“Forget you, Dugald! and do you think Ally so changeful as to be carried
away by the high-sounding titles and useless baubles of this wicked
world? Could I be happier anywhere than I have been in my own dear
mountain home. My aunt has promised that I shall return if I am not
satisfied, and in one twelvemonth we will meet again. Nothing shall keep
me from you if life is mine.”
“Ally, dear Ally, you do not know the world you are about entering. The
rich and the great will be there to court you, and the splendors that
will glitter around you, have dazzled many a stronger head, though not a
purer heart, Ally. But I ought not to murmur, since this parting has
brought me joy as well as sorrow—since it has told me that you love me,
darling. God keep you in temptation, and bring you back to us
unchanged.”
And so they parted. When did they meet again?
Let us now turn back in the page of by-gone years, and trace the history
of our little foundling so suddenly raided to a station that the
proudest might envy.
Clara and Adela Dundas were the daughters of an English nobleman; their
mother dying before they had emerged from the school-room, they were
left without that guiding hand so necessary to the maiden ignorant of
the world, and heedless of warning from less beloved lips.
Clara, the eldest, married, at an early age, a wealthy earl, the choice
of her father, and departed to her princely home, with a father’s
blessing, leaving her young, gentle sister more lonely than ever. Adela
had ever been of a clinging, dependent spirit, loving with her whole
heart the few objects she had as yet found in life worthy or unworthy;
and was it, then, to be wondered at, when in the solitary hours after
her sister’s departure, her affectionate nature should pine for some new
companion on whom to pour out the rich treasures of a heart that could
not be satisfied in selfish ends. Unhappily, the one on whom her choice
fell, was a poor, untitled gentleman, holding an honorable office in her
father’s household, but on whom Lord Dundas looked as so far inferior to
his beautiful daughter in every respect, as never to dream of danger in
allowing the occasional intercourse which passed between them.
Knowing as they both did the proud and immoveable spirit of Lord Dundas,
and hopeless of gaining his consent to what in their own young hearts,
full of the romance of first love, seemed necessary to their very
existence, they fled—and the lovely Lady Adela Dundas, who had never
known one hour’s privation from luxury, became, in a poor Highland
cottage, the wife of him for whom she had forsaken all—father, friends
and home. A letter was written more from the warm feelings of affection
and respect than from any hope of moving the stern parent whom, as Adela
felt, they had offended past forgiveness—and so it proved—an answer
came, only to announce her disinheritance, and exile for life from her
father’s home and heart. Then was it that Adela for the first time felt
the fearful consequences of her rash step, and it needed all the
persuasions and soothing caresses of a husband whom she loved tenderly,
to bring her to any degree of composure.
After many months of suffering and privation, during which time her
sister had privately sent her aid whenever she could do so with
impunity, Mr. Moreton obtained employment which again raised them to
comfort if not affluence. A lovely infant now brought new hopes and new
feelings into poor Adela’s sorrowful heart, and to her husband’s delight
she became once more cheerful. Sorely had they suffered for their sin,
yet kind and gentle and loving to each other they had ever been. Poverty
had not had power to dampen the pure affection of earlier days, and its
calm light shone upon their paths with a hopeful radiance even in the
darkest hours of their probation.
The little Adela was but a few months old when a letter arrived from the
steward of Lord Dundas, with a hasty summons to the death-bed of the now
relenting parent. Sorrow and joy struggled for pre-eminence in Lady
Adela’s bosom, as she hastily prepared to obey; but a new difficulty now
arose. The winter had just set in with great severity—the journey was a
long and fatiguing one; Adela spurned all objections on her own part,
but her babe, how could she expose it to the inclemency of the weather,
and the dangers that must attend them. Brief and bitter was the
conflict—but the child was left in the care of a faithful nurse, who
promised to watch over it as her own.
They arrived only in time to receive the parting blessing of their
beloved father, and after the requisite arrangements of the estate,
which was equally divided between the two sisters; it was settled that
Adela should now remain at the castle, at least until some further
disposal of the property should be made, and that Mr. Moreton should
return for the child, as the spring would soon open with sunshine and
air, balmy enough even for the little traveler.
Days and weeks dragged slowly their way along to the young wife, now,
for the first time since her hasty marriage, separated from her husband.
He came at last—but he came alone! Short and terrible was the tale his
pale lips had to utter.
The woman in whose care the babe had been left, faithfully watched over
it, never resigning her charge to another, save when necessity required.
One cold but bright, sunshiny day, having occasion to go to the
neighboring village, she wrapped the child carefully in a heavy mantle,
and set out with it in her arms on her errand.
From that time neither nurse nor babe had been heard of. A violent
snow-storm came on toward night, and it was feared that both had
perished, yet singular to tell, no trace of their bodies had been
discovered on the road wherein their way led.
Silently the young mother listened to these crushing words. Hope itself
was extinct, and from that day, though every endearing care that love
could devise was lavished upon her, sweet Lady Adela drooped like a
frail lily, growing paler and weaker, yet ever gentle, patient and
loving to the last—for ere the spring flowers had faded, a husband and
sister wept bitter tears over her early grave. So young and so lovely,
thus Ally’s fair mother died.
Comparing this sorrowful tale with Donald’s account, it was inferred
that the woman, returning from the village, became bewildered by the
snowstorm, and turned in the direction of Donald’s cottage instead of
that leading to her own, which was directly opposite, and losing her
way, had wandered on until wearied with her heavy burden, and hopeless
of saving both lives, had deserted her charge, and proceeded,
unencumbered, to find shelter for her own exhausted frame. In this,
perhaps, she succeeded; but with the consciousness of safety came the
harrowing reflections of her faithlessness, and unable to meet those she
had so wronged, she had most probably left the country, for no trace of
her was ever discovered.
Mr. Moreton did not long survive his idolised wife; and now, when our
gentle Ally awoke to the proud consciousness of rank, wealth, a new name
and new relations, the tidings brought only sorrow and suffering to one
so loving and happy as she had been—for was she not an orphan? Bitter
tears flowed at the recital of her mother’s history, but turning from
all the allurements and persuasions that were lavished upon her by her
new aunt and cousin, she flung herself on Margaret’s bosom, saying, “I
have one mother still! oh, let me stay—let me stay!”
Yet as we have seen, Ally did go at last, pale and sorrowful, but with a
kind word for all, and bidding them not to weep, for she would soon
return—“She knew she would not love the great world of London. Oh, no!
she would soon be back, never, never to leave them again!”