Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

Duncan advanced in grim mirth, holding a pair of mighty shears. Angus knelt down upon the grass, and held Fitzherbert with his arm. The operation commenced. The punishment was the bitterest they could have chosen. Duncan Roy squatting at his side, with methodic composure and malicious glee, began to clip, and cut away, in jagged and uneven bits, his cherished whiskers, his beautiful moustache, his magnificent hair. The victim roared and groaned, entreated and threatened, in vain – the relentless operators proceeded in their work – the scissors entered into his soul.

A light, quick step came suddenly along the path. They did not hear it, so overwhelming was the laughter of the lookers-on, till Marjory Falconer stood in the midst of them. Duncan’s scissors suddenly ceased. The victim looked up in momentary hope, and again shrank back despairing. He by no means desired to throw himself upon the tender mercies of Miss Falconer.

“What is the matter?” cried Marjory. “Flora, are you here! What is the matter? what are they about?”

“Oh! Miss Falconer,” exclaimed Flora who, between shame and laughter, was now in tears, “it’s the gentleman from Strathoran – and it’s Duncan and Angus – and he wouldna let me be, and they’re – ”

An involuntary burst of laughter choked Flora’s penitence. – The lifted head of her brother, with its look of comic appeal, as he held up his shears before Miss Falconer, and silently asked her permission to proceed – the grim steadfastness with which Angus continued to hold the victim on the grass – the vain attempt of Miss Falconer to look gravely displeased and dignified – the fierce struggles of Fitzherbert – Flora could not bear it: she ran in behind the bourtree-bush.

Marjory stood undecided for a moment. She had great influence with the Macalpines and their class, as a strong and firm character always has. She thought for an instant of what people would say, almost for the first time in her life. Then she looked at the ludicrous scene before her – the just punishment of poor Flora’s persecution. The prudent resolution faded away – she yielded to the fun and to the justice. She could not put her veto upon it.

“George, do you go home – you are not wanted. Duncan, have you finished?”

“Na,” said the rejoicing Duncan, beginning with double zeal to ply his redoubtable shears. “He’s a camstarie beast, this ane – he tak’s lang shearing – but we’re winning on, Mem.”

George reluctantly turned away. His mistress’s orders were not to be trifled with, he knew. Little Bessie’s pink handkerchief was in Johnnie Halflin’s mouth again. Flora remained behind the bourtree-bush, terrified to look upon her tormentor’s agonized face. Marjory Falconer looked on.

The blood was rushing in torrents to her hot cheeks already. – She could have put an end to this if she would: instead of that she had encouraged it. She had yielded to the mirthful impulse: now she was paying the penalty in one of her overpowering agonies of shame.

“Now – now!” she exclaimed, as Duncan, with methodic accuracy, finished his operation on one side of Mr. Fitzherbert’s fiery countenance, “that will do now – let him go.”

The operators looked up in disappointment.

“Do let him go; let me see him released before I leave you.”

Duncan and Angus looked at each other.

“Weel,” said Angus, smiling grimly, “he’s gey weel; ye’ll think again, my lad, before ye offer to lay your filthy fingers on a Macalpine, or ony ither lass in the countryside. Now, Duncan – ”

They began to free him from his bondage. Angus took one end of the plaid which confined his arms – Duncan the other. The process was satisfactory, but by no means gentle; over and over they rolled him, and when the hapless Fitzherbert found himself at last at liberty, he was lying within the green verge of the Oran – the soft waters embracing him. His first struggle threw him further in; and when he rose at last, spluttering with wrath and water, his clothes wet, his face scarred with the pebbles, and shorn of its hirsute glories – all his tormentors were gone. Light of foot, and conversant with all the by-ways, they had dispersed, considerably against the will of the Macalpines, but in obedience to the command of Miss Falconer, and the entreaties of Flora.

In burning rage and mortification Mr. Fitzherbert stalked back to Strathoran. In the distance, upon the other side of the river, he could see the retreat of the Macalpines; it was a fruitless thing vowing vengeance upon them. He had done his worst; they were out of his power.

But Mr. Fitzherbert’s mortification and rage reached a climax when he looked upon his sad mutilation – cruel as Hanun the son of Nahash, and his artful counsellors of the children of Ammon, the scissors of the remorseless Duncan had swept away one entire half of Mr. Fitzherbert’s adornments. It must all go, cherished and dearly beloved as it was – the flowing luxuriance of the one side must be sacrificed to the barbarous stubble of the other. – Alas the day! How should he meet Lord Gillravidge! how account for the holocaust! Mr. Fitzherbert was fitly punished – he was in despair.

Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be! – nor like the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was impossible – no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame – but it deepened her repentance.

“Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?” she asked as she entered Merkland.

“Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne’s in,” said Duncan, preceding her leisurely to Mrs. Ross’s parlor. “She’s in her ain room – according to her ain fashion. There’s nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a bird, ye may tak my word for’t she’ll no live ony way lang.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Marjory. “Is Miss Ross ill?”

“Na. I’m no saying she’s ill,” was the cautious answer; “but taking lang flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to pingle her lane at a seam; I say it’s a clear tempting o’ Providence, Miss Falconer, and I have tell’t Miss Anne that mysel.”

Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne’s room. “Come in,” said Anne. Marjory entered.

The window was open – the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its thick fringe of foliage was parted here and there. Anne leant upon the window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim shores of the Forth in the still evening-time – the long, low, sighing of the waters – the desolate, gloomy house behind – the tall, gaunt figure stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand – these were before her constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be.

She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed, thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not speak, she turned round.

“Marjory, is that you?”

“What are you thinking of, Anne?” said Marjory. “What makes you dream and brood thus? There you have been gazing out these two minutes, as fixedly as if you saw something of the greatest interest. I am quite sure you don’t know what you are looking at, and, had I come forward suddenly, and asked you what river that was, you would have faltered and deliberated before you could be certain it was the Oran. I know you would. What is it all about?”

Anne smiled.

“It is not so easy to tell. You put comprehensive questions, Marjory.”

“And here are you making yourself ill!” exclaimed Marjory, impetuously; “dreaming over something which no one is to know; walking alone, and sitting alone, and defrauding yourself of proper rest and relaxation, and altogether, as plainly as possible endeavoring to manufacture a consumption. I say, Anne Ross, what is it all about? I have a right to know – we all have a right to know; you don’t belong to yourself. If you were not Anne Ross, of Merkland, I should begin to suspect we had some love-sickness on our hands.”

“And if you were any one else but Marjory Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, I should be very angry,” said Anne, smiling.

“Never anything reasonable from you since you came home; never a call upon any one but Mrs. Melder. Nothing but patient looks, and paleness, and reveries! I don’t see why we should submit to it, Anne Ross. I protest, in the name of the parish – it is a public injustice!”

“Very well, Marjory,” said Anne. “Pray be so good as sit down now, and do not scold so bitterly. Did you come all the way from Falcon’s Craig for the sole purpose of bringing me under discipline?”

Marjory Falconer put up her hands to her cheeks to hide the vehement blushes which rushed back again; then, as she recalled the story she had come to tell, its ludicrous points overcame the shame, and she laughed with characteristic heartiness. There was not, after all, so very much to be ashamed of; but, as everybody exaggerated the extravagance of everything done by Marjory Falconer, so Marjory Falconer felt herself bitterly humiliated in the recollection of escapades which young ladies of much greater pretensions would only have laughed at.

“What is it, Marjory?” said Anne.

The fit of shame returned.

“Oh! not much. Only I have been making a fool of myself again.”

Anne expressed no wonder; she only drew her friend into a chair, and asked:

“How?”

“I am going to tell you. I came here at once, you see, lest some one else should be before me with the news. Ah! and there you sit as cool and calm as though I were not entering my purgatory!”

“I don’t want to tease you further,” said Anne, “or I should say that when people make purgatories for themselves, it behoves them to endure patiently.”

“Very well: you don’t intend to be sympathetic. I am quite satisfied. Now for my confession. Most unwittingly and innocently, I premise, was I led into the snare. Anne Ross! turn away from the window, and keep your glances within proper bounds. If your eyes wander so, I shall forget my own foolishness in yours – and I don’t choose that.”

Anne obeyed, and Marjory told her story – sometimes overwhelmed with her own passionate humiliation, sometimes bursting into irrepressible mirth. It was very soon told. Anne looked annoyed and vexed. She did not speak. It was the sorest condemnation she could have given.

“You have nothing to say to me!” exclaimed Marjory, the hot flood burning over her cheek, and neck, and forehead. “You think I am clearly hopeless now. You think – ”

“I think,” said Anne, “that Marjory Falconer, whom malicious people blame for pride, is not half proud enough.”

“Not proud enough!”

It was difficult to believe, indeed, when one saw the drawing-up of her tall, fine figure, and the flashing of her eye.

“Yes, I understand. You would be proud enough were you Ralph; then, for everything brave, and honorable, and true, the fame of the Falconers would be safe in your hands: but you are not proud enough, being Marjory. I fancy we should inhabit a loftier atmosphere than these boyish frolics could find breath in, Marjory; an atmosphere too pure and rare to carry clamorous voices, whatever may be their burden.”

“Gentle and mild,” said Marjory, attempting a laugh, which would not come; “perfumed and dainty. I am no exotic, Anne; I must breathe living air. I cannot breathe odors.”