“He!” Christian paused; over the steadfast whiteness of her face there flushed an unnatural color. She gazed upon Anne; her wistful melancholy eyes dilating as it seemed in eager inquiry. “He!” she checked herself; it appeared to have flashed upon her that Anne knew something of their mighty secret greater than she had before thought. She controlled herself with an effort—”yes, he is ill; what can he be else but ill?”
“I must return to him,” she resumed, after an incoherent pause. “Stay with us, since you will stay; but mind I have warned you, that with us there can be nothing but desolation, and blight, and hopelessness. What depths you may fathom before we are parted, I know not. It may be that you are sent thither for that end. We walk darkling, but He sees the beginning and the end: let His will be done.”
She left the room—in a short time, Anne also quitted it. Marget was arranging in the kitchen the breakfast for the shipwrecked seamen. There was no scant or niggardly provision. The men, gaunt and famished-like, an uncouth company, were gathered about the table. In the little parlor sat the captain and his wife.
“Miss Kirstin said I was to see they had plenty to their breakfast,” said Marget, deprecatingly, “and there wasna bread enough in the house; and I’m no sae young as I hae been mysel, forbye having a fashious hoast, and a sore shortness in my breath, sae I took the freedom to send your lass, because she was willing to gang, and I hope, Mem, ye’ll no be angry.”
“By no means,” said Anne. “Jacky will be glad to help you, I am sure.”
“She’s a willing lassie,” said Marget; “but if it werena that she’s discreet, and does what she’s bidden, I wad maist think she wasna canny. Preserve me! there she is already rattling at the gate; if she’s been at Aberford, she maun hae flown.”
Jacky had only been at Miss Crankie’s; she returned laden with provisions sent by Anne’s kind, active, odd little landlady—there was a full supply. Anne herself joined the young captain and his wife in the little parlor.
In the course of the day the forlorn crew of the “William and Mary,” considerably revived by their night’s rest and shelter, left Schole—with much gratitude expressed and unexpressed. William and Mary themselves proceeded, with their infant, to the house of the husband’s father. The men dispersed to their various homes.
Anne remained—only once again during that day she saw Christian. Then she spoke less incoherently, with something indeed of singular gentleness, and an endeavor for the moment to forget her individual burden, as though her heart began to yearn for the sympathy of this younger sister. Patrick was very ill; he could not leave his bed.
The next day told the same tale, and so did the next—and the next again. The illness increased. The fever and agitation of that night had wrought their due effect upon the delicate, enfeebled frame whenever the desperate tension and rigid strength of its nervous excitement failed. On the fourth day, Christian, who all this time had watched unceasingly, called the medical practitioner of the little town to her brother’s bedside. Anne saw him as he passed down stairs, and asked eagerly for his patient; the doctor shook his head—he could give no hope.