NANNIE'S HOME
MR. MACDONALD'S anger was of a most dangerous kind, when on his return,
he learned from the servants what had taken place. He did not fly into
a furious passion, or grow livid with rage, but he swore secretly to
have his revenge to the very utmost. Ethel should rue the day she
married Edward Pryse, and her husband should be hers no longer from
the time he left the shores of Scotland. There in his miser's den, he
laid the deep schemes which were to be so fatally carried out. But at
present, he could not afford to be uncivil to Edward, because there
were matters still to be arranged, in which it would be as well to
propitiate this friend of the firm. So, though cold, he was outwardly
courteous to him when they had occasion to meet. But with quiet
malignity watched for the opportunity of crushing his victims.
Ethel seldom went near the great house during the remainder of her
husband's stay. She was afraid to meet her uncle alone, and she felt
perfectly safe and happy with her heart's love. How peacefully those
summer days glided away, as by degrees she beguiled her husband into
telling her all his past history! As usual, Edward managed to throw a
fictitious gloss over the ugly circumstances of the office robbery,
calling it only borrowing. And though Ethel looked up somewhat
doubtfully with her innocent eyes of truth, he argued so plausibly,
that at last it appeared to her a far less dreadful crime than it
really was.
"But you will send the money back when you get to America, won't you?"
she pleaded.
Edward promised again and again.
She then continued: "You will take me to your own home some day? For,
of course, when the debt is paid, your father will not be angry any
more. You will be forgiven, and he will receive us with open arms. I
should be frightened to go there all alone, but with you, it would be
different. Silexa and Minnie will love me as a sister, and we shall all
be so happy together."
"Yes," said Edward; "we will go to St. Elvis."
For the lapse of years had softened his bitter feelings towards his
father, and he longed to see the old home once more. He described to
his young wife his boyish haunts, and all the fun he and Minnie used
to have with good Roger Rudd, the hale and hearty fisherman, who never
refused to take them out in his boat with his daughter Lettice, the
quiet, sober maiden, who was somewhat too demure for the mischievous
pair. Ethel liked hearing everything Edward could tell her about his
sisters, and already felt as if she belonged to them.
"Our baby, if it is a girl, must be called after them," she said one
evening, just before he started. "You wish it, don't you? Ermyn is such
a lovely name; it must be first, I think, and then Silexa."
"As you please, darling. Yes, it will make them love the little thing
all the more when they see it. My earliest recollections are associated
with the name of Ermyn."
And then he told her of the dear old church, and the ancient monument
with the dirty little marble angels.
But the parting was a sore and bitter one, as he clasped a beautiful
locket set in pearls round her neck, containing two curls of hair, and
the monogram of double E across it. How Ethel clung to him and wept, as
he held her to his breast, and comforted her with promises. He really
would come back as soon as he could, and it might be much sooner than
she thought.
Edward, in his selfishness, little dreamed, as he was going forth
once more into the busy whirl of life, of the cruel weight of utter
loneliness and desolation that sunk upon the poor wife's heart, as she
watched him disappear from her wistful gaze.
Edward went over these scenes again and again, as now, in an agony of
despair, he flung himself upon the ground, and shed bitter tears for
his lovely lost one. They were tears also of heartfelt contrition, for
he could now see that all these griefs were but the consequences of his
own sin.
As he lay there on the dreary turf bog, with a white mist wrapping him
round, he cried aloud from the depths of his bursting heart:
"'I have gone astray like a lost sheep.'
"'Against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy
sight.'"
After a while, this was followed by the other cry:
"'I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father,
I have sinned against heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to
be called Thy son.'"
How the long winter passed he could not tell. It seemed like untold
ages as he went about Muirstane, lonely and miserable, day by day,
trying in vain to catch at the faintest shadow that might indicate
the spot in the wide lonely world where he could begin to track the
footsteps of his beloved. If she were not in the fated ship, he might
yet possibly find her. But the remembrance of that beautiful child's
strong resemblance to Ethel forbade him to cling much to this hope. Yet
why would Ethel be in a ship bound for Ireland? There was the mystery!
On the other hand, if it was Ethel who was drowned (and he had small
doubt of this in his own mind), what proof could he give to Mrs. Gwynne
that Ermyn was his child? He had no evidence of the fact to bring
forward, and he could not claim her without it. Night and day he prayed
for light in this darkness; but he had to wait God's time for it. He
dragged through the months of frost and snow somehow, doing his best
to beguile the time by relieving the wants of the tenantry around, who
blessed the day Mr. Pryse had come among them as their landlord. His
thoughtful kindness for them made him many friends, who were all on the
look-out to glean tidings that might help him in his search; for all
had loved and pitied his gentle wife.
Spring had clothed the hills and trees with living verdure. But as the
green deepened and spread on every hand, there was no resurrection hope
and gladness in the heart of the lonely man. Summer was at hand, and
what then?
He was seated, one sultry day some weeks later, in the little general
shop, talking to the mistress of it about some repairs she wanted done,
when a merry-looking Scotch lassie stepped across the threshold.
"Ye'll no' ken me," she said, smiling to the shop-woman. "I'm a
stranger here; but maybe ye'll mind Nannie McEwen, wha bided here afore
I was born."
"Ay, ay, my bonnie lassie, I mind her weel," said the woman.
While Edward started to his feet, too much staggered at the name to
speak a word.
"I'm on my road to my aunt's," continued the girl, "wha bides at
Castletoun, and my grandmother, Mistress McEwen, bade me come by
Muirstane, and see gin I could hear ony word o' her bonnie leddy, wha
lived here afore she was married."
"Where does your grandmother live, my lassie?" said Edward, pale and
trembling.
"Eh, sir, it's a lang, lang piece frae Muirstane; I've been three days
on the road."
She then proceeded to detail her route by coach and ferry, from this
out of the world habitation among the hills.
"It's a wee bit town," she added, "but when ye cross the ferry at
'Glenairg,' onybody 'll tell ye whaur Nannie McEwen bides."
The girl stared with amazement at her interlocutor, wondering why he
questioned her so closely—he, a stranger she had never set eyes on
before. But she did not object to give him as much information as he
liked, especially when, on quitting the shop, he slipped a bright piece
of gold into her hand.
"At last! At last!" he panted to himself, as he went up the hill to his
lonely dwelling. "O God, I thank Thee, Thou hast heard my cry!"
To cram a few necessaries into a bag, and depart in joyful haste, was
his work that afternoon. What mattered difficulties and fatigues,
however great they might be? The wings of Hope had grown again, and
she was now soaring on before him as the dove of peace, with the
olive-branch in her mouth! He was on the right track at last!
It was a tedious and difficult journey, but Edward never thought of
that, as, weary and thankful, he stepped into the ferry-boat that would
land him within sight of Nannie's home. The man who rowed him across
had never received such a lavish guerdon before. He invoked a blessing
on the head of the traveller, who sprang lightly out, and began
speeding away up the hill opposite, as if he were only setting out on
his journey.
A little mountain lake lay cradled in the bosom of the hills, and on
its peaceful breast slept soft lights and purple shadows. The loftiest
peak blushed rosy red in the sunset glow, and was reflected in the
clear water, making the dark, green depths on the shady side seem
deeper still. A well-to-do looking farmhouse was situated on a bit
of rising ground just above the lake, and its numerous outbuildings
and byres sloping towards the shore gave it a prosperous look. Rude
flagstone steps inserted here and there among the heather led down
from the door to the water, and a girl in a gay kirtle was on her way
thither to fill the pail she was carrying. An aged woman stood knitting
at the door, every now and then looking up at the grey and pink clouds
above her head.
As Edward drew nearer, he had time to observe her dress and appearance.
She wore a dark stuff gown, which showed a clear white handkerchief
folded across under the rather open bodice, and on her head a spotless
mutch trimmed with narrow lace, having a black ribbon bound above it.
Some grey locks strayed over the wrinkled forehead, and the soft brown
eyes had a kindly light in them. A sweet smile of welcome played about
her mouth as the stranger advanced. Edward could understand, when he
looked at her, why Ethel had fled to her motherly arms for refuge.
"A braw nicht, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey.
Edward courteously returned her greeting, and put the eager question:
"Does Nannie McEwen live here?"
"'Deed, ay, sir, I am Nannie McEwen mysel', though I dinna ken wha I'm
speakin' till. Come ye ben the hoose, sir," she added, leading the way.
"It's by-ordinar' cauld the nicht."
The old woman turned to look at her guest, and great was her surprise
to see he had sunk down on a seat by the door, deathly pale, and
gasping for breath.
"The Lord preserve us a'! What's wrang wi' the gentleman? What ails ye,
sir?"
"Pardon me," he said, struggling back into self-possession; "the long
journey has wearied me. Thank God, I have found you at last. I am Ethel
Macdonald's husband, Edward Pryse."
Nannie's knitting fell from her fingers, as with upraised hands she
said, "What! Him that crossed the seas, and left her lane. Ye dinna
mean to tell me ye are my bonnie leddy's ain gude man! Wae's me! Wae's
me!" And, sitting down, she rocked herself to and fro, and began to
weep bitterly.
"Did she come to you from Muirstane?" asked Edward, white and trembling.
"Ay, that did she, puir lammie! My mitherless bairn cam' to me ae mirk
nicht a' droukit wi' the rain, spent wi' the journey, and maist deed
wi' the cauld. Whaur is she, sir, the noo? Oh, gin I kent that!"
"I believe she is with God," replied Edward, with a groan, "but tell me
all you know."
Then, as he grew calmer, he gave the history of his arrival at
Muirstane, and all the awful facts his visit there brought to light,
the long fruitless search, the chance meeting with Nannie's grandchild,
and his subsequent journey hither.
"Puir, puir lad! It's a sair heart ye'll carry aboot a' your days,
for I dinna think ye'll meet again till ye meet in oor Father's hoose
above. It's an ower true tale, as I ken fu' weel, though I didna think
to hae tauld it to her ain gude man. I'll tell ye a' aboot it, sir, and
ye'll just bide the nicht wi' us. The bairns and my son are awa', but
I'll do my best to mak' ye comfortable."
Edward thanked her with a sad look of gratitude in his weary eyes,
entreating her to proceed.
"It's fourteen years," continued Nannie, "since she cam' to my door.
Weel do I mind hoo she fell greetin' aboot my neck, an' I clappit her
an' made o' her same as she had been the bit wean I mind her in her ain
nursery lang, lang syne. Eh, for the sad tale she had to tell. It'll
be a lang reckonin' her uncle wull hae to gie to the Almighty; and
little did I think to live to see the day when my bonnie leddy wad walk
barefit an' hungry. We put her till her bed, an' twa days after that,
her bonnie bairn was upon her breast."
"A girl?" eagerly interrupted Edward.
"Ay, a fine bit lassie; I was the first that handled her, and her
mither's face was like a simmer's day when I laid the wean in her
arms. But the time gaed by, and nae word cam' till her frae across the
sea. Mony's the day my heart was wae for her! Ye may weel believe we
was prood to hae her under oor roof. But it was aye a sair thocht to
her that she an' the bairn were burdensome to us. My ain dochter, our
bairns' mither, was ta'en awa' before she cam' to us, but the bairnies
had a sair work wi' the wee leddy.
"Mony a time my dear bairn wad say she maun gang to Liverpool, and
speir for news hersel' amang the shipowners, but that wasna wark for
the like o' her, an' ne'er a fute wad we let her gang near it. She wad
traik in an' oot wi' the bairn, for she was a' the pleasure she had.
But there came ae day, an' wae's me that I hae lived to tell it (it
was when the bairnie was aboot saxteen months auld); I had gane to the
town, an' when I cam' back, she was awa', nane could tell me whaur.
Mony a weary mile I followed her, and mony a ane I speired at gin they
had seen her, but frae that day till noo I've never looked on her sweet
face, nor heard tell o' her, or o the wean. Eh, man, it wad be a blithe
day for me gin ye had brocht me word frae my mitherless bairn."
Edward's head sank lower and lower upon his breast as he listened, and
the kind-hearted old woman would fain have comforted him as her own son.
"Whiles in the gloamin' I'll still gang doon to the burnside, and I'll
maist think I'll fin' them there, where mony and mony a day I've seen
them sitting amang the gowans, upon the grass, or heard her singing to
the bairn wi' a greet in her voice; or the bairnie crowin' over the
brave locket o' gowd and pearls she wad hing aboot its neck."
"The locket!" cried Edward, starting up. "Where is it? Oh that I could
see it! I had forgotten about it."
"She took it wi' her," said Nannie; "but I'll show ye the buik she
wrote in ilka day. I'm thinkin' she'd forgotten it when she gaed awa'.
I'm no scholard, sir, and canna read write; but nae doot ye'll mak' it
oot."
Edward snatched the volume from her hand, and with trembling fingers
opened it to read on the first page:
"'My Diary, since the sad day my beloved Edward left me.'"
Late, late into the night he sat up perusing those precious pages,
though Nannie entreated him to take his rest. A sorrowful memorial it
was, written from the depths of a breaking heart, but a heart that
was true and loyal to him to the very end. All through those dreary
months, when every outward evidence tended to make her believe she was
forgotten and forsaken by her husband, nothing had shaken her firm
belief in his love.
These pages supplied all the missing links, so ruthlessly broken and
scattered by wicked malice. They told of her cruel and bitter bondage
in her uncle's house, of his sneers and taunts concerning her marriage,
of his villainous hints about desertion and forgetfulness, and of her
mad desperation, when at last, in spite of the watchful guard set over
her, she determined to fly from it all to find her faithful Nannie. She
recounted her long and difficult journey to the house of her old nurse,
and all the never-to-be-forgotten kindness showered upon her there from
first to last.
The faint writing went on to record her baby's birth, and the untold
joy with which she first held her darling Edward's child in her arms;
the baptism of her precious infant by the aged Scotch minister in the
wee kirk on the hill, and all the little loving details that only a
mother's pen can indite.
"I have called her after our two dear sisters, as my Edward
wished—Ermyn Silexa," so ran words. "Some day they will hold her in
their arms and love her dearly. Oh, when Edward comes to take me to
them, all will be well."
There was a break in the narrative; then came this despairing entry:
"Oh, he must be dead! The letter telling him of my arrival here and
of our child's birth has come back to me. When will this night of
sorrow end? But my Lord and Saviour is with me to cheer its gloom. His
voice hath spoken to me. 'Himself hath done it.' I shall go softly all
my years in the bitterness of my soul. 'In the world ye shall have
tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.' My tired
head is pillowed on His breast; the storm cannot harm me there. Oh, my
Edward! My husband! My one and only love; we shall meet again!"
Here the manuscript broke off abruptly. There was no hint whatever
given as to her intended flight.
Nannie believed she fully meant to return, as she left several things
behind her, and would never have taken her final departure without a
single good-bye.
Edward could only guess whither his wife went by her mention of
Liverpool in her diary, as the place where she hoped to learn tidings
of him. To Liverpool therefore he must go next. And as he mentally
arranged his journey, he thought of the last time he was there, when he
had arrived from America a heart-broken and desolate widower.
Strange faces had looked at him on the busy, bustling quay, some with
a glance of pity, others cynical and scornful. Now he seemed to have
passed through a hideous dream, only to awake to find the reality even
sadder. He recalled that last tender parting, and the pressure of those
soft arms about his neck. Oh, how his heart ached as the words of the
poet haunted him:
"I know not what I said; what she replied
Lives like eternal sunshine in my heart:
And then I murmured, 'Oh! we never part
My love, my life, my bride.'
"Oft as I wake at morn, I seem to see
A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade,
Her blessed face, as it were loth to fade,
Turned back to look on me."