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Merkland: or, Self Sacrifice

“And how is Andrew winning on wi’ his learning, Jean?” said Mrs. Young.

There was a slight quivering of the thin upper lip – very slight – no eye less keen than Jacky’s could have perceived it.

“They tell me very weel,” said Jean, meekly; “he’s been getting some grand books in a prize, and they’re unco weel pleased wi’ him at the college.”

“He’s a clever lad,” said Mrs. Young.

“Ay, I’ll no say but he’s a lad of pairts,” said Jean, “if he but makes a right use o’ them.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Young, sympathetically, “they’re no ower guid company for that, thae young doctor-lads. Eh, keep me! Jean woman, if this callant was taking to ill courses like his faither, ye wad never haud up your head again.”

Jean’s lip quivered again – more visibly this time – the discipline of her self-denying life had been a stern one. The prodigal of her family, the gayest, handsomest, and cleverest of them all, a good workman, and an idle one, had hung upon her, a heavy, painful burden, falling step by step in the ruinous downward course of reckless dissipation, until he ended his days at last, shorn of all the gaiety and cleverness which had thrown a veil at first upon his sin – an imbecile, drivelling drunkard. With mighty anguish, which few comprehended or could sympathize with, she had prayed, entreated, remonstrated, forgiven, and supported him through all his sad career. He left an orphan boy on her hands. With the tenderest mother-anxiety, Jean Miller had brought up this child – with genuine mother-ambition, had, at the cost of long labor, and much self-denying firmness on her own part, sent him to college when he reached proper years, eager to raise him above the fear of that terrible stain and sin which had destroyed the first Andrew – her once gay and clever brother. But of late insidious voices had whispered in her ear that the second Andrew had taken the first step in that descending course. In agony unspeakable, the youth’s watchful guardian hastened to Edinburgh to ascertain the truth of this. She found it false; there was yet no appearance of any budding evil, but her heart, falling back upon its sad experience, sank within her, prophetic of evil. She said nothing in return to the ill-advised sympathy of Mrs. Young – her lip quivered – it was more eloquent than words.

“You’re new to this country, I’m thinking?” she said, addressing Jacky.

“Yes,” said Jacky, bashfully.

“She’s frae the north country,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye’ve been lang out o’ this pairt yoursel, Jean.”

“Ay,” was the answer, “it’s eighteen year past the twenty-first o’ June – I mind the day weel.”

“That would be about the time the gentleman was killed,” said Mrs. Young.

“Yes,” said Jean; “the very morning. I’ll ne’er forget it.”

“Eh, auntie!” exclaimed Bessie. “Whatna gentleman?”

Jacky did not speak, but her thin, angular frame thrilled nervously, and she fixed her keen eyes upon Jean.

“Deed a gentleman ye’ve heard o’ often enough, Bessie,” said her aunt. “Miss Alice’s father – ye’ve heard your mother telling the story about Mr. Aytoun mony a time, nae doubt. Ye see, Jean, my sister was Mrs. Aytoun’s right-hand woman. I dinna ken how the puir lady would have won through her trouble ava, when Miss Alice was born, if it hadna been for our Bell – no that he was ower guid a man, if a’ tales were true, but nae doubt it was an awfu’ dispensation. Ane forgets ill and wrang when the doer o’t’s taen away – and a violent death like that!”

“Weel,” said Jean Miller, “a’body’s dear to their ain. But he wasna muckle worth the mourning for.”

“And how was he killed?” asked Jacky, with some trepidation.

“Anither gentleman – a fine, cheery, kindly lad as ye could see – shot him wi’ a gun. It was an awfu’ disgrace to the parish, as weel as a great crime; but, sae far as I could hear, the folk were mair wae for young Redheugh than they were for Mr. Aytoun.”

“And were they sure he did it?” asked Jacky, breathlessly.

“Sure! Lassie, what could be surer? They found his gun, wi’ his name on’t and they saw him himsel leaving the wood; and unco easy he had ta’en it, as the folk say, for he was gaun whistling and singing at a fule sang, and the man’s bluid on his hand.”

“If he took it easy, it’s mair than his friends did,” said Jean Miller, significantly.

“I never heard tell of ony friends he had in this part,” said the matter-of-fact Mrs. Young. “He was nephew to the auld family, and no son. I mind hearing ance that he was frae some place away in the Hielands – but maybe that was a’ lees.”

“But maybe you werena meaning a relation?” adventured Jacky, addressing Jean.

“Na, lassie, it was nae relation. I ken naething about his kin: it was a friend – ane that was uncommon chief wi’ him. He was a student lad at that time, that had served his time to be a doctor like my ain nephew Andrew, only he was done wi’ the college; and if ever mortal man was out o’ his mind wi’ trouble and fricht and sore grief for an unhappy reprobate, it was that lad, the morning o’ the murder.”

“Did you see him?” exclaimed Jacky, anxiously.

“Ay, lass, I saw him. I was gaun hame that very day to my place that I’m in yet – I’ve been eighteen year past wi’ the same mistress – and it happened I was by that waterside between eight and nine in the morning. I was but a young lass then, and I had reason for’t – it’s nae matter now what it was. I was coming round the howe o’ the brae where the road turns aff to the Milton, when I met that lad. That white apron had mair a life-like color than he had on his face; but, for a’ that, he was wiping his brow for heat. The look of him was like the look of a man that had the bluid standing still in his veins. He neither saw me, nor the road he was gaun on, but just dashed on right before him, as if naething could stop him in the race. Ye may tak my word, it’s nae little grief like what men ca’ sympathy or pity, that could pit a man into a blind madness like that. I ken mair about it noo than I did then.”

“Woman – Jean!” exclaimed Mrs. Young; “what for did ye no come forrit at the time – it might have helped the proof? Losh! would the tane be helping the tither? would there be twa o’ them at the misfortunate man?”

“Na; he was an innocent, pithless callent, that Maister Patrick,” said Jean. “He could have nae hand in’t. A’ that day I couldna get his face out o’ my mind; but I had mony things to trouble me, sorting at my mother, and putting things right for Andrew – he was doing weel then, puir man! – and getting my ain kist ready for my journey, and I gaed away early in the day, and so I didna hear o’ the murder. And my mother was nae hand at the writing, and Andrew, puir man, was aye a thocht careless, and I never saw ane belanging to my ain place, to tell me the news. So a’ the trying that there was, was dune, and poor young Redheugh was lying at the bottom of the sea, before I ever heard tell o’t – but I’ve aye minded sinsyne Maister Patrick Lillie’s awfu’ face – I’ve had a kindness for him frae that day, for of a’ the sair troubles in this world, I ken nane, like murning ower a sinner that ye canna mend, and yet that ye would gie your ain life for, as blythe as ever ye gaed to your rest. I ken what it is – and sure am I, that if ever there was a man distracted with the crime o’ anither, it was Maister Patrict Lillie, for young Redheugh.”

“And was Redheugh an ill man?” said Jacky, in a half whisper.

“I never heard an ill word o’ him till then. He was as weel likit as a man could be – and a kinder heart to puir folk there wasna in the countryside.”

“And that’s true,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye should take it to yoursels, lassies – you that are young, and havena got the rule o’ your ain spirits. There was a fine young gentleman, ye see, wi’ routh o’ a’ thing, as grand as heart could desire, and yet he tint baith life and name, in this world and the next, a’ for an evil anger in his heart. It’s an awfu’ warning – it’s our pairt to improve it for our ain edification.”

“And what for was the gentleman angry at Mr. Aytoun?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! the adversary has aye plenty spunks to light that fire wi’. Some folk say yae thing, and some anither. I’ve heard it was for speaking lightly of a young lady that was trothplighted to Redheugh.”

“And what for did he no fecht him, the way folk fecht in books?” said Bessie.

“Nae doubt because the enemy thought he had fa’en on an easier plan of putting an end to them baith. Nae mortal in this world, let alane a bit lassie like you, can faddom the wiles o’ the auld serpent, or the weakness o’ folk’s ain treacherous hearts. It’s no what folk should do, to be making a wark about a criminal like that, that shed blood wi’ a wilful hand – but there was mony a heart in the parish wae for Redheugh.”

“And him that ye saw coming out of the wood?” said Jacky, tremulously, turning to Jean Miller again: “how would he ken?”

“I canna tell,” said Jean. “It was my thought he had met Redheugh, or seen him, when the deed was new done – and it stunned the very soul within him, so that he scarce kent in his extremity what it was, that was pitting him distracted. I was asking Rob’s wife about him last night: she says his sister and him are living their lane in an unco quiet way. Puir lad! – but he’ll be a man of years now.”

“And ye didna speak to him?” said Jacky.

“Speak to him! Lassie, if ye havena a lighter weird than ither folk, ye’ll ken before lang, that sore trouble is not to be spoken to. I wad rather gang into a king’s chamber unbidden, than put mysel forrit, when I wasna needed, into the heavy presence of grief.”

“For grief is a king, too,” murmured Jacky.

“And so it is,” said Jean Miller, with another emphatic quiver of her lip – the little narrow Edinburgh attic, in which her student nephew toiled, or ought to toil, rising before her eyes, and her heart yearning over him in unutterable agonies of tenderness – ”and so it is – and kenning that there’s sin in ane ye like weel, or fearing that there’s sin, in ane whose purity is the last hope o’ your heart, that’s the king o’ a’ griefs. But, mind, ye mauna say a word of this ower again. I never tell’t onybody before now, and I would like ill to add a trouble to a sair heart. Mind, ye mauna mention this again.”

“Yonder’s my uncle!” exclaimed Bessie, whom this grave episode had wearied mightily, “and Jamie, and Michael, and Tam. We’ve twa good hours yet, Jacky, before, ye need to gang hame, and Miss Anne winna be angry if you’re a thocht late. We’ll gang and let ye see the Fairy Well – it’s at the ither end o’ the wood. Eh, woman, ye dinna ken how bonnie it is!”

But Jacky had no heart for the Fairy Well, or the rude gallantry of Tam, and Michael, and Jamie. She was too full of the great intelligence she had gathered for her mistress. She drew her own conclusions, quickly enough, if not very clearly, but she saw at once that Anne would think it of the highest importance. How she knew so much we cannot tell – she could not have told herself. These electric thrills of intuition, which put the elf into possession of the most secret and guarded desires and wishes of her superiors, were as much a mystery to herself as to others. There were various mysteries about her – not the least of these being the reason why the spirit of a knight errant, of as delicate honor, and heroic devotion, as ever adorned the brightest age of chivalry, should have been endued with the singular, and by no means elegantly formed garment, of this girl’s dark elfin frame and humble place.

So Jacky with much weariness, physical and mental, endured the visit to the Fairy Well; and then under the safe conduct of Tam, Mrs. Young’s youngest son, and “convoyed” half way by Bessie and Michael, returned to Aberford. The night had fallen before she reached Miss Crankie’s house. Anne, newly returned from a long and ineffectual survey of Schole, had passively submitted to have candles placed upon her table by Miss Crankie’s servant. She still sat by the window, however, looking out upon that centre of mysterious interest. It was perfectly still – only a faint reflection of light upon the dark water told of a watcher in the high chamber of the desolate house.

Jacky entered, and Anne turned to ask her kindly how she had enjoyed her visit. “I dinna ken, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, “but if ye please – ”

“What, Jacky?”

“Would ye let me draw down the blind, and put in your chair to the table, because I’ve something to tell you, Miss Anne.”

Anne consented immediately. The room looked, as dusky parlors will look by faint candle-light in the evenings of bright summer days, very dull and forlorn and melancholy. Anne seated herself smiling by the table; she expected some chronicle of little Bessie’s kindred, or at the utmost some confession of petty ill-doing, which burdened Jacky’s conscience. Jacky’s conscience was exceedingly tender; she did make such confessions sometimes.

“If ye please, Miss Anne,” began Jacky earnestly, “Bessie’s aunt kens Jean Miller.”

“And who is Jean Miller, Jacky?” said Anne, smiling.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, Jean Miller was in the wood by the waterside, at the brae, where the road goes to the Milton farm, eighteen years ago, on the twenty first of June.”

It was Anne’s turn to start, and look up anxiously now. Jacky went on in the firm steadiness of strong excitement.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, she saw a man; and it wasna Mr. – it wasna the gentleman they ca’ young Redheugh – ”

“Who was it, Jacky?”

“His face was whiter than white cloth, and he was like as if the blood was standing still in his veins, and he was running straight on, as if he neither saw the road nor who was looking at him; and as he ran, he wipit his brow, for a’ that he was whiter than death.”

Anne was walking through the room in burning agitation; she could not rest – now she came up to Jacky, as the girl made a pause for breath, and grasped her arm.

“Who was he, Jacky – who was he?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it was the gentleman at Schole. She called him Mr. Patrick Lillie.”

Anne put her hands up to her head, dizzy and stunned; she felt like one who had received a mighty shock, and scarcely knew either the instrument or the reality of it in the first extremity of its power. She did not say a word – she did not think – she sat down unconsciously on her chair, and pressed her hands to her head with some vague idea of crushing the dull indefinite pain out of it. Jacky stood beside her, pale, self-possessed, but trembling violently; the girl’s excitement had reached a white heat – intensely strong and still.

Deadly light and deadly darkness struggling for hopeless mastery – a goal so nearly won, and yet so utterly removed. A long, low cry of pain came from Anne’s parched lips; she had not strength or heart to inquire further; a fearful possibility came upon her now, which had never struck her mind before.

At length, when the violence of the first shock was moderated, she began again to question Jacky. Jean Miller’s explanation of the haggard looks and wild bewilderment of Norman’s friend composed, though it could not convince her. She must see him, this mysterious sufferer, must ascertain – standing before him face to face – what of this dark dread might be true, and what false. It would not leave her: before she had been alone for ten minutes, the deadly bewilderment had returned, and what to do she knew not!

CHAPTER XXVI

THE next morning rose, dim, hot, and oppressive, suiting well, in its unnatural stillness and sultry brooding, with the terror of bewilderment and darkness which had fallen upon Anne. The tossings and wild restlessness of that mental fever, the gloomy clouds that had settled upon the future, the sad significance with which Christian Lillie’s words came burning back upon her memory – bore her down in dark blinding agony as those heavy thunder clouds bore down upon the earth. She wandered out: – with eyes keen for that one object, and veiled to all things else, she hovered about Schole. Once as she lingered by the hedge, she saw an upper window opened, and the pale head which she had seen once before, with its high snowy temples and thin hair, and delicately lined face, looked out steadfastly upon the gloomy weltering water. The eyes were blue, deep, and liquid as a summer evening sky – the face, with all its tremulous poetry, and exquisite delicacy of feebleness, was gazing out with a mournful composure, which made its extreme susceptibility and fluctuating language of expression, more remarkable than ever. Calmly mournful as it then was, you could so well see how the lightest breath would agitate it – the faintest whisper sway and mould these delicate facile features. One long, steadfast sad look was thrown over the darkly silent water, and brooding ominous sky, and then the window was closed. Anne remained upon the sands nearly the whole day – but saw nothing more of the mysterious inhabitants of Schole.

Wild whispers of wind curled along the dark Firth as the evening fell. All the day, the earth had been lying in that dread, bewildered pause which comes before a thunder storm. Now, as Anne sat looking out into the darkness, the tempest began; the night was very dark – the whole breadth of the sky was covered by one ponderous thunder-cloud, through which there suddenly shot a sheet of ghastly light. Anne was still at the window – she started back, but not before the scene revealed by that flash, had fixed itself in its terrific gloom and unearthly colors upon her memory. The dismal outline of the house of Schole – the sea beyond, plunging and heaving in black wrath – and on its troubled and gloomy bosom, a drifting, helpless ship, the broken masts and rigging of which seemed for the moment flaming with wild, phosphoric light. Anne shrank from the window; but in a moment returned in intense anxiety, too thoroughly aroused and absorbed to think of fear.

Another flash, and yet another – and still the helpless, dismantled ship was drifting on; she fancied she could see dark figures, specks in the distance, clinging to the yards; she fancied she could discern the black waves weltering over the buried hull, as the light fell full upon the vessel – there was a blind incompetency in its motions which showed that its crew had lost command of it. – She saw the falling of some spar – she fancied she could hear a terrible shrill cry; she threw open her window. The thunder was pealing its awful trumpet-note into the dense darkness: – gazing eagerly through the gloom she waited for another flash.

“For guid sake come in – for pity’s sake come in,” cried Miss Crankie, pulling her from behind. The sisters, their maid, and Jacky had crowded together into Anne’s room in the gregarious instinct of fear.

Bursting over the mighty gloom of waters flashed that death-like illumination. There were figures on the yards of the drifting ship – there were wild cries of sharp despair and anguish; you could fancy there were even agonized hands stretching out in vain for help, and there were – yes, there were also figures upon the sands. “God preserve us!” exclaimed Miss Crankie in overwhelming awe and excitement as the flash shone over their faces. “Miss Ross for pity’s sake come in.”

Anne did come in – she snatched a shawl which hung upon a chair, and hurried blindly forward to the door.

“Where are ye gaun?” exclaimed Miss Crankie.

It was echoed in different tones by all the others, as they crowded together in awe and terror.

“To the sands – to the sands,” said Anne: she made her way through them in spite of remonstrance and entreaty: she extricated herself from the detaining grasp of Miss Crankie, and leaving the house, ran hastily towards Schole.

It was a fearful night; the wind had risen imperceptibly from the wild whispers which crept over the Firth in the earlier evening to a shifting, coarse, impetuous gale. The lightning, as it burst in sheets over the earth, revealed strange glimpses of the shivering summer foliage and verdure, which bore so strange a contrast to the storm raging above. Anne saw nothing but the black, weltering water – the helpless drifting ship – the deadly danger of some souls – the help that might be rendered them.

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.