MYSIE'S RETURN
When Mrs. Ramsay returned she found Mysie in a fainting condition,
thoroughly exhausted, and on the point of collapse. Mrs. Ramsay saw, by
her red swollen eyes, that she had been weeping. With the help of her
daughter the kind woman, who had done so much for Mysie during the past
few months, got her to the street, and procuring a cab, got her back to
the house, much alarmed by the patient's condition.
All night Mysie tossed and raved in a high fever and delirium, while
Mrs. Ramsay sat by her bedside, trying to soothe and quieten the
stricken girl. As she seemed to get no better the older woman grew more
alarmed.
"Oh, my puir faither!" moaned the girl. "Oh, mither, I am vexed at what
has happened. Oh, dear, I wonder what I'll do!"
"There now, dearie!" said Mrs. Ramsay in warm sympathetic tones, as she
stroked the burning hands and brow. "Try and quieten down and go to
sleep. You were getting on very well, you know, and making fine
progress, but you'll make yourself worse than ever if you carry on like
that. There now, dearie! Try and get to sleep, and you'll soon be better
again!"
But Mysie was silent only for a moment, and the low moan soon broke from
her lips again, like the wail of some stricken thing at night upon the
moor, and still she tossed and tumbled feverishly in her bed.
In the morning the doctor came and shook his head. Mysie was ill, very
ill. Her condition was serious, and it was little he could do. Only care
and good nursing and try to keep her from worrying. He left a
prescription, and Peter soon had the necessary medicine, and later the
patient grew calmer, and finally sank into a deep sleep; and so the old
fight had to be fought over again, to get her strength restored and her
vitality increased.
Mysie did not mention another word of home. She lay quiet, hardly even
moving and seldom speaking; but the burning fire that consumed her was
apparent in her hectic cheeks and glowing eyes, and one could see that
her mind was away, never dwelling upon her surroundings, but was
wandering among the heather hills and quiet valleys, where the call of
the curlew and the shout of the lapwing stir the primitive impulses of
those who love the haunts of the moorland life, and weave so much
romance into the lives and souls of the country bred people, who never
grow to love the ugly towns, but whose hearts remain with their first
love--the moors, and the hills, and the mountain brooks for ever.
She seemed to grow a little stronger as the days passed. She took her
medicines regularly and without protest; but deep down in her heart she
felt that she would never get better, and her only desire, that had been
shaping itself ever since Robert had told her of her father's condition,
was to be strong enough, to go home to Lowwood, just to see her parents,
her brothers and sisters, once more; then she could die in peace. If
only she could do that, she would not care what happened. Nothing else
mattered; but she must get home. Nothing would prevent her from doing
that.
It was the instinct of the wounded animal, dragging itself home to
die--home to its home in the kindly earth, away from contact with other
things--just to be alone, to nurse its suffering and its misery, till
the last shred of strength had gone, and the limbs stiffened out, while
the glazing eyes looked forward as the pain increased, across the
barriers of other worlds to a land of plenty--a land of green shrubs,
and sweet waters bubbling from scented hillsides, overhung with blue
skies which never brewed storms. A land of bud and bloom and blossom,
scented and sweet, with every desirable weed and tasty herb--a land of
life full and beautiful, of warm suns, calling up dreams from a
blossoming mist of bluebells, creating the freshness and the happiness
of youthfulness in every living thing. A land where far vistas and wide
horizons, bounded by green hills, brought visions from the inner self,
with joyous abundance through lusty life, and glorious passionate
being--a land sweet and fruitful, and never-ending in its beauty and its
means of happiness!
Slowly the days passed, and her strength gradually increased little by
little, until a month had gone past, and she was able to be about the
house again; but this determination in her heart to go home grew
stronger with every day that passed, and it seemed to give her strength
and vitality, and her hope became more definite and more sure.
She pictured her home again, as she had known it; the little kitchen,
with its white scrubbed floor and a few newspapers spread over its newly
washed surface to keep it clean from muddy feet; the white-washed jambs
of the fireside, and the grate polished with blacklead; the clear-topped
fender, with its inscription done in brass in the center, "Oor ain
fireside"; the half-dozen strong sturdy, well-washed chairs; the
whitewood dresser, with its array of dog ornaments and cheap vases, and
white crocheted cover; and the curtains over the two beds in the
kitchen. All these things she loved to think about, and she saw them
pictured in her mind as real as they'd ever been to her when her own
life was centered in them, and her fancy took delight in these secret
joys. It was her home she saw always, the humble "but and ben" with the
primitive conditions of life, the crude amenities, the sweet joys of
simple unaffected people; but it was her home.
One day, Mrs. Ramsay had gone out on an errand that detained her some
time, Mysie seized suddenly again in a more intense form by her desire
to go home, feverishly dressed herself, and hastily scribbling a note of
thanks to her good friend and nurse, she stole out on to the street, a
poor, forlorn, weak girl, but thoroughly determined to go home to where
her heart called her.
Out upon the street, she grew frightened. She did not know anything
about the city, nor in which direction to turn. She had no idea how far
it was to the station. She was helpless and alone, and very much
excited.
A boy passed her, whistling as she had often heard her own brothers
whistling, and hastily calling to him she accosted him thus:
"Could you tell me hoo far it is to the station?"
"Whit station?" asked the boy, and she suddenly remembered it was
Princes Street, and mentioned it. "Oh, ay; it's no' faur," he said
airily, as he pointed in the direction of it. "Jist gang alang that
way," and he turned away as if to leave her.
"Wad you tak' me to it, an' I'll gie you a shillin'?" she asked, and he
eagerly turned at once to close the bargain.
"Oh, ay," he agreed, "I'll soon tak' you there," and the two set off;
and guided by the boy, whose knowledge of the city seemed to her
wonderful in one so young, they arrived at the station, with Mysie very
tired and half-fainting with excitement.
"Hae you a ticket?" asked the boy, judging from her appearance that she
needed to be reminded of such things.
"No, I forgot I hadna got yin," replied Mysie. "I wonder where I'll hae
to gang to get yin. Hoo much will it be, think you?"
"Oh, I dinna ken," said the boy. "Come alang here to the bookin' office,
an' ask a ticket for the place you want to gang to, an' the clerk will
soon tell you the price o't."
Luckily Mysie had a few pounds in a purse which Peter had given her some
time ago, in case she might want to go out, he said, and buy something
she might want. Going to the booking office, and guided by her little
friend, she timorously made known her wants, and a ticket was given her;
and she returned under her youthful escort, who enquired the time of the
trains leaving of a porter, and conducted her to the platform, and
helped her into the train, which soon started off on the homeward
journey.
"Thenk you," said the boy, his eyes glowing with pleasure at the two
shining half-crowns which Mysie had given him, and he waved his hand to
her as the train steamed out of the platform.
"Going home, going home," sang the wheels as the train rushed along.
"Going home," with every beat of her heart they answered her with their
cheery monotone. "Going home," they gurgled, as they freely ran down the
gradients. "Going home, going home," as they ran along the flat moor.
"Going home, going home," they panted up the inclines, but still joyous
in the thought of getting there.
Home, aye, home, they were taking her. Home to the cheery fireside, with
the homely fare and the warm hearts! To the cosy corner by the fender at
her father's feet, to the music of her mother's clicking needles as she
knitted; to the sweet comfort of the love and kindness of brothers and
sisters; to the warmth of glowing smiles and loving hearts. Home! Home!
Oh, God! Comfort of weary and battered humanity, dragging its wounded
and broken life to the shelter and the sanctity of love. So rose her
hopes, and her heart sang as the brooding night lowered and the wind
rose, bringing the rain lashing from the spring clouds to burnish the
moor with storms. Home to the hearts that loved her first, and would
love her to the end.
At last the train steamed into the little station from which she had
first gone to the great city, and everything looked just the same as
upon that night, when she had stolen across the moor to run away where
she expected to hide her shame, and try and redeem that one mistaken
impulse, which had been so thoughtlessly indulged, and so terribly paid
for in suffering and tears. The station-master looked at her keenly as
she passed. She seemed so frail and weak looking to be abroad in such a
night; but she passed on and out upon the country road that ran across
the moor, where the darkness always lay thickest, and where the terrors
of the timid were greatest, and the storms raged fiercest.
On she battled, already feeling weak and tired; but always the thought
of home waiting for her impelled her onward. Home was waiting over
there--waiting just two miles off, where she could see the twinkling of
the lights from the pithead at which she had worked, and where she had
been so happy at the dreams conjured by six and sixpence per week. Down
rushed the wind from the hills, careering along the wide moor, driving
the rain and hail in front, as if he would burst the barriers of the
world and go free.
She halted and turned her back upon the blows, as if she would fall; but
there were light and warmth, and love and cheerfulness over there, if
only she could hold out till she reached them.
She turned again, and a sheep scampered across the moorland path just in
front, and the soft bleat of an early lamb soothed the quick excited
leap in her heart. The rain ceased, and a pale glitter of the rim of a
moon, like the paring of a giant's nail in the sky, glinted from behind
the dark cloud, and flung a silver radiance over the bog-pools around,
which glittered like patches of fairy silver upon a land of romance.
She was wet, but not cold. The fever in her blood raged and she
staggered forward again, slowly and tottering. A smile was playing about
her lips and eyes. Her lips were parted, and her breast rose and fell
like the heaving beat of an engine. But home beckoned and lured her
onward, and the hope of a long dream filled her soul. Again a sharp
scurry in front drove her heart to her mouth, as two hares battled and
tore at each other for the love of the female which sat close by,
watching the contest.
The sharp swish of the wings of lapwings, as they dived towards her,
filling the moors with their hard rasping double note, and also battling
for possession of a mate, stirred her frightened blood; and at every
step some new terror thrilled her, and kept her continually in a state
of fear.
Still she plodded on, and another squall of rain and hail followed,
giving place soon to the glory of the cold moon, and again obscuring it
in a quick succession of showers and calm moonshine. But there was home
in front, and she was always drawing nearer. Just a little while now, a
few hundred yards or so, and she would be there.
Weak and exhausted, stumbling and rising again, driven by that
unrelenting, irresistible desire, this poor waif of humanity, impelled
by sheer force of will, staggered and crawled towards its hope, forward
to its dream, and at last stood by the window of the home it had sought.
Panting and utterly worn out, she stood holding on to the window ledge,
her will now weakened, her strength of mind gone, and her desire
forsaking her now that she was there.
The wind fell to a mere whisper, and she stooped to look in at a chink
in the shutter, the tears running in hot, scalding streams from her eyes
and blinding her vision. The soft stirring of little limbs beneath her
heart brought back the old desire to hide herself from everyone she had
known.
Oh, God! It was terrible thus to be torn; for she had sung the song of
all motherhood in her own simple way--the song of the love that
recreates the world. The same song that enables motherhood to commune
with God. "I will walk in the pure air of the uplands, so that your life
shall be sweet and clean. I shall bathe my body in the sweet waters of
the earth, so that you shall be pure; I shall walk in meditation and
solitude, so that your thoughts shall be worthy thoughts; I shall dwell
on the hillsides, so that your mind shall be lofty; I shall love all
living things, so that you shall be godly in the love of your kind; I
shall be humble, so that you shall not be proud; I shall be tender,
wandering among the sweet flowers, so that you shall never be rough or
unkindly; I shall serve, so that you shall be kingly in your service to
others.
"Down in the valleys I shall linger, drinking in the music of sweet
streams; and the songs of the morning and the eventide shall make you
gentle and happy. The tender grass shall be my couch upon the moor, so
that you can know the restfulness and comfort of love. The grateful
trees shall shade me from the fierce heat of the sun, so that you shall
be restful, yet active in kind deeds. Oh, I shall clothe me in the
sweetest thoughts, and sing the sweetest songs, speak the kindliest
words, and do the friendliest deeds--I shall lie down in gratitude for
all that has ever been rendered to me, and shall keep faith with love,
so that you--you who are me, you who are my heart and mind, my body and
soul shall be ushered into the world as a savior of the race; and the
lyrics of the dawn and the dayfall, of the golden, glorious day, and the
silver radiant night, shall all be thine to interpret, in spirit and in
word and service."
Thus had motherhood sung in all ages, weaving the dreams of hope about
the soul which she had called from eternity, after having gone upon that
long perilous journey into the land of Everywhere to bring back a new
life to the world. Mysie dashed the warm tears from her eyes, and looked
again through the chink in the shutter.
She had a full view of the kitchen. It was the same cosy, bright place
it had always been, when she had sat there on the corner of the fender
o' nights, her head against her father's knee, as he read out the news
from the evening paper, while her mother sewed, or darned, or knitted.
Her father sat in the easy chair, pale and thin and weak. He looked ill,
and it seemed as if he were merely out of his bed, so that her mother
might change the linen, for she was busy pulling off pillow-cases and
putting clean ones on, and turning the chaff-filled tick to make it
easier for his poor bones to lie on.
He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, as if tired.
"The wind has surely gane doon noo," Mysie heard her mother observe, as
she spread out the clean white sheet upon the bed.
"Ay, it seems to hae quietened," returned Matthew weakly. "It has been
an awfu' nicht, and gey wild."
"Ay, it has that. Peety ony puir body that has been oot in it," said her
mother, with a deep sigh, as she folded back the blankets. "It's an
awfu' nicht for the homeless to be oot in."
Silence reigned for a short time, and only the whisper of the wind
outside prevented the sobs of the poor waif at the window being heard.
"You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew," said Mrs. Maitland
after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his.
"Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad," he answered feebly. Then, as if having
made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the
glowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oor
Mysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has been
in my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her."
"I dinna ken, Matthew," she said; for this was the first time he had
spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of
her disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had given
expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an
encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her
wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his
heart was hungering to talk of their bairn.
"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be
got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an'
my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o'
her!"
Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as
she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing
daughter.
"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her
tears at her husband anxiously.
"That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes
I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I
think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid
lassie at a' times."
"Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot
the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh,
Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing
pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an'
guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was
beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' God
kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear,
but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while
her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping
eyes.
"Wheesht, lassie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for you
hae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I used
to think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee,
an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled.
But wi' a' the hardships, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an'
I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we were
satisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, even
though their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna do
that, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an'
that is a consolation; but where will oor lassie be, that never gi'ed us
a wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we are
oorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in the
storm? If she is, then God peety her. If only we had her aside us,
hunger wad be easier tholed for us a'," and Matthew, unable to control
himself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears with
those of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering.
The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing her
parents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyes
fixed greedily upon the open chink in the shutter, listening to, and
looking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindly
and anxiously about her--talked so that every word was a stab at her
heart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before.
"Ay, wife," he said after a time, "it was a sair blow to me. I could hae
fain dee'd at the time; I was fair heartbroken. It's a gey queer world
that brings the keenest pangs frae them that yin likes best. I could hae
dee'd gladly to hae saved that bairn frae the slightest hurt!"
"Matthew," said the mother, speaking with all her soul in her eyes, as
she looked at him, "if by ony chance it should turn oot that Mysie gaed
wrang an' fell into disgrace, wad ye tak' her back, if she should come
hame again?" and there was a world of pleading in the mother's voice as
she spoke.
"Tak' her back! Oh, God, I'd dae onything to hae her here at this
meenit, nae matter though it should be proved that she was guilty o' the
warst sin under the sun. Tak' her back! Oh, wife! my heart is breakin'
for her!" and he lifted his thin worn hand to his eyes and sobbed in his
grief.
"Weel, Matthew," returned the wife, "if ever she does come back, nae
matter when it may be, or hoo it may be, I'm glad you'll no be harsh wi'
her. You'll just speak to her as if naething had happened; for I ken
she'll be mair feart to face you than onybody else. Jist try an' mak'
her believe, when you speak, that she had gane awa' to the store a
message, or to the well for watter, an' that she had bidden owre lang,
as she an' ither weans used to do when they got started the play, an'
forget to come hame. Jist speak to her that way, Matthew, an' the
hame-comin', if ever it comes, will no' be sae hard for the puir bairn.
For God knows, it micht be hard enough for her!"
The girl outside, listening eagerly to every word, tried to cry out with
the pain of all this talk by her parents, but her tongue clove to her
parched mouth, and her lips were stiff and dry.
"I'll never be harsh wi' a bairn o' mine, wife," he replied brokenly. "I
liket Mysie owre weel ever to be harsh wi' her. Oh, if only I could see
her afore me this nicht, I wad gie a' I ever had in the world. To hae
her sittin' here, as she used to sit, her wee heid wi' its soft hair
against my knee, an' my haun clappin' it, an' her bonnie een lookin' up
at me, as if I was something she aye looket up to, as bein' better than
ony living being she ever kenned, wad be mair pleasure for me this
minute than if I got a' the money in the world. I'd swap heaven and my
chances o' salvation, wife, jist to hae her sittin' here on the fender,
as she used to sit. Hunger an' a' the rest wad be easy borne for that."
There was a soft rustling sound at the window as he spoke, and a slow
step was heard, which seemed to drag along towards the door, then a
fumbling at the sneck, the handle lifted, and the door opened slowly
inwards, as if reluctant to reveal its secret.
It was a tense poignant moment for all; for both the father and mother,
weak as the former was, rose to their feet expectantly, their eyes
searching the slowly opening door, as a thin pale draggled figure
entered and staggered forward with a low pitiful cry of "Faither!
Mother! I've come hame!" and tottering forward, fell at Matthew's feet,
clasping his knees with the thin fragile hands, while the tears of a
heart-breaking sorrow flowed from the appealing eyes, upturned to the
amazed parents.
"Mysie! Mysie!" he sobbed, clasping her to his thin worn knees, and
kissing the bent head, as she sobbed and cried. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! but
you hae been a lang time at the store!"