {pg 44 & 45} 9. its=> it’s {pg 45} 10. Archilbald Sutherland=> Archilbald Sutherland {pg 46} 11. Mrs. Morrison=> Mrs. Morison {pg 51} 12. peplexed=> perplexed {pg 53} 13. momento=> memento {pg 56} 14. Mrs. Euphan Morrison=> Mrs. Euphan Morison {pg 70} 15. downfal=> downfall {pg 93} 16. cousulting=> consulting {pg 68} 17. dried and dyring=> dried and drying {pg 70} 18. Bobert Ferguson=> Robert Ferguson {pg 72} 19. with may messages=> with many messages {pg 78} 20. Mr. Furguson=> Mr. Ferguson {pg 78} 21. the the sad wayfaring man=> the sad wayfaring man {pg 88} 22. and ruin and ruin=> and ruin {pg 93} 23. her commads=> her commands {pg 93} 24. where whispering=> were whispering {pg 94} 25. orginal property=> original property {pg 97} 26. There? there!=> There! there! {pg 97} 27. stange unwonted=> stange unwonted {pg 99} 28. sick mouth of waiting=> sick month of waiting {pg 106} 29. sorow=> sorrow {pg 111} 30. kneeling before his portait=> kneeling before his portrait {pg 112} 31. Jackie Morison=> Jacky Morison {pg 116}
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