Donald McLane was a hard-working man, and seldom was any recreation
beyond the quiet enjoyment of his fire-side and home-circle indulged in.
It was therefore an occasion of no little joy among the little folks,
and perhaps not less so with the older heads who showed less boisterous
happiness, when, on the return of the annual fair, a whole holyday was
promised with a visit to the village where it was held.
On the evening preceding the day so long and anxiously looked for, a
handsome traveling-carriage, with servants and outriders, drove up to
the inn door of the village, creating an excitement among the good
people unheard of before. A tall, majestic, and beautiful lady was
assisted from it by a youth whose noble and elegant appearance spoke of
rank and wealth.
The poor landlord, confused, and almost paralyzed by the unexpected
honor conferred upon him, with difficulty recalled his scattered senses
in time to receive his guests, and provide them with the best his poor
house could afford; but they, smiling at his consternation, retired
immediately to their apartments, where, at their own request, a simple
repast was served, and they appeared no more that evening. The servants
were surrounded and eagerly questioned, but nothing could be elicited
from them, except that the strangers were the Countess of Weldon and her
son, who were traveling for the benefit of their health, impaired by the
close air and dissipation of London.
The next morning, just as the party from Burnside Moor had reached the
village, after a weary walk of many miles, the coach drove up once more
to receive its noble inmates. Donald and Margaret were foremost, and had
already passed by, the younger children following them; but Ally had
lingered somewhat in the rear, for Dugald was beside her, and in earnest
conversation they had unconsciously slackened their pace, thus arriving
opposite the inn door just in time to see the carriage drive up and the
noble pair preparing to enter it. Surprised out of her usual quiet
demeanor, Ally gazed eagerly at the novel sight. Her hood had fallen
back, and her soft brown curls came clustering around her face,
generally so pale, but now with the warm blood tingeing its snowy
surface, and her dark, dreamy eyes turned wonderingly toward the
strangers, she was lovely beyond description. At this moment the
countess turned her eyes in the direction where Ally stood leaning on
the arm of her companion, and with a thrilling cry, stretched out her
arms toward her, then fell back insensible. In an instant all was
confusion.
The lady was borne into the house, and all intruders waved off; but Ally
had never yet seen suffering without endeavoring to relieve it, and
springing impulsively forward, she entered the inn, followed by Dugald.
When the countess again opened her eyes, a sweet, loving face looked
into hers, and an arm, soft and white as her own, supported her head.
Another wild exclamation burst from her quivering lips, and again she
sunk back, murmuring, “Adela, my sister—have you come back from the
spirit-world to bless me!”
“What ails you, dear lady,” said Ally, tenderly—“can I do any thing for
you?”
For the first time those who stood around the couch, anxiously waiting
the solution of this mystery, observed a striking resemblance between
the noble stranger and the lovely peasant girl, who stood pale and
bewildered by her manner, yet unwilling to leave her while yet she
seemed to need assistance.
“Tell me, child,” said the countess, suddenly rising from her recumbent
position, “tell me, who are you?”
The question was hasty, the tone almost harsh, and Ally’s face flushed
again, as she replied timidly, “My name is Alice McLane, lady—my father
lives on Burnside Moor.”
“Where is your father?—I must see him instantly.”
Dugald turned in search of him, but Donald, having quickly missed his
daughter, had come back in search of her, leaving the rest of his charge
in a booth near by, and was even now at the inn door.
As soon as his eye fell on the pale, agitated countenance of the
stranger, and from her to his idolized daughter, every trace of color
left both cheeks and lips, and unable to support himself, he sunk into a
chair, covering his face with his hands.
In that brief moment he comprehended it all. Sometimes, in past years,
the unwelcome thought would painfully force itself upon him, that his
precious Ally was not, indeed, his own. Hearts that must have mourned
her loss, might again rejoice over their recovered treasure, but as year
after year went by undisturbed, Donald grew strong in hope, and had
almost banished every fear of the kind, when this terrible realization
of the worst came so suddenly upon him.
No wonder that his strong frame was bowed, and his stout heart wrung
with anguish, as he felt that even resistance would be vain. No wonder
that Ally stood by him terrified at the sight of grief such as never in
her whole peaceful life had met her eyes before. Her arms were thrown
around him, her warm kisses fell upon his cold brow, as she implored him
to unfold this mystery. The countess watched him silently, yet a wild
gleam of triumph flashed from her dark eyes, as she exchanged glances
with her son, who stood looking on with no less appearance of interest
than herself. Dugald, fearing he knew not what, only showed by his
varying color, the thoughts that thronged rapidly upon him.
The story was soon told, and none present could doubt that Alice, the
poor cottage-girl, was the orphan niece of the proud countess, and
through her, heiress to untold wealth. And how did Ally receive the news
of her sudden elevation? With agony that moved the little circle of
auditors to tears, as she clung wildly to the only father she had ever
known, and implored him not to send her away from him.
Donald looked up with a sorrow-stricken expression on his manly face,
saying, “See you not the child’s distress, lady. Say no more now. Let
her go home with us once more. Time will reconcile her to it, perhaps,
but do not torture her now. God help us! for He only knows how great is
the love we bear each other.”
He motioned to Dugald, whose countenance, like his own, was ashy pale,
but who, summoning the strength that in these few brief moments of
anguish seemed to have deserted him, raised the almost insensible form
of the weeping girl, and bore her away without resistance.
[Illustration]