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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
courtseying, and courtseying 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 practice 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—"What 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
bombazeen 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’ 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 Elizaseth 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 loved 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’s bonny 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’
gien’ her a drive wi’ his foot, cursed her for a little lazy something I’m
no gaun to name, an’ rugged her bonny 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 tidings to be hastened to your widowed
wife, and follow 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. |
