Several circumstances had prevented the young Morgans from paying a
sufficiently long visit to Old Moggy to enable her to give them her
promised history. Jenny reported that she was better in mind and body
than she had ever known her, and as the time for Frank and Tom's
departure was drawing near, the whole party resolved to go up to hear
her tale. They did not fail to carry a few little luxuries which were
likely to please her. They found her as usual, seated before her fire,
for even in the summer she seemed to enjoy its warmth, on that bleak
hill's side. What with chairs, benches, and stools, a log of wood, a
pile of turf, and a boulder which Charley rolled in, all found seats.
Anna had to exercise a little diplomacy to induce Moggy to begin before
so formidable an audience. The poor creature was inclined to chide Tom
for not having come up oftener to see her, when she discovered that he
was going away.
"I took a liking to your face and your manner my son, from the first
minute my eyes fell on you; and it would have been a slight thing for ye
to have come up and cheered the old woman's well-nigh withered heart,"
she observed, in a more testy tone than she was accustomed to use.
"Well, mother, don't blame me," answered Tom. "Many's the time I've
come round this way, but feared to intrude, or I would have come in, and
I'll not now miss the chance another time."
This promise seemed to satisfy Moggy, and after a little hesitation she
began.
"Once I was blithe and gay as any of you dear young people. I had a
home, and parents, and sisters. There were three of us, as pretty and
as merry as any to be found in the country around. We merrily grew up
into happy maidens, as merry as could be found, and the glass told us,
even if others had been silent, that we were as pretty too. We sang and
laughed from morn till night, and, alack, were somewhat thoughtless too;
but we were not idle. Our parents had a farm, and we helped our mother
in the dairy, and there was plenty of work for us. It was a pleasant
life. We were up with the lark and to bed in summer with the sun, and
in winter we sat by the fire when the cows were housed and the milk was
set in the pans, and all our out-door work was done, and knitted or
spun, or plied our needles, and chatted and sung; and guests came in,
and some of them came to woo; and we thought not of the morrow, and
taught ourselves to believe that the pleasant life we led would never
have an end. Ah! we were foolish--like the foolish virgins who had no
oil for their lamps, as all are foolish who think only of the present,
and prepare not for the future. Bad times were in store for us, such as
all farmers must be ready to encounter. Storms injured the crops, and
disease attacked our cattle; a fire broke out in the farm buildings; and
the end was that father had to throw up the farm, to sell his remaining
stock, and to go forth almost penniless into the world. Barely enough
remained to pay our passage to America. I was about to go with the rest
of my family, when one I had loved right well, an honest, steady youth,
entreated me to remain. He might soon have enough to wed. He had a
sick mother whom he could not leave, or he would have gone with us. If
I went we might never meet again. I consented to remain, so that I
could obtain service in which to support myself. A kind, good mistress
engaged me. She was more than kind, she was wise; not worldly wise, but
her wisdom was from above. She taught me that wisdom. By her means my
eyes were opened to things about which I before knew nothing. I saw
that God had dealt mercifully with me; that what I thought was a
misfortune was a blessing. I was thus led out of darkness into light.
I was happy, with a new happiness of which I before knew nothing. My
intended husband enjoyed it likewise; we both embraced the truth--my
only sorrow being that those who had gone away knew nothing of it.
Thomas lived at a distance, but whenever he could he came over to see
me. My kind, good mistress often spoke to him, and approved of my
choice. Time wore on. We waited to hear of those who had crossed the
sea. Sad tidings came at length. My mother had died on the voyage. My
father, heart-broken, and my sisters had landed and found a home, but
they missed her who had been their guide and their friend; and they
wanted me to go out and join them, and some cousins who lived a few
miles off from where I was at service, and Thomas also, if he would
marry me. I told my kind mistress.
"`If Thomas loves you, and will take you to that foreign land, I will
not say you nay,' was her reply.
"She gave me leave to go and deliver the message to my cousins, charging
me soon to return. My cousins were not averse to my sister's proposal,
and talked with pleasure of the many kindred who would meet in that
far-off settlement, for far off it seemed to them. On my return I found
the front door of my mistress's house closed. I went round and gained
an entrance through a window at the back. What was my horror to find
her bathed in blood, fallen from the arm-chair in which she sat before
the fire. I kneeled down to examine where she had been hurt, and was
about to raise her up when the door was burst open; some men rushed in;
I was seized. No one aided my dear mistress. A surgeon at length came.
He pronounced her dead. These cruel men had allowed her to die
unaided. I was accused of being her murderess. My horror, my
indignation, at the way she had been treated, my grief, my agitation,
impressed them with the conviction that I was guilty of the foul crime
which had been committed; for murdered she had been, of that there was
no doubt. Branded as a murderess I was borne off to prison. Many
thought me guilty. It was cruelly said that I was found red-handed by
the side of my victim. But even in prison I sought support, and
obtained it whence alone it was to be afforded. As King David, I could
say, `I have washed my hands in innocency. I cried unto the Lord and He
heard me.' Oh, my young friends, keep innocency. Do what is right in
the sight of the Lord, and never need you fear what man can do unto you.
There was one, however, on earth who knew me to be innocent--my Thomas.
He obtained leave to visit me in prison, obtained the best legal aid by
the sacrifice of his savings, and the evidence against me broke
completely down. I was acquitted. I scarcely knew how, or what
occurred. I entreated Thomas to let me become his wife, that I might
repay him by devoting my life to his service. We married; we were
happy; and by watchful care I was enabled to make his wages go farther
than before his marriage. More than a year had passed away; we had a
child born, a son. We believed that he would prove a blessing to us.
Some few more years had fled by. Again and again my sisters urged that
we would go out to join them. At length they were both about to marry,
and our father would be left alone. Thomas agreed to go. I thought
with delight of showing my young son to my father, of assisting and
supporting him in his old age, and more than all, of imparting to him
those blessed truths which I myself had found such a comfort to my soul.
We sailed in as fine a ship as ever put to sea, with many others about
to seek their fortunes in the New World; but scarcely had we left the
shores of England a hundred leagues astern than we encountered a fearful
gale, which washed away the bulwarks and some of our boats, strained the
hull, and shattered our masts and spars. It was but the beginning of
disasters. But, dear young people, I cannot dwell on that most grievous
period of my existence. The storm had injured our provisions. After
the storm came a calm, more dreadful than the storm; our water began to
run short. Did any of you ever feel the pangs of thirst? Day after day
our shattered bark lay rolling on the burning ocean. There was the
constant gush of water to tantalise us, for by undiscovered leaks the
sea had found an entrance, and in every watch the pumps were kept at
work. We were thankful when a breeze came, and once more the ship moved
across the ocean; but the breeze increased into a gale more fearful than
the first. On, on we drove; the leaks again increased. Day and night
the men were kept toiling at the pumps; my husband worked like the rest.
In vain, in vain; they could work no longer; the water was gaining on
us; the raging seas were washing over our decks. The strength of the
men was exhausted. Some of the women offered to try and work the pumps.
The night was coming on. I resolved to labour, that I might aid to
save my husband's life, our boy's, my own.
"My boy had clung to me. I gave him, so I thought, to his father, to
watch over, while I laboured like the rest. Would you hear what
occurred? My heart has grown into stone, or I could not bear to tell
it. The raging seas broke more and more frequently over the ship. The
dreadful cry arose, `The ship is sinking, the ship is sinking!' I flew
towards my husband--my child was not with him. He had not received him
from me. Frantically I rushed along the deck; it was with no hope of
safety, but to die with my boy in my arms. Once more I was approaching
my husband; a flash of lightning revealed him to me at the moment that a
vast sea came sweeping down on the ship. It seized him in its cruel
embrace, and bore him far, far away, with many other helpless, shrieking
beings. Thankfully would I have followed, but I sought my boy. In
vain, in vain! I felt myself seized by a strong arm, and lifted into a
boat. I lost all consciousness for the next instant, it seemed. I
found the boat floating alone amid the tumultuous waves. My husband and
my boy were gone. They said there were other boats, and that some might
have been saved in them. I know not if any were saved. Neither my
husband nor our child did I ever again see; the cold, cruel waves had
claimed them. For many days we lay tossed about on the foaming waters.
We were more dead than alive when a sail appeared in sight. How I lived
I know not; it was, I believe, because all my feelings were dead. I
felt nothing, thought of nothing; I was in a dream, a cold, heavy weight
lay on my heart and brain. I knew not what was going on; the past was a
blank, the future was darkness. We were lifted on board--carefully
tended. The ship was bound, with settlers, to the same port to which I
was going. Those who had been saved with me told my story. Some of the
passengers were going to the far-off West, to the very spot where my
father and sisters had settled. Their hearts were touched with
compassion by my misfortunes, and they bore me with them. Truly they
were followers of the good Samaritan. Day after day we journeyed on
towards the setting sun. At length we reached my father's house; he and
my sisters scarcely knew me, so great was the havoc grief had wrought.
Kind and gentle treatment by degrees thawed my long frozen faculties,
and I began to take an interest in the affairs of the farm. In that
region the native tribes, the red men of the prairie, were fierce and
warlike, and often were engaged in deadly contests with the whites.
Years--many years, passed by, during which our people enjoyed peace. A
storm, however, was brewing, to burst with fury on our heads. It came;
in the dead of night the dreadful war-whoop of the red men was heard.
On every side arose those horrid cries. Our village was surrounded;
young and old, men and maidens, were ruthlessly murdered. My old father
and sisters were among the first slain. Some few bravely made a stand.
They fought their way out through the savages. I felt my arm seized by
some friendly hand, and was borne on amid them. Armed friends came to
our assistance, and the savages were driven back through the smoking
ruins of our home. All, all were gone; relatives, friends, and
property. Those who had accompanied me to the country, all, all were
gone. I was among strangers; they pitied me, but pity cannot last long
in the human breast. There is only One whose tender pity never wanes;
and it is only that human pity which arises from love of Him which can
stand all tests, and can endure for ever. I was left alone, alone in
that far-off land. My reason gave way. An idea had seized me--it was
to visit that mighty ocean beneath which slept my husband and my child.
I wandered on. I know not how I found my way, often through vast
solitudes where foot of man but rarely trod, till I reached the more
settled states. Food and shelter were rarely denied to the poor mad
woman, though of the roughest sort. At length I reached the eastern
cities; scant was the charity I found within them, I gained the
sea-coast; I gazed upon the ocean, with its majestic billows rolling up
from the far-off east. They seemed to me like mighty monuments raised
to the memory of those who slept beneath. For many years I had lived on
that wild sea waste, when I was seized and carried to a prison. I
demanded to know my crime. I heard myself branded as a pauper lunatic,
and was placed on board a ship to be returned to my native land. Sad,
sad was my heart. I had many companions in my misery--helpless beings
whom the strong new world would not receive. We were placed on shore to
starve, or live as best we could. I wandered on towards the spot where
long, long years before, I had lived a happy maiden. No one knew me; I
was branded as a witch, and fled away. Should I go to the relatives of
my husband? Thomas had spoken of them as kind and charitable. I
reached the village; every one looked at me with suspicion as a vagrant.
Well they might, for a vagrant I was, poor, wretched, and despised. I
had been there in my happy days with Thomas; but the place itself looked
strange. I inquired for his father, Farmer Holman. `Dead many a year
ago; all the rest gone away; never held up his head since his son went
off with that jade who murdered her mistress.' Such was the answer I
received. The words fell like molten lead upon my brain. I fled away.
I wandered on, not knowing whither I was going, till I reached these
sheltering walls on the mountain-side."
Tom had been greatly agitated on hearing the name of Holman. Frank and
Anna had exchanged surprised glances with each other.
"Dame, do you remember the name of Jack Johnson on board the ship which
foundered with so many on board?" asked Tom.
"Ay, that I do. He was one who took a great fancy to my precious boy,"
answered Moggy, gazing earnestly at Tom.
"It is strange, mother, but such was the name of a kind seaman who for
many years acted as a second father to me; and still stranger, that he
always called me Tom Holman," exclaimed Tom, as he sat himself down on
the stool at her feet, and drawing a tin case from his pocket, took from
it a variety of small articles, which he placed in her lap.
She gazed at them with a fixed, earnest look for some moments, and then,
stretching out her arms, she exclaimed, "Come to me, my son, my boy--
long lost, now found! I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me out of my
deep distress. You bear your father's name, you have your father's
looks. Wonderful are the ways of the Lord. The Lord giveth and the
Lord taketh away. The Lord hath restored me tenfold into my bosom.
Blessed be the Name of the Lord!"
Tom threw his arms round the old woman, and sobbed like a child.
"Mother, mother, I have found you, I have found you!" he cried out, as
he kissed her withered cheek.
What mattered it to him that she was aged and infirm, poor and despised?
She was his mother, of whom he had dreamed in his youth whom he had
always longed to find. He would now devote himself to cherish and
support her, and cheer her few remaining days on earth.
"My dear children," said Dr Morgan, who had entered soon after Moggy
had begun her history, "let us learn, from what we have heard, never to
cease to put our whole trust and confidence in God. Whatever happens,
let us go on praying to God and trusting in God, for let us be assured
that He always careth for us."