Chapter XIV: Nannie's Home

MR. MACDONALD'S anger was of a most dangerous kind, when on his return, he learned from the servants what had taken place. He did not fly into a furious passion, or grow livid with rage, but he swore secretly to have his revenge to the very utmost. Ethel should rue the day she married Edward Pryse, and her husband should be hers no longer from the time he left the shores of Scotland. There in his miser's den, he laid the deep schemes which were to be so fatally carried out. But at present, he could not afford to be uncivil to Edward, because there were matters still to be arranged, in which it would be as well to propitiate this friend of the firm. So, though cold, he was outwardly courteous to him when they had occasion to meet. But with quiet malignity watched for the opportunity of crushing his victims.

Ethel seldom went near the great house during the remainder of her husband's stay. She was afraid to meet her uncle alone, and she felt perfectly safe and happy with her heart's love. How peacefully those summer days glided away, as by degrees she beguiled her husband into telling her all his past history! As usual, Edward managed to throw a fictitious gloss over the ugly circumstances of the office robbery, calling it only borrowing. And though Ethel looked up somewhat doubtfully with her innocent eyes of truth, he argued so plausibly, that at last it appeared to her a far less dreadful crime than it really was.

"But you will send the money back when you get to America, won't you?" she pleaded.

Edward promised again and again.

She then continued: "You will take me to your own home some day? For, of course, when the debt is paid, your father will not be angry any more. You will be forgiven, and he will receive us with open arms. I should be frightened to go there all alone, but with you, it would be different. Silexa and Minnie will love me as a sister, and we shall all be so happy together."

"Yes," said Edward; "we will go to St. Elvis."

For the lapse of years had softened his bitter feelings towards his father, and he longed to see the old home once more. He described to his young wife his boyish haunts, and all the fun he and Minnie used to have with good Roger Rudd, the hale and hearty fisherman, who never refused to take them out in his boat with his daughter Lettice, the quiet, sober maiden, who was somewhat too demure for the mischievous pair. Ethel liked hearing everything Edward could tell her about his sisters, and already felt as if she belonged to them.

"Our baby, if it is a girl, must be called after them," she said one evening, just before he started. "You wish it, don't you? Ermyn is such a lovely name; it must be first, I think, and then Silexa."

"As you please, darling. Yes, it will make them love the little thing all the more when they see it. My earliest recollections are associated with the name of Ermyn."

And then he told her of the dear old church, and the ancient monument with the dirty little marble angels.

But the parting was a sore and bitter one, as he clasped a beautiful locket set in pearls round her neck, containing two curls of hair, and the monogram of double E across it. How Ethel clung to him and wept, as he held her to his breast, and comforted her with promises. He really would come back as soon as he could, and it might be much sooner than she thought.

Edward, in his selfishness, little dreamed, as he was going forth once more into the busy whirl of life, of the cruel weight of utter loneliness and desolation that sunk upon the poor wife's heart, as she watched him disappear from her wistful gaze.

Edward went over these scenes again and again, as now, in an agony of despair, he flung himself upon the ground, and shed bitter tears for his lovely lost one. They were tears also of heartfelt contrition, for he could now see that all these griefs were but the consequences of his own sin.

As he lay there on the dreary turf bog, with a white mist wrapping him round, he cried aloud from the depths of his bursting heart:

"'I have gone astray like a lost sheep.'

"'Against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy
sight.'"

After a while, this was followed by the other cry:

"'I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son.'"

How the long winter passed he could not tell. It seemed like untold ages as he went about Muirstane, lonely and miserable, day by day, trying in vain to catch at the faintest shadow that might indicate the spot in the wide lonely world where he could begin to track the footsteps of his beloved. If she were not in the fated ship, he might yet possibly find her. But the remembrance of that beautiful child's strong resemblance to Ethel forbade him to cling much to this hope. Yet why would Ethel be in a ship bound for Ireland? There was the mystery!

On the other hand, if it was Ethel who was drowned (and he had small doubt of this in his own mind), what proof could he give to Mrs. Gwynne that Ermyn was his child? He had no evidence of the fact to bring forward, and he could not claim her without it. Night and day he prayed for light in this darkness; but he had to wait God's time for it. He dragged through the months of frost and snow somehow, doing his best to beguile the time by relieving the wants of the tenantry around, who blessed the day Mr. Pryse had come among them as their landlord. His thoughtful kindness for them made him many friends, who were all on the look-out to glean tidings that might help him in his search; for all had loved and pitied his gentle wife.

Spring had clothed the hills and trees with living verdure. But as the green deepened and spread on every hand, there was no resurrection hope and gladness in the heart of the lonely man. Summer was at hand, and what then?

He was seated, one sultry day some weeks later, in the little general shop, talking to the mistress of it about some repairs she wanted done, when a merry-looking Scotch lassie stepped across the threshold.

"Ye'll no' ken me," she said, smiling to the shop-woman. "I'm a stranger here; but maybe ye'll mind Nannie McEwen, wha bided here afore I was born."

"Ay, ay, my bonnie lassie, I mind her weel," said the woman.

While Edward started to his feet, too much staggered at the name to speak a word.

"I'm on my road to my aunt's," continued the girl, "wha bides at Castletoun, and my grandmother, Mistress McEwen, bade me come by Muirstane, and see gin I could hear ony word o' her bonnie leddy, wha lived here afore she was married."

"Where does your grandmother live, my lassie?" said Edward, pale and trembling.

"Eh, sir, it's a lang, lang piece frae Muirstane; I've been three days on the road."

She then proceeded to detail her route by coach and ferry, from this out of the world habitation among the hills.

"It's a wee bit town," she added, "but when ye cross the ferry at 'Glenairg,' onybody 'll tell ye whaur Nannie McEwen bides."

The girl stared with amazement at her interlocutor, wondering why he questioned her so closely—he, a stranger she had never set eyes on before. But she did not object to give him as much information as he liked, especially when, on quitting the shop, he slipped a bright piece of gold into her hand.

"At last! At last!" he panted to himself, as he went up the hill to his lonely dwelling. "O God, I thank Thee, Thou hast heard my cry!"

To cram a few necessaries into a bag, and depart in joyful haste, was his work that afternoon. What mattered difficulties and fatigues, however great they might be? The wings of Hope had grown again, and she was now soaring on before him as the dove of peace, with the olive-branch in her mouth! He was on the right track at last!

It was a tedious and difficult journey, but Edward never thought of that, as, weary and thankful, he stepped into the ferry-boat that would land him within sight of Nannie's home. The man who rowed him across had never received such a lavish guerdon before. He invoked a blessing on the head of the traveller, who sprang lightly out, and began speeding away up the hill opposite, as if he were only setting out on his journey.

A little mountain lake lay cradled in the bosom of the hills, and on its peaceful breast slept soft lights and purple shadows. The loftiest peak blushed rosy red in the sunset glow, and was reflected in the clear water, making the dark, green depths on the shady side seem deeper still. A well-to-do looking farmhouse was situated on a bit of rising ground just above the lake, and its numerous outbuildings and byres sloping towards the shore gave it a prosperous look. Rude flagstone steps inserted here and there among the heather led down from the door to the water, and a girl in a gay kirtle was on her way thither to fill the pail she was carrying. An aged woman stood knitting at the door, every now and then looking up at the grey and pink clouds above her head.

As Edward drew nearer, he had time to observe her dress and appearance. She wore a dark stuff gown, which showed a clear white handkerchief folded across under the rather open bodice, and on her head a spotless mutch trimmed with narrow lace, having a black ribbon bound above it. Some grey locks strayed over the wrinkled forehead, and the soft brown eyes had a kindly light in them. A sweet smile of welcome played about her mouth as the stranger advanced. Edward could understand, when he looked at her, why Ethel had fled to her motherly arms for refuge.

"A braw nicht, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey.

Edward courteously returned her greeting, and put the eager question: "Does Nannie McEwen live here?"

"'Deed, ay, sir, I am Nannie McEwen mysel', though I dinna ken wha I'm speakin' till. Come ye ben the hoose, sir," she added, leading the way. "It's by-ordinar' cauld the nicht."

The old woman turned to look at her guest, and great was her surprise to see he had sunk down on a seat by the door, deathly pale, and gasping for breath.

"The Lord preserve us a'! What's wrang wi' the gentleman? What ails ye, sir?"

"Pardon me," he said, struggling back into self-possession; "the long journey has wearied me. Thank God, I have found you at last. I am Ethel Macdonald's husband, Edward Pryse."

Nannie's knitting fell from her fingers, as with upraised hands she said, "What! Him that crossed the seas, and left her lane. Ye dinna mean to tell me ye are my bonnie leddy's ain gude man! Wae's me! Wae's me!" And, sitting down, she rocked herself to and fro, and began to weep bitterly.

"Did she come to you from Muirstane?" asked Edward, white and trembling.

"Ay, that did she, puir lammie! My mitherless bairn cam' to me ae mirk nicht a' droukit wi' the rain, spent wi' the journey, and maist deed wi' the cauld. Whaur is she, sir, the noo? Oh, gin I kent that!"

"I believe she is with God," replied Edward, with a groan, "but tell me all you know."

Then, as he grew calmer, he gave the history of his arrival at Muirstane, and all the awful facts his visit there brought to light, the long fruitless search, the chance meeting with Nannie's grandchild, and his subsequent journey hither.

"Puir, puir lad! It's a sair heart ye'll carry aboot a' your days, for I dinna think ye'll meet again till ye meet in oor Father's hoose above. It's an ower true tale, as I ken fu' weel, though I didna think to hae tauld it to her ain gude man. I'll tell ye a' aboot it, sir, and ye'll just bide the nicht wi' us. The bairns and my son are awa', but I'll do my best to mak' ye comfortable."

Edward thanked her with a sad look of gratitude in his weary eyes, entreating her to proceed.

"It's fourteen years," continued Nannie, "since she cam' to my door. Weel do I mind hoo she fell greetin' aboot my neck, an' I clappit her an' made o' her same as she had been the bit wean I mind her in her ain nursery lang, lang syne. Eh, for the sad tale she had to tell. It'll be a lang reckonin' her uncle wull hae to gie to the Almighty; and little did I think to live to see the day when my bonnie leddy wad walk barefit an' hungry. We put her till her bed, an' twa days after that, her bonnie bairn was upon her breast."

"A girl?" eagerly interrupted Edward.

"Ay, a fine bit lassie; I was the first that handled her, and her mither's face was like a simmer's day when I laid the wean in her arms. But the time gaed by, and nae word cam' till her frae across the sea. Mony's the day my heart was wae for her! Ye may weel believe we was prood to hae her under oor roof. But it was aye a sair thocht to her that she an' the bairn were burdensome to us. My ain dochter, our bairns' mither, was ta'en awa' before she cam' to us, but the bairnies had a sair work wi' the wee leddy.

"Mony a time my dear bairn wad say she maun gang to Liverpool, and speir for news hersel' amang the shipowners, but that wasna wark for the like o' her, an' ne'er a fute wad we let her gang near it. She wad traik in an' oot wi' the bairn, for she was a' the pleasure she had. But there came ae day, an' wae's me that I hae lived to tell it (it was when the bairnie was aboot saxteen months auld); I had gane to the town, an' when I cam' back, she was awa', nane could tell me whaur. Mony a weary mile I followed her, and mony a ane I speired at gin they had seen her, but frae that day till noo I've never looked on her sweet face, nor heard tell o' her, or o the wean. Eh, man, it wad be a blithe day for me gin ye had brocht me word frae my mitherless bairn."

Edward's head sank lower and lower upon his breast as he listened, and the kind-hearted old woman would fain have comforted him as her own son.

"Whiles in the gloamin' I'll still gang doon to the burnside, and I'll maist think I'll fin' them there, where mony and mony a day I've seen them sitting amang the gowans, upon the grass, or heard her singing to the bairn wi' a greet in her voice; or the bairnie crowin' over the brave locket o' gowd and pearls she wad hing aboot its neck."

"The locket!" cried Edward, starting up. "Where is it? Oh that I could see it! I had forgotten about it."

"She took it wi' her," said Nannie; "but I'll show ye the buik she wrote in ilka day. I'm thinkin' she'd forgotten it when she gaed awa'. I'm no scholard, sir, and canna read write; but nae doot ye'll mak' it oot."

Edward snatched the volume from her hand, and with trembling fingers opened it to read on the first page:

"'My Diary, since the sad day my beloved Edward left me.'"

Late, late into the night he sat up perusing those precious pages, though Nannie entreated him to take his rest. A sorrowful memorial it was, written from the depths of a breaking heart, but a heart that was true and loyal to him to the very end. All through those dreary months, when every outward evidence tended to make her believe she was forgotten and forsaken by her husband, nothing had shaken her firm belief in his love.

These pages supplied all the missing links, so ruthlessly broken and scattered by wicked malice. They told of her cruel and bitter bondage in her uncle's house, of his sneers and taunts concerning her marriage, of his villainous hints about desertion and forgetfulness, and of her mad desperation, when at last, in spite of the watchful guard set over her, she determined to fly from it all to find her faithful Nannie. She recounted her long and difficult journey to the house of her old nurse, and all the never-to-be-forgotten kindness showered upon her there from first to last.

The faint writing went on to record her baby's birth, and the untold joy with which she first held her darling Edward's child in her arms; the baptism of her precious infant by the aged Scotch minister in the wee kirk on the hill, and all the little loving details that only a mother's pen can indite.

"I have called her after our two dear sisters, as my Edward wished—Ermyn Silexa," so ran words. "Some day they will hold her in their arms and love her dearly. Oh, when Edward comes to take me to them, all will be well."

There was a break in the narrative; then came this despairing entry:

"Oh, he must be dead! The letter telling him of my arrival here and of our child's birth has come back to me. When will this night of sorrow end? But my Lord and Saviour is with me to cheer its gloom. His voice hath spoken to me. 'Himself hath done it.' I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.' My tired head is pillowed on His breast; the storm cannot harm me there. Oh, my Edward! My husband! My one and only love; we shall meet again!"

Here the manuscript broke off abruptly. There was no hint whatever given as to her intended flight.

Nannie believed she fully meant to return, as she left several things behind her, and would never have taken her final departure without a single good-bye.

Edward could only guess whither his wife went by her mention of Liverpool in her diary, as the place where she hoped to learn tidings of him. To Liverpool therefore he must go next. And as he mentally arranged his journey, he thought of the last time he was there, when he had arrived from America a heart-broken and desolate widower.

Strange faces had looked at him on the busy, bustling quay, some with a glance of pity, others cynical and scornful. Now he seemed to have passed through a hideous dream, only to awake to find the reality even sadder. He recalled that last tender parting, and the pressure of those soft arms about his neck. Oh, how his heart ached as the words of the poet haunted him:

"I know not what I said; what she replied
Lives like eternal sunshine in my heart:
And then I murmured, 'Oh! we never part
My love, my life, my bride.'

"Oft as I wake at morn, I seem to see
A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade,
Her blessed face, as it were loth to fade,
Turned back to look on me."