Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“That abominable woman!” exclaimed Marjory, as they went down stairs.

“Hush,” said Anne, “she is the minister’s wife.”

“The minister’s wife! there is never any peace where she is. – She is a pretty person to think she can understand – ”

“Who, Marjory?”

“Oh,” said Marjory, with a less vehement blush, “it’s because John Lumsden is so popular in Strathoran – you know that. – Come, let us go and see Kenneth Macalpine.”

They did go; poor Kenneth was feverish and unable for any further excitement, so they spoke a few kindly encouraging words to his mother, and left the room. Mrs. Euphan Morison had retreated to her own apartment, and sat there by the fire sulky and dignified – the doctor had absolutely forbidden her administering to the invalid a favorite preparation of her own which she was sure would cure him.

Marjory and Anne turned to the great, warm, shining kitchen. The patriarch of Oranmore was dozing in a chair by the fire – the old man’s mind was unsettled; he had returned to his native Gaelic, and had been speaking in wandering and incoherent sentences of the church-yard, and the right they had to the graves of their fathers. An aged woman, the grand-aunt of Duncan Roy and Flora, who had brought up the orphans, sat opposite to him, muttering and wringing her withered hands in pain. She had been long afflicted with rheumatism, and the exposure made her aged limbs entirely useless. She had to be lifted into her chair – and aggravating her bodily pain was the anguish of her mind: “The bairns – the bairns! what will become of the bairns?”

The other Macalpine was a feeble woman, widowed and childless, to whom her honorable and kindly kindred had made up, so far as temporal matters went, the loss of husband and of children. She was rocking herself to and fro, and uttering now and then a low unconscious cry, as she brooded over the ruin of her friends, and her own helpless beggary. The firmament was utterly black, for her – she had no strength, no hope.

Marjory and Anne lingered for some time, endeavoring to cheer and comfort these two helpless women. Mrs. Catherine’s maids, carefully superintended by Jacky, had done everything they could to make them comfortable; and before the young ladies left the kitchen, Flora Macalpine had entered, and was at her aunt’s side, telling of the reception Duncan and herself had met with at Woodsmuir, and how Mrs. Ferguson had half promised to take her into the nursery to be “bairn’s-maid” to the little Fergusons. The old woman was a little comforted – very little; for if Flora was away in service, who could take care of her painful, declining years?

Jacky followed Anne and Marjory out of the kitchen. They were absorbed with this matter of the ejectment, and so did not observe her. Marjory drew her companion to the library.

“Do come in here, Anne. I don’t want to go up stairs yet.”

They went in, Jacky following – she seemed determined not to lose the opportunity.

“If ye please, Miss Anne – ”

“Well, Jacky?”

Jacky hesitated – she did not know how to go on, so she repeated: “If ye please, Miss Anne – ” and stopped again.

“What is it, Jacky?” said Anne, “tell me.”

“If ye please, will ye let me go with ye, Miss Anne?” said Jacky, in a burst. “I ken how to – to behave mysel, and to attend to a lady, and I’ll never give ye ony trouble, and I’ll do whatever I’m bidden. Oh, Miss Anne, will ye let me go?”

“What has put that into your head, Jacky?” exclaimed Anne.

Jacky could not tell what had put it into her head, inasmuch as any explanation might have shown Anne that the singular elf before her had, by some intuition peculiar to herself, made very tolerable progress in the study of those important matters which of late had occupied so much of their thoughts, and hopes, and consultations in Merkland and the Tower: so she merely repeated:

“Oh, if ye please, Miss Anne, will ye let me go?”

Anne was somewhat puzzled.

“You are too young to be my maid, Jacky,” she said.

“Oh, if ye please, Miss Anne, I ken how to do – and I’m no idle when there’s ony purpose for’t – and I aye do what I’m bidden, except – ” Jacky hung her head, “except whiles.”

“But Anne wants a great big woman, like me, Jacky,” said Marjory Falconer, laughing, “an old woman perhaps.”

“But if ye please, Miss Falconer,” said Jacky, seriously, “an old woman wouldna do – an old woman wouldna be so faithful and – and – ” Jacky paused, her conscience smiting her: was not the Squire of the redoubtable Britomart an old woman? Whereupon there ensued in Jacky’s mind a metaphysical discussion as to whether Glauce or Mrs. Elspat Henderson was the best type of the class of ancient serving-women – remaining undecided upon which point, she had nothing for it but to repeat the prayer of her petition: “Oh, Miss Anne, will you let me go?”

“Do you intend to take a maid with you, Anne?” asked Marjory.

“Yes.”

“Then you should take Jacky by all means.”

Anne hesitated.

“You forget, Jacky, that it is not I, but Mrs. Catherine, who must decide this.”

“Oh, if ye please, Mrs. Catherine will let me go, Miss Anne, if you’re wanting me.”

“And your mother, Jacky?”

“My mother’s no needing me, Miss Anne.”

“Well, we will see about it,” said Anne, smiling; “as you seem to have quite made up your mind, and decided on the matter. I will speak to Mrs. Catherine, Jacky. We shall see.”

Jacky made an uncouth courtesy and vanished.

“Is it Edinburgh you are going to, Anne?” said Marjory, shooting a keen glance upon her friend’s face.

“I shall be in Edinburgh,” said Anne, evasively.

“Why, Anne!” exclaimed Marjory, “must one not even know where you are going? What is this secret journey of yours?”

“It is no secret journey, Marjory. I am going farther east than Edinburgh – to the sea-side.”

“To the sea-side!” Marjory looked amazed. “You are not delicate, Anne Ross. What are you going to do at the sea-side?”

“Nothing,” said Anne.

“Nothing! You have not any friends there – you are going away quite by yourself! Is anything the matter, Anne? Tell me what you are going to do.”

“I would tell you very gladly, Marjory, if I could. My errand is quite a private one: when it is accomplished, you shall hear it all.”

The blood rushed in torrents to Marjory Falconer’s face.

“You cannot trust me!” she exclaimed. “Anne, I do not care for Mrs. Bairnsfather’s petty insults. I have been too careless of forms, perhaps – perhaps I have made people think me rude and wild, when I was only striving to reach a better atmosphere than they had placed me in – but you, Anne Ross – you to think me unworthy of confidence!”

“Hush – hush, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray do not begin to be suspicious – it does not become you at all. I had a brother once, Marjory – as people say, a most generous, kind, good brother – whose name lies under the blot of a great crime. He was innocent – but the world believed him guilty. I am going to try – by what quiet and humble means are in my power – to remove this undeserved stain. If I succeed, I shall have a very moving story to tell you: if I do not succeed, let us never speak of it again. In any case, I know you will keep my secret.”

Marjory pressed her friend’s hand, and did not speak. She remembered dimly having heard of some great sorrow connected with Mr. Ross’s (of Merkland) death, and was ashamed and grieved now, that she had pressed her inquiries so far. Marjory Falconer, like Lewis Ross, was learning lessons: the rapidly developing womanhood, which sent those vehement flushes to her cheek, and overpowered her sometimes with agonies of shame, was day by day asserting itself more completely. A few more paroxysms, and it would have gained the victory.

CHAPTER XXI

BY the beginning of April, the Macalpines were finally settled; the majority of them being employed as laborers on Mr. Ferguson’s farms of Loelyin and Lochend. Roderick and his family occupied a cottage in the vicinity of the Tower. He was engaged as ploughman by Mrs. Catherine Douglas. Big Duncan remained with his people – their houses were now far apart – they were restless and ill at ease, feeling their dispersion as the Jews of old felt their captivity. These clinging local attachments are comparatively little known to people confined within the limits of cities, and living in the hired houses, which any caprice or revolution of fortune may make them change. It is not so with the “dwellers of the hills,” the whole circuit of whose simple lives for generations have passed under one roof; to whom the sun has risen and set behind the same majestic hills in daily glory, and whose native streamlet has a house-hold tongue, as familiar as the more articulate one of nearest kindred. A hope had sprung up in the breast of the Macalpines – a hope to which their yearning home-love gave vivid strength and power. Their chief would return: he would come back in renewed wealth and prosperity: he would lead them back to their own homes in triumph. This anticipation enlivened the sad pilgrimages, which the banished hillfolk made on those dewy spring evenings to their beloved glen. It needed some such hope to stifle the indignant grief and anger, which might have else blazed up in illegal vehemence, when the ejected Macalpines, in little parties of two and three, returned to Oranmore, to look upon their former homes, now desolate and blackened, with grass springing up on each household floor, and waving already from the broken walls – but they looked away, where, far over the wide-spreading low-country, there shone in the distance, the glimmer of the great sea; and prayed, in the fervor of their hope and yearning, for the home-coming of their chief. God speed the adventurer, landing even now on the sunny shores of the new world! How many hearts beat high with prayers and hopes for his return!

The sick lad, Kenneth, did not die: he lived to hold the name of the youthful Giles Sympelton in dearest honor and reverence, and to do him leal service in an after-time. Giles, with some reluctance, left the Tower, after a week’s residence there, to join his father – leaving Ada Coulter with the first sadness upon her, which she had experienced since her happy release from school.