Marjory was standing by Isabell’s bed, putting back the infant into its
place by her side when her uncle and his attendants were admitted into
the cottage. She did not see the start of amazement with which Agnes and
her mother recognised the strangers. She herself did not even remark
their presence. Her mind was full of emotion much too warm and strong to
be easily disturbed from the thoughts that occupied her, and her only
feeling towards her uncle was that of impatience that he had followed
her so quickly. That he should wish to examine into the whole matter
personally was simple enough, and he had even insisted upon it, in his
conversations with herself; consequently she was not surprised at his
appearance, but only annoyed by his haste and want of consideration for
the invalid. If it had been a lady he would never have broke in upon her
so, Marjory said to herself. And she showed her displeasure by taking no
notice of his arrival. She bent over Isabell, smoothing her pillows, and
arranging the white coverlet over her.
“My uncle has come,” she said, “you will not mind? He is an old man and
very kind at heart. If he seems a little abrupt it is only his manner.
He is our only relative, he has a right to inquire; you will not be
frightened? Answer his questions as you have answered me. He will be a
good friend to--the child--and to you.”
“My friends must be in a better place,” said Isabell, with a faint
smile.
“Yes, but we want the other too, for the child’s sake,” said Marjory.
She was more excited than the dying girl. She began to picture to
herself disagreeable questions which Mr. Charles might ask, suggestions
he might make. He was kind, but he had a different code of civility for
“a country lass” from that which would rule his utterances to a lady.
Perhaps in general he was not wrong in this; but Isabell was not a mere
country lass as he supposed. With a sense of anxiety which was stronger
than seemed called for by the occasion, Marjory stood aside, and allowed
her uncle to approach. Then, for the first time, she noticed the homely
pair who accompanied him, and saw Agnes, flushed with excitement,
standing back in a corner watching them, forcibly keeping herself
silent, but with an eagerness of eye and look which meant something. The
old mother, too, was gazing at them with open mouth and eyes, saying at
intervals, “Lord preserve us a’!” with mingled anxiety and surprise.
This curious consciousness, on the part of the spectators, disclosed to
Marjory that the strange visitors were not mere neighbours, as she had
thought. And she, too, gazed at them eagerly--but ignorantly--without
being any the wiser. Their real identity strangely enough never occurred
to her. She had associated the finding of them with Fanshawe, and with
him alone. It is, perhaps, too much to say that she did not want them
to be found except by him; but certainly she had set her heart upon his
accomplishment of this commission. It would be, she felt, a proof to
heaven and earth that his real character was very different from his
reputation--that he was a true friend--a man to trust and rely upon. She
had “no object” (as she said to herself) in her wish to prove this--but
yet abstractly she did wish to prove it. It was a foregone conclusion in
her own mind. Therefore she had no desire that these should be the
missing witnesses, and the idea did not occur to her, eager and anxious
as her interest was.
“Yes, yes, May, my dear,” said Mr. Charles. “I see, this is the young
woman. How are you to-day? I hear you are not so well as could be
wished. My niece, Miss Heriot, has told me a great deal about you. I am
not wanting to be uncivil, my poor girl; but I cannot conceal from you
that your story is very unlikely--very unlikely; without strong proof I
cannot see how it could ever be believed.”
He said this standing in the place which Marjory had given up to him,
taking in everything around, the homely scene, the group which filled
the room, rather than the individual whom he was addressing. When,
however, he turned to her at the conclusion of his little speech, Mr.
Charles gave a perceptible start. What Isabell might have been, in rude
health like her sister, it would have been difficult to say, or whether
the refinement and melancholy beauty of her face was purchased chiefly
by grief and suffering; but certainly there was nothing in this pale and
fragile creature, which answered to Mr. Charles’s idea of a country
lass. He stammered a little in his confusion. He said, stumbling over
his words, “I--beg your pardon; I am afraid you are--not so well--as I
thought--”
“I will never be well in this world,” said Isabell. “I’m going fast,
fast to a better, where a’body will understand. It was Miss Heriot put
that first into my head--where there will be nobody that will not
understand. I’m weak, weak, no able to tell it all over again; and oh,
Sir, what for should I take all that pain, no to be believed? What
matter is it whether God clear my good name or no? He will do it some
time--and right my little bairn. I’m tired, tired--oh, mother, I’m
tired, my heart’s beating; and my head’s throbbing. Dinna ask me any
questions. I want to rest--”
“Oh, Bell!” cried the mother, coming forward. “Oh, my Bell! tell the
gentleman. Now is the time to say the truth, whatever it may be. And now
I’ll believe you, my bairn! I’ve been hard, and shut my heart.
Now--now--if you’ll say it again, I will believe you, Bell!”
The girl closed her eyes, and shook her head gently. “How often have I
told you, and you wouldna believe me, mother? Why now, when my strength
is failing, and my heart sinking?”
“Isabell!” cried Agnes, “speak to them--oh, for God’s sake--look at me
upon my knees to you,” and she rushed forward into the midst of the
room, and threw herself upon her knees, with tears bursting from her
blue eyes and her hands raised in passionate supplication, “for the
man’s sake that’s dead, that never loved you half so well as I’ve
done--for the bairn’s sake that I’ll be a mother to--Isabell! for the
last time.”
Wearily Isabell opened her eyes. “Am I dying then?” she said, with a
feeble smile. “Eh, that would be good news! You would not put it to me
so solemn if I was not dying. I’m wearied, sore wearied; but if it’s the
last time I must not think of mysel. My breath’s going, mother, and my
heart’s fluttering; come and hold me by the hand, and Miss Heriot--where
is Miss Heriot? Must I say it all over--every word? Sir, stand you there
that I may see you. I was a foolish creature, and ignorant--knowing
nothing. I didna pay attention when I should--I was fond of foolish
things and dreaming.”
“Bell, you were the best of my bairns; you never gave me an hour’s
trouble--till _that_ time--”
“Whisht, mother, let me speak! Then I met with a gentleman--he was like
_her_ there--yon bonnie leddy, that has come to me and comforted me, and
been my stay. By her ye may judge him. He said I should be his wife
before God and man. Never a thought of harm, no a thought was in his
mind. I’m dying and going till him. My man! no his sister there, a lady,
could think less harm. Maybe I would have done what he said, good or
ill; for he was like a god to me--a gentleman--no like common lads--but
never a word of ill said he, mother, never a word. He said he wouldna go
before the Minister, for it would be his ruin; but before decent folk.”
Here the sound of a sob broke poor Isabell’s interrupted monologue, a
rude outbreak of emotion, sounding like a sudden discord. It came from
the man who stood behind-backs, whose eyes had been gradually getting
redder. The woman by him laid her hand upon him to restrain him; she had
her handkerchief to her eyes; but was watching keenly through it,
keeping her senses about her. Isabell was vaguely disturbed by this
interruption; but after a moment’s pause began again; her voice more and
more broken by the struggling breath.
“They were decent folk; they would say the truth if they were
found--John Macgregor and his wife--they wouldna have countenanced any
sin; you may believe that, mother. Folk like them would never have
countenanced what was a shame to think of. I told nobody, because he
said it--no one, not even Agnes. I aye hoped, and he aye hoped. But then
there came the terrible news--the awfu’ news; it was in the papers. If
it was not that I’m going--to him--I couldna speak of that day. Dinna
ask me more. I mind nothing more, till I wakened up, and my bairn was
born; and I was a disgrace and a shame!”
“No, no, Bell; no a disgrace!” cried the mother, with tears streaming
from her eyes. “It was a’ for the truth that I fought--the truth. I born
minded nothing more.”
“And ye believe me now, because I’m dying! there’s no other reason. I
was as true then as I am now. Oh, if these decent folk were but here,
that ken a’,” she cried with an effort. Another abrupt outbreak of
sudden sobbing came from the other end of the room; Isabell raised
herself up--partly it was the beating of her heart that forced her into
an erect position, partly a curiosity, which was stronger than her
self-restraint. When she saw the strangers, she uttered a sudden cry;
excitement blazed up like flame, over her delicate face, lighting wild
lamps in her eyes, and bringing colour to her cheeks; a gleam as of
stormy sunshine came over her. “They’re here!” she cried, with an
infantile laugh of pleasure, the last utterance of weakness. “Oh, make
them speak! is it no true?”
“It’s Gospel,” cried the man, sobbing. “Oh, Bell, my bonnie woman, to
see you come to this! it’s a’ Gospel truth. Speak out, Jean, if you’re a
woman, and no a stone; speak out, I tell you! It’s true, Sir--as sure as
death--as true as the Bible. God! woman, will ye no speak?”
“I’ll speak if ye’ll leave me time,” said Jean. “I’m no to be pushed
that gate, and pushed the other, and never left to mysel’. She was never
an ill lass. I’ve kent her since she was this height; a bit genty
creature, never just like other folk. Ye ken yourself, Sir, I said we
could never swear against Bell--she’s a good lass. There was some
nonsense of the kind went on atween her and young Mr. Heriot--”
Isabell raised herself almost erect in her bed. Her fragile white figure
shook with the heavings of her heart. But for this the flush upon her
face, the overwhelming brightness of her eyes, might have banished even
from the spectator most deeply interested, any idea of mortal sickness.
She looked at the woman with a smile.
“I’m dying!” she said, in a voice that was strangely sweet and strong.
“Answer, before God--and me. Ye’ll never see me mair--till the last day.
Ye’ve my name and my bairn’s in your hands. Speak out! I ask you nae
favour; speak the truth--- before God, and me.”
“Oh, Bell!” cried the woman, terrified, raising her hand to her face;
“oh, dinna look at me with those blazing e’en! Sir, we meant nae
harm--John and me. We never made our house a tryst, with an ill meaning.
He went on his knees to me to let him see her. We wer’na the folk to
lead gentlemen astray, nor lasses neither; it was not our blame.”
“Speak, ye deevil!” cried the man, furious; “or let me speak. It comes
better from a woman. Who thinks of you and me? Sir, Sir! it’s a’ true.”
The tears were running down his rough face. With his stumbling, awkward
step, too big for the place, he pushed forward. “If we didna come forrit
before, it was for the fear o’ man,” he said. “She thought it was a
story that would lose me my place--like as if we was entrapping lads to
marry. Oh, Bell, forgive me! it was the fear of man.”
“Mother, you hear!” said Isabell. She had forgotten all the others. A
glow of gentle contentment stole over her face. The strength of
excitement failed her; she sank back upon the pillows, which Marjory
stealing in, had raised to support her. “Now I can depart in peace; now
I’m clear; now I can go to my man. Oh, God be praised--that sent the
decent folk, just in time.”
“Isabell!” cried Agnes, throwing herself on the bed; “you’re no so ill
as that? It wasna that I thought you dying; you’re no dying. I bad ye
speak because they were here.”
“Ay, ay! and I’ve spoken; and it’s a’ clear. The night’s coming on, I
canna see. Mother, you were saying--what was somebody saying? I hear a
sound in my ears; it’s the sea, or the wind--or maybe something more.”
“Bell! what is it? oh, my Bell! It’s her heart. Raise her up, to get
breath; open the window. She’s aye speaking, speaking. Bell, speak to
your mother. My darlin’ it’s a’ clear.”
“It’s voices,” she said, with an effort; “voices--like in the
Bible--like the sound--o’ a great multitude; grander than the sea, or
the wind. Do ye no hear?--and one that says ‘Isabell!’ among all the
angels, and the saved that cry day and night, ‘Honour to the Lamb!’ Oh,
hearken. One’s stopped, and it cries ‘Isabell!’ Ay, my man! I’m
here--I’m here!”
Then a great silence suddenly fell over the cottage, a stifled sound of
feet moving, faint rustling of dresses, tinkling of the glass in which
they tried to administer something to revive her, and afterwards low
sobs, broken cries, but not another articulate word. The conflict of
wills and voices had ended. Without a word, another brief ineffectual
struggle took place round the bed--the last struggle with death--vain,
passionate, hopeless effort. Isabell did not die all at once; this hard
life, which is so bitter to live, so hard to begin, is hard too to end.
She could not drop it from her so easily. For hours after they moved
about that bed, saying nothing to each other, hiding their faces by
times, stopping their ears not to hear the painful thrill of those last
breathings, which seemed to shake the cottage. The doctor had time to
come all the way from St. Andrews, and look at her, pitiful and
helpless, shaking his head, and whispering that she did not suffer, that
consciousness was gone and pain. But it was the middle of the night
before the last breath died upon poor Isabell’s lips. No one of all the
awe-stricken party left the cottage at first. Marjory was with the
mother and sister by the bed. Mr. Charles, pale as a ghost, sat in a
chair in a corner, looking on with a wondering countenance of sorrow.
Had any one suggested it to him, he would have gone away; but he was
absorbed like all the rest, and thought of nothing but of the wonderful
act that was being accomplished before him. John Macgregor was standing
on the threshold outside, his great person heaving with sobs. His wife,
crying, but still with her wits about her, prepared with ghastly matter
of fact composure to make herself of use. This was the scene upon which
Fanshawe arrived, in the early darkening of the summer night. The baby,
whom everybody had forgotten, had just awoke with a cry by the side of
its insensible mother. Somehow this sudden protest of life against the
pre-occupation of all the attendants on the dying, gave a touch almost
of humour to the tragic scene. Marjory lifted the infant, and it was
into Fanshawe’s arms that she thrust it, scarcely seeing what she did.
“Take it to the woman,” she said, turning away from him. Where was he to
take it? He held the helpless thing in his arms, no one finding it
ludicrous, or even strange, till Jean relieved him of it. And then he
went and stood with John Macgregor, not knowing who he was; or what had
happened, outside the door. But after all, notwithstanding his ignorance
and dismay, it was Fanshawe who brought so much common sense and
understanding to the scene as to send Mr. Charles home, and Macgregor,
both of whom were in the way. He understood, by instinct, a great deal
of what had passed, and though he did not divine who the man was, by
whose side he had been standing, yet it was impossible not to perceive
that some preceding agitation, in which this man had been more or less
involved, had taken place in the humble room, which now the presence of
death filled to over-flowing. Fanshawe sent the other men away, and
remained himself to see what was to be done. Strangely enough this
seemed perfectly natural both to himself and Mr. Charles. He went
outside, and sat down on the rocks which hedged in the bit of velvet
greensward on which the cottage stood. It was a strange vigil. He
watched the last rays of the evening light die out, the revealing of the
stars among the clouds, the gleam of living radiance which woke in them
from the edges of those masses of vapour; and then gradually, slowly,
the pale lightening over the Eastern horizon--the promise of dawn. He
sat with the waves plashing up to his very feet, carried by the high
tide which came in just about the time he took his place there--then
ebbing slowly down among the rocks, further and further off, moving the
gleaming, living line ever lower down. The pale variations of sea and
sky, the gathering midnight darkness that shut out both, all the
mysterious sounds of Night and Nature went on around him; and death was
overshadowing behind him, and a silent awe seemed over everything. To
watch a whole night so, is such an experience as few forget; and to
watch outside as Fanshawe was doing--with all the ghosts of the past and
shadows of the future combining to increase the impression, was more
wonderful still. And yet he felt it but little, his mind and soul being
closed to external impressions by a pre-occupation which is more
absorbing than any other on earth.
The faint grey of morning had begun to dawn when all at once he felt a
soft touch upon his shoulder, and turned round, saw Marjory standing by
him, like a ghost in the dimness.
“All is over;” she said, quietly; and then, “Have you watched with us
all night?”
“All night,” he said. “I could do nothing more. Can I do anything now?”
“Take me home,” said Marjory. “I am too weary and sad to go alone. It is
all over. She has got away at last. Oh, how hard it is to get rid of
life!”
Her tears fell upon his hands, which held hers. He looked at her
wistfully, eagerly, in the dim light, by which he could scarcely see her
face. How high life was beating in his heart as he listened to these
words. Hard to get rid of life! as if it were not something priceless,
full of happiness, full of possibility, which a man would do anything,
bear anything, rather than be rid of. He put her cloak round her while
she stood passively by him, worn out, with those tears on her
cheeks--and then drew her hand within his arm, and led her away silently
along the dim sea-shore with all its mysterious sounds. The light
increased slowly, dimly, the pale morning broke as they moved along. To
Marjory it was all like a dream. To him, what was it? Every moment he
could see her more plainly, and feel her, leaning on him. Rid of life!
Who would be rid of that which held such prizes still?