Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

She fancied she could hear steps ascending a stair, and echoing with a dull and hollow sound through the house. Presently a window above was opened, and the face of an old woman, buried in the immense borders of a white night-cap, looked out:

“Eh! guid preserve us. Wha are ye, disturbing honest folk at this hour o’ the night; and what do ye want?”

“Is Miss Lillie not within?” said Anne in disappointment.

“Miss Lillie! muckle you’re heeding about Miss Lillie; its naething but an excuse for theftdom and spoliation; but I warn ye, ye’ll get naething here. Do ye ken there’s an alarm-bell in Schole?”

“I am alone,” said Anne, “and have merely come to see Miss Lillie, I assure you. You see I could do you no injury.”

“And how div I ken,” said the cautious portress a little more gently, “that ye havena a band at the ither side of the hedge?”

“You can see over the hedge,” said Anne, smiling in spite of her impatience, “that I am quite alone. Pray ask Miss Lillie to admit me; she will tell you that I came by her own appointment.

“A bonnie like hour for leddies to be visiting at,” said the old woman; “and how div ye ken that Miss Lillie will come at my ca’?”

“Pray do not keep me waiting,” said Anne, “it is getting late. Tell Miss Lillie that I am here.”

“And if I were gaun to tell Miss Lillie ye were here, wha would take care o’ the house, I wad like to ken? Ye’re no gaun to pit your gowk’s errands on me. If I had the loudest vice in a’ Scotland, it wadna reach Miss Lillie, an I cried till I was hoarse.”

“You don’t mean to say,” exclaimed Anne, “that she is not at home! – that Miss Lillie has left Schole?”

“Ay, deed div I – nothing less. Mr. Patrick and her gaed away last night’ to see their friends in the west country. Is that a’? If ye had a hoast like me, and were as muckle fashed wi’ your breath, ye wadna have keeped your head out of the window sae long as I have done.”

“Did she leave no word?” said Anne, “no message – or did she say when she would return?”

“Neither the tane nor the tither: she never said a word to me, but that they were gaun to the west country to see their friends. What for should they no? They are as free to do their ain pleasure as ither folk.”

Anne turned away, greatly disappointed and bewildered.

“Be sure you sneck the gate,” screamed the careful guardian of Schole, “and draw the stane close till’t that ye pushed away wi’ your fit.”

Anne obeyed, and proceeded homeward very much downcast and disappointed. She had expected so much from this interview, and had looked forward to it so anxiously. Why should they avoid her? For what reason should the nearest relatives of Norman’s wife, flee from Norman’s sister? She herself had hailed, with feelings so warmly and sadly affectionate, the idea of their existence and sympathy – perhaps of their co-operation and help. Now Christian’s words returned to her mind in sad perplexity. She could find no clue to them. The house of Schole looked more dreary and dismal than ever. She felt a void as she looked back to it, and knew that the watcher, whose light had fallen upon the still waters of the Firth through all the lingering night, was there no longer. She left her watch at the window early, and, with a feeling of blank disappointment and loneliness, laid herself down to her disturbed and dreaming rest – very sad, and disconsolate, and unsettled – seeing no clear prospect before her, nor plan of operation.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE bright weeks of May stole on rapidly, and Anne had made no advance in her search. Little Alice Aytoun, when she came to visit her, clung round her neck anxiously, lifting up beseeching eyes to her face, but Anne had no word of hopeful answer to give. Her own heart was sinking day by day; the window of Patrick Lillie’s study was still shut up and dark; the old servant whom they had left behind them could give no information as to their return. Anne was compelled to confess to herself that her plan had failed – that except for her dim and mysterious knowledge of these singular Lillies, she had not made a single step of progress.

Then Lewis wrote letters, slightly querulous, requiring her presence at home – and Mrs. Catherine sent one characteristic note promising, “if ye will be a good bairn and come back, maybe to go with ye myself, when the weather is more suiting for the seaside.” She was doing no good in Aberford; so with a heavy heart Anne returned home.

The first day after her arrival at Merkland, she visited the Mill. With what strange feelings swelling in her heart did she draw the child to her side, and take into her own its small soft hand. The little strange exotic Lilie, the wonder of the quiet parish – was she indeed a Lilias Rutherford? – a daughter of the banished Norman? – her own nearest kin and relative?

“Jacky Morison’s been up this morning already, Miss Anne,” said Mrs. Melder. “Indeed, and ye may think muckle o’ yoursel, Lilie my woman – baith leddy and maid comin anceerrant to see ye, the first thing after their home-coming. She’s an awfu’ strange lassie yon, Miss Anne; ane would think she had gotten some word o’ the bairn that naebody else kens. She was aye unco fond o’ her, but now it’s Miss Lilie every word.”

Strange indeed! these intuitive perceptions of Jacky’s puzzled Anne greatly.

“That was what they called Lilie at home,” said the child thoughtfully.

“Ay, listen till her; I dinna misdoubt it, Miss Anne – the folk that sent a’ yon bonnie things, maun be weel off in this world.”

“Will you come and walk with me, Lilie?” said Anne: “see what a beautiful day it is.”

The child assented eagerly, and trying on her bonnet, Anne led her out. They went to the foot of the tree on which were carved the names of those two exiles – Norman and Marion. It was a fit resting-place for their sister and their child. Anne seated herself on the turf, and placed Lilie by her side.

“Can you tell me where your home is, Lilie?”

“Away yonder,” said Lilie, “far away, over the sea.”

“And what like is it?” said Anne, “do you remember?”

“A bonnie, bonnie place – where there’s brighter light and warmer days; and grand flowers far bigger than any in Strathoran; but its lang, lang to sail, and whiles there were loud winds and storms, and Lilie wasna weel.”

“Would you like to go home, Lilie?” said Anne.

“I would like to go to mamma. I would like to go to my own mamma; but – mamma doesna call yon place home.”

“What does she call it, Lilie?”

“When mamma was putting Lilie into the big ship, she said Lilie was coming home; and maybe she would come hersel for Lilie.”

“And how did she look when she said that?” said Anne.

The child began to cry.

“She put down her head – my mamma’s bonnie head – down into her hands, this way; and then she began to greet, like me – oh, my mamma!”

Anne drew the little girl’s head into her lap, and wiped away the tears. “You would be very glad to see mamma, Lilie, if she came here? she will come perhaps some day.”

“Do you ken my mamma?” said Lilie eagerly. “Did she tell you she was coming?”

“No,” said Anne, “but when she comes, you will take my hand, and say, ‘Mamma, this is my friend;’ will you not, and introduce me to her?”

The child looked brightly up:

“Eh, Lilie will be blythe! blythe! – but if mamma were coming, what would Lilie call you?”

“You would call me aunt,” said Anne, her eyes filling as she looked upon the little face lying on her knee. “Your Aunt Anne that found you out, when you came a little stranger to the Mill.”

Lilie rose to wind her small arms round Anne’s neck.

“But you’re no Lilie’s aunt – I wish you were Lilie’s aunt – then you would take me to live at Merkland.”

“Would you like to live at Merkland, Lilie?”

“Whiles,” said the child; “no in bonnie days like this, but whiles – Jacky says I’m a lady – am I a lady?”

“Not till you are old, like me; you will be a lady then.”

“But Jacky says I’m a young lady,” reiterated Lilie; “does Jacky no ken?”