A MOTHER'S LIFE SORROW.
Madeline had been gone for some days, and Roland had nearly completed
his arrangements. He saw much of Effie, for the few remaining hours
were precious to both.
"Effie, meet me this evening in the cemetery, I wish to read you our
mother's manuscripts."
Effie promised. The last evening had arrived, and the orphans met
upon their mother's grave, for the sad farewell. Roland untied the
black ribbon, and commenced reading:--
"When you read these lines, my dear children, my mortal remains will
be sleeping in the quiet grave, but I myself shall be with Jesus, and
that is enough of bliss for an immortal spirit. I have thought it
wise to make you acquainted with the history of my early life. You
know that my father was the minister of the parish where I was born.
He was a wise and holy man, and gave me all the advantages of a good
education. My mother died when I was young, but my Aunt Ellen, my
father's sister, came to take charge of the manse, and to bring up
the motherless children. She was an excellent woman, and faithfully
performed the part of a mother.
"I had a cousin, named Malcolm Graham, to whom I had been most
tenderly attached from my earliest childhood. We had roamed our
native mountains, and sailed upon our Scottish lakes together; we had
walked from earliest days to the house of God in company, had sang
from the same hymn-book, and had joined the church on the same day.
We sang the same Scottish songs, loved the same wild stories of our
martyred ancestors. In fine, we were as one soul; no love was ever
purer, holier, deeper than that which filled our young hearts for
each other.
"My father and my aunt were blinded; they had been so accustomed to
look upon us as brother and sister, that nothing could have surprised
my father more, than when Malcolm came to ask that the current of our
lives might henceforth flow in one calm, holy channel.
"'It canna' be, Malcolm; you are owre near akin; I could na' ask the
Master's blessing upon sic a union.'
"'Oh, Uncle Gordon, ye canna' break your Mary's heart, by sic an
answer?'
"'Why did I na' ken this before? I might ha' seen it a'.'
"Malcolm pleaded his cause earnestly; my father loved us both
tenderly. At the end of a week, he gave his unwilling consent, on
the ground that, as he had blindly allowed the intimacy, he had not
the heart to say nay, and we were betrothed.
"At the same time, Stephen Bruce, the son of my father's most
intimate friend, renewed his addresses, for since I had grown to
early womanhood, he had twice a-year, offered his hand, and been
refused. This was the man that my father favored. He was a reserved
and rather gloomy man, but his love for me was an all-absorbing
passion. He had a good moral character, was well off in the world,
and moreover, was the son of my father's bosom friend. Malcolm was
poor in the possessions of the world, but rich in all that could
ennoble and dignify a man. There was but little prospect of his
rising in the world, in an obscure part of Scotland. An opportunity
offered for him to enter upon a lucrative situation in China; he
accepted; my heart sank within me, for I felt that a wide ocean would
soon separate us, and I feared that I should never see the face of
Malcolm Graham again.
"My father encouraged the step. I could see the secret joy of
Stephen Bruce, and I felt as if I could never consent. But Malcolm
was young and hopeful; he saw at the end of his long exile, a sweet
happy home among our native mountains, where we should share life's
joys and sorrows; and, at last, I became reconciled to the thought.
"We parted at the sweet trysting place where we had so often met in
the happy days of our young affection. On the banks of the lake,
near our quiet home, stood a clump of old trees, whose branches
dipped gracefully in the placid water.
"Thither we walked slowly to spend our last sad hours. I wore the
light blue snood of a Scottish maiden, which somewhat confined my
curls.
"'Shall I hae one, Mary?' asked my cousin.
"I cut one from my head, and tied it with a piece of the blue ribbon
of my snood.
"Malcolm placed it in a little pocket-book, and laid it away in his
bosom.
"After hours of silent weeping, he bade me farewell, and I felt as if
a load of lead sank down into my heart, as I watched his retreating
form until he vanished from my sight.
"For two years, letters came regularly; all bright, encouraging,
hopeful; he was fast acquiring a fortune, and would return in another
year. In the meanwhile, Stephen Bruce increased his assiduities; I
could not banish him from the house, because he was the son of my
father's friend. In another year, a letter announced that Malcolm
would sail in the ship Neptune for Liverpool, and that I might expect
him in October, when I must be ready to fulfil my vow. I was a happy
creature then; all the intervening time was passed in making my
simple preparations.
"Aunt Ellen was a thrifty housekeeper, and took great pride in the
quantity of bed and table-linen which her niece must have. I was
occupied chiefly with my wardrobe. My father did not seem much
rejoiced, for he had never given up his Scotch prejudice against the
marriage of first cousins; but he was a man of too much integrity to
break a given promise. The summer passed, the falling leaves were
musical to me, for they brought October; the month passed, but no
news of the Neptune. November passed in the same manner. December
began to drag its cold and dreary days along, but still no news. At
length, one morning, my father entered the family parlor with a grave
countenance, and a newspaper in his hand. 'Ellen, will you come into
my study?' said my father to my aunt.
"My heart gave a sudden bound; for I had long been so anxious, that
even the fluttering of a leaf would affect me. I saw my father's
face; it was ominous. Aunt Ellen returned, and sitting down by my
side, she said, tenderly, 'Mary, can ye bear bad news?'
"'What is it, Aunt Ellen?' I replied, starting to my feet; 'tell me,
tell all; anything is better than suspense.'
"She laid her hand upon my young head, and softly smoothed the
rippling hair that lay upon my forehead and down my temples.
"'The Neptune has foundered at sea, Mary, and Malcolm Graham is among
the missing.'
"I heard no more; for hours I lay stunned and insensible; for weeks,
between life and death. At length, a good constitution, under the
direction of a wise but inscrutable Providence, triumphed, and I
awoke to take up the duties of my daily life with a sad and chastened
spirit.
"My father redoubled his kindness; but it was evident that Malcolm's
removal was a relief.
"The only request I made was: 'Do not allow Stephen Bruce to visit
the manse; I could not bear it.'
"My request was complied with. During all this time, I never wholly
lost my hope; I would say to myself: 'Among the missing, not the
lost; Malcolm may yet be alive.'
"Two years of silent sorrow passed--the light of my life had gone
out. I busied myself about my father's house, my brother's clothes,
and in the duties belonging to me, as the minister's daughter; but
joy had passed away.
"I seldom saw Stephen Bruce, excepting at church; but I knew that my
father visited him. Occasionally I met him by the road-side, but he
never joined me.
"This delicacy of conduct gained my respect; and when my father at
last requested, for his own sake, that the son of his old friend
might visit him, I consented; for my father had been very kind to me.
"He came occasionally, was always polite and respectful to me,
nothing more.
"At the close of the third year, after Malcolm's loss, my father
called me to him, and said: 'My daughter, I hae tried to be
considerate and kind to ye; I hae placed nae compulsion upon your
inclinations; now, I hae ane request to make; will ye not allow
Stephen to renew his addresses? He is just as devoted to you as
ever; he has luved ye faithfully for ten years, ever since yer
childish days. If his devotion and worth can na overcome yer
repugnance, or rather indifference, I hae nae mair to say; but it
would please yer father if ye would allow him to renew his visits to
ye personally.'
"'Give me a week to think of it, father; that is all I ask.'
"At the end of that time, I agreed to my father's proposal. I felt
that all my love was in the deep ocean buried with Malcolm Graham,
and that duty must henceforth rule my life; to please my father only,
I consented. Stephen was very considerate, but I saw that the same
devotion filled his heart. He was so anxious to please, so humble,
so undemonstrative, that I could not but pity him. I treated him
with kindness, and sometimes even with tenderness; then he was so
grateful for the smallest act, that it touched my woman's heart.
"At last, when in trembling tones he ventured once more to urge his
suit, I did not discourage him; I simply told him to wait. "'Bless
ye, Mary! e'en for that,' was the grateful answer.
"At the close of the fourth year, I consented to become his wife. He
wept in the fulness of his joy, and my father was happy; but the name
of Malcolm Graham could never be mentioned in his presence. If by
chance it was, dark frowns would lower on his brow, and it was at all
times a forbidden subject.
"He was a kind husband, and I tried to be a faithful wife; but in the
twilight gloaming there were times when the memory of my cousin
poured over my heart like a flood.
"The next year after our marriage, you were sent, Roland, to form a
new tie between us. You were a lovely babe, and your mother was
proud of the sweet infant that smiled upon her from his cradle.
"Stephen Bruce was a handsome man, Roland, and you were like him; the
same profusion of dark hair, the same dark eyes; but there was always
about you, Roland, an open frankness, that never characterized your
father. He was constitutionally reserved and taciturn, often gloomy.
"Our married life flowed smoothly along for two years. We lived at
the manse; for my father could not part from his only daughter. He
was very fond of little Roland, and the presence of a baby in the
house was a sunbeam across his path.
"One very stormy winter evening, I was rocking my little boy to
sleep, singing some sweet cradle-song. The wind howled fearfully
without, and the snow came down in heavy drifts. I heard a footstep
on the little porch in front of the manse; it seemed to be a man
knocking off the snow before entering.
"The family dog gave a familiar bark of joy, and a voice that I
thought drowned in the deep ocean said: 'Down, Shep! down, sir.' My
heart stood still. The next moment, the door opened, and Malcolm
Graham stood before me. He extended his arms.
"'Mary! Mary!' he cried, 'hae ye na welcome?'
"I started to my feet; I am sure that my eyes must have glared with
terror. I sank upon the chair by the side of the cradle, and
pressing my hand upon my heart, continued gazing. I was speechless
with terror and grief.
"'What is in that cradle, Mary?'
"'It is my child, my babe, Malcolm.'
"'Tell me its name, Mary Gordon.'
"'Roland Gordon Bruce,' I answered, in trembling tones.
"He struck his head with both his hands in anguish--'Hae I come home
for this? Oh, Mary! how could ye sae forget me?'
"'I thought you dead, Malcolm; and by this marriage, I have made my
father happy.'
"'Look here, Mary!' said the wretched man. Opening his vest, he took
out an old worn pocket-book, from which he drew the lock of golden
hair, tied with the faded ribbon of the maiden's snood, that I gave
him on the night of our parting.
"'I hae never parted with it, Mary, and it shall go wi' me to my
grave.'
"I was near fainting; no words can paint the anguish of that hour.
"'Go, Malcolm, go; you must not be seen here. I cannot even shelter
you from the storm. I can pray for you, Malcolm, but we must meet no
more.'
"My cousin advanced--before I could prevent it, he clasped me to his
bosom, pressed one last kiss upon my icy forehead, and in another
minute was gone.
"Alas! alas! just as he passed out, my husband entered. He knew
him--it was Malcolm Graham, the one whom he had always feared as his
rival in the affections of the one he loved.
"'How dare he enter this house?' was the first salutation.
"'He thought that I lived here yet as Mary Gordon, husband. You have
no reason to fear either him or her whom you call by the sacred name
of wife.'
"He was pale with anger; fire shot from his dark eyes. I was
terrified. I walked up to Stephen Bruce, and laid my hand upon his
arm.
"'Stephen, am I not your wedded wife? wedded in the sight of Heaven!
do you think that I, Mary Gordon, the descendant of heroic martyrs,
can ever forget her plighted faith, plighted before God's holy altar?'
"'No, Mary, you will not forget your duty as a wife; but your heart
is wi' Malcolm Graham, your early luve.'
"'Stephen, Malcolm is dead to me--we shall never meet again. I do
not wish him to cross our path.'
"From that hour our domestic peace was at an end. The family malady
had certainly made its appearance in the case of my unhappy husband.
I was kind, affectionate, attentive to all his wants. I hushed the
voice of memory, and learned to be even cheerful in the performance
of daily duties. I looked upward daily, hourly, Roland, and I was
sustained in my hour of trial.
"I begged my father to see Malcolm, and tell him to keep out of my
husband's way. He explained all to the unhappy man, and related his
sad story.
"He had been wrecked, taken prisoner, and landed in Algiers, without
the possibility of communicating one line to his friends.
"In company with six others, after an absence of seven years, he had
made his escape. He promised my father to leave the country, for he
saw that with the fancy which had seized my husband's brain, nothing
else could restore domestic harmony. Accordingly he went, but the
evening before, I was sitting in the parlor of the manse. It was
autumn--the windows were open, and I was alone. I saw the figure of
a man walking slowly up the path that led to the house. He crossed
the porch, and for one minute, stood gazing in at the window. It was
Malcolm Graham. He held up once more the golden lock.
"'Farewell, Mary; I cannot gae without your blessing.'
"'God bless you forever and ever,' was the reply which burst from my
trembling lips. He walked hastily away, stood at the gate for one
moment, waved his hand, and was gone.
"I hoped for peace now that he had left the country. While he was in
Scotland, your father would sit for hours gloomy and silent without
exchanging a word; then he would suddenly take his hat, and set out
to search for Malcolm, imagining that he was always lurking about the
manse. And even after he had gone, I could not regain his confidence.
"The memory of my poor cousin was the shadow in your father's life,
the ghost that haunted him day and night.
"Malcolm was gone for several years, but your father never wholly
recovered his spirits.
"In the meanwhile, Effie was born, and the duties of daughter, wife
and mother fully engrossed my daily life.
"When you were about nine years old, Malcolm suddenly returned. He
was now a rich man; he bought a home, furnished it, and took home a
widowed sister and child to preside over his household.
"Life had disciplined his Christian character; he was cheerful and
serene. It made me happy to hear that he was foremost in all the
schemes for good around the neighborhood, and the name of Malcolm
Graham was everywhere revered.
"He was often called 'the good old bachelor,' for though many mammas
would have liked to place their daughters at the head of his
establishment, it was evident that no such thoughts ever disturbed
the dreams of 'good Uncle Malcolm.'
"From the time that he returned, your father's gloom and restlessness
increased. The mania had seized upon him again, and nothing would
do, but that the wide ocean must separate his wife from the country
where Malcolm lived, although we had no kind of social intercourse.
We met at church, and that was all. Much to my aged father's grief,
hasty preparations were made to go to America.
"He was devoted to me and my dear children, and could not bear the
thoughts of my leaving home and dear friends to embark upon the
ocean, and go to seek a home in a strange country, with a man so
gloomy and suspicious as your father had become.
"But during all these trials, my God sustained me, and while
conscious of being in the path of duty, I was even cheerful.
"We left Scotland; for awhile we lived comfortably, and your father's
malady seemed to diminish. One drawback there was always to my
happiness, and that was, that your father seemed so anxious to break
up all connection with Scotland, that I was not allowed to write home
for months, for fear that I should hear something about Malcolm.
"At length he returned to Scotland, for the purpose of settling his
affairs, and making America his permanent home. On the voyage back
again, the vessel was lost, and no word was ever heard from him again.
"About this time, poor Elsie Gibson appeared among us. I never could
understand why or how it was, but she always seemed acquainted with
our affairs, and interested in all that concerned us. There came
regular remittances, they seemed to come from New York, and were left
at our door in the evening. At last I observed that Elsie Gibson
appeared among us in a day or two after these packages came, and
always contrived to find out about their safe arrival. At last they
ceased altogether, and then came the days of poverty and trial, which
you, my darlings, have patiently shared. I wrote home frequently,
but received no answers.
"Several times there have been mysterious visits at night around our
dwelling; once or twice have I seen the figure of a man peeping in at
our window, and many other circumstances have led me to conjecture
that your father may yet be alive, and that Elsie Gibson knows
something about him. She told me that your dear grandfather died
soon after your father disappeared, and although we heard once or
twice from Aunt Ellen, that ceased also, and I fear that she is no
more.
"If it is in your power, Roland, I wish you to seek your friends in
Scotland; there must be some left. I have told you this sad story,
my dear children, first because I want to warn you both of forming
connections for life, with any one, for any other reason save that of
deliberate heartfelt choice. I acted from what I supposed to be
duty; it was productive of happiness to none concerned.
"And another reason is, that by telling you my supposition that your
father may yet be alive, Roland may try all that is in his power to
find out the truth, and to comfort that afflicted parent, for if he
is in the land of the living, he is in sorrow, of that I am sure.
"Nothing beside death could separate him so permanently from us, but
the malady which I have always dreaded. And now, my dear children,
let me once more bid you, in every hour of sore affliction through
which you may be called to pass, look upward; upward for direction,
upward for comfort, upward for hope. God is 'the Father of the
fatherless;' remember the sweet promise, 'When my father and my
mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' I can leave you
in his gracious care. 'May he guide you with his counsel here, and,
after that, receive you to glory.'
"I have done with earthly care and sorrow. I wait for you, my loved
ones; I know that you will come to me, and that with our precious
Saviour throughout eternity we shall rejoice as much in the sorrows
that we have suffered, as in the joys vouchsafed, if they have helped
to bring us home to glory.
"I need not say, do not forget your mother; I know that you will not.
Keep close to your Saviour. Let your motto always be, 'Looking
aloft,' 'Looking aloft;' through joy and through sorrow, still
'Looking aloft.'"
After closing the manuscript, both the orphans sat weeping upon their
mother's grave.
"How quietly she sleeps! dear, tried, and patient mother!" said
Roland. "How blessed is her rest in that world of peace and love!
Do not weep so, Effie, God is in Heaven; do not lose sight of his
promises; have they ever failed, dear sister? He will take care of
us, he will guide us, I know, if we put our trust in him."
"I am so weak, Roland; since I have lost our mother, I feel as if I
was all alone in the wide world; and now you are going too."
"But I shall come back, Effie; I may have a great many trials and
disappointments, but I can trust the hand that guided Noah, and
Daniel, and Elijah, that delivered Peter, and so many of his dear
servants; and Effie, don't let us doubt his love, when, to make the
promises sure, he gave up his dear Son, and nailed him to the cross
to make his word, 'Yea and Amen.'"
"I'll try, Roland, to be trustful as you; but I am a weak and timid
disciple."
"Just think, Effie, that every drop of precious blood was just like
setting the seal to all the blessed promises; and do you believe that
the Saviour who could die for us would ever forget us?"
"How you comfort me, Roland; your words are always so kind, so
strong."
"Don't let us forget our sainted mother's motto, Effie, 'Looking
aloft!' Oh, what blessedness in such a holy trust!"
While seated thus, Roland perceived Elsie Gibson advancing towards
them. When any change was about to take place in their earthly
destiny, there was always the same old friend. They could not fathom
the mystery; but so it was.
"And sae ye are aboot to leave us, Roland," said the old woman; "ye
are the chiel o' mony prayers, and belang to the race o' the
righteous. I dinna fear for ye, my bairn."
"I do not fear, Elsie; I am almost penniless, but the promises are
all the same."
"I hae something for ye, Roland," continued the old woman, and taking
a gold watch from her pocket, she continued, "It is your ain; dinna
part with it, my son."
Roland examined it, and found inside the case the initials of S.B.
It was a handsome article, and Roland's wonder was unbounded. S.B.,
what could that mean? And how was it that Elsie Gibson, so poor a
woman, could afford to give him a watch?
"Where did this watch come from?" asked Roland, "and what right have
I to such a gift?"
"Dinna fash yoursel aboot it, Roland; it is by right your ain, and
some day ye'll ken how----. I shall like to hear o' your welfare, my
dear bairn."
"I thank you, Elsie, for your kindness to us all. God will bless
you, I am sure."
"May the widow's God be wi' ye, Roland, thro' a' your wanderings in
the wilderness," and shaking hands warmly with both the orphans, she
vanished from the cemetery. None had ever traced the old woman to
her home, if home she had.
"Farewell now, Effie," said her brother, as he folded his sister in a
warm embrace.
She could not speak, but lay on his bosom overpowered with the grief
of parting.
"Take me home, Roland," said the poor child, and they walked in
silence to the gate at Woodcliff. One more embrace in silence, one
long, agonized kiss, and Effie turned up the avenue with a heart too
full for utterance.
Mother, brother, Madeline--all gone. Nothing was left to the
desolate orphan but her Father in Heaven.