Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“I have been very anxious,” said Anne.

“Ay,” said Christian; “did you think I could rest, and that blight remaining on their name? Did you think there was any peace for me till all my labor was accomplished? Now – you heard me speak – Norman Rutherford may bear his own name, and return to his own country with honor and blessing upon him, in the open sunshine of day. My work is ended: I must but tarry for one look upon them, and then I wait the Lord’s pleasure. His call will not come too soon.”

“You have taken no rest,” said Anne, anxiously: “remember, there is one trial yet remaining. Let me get you some refreshment, and then try to sleep. This constant watching will kill you.”

Christian suffered herself to be led down stairs. Into the little parlor Anne hastily brought tea, and, considerably to Jacky’s horror, insisted upon rendering all needful services herself. It was evident that Christian felt the delicacy which kept strange eyes from beholding her grief. She took the tea eagerly, removed her cloak and bonnet, and met Anne’s anxious look with a tremulous, tender smile, inviting, rather than deprecating, conversation now.

“Let me go with you to your own room,” said Anne; “you have been in Edinburgh, and are quite exhausted, I see. You will be better after you have slept.”

“Sit down, I need no sleep,” said Christian: “I scarcely think now, after my long watching, that I can begin to think of rest. – Sometimes – sometimes – ”

She rose and stretched out her thin arms, like one who complains of some painful void within, drawing them in again wearily to her breast.

“Sometimes, when I do not think of them, and mind that he is gone, I could be content to bear it all again, were he but back once more. God aid us, for we are weak. Patrick, my brother, are ye away at last? are ye at peace? And I am ready to lament and pine, and not to thank God! God be thanked! God be thanked! that he is away in blessedness at last.”

She paced the room slowly for a while, and sitting down by the window, drew the curtains aside, and looked out in silence upon the sea – the placid, wakeful sea – with which so often in her misery she had taken counsel.

“The morning after he went home,” she said at last, turning to Anne abruptly, “I saw you looking out upon the Firth, when I departed on my needful errand. You mind the soft fall of the air, like the breath of a young angel – a spirit in its first joy – the latest born of heaven? You mind the joy and gentleness that were in the air?”

“Yes,” said Anne.

“On such a morning – as soft, as joyous, and as bright – he came to me, who is now in heaven at peace. There was no peace about him then. Within his soul, and in his face, was an agony more bitter than death. You know the reason. He had done the deed, for which, through eighteen lingering, terrible years, Norman Rutherford has been a banished man.

“I took him in, and closed the door: he fell down upon the ground, at my feet. From the terrible words of his first madness, I gleaned something of the truth. Think of it – think of that. – The horror of great darkness that fell on me that day has scarce ever been lightened for an hour, from that time to this.

“I sent for him, for Norman, your brother, and mine. He came to me, into the room where Patrick lay, in a burning fever of agony and madness. By that time a breath of the terrible story was abroad. It was his gun it was done with. He had parted from Arthur Aytoun in just anger. There were but two ways – either to give up the frantic, fevered lad that lay there before us, knowing neither him nor me, to a death of shame and horror, or for him – him, in his honorable, upright, pure youth – to sacrifice honor, and home, and name.

“He did not hesitate – the Lord bless him! – the Lord send the blessings of the convenant upon him, promised and purchased! – he made up his mind. And to us, as we stood there in our first agony, with Patrick stricken down before us, there was no consolation of innocence. We knew not but what the blood had been wilfully shed: we thought the torture he was in was the just meed of a murderer.

“I gave him a line to Marion: she was at a friend’s house, between Edinburgh and Glasgow. She had gone, a joyous light-hearted girl, with as fair a lot before her as ever lay at mortal feet, to get apparel for her bridal. I bade her go with Norman. When I wrote that, I was calmer than I am now. I, that was parting with them both – that was left here alone with this stricken man and his blood-guiltiness.

“They went away, and he was still lying unconscious on my hands. Then I had to hear the unjust stain thrown upon the noble and brave heart that was bearing the burden. I had to hear it all – to listen to the certainties of his guilt – to hear them tell how he had done it like a coward; and with my heart burning within me, I dared not say to them that he was pure and guiltless as ever was righteous man. I turned from the scorching summer light, and the false accusation, in to the bedside of my raving, maddened brother, and he was the man. Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! how did I live?

“Then there came the word that they were lost; and a calm, like what you will see in storms, came over the miserable heart within me. I defied my misery: I dared it to add to me another pang.

“Then I said that Marion was dead – my bird – my light – my little sister! When I said that, I knew not it was false; I believed she was gone out of her new grief; I believed I was alone in the world.

“Then the secret news came to me that they were safe, and then the life struggled through that time of horror, and Patrick rose from his bed. One solemn still night I told him all, and in his agony he said he was innocent. Since that time through all this life of desolation, he has repeated that at times, when his mind was clear; but his soul was frozen within him in terror. When I spoke of justice to Norman, he shrank and trembled, and bade me wait. What could I do? I could not give him up as a shedder of blood – he was in my hand. To my own heart, and to my Father in heaven, I had to answer for him; and when I dared hope that he had shed this blood unawares, I became strong.”

She paused. She had been speaking rapidly, without stop or hesitation, almost without breath. Anne endeavored to soothe and calm her.

“Last year, they sent me their child. He had called her Lilie. He himself, whom our unhappy name had blighted. The child was pining under the hot sun of yon strange land. I could not keep her in our desolate house. I took her to Norman’s country. I was to place her with his nurse, near to his old home. When we got there, I feared to enter; I trembled to betray the secret I was burdened with. I thought a heart that he was dear to, could not fail to discover his bairn, and so I took her to a stranger.

“When I left her there – you mind? – I met you, and we looked upon each other face to face: I did not need to hear the name that the blue-eyed girl by your side was saying. I knew you were Norman’s sister – I felt that his spirit was within you, and that we would meet again.

“Now we have met, and you know it all. The history is public now. The ban is off Norman’s name – your brother and mine. I will see them again – my bird Marion – my bairn, that my own hands nurtured!”

“Christian,” said Anne, “for her sake, and for us all, you must rest. There are quiet days in store – tranquil days of household peace and honor. You have done your work nobly and bravely, as few could have done; for Marion’s sake, who is my sister as well as yours, and for the sake of the dead, for whom you have watched so long, take rest now. Your work is over.”

Christian drew the curtain aside again, and gazed out upon the sea. “For him – for Marion – for Norman; for Thy mercy’s sake, O, Lord! and for Thy beautiful world, which Thou hast given to calm us, I will be calm – give me now what Thou willest, and Thy rest in Thine own heaven, when Thy good time shall come.”

And so peacefully, in chastened hope and with gentle tears, refreshing with their milder sorrow the weary eyes that had burned in tearless agony so long, they laid the innocent shedder of blood in his quiet grave.

On the evening after the funeral, Christian wandered out alone. “She goeth unto the grave to weep there,” said Anne, as it was said of the Mary of the Lord’s time; and she made no attempt either to detain or to accompany her. To Christian, the balm of Anne’s sisterly care and sympathy was evidently very dear; but she was not wont to lean upon any mortal arm, and it was best that she should be left with her sorrow alone.

The house had the exhausted, worn-out look which is common after such a solemn departure. Marget sat, dressed in her new mourning, in the kitchen, in languid despondent state, telling Jacky traits of the dead Master, whom, now that all excitement was over, she began to miss and lament, and weep some natural tears for. Jacky was half-listening to these, half-buried in an old volume of “Quarles’ Emblems,” which she had recently brought from the study. Anne had opened the low projecting window, and sat in the recess with one of those devout contemplative books in her hand; she was reading little, and thinking much – feeling herself affected by the listless weariness that reigned around her.

She saw a lad come in at the gate, without observing who he was. In a minute after Jacky entered the study.

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it’s Johnnie Halflin.”

Anne started.

“Has he come from Mrs. Catherine?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, Mrs. Catherine’s at Miss Crankie’s.”

Anne rose immediately, and proceeded up the lane to Miss Crankie’s house. Mrs. Catherine’s carriage stood at the door. Mrs. Catherine herself was in the parlor, where Miss Crankie stood in deferential conversation with her – keenly observant of all the particulars of her plain, rich dress and stately appearance, and silently exulting over the carriage at the door – the well-appointed, wealthy carriage, which all the neighborhood could see.

“Anne!” exclaimed Mrs. Catherine, as Anne in her deep mourning dress entered the room. “What is the matter?”

Miss Crankie sensibly withdrew.

“He is dead, Mrs. Catherine,” said Anne.

“Who is dead? Who is this lad?”

“The brother of Marion – the brother of Norman’s wife.”

“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “you have not dealt ingenuously and frankly with me in this matter. Who is this lad, I ask you? Have you a certainty that Norman’s wife was his sister, that you are thus mourning for a fremd man?”

Anne sat down beside her.

“What I knew formerly was so dim and indistinct that I feared to tell you. They avoided me – they went away from their own home to shun my presence. In the confusion of my imperfect knowledge, I felt that I could not speak of them. Now I am sure. There is a most sad story to tell you, Mrs. Catherine – Patrick Lillie is Marion’s brother – he is more than that.”

“Speak out, child. Who is he?”

“He is the man for whom Norman sacrificed all – he is the slayer of Alice Aytoun’s father.”

Mrs. Catherine started – in her extreme wonder she could say nothing.

“An innocent man, Mrs. Catherine; this dreadful deed was done unawares, and in a life of agony has it been avenged.”

Mrs. Catherine remained silent for a moment.

“And he let Norman, the honorable, generous, just lad, suffer a death for him – suffer the death of a lifetime? Anne – Anne, is it a coward like this you are mourning for? A faint heart and a weak spirit – what could it be other that would let a righteous man bear this for him?”

“There is justice done,” said Anne, “it is over now. I acknowledge the weakness, Mrs. Catherine; but he has suffered dreadfully. A gentle, delicate, pensive spirit, unfit for storms and trials – altogether unfit for doing any great thing: one to be supported and tenderly upheld – not to take any bold step alone.”