Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

At that time, the gig from the Sutherland Arms, which had formerly conveyed James Aytoun to the Tower, was tumbling along the high-road in the same direction again. At some little distance from the entrance to Mrs. Catherine’s ground, two gentlemen alighted, and dismissing it, ascended to the Tower.

One of them – he was bronzed by the beating of a sun more fervid than that of Scotland – was casting keen glances of joyous recognition round him – at the Tower – at Merkland – at a light in a high window there, which he fancied he knew, and still more eagerly at Strathoran in the dim distance. Its name had rung strangely in his ear from the tongue of the “crooked helper” at the inn, who drove their humble vehicle – ”mony thanks to ye, Strathoran.” It sent a thrill to the heart of Archibald Sutherland.

Yes, Archibald Sutherland! it was no other!

An older man leaned on his arm. In the darkness you could not distinguish particularly either his face or form; he was tall, with an elastic buoyant footstep, and was looking about him in a singular abrupt way, now here, now there, like a man in a dream.

They approached the Tower door – it was closed. Archibald’s friend had been eager hitherto, but now he lingered and seemed to wish delay. Archibald was entirely in the dark as to the reason. There was a ruddy light gleaming from a low window near at hand. The stranger drew near to look in, almost as if he knew it.

The room was full of the ruddy fire-light – the two dark figures at the window were quite unseen by those merry youthful people about the fire. Some one had slightly opened the window a little while before, for the room was very hot, and the door had been closed, that graver ears might not hear their laughter.

Jacky sat in the midst, her dark face glowing keen and bright. She was reciting vigorously that doleful adventure of the luckless Sir Artegall. The woman’s weedes put upon him by the disdainful Amazon; the white apron – the distaff in his hand, “that he thereon should spin both flax and tow;” his low place among the brave knights, whom he found “spinning and carding all in comely row;” and

“ – forst through penury and pyne,
To doe these works to their appointed dew,
For nought was given them to sup or dyne,
But what their hands could earn by twisting linen twyne.”

A very sad thing, doubtless, for the hapless Sir Artegall, and furnishing very sufficient occasion for the “deep despight” and “secret shame” of his lofty and royal Lady Britomart, but by no means calculated to impress any deep feeling of pity or compassion upon that somewhat ungovernable knot of youngsters. – Flora Macalpine, too kindly and good-humored to hurt Jacky’s feelings, had bent her head down upon her knee to hide her laughter; Johnnie Halflin leaned against the mantelpiece, shaking with secret earthquakes; Bessie had her head turned to the door, and was gazing at it steadily, and biting her rosy lip. They had all an awe of Jacky. It would not do, however. That picture, with its gradual heightening; at last the sad honor of the unfortunate knight, steadily spinning in his woman’s weedes, because his word was pledged to the despightful Radigund, – there was a general explosion – it was impossible to withstand that.

Jacky stopped suddenly, and withdrew from the laughters in lofty offence. She herself had a perception of the allegory, and was hurt and wounded at its reception, as we see greater people sometimes, whose myths a laughing world will persist in receiving as rather grotesque than sublime.

Jacky was almost sulky; she sat down in the shade, and turned her head resolutely away. Flora drew near to her in deprecatory humbleness. Jacky resisted and resented proudly.

Just then the door opened; the tall man, leaning on Archibald Sutherland’s arm, gave a nervous start. Archibald had begun to weary of his station here, at the window of the housekeeper’s room. His friend and employer, Mr. Sinclair was exhibiting a singular fancy to-night. He looked in wonderingly to see the reason of the sudden start.

It was only the entrance of two little girls; one of them blooming and ruddy, with radiant golden hair. The other paler, with a little frock of black silk, and eyes like the night – wistful, spiritual, dark.

“What ails Jacky?” said the new comer.

“Oh, if ye please, Miss Lilie,” said Bessie eagerly, “we werena meaning ony ill; we only laughed.”

Lilie slid gently within Jacky’s arm – drew down the hand which supported her head, and whispered in her ear – the arm of Mr. Sinclair quivering all this time most strangely, as it leaned upon his friend’s.

“Dinna be angry,” whispered Lilie; “I want you to say Alice Brand. Mary never heard it; never mind them. Say Alice Brand to Mary and me.”

“Oh! ay, Jacky,” echoed Bessie and Johnnie together, “say Alice Brand; it’s a real bonnie thing.”

Jacky was mollified; after a brief pause, caressing Lilie, she began the ballad. Little Mary Ferguson, with the fire-light gleaming in her golden hair, stood, leaning on the shoulder of her favorite Flora. Lilie was at Jacky’s knee, lifting up her face of earnest childish interest, and listening with all her might. Without, in the darkness stood the stranger, eagerly looking in, and holding Archibald’s arm.

The first notes of Alice Aytoun’s song were sounding up stairs. Archibald Sutherland stood still, but with eyes that wandered somewhat, and a considerable weariness. This was a most strange freak of Mr. Sinclair’s – he could not comprehend it.

Her story possessed Jacky and inspired her. She rose as it swelled to its climax, and spoke louder. —

“It was between the night and day
When the Fairy folk have power
That I fell down in a sinful fray,
And twixt life and death was snatched away,
To the joyless, elfin bower.

But wist I of a woman bold,
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould
As fair a form as thine.

She crossed him once, she crossed him twice,
That lady was so brave;
The fouller grew his goblin hue,
The darker turned the cave,

She crossed him thrice, that lady bold,
He rose beneath her hand,
The fairest knight on Scottish mold,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!

’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood.” —

The quick elfin eye shot a glance out into the darkness, and saw the listening figures there; the well-known face of young Strathoran! Jacky steadily finished the verse – committed Lilie into the hands of Flora Macalpine, and shutting the door of the house-keeper’s room carefully behind her, opened the outer one, and admitted the strangers.

She conducted them up stairs in her own still, excited, elfin way; the fumes of the ballad hanging about her still. Mr. Sinclair grasped Archibald’s arm, as they reached the door of the inner room, and held him back. The plaintive hopeful music was floating out again upon the soft shadows of the darkening night.

“Speed thy labor o’er land and sea,
Home and kindred are waiting for thee.”

They entered, Jacky gliding in before them to light the candles which stood upon the table. Mrs. Catherine started up in overwhelming surprise – so did Anne and Alice. There was a loud exclamation, “Whence come you, gallant and what brings you home?” and a confused uncertain welcoming of Archibald. Then they became calmer, and he introduced Mr. Sinclair. At this stranger, Jacky when she brought the lights, had thrown a long, keen scrutinising glance. There seemed an agitated uncertainty about him, which contrasted strangely with his firm lip and clear eye. They were seated again at last. A mysterious agitation had fallen upon them all, which Archibald could not comprehend. To this new-comer Mrs. Catherine’s large gray eyes were travelling continually. Anne, with nervous timid glances, turned to him again and again. Mr. Sinclair himself, generally so frank, and full of universal sympathies, was confused and tremulous, speaking incoherently, and saying things which had no meaning; Archibald was greatly astonished – even little Alice Aytoun began to steal shy glances at the stranger.

Archibald made a sign to Anne, and rising went out – Anne followed. He was in high spirits, great in hope, and with prospects more cheering than he had ever dreamt of. He began to speak of them as she met him at the door.

“Who is he? who is he?” exclaimed Anne eagerly.

Archibald looked at her in amazement. “My employer and friend, Mr. Sinclair, Anne. What is the matter? I have come home with him at his own special desire. He intends – ”

Jacky had been hovering on the stairs. She came up to the door where they were standing, and looked at them wistfully, “Oh if ye please, Miss Anne – ”

“What is it, Jacky?”

Jacky could not tell what it was. She sat down on the stair, and put her hands up to her face, and began to cry – her excitement overpowering her.

“I cannot bear this,” said Anne, wringing her hands nervously. “Jacky,” she whispered in her ear – the girl shot down stairs like a spirit.

“Anne!” exclaimed Archibald, “something ails you. I beg you to tell me what it is.”

“Afterwards – afterwards – ” said Anne, hastily. “Go in now, Archibald. Jacky, come – ”

Jacky returned, leading little Lilie by the hand. Archibald in silent amazement, went in again to the inner drawing-room. Anne followed him with the child, her face deadly pale, her form trembling.

Mrs. Catherine had changed the position of the lights on the table – one of them threw the profile of the stranger in clear shadow on the wall – she was looking with a singular scrutiny on the face, and on the shade of it. Little Alice Aytoun looked almost afraid. Mr. Sinclair was as confused and agitated as ever.