Upon the next day, Anne, accompanied by Jacky, left Edinburgh finally
for her Aberford lodgings. She felt the isolation strangely at first:
being alone in her own room, and being alone in the parlor of Mrs.
Yammer's house, were two very different things. She seated herself by
the window as these long afternoon hours wore on. Jacky sat at the other
end of the room, already engaged on some one of the numberless linen
articles, which had been provided by her prudent mother, to keep her
occupied. Jacky had already cast several longing glances at the little
shelf between the windows, which contained the books of Mrs. Yammer's
household, but the awe of Anne's presence was upon her; she sewed and
dreamed in silence.
The dark spectral house by the waterside--the melancholy woman who had
taken Lilie to Strathoran--Anne's mind was full of these. Now and then a
chance passenger upon the high road crossed before her; once or twice
she had seen a solitary figure on the sands. None of these bore the same
look. The steady pace of country business, and the meditative one of
country leisure she could notice--nowhere the slow lingering heavy
footsteps, the wistful melancholy face which distinguished the one
individual, whom that fantastic spirit of imagination had already
associated with Norman's fate.
Anne had decided upon beginning her inquiries on the next day. She
hastily bethought herself now, of a mode of making this evening of some
service in her search; and turning to Jacky, bade her ask Miss Crankie
and Mrs. Yammer to take tea with her.--Jacky with some hesitation
obeyed--she thought it was letting down Miss Anne's dignity. Miss Anne
herself thought it was rather disagreeable and unpleasant: nevertheless,
it might be of use, and she was content to endure it.
Miss Crankie had a turban, terrible to behold, made of black net, with
what looked like spangles of yellow paint upon it, which she wore on
solemn occasions. In honor of her new lodger, she donned it to-night.
Jacky arranged the tea in almost sulky silence. At the appointed hour,
Miss Crankie and her sister sailed solemnly in.
It was the merest fiction to call this pleasant house the property of
Mrs. Yammer, as all who were favored with any glimpse into its domestic
arrangements could easily perceive. Mrs. Yammer was a woeful, patient,
resigned woman, very meekly submitting to the absolute dominion of
"Johann," saved for a feeble murmuring of her own complaints, the most
voiceless and passive of weak-minded sisters. Miss Johann Crankie was
very kind to the woeful widow, who hung upon her active hands so
helplessly. She shut her ears to Mrs. Yammer's countless aches and
palpitations, as long as it was practicable--when she could no longer
avoid hearing them, she administered bitter physic, and mustard
plasters; a discipline which was generally successful in frightening
away the distempers for some time.
Mrs. Yammer, in a much-suffering plaintive voice, immediately began to
tell Anne of the palpitations of her heart. Miss Crankie fidgeted on her
seat, shooting odd glances at Jacky, and intelligent ones of ludicrous
pity at Anne, who endured Mrs. Yammer's enumeration of troubles as
patiently as was possible. The tea was a fortunate diversion.
"What is the name of that house on the waterside, Miss Crankie?" asked
Anne.
"That's Schole, Miss Ross," said Miss Crankie, with the air of a person
who introduces a notability. "You will have heard of it before, no
doubt? It came into the possession of the present Laird, when he was in
his cradle, puir bairn, and his light-headed gowk of a mother has him
away, bringing him up in England.--She's English hersel: maybe ye might
ca' that an excuse. I say its a downright imposition and shame to tak
callants away to a strange country to get their breeding, when a'body
kens there's no the like o' us for learning in a' the world and Fife?"
"And does the proprietor of the house live in it now?" said Anne.
"Bless me, no--the Laird's but a callant yet. Tammie, woman, what year
was't that auld Schole died?"
"It was afore I was married," said Mrs. Yammer, dolefully.--"I was a
lang tangle of a lassie then, Miss Ross; and I mind o' rinning out
without my bonnet, and wi' bare shoulders, and standing by the roadside,
to see the funeral gang by. I have never been free o' rheumatism since
that day--whiles in my head--whiles in my arm--whiles--"
"Miss Ross will hear a' round o' them afore she gangs away, Tammie,"
said Miss Crankie, impatiently, "or else it'll be a wonderful year. It's
maybe fifteen or sixteen years ago; and the widow and the bairn were off
to England in the first month. Ye may tak my word for't, there wasna
muckle grief, though there was crape frae head to fit of her. I mind the
funeral as weel as if it had passed this morning--folk pretending they
were honoring the dead, that would scarce have spoken a word to him when
he was a living man. He was an old, penurious nasty body, that bought a
young wife wi' his filthy siller. Ye mind him, Tammie?"
"Mind him!" said the martyr Tammie, pathetically, "ay, I have guid
reason to mind him. Was I no confined to my bed, haill six weeks after
that weary funeral wi' the ticdouleureux? the tae cheek swelled, and the
tither cheek blistered. I ken naebody, Johann, that has guid reason to
mind him as me."
"Weel, weel," said Miss Crankie, "it was a strong plaister of guid
mustard that cured ye. It's a comfort that ane needs nae advice to
prepare that--its baith easy made and effectual."
Mrs. Yammer was cowed into silence. Miss Crankie, with a triumphant
chuckle, went on: "And since then there's been no word of them, Miss
Ross, except an intimation in the newspapers, that the light-headed fuil
of a woman had married again. Pity the poor bairn that has gotten a
stepfather over him, for bye being keeped out of the knowledge o' his
ain land. I was ance in England mysel. There's no an article in't but
flat fields, and dead water, and dreary lines o' hedges. Ye may gang
frae the tae end to the tither (a' but the north part, and its maistly
our ain,) and never ken ye have made a mile's progress--its a' the same
thing ower again--and sleek cattle, beasts and men, that ken about
naething in this world but eating and drinking. To think of a callant
being keeped there, out of the knowledge of his ain country, and it a
country like this!"
"It is a great pity, certainly," said Anne, smiling.
"Pity! it's a downright wrong and injury to the lad--there's nae saying
if his mind will ever get the better o't."
"And is the house empty?" said Anne; "does no one live in it?"
"Naebody that belangs to the house--but there are folk in't.--There's a
brother and a sister o' them, and they're far frae common folk."
"Is the sister tall and thin--with large, dark, melancholy eyes?" said
Anne, anxiously.
"Ay, Miss Ross," said Miss Crankie, casting a sharp inquisitive look at
Anne; "where hae ye fa'en in with her? it's no often she has ony
commerce with strangers."
"I met her on the sands," said Anne, suppressing her agitation with an
effort; "and was very much struck by her look."
"I dinna wonder at that--she never was just like ither folk; and since
her sister died--puir Kirstin!"
"Have they a story then?" said Anne; she was trembling with interest and
impatience--she could scarcely contain herself to ask the question.
"Ay, nae doubt, ye'll be fond of stories, Miss Ross? the most of you
young ladies are."
"I do feel very much interested in that singular melancholy woman," said
Anne, tremulously.
Miss Crankie examined her face with an odd magpie-like curiosity. Anne
smiled in spite of herself. The strange little head nodded, and Miss
Crankie began:
"Ye see, Kirstin and me were at the schule thegither. Ye think Kirstin's
younger-like than me? Ay, so she is. I was dux of the class and reading
in the Bible, when Kirstin began wi' the question book; but we were at
the schule thegither for a' that--there's maybe six or seven years
between us. There were three of a family of them; their father had been
a doctor--a wild, reckless, dissipated man, like what ower mony were,
and the family was puir. I used to take them pieces when they were wee
bairns--ye mind, Tammie?"
"Ay," said the doleful Tammie, "ye see Johann has a pleasure in minding
thae times, Miss Ross. It's different wi'a puir frail widow woman like
me; the last year I was at the schule I was never dune wi' the
toothache."
"Kirstin was the auldest," said Miss Crankie, turning her back
impatiently upon her sister, "and Patrick was next to her, and there was
as bonnie a bit lassie as ever you saw, Miss Ross, that was the youngest
of the three--she wasna like the young lady that was here yesterday--she
was darker and mair womanlike; but eh! she was bonnie.
"They had nae mother--Kirstin was like the mother of them. We used to
laugh at her, when she was a wean of maybe twelve hersel, guiding the
other twa like as if they had been her ain bairns; she was aye quiet and
thoughtful. I was an uncommon grand hand at the bools mysel, and could
throw the ba' as far as Robbie King the heckler--ye mind, Tammie?"
"Ye threw't on my head yince and broke the skin," said the disconsolate
invalid. "Eh, Miss Ross, the sore headaches I was trysted wi' when I was
a bairn!"
"I am saying there were three of them," interrupted Miss Crankie. "They
had some bit annuity that keepit them scrimply, and by guid fortune the
father died when Kirstin was about seventeen; so how she guided the
siller I canna tell, or if there was a blessing on't like the widow's
cruise that never toomed; but she keepit hersel and her little sister
decent, and sent Patrick to the college wi' the rest. They had a
cottage, and a guid big garden--she used to be aye working in the garden
hersel. I believe they lived on greens and taties a' the week, and
never had fleshmeat in the house but on the Sabbath-day, when Patrick
was at hame. Mind, I'm only saying I _think_ that, for they were aye
decently put on, and made a puir mouth to nobody.
"Patrick was serving his time to be a doctor. He was dune wi' his
studies, and was biding at hame for a rest, when a young gentleman that
was heir of an auld property, on the ither side of Aberford, came into
his fortune. Ye'll maybe have heard of him, Miss Ross--the poor,
misguided, unhappy young lad--they ca'ed him Mr. Rutherford, of
Redheugh."
Anne could hardly restrain an involuntary start; she answered, as calmly
as she could:
"I have heard the name."
"Ay, nae doubt--mony mair folk have heard his name than had ony
occasion; it was his ain fault to be sure, but he was just a' the mair
to be pitied for that."
"I was aye chief wi' Kirstin. I liked her--maybe she didna dislike me.
I've weeded her flowers to her mony a time. I was throughither whiles in
my young days, Miss Ross--no very, but gey. I yince loupit from the top
of our garden wa' wi' her wee sister in my arms--I had near gotten a
lilt with it, for I twisted my ancle--and that would have been a
misfortune."
"Ye trampit on my fit--it's never been right since," said Mrs. Yammer;
"ye never were out o' mischief."
Miss Crankie gave a sidelong look up to Anne, with her odd, merry,
little black eyes, and laughed; she took the accusation as a compliment.
"Weel, but that's no my story. Ye see, Miss Ross, they were never like
ither folk--there was aye something about them--I canna describe it.
Mrs. Clippie, the Captain's wife, was genteeler than them--to tell the
truth we were genteeler oursels; but for a' that, there was just
something--I never could ken what it was. They keepit no company, but a'
the lads were daft about Marion."
"What Marion?" exclaimed Anne, eagerly.
"Oh, just Marion Lillie, Kirstin's sister."
"Marion Lillie!" a wild thrill of hope, and fear, and wonder shot
through Anne's frame. What could that strange conjunction of names
portend?
"So ye see, the young gentleman, Mr. Rutherford, of Redheugh, came to
the countryside--and Kirstin's house is near his gate, and so he behoved
to see the bonnie face at the window. It wasna like he could miss it.
"Before lang he had gotten very chief wi' the haill family--they didna
tak it as ony honor--they were just as if they thought themsels the
young Laird's equals; but they were awfu' fond o' him. I have seen
Patrick's face flush like fire if onybody minted a slighting word of
young Redheugh--no that it was often done, for there was never a man
better likit--and Kirstin herself treated him like anither brother, and
for Marion--weel, she was but a lassie; but the Laird and her were just
like the light of ilk ither's e'en.
"Ye may think, Miss Ross, there was plenty said about it in the
countryside. Rich folk said it wasna right, and puir folk said it wasna
right; but Kirstin guarded her young sister so, that naebody daured mint
a word of ill--it was only spite and ill-nature.
"Maybe, Miss Ross, your maid will carry ben the tray? or I can cry upon
Sarah."
Miss Crankie lifted up her voice and called at its loudest pitch for her
handmaiden. Sarah entered, and cleared away the tea equipage with
Jacky's tardy assistance. Jacky was by no means pleased to find her
attendance no longer necessary; she had managed to hear a good deal of
the story, and thirsted anxiously for its conclusion.
"Bring me my basket, Sarah," said Miss Crankie. "Miss Ross, ye'll excuse
me if I take my work. I have no will to be idle--it's an even down
punishment to me."
Mrs. Yammer crossed her hands languidly upon her lap and sighed. Sarah
returned, bearing a capacious work-basket, from which Miss Crankie took
a white cotton stocking, in which were various promising holes. "If ye
want onything of this kind done, I'll be very glad, Miss Ross--I'm a
special guid hand."
Anne thanked her.
"But your'e wearying for the end of my story, I see," said Miss Crankie,
"just let me get my needle threaded."
The needle was threaded--the stocking was drawn upon Miss Crankie's
arm--the black turban nodded in good-humored indication of having
settled itself comfortably--and the story was resumed.
"About that time, when young Redheugh was at his very chiefest with the
Lillies, and folk said he was going to be married upon Marion, a
gentleman came to stay here awhile for the benefit of the sea-side. His
wife was a bit delicate young thing--they said he wasna ower guid to
her. They lived on the other side of the town, and their name was
Aytoun. Mr. Rutherford and him had gotten acquaint in Edinburgh, and for
awhile they were great cronies. Patrick Lillie could not bide this
stranger gentleman--what for I dinna ken--but folk said Redheugh and him
had some bit tifft of an outcast about him; onyway it made no difference
in their friendship.
"But one July morning, Miss Ross, we were a' startled maist out of our
senses: there was an awfu' story got up of a dead man being found by the
waterside, just on the skirts of yon muckle wood that runs down close by
the sea, and who should this be but the stranger gentleman, Mr. Aytoun.
Somebody had shot him like a coward frae behind, and when they looked
among the bushes, lo! there was a gun lying, and whose name do you think
was on't? just Mr. Rutherford's, of Redheugh.
"The haill country was in a fever--the like of that ye ken was a
disgrace to us a'--and it was in everybody's mouth. The first body I
thought of was Marion Lillie; the day before she had gone into
Edinburgh--folk said it was to get her wedding dress. Eh, puir lassie!
was that no a awfu' story for a bride to hear?
"They gaed to apprehend Mr. Rutherford the same night, but he had fled,
and was away before they got to Redheugh, no man kent whither. I met
Christian that day; though I ca' her Kirstin speaking to you, I say aye
Miss Lillie to herself. In the one day that the murder was done she had
gotten yon look. It feared me when I saw it. Her e'en were travelling
far away, as if she could see to ony distance, but had nae vision for
things at hand. 'Eh, Miss Lillie!' I said to her, 'isna this an awfu'
thing; wha could have thought it of young Redheugh!'
"'I will never believe it!' she said, in a wild away: 'he is not guilty.
I will never believe it!'
"'And Miss Marion,' said I, 'bless me, it will break the puir lassie's
heart.'
"'I will not let her come home,' said Kirstin, 'I will send her to the
west country to my father's friends. She must not come home.'
"She would never say before that there was onything between her sister
and young Redheugh--now she never tried to deny it, her heart was ower
full.
"Weel, Miss Ross, the miserable young man had gotten away in a foreign
ship, and they hadna been at sea aboon a week when she foundered, and a'
hands were lost; and there was an end of his crime and his
punishment--they were baith buried in the sea.
"But no the misery of them--the puir lassie was taen away somegate about
Glasgow, but the news came to her ears there. What could ye think, Miss
Ross? It wasna like a common death--there was nae hope in it, either for
this world or the next. It crushed her, as the hail crushes flowers.
Within a fortnight after that, bonnie Marion Lillie was in her grave.
"Patrick was taen ill of a fever--they say the angry words he had spoken
about Mr. Aytoun to young Redheugh lay heavy on his mind. Kirstin had to
nurse him night and day--she couldna even leave him to see Marion
buried. She died, and was laid in her grave among strangers. When
Patrick was able to leave his bed, the two went west to see the
grave--that was all that remained of their bonnie sister Marion.
"Since that time they have lived sorrowful and solitary, keeping company
with naebody; the sore stroke has crushed them baith. Patrick never
sought his doctor's licence, nor tried to get a single patient. He has
been ever since a broken-down, weak, invalid man."
"He had a frail constitution like my ain," said Mrs. Yammer, "and Johann
maun aye have some great misfortune to account for it, when it's
naething but weakness. Eh, Miss Ross, if ye only kent the trouble it is
to a puir frail creature like me to make any exertion."
Miss Crankie twisted her strange little figure impatiently:
"When auld Schole died, Christian and Patrick flitted into the house,
and let their ain; they couldna bide it after that. It's a bit bonnie
wee place, maybe twa miles on the ither side of Aberford; and Redheugh
is maybe a quarter o' a mile nearer. They say the King gets the lands
when ony man does a crime like that; it's what they ca' confiscate.
Redheugh has been confiscate before now. The auld Rutherfords were
Covenanters langsyne, and lost their inheritance some time in the
eight-and-twenty years--but that was in a guid cause. Ony way, this Mr.
Rutherford was the last of his name: if there had been ony heir, I kenna
whether he could have gotten Redheugh or no, but it's a mercy the race
is clean gane, and there is none living to bear the reproach."
Anne's heart beat loudly against her breast; she remained to represent
the fallen house of Rutherford--she was the heir--the reproach: and the
suffering must be her's as well as Norman's.
"And was there no doubt?" she asked, "was no one else suspected?"
"Bless me, no; wha in our quiet countryside would lift a hand against a
man's life? If he hadna done it, he wadna have fled away; and if Kirstin
had ony certainty that he hadna done it, do you think she could have
bidden still? Na, I ken Kirstin Lillie better. Patrick was aye a weakly
lad, ower gentle for the like of that, but Kirstin could never have
sitten down in idleset if there had been ony hope. Mony a heart was wae
for him at the time, but the story has blawn by now; few folk think of
it. I wadna have tell't ye, Miss Ross, if ye hadna noticed Kirstin first
yoursel--but ye'll no mention it again."
"I certainly will not do anything that could hurt Miss Lillie's
feelings," said Anne.
"Ye see, she's half housekeeper of Schole the now; she pays nae rent, or
if there's ony, it's just for the name, and the house is sae
dismal-looking that naebody seeks to see't. You would think they couldna
thole a living face dear them; they gang to the Kirk regular, and whiles
ye will see them wandering on the sands; but for visiting onybody, or
having onybody visiting them, ye might as weel think of the spirits in
heaven having commune with us that are on the earth."
"And that minds me," said Mrs. Yammer, breaking in with a long loud
sigh, which the impatient Miss Crankie knew by dire experience was the
prelude to a doleful story, "of the awfu' fright I got after my man John
Yammer was laid in his grave, that brought on my palpitation. Ye see,
Miss Ross, I was sitting my lane, yae eerie night about Martinmas, in my
wee parlor that looks out on the green; and Johann, she was away at
Aberford, laying in some saut meat for the winter--wasna it saut meat,
Johann?"
"Never you mind, Tammie, my woman," said Johann, persuasively. "We're
dune wi' saut meat for this year."
"Ay, but it was just to let Miss Ross see the danger of ower muckle
thought, and how it brought on my palpitation. Eh woman, Johann, if ye
only kent how my puir heart beats whiles, louping in my breast like a
living creature!"
And the whole story was inflicted upon Anne--of how Mrs. Yammer, on the
aforesaid dreary Martinmas night, fancied she saw the shadow of the
umquhile John, gloomily lowering on her parlor wall; of how her heart
"played thud and cracked, like as it wad burst," as the shadowy head
nodded solemnly, darkening the whole apartment; of how at last Johann
returned, and with profane laughter, discovered the ghost to be the
shadow of a branch of the old elm without, some bare twigs upon the
extremity of which were fashioned into the likeness of an exceeding
retrousee nose, "the very marrow" of that prominent feature in the face
of the late lamented John; of which discovery his mournful relic was but
half convinced, and her heart had palpitated since, "sometimes less, and
sometimes mair, but I've never been quit o't for a week at a time."
The infliction terminated at last, Miss Crankie carried her sister off
when the gloaming began to darken, having sufficient discernment to
perceive that Anne's patience had been enough tried for a beginning.
Anne's thoughts were in a maze. She sat down by the window in the soft
gloom of the spring night, and looked towards the house, where beat
another true and faithful heart which had wept and yearned over
Norman--Marion--Marion--was she living or dead? could this Christian
Lillie be aware of Norman's existence, and of his innocence? There could
not be two betrothed Marions. In the latter part of the story, the
countryside must have been deceived. Who so likely to accompany the
exile as the sister of this brave woman, who had done the housemother's
self-denying duty in her earliest youth? Anne's pulse beat quick, she
became greatly agitated; was there then a tie of near connexion between
herself and this stranger, whose path she had again crossed? Was
Norman's wife Christian's sister? had they an equal stake in the return
of the exile?
She could not sit still--cold dew was bursting upon her forehead; she
walked from window to window in feverish excitement. Could she dare to
ask?--could she venture to make herself known? Alas, she was still no
whit advanced in her search for proof of Norman's innocence! If
Christian Lillie had possessed any clue, she must, it was certain, have
used it before now; and until some advance had been made, these two
strangers in their singular kindred would not dare to whisper to one
another that Norman lived.
Anne threw herself upon her chair again. And Lilie--who was Lilie? Why
was this stranger child brought--of all localities in the world--to the
neighbourhood of Merkland? Could it be? could it be? her heart grew sick
with feverish hope and anxiety; her mind continued to hover about, and
dwell upon this mystery; but she almost forcibly restrained herself from
articulate thought upon it--she could not venture yet to entertain the
hope.
And Norman! Esther Fleming's story had brought him out clear before her,
in the gay light of his generous boyhood.--Graver and more deeply
affecting was this. Who might venture to compute the untold agonies of
that terrible time of parting--the nervous compulsory strength of the
girl-heart that went with him--the stern patience of the maturer one,
who above by the sick-bed at home! Grief that must have remained with
all its burning sense of wrong, and heavy endurance of an undeserved
curse, since ever little Alice Aytoun opened her blue eyes to the
light--a lifetime of pain, and fear, and sorrow--too dreadful to look
back upon!
And Anne's heart sank when she looked forward--living here, in the
immediate spot where the deed was done, with all facility for collecting
favorable evidence, and with better knowledge, and a more immediate
certainty of Norman's innocence than even Anne herself could have--why
had the brother and sister done nothing to remove this stain? She could
only account for it by supposing them paralysed with fear--terrified to
risk the present security of those so dear to them, for any uncertainty
even of complete acquittal--and afraid of making any exertion, lest the
eyes of curiosity should be turned upon them.
The Forth lay vast in silvery silence, breathing long sighs along its
sands. Opposite swelling soft and full, in the spiritual dimness of the
spring night, rose the fair lands of Fife. Still and solemn in its
saintly evening rest, lay the beautiful earth everywhere. Only awake and
watching, under dusky roofs, and in dim chambers, were the hoping,
toiling, wrestling souls of men, nobler and of mightier destiny, than
even the beautiful earth.
The next morning, when she entered the sunny little parlor, Anne found
Jacky rearranging, according to her own ideas of elegance, the breakfast
equipage, which Miss Crankie's energetic little servant had already
placed upon the table. Anne smiled, and felt almost uncomfortable, as
she observed the solitary cup and saucer on the table--the single
plate--the minute teapot.--After all, this living alone, had something
very strange in it.
Jacky seemed to think so too: she filled out Anne's cup of tea, and
lingered about the back of her chair.
"If ye please, Miss Anne--"
"Well, Jacky?"
"If ye please," said Jacky, hesitating, "do ye ken wha little Miss Lilie
is?"
Anne started and turned round in alarm--was this strange, dark maid of
her's really an elfin, after all?
"No, Jacky," she said. "Why do you ask?"
"Because--it's no forwardness, Miss Anne," murmured Jacky, hanging down
her head.
"I know that, Jacky--because what?"
"Because, Miss Anne," said Jacky, emboldened, "I saw a lady down on the
sands. She was standing close by the bushes at yon dark house, and her
e'en were travelling ower the water, and her face was white--I will aye
mind it--and--"
"And what?"
"It was her that brought little Lilie to the Mill. I saw her once by
Oranside at night; and she was on our side of the water; and she was
looking across at Merkland."
"Was Lilie with her then, Jacky?"
"No, Miss Anne; but I saw her after, leading Lilie by the hand, and then
she was on the Merkland side, where Esther Fleming lives; and she was
walking about, canny and soft, as if she wanted to see in."
"And are you sure it is the same lady, Jacky?" said Anne.
"I ken, Miss Anne," said Jacky, eagerly; "because there's no twa faces
like yon in a' the world; and, Miss Anne, do ye mind Lilie's e'en?"
"Yes, Jacky."
Anne did recollect them--and how dark and full their liquid depths were!
"Because Lilie's e'en are the very same--only they're no sae woeful--and
I kent the lady would be some friend, but Mrs. Melder said it couldna be
her mother."
Anne's heart swelled full. Could this little child be as near of
kindred to herself as to Christian Lillie? Her mind was overflowing with
this. She forgot that Jacky lingered.
"And, if ye please, Miss Anne--"
Anne again turned round to listen.
"She was looking away ower the water, and leaning on the hedge--maybe
she lives yonder--and Miss Anne--"
"What is it, Jacky?"
Jacky drew near and spoke very low:
"Do you mind the sang, Miss Anne, that Miss Alice sang on the New-year's
night, when Mr. Archibald came home to the Tower?"
Anne started.
"The lady was saying it to hersel very low--the way Lilie sings her
strange music."
"What did she say, Jacky?"
"If ye please, Miss Anne, it was a short verse--it was about seeing the
stars rise upon the Oran. I can say't a'." And Jacky hung back, and
blushed and hesitated.
The connexion became clearer by every word. "The student lad" who wrote
this ballad--could it be Patrick Lillie?
"Was it last night you heard this, Jacky?"
"No, Miss Anne, it was this morning very early. I wanted to see the
sea," said Jacky, bashfully, "and I saw the sun rise. But I think the
lady wasna heeding for the sea. She wasna there at a'. She was in her
ain spirit."
"And you are sure you are not mistaken, Jacky?" said Anne.
"Miss Anne!" exclaimed Jacky, "ye would ken yourself, if you saw her.
Its just Lilie's e'en--only they are far, far deeper and sadder, and aye
searching and travelling, as if something was lost that they bid to
find, and were seeking for night and day."
"That they bid to find!" The words roused Anne. "Did you mention this to
any one?" she asked.
Jacky looked injured--an imputation on her honor she could not bear.
"I never tell things, Miss Anne. I'm no a talepyet."
"Well, Jacky, remember that I trust you. I have heard that this lady has
had great sorrow; and she has some good reason, no doubt, for not
keeping Lilie beside her. Mind, you must never mention this to any
one--not to Bessie--not even to your mother, when we return. No one
knows it, but you and me. I am sure I can trust you, Jacky."
Jacky gave a faithful promise, and went away with secret and proud
dignity. She also had entered upon the search--she had begun to
co-operate with Anne.