Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

Before she reached Schole, Miss Crankie and Jacky overtook her – none of them spoke. All were agitated, excited, and anxious – all were looking eagerly towards the sea.

Another flash – the black waters were dashing high up on those feeble spars. Clinging to them in the wild vehemence of despair were several men, and one slight shadow bound as it seemed to the mast – could it be a woman in that extremity? The hull was covered – the waters appeared to rise higher every moment. – There was a little knot of people on the sands – was there no help?

Again the deadly illumination bursts over sea and sky. There is a figure struggling through the surge – you catch a glimpse of him – now fighting through the foam – now buffeting with the black waves. Anne and her companions are already on the sands; they see a strong rope trailing over the wet shore – the other end is fastened round the body of this brave man. The little knot on the shore is sternly silent – fearfully anxious. No one looks in the face of his neighbor they are watching with intense, unswerving gaze, the progress of that adventurer across the gloomy water. Even Anne scarcely notes that the gates of Schole stand open, and there are lights within!

They see him again further in, when the next flash comes, fighting vigorously through the waves; the dark figures on the yards of the helpless ship have ceased to cry – they too are watching (who can tell with what agonies of fear and hope?) the speck that fights towards them through the turbid gloom of that dark sea.

There is a long pause this time, between the lightning and its accompanying thunder. In the dense gloom they can discover nothing of his progress. They wait in intense anxiety for the next flash.

The water is bathed in light again: he is returning. He carries an indistinct burden in one arm, guiding himself painfully as they can discern by the tightened rope. The men on shore assist him warily – another long buffeting – another breathless watch, and he has reached solid land again.

Who is this man? Anne Ross’s eyes are strained eagerly to discover. The light from a lantern streams on a woman carried in his arms; he did not wait to bring her fully to the land, but placing her in the hold of one of the lookers on, turned instantly back again – back through the gloomy, heaving, turbid water, to save more lives – to complete the work he had begun.

Anne watched him toiling back again through surge and foam, so anxiously that she scarcely noted the burden he had brought from the wreck in his arms. Now a faint cry recalled her attention; the saved woman was a young mother clasping an infant convulsively to her breast. Two or three female figures were already kneeling round her – Miss Crankie, Jacky, and another. – Anne joined them; the third person was Christian Lillie.

They could scarcely draw the child from the strained arms that clasped it; it was alive – nothing more. The agonized hold relaxed at last, and Miss Crankie received it from the mother.

“Let us take her in,” said Christian Lillie raising the young woman in her arms.

She resisted feebly.

“No – no till they’re a’ safe; no till I see Willie.”

Miss Crankie carried the child into Schole. Christian and Anne wrapped the young mother in a shawl, and supported her. – Her limbs were rigid with the terrible vigil. She gazed in agony towards the ship, and murmured:

“He’ll no leave it till the last; he’ll no save himsel till a’body else is saved. Oh! the Lord keep him – Willie! – Willie!”

And there they remained till six heroic voyages had been made to the helpless vessel. They were all saved at last. The last, the husband of the young woman, and captain of the ship, fighting his own way to the shore; he had more strength or nerve than the rest.

And who had done it all? The light from the lantern streamed for a moment on his face – that pale susceptible face, whose delicate features spoke so eloquently the language of expression – the thin hair clung to his white temples; his eyes were shining with unnatural excitement – with something which looked like an unnatural vehemence of hope. It was Patrick Lillie!

The bystanders and the saved men alike poured into Schole; they were all assembled in the large old-fashioned kitchen. Their deliverer had disappeared. Miss Crankie, alert and active, went about, briskly helping all. Christian was there, and Anne. – Seven lives in all had been saved by Patrick Lillie. The young wife of the captain lay almost insensible in an easy chair; she had borne the extremity of danger bravely, but now she sank – the over-strained nerves gave way – she could hardly answer the inquiries of her husband.

By and by, under Christian’s directions, he carried her to a small room upstairs, where a bed had been hastily prepared for her. Anne volunteered her attendance, and rendered it with all care and tenderness; she was left alone with the young mother, Christian and the captain of the ill-fated vessel in the meantime arranging for the accommodation of the men.

The rigid limbs of Anne’s patient relaxed at last; the chill was gradually overcome, and about an hour after they had been brought within the sheltering walls of Schole, Anne received the infant from Miss Crankie to satisfy the eager mother. The strangers by this time were gone; the shipwrecked men were accommodated as well as might be in the comfortable kitchen. – Miss Crankie herself, when there remained nothing further to be done, departed also – only Anne continued with her patient – she had not seen either Patrick or Christian again.

Drawing the baby to her breast, the young mother soon fell into a refreshing sleep. Anne sat thoughtfully by her bed-side – now and then she heard a footstep below testifying that the household was still astir. She was anxious to remain as long as possible – to endeavor to open some communication with this singular brother and sister. For the moment she had forgotten Jean Miller’s history, and shuddered and trembled as she remembered it – would they avoid her still?

The room she occupied had a faded red curtain drawn along the further wall; she fancied she heard a low murmur as of some voice beyond it, and rose to see. The wall was a very thin partition which had evidently been put up in some emergency to make two rooms of one – immediately behind the curtain was a door standing ajar. Anne could see through into another room guarded like this by a curtain, placed there for some simple purpose of preventing a draft of air as it seemed, for each of the rooms had another door, and both entered from a gusty, windy gallery.

And there was a voice proceeding from that outer room – a solitary voice, low-toned, and strange – it was reading aloud as it seemed, although its owner was evidently alone. “Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor, and if I have taken anything from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold.” – Anne glanced back to see that her patient slept; she was lying in a calm slumber, luxuriously peaceful, and at rest. The low voice went on:

“Not fourfold but sevenfold. Lord! Thou seest the offering in my hand. Thou who didst not reject this sinner of old times. – Thou who didst tread wearily that way to Jericho for this publican’s sake, who was a son of Abraham. Lord, Lord, rejectest Thou me? – seven for one – wherefore did I toil for them, but to lay them at Thy feet – seven saved for one lost. Oh, Thou blessed One, where are Thy tender mercies – Thy loving kindnesses – wilt Thou shut thy heaven only to me?”

There was a pause; the voice was broken and unsteady; the strange utterance passionate and solemn; it was resumed:

“Not thy heaven, unless it be Thy will – not Thy glory or Thy gladness – only Thy forgiveness, merciful Lord, only one uplifting of Thy reconciled countenance. There is no light. I grope in the noonday, like a blind man, I cannot see Thee – I cannot see Thee! Lord, I confess my iniquity before Thee. Lord, I restore Thee sevenfold. Look upon my offering – seven for one! I bring them to Thy feet – seven saved for one lost! Lord of all tenderness – of all compassion, Thou most merciful – most mighty – is it I – is it I? Wilt Thou reject only me?”

Anne stood fixed in silent, eager interest – she could not think of any evil in her listening. She was too deeply moved – too mightily concerned for that!

“Thou knowest the past. Thou, who ordainest all things, dost know these fearful years. Blood for blood. Lord, thou hast seen mine agonies – Thou knowest how I have died a thousand times in this fearful, blighted life: look upon mine offering – I bring thee back sevenfold. Lord of mercy, cast me not away for evermore!”

The voice ceased. Anne cast a tremulous glance from the edge of the curtain. He was sitting by a table, a Bible lying open before him. Large drops hung upon his thin, high forehead – his delicate features were moving in silent agonies of entreaty – a hot flush was on his cheek. He suddenly buried his face in his hands, and bowed it down upon the open Bible. Very fearful was this to see and hear! This living death of wakeful misery – this vain struggling to render with his own hands the atonement which he, of all men, needed most – while the great Evangel of divine love and tenderness, with its mightier offering and all-availing sacrifice, lay unapplied at his hands.

Anne drew back in awe and reverence, and carefully closed the door – it was not meet that she should pry further into the secret agonies of this stricken and sinful spirit, as it poured itself forth before its God. She returned to the bedside, her head throbbing with dull pain, her heart full of darkness and anguish. Was it true? – was it indeed true? – a haunting fear no longer, but a deadly and hopeless reality!

At intervals she heard the murmurings renewed, and watched in breathless anxiety then, lest her patient should wake – at length it ceased altogether. The young mother slept peacefully with her infant nestling in her arms – a strange contrast there was between the sleeper and the watcher – the one in delicious safety and rest, after deadliest peril – the other wading through a restless sea of grief and pain, to which there seemed neither shore nor boundary, involving agonies mightier than death.

The night wore swiftly on – the morning rose as calm and sunny as if storms had never raged in the soft atmosphere which it gilded with its early sunbeams. Anne rose to look from the window – the Firth lay broad before her, still something moved and unquiet – rolling long waves upon the shore, and specked like the breast of some war-horse, with spots of foam. At a little distance, dashed against a bold, projecting cliff, the masts of the hapless vessel appeared through the dark water. Anne shuddered when she saw the white spars, rising so very short a way above the broad surface of the Firth. A little longer delay last night – a paroxysm of desperate energy a little less bold, and these hapless seamen, and this youthful mother, had been lying, far from all consciousness of earthly pain or pleasure, in the dark graves of the sea!

Sevenfold – seven saved for one lost! Alas, was this all? – had he no hope but this?

Anne’s patient waked – she began to look about her confusedly – then she recollected herself: “Willie, Willie, where is he – is he safe?”

Anne hastened to reassure her; but finding that she only partially succeeded, and hearing as she thought some one stirring below, she left the room to seek “Willie,” to satisfy his anxious wife.

In a small bare parlor below she found the serving-woman of the Lillies and Jacky – they had just made a fire, and Marget, with considerable grumbling, was preparing tea. Jacky, looking very dark, and pale, and wakeful, was moving about in her own intense stillness of nervous activity, discharging various pieces of work entrusted to her, and returning instantly to seek more.

“I declare,” exclaimed Marget, peevishly, as Anne reached the door, “ye’re enough to pit a body daft. Afore ane can think ye’re weel begun wi’ ae turn, ye’re seeking anither. Have ye washen a’ the cups?”

“Yes.”

Marget looked back – the long array of gleaming earthenware spoke for itself. In anticipation of so many stranger guests, Marget had collected a dusty congregation of cups and saucers, out of the corners of a dark old pantry.

“Do ye aye do your work as cleverly? Ye’re a strange speerit o’ a creature to get through a turn at that rate. Are ye aye as fast?”

“Ay,” said Jacky, bashfully, “when there’s ony need.”

“I wadna like to be trysted to haud ye gaun. Ye wad be as ill to ser as Michael Scot’s man. Get out yon muckle tray, and tak the dust aff’t, and set down the cups – it’s aye something. Eh, Mem, I beg your pardon!”

This was addressed to Anne, whom Marget descried for the first time standing behind her. Anne asked where the young captain was.

“Ye see, they’re a’ lying in the kitchen, puir creatures. It was the warmest place, and we made shake-downs to them as well as we could; and no to disturb them, I kindled my bit fire in here – and your lassie is very handy, Mem, and I’m muckle obliged to ye for letting her help me. Ye see I’ll hae plenty on my hands wi’ a’ thae strangers, and trouble in the house forbye.”

“Is any one ill?” asked Anne, eagerly.

“Ye see, it’s just yin o’ Mr. Patrick’s ill turns. What was onybody to expect after the way he exposed himsel last night? – a frail man like him fighting through the sea as if he had been a giant – and he’s waur than ordinar the day.”

“Can I see Miss Lillie?” said Anne.

“Miss Kirstin’s been at his bedside close, since ever we got the men sorted in the kitchen. She had to wile him out o’ his ain room, because the young Captain’s wife was in the next, and she was feared he would disturb her, and he’s lying up in the west room. He’ll no hear o’ a doctor – maybe it’s because he kens about physic himself – ony way he’ll no have yin near him.”

“But Miss Lillie would see me perhaps, if you asked her,” said Anne.

“She’s no fond o’ onybody fashing her, when she’s no wanting them,” said Marget, “and it’s ill my pairt to anger my mistress. – I’ve been here even on wi’ her this sixteen year – I come frae Falkirk mysel, and dinna belang about this place – and a guid mistress she is, if she’s no just like ither folk, And it’s a lang trail up that weary stair when ane’s breath is as short as mine – and – if ye have nae objection, Mem, I wad rather ye would wait till she comes down hersel. She’ll be wanting something for Mr. Patrick before lang.”

“Will you ask the Captain of the ship to come to me then?” asked Anne.