Marget went with some reluctance, and returned in a few minutes with the stalwart young Captain. Anne begged her to guide him to his wife’s room, and then opening the outer door, stepped out herself into the garden for a moment’s refreshment in the cool morning air.
Fresh, bright, healthful, tinged and gilded with their young sunbeams, while everything around rejoiced in its lightsome breadth and purity, Anne almost fancied it strange that the joyous air did not shrink from these gray walls—so full of sin and grief—sorrow, remorse, and pain, that shrank from the eye of man, as they were.
When she again entered the room where she had found Marget and Jacky, the young captain of the wrecked ship was there, somewhat tremulous and unsteady, poor fellow, after his meeting with his wife. They had been looking together from the window at the lost vessel with mingled thankfulness and regret. Anne began to speak to him.
“The boat was a schooner—the William and Mary of Kincardine—homeward bound from the Baltic, with a cargo of timber. We’ve been water-logged for three weeks; drifting very much where the wind likit to drive us. If it had not been for the summer weather and lown winds, we must have perished before now; we’ve had a dreadful time—no that I care for a while of hardship myself—it like comes natural to a seafaring life—but Mary and the infant! I was saying to her the now, that she had better make up her mind, to let me go alone after this; I durst not put her in such peril again.
“She seems to have borne it bravely,” said Anne.
“Ay, that she has,” said the young man, his eyes glistening.—”It’s often no the strongest and roughest like that can bear the most. For the bairn’s sake and mine, and her mother’s at hame, I believe she could have held out as long as myself. To be sure, we sheltered her, while shelter was possible, but that has not been for a while—and now she’s less worn out than the men. It’s a strange thing that, but I’ve seen the like of it before. They can stand work—plenty of it—but they canna both work and thole—and we have needed both.”
“It is very strange,” said Anne, “almost all of them were stronger than their deliverer.”
“Ay it’s no that,” said the captain of the William and Mary, “it’s the spirit that ever does anything. My men were stunned and helpless, worn out with the terrible watch they have kept for three weeks bye-past. The gentleman scarce so much as felt he had a body clothing him, when he saw our peril. It was the keen spirit that did it.”
Anne sighed. This unhappy man, borne down by his fearful secret, his life desolated by a great hidden crime, was a very angel of bravery and goodness to the men whose lives he had saved.—She asked:
“Will the loss be great?”