Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

And the whole story was inflicted upon Anne – of how Mrs. Yammer, on the aforesaid dreary Martinmas night, fancied she saw the shadow of the umquhile John, gloomily lowering on her parlor wall; of how her heart “played thud and cracked, like as it wad burst,” as the shadowy head nodded solemnly, darkening the whole apartment; of how at last Johann returned, and with profane laughter, discovered the ghost to be the shadow of a branch of the old elm without, some bare twigs upon the extremity of which were fashioned into the likeness of an exceeding retrousee nose, “the very marrow” of that prominent feature in the face of the late lamented John; of which discovery his mournful relic was but half convinced, and her heart had palpitated since, “sometimes less, and sometimes mair, but I’ve never been quit o’t for a week at a time.”

The infliction terminated at last, Miss Crankie carried her sister off when the gloaming began to darken, having sufficient discernment to perceive that Anne’s patience had been enough tried for a beginning.

Anne’s thoughts were in a maze. She sat down by the window in the soft gloom of the spring night, and looked towards the house, where beat another true and faithful heart which had wept and yearned over Norman – Marion – Marion – was she living or dead? could this Christian Lillie be aware of Norman’s existence, and of his innocence? There could not be two betrothed Marions. In the latter part of the story, the countryside must have been deceived. Who so likely to accompany the exile as the sister of this brave woman, who had done the housemother’s self-denying duty in her earliest youth? Anne’s pulse beat quick, she became greatly agitated; was there then a tie of near connexion between herself and this stranger, whose path she had again crossed? Was Norman’s wife Christian’s sister? had they an equal stake in the return of the exile?

She could not sit still – cold dew was bursting upon her forehead; she walked from window to window in feverish excitement. Could she dare to ask? – could she venture to make herself known? Alas, she was still no whit advanced in her search for proof of Norman’s innocence! If Christian Lillie had possessed any clue, she must, it was certain, have used it before now; and until some advance had been made, these two strangers in their singular kindred would not dare to whisper to one another that Norman lived.

Anne threw herself upon her chair again. And Lilie – who was Lilie? Why was this stranger child brought – of all localities in the world – to the neighbourhood of Merkland? Could it be? could it be? her heart grew sick with feverish hope and anxiety; her mind continued to hover about, and dwell upon this mystery; but she almost forcibly restrained herself from articulate thought upon it – she could not venture yet to entertain the hope.

And Norman! Esther Fleming’s story had brought him out clear before her, in the gay light of his generous boyhood. – Graver and more deeply affecting was this. Who might venture to compute the untold agonies of that terrible time of parting – the nervous compulsory strength of the girl-heart that went with him – the stern patience of the maturer one, who above by the sick-bed at home! Grief that must have remained with all its burning sense of wrong, and heavy endurance of an undeserved curse, since ever little Alice Aytoun opened her blue eyes to the light – a lifetime of pain, and fear, and sorrow – too dreadful to look back upon!

And Anne’s heart sank when she looked forward – living here, in the immediate spot where the deed was done, with all facility for collecting favorable evidence, and with better knowledge, and a more immediate certainty of Norman’s innocence than even Anne herself could have – why had the brother and sister done nothing to remove this stain? She could only account for it by supposing them paralysed with fear – terrified to risk the present security of those so dear to them, for any uncertainty even of complete acquittal – and afraid of making any exertion, lest the eyes of curiosity should be turned upon them.

The Forth lay vast in silvery silence, breathing long sighs along its sands. Opposite swelling soft and full, in the spiritual dimness of the spring night, rose the fair lands of Fife. Still and solemn in its saintly evening rest, lay the beautiful earth everywhere. Only awake and watching, under dusky roofs, and in dim chambers, were the hoping, toiling, wrestling souls of men, nobler and of mightier destiny, than even the beautiful earth.

The next morning, when she entered the sunny little parlor, Anne found Jacky rearranging, according to her own ideas of elegance, the breakfast equipage, which Miss Crankie’s energetic little servant had already placed upon the table. Anne smiled, and felt almost uncomfortable, as she observed the solitary cup and saucer on the table – the single plate – the minute teapot. – After all, this living alone, had something very strange in it.

Jacky seemed to think so too: she filled out Anne’s cup of tea, and lingered about the back of her chair.

“If ye please, Miss Anne – ”

“Well, Jacky?”

“If ye please,” said Jacky, hesitating, “do ye ken wha little Miss Lilie is?”

Anne started and turned round in alarm – was this strange, dark maid of her’s really an elfin, after all?

“No, Jacky,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because – it’s no forwardness, Miss Anne,” murmured Jacky, hanging down her head.

“I know that, Jacky – because what?”

“Because, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, emboldened, “I saw a lady down on the sands. She was standing close by the bushes at yon dark house, and her e’en were travelling ower the water, and her face was white – I will aye mind it – and – ”

“And what?”

“It was her that brought little Lilie to the Mill. I saw her once by Oranside at night; and she was on our side of the water; and she was looking across at Merkland.”

“Was Lilie with her then, Jacky?”

“No, Miss Anne; but I saw her after, leading Lilie by the hand, and then she was on the Merkland side, where Esther Fleming lives; and she was walking about, canny and soft, as if she wanted to see in.”

“And are you sure it is the same lady, Jacky?” said Anne.

“I ken, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, eagerly; “because there’s no twa faces like yon in a’ the world; and, Miss Anne, do ye mind Lilie’s e’en?”

“Yes, Jacky.”

Anne did recollect them – and how dark and full their liquid depths were!

“Because Lilie’s e’en are the very same – only they’re no sae woeful – and I kent the lady would be some friend, but Mrs. Melder said it couldna be her mother.”

Anne’s heart swelled full. Could this little child be as near of kindred to herself as to Christian Lillie? Her mind was overflowing with this. She forgot that Jacky lingered.

“And, if ye please, Miss Anne – ”

Anne again turned round to listen.

“She was looking away ower the water, and leaning on the hedge – maybe she lives yonder – and Miss Anne – ”

“What is it, Jacky?”

Jacky drew near and spoke very low:

“Do you mind the sang, Miss Anne, that Miss Alice sang on the New-year’s night, when Mr. Archibald came home to the Tower?”

Anne started.

“The lady was saying it to hersel very low – the way Lilie sings her strange music.”

“What did she say, Jacky?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it was a short verse – it was about seeing the stars rise upon the Oran. I can say’t a’.” And Jacky hung back, and blushed and hesitated.

The connexion became clearer by every word. “The student lad” who wrote this ballad – could it be Patrick Lillie?

“Was it last night you heard this, Jacky?”

“No, Miss Anne, it was this morning very early. I wanted to see the sea,” said Jacky, bashfully, “and I saw the sun rise. But I think the lady wasna heeding for the sea. She wasna there at a’. She was in her ain spirit.”

“And you are sure you are not mistaken, Jacky?” said Anne.

“Miss Anne!” exclaimed Jacky, “ye would ken yourself, if you saw her. Its just Lilie’s e’en – only they are far, far deeper and sadder, and aye searching and travelling, as if something was lost that they bid to find, and were seeking for night and day.”

“That they bid to find!” The words roused Anne. “Did you mention this to any one?” she asked.

Jacky looked injured – an imputation on her honor she could not bear.

“I never tell things, Miss Anne. I’m no a talepyet.”

“Well, Jacky, remember that I trust you. I have heard that this lady has had great sorrow; and she has some good reason, no doubt, for not keeping Lilie beside her. Mind, you must never mention this to any one – not to Bessie – not even to your mother, when we return. No one knows it, but you and me. I am sure I can trust you, Jacky.”

Jacky gave a faithful promise, and went away with secret and proud dignity. She also had entered upon the search – she had begun to co-operate with Anne.

CHAPTER XXIII

ANNE had fairly started upon her voyage of discovery. The beginning of it cost her many thoughts. She had half advanced to various peasant wives, whom she saw at cottage doors, screaming to unruly children, or out upon the universal “green,” superintending their little bleaching – and had as often shrunk back, in painful timidity, which she blamed herself greatly for, but could not manage to overcome. It was quite different among the well-known cottages of Strathoran, though even with them, Anne would have felt visits of condescension or patronage unspeakably awkward and painful. Now this constitutional shyness must be overcome. Walking along the high road, a considerable way beyond the village of Aberford, she suddenly came upon a desolate mansion-house. The broken gate hung by the merest tag of hinge; the stone pillars were defaced and broken. What had formerly been ornamental grounds before the house, were a jungle of long grass, and uncouth brushwood. Bushes grown into unseemly straggling trees, beneath the shadow of which, thistles and nettles luxuriated, and plumes of unshorn grass waved rank and long, as if in the very triumph of neglect. The house-door hung as insecurely as the gate – the steps were mossy and cracked – the windows entirely shattered, and in some cases the very frames of them broken. Behind, the gardens lay in a like state of desolation. Here and there a cultivated flower, which had been hardy enough to cling to its native soil, marked among wild blossoms, and grass, and weeds, a place where care and culture had once been. Upon a mossed and uneven wall some fruit-trees clung, rich with blossoms: it had been an orchard once. In the midst of another waste and desolate division stood the broken pedestal of a sun-dial; a sloping wilderness ascended from it to the low windows of what seemed once to have been a drawing-room. A spell of neglect was over it all, less terrific than that still horror which a poet of our own time has thrown over his haunted house, but yet in the gay wealth and hopefulness of spring, striking chill and drearily upon the observer’s eye. Anne examined it with curious interest; she could suspect what house it was.