The Ladies Lindores by Margaret Oliphant

"Dear Mr. Erskine -- I do not know what words to use to tell you how pained and distressed we are -- I speak for my mother as well as myself -- to find that nothing has been done to relieve you from the consequence of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mistake. We found my brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more so, if that were possible, to set matters right at once; but unfortunately on the day after, the funeral took up all thoughts: and what other obstacles intervened next day I cannot rightly tell, but something or other -- I am too impatient and pained to inquire what -- came in the way; and they tell me now that tomorrow is the day of the examination, and that it is of no use now to forestall justice, which will certainly set you free tomorrow. Oh, dear Mr. Erskine, I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think that you have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous, to be true), in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do you any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I think that in his heart Robin feels it more than any of us: he feels the injustice, the foolishness; but still he has been to blame, and I don't know how to excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor Carry -- though, indeed, I need not attempt to conceal from you, who have seen so much, that poor Carry, though she is dreadfully excited and upset, is not miserable, as you would expect a woman to be in her circumstances. Could it be expected? But I don't know what she might do if she heard what has happened to you. She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not prudent, I suppose; so we don't tell her. Oh, Mr. Erskine, did you ever think how miserable women are? I never realised it till now. Here am I, and, still more, here is my mother. She is not a child, or an incapable person, I hope! yet she can do nothing -- nothing to free you. She is as helpless as if she were a baby. It seems to me ridiculous that Robin's opinion should be worth taking, and mine not; but that is quite a different matter. My mother can do nothing but persuade and plead with a boy like Robin, to do that which she herself, at her age, wise as she is, good as she is, cannot do. As you are a man, you may think this of no importance; and mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and smiles. But if you suppose she does not feel it! -- if she could have been your bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a single night in that place! but all that we can do is to go down on our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortunately, have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive me for this outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, and why, and that I -- I mean we -- can do nothing. What can I say to you? Dear Mr. Erskine, our thoughts are with you constantly. My mother sends you her love.

"Edith. "