Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

Anne’s entrance caused a commotion. There were a great many apologies, and expressions of wonder and pleasure at seeing her again; and then she was begged to take a seat, and a cup of tea. Anne sat down, and kindly looked out at the window, while Miss Crankie abstracted the lid from the teapot, and, from the depths of an adjoining cupboard, produced another one more resembling it in color.

“Ye see,” said Miss Crankie, nodding her wiry little curls at the ruddy-colored compounds in the saucers, “we’ve been making our jelly, and were just trying it. I can recommend the rasps, Miss Ross – the red currants would take a thought mair boiling, and the gooseberries are drumlie – but I can recommend the rasps.”

“If Miss Ross is no feared for her teeth,” sighed Mrs. Yammer. “I got cauld mysel on Sabbath at the Kirk, and was trying the jam for my throat. I’m a puir weak creature, Miss Ross: the wind gangs through me like a knife.”

“I have returned to you for accommodation, Miss Crankie,” said Anne. “Are the rooms unoccupied now?”

“Eh, bless me! isna that an uncommon providence,” exclaimed Miss Crankie. “Mrs. Mavis is gaun away the morn!”

“But what can you do with me to-night?” said Anne.

“Oh, nae fear o’ us – we’ll do grand,” said Miss Crankie. “I’m blyth ye’re come back Miss Ross, and yet I’m sorry to see you so shilpit. Ye’ll find the sea-air do ye mair guid noo. Ye’re no looking half sae well as ye did when ye gaed away.”

“Ah! Miss Ross,” said Mrs. Yammer, dolorously, “I hope ye’ll use the means and get right advice in time. Ye’ll be fashed wi’ a pain in your side? For mysel, it’s little use saying what I have to thole – there’s scarce an hour in the day, that I havna stitches through and through me.”

“Hout, Tammie, ye’re aye meat-hale,” responded her brisker sister. “Ye’ve come at a better season now, Miss Ross, the haill town is full of sea-bathers. I was saying to auld Marget, that she might win a pound or twa for her ain hand, with letting some o’ thae muckle rooms, in Schole, and naebody, be the waur – it’s sae handy for the sea – if Kirstin Lillie and her brother, hadna come hame sae suddenly.”

“They are at home, then?” said Anne.

“Oh, ay! they came hame about a month ago, in as great a hurry as they gaed away; ane scarce ever sees them noo, even on the sands – they’re strange folk.”

The next day, young Mrs. Mavis and her two blooming children left their sea-side lodgings, and Anne took peaceful possession of her former rooms. The tall gaunt outline of Schole, as it stood out against the deep blue of the evening sky, dismal and forlorn as it was, looked like a friend; but though she lingered about its vicinity all the night, and watched eagerly within sight of its little gate, no one ventured forth. The low projecting window had light within it, but it was curtained carefully. She could see no trace of Christian. Why did they avoid her? why was there so much additional secrecy and seclusion?

The second day after their arrival in Aberford, Jacky had a visitor. It was little Bessie, Alice Aytoun’s maid. Bessie was living with an aunt, the wife of a forester, whose house was within three or four miles of Aberford. Jacky, by Anne’s permission, returned with her to spend the afternoon in the aunt’s house.

The two girls set out very jubilant and in high spirits, with much laughing mention of Johnnie Halflin, whom Bessie had already seen in Edinburgh, and from whom she had received a very grandiloquent account of the chastisement of Mr. Fitzherbert, and of the mighty things which the said Johnnie would have done, had not Miss Falconer put her veto on his valor.

The forester’s house was in the bosom of the wood under his charge. A narrow foot-road, winding through the trees, ran close to the bounding hedge of its well-stocked garden, and nestling warmly below the thick foliage, the house stood snug in the corner of its luxuriant enclosure, presiding in modest pride, like some sober cottage matron, conscious of decent comfort and independence, over its flourishing cabbages, and stately bushes of southern-wood, ripe gooseberries, and abounding roses. Within, it was as clean and bright as forest cottage could be, and with its long vistas of noble trees everywhere, and the one thread of communication with the outer world that ran close to its door, was a pleasant habitation – homelike and cheerful. Bessie’s aunt was, like her cottage, soberly light-hearted, kind and motherly. Upon her well scoured white deal table, she had set out a row of glancing cups and saucers, flanked with delicate bannocks of various kinds, and jelly more plentiful than Miss Crankie’s. It was early in the afternoon. Mrs. Young, honest woman, hospitably purposed entertaining her guests with a magnificent tea before her husband and stalwart sons came in to their ruder and more substantial meal. She gave her niece’s friend a hearty welcome; the two girls, after their dusty walk of four miles, by no means thought the kindly auntie’s preparations unseasonable; but after Mrs. Young had turned a deaf ear to two or three hints from Bessie, she explained her delay at last.

“Ye see, lassies, there’s an auld neighbor coming this gate this afternoon. Her and me served in one place before I was married, and she’s been lang in a gentleman’s house, south – near Berwick. She’s an auld lass; a thrifty weel-doing carefu’ woman, wi’ a guid wage, and siller to the fore; but she’s come to years when folk are lone, if they have nae near friends, and Rob Miller, her brither, has a housefu’ o’ weans; and I’m no sure that his wife can be fashed fyking about a pernickity single woman. So ye maun see and be ceevil, and take note o’ Jean – how weel put on and wise-like she is – and tak a pattern by her; it’s a’ her ain doing; she’s been working for hersel’ a’ her days.”

Bessie drummed upon the table – looked at the tea “masking” before the fire, the smooth, well-baked bannocks, and beautiful red currant jelly upon the table – and became impatient.

“I wish she would come then, auntie. It’s awfu’ stourie on the road.”

“Yonder’s somebody in among the trees,” said Jacky, glancing out.

It was Mrs. Young’s friend at last, and the good woman bestirred herself to complete her table arrangements, while Bessie conveyed the mighty Leghorn bonnet and wonderful Paisley shawl, which Rob Miller’s eldest daughter already looked forward to as a great inheritance, into the inner room. Mrs. Young’s friend was a tall, bony, erect woman, with a thin brown face, and projecting teeth, and sandy hair carefully smoothed beneath a muslin cap, modestly, tied with a scrap of blue ribbon. She was a very homely, unhandsome-looking person, yet had an unassuming simplicity about her, not common in the upper servant class. Jean Miller had known evil in her day. The long upper lip pressing above these irregular ill-shaped teeth of her’s had quivered with deep griefs many times in the painful and weary past years, which had left no record of themselves or of her course in them, save that most deeply pathetic one engraven in her own solitary high heart – a high heart it was, humble and of slight regard as was the frame it dwelt in – much stricken, sorely tried, and with an arrow quivering in it still.

Jean’s hands were rigidly crossed in her lap; she was never quite at ease in idleness. Mrs. Young good-humoredly drew her chair to the table, called Bessie, placed the teapot on the tray, and began her duties. There was a simple blessing asked upon the “offered mercies,” according to the reverent usage of peasant families in Scotland, and then the dainties were discussed.

“And how is Andrew winning on wi’ his learning, Jean?” said Mrs. Young.

There was a slight quivering of the thin upper lip – very slight – no eye less keen than Jacky’s could have perceived it.

“They tell me very weel,” said Jean, meekly; “he’s been getting some grand books in a prize, and they’re unco weel pleased wi’ him at the college.”

“He’s a clever lad,” said Mrs. Young.

“Ay, I’ll no say but he’s a lad of pairts,” said Jean, “if he but makes a right use o’ them.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Young, sympathetically, “they’re no ower guid company for that, thae young doctor-lads. Eh, keep me! Jean woman, if this callant was taking to ill courses like his faither, ye wad never haud up your head again.”

Jean’s lip quivered again – more visibly this time – the discipline of her self-denying life had been a stern one. The prodigal of her family, the gayest, handsomest, and cleverest of them all, a good workman, and an idle one, had hung upon her, a heavy, painful burden, falling step by step in the ruinous downward course of reckless dissipation, until he ended his days at last, shorn of all the gaiety and cleverness which had thrown a veil at first upon his sin – an imbecile, drivelling drunkard. With mighty anguish, which few comprehended or could sympathize with, she had prayed, entreated, remonstrated, forgiven, and supported him through all his sad career. He left an orphan boy on her hands. With the tenderest mother-anxiety, Jean Miller had brought up this child – with genuine mother-ambition, had, at the cost of long labor, and much self-denying firmness on her own part, sent him to college when he reached proper years, eager to raise him above the fear of that terrible stain and sin which had destroyed the first Andrew – her once gay and clever brother. But of late insidious voices had whispered in her ear that the second Andrew had taken the first step in that descending course. In agony unspeakable, the youth’s watchful guardian hastened to Edinburgh to ascertain the truth of this. She found it false; there was yet no appearance of any budding evil, but her heart, falling back upon its sad experience, sank within her, prophetic of evil. She said nothing in return to the ill-advised sympathy of Mrs. Young – her lip quivered – it was more eloquent than words.

“You’re new to this country, I’m thinking?” she said, addressing Jacky.

“Yes,” said Jacky, bashfully.

“She’s frae the north country,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye’ve been lang out o’ this pairt yoursel, Jean.”

“Ay,” was the answer, “it’s eighteen year past the twenty-first o’ June – I mind the day weel.”

“That would be about the time the gentleman was killed,” said Mrs. Young.

“Yes,” said Jean; “the very morning. I’ll ne’er forget it.”

“Eh, auntie!” exclaimed Bessie. “Whatna gentleman?”

Jacky did not speak, but her thin, angular frame thrilled nervously, and she fixed her keen eyes upon Jean.

“Deed a gentleman ye’ve heard o’ often enough, Bessie,” said her aunt. “Miss Alice’s father – ye’ve heard your mother telling the story about Mr. Aytoun mony a time, nae doubt. Ye see, Jean, my sister was Mrs. Aytoun’s right-hand woman. I dinna ken how the puir lady would have won through her trouble ava, when Miss Alice was born, if it hadna been for our Bell – no that he was ower guid a man, if a’ tales were true, but nae doubt it was an awfu’ dispensation. Ane forgets ill and wrang when the doer o’t’s taen away – and a violent death like that!”

“Weel,” said Jean Miller, “a’body’s dear to their ain. But he wasna muckle worth the mourning for.”

“And how was he killed?” asked Jacky, with some trepidation.

“Anither gentleman – a fine, cheery, kindly lad as ye could see – shot him wi’ a gun. It was an awfu’ disgrace to the parish, as weel as a great crime; but, sae far as I could hear, the folk were mair wae for young Redheugh than they were for Mr. Aytoun.”

“And were they sure he did it?” asked Jacky, breathlessly.

“Sure! Lassie, what could be surer? They found his gun, wi’ his name on’t and they saw him himsel leaving the wood; and unco easy he had ta’en it, as the folk say, for he was gaun whistling and singing at a fule sang, and the man’s bluid on his hand.”

“If he took it easy, it’s mair than his friends did,” said Jean Miller, significantly.

“I never heard tell of ony friends he had in this part,” said the matter-of-fact Mrs. Young. “He was nephew to the auld family, and no son. I mind hearing ance that he was frae some place away in the Hielands – but maybe that was a’ lees.”

“But maybe you werena meaning a relation?” adventured Jacky, addressing Jean.

“Na, lassie, it was nae relation. I ken naething about his kin: it was a friend – ane that was uncommon chief wi’ him. He was a student lad at that time, that had served his time to be a doctor like my ain nephew Andrew, only he was done wi’ the college; and if ever mortal man was out o’ his mind wi’ trouble and fricht and sore grief for an unhappy reprobate, it was that lad, the morning o’ the murder.”

“Did you see him?” exclaimed Jacky, anxiously.

“Ay, lass, I saw him. I was gaun hame that very day to my place that I’m in yet – I’ve been eighteen year past wi’ the same mistress – and it happened I was by that waterside between eight and nine in the morning. I was but a young lass then, and I had reason for’t – it’s nae matter now what it was. I was coming round the howe o’ the brae where the road turns aff to the Milton, when I met that lad. That white apron had mair a life-like color than he had on his face; but, for a’ that, he was wiping his brow for heat. The look of him was like the look of a man that had the bluid standing still in his veins. He neither saw me, nor the road he was gaun on, but just dashed on right before him, as if naething could stop him in the race. Ye may tak my word, it’s nae little grief like what men ca’ sympathy or pity, that could pit a man into a blind madness like that. I ken mair about it noo than I did then.”

“Woman – Jean!” exclaimed Mrs. Young; “what for did ye no come forrit at the time – it might have helped the proof? Losh! would the tane be helping the tither? would there be twa o’ them at the misfortunate man?”

“Na; he was an innocent, pithless callent, that Maister Patrick,” said Jean. “He could have nae hand in’t. A’ that day I couldna get his face out o’ my mind; but I had mony things to trouble me, sorting at my mother, and putting things right for Andrew – he was doing weel then, puir man! – and getting my ain kist ready for my journey, and I gaed away early in the day, and so I didna hear o’ the murder. And my mother was nae hand at the writing, and Andrew, puir man, was aye a thocht careless, and I never saw ane belanging to my ain place, to tell me the news. So a’ the trying that there was, was dune, and poor young Redheugh was lying at the bottom of the sea, before I ever heard tell o’t – but I’ve aye minded sinsyne Maister Patrick Lillie’s awfu’ face – I’ve had a kindness for him frae that day, for of a’ the sair troubles in this world, I ken nane, like murning ower a sinner that ye canna mend, and yet that ye would gie your ain life for, as blythe as ever ye gaed to your rest. I ken what it is – and sure am I, that if ever there was a man distracted with the crime o’ anither, it was Maister Patrict Lillie, for young Redheugh.”

“And was Redheugh an ill man?” said Jacky, in a half whisper.

“I never heard an ill word o’ him till then. He was as weel likit as a man could be – and a kinder heart to puir folk there wasna in the countryside.”

“And that’s true,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye should take it to yoursels, lassies – you that are young, and havena got the rule o’ your ain spirits. There was a fine young gentleman, ye see, wi’ routh o’ a’ thing, as grand as heart could desire, and yet he tint baith life and name, in this world and the next, a’ for an evil anger in his heart. It’s an awfu’ warning – it’s our pairt to improve it for our ain edification.”

“And what for was the gentleman angry at Mr. Aytoun?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! the adversary has aye plenty spunks to light that fire wi’. Some folk say yae thing, and some anither. I’ve heard it was for speaking lightly of a young lady that was trothplighted to Redheugh.”

“And what for did he no fecht him, the way folk fecht in books?” said Bessie.

“Nae doubt because the enemy thought he had fa’en on an easier plan of putting an end to them baith. Nae mortal in this world, let alane a bit lassie like you, can faddom the wiles o’ the auld serpent, or the weakness o’ folk’s ain treacherous hearts. It’s no what folk should do, to be making a wark about a criminal like that, that shed blood wi’ a wilful hand – but there was mony a heart in the parish wae for Redheugh.”

“And him that ye saw coming out of the wood?” said Jacky, tremulously, turning to Jean Miller again: “how would he ken?”

“I canna tell,” said Jean. “It was my thought he had met Redheugh, or seen him, when the deed was new done – and it stunned the very soul within him, so that he scarce kent in his extremity what it was, that was pitting him distracted. I was asking Rob’s wife about him last night: she says his sister and him are living their lane in an unco quiet way. Puir lad! – but he’ll be a man of years now.”

“And ye didna speak to him?” said Jacky.

“Speak to him! Lassie, if ye havena a lighter weird than ither folk, ye’ll ken before lang, that sore trouble is not to be spoken to. I wad rather gang into a king’s chamber unbidden, than put mysel forrit, when I wasna needed, into the heavy presence of grief.”

“For grief is a king, too,” murmured Jacky.

“And so it is,” said Jean Miller, with another emphatic quiver of her lip – the little narrow Edinburgh attic, in which her student nephew toiled, or ought to toil, rising before her eyes, and her heart yearning over him in unutterable agonies of tenderness – ”and so it is – and kenning that there’s sin in ane ye like weel, or fearing that there’s sin, in ane whose purity is the last hope o’ your heart, that’s the king o’ a’ griefs. But, mind, ye mauna say a word of this ower again. I never tell’t onybody before now, and I would like ill to add a trouble to a sair heart. Mind, ye mauna mention this again.”

“Yonder’s my uncle!” exclaimed Bessie, whom this grave episode had wearied mightily, “and Jamie, and Michael, and Tam. We’ve twa good hours yet, Jacky, before, ye need to gang hame, and Miss Anne winna be angry if you’re a thocht late. We’ll gang and let ye see the Fairy Well – it’s at the ither end o’ the wood. Eh, woman, ye dinna ken how bonnie it is!”

But Jacky had no heart for the Fairy Well, or the rude gallantry of Tam, and Michael, and Jamie. She was too full of the great intelligence she had gathered for her mistress. She drew her own conclusions, quickly enough, if not very clearly, but she saw at once that Anne would think it of the highest importance. How she knew so much we cannot tell – she could not have told herself. These electric thrills of intuition, which put the elf into possession of the most secret and guarded desires and wishes of her superiors, were as much a mystery to herself as to others. There were various mysteries about her – not the least of these being the reason why the spirit of a knight errant, of as delicate honor, and heroic devotion, as ever adorned the brightest age of chivalry, should have been endued with the singular, and by no means elegantly formed garment, of this girl’s dark elfin frame and humble place.

So Jacky with much weariness, physical and mental, endured the visit to the Fairy Well; and then under the safe conduct of Tam, Mrs. Young’s youngest son, and “convoyed” half way by Bessie and Michael, returned to Aberford. The night had fallen before she reached Miss Crankie’s house. Anne, newly returned from a long and ineffectual survey of Schole, had passively submitted to have candles placed upon her table by Miss Crankie’s servant. She still sat by the window, however, looking out upon that centre of mysterious interest. It was perfectly still – only a faint reflection of light upon the dark water told of a watcher in the high chamber of the desolate house.

Jacky entered, and Anne turned to ask her kindly how she had enjoyed her visit. “I dinna ken, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, “but if ye please – ”

“What, Jacky?”

“Would ye let me draw down the blind, and put in your chair to the table, because I’ve something to tell you, Miss Anne.”

Anne consented immediately. The room looked, as dusky parlors will look by faint candle-light in the evenings of bright summer days, very dull and forlorn and melancholy. Anne seated herself smiling by the table; she expected some chronicle of little Bessie’s kindred, or at the utmost some confession of petty ill-doing, which burdened Jacky’s conscience. Jacky’s conscience was exceedingly tender; she did make such confessions sometimes.

“If ye please, Miss Anne,” began Jacky earnestly, “Bessie’s aunt kens Jean Miller.”

“And who is Jean Miller, Jacky?” said Anne, smiling.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, Jean Miller was in the wood by the waterside, at the brae, where the road goes to the Milton farm, eighteen years ago, on the twenty first of June.”

It was Anne’s turn to start, and look up anxiously now. Jacky went on in the firm steadiness of strong excitement.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, she saw a man; and it wasna Mr. – it wasna the gentleman they ca’ young Redheugh – ”

“Who was it, Jacky?”

“His face was whiter than white cloth, and he was like as if the blood was standing still in his veins, and he was running straight on, as if he neither saw the road nor who was looking at him; and as he ran, he wipit his brow, for a’ that he was whiter than death.”

Anne was walking through the room in burning agitation; she could not rest – now she came up to Jacky, as the girl made a pause for breath, and grasped her arm.

“Who was he, Jacky – who was he?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it was the gentleman at Schole. She called him Mr. Patrick Lillie.”

Anne put her hands up to her head, dizzy and stunned; she felt like one who had received a mighty shock, and scarcely knew either the instrument or the reality of it in the first extremity of its power. She did not say a word – she did not think – she sat down unconsciously on her chair, and pressed her hands to her head with some vague idea of crushing the dull indefinite pain out of it. Jacky stood beside her, pale, self-possessed, but trembling violently; the girl’s excitement had reached a white heat – intensely strong and still.

Deadly light and deadly darkness struggling for hopeless mastery – a goal so nearly won, and yet so utterly removed. A long, low cry of pain came from Anne’s parched lips; she had not strength or heart to inquire further; a fearful possibility came upon her now, which had never struck her mind before.

At length, when the violence of the first shock was moderated, she began again to question Jacky. Jean Miller’s explanation of the haggard looks and wild bewilderment of Norman’s friend composed, though it could not convince her. She must see him, this mysterious sufferer, must ascertain – standing before him face to face – what of this dark dread might be true, and what false. It would not leave her: before she had been alone for ten minutes, the deadly bewilderment had returned, and what to do she knew not!

CHAPTER XXVI

THE next morning rose, dim, hot, and oppressive, suiting well, in its unnatural stillness and sultry brooding, with the terror of bewilderment and darkness which had fallen upon Anne. The tossings and wild restlessness of that mental fever, the gloomy clouds that had settled upon the future, the sad significance with which Christian Lillie’s words came burning back upon her memory – bore her down in dark blinding agony as those heavy thunder clouds bore down upon the earth. She wandered out: – with eyes keen for that one object, and veiled to all things else, she hovered about Schole. Once as she lingered by the hedge, she saw an upper window opened, and the pale head which she had seen once before, with its high snowy temples and thin hair, and delicately lined face, looked out steadfastly upon the gloomy weltering water. The eyes were blue, deep, and liquid as a summer evening sky – the face, with all its tremulous poetry, and exquisite delicacy of feebleness, was gazing out with a mournful composure, which made its extreme susceptibility and fluctuating language of expression, more remarkable than ever. Calmly mournful as it then was, you could so well see how the lightest breath would agitate it – the faintest whisper sway and mould these delicate facile features. One long, steadfast sad look was thrown over the darkly silent water, and brooding ominous sky, and then the window was closed. Anne remained upon the sands nearly the whole day – but saw nothing more of the mysterious inhabitants of Schole.