Life in the Clearings versus the Bush Part 26

The woman shook her head. "The thratement he got from him was too bad.

But shure he would not disthress me by saying aught agin my mother's son. Did he not break his heart, and turn him dying an' pinniless on the wide world? An' could he have done worse had he stuck a knife into his heart?"

"Ah!" she continued, with bitterness, "it was the gowld, the dhirty gowld, that kilt my poor bhoy. His uncle knew that if Mike were dead, it would come to Pat as the ne'est in degree, an' he could keep it all to himsel' for the ne'est ten years."

This statement appeared only too probable. Still there was a mystery about the whole affair that required a solution, and it was several years before I accidentally learned the sequel of this sad history.

In the meanwhile the messenger, despatched by the kind Mr. S--- to Peterboro' to inform Michael's uncle of the dying state of his nephew, returned without that worthy, and with this unfeeling message--that Michael Macbride had left him without any just cause, and should receive no consolation from him in his last moments.

Mr. S--- did not inform the poor bereaved widow of her brother's cruel message; but finding that she was unable to defray the expenses attendant on her son's funeral, like a true Samaritan, he supplied them out of his own pocket, and followed the remains of the unhappy stranger that Providence had cast upon his charity to the grave. In accordance with Michael's last request, he was buried in the cemetry of the English church.

Six years after these events took place, Mr. W--- called upon me at our place in Douro, and among other things told me of the death of Michael's uncle, Mr. C---. Many things were mentioned by Mr. W---, who happened to know him, to his disadvantage. "But of all his evil acts," he said, "the worst thing I knew of him was his conduct to his nephew."

"How was that?" said I, as the death-bed of Michael Macbride rose distinctly before me.

"It was a bad business. My housekeeper lived with the old man at the time, and from her I heard all about it. It seems that he had been left guardian to this boy, whom he brought out with him some years ago to this country, together with a little girl about two years younger, who was the child of a daughter of his mother by a former marriage, so that the children were half-cousins to each other. Elizabeth was a modest, clever little creature, and grew up a very pretty girl. Michael was strikingly handsome, had a fine talent for music, and in person and manners was far above his condition. There was some property, to the amount of several hundred pounds, coming to the lad when he reached the age of twenty-one. This legacy had been left him by his grandfather, and Mr. C--- was to invest it in land for the boy's use. This, for reasons best known to himself, he neglected to do, and brought the lad up to the service of the altar, and continually urged him to become a priest.

This did not at all accord with Michael's views and wishes, and he obstinately refused to study for the holy office, and told his uncle that he meant to become a farmer as soon as he obtained his majority.

"Living constantly in the same house, and possessing a congeniality of tastes and pursuits, a strong affection had grown up between Michael and his cousin, which circ.u.mstance proved the ostensible reason given by Mr. C--- for his ill conduct to the young people, as by the laws of his church they were too near of kin to marry. Finding that their attachment was too strong to be wrenched asunder by threats, and that they had actually formed a design to leave him, and embrace the Protestant faith, he confined the girl to her chamber, without allowing her a fire during a very severe winter. Her const.i.tution, naturally weak, sunk under these trials, and she died early in the spring of 1832, without being allowed the melancholy satisfaction of seeing her lover before she closed her brief life.

"Her death decided Michael's fate. Rendered desperate by grief, he reproached his bigoted uncle as the author of his misery, and demanded of him a settlement of his property, as it was his intention to quit his roof for ever. Mr. C--- laughed at his reproaches, and treated his threats with scorn, and finally cast him friendless upon the world.

"The poor fellow played very well upon the flute, and possessed an excellent tenor voice; and, by the means of these accomplishments, he contrived for a few weeks to obtain a precarious living.

"Broken-hearted and alone in the world, he soon fell a victim to hereditary disease of the lungs, and died, I have been told, at an hotel in Cobourg; and was buried at the expense of Mr. S---, the tavern-keeper, out of charity."

"The latter part of your statement I know to be correct; and the whole of it forcibly corroborates the account given to me by the poor lad's mother. I was at Michael's deathbed; and if his life was replete with sorrow and injustice, his last hours were peaceful and happy."

I could now fully comprehend the meaning of the sad stress laid upon the one word which had struck me so forcibly at the time, when I asked him if he had forgiven _all_ his enemies, and he replied, after that lengthened pause, "Yes; I have forgiven them all--even _him!_"

It did, indeed, require some exertion of Christian forbearance to forgive such injuries.

Song.

"There's hope for those who sleep In the cold and silent grave, For those who smile, for those who weep, For the freeman and the slave!

"There's hope on the battle plain, 'Mid the shock of charging foes; On the dark and troubled main, When the gale in thunder blows.

"He who dispenses hope to all, Withholds it not from thee; He breaks the woe-worn captive's thrall, And sets the prisoner free!"

CHAPTER XII

Jeanie Burns

"Ah, human hearts are strangely cast, Time softens grief and pain; Like reeds that shiver in the blast, They bend to rise again.

But she in silence bowed her head, To none her sorrow would impart; Earth's faithful arms enclose the dead, And hide for aye her broken heart!"

S.M.

While the steamboat is leaving Cobourg in the distance, and, through the hours of night and darkness, holds on her course to Toronto, I will relate another true but mournful history from the romance of real life, that was told to me during my residence in this part of the country.

One morning our man-servant, James N---, came to me to request the loan of one of the horses to attend a funeral. M--- was absent on business at Toronto, and the horses and the man's time were both greatly needed to prepare the land for the full crop of wheat. I demurred; James looked anxious and disappointed; and the loan of the horse was at length granted, but not without a strict injunction that he should return to his work directly the funeral was over. He did not come back until late that evening.

I had just finished my tea, and was nursing my wrath at his staying out the whole day, when the door of the room (we had but one, and that was shared in common with the servants) opened, and the delinquent at last appeared. He hung up the new English saddle, and sat down before the blazing hearth without speaking a word.

"What detained you so long, James? You ought to have had half an acre of land, at least, ploughed to-day."

"Verra true, mistress; it was nae fau't o' mine. I had mista'en the hour; the funeral did na come in afore sundoon, an' I cam' awa' as sune as it was owre."

"Was it any relation of yours?"

"Na', na', jest a freend, an auld acquaintance, but nane o' mine ain kin.

I never felt sae sad in a' my life as I ha'e dune this day. I ha'e seen the clods piled on mony a heid, an' never felt the saut tear in my een.

But puir Jeanie! puir la.s.s! it was a sair sight to see them thrown down upon her."

My curiosity was excited; I pushed the tea-things from me, and told Bell, my maid, to give James his supper.

"Naething for me the night, Bell. I canna' eat; my thoughts will a' run on that puir la.s.s. Sae young, sae bonnie, an' a few months ago as blythe as a lark, an' noo a clod o' the airth. Hout! we maun a' dee when our ain time comes; but, somehow, I canna think that Jeanie ought to ha'e gane sae sune."

"Who is Jeanie Burns? Tell me, James, something about her?"

In compliance with my request, the man gave me the following story.

I wish I could convey it in his own words; but though I perfectly understand the Scotch dialect when I hear it spoken, I could not write it in its charming simplicity,--that honest, truthful brevity, which is so characteristic of this n.o.ble people. The smooth tones of the blarney may flatter our vanity, and please us for the moment, but who places any confidence in those by whom it is employed? We know that it is only uttered to cajole and deceive; and when the novelty wears off, the repet.i.tion awakens indignation and disgust. But who mistrusts the blunt, straightforward speech of the land of Burns? For good or ill, it strikes home to the heart.

Jeanie Burns was the daughter of a respectable shoemaker, who gained a comfortable living by his trade in a small town of Ayrshire. Her father, like herself, was an only child, and followed the same vocation, and wrought under the same roof that his father had done before him. The elder Burns had met with many reverses, and now, helpless and blind, was entirely dependent upon the charity of his son. Honest Jock had not married until late in life, that he might more comfortably provide for the wants of his aged parents. His mother had been dead for some years.

She was a good, pious woman, and Jock quaintly affirmed "that it had pleased the Lord to provide a better inheritance for his dear auld mither than his arm could win, proud an' happy as he wud ha'e been to ha'e supported her, when she was nae langer able to work for him."

Jock's filial love was repaid at last. Chance threw in his way a cannie young la.s.s, baith gude an' bonnie, an' wi' a hantel o' siller. They were united, and Jeanie was the sole fruit of the marriage. But Jeanie proved a host in herself, and grew up the best-natured, the prettiest, and the most industrious girl in the village, and was a general favourite with young and old. She helped her mother in the house, bound shoes for her father, and attended to all the wants of her dear old grandfather, Saunders Burns, who was so much attached to his little handmaid, that he was never happy when she was absent.

Happiness, however, is not a flower of long growth in this world; it requires the dew and sunlight of heaven to nourish it, and it soon withers, removed from its native skies. The cholera visited the remote village; it smote the strong man in the pride of his strength, and the matron in the beauty of her prime, while it spared the helpless and the aged, the infant of a few days, and the patriarch of many years. Both Jeanie's parents fell victims to the fatal disease, and the old blind Saunders and the young Jeanie were left to fight alone a hard battle with poverty and grief.

The truly deserving are never entirely forsaken; G.o.d may afflict them with many trials, but He watches over them still, and often provides for their wants in a manner truly miraculous. Sympathizing friends gathered round the orphan girl in her hour of need, and obtained for her sufficient employment to enable her to support her old grandfather and herself, and provide for them the common necessaries of life.

Jeanie was an excellent sempstress, and what between making waistcoats and trousers for the tailors, and binding shoes for the shoemakers,--a business that she thoroughly understood,--she soon had her little hired room neatly furnished, and her grandfather as clean and spruce as ever.

When she led him into the kirk of a sabbath morning, all the neighbours greeted the dutiful daughter with an approving smile, and the old man looked so serene and happy that Jeanie was fully repaid for her labours of love.

Her industry and piety often formed the theme of conversation to the young lads of the village. "What a guid wife Jeanie Burns wull mak'!"

cried one.

"Aye," said another; "he need na complain of ill fortin who has the luck to get the like o' her."

"An' she's sae bonnie," would Willie Robertson add, with a sigh; "I wud na covet the wealth o' the hale world an' she were mine."

Willie Robertson was a fine active young man, who bore an excellent character, and his comrades thought it very likely that Willie was to be the fortunate man. Robertson was the son of a farmer in the neighbourhood; he had no land of his own, and he was the youngest of a very large family. From a boy he had a.s.sisted his father in working the farm for their common maintenance; but after he took to looking at Jeanie Burns at kirk, instead of minding his prayers, he began to wish that he had a homestead of his own, which he could ask Jeanie and her grandfather to share.

He made his wishes known to his father. The old man was prudent. A marriage with Jeanie Burns offered no advantages in a pecuniary view; but the girl was a good, honest girl, of whom any man might be proud. He had himself married for love, and had enjoyed great comfort in his wife.