CHAPTER XI.

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.