Anne spent the greater part of the day in Schole, returning to Miss Crankie’s only for the night. Now, when Patrick’s illness had increased so alarmingly, she could only exchange a passing word with Christian on the stair, or at the door of the sick-room. She had pleaded vainly for permission to help her in her tendance of the sufferer: failing in that, she gradually assumed the management of the household matters below. She lightened Christian’s hands, at least so far.
A week after the shipwreck, Anne entered Christian’s room—the high turret chamber from which so often she had seen the reflected light gleaming upon the dark waters of the Firth—to wait for her coming. It was a still, dim, balmy night, soft and melancholy. There was always a great attraction in that broad Firth at their feet—a kind of wandering freedom for the overcharged heavy hearts gazing forth upon it. The rounded window was veiled by an old-fashioned, faded curtain: within this there was a seat which Christian Lillie had occupied for more lingering woeful nights than we could count or record. Anne seated herself there, and looked out in the dim gloaming upon the silent land, and gleaming sea.
By-and-by she heard the slow, sad footstep enter, and sat still, in expectation of being joined immediately—for Christian, like herself, continually sought these windows; continually calmed her sorrow in the wide tranquillity and balmy peace that lay around.
“Give him to me for a prey. Lord, give him to me for a prey,” were the strange words that came to Anne’s ear, falling low through the tremulous darkness; “I ask not for his life. Thou knowest that I ask not for his life. My Father, wilt Thou not hear? wilt Thou forget the prayers that have risen to Thee day by day and night by night since Thou didst hide Thy countenance from us? My Lord! hast Thou said any word in vain? shall any promise be forgotten before Thee?”
The listener sat still in awe; she dared not interrupt this agony of supplication with any token of her presence.
Christian was pacing the room quickly, with tremulous step, and passionate low voice, too mightily absorbed to think of form or posture.
“If it be Thy will—Thy will—and Thy will is to seek and save the lost; and this is lost in sin, in blindness, and the deep gloom of unbelief, and it was such that Thou camest to save—such, and not the righteous. It is Thy will—it is Thy will. Grant me Thy will of salvation to this sinner—Lord! Lord!”
She paused; she threw herself on her knees; there was an indefinite sound of entreaty—groaning that could not be uttered.—Then she started to her feet again, and the words poured forth aloud, as one who finds a new argument and can scarce pause for language in which to state and plead it.
“Thou who art a man! Thou who bearest a human heart in Thy high heaven! Thou who hast entreated, and yearned, and wept over sinful brethren, whom the adversary sifted as wheat! Thou, O Lord! who wearest Thy humanity upon Thy throne!—he is a sinner—so were they whom Thou didst call Thy friends.—He hath denied Thee—so did he, for whom Thy holy lips prayed, that his faith might not fail. My Lord!—my Lord!—thou hearest always. Look down upon us, and send us deliverance.”
She sat down; she put back her wet hair, and wiped the heavy dew from her forehead. Then she clasped her hands over her brow.