Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

Marget went with some reluctance, and returned in a few minutes with the stalwart young Captain. Anne begged her to guide him to his wife’s room, and then opening the outer door, stepped out herself into the garden for a moment’s refreshment in the cool morning air.

Fresh, bright, healthful, tinged and gilded with their young sunbeams, while everything around rejoiced in its lightsome breadth and purity, Anne almost fancied it strange that the joyous air did not shrink from these gray walls – so full of sin and grief – sorrow, remorse, and pain, that shrank from the eye of man, as they were.

When she again entered the room where she had found Marget and Jacky, the young captain of the wrecked ship was there, somewhat tremulous and unsteady, poor fellow, after his meeting with his wife. They had been looking together from the window at the lost vessel with mingled thankfulness and regret. Anne began to speak to him.

“The boat was a schooner – the William and Mary of Kincardine – homeward bound from the Baltic, with a cargo of timber. We’ve been water-logged for three weeks; drifting very much where the wind likit to drive us. If it had not been for the summer weather and lown winds, we must have perished before now; we’ve had a dreadful time – no that I care for a while of hardship myself – it like comes natural to a seafaring life – but Mary and the infant! I was saying to her the now, that she had better make up her mind, to let me go alone after this; I durst not put her in such peril again.

“She seems to have borne it bravely,” said Anne.

“Ay, that she has,” said the young man, his eyes glistening. – ”It’s often no the strongest and roughest like that can bear the most. For the bairn’s sake and mine, and her mother’s at hame, I believe she could have held out as long as myself. To be sure, we sheltered her, while shelter was possible, but that has not been for a while – and now she’s less worn out than the men. It’s a strange thing that, but I’ve seen the like of it before. They can stand work – plenty of it – but they canna both work and thole – and we have needed both.”

“It is very strange,” said Anne, “almost all of them were stronger than their deliverer.”

“Ay it’s no that,” said the captain of the William and Mary, “it’s the spirit that ever does anything. My men were stunned and helpless, worn out with the terrible watch they have kept for three weeks bye-past. The gentleman scarce so much as felt he had a body clothing him, when he saw our peril. It was the keen spirit that did it.”

Anne sighed. This unhappy man, borne down by his fearful secret, his life desolated by a great hidden crime, was a very angel of bravery and goodness to the men whose lives he had saved. – She asked:

“Will the loss be great?”

The young man’s countenance fell.

“No doubt it’ll be heavy upon us. It’s part my father’s, and part mine. We built it just before I was married, as you would, maybe, notice by the name. My mother had aye a great wark with Mary, and she would have it called after us both. When the tide’s out, we’ll see better what’s lost, and what may be saved. It’s a mercy the cargo can take no scaith, being timber. Onyway it must be a heavy loss, but we may be thankful we’re to the fore ourselves.”

Anne did not answer. At any other time, she would have sympathized warmly with this prepossessing, youthful couple. At present, her interest and thoughts were so engrossed, that any other feeling was faint within her.

“Mary was speaking of coming down herself,” said the young captain, “to thank you for your goodness. And the gentleman – I have not seen the gentleman!”

“I hear he is ill,” said Anne. “I am only a – a neighbor: but I hear Mr. Lillie’s exertions have hurt him – he has been long an invalid.”

The young man said some words of respectful regret, and then left her to attend to his men. He wished to remove them as soon as possible – especially now, when he heard that there was sickness in the house.

Marget, with a good deal of grumbling, was preparing a breakfast for them. Anne opened the door of a room on the opposite side of the hall – it was Patrick Lillie’s study – and went in. She felt she had a right. In all the world, there was no family so closely connected with her as this.

Upon the table, in the recess of the low projecting window, lay an old Latin book – others of a like nature were scattered round. Anne was sufficiently acquainted with old literature to see that some of these were rare and strange. A small pile, which she could fancy the daily and beloved companions of their owner, lay at one side. The upper one of the pile, was the “Imitatione Christi,” of Thomas a Kempis, in the original Latin – the others were of the same contemplative cast. Old emblematic poems, full of devout conceits: old dialectic philosophy, subtle and shifting – a strange atmosphere for that fragile mind, with its sensitive beauty and feebleness, to breathe and dwell in.

She was thinking of him – with her hands clasped over her eyes, and her head bowed down, she was trying to think what she could do – ”looking forward as the aim and expectation of your life – almost, God help us – as your hope – for a thing which you knew would rend your heart, and make your life a desert when it came.” The words returned before her constantly, blinding her mind and stilling it. She could do nothing.

A hand was laid upon her shoulder. She looked up hastily – it was Christian Lillie. Her eyes were fixed upon Anne with a look of wistful inquiry: her tall figure was slightly bent. Anne saw more clearly than she had ever done before, how attenuated and worn out she was. Yet, in the melancholy face and shadowy frame, there was no trace of greater weariness than usual. She had been watching by a sick-bed all the night – and such a sick-bed! – but she thought of no rest, she evidenced no fatigue. You could fancy the soul within, so constantly awake and watching, that its thin robe of earthly covering needed not the common sustenance of feeble humanity.

“What do you here?” said Christian Lillie, “this is no air for you to breathe – no roof to cover you. Let us bear our own burden as we best can; you must not try to render help to us – no, nor even sympathy – you must go from this fated house.”

Anne took into her own the thin hand which rested on her shoulder.

“You must let me stay,” she said eagerly. “I can take no dismissal – you must let me stay – no one else in this wide world could be beside you as I can be – save one. I must remain with you; I must share your labors – you cannot watch continually.”

“Watch!” said Christian, “I have watched continually, without ceasing night or day. You can rest who are young – you who have known no deadly evil – what rest is there for me? Leave me to my own weird. God knows, who sent it, that He has sent patience also to bear its bitterness. It was long before that came, but I watched, and waited, and prayed for it dry-eyed: tears are not for me, unless it be the terrible ones that the heart weeps when it is wrung. You must go from this place; let us not throw the shadow of our desolation over another of your blood. You must go before you are blighted.”

“Do not fear me,” said Anne, anxiously; “do not fear to trust me. Is not our sorrow the same – our hope the same? let me stay beside you.”

“The same – the same! God forbid that you knew what you were saying. There are agonies that folk may not lay the light name of sorrow upon. Be thankful that you know nothing sorer than grief; and if you would keep your hope alive, leave the house that contains us.”

“I cannot leave you; you must not ask me,” said Anne; “I have a claim upon you. Do not you know better than I the bond that there is between us? I will not leave you.”

Christian Lillie walked through the room slowly, sadly, heavily; she made no answer; she seemed to acquiesce at last.

For a time they both continued silent. Then Anne asked:

“Is he ill? they told me he was ill.”

“He!” Christian paused; over the steadfast whiteness of her face there flushed an unnatural color. She gazed upon Anne; her wistful melancholy eyes dilating as it seemed in eager inquiry. “He!” she checked herself; it appeared to have flashed upon her that Anne knew something of their mighty secret greater than she had before thought. She controlled herself with an effort – ”yes, he is ill; what can he be else but ill?”

“I must return to him,” she resumed, after an incoherent pause. “Stay with us, since you will stay; but mind I have warned you, that with us there can be nothing but desolation, and blight, and hopelessness. What depths you may fathom before we are parted, I know not. It may be that you are sent thither for that end. We walk darkling, but He sees the beginning and the end: let His will be done.”

She left the room – in a short time, Anne also quitted it. Marget was arranging in the kitchen the breakfast for the shipwrecked seamen. There was no scant or niggardly provision. The men, gaunt and famished-like, an uncouth company, were gathered about the table. In the little parlor sat the captain and his wife.

“Miss Kirstin said I was to see they had plenty to their breakfast,” said Marget, deprecatingly, “and there wasna bread enough in the house; and I’m no sae young as I hae been mysel, forbye having a fashious hoast, and a sore shortness in my breath, sae I took the freedom to send your lass, because she was willing to gang, and I hope, Mem, ye’ll no be angry.”

“By no means,” said Anne. “Jacky will be glad to help you, I am sure.”

“She’s a willing lassie,” said Marget; “but if it werena that she’s discreet, and does what she’s bidden, I wad maist think she wasna canny. Preserve me! there she is already rattling at the gate; if she’s been at Aberford, she maun hae flown.”

Jacky had only been at Miss Crankie’s; she returned laden with provisions sent by Anne’s kind, active, odd little landlady – there was a full supply. Anne herself joined the young captain and his wife in the little parlor.

In the course of the day the forlorn crew of the “William and Mary,” considerably revived by their night’s rest and shelter, left Schole – with much gratitude expressed and unexpressed. William and Mary themselves proceeded, with their infant, to the house of the husband’s father. The men dispersed to their various homes.

Anne remained – only once again during that day she saw Christian. Then she spoke less incoherently, with something indeed of singular gentleness, and an endeavor for the moment to forget her individual burden, as though her heart began to yearn for the sympathy of this younger sister. Patrick was very ill; he could not leave his bed.

The next day told the same tale, and so did the next – and the next again. The illness increased. The fever and agitation of that night had wrought their due effect upon the delicate, enfeebled frame whenever the desperate tension and rigid strength of its nervous excitement failed. On the fourth day, Christian, who all this time had watched unceasingly, called the medical practitioner of the little town to her brother’s bedside. Anne saw him as he passed down stairs, and asked eagerly for his patient; the doctor shook his head – he could give no hope.

Anne spent the greater part of the day in Schole, returning to Miss Crankie’s only for the night. Now, when Patrick’s illness had increased so alarmingly, she could only exchange a passing word with Christian on the stair, or at the door of the sick-room. She had pleaded vainly for permission to help her in her tendance of the sufferer: failing in that, she gradually assumed the management of the household matters below. She lightened Christian’s hands, at least so far.

A week after the shipwreck, Anne entered Christian’s room – the high turret chamber from which so often she had seen the reflected light gleaming upon the dark waters of the Firth – to wait for her coming. It was a still, dim, balmy night, soft and melancholy. There was always a great attraction in that broad Firth at their feet – a kind of wandering freedom for the overcharged heavy hearts gazing forth upon it. The rounded window was veiled by an old-fashioned, faded curtain: within this there was a seat which Christian Lillie had occupied for more lingering woeful nights than we could count or record. Anne seated herself there, and looked out in the dim gloaming upon the silent land, and gleaming sea.

By-and-by she heard the slow, sad footstep enter, and sat still, in expectation of being joined immediately – for Christian, like herself, continually sought these windows; continually calmed her sorrow in the wide tranquillity and balmy peace that lay around.

“Give him to me for a prey. Lord, give him to me for a prey,” were the strange words that came to Anne’s ear, falling low through the tremulous darkness; “I ask not for his life. Thou knowest that I ask not for his life. My Father, wilt Thou not hear? wilt Thou forget the prayers that have risen to Thee day by day and night by night since Thou didst hide Thy countenance from us? My Lord! hast Thou said any word in vain? shall any promise be forgotten before Thee?”

The listener sat still in awe; she dared not interrupt this agony of supplication with any token of her presence.

Christian was pacing the room quickly, with tremulous step, and passionate low voice, too mightily absorbed to think of form or posture.

“If it be Thy will – Thy will – and Thy will is to seek and save the lost; and this is lost in sin, in blindness, and the deep gloom of unbelief, and it was such that Thou camest to save – such, and not the righteous. It is Thy will – it is Thy will. Grant me Thy will of salvation to this sinner – Lord! Lord!”

She paused; she threw herself on her knees; there was an indefinite sound of entreaty – groaning that could not be uttered. – Then she started to her feet again, and the words poured forth aloud, as one who finds a new argument and can scarce pause for language in which to state and plead it.

“Thou who art a man! Thou who bearest a human heart in Thy high heaven! Thou who hast entreated, and yearned, and wept over sinful brethren, whom the adversary sifted as wheat! Thou, O Lord! who wearest Thy humanity upon Thy throne! – he is a sinner – so were they whom Thou didst call Thy friends. – He hath denied Thee – so did he, for whom Thy holy lips prayed, that his faith might not fail. My Lord! – my Lord! – thou hearest always. Look down upon us, and send us deliverance.”

She sat down; she put back her wet hair, and wiped the heavy dew from her forehead. Then she clasped her hands over her brow.