Holidays at the Grange or A Week's Delight Part 13

The early days of Margaret Roscoe were spent in the beautiful manse of Linlithgow, in the north of Scotland, where her venerable grandfather had for half a century been engaged in breaking the bread of life to a large congregation of humble paris.h.i.+oners. No wealth or grandeur was to be seen within the walls of the kirk where Alan Roscoe officiated: there were no waving plumes, no flas.h.i.+ng jewels, no rustling silks; and when, as a young man, he accepted his appointment to this remote parish, his college friends grieved that his n.o.ble talents should be wasted, and his refinement of mind thrown away upon rough country folks, unable to appreciate him. But the young minister was convinced that his proper field of labor was now before him, and resolutely putting aside the temptings of ambition, he devoted himself in the most exemplary manner to his parochial duties. Although he and his family were debarred from the advantages of cultivated society, and from the mental excitement which only such intercourse can afford, they cheerfully made the sacrifice, for the sake of the cause to which they were wholly given up; and they thought themselves more than repaid by the improvement and the reverent love of the people. It is a great mistake to suppose that plain, unlettered men cannot rightly estimate superior abilities, erudition, and refinement; where there is any native shrewdness and strength of mind, these higher gifts are quickly discerned, and add greatly to the influence which sincerity and earnestness of character will ever command. In Scotland this is especially true, for the countrymen of Bruce and Wallace are distinguished for their sagacity; and their acquaintance with Scripture is so extensive that their natural intelligence is sharpened, and superficial knowledge and flowery discourses are not tolerated from the pulpit. Certain it is, that as years rolled on, and the white hairs became thicker on Mr. Roscoe's head, love and veneration were the universal feelings entertained toward him: and at the time when our story commences, when the infant Margaret and her young widowed mother removed beneath the shelter of his roof, he was the respected pastor, the beloved friend, and the revered father of all within the circle of his influence.

Malcom Roscoe, Margaret's father, was a young man of superior abilities, but of great original delicacy of const.i.tution; he was retiring, studious, meditative, and in all respects a contrast to his older and only brother, Alan, who early developed those qualities which are necessary to the active man of business. A very warm attachment united these two young men, and a sad blow it was to Malcom, when his brother, with the energy and decision natural to his character, announced his intention of emigrating to America, where bright prospects had opened before him. An old friend had commenced a large commercial establishment in one of the Atlantic cities, and had offered him a clerks.h.i.+p, with the prospect of speedy admission into the firm: he regretted to leave his aged father, and his only brother, but such an excellent opportunity of advancing himself in life was not to be neglected, and he gratefully accepted the proposition. With many tears, he bade adieu to the beloved inmates of the manse, and set out for the New World: his industry and integrity had been greatly prospered, and in a few years he was an honored partner of the house into which he had entered as a penniless clerk.

What, meantime, had been Malcom's lot? He had applied himself with a.s.siduity to the study of divinity, for which both his character and his abilities had admirably fitted him, but his health was unequal to the demands made upon it. He pa.s.sed his examination with great honor, was immediately called to a parish, and went there to settle, accompanied by his young wife, a delicate and interesting orphan girl, to whom he had been long attached. His zealous spirit saw much to rectify, and many labors to perform, in his new sphere: he entered with ardor into the discharge of his duties, but soon he found that his frail body had been overtasked by its imperious master the soul, and was no longer able to do his bidding. He faded away from earth, as do so many of the best and n.o.blest of the race, when just ready to apply to the loftiest purposes the faculties so carefully trained. To us, such occurrences appear to be very mysterious dispensations of Providence: but the individual himself has attained the true object of his being, the full development of all his powers, and is prepared for a more elevated existence. And we may believe, since not even a sparrow falls to the ground unheeded by our Father, and since no waste is allowed in nature, so that even the dead leaf ministers to new combinations of being, that the n.o.ble gifts of the mind will not be unused after death. In other spheres, amid other society, they will doubtless be employed for the benefit of immortal beings. Mutual beneficence must form a large part of the business and pleasure of heaven.

After Malcom's death, his widow and infant child came to live with old Mr. Roscoe at Linlithgow. Happily for the young mourner, the household cares of the manse now devolved upon her, in addition to the charge of Margaret; and these occupations, no doubt, aided greatly in restoring the serenity of her spirit. She had little time to brood over her sorrows--those small solicitudes and minute attentions to the feelings and comfort of others, which fill up so large a portion of a true woman's time, were with her a double blessing, cheering both the giver and receiver. She realized that it is woman's honor and happiness to be, in an especial manner, a ministering spirit; and thus she learned to resemble the bright hosts above, whom she hoped one day to join, and grow in the likeness of Him who declared, "The Son of man came not into the world to be ministered unto, but to minister." No wonder is it that the gentle young widow, whose face ever beamed with kindness, whose hand was ever outstretched to aid the unfortunate, was looked up to with a love and veneration only inferior to that with which Mr. Roscoe himself was regarded.

In such an atmosphere of affection, and under the best influences of unaffected piety and refinement, little Margaret expanded in beauty and goodness, like a sweet flower planted in a fertile soil, and refreshed by soft-falling dews and healthful breezes. She was something like her own Scottish heather--distinguished by no uncommon brilliancy of mind or person, but yet one upon whom your eye delighted to fall, and on whom your heart could dwell with pleasure. Her clear, rosy complexion showed that she had inherited none of her parent's delicacy of const.i.tution; and large, deep, violet-colored eyes, shaded by long lashes, made her face a very interesting one. She was a most lovable little girl, gentle and thoughtful beyond her years; it seemed as if something of the shadow of her mother's grief had fallen upon her young spirit, repressing the volatility of childhood, and making her ever considerate of the feelings and studious of the comfort of others. She was her grandfather's constant companion; and it was very beautiful to see these two, so widely separated by years, and so closely united by affection, entwining their lives together--the old man imparting instruction and guidance, and the child warming his heart with the bright hopes and sweet ways of her innocent age.

And so the three lived on, in perfect contentment and uninterrupted peace, until Margaret was seven years old, when her grandfather was taken ill, and the manse, once so happy, was filled with sorrow. He lingered for some time, faithfully nursed by his daughter, who overtaxed her own strength by her daily toils and nightly watchings. He at last sank into the tomb, as a shock of corn, fully ripe, bends to the earth: he was full of years, and of the honor merited by a life spent in the arduous discharge of duty. His only regret was that he was unavoidably separated from his son; and he advised his daughter, as soon as she had settled his affairs, to accept Alan's pressing invitation to her to make her home with him, and to depart with her child for America, where she would be gladly welcomed.

After the funeral, as the new inc.u.mbent of the parish wished to take possession of the manse as soon as possible, Mrs. Roscoe made arrangements to leave the spot she loved so well: and disposing of the furniture, and settling the debts incurred by her father's illness, she found that no very large sum would be left after the pa.s.sages across the Atlantic were paid for. In Alan Roscoe's last letter, he had entered into many details about his circ.u.mstances, in order to take from her mind the objections which delicacy might urge as to her dependent position. He told her that he had been eminently successful as a merchant in Charleston, and had ama.s.sed so considerable a fortune that he intended very soon to retire from business; and that he had some thoughts of settling in one of the northern cities, as his health, and that of his family, had suffered from the climate. He said that a dear and only sister, as she was, ought to have no reluctance in sharing the superfluity of his wealth: she would thereby give far more than she received. And his brother's orphan should be most heartily welcomed to his heart and home: she should be taught with his children, and should share in every respect the situation and prospects of his own little ones, for he must receive Malcom's child, not as a niece, but as a daughter. He advised her sailing direct for Charleston, as it would save all trouble and difficulty: he should be on the wharf to meet her, and if, as was frequently the case with business men, he was unavoidably absent, his very attentive partner would be there to greet her, in company with Mrs. Roscoe.

She accordingly wrote, accepting his kind proposition, and stating that they should sail in the first vessel bound for Charleston, as she was anxious to have little Maggie again settled in a home; and the more so, as her own health was very delicate, and she knew not how long her dear child might have a mother to watch over her. Then taking leave of the humble friends, who would gladly have kept them ever in Scotland, Mrs.

Roscoe and her daughter set off for the nearest seaport, where the shrinking young widow, entirely friendless and unknown, was obliged herself to make inquiries among the s.h.i.+pping offices and wharves. She found that no vessel would start for some weeks for Charleston, and she felt that every day was of consequence to her: but she was at last relieved of her distress by a bluff, good-natured captain, who told her that although he didn't hail from Charleston, it was exactly the same thing; he sailed to Boston, and the two places were as close together as twin cherries on one stalk, or kernels in a nut, and that he would see to it she had no trouble in finding her friends. Being a Scotchman, and partaking of that ignorance of American geography which is so common both in Great Britain and on the continent, he naturally mistook Charleston, South Carolina, for which she was inquiring, for Charlestown, near Boston--an error which has frequently been made. Nor is it as gross a one as some others which have been perpetrated; as, for instance, that of the late Prince Schwartzenberg, minister of Austria, who directed some dispatches for our government to "The United States of New York."

And now behold little Margaret actually launched upon the stormy ocean of life! for her small bark was destined soon to be severed from its guide and conductor, and to be left, without a pilot, to the wildly tossing waves and bleak winds of a selfish world. Did I say without a pilot? not so! a hand, unseen, directed her fate, and although she was called to pa.s.s thus early through troubled waters, the end will doubtless show that all was well. But the present trial was a very bitter one. A few days only after the embarkation, Mrs. Roscoe's weak frame gave way, under the combined influence of sorrow, fatigue, and anxiety; she was only ill a week, then sank, and was consigned to a watery grave. Little Margaret could not be separated from her for one moment during her illness, but, clasping her mother's hand in hers, remained by her, smoothing her pillow, bringing her the cooling draught, and seeking, in a thousand loving ways, to cheer and relieve her.

Before her death, Mrs. Roscoe called the Captain, and committed little Maggie to his especial care. She told him of her expectation that her brother, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a prominent importing merchant in Charleston, would immediately come on board to claim his niece, when the vessel arrived; but to guard against any possibility of a mistake, she gave him the number of the street in which he resided. The bluff, but kind-hearted man drew his red, hard hand repeatedly across his eyes, as he listened to her anxious directions about the little girl she was so soon to leave. He told her he didn't know much himself about either Charleston or the people who lived in it, as he had been engaged until very lately in the South Sea trade; but, of course, his consignees at Boston would, and if there were any difficulty, he should put the matter into their hands. He begged her to be under no uneasiness--her daughter should be well attended to.

On the last day of her illness, the little girl sat by her in the berth, and for the first time appeared to realize that her mother, her only earthly friend, was about to die. Her little cheek was now almost as white as the dying woman's, and she moistened the bed with tears: she could not restrain her sobs. Her mother pa.s.sed her arm around her, and strove to comfort her: she told her that, although she must now leave her, and go where her dear father and grandfather awaited her, her little girl had one friend who would never cast her off, and who could never die, who had promised to be the father of the fatherless. Whatever should befall her, she must put all her trust in Him who had said, "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord shall take thee up." With all the energy which the love of a dying woman could give, she besought her child to cleave with perfect love to Him who was so kind and pitiful. She then placed around her neck a medallion, inclosing a portrait of herself and her husband, with their initials, the date of their marriage, and locks of their hair, and told her never to part with it, but to wear it next her heart. She directed her to be in all respects obedient to her uncle, and ever to act toward him as if he were her own father. At last, exhausted by the the long conversation she had held, she sank back and fell asleep: it was so sweet and natural a rest, that Margaret long waited by her side, afraid to stir lest she should awake her mother. A happy smile seemed diffused over that face, lately so earnest and so anxious; it appeared to say, my troubles are now over, my work is done, I have entered into my reward. And so it was! the sorrow-stricken woman had gently pa.s.sed away from earth, and little Margaret was watching beside the dead.

Shall I attempt to describe the grief of the child, deprived of all she loved? The rough, but kindly sailors were much moved by it, and strove, in their uncouth way, to comfort her. After the first few days of pa.s.sionate lamentation, the motherless girl became more quiet in her sorrow, and then the demonstrations of sympathy ceased: but any one who gazed upon her wasted form, her white cheek, and languid steps, might have guessed the tears she shed upon her pillow at night. At last the vessel arrived in Boston, and Margaret's heart beat quick each time she saw a good-looking gentleman step on board, for every instant she thought her unknown uncle would arrive. She tried to fancy how he looked, and although she had heard that he and her father were very unlike, still her imagination brought up before her a face like that within her highly-prized medallion. So pa.s.sed the day, in anxious waiting and nervous tremors, but her uncle came not; and as the night drew near, a sense of perfect loneliness and desertion came over her, and she leaned her head upon her hands, and tears, wrung from the heart, trickled through them. All around her was bustle; every one had an object, all had a home, and a place in the world, and some to love them--all but she; she felt completely the orphan. Some think that children do not suffer mentally as their elders do--what a mistake!

Their emotions are more transitory, but frequently more violent while they last. Many an angry child, if he had the physical strength, would commit deeds from which reason and conscience deter the man--and keen and bitter, although fleeting, are the sorrows they experience. As the little creature, so tenderly reared and now so utterly desolate, sat upon the deck, with no earthly being to look up to for love and sympathy, surely a pitying angel must have wafted into her heart her mother's dying words, "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord shall take thee up." It stole into her soul like oil upon the troubled waters: it seemed as if a voice had said to the tempest within her, "Peace, be still." She felt that there still was one who cared for her--one who could neither die nor change; and the prayer of faith ascended from those young lips to "_Our father_ who art in heaven."

Soothing, blessed influence of religion! felt by young as well as old--how, in trouble, could we dispense with it? would not our hearts sink under their load? would not our spirits be crushed within us?

The next day the Captain set himself in earnest to fulfill his promise to the dying woman. The head of the firm to which his goods were consigned was absent from home, but a very kind-hearted young fellow, a junior partner, attended to the business during his absence, and accordingly he directed his inquiries to him. "Mr. Alan Roscoe, a merchant of Charlestown!" said young Howard, "why, I never heard the name--there is surely some mistake. I know all the business men of the place, and there is no such person. Have you the direction?" "Yes, sir, No. 200 Meeting-street." "Why, Captain, here is a complete blunder!

there is no street of that name in Charlestown. I should not wonder, now I come to think of it, if Charleston, South Carolina, were meant; Meeting-street is, I know, one of the most fas.h.i.+onable promenades. And I remember hearing of a Mr. Roscoe, a great southern merchant--either in Charleston, or Mobile, or New Orleans, I don't rightly know where--but somewhere in the South. I'll tell you what, Captain, you're full of business, and can't attend to her; I'll take her home with me, for she's a dear little thing, and then I can inquire about her uncle, and send her on by the first opportunity. Great pity such a blunder was made!"

Accordingly, Mr. Howard engaged a hack, which was piled up with little Maggie's trunks, and he was about jumping in, when he was nearly run over by his friend Russell. "Hallo, Howard!" "Is that you, Russell?" "No one else; but what on earth are you doing with such a heap of trunks?

has a friend arrived?" "Only a little orphan, who came in one of our s.h.i.+ps; her mother died on board, and to crown the misfortune, they got into the wrong vessel. They wanted to go to Charleston, S.C., where this child has an uncle, Mr. Alan Roscoe, a rich merchant; so they came to Charlestown by mistake. I'm taking the little creature home with me, until I find out about him." "The luckiest thing in the world! Why, I know Mr. Roscoe myself; he lives in Meeting-street; I became acquainted with him in Charleston last Winter. But he has either given up business, or intends to do so; he is in New York at this moment; I saw him the other day at the Astor House, and he told me he had some thought of removing to New York or Philadelphia." "In New York, is he? what a piece of good fortune! How I wish I knew some one going on there. If I were not so uncommonly busy, now that Mr. Field is away, I would take her myself." "If you'd like it, my dear fellow, I'll take charge of the child--you know I always have acquaintances going on to New York--I know every one in the two cities, pretty much. I'll give her over to some safe person, and then she'll be with her uncle to-night." "Thank you, you're a real good soul; you can attend to it as well as I, of course.

And I am anxious to get the poor little thing to her relations as soon as possible, so I'll be much obliged to you." "Good-by, then;--driver, go as fast as your horses can carry you to the New York depot, for we're rather late."

When they arrived, they were only a few minutes before the time. Mr.

Russell walked through the cars, looking on either side, but, to his chagrin, he saw no one he knew. Any one who has ever sought for an acquaintance, while the steam was puffing, and panting, and screeching, as if in mortal pain until it was allowed to have its own way, and send the train along at the rate of forty miles an hour, can understand the fl.u.s.tered, bewildered feelings of young Russell, as, with the child in one hand, he perambulated the cars. "Is any gentleman here willing to take charge of this little girl?" said he. "What's to be done with her when we get to New York?" answered a man near him. "Her uncle, Mr. Alan Roscoe, is staying at the Astor House; all you have to do is to take the child and her baggage to him, and as he is a southern gentleman, and very rich, he'll see that you are well paid for your trouble." "I'll take charge of her; have you got her ticket?" "No; and I declare I have no more than half a dollar with me--can you advance the money? you will be paid tenfold when you get to New York." "I'll do it as a speculation: here, my pretty young lady, sit in my seat while I see to your baggage." "Just got it in the baggage-car in time,--good-by, sir!"

"Good-by--good-by, Miss Roscoe!" "Good-by, sir--I wish it were _you_ going on to New York!"

Little Maggie did not like her travelling companion at all. Children are great physiognomists, and their simple instincts are frequently surer guides than the experience and wisdom of older persons, in detecting character. She could not bear to talk to him--his conversation, garnished with low cant phrases, was so different from any thing to which she had ever been accustomed. But when she looked up into his face, the repugnance she had at first felt became changed into aversion--the low, narrow forehead, the furtive, but insolent glance of his eye, and the expression of vulgar cunning about the mouth, formed a countenance which might well justify her in shrinking back into her seat, as far from him as possible.

When they arrived in New York, Smith, for that was the man's name, engaged a carriage, and drove with little Margaret to the Astor House; but, in answer to his inquiries, he was told that no one of the name of Roscoe was lodging, or had been boarding there for the past month. He muttered a curse, and jumped again into the hack. "What do you make of this? that uncle of yours is not there." "Oh dear, what _shall_ I do?

but, indeed, the gentleman said he saw him in the Astor House." "What is the gentleman's name, can you tell me?" "I don't know his name." "Don't know his name, don't you? I'm prettily bit! But perhaps he may be in some other hotel, we'll go and see." They accordingly drove round to the chief hotels, but no Mr. Roscoe was to be found at any of them.

Smith flew into a terrible pa.s.sion. "Cheated for once in my life! sold, if ever a fellow was! it's a regular trick that was played! They wanted to get rid of their beggar's brat, and palmed her off upon me, with that humbug story of the nabob of an uncle. I'll nabob her! And there's her ticket, which I was fool enough to pay for, and the carriage hire, and my trouble with this saucy thing, who holds her head up so high; if ever I am swindled again, my name's not Sam Smith!"

"I'm sure I'm very sorry; what are you going to do with me, sir?" "Take you home with me, until I can get rid of you, and pay myself out of your trunks, unless they're filled with stones. It wouldn't be such a bad idea to lose you in the streets, accidentally; but no, on second thoughts, it's better not; there are always some troublesome philanthropists about." "Oh, sir, if you can't find my uncle, won't you send me on to Boston again? The Captain told my mother he'd find him for me--or that good gentleman would." "The Captain's a rogue, and so is your _good gentleman_. Are you such an eternal fool as to think I'll pay your pa.s.sage again? you're mightily mistaken, I can tell you. I don't believe you ever had an uncle, you little cheat--and if you don't hush up about him, I'll find a way to make you."

Little Margaret was too much frightened to answer, and they kept on their way, through narrow muddy streets lined with lofty warehouses, and alleys filled with low German and Irish lodging-houses and beer-shops, until they came to a wider highway, at the corners of which Margaret read the name of Chatham street. On each side of the way were shops of the strangest appearance--furniture, old and new, was piled up together, coats and cloaks hung out at the doors, watches and jewelry of a tawdry description made a show in the windows, and men with keen black eyes and hooked noses, and stooping backs which looked as if they had never been erect in their lives, stood at the entrances, trying to attract the attention of the pa.s.ser-by. As Margaret looked at them, she thought of the stories her mother had read to her of the ant-lion, stealthily watching at the bottom of its funnel-shaped den for its prey, which the deceitful sand brings within its reach, if once the victim comes to the edge of the pit; and of the spider, so politely inviting the fly within its parlor.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly, "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I've many curious things to show you when you're there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

At the door of some of the shops, she saw a man standing upon a box, with a hammer in his hand, and a crowd around him, eager, and bidding against one another. "Going, going, a splendid gold watch at five dollars--the greatest bargain in the world--tremendous sacrifice--going, going, _gone_!"

At last they came to his den; a shop like the rest, piled up with old bra.s.s andirons, sofas, bureaus, tables, lamps, coats and pants, ropes, feather-beds, and hideous daubs of pictures. Old-fas.h.i.+oned mantel-ornaments, looking-gla.s.ses, clocks pointing to all hours of the day, waiters with the paint rubbed off, old silver candlesticks, and a heap of other trash, completed the furniture of the room. Stumbling through this lumber, Smith led her up to a little garret, where the bare rafters were covered with dust, and one hole of a window let in some light, enough to reveal the nakedness of the place. In one corner, upon the dirty floor, was an old bed; a piece of a mirror was fastened against the wall, which looked quite innocent of the whitewash brush; and a stool, which had lost one of its legs, was lying in a very dejected att.i.tude near the door. "Here you are to lodge," said Smith, with a sardonic grin, as he noticed the child's dismay at the announcement. "You can stay up here till I want you, and when you are hungry, you can go down stairs to the little back kitchen and get a slice of bread; but don't dare to show your face in the shop." "When will my trunks come?" said the little girl, whose wits were sharpened by the necessity of looking out for her own interests. "Never you mind about them trunks," replied Smith; "I advise you to keep quiet, and it will be the better for you." So saying, he descended into his shop, and left the poor child to her meditations, which were none of the pleasantest.

Two days pa.s.sed without Smith making his appearance, and Margaret worked up her courage to the point of going into the shop, even if it did excite his anger, and insisting upon his taking her to her uncle, or sending her back to the s.h.i.+p. She walked in, unnoticed, and the first object that met her sight was one of her mother's large trunks, open and empty, with the price marked upon the top. Around the room she saw the others, and the contents, so precious to her from a.s.sociation with her deceased parent, were hanging about upon pegs, looking ashamed of their positions. Horrified, the little girl ran up to Smith: "these are my things," she said; "how dare you put them into the shop?" "You had better hush up, little vixen," replied the man, "or I'll take the very clothes from off your back. You don't think I am going to keep you without receiving board, do you?" "But I'm not going to stay here. I'll go back to the s.h.i.+p--the Captain will _make_ you give me my things,"

cried the child, bursting into pa.s.sionate tears. "Go--I'd like nothing better; go back to Boston as fast as you can, cry-baby, and give my compliments to the gentleman who cheated me into taking you," replied Smith, with his odious smile. "Then why will you not take me to my uncle? I don't want to stay in this horrid place." "Take care, or you'll get into a worse--as for your uncle, I saw in the paper yesterday an account of his death, so you need have no hopes from him." "Dead! all dead!" said Margaret, sinking down into the nearest seat, for her head swam, and her knees trembled so that she could not stand. "Yes, he's dead as a door nail--no mistake about that. So you had better not be troublesome, or you won't fare as well as you do. Here, Jackson," he said to a rough, bloated-looking, elderly countryman, who had been purchasing some old furniture, and had now re-entered the shop, "didn't you say that you wanted a little girl to do your work?" "Yes, I did,"

replied the man, "my old woman is not worth any thing any more. But I must have some one that will not be interfered with: I intend to get an orphan from the alms-house, that will suit me best." "Here is an orphan, who is the very thing: she has no relations or friends in the world, and I'm rather tired of keeping her--I'll give her to you for nothing."

"That would do, but she does not look like a poor child: she is dressed like a little lady, and her hands are small and white, as if she wasn't used to rough work." "She _is_ dressed up more than she should be, but you can soon mend that; and I'll answer for it, she'll learn to do the rough work soon enough." "Well, I'll take her: have her bundle ready by the afternoon, and I'll call for her in the wagon, and take the girl and the other baggage at the same time." "Agreed--she shall be ready."

It would be hard to describe little Margaret's feelings during the preceding dialogue: she plainly saw that there was no escape for her, unless she rushed into the street, and claimed the protection of any chance pa.s.ser-by, and that honest Smith took pains to prevent, by locking her up in her room. When there alone, she threw herself down upon the bed, and sobbed as if her heart would break: "If my mother, my dear, dear mother, was living, _she_ would take care of me. She would not let me stay in this filthy place--she would not let me eat dry bread and water--she would not let that ugly old man take me away, to do servants' work. Oh mother! mother! I wish I were dead too!" When her pa.s.sion of grief was exhausted, comfort and hope began to dawn upon her, and she thought, "It cannot certainly be as bad in the country, where the old man lives, as here, in this vile hole, with all these disgusting smells and sights. And my mother said, that G.o.d is a friend who can never die or change, who will never leave or forsake the poor orphan. I will try to be a better child, and then G.o.d will love me: perhaps I deserve this, for being naughty. I certainly will try to be good."

In the afternoon, Jackson came for his baggage, as he called it, and after the furniture was stowed away, Smith brought down the little girl, and gave into her hand a very small bundle of clothes, bidding her tell no tales, or she should find she was in his power yet. She was put into the wagon, on top of the furniture, and the old man, whose face was red, and whose breath smelt of liquor, set off at a smart pace. It was late in the evening before they reached the solitary and desolate farm-house, which Jackson called his home: Margaret scrambled out as best she could, and entered the dwelling. Although it was now late in the autumn, there was no fire upon the hearth, and the room looked to the last degree dismal. It had something more of a habitable aspect when the furniture was brought in, but it was evident that no "neat-handed Phillis" had been accustomed to range through the house; and the spiders had provided the only ornaments to be found anywhere about, by hanging the walls with tapestry, which certainly could not be produced in the looms of France.

Margaret found that there were two other inhabitants of this neglected house--Jackson's wife, a sad, heart-broken woman, only too evidently in a dying condition, and a son of about fifteen, rude, stubborn, and rebellious, whose only good-feeling seemed to be love to his poor mother. Jackson brought out some food, of which Margaret stood greatly in need, and she was then happy to be allowed to retire to the loft allotted to her, as she was exhausted by the ride and the agitation of mind she had gone through during the past week. Miserable as was her attic, she slept soundly until waked by the sun s.h.i.+ning into her eyes: she quickly dressed, but did not escape a scolding from her sullen master, who commanded her to make a fire, and get his breakfast for him.

Margaret was remarkably quick and handy for a child of her age, as her affection to her mother and grandfather had prompted her to do many little things for them which so young a girl seldom thinks of; but her delicate white fingers were unused to menial tasks, and to make a fire was quite beyond the circle of her accomplishments. Jackson then called upon his son to do it, but told her that he should not make it a second time, and grumbled and swore at her while he remained in the house.

It is astonis.h.i.+ng how human nature can adapt itself to circ.u.mstances, so that the thing which we must do we can do: little Margaret, who had ever been so tenderly nurtured, soon learned to make the fire, to sweep the rooms, and cook the meals. Not in the most scientific manner, truly; her cookery would scarcely have been approved by Kitchener, Gla.s.s, or Soyer, but it was done to the best of her slender ability. While poor Mrs. Jackson lived, Maggie had at least the satisfaction of feeling that her efforts to please her were understood: the grateful look, the languid smile, and the half-expressed pity for the little slave, who was now to fill her place, reminded the child of her mother, and made her more contented with her situation. But when, exhausted by the life of hards.h.i.+p and cruelty which the drunkard's wife must ever experience, Mrs. Jackson slept her last sleep, and went to the home appointed for all the living, "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest," then the little girl had none to feel for her. In a few days, the boy, Bill Jackson, told her that now his mother was dead, he wasn't such a fool as to stay there to be kicked and starved by his father; he intended to run off and go to sea, and he advised her too "to make herself scarce" as soon as she could. When he had gone, all the brutality which had been divided between the mother and son, was now visited on the innocent head of little Maggie; and una.s.sisted even by counsel, she had to perform all the household tasks. If she had received kind words in payment, she could have overlooked many of the hards.h.i.+ps of her condition; but these she never got. Let her be as diligent and pains taking as she would, severity and reproaches were all she met: Jackson was always sullen and morose in the morning, and at night, frequent potations from a large stone jug worked him up to a pa.s.sion.

Then he would knock the furniture about, throw chairs at Margaret's head if she came in his way, and swear in such a dreadful manner that the little girl was glad to seek shelter in her cold and cheerless loft, where at least she could be alone, and could pray to the One Friend she had left.

As the winter advanced, the child's sufferings greatly increased. The cold was intense, the situation a bleak one, and the old farm-house full of cracks and crannies which admitted the winter winds. Her clothing was of a thin description, and nearly worn out by hard usage: at night also, in her airy loft, she was often kept awake by the cold, or cried herself to sleep. But the more severe the weather was, the more did Jackson think it needful to take something a little warming, and the stone jug was frequently replenished: of course his temper became more violent, and Margaret was the sufferer. She kept out of the way as much as possible, but had no place to which she could retreat, except her loft.

Here she would frequently solace herself by bringing out her medallion, which, according to her mother's directions, she wore next her heart, and gazing upon the beloved countenances of her parents--this dying gift was the only relic she had left of former times. One day a snow-storm set in, which reminded her of those she had seen among her own Scottish hills, where the drifts are so great that the shepherd frequently loses his life in returning to his distant home. The wind was piercing, and the snow was so driven about that you could scarcely see a few feet before you; and by evening it lay in deep piles against the door, and around the house. Jackson had of course resorted to the whiskey jug very frequently during the day, for consolation; and little Margaret, seeing him more than usually excited, had sought refuge in the cold and dismal loft, wrapping herself up as well as she could. As she sat there, s.h.i.+vering, and thinking how differently she was situated on the last snow-storm she remembered, when she was seated on a little stool, between her mother and grandfather, holding a hand of each, before a large blazing fire, and listening to beautiful tales--she heard Jackson call her name in savage tones. She hastened, but before she could get down the ladder which led to the room below, he called her again and again, each time more fiercely so that her heart trembled like a leaf upon a tree, dreading to meet his rage. He received her with oaths and abuse; called her a lazy little wretch, who did not earn the bread she eat, and commanded her to bring in an armful of wood from the pile, as the fire was going out. She ventured to tell him that she had already tried to find some, but ineffectually; in some places the snow was above her head, and the air was so thick with it, now that night had come on, that she could not see before her. But the violent man would take no excuse: he drove her out with threats, and long she groped about, vainly trying to discover the wood, which was completely hidden by the snow.

Her hands and feet became numb, and she felt that she _must_ return to the house, if he killed her--she would otherwise die of the cold. She came, timidly crawling into the room--the moment her master saw her, he started up; fury made him look like a demon. Seizing a stick of wood which still remained, he a.s.sailed her violently: the child, so tender hearted, and so delicately reared, who could be recalled to duty by one glance of the eye, was now subjected to the chastis.e.m.e.nt of a brutal, insensate drunkard! At last he stopped, but his rage was not exhausted.

Opening the door, he told her never to darken it again--never more should she dare to show herself within his house. Falling upon her knees, the little girl besought him with tears not to expel her--she had no one to go to, no father, no mother to take care of her. If she was driven out into the snow, she should die with cold--if he would only allow her to stay that night, she would leave on the morrow, if he wished it! But tears and prayers were unavailing; all of man he had ever had in his nature was now brutified by strong drink; as well might she have knelt to the tiger thirsting for blood, as to him. Driving her out with a curse, he shut and bolted the door.

The depths of distress call up energies, even in the childish heart which have never been felt before. What was there upon earth to revive the spirit of the little orphan, so utterly deserted, so ready to perish? Nothing. But there was something in heaven--and within that girlish bosom there lived a faith in the unseen realities, which might well have shamed many an older person. With her uncovered head exposed to the falling snow, she knelt down, and this time she bent the knee to no hard, cruel master; but with the confidence of filial love, she uttered her fervent prayer to Him who is a very present help in time of trouble. She called upon her Father to save a little helpless orphan; or, if it were His will, to take her up to heaven--"_Thy_ will be done."

And she rose with a tranquillity and calm determination which many would have deemed impossible in one so young; but there is a promise, and many weak ones can testify to its fulfilment, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be."

Margaret went onward towards the public road: there was no farm-house nearer than about a mile, and the child greatly doubted her ability to reach it; but she had resolved to persevere in her efforts, while any power remained in her muscles, any vital warmth in her heart. Onward went that little child, painfully, but still steadily onward; she struggled against the drowsiness that attacked her, but at last she began to feel that she could do no more. But yield not yet to despair, thou gentle and brave orphan! One stronger than thou has come to thy a.s.sistance. For hearest thou not the subdued sound of horses' hoofs scattering the snow? thou art saved!

A traveller approaches, made of other stuff than the crafty Smiths and the brutal Jacksons of the earth,--he sees that slight childish figure, that bare head, those failing steps,--he thinks of his own little ones at home, seated by the sparkling fire, and awaiting his return. He is not one of those who hold the creed of impious Cain, "Am I my brother's keeper?" But, instead, he is a follower of the Good Samaritan, or rather, I should say, of Him who taught that lesson and practised it, seeking and saving those who were lost. He stopped his horse. "My little girl, what are you doing out of doors on a night like this? you will be frozen to death. Why are you not at home with your father and mother?"

"I wish I were!" she said. "They are both dead--I wish I were with them!" "But, my child, you must have a home; why are you out on such a stormy night?" "I have no home, sir," replied poor Margaret. "I lived at the nearest farm-house, but my master was angry with me for not bringing in the wood, and beat me, and turned me out of doors; and I shall die of cold very soon, unless you take care of me, sir." "Poor little deserted one!" said the gentleman, jumping off from his horse. "Such a tiny thing as she, cannot have done any thing very bad--and to send her out to die!

poor child! G.o.d sent me to you, and I will surely take care of you." So saying, he took off his cloak, lined with warm fur, and shaking the snow from her hair and clothes, carefully wrapped it around her, and placed her in front of him upon his horse. "My good, thoughtful wife!" said he; "when I laughed at you this morning for insisting upon my wearing this cloak outside my great-coat, little did I think it would save a precious life--I always do find it to my advantage to mind your womanly, wifely instincts. And now, little girl, we will go home as fast as we can--I will try to keep Jack Frost away from you with this cloak." Urging his horse onward, Mr. Norton, for that was the good man's name, every now and then spoke cheerily to the child whom he sustained with one arm, striving to keep her awake, and telling her of the bright warm fire she should see when they got home. At last they arrived there: when Mr.

Norton jumped off his horse, Margaret saw that they had come to a small town, which looked very pretty as the snow lay upon the roofs and fences. Before he could ring, the door flew open, and the warm light, which looked like an embodiment of the love and happiness of home and fireside pleasures, streamed out upon the pure, cold snow, revealing, to the group within doors, the father carefully holding his burden. "Dear father! are you not almost perished?" cried his oldest son, Frederic, a manly little fellow, m.u.f.fled up in cap, and coat, and worsted scarf.

"You must let me take old Charlie to the stable, and come in yourself and thaw--you see I am all ready." "Well, my son, I believe I will; particularly as I have a bundle here that I must take care of." "What has father got?" said the younger children, wonderingly. "Why, it as large as a bag of potatoes!" "I have brought you home a little sister, children," Mr. Norton replied, entering the sitting-room and unwrapping poor Margaret. "My dear wife, I found this child upon the road, almost perished with cold: she is an orphan, and was cruelly treated by the wretch of a master who turned her out of doors to-night. Only look at her thin, worn-out gingham dress--and at the holes in her shoes!" "Poor little lamb!" said Mrs. Norton, gazing on her with a mother's pity--blessed effect of paternal and maternal love, that it opens the heart to all helpless little ones! "Don't cry, my dear, you will not be turned out of this house!" "Indeed, I cannot help it, ma'am; you are so very kind--like my mother." "But, wife and children, we must not stand here talking; we must get a tub of cold water, and keep her hands and feet in it for some time, or she will be all frost-bitten. Sally, my child, you need not place that chair for her so near the fire, for she cannot sit there: help your mother to bring the water." Sally, although rather younger than little Margaret, was a large child for her age, and while the latter was getting thawed, and the good mother was making a warming drink, she hunted up her thickest clothes, and begged that the poor stranger might wear them. "And may she not sleep with me to-night, mother?" "Oh no, mother, let her sleep with us," said Kate and Lucy, the two younger children. "I am glad to see you want to have her with you,"

replied their mother, "but as Sally is the nearest her age, and spoke the first, I think I must gratify her. But if Kate and Lucy wish it, she may sit between them at table." "Thank you, thank you, dear mother, that will be pleasant. Oh how glad we are we have a new sister!"

Soon was the story of the orphan's trials confided to the sympathizing ears of those who had now adopted her as one of themselves, and soon did the little girl feel at home in that household of love. Every day, as it developed her warm feelings, her lively grat.i.tude, and the intrinsic worth of a character which seemed to inherit the virtues of her pious ancestors, attached her new friends to her more closely. Mrs. Norton declared that Margaret was the best child she had ever seen, and perfectly invaluable to her: if she did not keep her because it was her duty, and because she loved her, she certainly would as a daily pattern to her own children. And besides, she had such pretty manners, and knew so much, that it was better than sending the children to school, to have them with her.

If I were making up a story for your entertainment, my dear nieces and nephews, I should tell you that Margaret always lived with this admirable family, in perfect happiness, and that when she became a woman she married Frederic, the oldest son, thus keeping the place of a daughter in the house. But I am telling you the truth, which, you know, is often stranger than fiction, and often sadder also. In stories, good people are generally rewarded with uninterrupted prosperity, just as some very judicious parents give their children plum-cake and sweetmeats when they say their lessons well and do not scratch each others' eyes out. But it is not so in the real world: the all-wise Father above, acts on other principles. He knows that his children require evil, as well as good, and that the best soil will become dry, hard, and sterile, if the sun always s.h.i.+nes upon it;--therefore it is that He sends dark, heavy clouds and gloomy days. Unwise and unthankful as we are, we grievously complain; but the showers still descend, and when we least expect it, behold the beautiful sun! All nature is again gay and joyous: the birds sing cheerily, the flowers raise up their dripping heads, new blossoms are put forth, and, to use the language of Scripture, the little hills skip like rams, the valleys shout, they also sing, and all the trees of the field do clap their hands. My heroine is still under the cloud of adversity, sharing in the fate of her protectors, and lightening their trials by her ready hand and most affectionate heart. Two years after she entered Mr. Norton's home, her benefactor was taken ill, and lingered for some months before he was transferred to that better mansion which is provided for each one of the faithful. Sad was the desolation caused by his death. I will not speak of the sorrow of the widow and of the orphans--you can all imagine that--but, in addition, they were deprived of their home, and cast out upon the world. After the bills were paid--the physician's, the apothecary's, and the undertaker's, in addition to those necessarily contracted for the household while the father was earning nothing, Mrs. Norton found that not a penny was left her. Selling what she could, she removed to Philadelphia, where she had resided in her youth, thinking that she could easily obtain employment for her needle, and so support her young family, while they shared the advantages of our excellent system of public schools. But she found herself friendless and unknown in the great city, with many compet.i.tors for a very little sewing; and she came to the conclusion that it is the very poorest way by which a woman can support herself. She obtained a situation for Frederic in a store, where he receives rather more than is necessary for his own wants; and, removing to the country, she took a little cottage for the sum which one room would have cost her in town. Frederic is able to pay her rent: and when she is well, with the aid of our little Margaret, she can maintain herself and her helpless children in tolerable comfort. Thus the orphan has it in her power to repay the kindness shown to her, and by exercising the n.o.ble virtue of grat.i.tude, to rise daily higher in the scale of being."

"Dear Aunty!" cried Amy, with all eagerness, "have you not been telling us the story of _our_ Mrs. Norton, and that pretty little adopted daughter of hers, with the large, deep blue eyes?"

"You have guessed my riddle, Amy," replied her aunt, smiling. "I called there this morning while you were all out--while George was amusing himself by falling into the pond--and heard the whole history from the sick woman's lips. I felt so deeply interested in it, that I thought you could spend an hour worse than in listening to the simple tale."

"Are you sure that you have not embellished it?" asked Mr. Wyndham, with a smile.

"Quite sure: for, although I filled up a few gaps in the narrative by using my very common-place imagination, I a.s.sure you that all the facts are substantially the same. And I don't doubt that if I had witnessed the scenes described, I should have been able to make my story far more pathetic, and far more romantic, because it would then have been a daguerreotype of the truth. I have talked with little Margaret herself, and certainly I have never seen a more engaging and lovely child. At my urgent request, she consented to lend me her precious medallion for a few days--and here it is."