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?