But
'tis all over now,' and she pressed her sma' hands tightly over her
breast to keep doon the swelling o' her heart. 'Jamie, I know now
that it is a' for the best; I lo'ed him too weel - mair than ony
creature sud lo'e a perishing thing o' earth. But I thought that he
wud be sae glad an' sae proud to see his ain Jeanie sae sune. But,
oh! - ah, weel! - I maun na think o' that; what I wud jist say is
this,' an' she took a sma' packet fra' her breast, while the tears
streamed down her pale cheeks. 'He sent me forty dollars to bring
me ower the sea to him - God bless him for that, I ken he worked
hard to earn it, for he lo'ed me then - I was na' idle during his
absence. I had saved enough to bury my dear auld grandfather, and
to pay my ain expenses out, and I thought, like the gude servant
in the parable, I wud return Willie his ain with interest; an' I
hoped to see him smile at my diligence, an' ca' me his bonnie gude
lassie. Jamie, I canna' keep this siller, it lies like a weight o'
lead on my heart. Tak' it back to him, an' tell him fra' me, that
I forgi'e him a' his cruel deceit, an' pray to God to grant him
prosperity, and restore to him that peace o' mind o' which he has
robbed me for ever.'
"I did as she bade me. Willie looked stupified when I delivered her
message. The only remark he made, when I gave him back the money,
was, 'I maun be gratefu', man, that she did na' curse me.' The wife
came in, and he hid away the packet and slunk off. The man looked
degraded in his own eyes, and so wretched, that I pitied him from
my very heart.
"When I came home, Jeanie met me at my uncle's gate. 'Tell me,' she
said in a low anxious voice, 'tell me, cousin Jamie, what passed
atween ye. Had he nae word for me?'
"'Naething, Jeanie, the man is lost to himsel', to a' who ance
wished him weel. He is not worth a decent body's thought.'
"She sighed deeply, for I saw that her heart craved after some word
fra' him, but she said nae mair, but pale an' sorrowfu', the very
ghaist o' her former sel', went back into the house.
"From that hour she never breathed his name to ony of us; but we all
ken'd that it was her love for him that was preying upon her life.
The grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, always lies
ne'est to the heart. Puir Jeanie! she held out during the simmer,
but when the fall came, she just withered awa' like a flower, nipped
by the early frost, and this day we laid her in the earth.
"After the funeral was ower, and the mourners were all gone, I stood
beside her grave, thinking ower the days of my boyhood, when she and
I were happy weans, an' used to pu' the gowans together on the
heathery hills o' dear auld Scotland. An' I tried in vain to
understan' the mysterious providence o' God, who had stricken her,
who seemed sae gude and pure, an' spared the like o' me, who was mair
deservin' o' his wrath, when I heard a deep groan, an' I saw Willie
Robertson standing near me beside the grave.
"'Ye may as weel spare your grief noo,' said I, for I felt hard
towards him, 'an' rejoice that the weary is at rest.'
"'It was I murdered her,' said he, 'an' the thought will haunt me to
my last day. Did she remember me on her death bed?'
"'Her thoughts were only ken'd by Him who reads the secrets of a'
hearts, Willie. Her end was peace, an' her Saviour's blessed name
was the last sound upon her lips. But if ever woman died fra' a
broken heart, there she lies.'
"'Oh, Jeanie!' he cried, 'mine ain darling Jeanie! my blessed
lammie! I was na' worthy o' yer love - my heart, too, is breaking.
To bring ye back aince mair, I wad lay me down an' dee.'
"An' he flung himsel' upon the grave and embraced the fresh clods,
and greeted like a child.
"When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past,
and truly I believe that the man was not in his right senses when he
married yon wife; at ony rate, he is not lang for this warld; he has
fretted the flesh aff his banes, an' before many months are ower,
his heid will lie as low as puir Jeanie Burns's."
While I was pondering this sad story in my mind, Mrs. H - - came in.
"You have heard the news, Mrs. M - -?"
I looked inquiringly.
"One of Clark's little boys that were lost last Wednesday in the
woods has been found."
"This is the first I have heard about it. How were they lost?"
"Oh, 'tis a thing of very common occurrence here. New settlers, who
are ignorant of the danger of going astray in the forest, are always
having their children lost. This is not the first instance by many
that I have known, having myself lived for many years in the bush.
I only wonder that it does not more frequently happen.
"These little fellows are the sons of a poor man who came out this
summer, and who has taken up some wild land about a mile back of us,
towards the plains. Clark is busy logging up a small fallow for fall
wheat, on which his family must depend for bread during the ensuing
year; and he is so anxious to get it ready in time, that he will not
allow himself an hour at noon to go home to his dinner, which his
wife generally sends in a basket to the woods by his eldest
daughter.
