Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

In the middle of April, Anne set out upon her journey. With Mrs. Catherine’s full consent, Jacky was to accompany her. Anne’s departure excited some attention. There seemed to be a vague conception among the neighbors, that something of moment was concealed under this quiet visit to the south, of the very quiet Miss Ross, of Merkland. Jeanie Coulter wondered if she was going to be married. Mrs. Coulter endeavored to recollect if she had ever heard of the Rosses having relations in that quarter. Mr. Foreman said nothing, but, with that keen lawyer eye of his, darted into the secret errand at once, and already sympathized with the failure and disappointment, which he felt sure would follow.

Anne’s farewells were over – all but one – the day before leaving Merkland, she went up to the mill to say good-by to little Lilie. She found Mrs. Melder in ecstasies of wonder and admiration, holding up her hands, and crying, “Bless me!” as she unfolded one by one the contents of a box which stood upon the table. They consisted of little garments beautifully made – a profusion of them. Lilie herself was luxuriating over a splendid picture-book, after viewing with a burst of childish delight the pretty little silk frock which Mrs. Melder, in the pride of her heart, was already thinking would make so great a sensation when it appeared first in their seat in the front gallery (alias the mid loft) of Portoran kirk. Nothing less than a mother’s hand could have packed that wonderful box; its gay little muslin frocks, which Mrs. Melder “had never seen the like of, for fineness,” its inner garments of beautiful linen, its bright silken sashes, its story books, resplendent in their gilded bindings, its parcels of sweetmeats and toys. Mrs. Melder was overwhelmed – the grandeur and wealth of her little charge fairly took away her breath.

“And now when she’s won to an easier speech, Miss Anne,” said the good woman aside. “She calls me nurse – what think ye! it’s a wonderful bairn – and ye’ll hear her say lang words sometimes, that I’m sure she never learned frae me; it’s my thought, Miss Anne, that the bairn kent the English tongue afore she came here, and had either forgotten’t, or – atweel ane disna ken what to think; but this while she’s ta’en to speaking about her mamma. It’s a wonder to me that ony mother could hae the heart to part wi’ her.”

“See,” cried Lilie, springing to Anne’s side, “look what bonnie things,” and she precipitated a shoal of little books upon Anne’s knee.

“They are very pretty, Lilie,” said Anne. “Who sent you all these?”

The child looked at her gravely. “It would be mamma – it was sure to be mamma.”

“Where is mamma?” asked Anne.

“Far away yonder – over the big water – but she aye minds Lilie.”

“And why did you come away from mamma, Lilie?” said Anne.

The child began to cry. “Lilie ill, ill – like to die. Oh! if you had seen my mamma greeting.” And throwing herself down on the ground, Lilie fell into one of her passionate bursts of grief.

“But yon wasna your mamma that brought ye here, my lamb?” said Mrs. Melder.

Lilie continued to weep – too bitterly to give any answer.

Anne turned over the books – in the blank leaf of one of them a name was written in a boyish hand – ”Lilia Santa Clara.” By-and-by the child’s grief moderated, and, taking up her books again, she ran to the mill to show them to Robert.

“Lilia Santa Clara,” it gave no clue to the child’s origin.

“Haill three names!” said Mrs. Melder, “if ane only kent what her father’s name was; the leddy that brought her here said only ‘Lilias,’ and I dinna mind if I askit the last ane in my flutter – and bonnie outlandish names they are; ‘Lilia Santa Clara’ – to think of a wean wi’ a’ thae grand names putting Melder at the hinder end! – it’s out of the question.”

“Santa Clara may be the surname, Mrs. Melder,” said Anne, smiling at the conjunction.

“Eh! think ye so, Miss Anne? I never heard of folk having first names for their surname; though to be sure they do ca’ the English flunky that has the confectionary shop in Portoran, Thomas. Well, it may be sae.”

“Does she call herself by this name?” asked Anne.

“Ay, I have heard the words mony a time; and sae far as I can guess, Miss Anne, she maun hae been sent to yon lady frae some foreign pairt. Eh, bless me! there maun be some shame and reproach past the common, afore they sent away a bairn like yon.”

Jacky Morison was in a state of intense and still excitement – the fire had reached a white heat before they left Merkland. Barbara Genty, Mrs. Ross’s favored maid, cast envious looks at her as she sat perched in the back seat of the gig, which was to convey them to Portoran. Old Esther Fleming, who stood without the gate to watch Miss Anne’s departure, regarded Jacky dubiously, as if doubting her fitness for her important post. Jacky rose heroically to the emergency. Her faithfulness, her discretion, her true and loyal service, should be beyond all question when they returned.

From her earliest recollection, Anne Ross had been Jacky’s pattern and presiding excellence, less awful and nearer herself than Mrs. Catherine – and of all kinds of disinterested and unselfish devotion, there are few so chivalrous as the enthusiastic and loving service of a girl, to the grown woman who condescends to notice and protect her.

When the coach arrived in Edinburgh, Anne saw from its window little Alice Aytoun’s fair face looking for her anxiously. James and Alice were waiting to take her home. Anne had purposed spending the short time she should remain in Edinburgh, in the house of an old companion and former schoolfellow; but Alice clung and pleaded, there was no denying her – so Anne suffered herself to be guided to Mrs. Aytoun’s quiet little house.

Mrs. Aytoun received her with grave kindness; the affectionate dependence which Alice had upon the stronger character of Anne, the good report which James had given of her, and even her present undertaking, out of the way and unusual though it was, had prepossessed Mrs. Aytoun in her favor. And Norman – the neglected wife remembered him too, so delicately kind, so generous, so reverent of her weakness long ago, when her husband and he were friends; and though she delivered no judgment in his favor, her heart yet went forth in full sympathy with the brave sister, who was so resolute in her belief of his innocence, so eager to labor for its proof. Mrs. Aytoun’s God-speed was music to the heart of Anne.

And Alice, very tremulously joyful, clung about her all night long – now sitting on the stool at her feet, her fair curls drooping on Anne’s knee – now leaning on her chair – now seated by her side, clasping her hand. James, too, with brotherly confidence and kindness, advised with her about her plans and future proceedings. Anne felt the atmosphere brighten. Surely these were good omens.

In the meantime, Jacky, we regret to say, had been suffering a good deal from disappointment; it was not from her first glimpse of Edinburgh, but it was from the house in Edinburgh, which was specially honored as being the dwelling of “Miss Alice.” Jacky had been struck with awe and admiration as she glanced at it from without. The great “land” looked very stately, and spacious, and commanding, though it did immediately front a street, and had neither grounds nor trees surrounding it – but when the immense house dwindled into a single flat, of which she could count all the rooms at a glance, Jacky felt the disappointment sadly. Then she was taken into the small bright kitchen, where Mrs. Aytoun’s stout woman-servant, the only domestic of the household, was preparing tea for the travellers. Jacky was scarcely prepared for this. It might have been difficult, we fancy, for many persons more experienced than Jacky, to ascertain what claim to respect or honor, a young Scottish lawyer, with very little practice as yet, whose house consisted of one flat only, and the wants of whose establishment one woman-servant could supply – could possibly have.

But James Aytoun had not only an excellent claim to respect and honor, but actually received it. It was not any empty pride either which led him to sign himself James Aytoun, of Aytoun. Had it not been for the reckless and extravagant father, whose debts had so hopelessly entangled his inheritance, the territorial designation would have represented many fair acres – a long-descended patrimony. As it was, with only a desolate mansion-house, in a southern county, and some bleak lands about it, James Aytoun, of Aytoun, was still received and honored as a gentleman of good family and blood – neither by descent, education, nor breeding beneath any family in Scotland.

It is but a narrow spirit which endeavors to sneer at a distinction like this, and call it the pride of poverty. James Aytoun belonged to that well-nurtured, manly class, whose hereditary honor and good fame belong to the nation, and whose frank dignity of mind and tone are as far removed as mental loftiness can be from that vulgar and arrogant thing, which mean men call pride.

Jacky was reconciling herself to the little Edinburgh kitchen, and had already entered into conversation with Tibbie, when little Bessie arrived from her mother’s humble house in an adjacent back street, to renew her acquaintance with her Strathoran friend. – Jacky had many messages to deliver from Johnnie Halflin, which Bessie received with a due amount of blushing laughter.

“And, Oh, Jacky! how will they ever do wanting you at the Tower?”

Jacky did not apprehend the covert wit – did not even perceive that the rosy little Edinburgh-bred girl, was about to condescend to, and patronise, the awkward rustic one.

“They’ll only miss me, for a while, at first – and then maybe, we’ll no be long.”

“Is’t Miss Ross that’s with you?” asked Bessie.

“I’m with Miss Ross,” said Jacky, quickly “Miss Anne chose me of her own will – after I askit her – and so did Miss Falconer.”

“Eh! isna she an awfu’ funny lady, yon Miss Falconer?”

“Funny!” Jacky was indignantly astonished. “I dinna ken what ye ca’ funny, Bessie. She’s like – ”

“She’s no like ither folk,” said Bessie.

“It’s you that doesna ken. She’s like – ”

“Wha is she like, Jacky?”

“She’s like Belphœbe,” muttered Jacky, hastily. “But ye dinna ken wha she was – and she’s a lady, for a’ that she does strange thing whiles.”

“Is that the lady that throosh the gentleman that was gaun to be uncivil to our Miss Alice?” interposed Tibbie.

“Yes,” said Bessie laughing. Little Bessie was not above the vanity of being thought to know these north country magnates. – ”And on New-year’s night, when all the ladies were at the Tower, (ye mind, Jacky?) Miss Falconer gied me a shilling a’ to mysel, for bringing her napkin to her, that she had left in Miss Alice’s dressing-room – and nippit my lug, and tell’t me to take care o’ Miss Alice – she ca’ed her my little mistress. Isna she an awful height herself?”

“She’s no so tall as Mrs. Catherine,” said Jacky.

“Eh, Jacky! Miss Alice didna come up to her shouther, and she’s a haill head higher than Miss Ross.”

Jacky did not choose to answer: though why there should seem any slight to Marjory, in an exaggeration of her stature, we cannot tell. Without doubt, Belphœbe was to the full as tall as she.

“Do you ken that Merkland’s been in Edinburgh?” asked Bessie. In Strathoran she had called Lewis, Mr. Ross; now she was bent on impressing Tibbie with a deep sense of her own familiarity with these great people. “Eh, Jacky, do you mind what Johnnie Halflin used to say about Merkland?”

Jacky had a high sense of honor. She made an elfin face at her talkative companion, and remained prudently silent.

“What did he say?” asked Tibbie.

“Ou naithing. Jacky and me kens.”

“An he said onything ill, I redd him to keep out o’ the power o’ my ten talents. He’s a young blackguard, like maist feck of his kind, I’ll warrant – idle serving callants, wi’ nought to do in this world, but claver about their betters, wi’ light-headed gilpies, like yoursel. I wad just like to ken what he said!”

“It was naething ill,” said Jacky.