About forty years ago, a post-chaise was a sight more novel in the
little hamlet of Thorndean, than silk gowns in country churches during
the maidenhood of our great-grandmothers; and, as one drew up at the
only public-house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young,
startled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the
street. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily
bestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean
cap and apron; and, still tying the apron-strings, ran bustling to the
door, smiling, colouring, and courtesying, and courtesying and colouring
again, to the yet unopened chaise. Poor soul! she knew not well how to
behave--it was an epoch in her annals of innkeeping. At length the
coachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow's weeds. A
beautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding five years of
age, sprang to the ground without assistance, and grasped her extended
hand. "What an image o' beauty!" exclaimed some half-dozen bystanders,
as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her
mother. The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the
landlady's heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion,
which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited
upon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility
that fully recompensed for the expertness of a practised waiter. About
half an hour after the arrival of her visitors, she was seen bustling
from the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with
importance. They were still in groups about their doors, and in the
middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and, as
she hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such
questions as these--"Wat ye wha she is?" "Is she ony great body?" "Hae
ye ony guess what brought her here?" and, "Is yon bonny creature her ain
bairn?" But to these and sundry other interrogatories, the important
hostess gave for answer, "Hoot, I hae nae time to haver the noo." She
stopped at a small, but certainly the most genteel house in the village,
occupied by a Mrs. Douglas, who, in the country phrase, was a very
douce, decent sort of an old body, and the widow of a Cameronian
minister. In the summer season Mrs. Douglas let out her little parlour
to lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, or for a few weeks'
retirement. She was compelled to do this from the narrowness of her
circumstances; for, though she was a "clever-handed woman," as her
neighbours said, "she had a sair fecht to keep up an appearance onyway
like the thing ava." In a few minutes Mrs. Douglas, in a clean cap, a
muslin kerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazine gown, and
snow-white apron, followed the landlady up to the inn. In a short time
she returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the lovely
child leaping like a young lamb before them. Days and weeks passed away,
and the good people of Thorndean, notwithstanding all their surmises and
inquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visitor; all they could
learn was, that she was the widow of a young officer, who was one of the
first that fell when Britain interfered with the French Revolution; and
the mother and her child became known in the village by the designation
of "Mrs. Douglas's twa pictures!"--an appellation bestowed on them in
reference to their beauty.
The beautiful destroyer, however, lay in the mother's heart, now paling
her cheeks like the early lily, and again scattering over them the rose
and the rainbow. Still dreaming of recovery, about eight months after
her arrival in Thorndean, death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It
was only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the
truth fell upon her soul. She was stretching forth her hand to her
work-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs.
Douglas smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear
while she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult,
and the rose, which a moment before bloomed upon her countenance,
vanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck
of her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and exclaimed, "Oh! my
Elizabeth, who will protect you now, my poor, poor orphan?" Mrs. Douglas
sprang to her assistance. She said she had much to tell, and endeavoured
to speak; but a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat; she panted
for breath; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went upon
her cheeks like the midnight dances of the northern lights; her eyes
flashed with a momentary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit
fled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm
lips of her dead mother.
As yet she was too young to see all the dreariness of the desolation
around her; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of
the word. Her mother had preserved a mystery over her sorrows and the
circumstances of her life, which Mrs. Douglas had never endeavoured to
penetrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child,
for she knew not if she had another friend; and all that she had heard
of the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she
placed over her grave: "_Here resteth the body of Isabella Morton, widow
of Captain Morton; she died amongst us a stranger, but beloved_." The
whole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her
mother did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no
document was found which could throw any light upon who were her
relatives, or if she had any. But the heart of Mrs. Douglas had already
adopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her circumstances were,
she trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven,
would provide the orphan's morsel.
Years rolled on, and Elizabeth Morton grew in stature and in beauty, the
pride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of
years grew upon her foster-mother, and, disabling her from following her
habits of industry, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still
Elizabeth appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, and gratitude;
and often did her evening song beguile her aged friend's sigh into a
smile. And to better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few
sheep upon the neighbouring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named
Sommerville, who, about the time of her mother's death, had purchased
the estate of Thorndean. He was but little beloved, for he was a hard
master, and a bad husband; and more than once he had been seen at the
hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of
Mrs. Morton. This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the
birth of poor Elizabeth. He had no children; and a nephew, who resided
in his house, was understood to be his heir. William Sommerville was
about a year older than our fair orphan; and ever, as he could escape
the eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village to seek out Elizabeth
as a playmate. And now, while she tended the few sheep, he would steal
round the hills, and placing himself by her side, teach her the lessons
he had that day been taught, while his arm in innocence rested on her
neck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls
played around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the
harsh voice and the blows of his uncle. But still William stole to the
presence of his playmate and pupil, until he had completed his
fourteenth year; when he was to leave Thorndean, preparatory to entering
the army. He was permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers,
for they all loved the boy; but he went only to the cottage of Mrs.
Douglas. As he entered, Elizabeth wept, and he also burst into tears.
Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of a young passion that might
terminate in sorrow; and taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him,
and bade him farewell. She was leading him to the door, when Elizabeth
raised her tearful eyes; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and,
leaping forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the first
kiss on her forehead! "Do not forget me, Elizabeth," he cried, and
hurried from the house.
Seven years from this period passed away. The lovely girl was now
transformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty.
For four years Elizabeth had kept a school in the village, to which her
gentleness and winning manners drew prosperity; and her grey-haired
benefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence. Preparations were
making at Thorndean Hall for the reception of William, who was now
returning as Lieutenant Sommerville. A post-chaise in the village had
then become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled
before the inn to welcome the young laird. He arrived, and with him a
gentleman between forty and fifty years of age. They had merely become
acquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way
northward, had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a few
days. The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard, about a
quarter of a mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and
Elizabeth was wont to retire to it between school hours, and frequently
to spend a few moments in silent meditation over her mother's grave. She
was gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her attention, saying,
"Elizabeth--Miss Morton!" The speaker was Lieutenant Sommerville,
accompanied by his friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall
add nothing. But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and
looked on her mother's grave and wept. "Morton!" he repeated, and read
the inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and
again wept. "Lady!" he exclaimed, "pardon a miserable man--what was the
name of your mother?--who the family of your father? Answer me, I
implore you!" "Alas! I know neither," said the wondering and now unhappy
Elizabeth. "My name is Morton," cried the stranger; "I had a wife; I had
a daughter once, and my Isabella's face was thy face!" While he yet
spoke, the elder Sommerville drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and
the stranger's met. "Sommerville!" exclaimed the stranger, starting.
"The same," replied the other, his brow blackening like thunder, while a
trembling passed over his body. He rudely grasped the arm of his nephew,
and dragged him away. The interesting stranger accompanied Elizabeth to
the house of Mrs. Douglas. Painful were his inquiries; for, while they
kindled hope and assurance, they left all in cruel uncertainty. "Oh,
sir!" said Mrs. Douglas, "if ye be the faither o' my blessed bairn, I
dinna wonder at auld Sommerville growing black in the face when he saw
ye; for, when want came hard upon our heels, and my dear motherless and
faitherless bairn was driven to herd his sheep by the brae-sides--there
wad the poor, dear, delicate bairn (for she was as delicate then as she
is bonnie now) been lying--the sheep a' feeding round about her, and her
readin' at her Bible, just like a little angel, her lee lane, when the
brute wad come sleekin' down ahint her, an' giein' her a drive wi' his
foot, cursed her for a little lazy something I'm no gaun to name, an'
rugged her bonnie yellow hair, till he had the half o' it torn out o'
her head; or the monster wad riven the blessed book out o' her hand, an'
thrown it wi' an oath as far as he could drive. But the nephew was aye a
bit fine callant; only, ye ken, wi' my bairn's prospects, it wasna my
part to encourage onything."
Eagerly did the stranger, who gave his name as Colonel Morton, hang over
the fair being who had conjured up the sunshine of his youth. One by
one, he was weeping and tracing every remembered feature of his wife
upon her face, when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed in
bitterness, "Merciful Heaven! convince me! Oh, convince me that I have
found my child!" The few trinkets that belonged to Mrs. Morton had been
parted with in the depth of her poverty. At that moment Lieutenant
Sommerville hastily entered the cottage. He stated that his uncle had
left the Hall, and delivered a letter from him to Colonel Morton. It was
of few words, and as follows:
"Morton,--We were rivals for Isabella's love; you were made happy, and I
miserable. But I have not been unrevenged. It was I who betrayed you
into the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead--who caused
the tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife, and followed them to
England. It was I who poisoned the ear of her friends, until they cast
her off; I dogged her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my triumph;
but death thwarted me as you had done. Yet I will do one act of
mercy--she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday; and the lady
before whom you wept--is your own daughter."
He cast down the letter, and exclaimed, "My child! my long lost child!"
And, in speechless joy, the father and the daughter rushed to each
other's arms. Shall we add more? The elder Sommerville left his native
land, which he never again disgraced with his presence. William and
Elizabeth wandered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and
recollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him
her hand, and Mrs. Douglas, in joy and in pride, bestowed upon both her
blessing.