作者：Kingston, William Henry Giles, 1814-1880
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
Janet McLaren The Faithful Nurse试读：
Chapter One.
Donald Morrison, whose wife has lately been called away, dying in his Highland Manse, his Children left destitute, are taken care of by their old nurse.—She conveys them to a sea-side town, where she takes up her abode with them in a small attic, and labours for their maintenance, while she places the two boys, Donald and David, at school.—Her anxiety about the education of Margaret.
In his Highland manse, far away among the hills, where he had dwelt as pastor for many years over a wayward flock, Donald Morrison lay on a sick-bed. The same fever which had carried off his dear wife a few weeks before, had now stricken him down. He knew that he was dying. As far as he himself was concerned he was willing to yield up his spirit to his Maker; but what would become of his motherless children, his sweet young Margaret, and his two boys, Donald and David, their principles unformed, and ignorant of the evils of the world?
“Father in heaven protect them,” he ejaculated. “Give me faith to know that Thou wilt take care of them, teach them and guide them in their course through life.” But he felt that his mind was clouded, his spirit was cast down, the disease was making rapid progress. It was hard to think, hard even to pray, gloomy ideas, and doubts, and fears, such as assail even true Christians, crowded on his mind. He forgot—it was but for a time—the sincere faith which had animated him through life. The victory was not to be with the Evil One.
Soon there came hope, and joy, and confidence. “All will be well with the righteous, those who put on Christ’s righteousness,” he mentally exclaimed, and peace came back to his soul.
As he gazed out through the window he could see, down away on the wild hill side, his children at play, their young spirits too buoyant to be long suppressed by the recollection of their late bereavement, and unconscious that they were soon to be deprived of their remaining parent. His eye for a moment rested on the familiar landscape, the blue waters of the loch glittering in the sunshine, a bleak moorland sprinkled here and there with white-fleeced sheep stretching away on one side, and on the other a valley, down which flowed, with ceaseless murmurings, a rapid stream, a steep hill covered with gorse and heather, the summit crowned with a wood of dark pines rising beyond it. Just above the manse could be seen the kirk, which, with a few cottages, composed the village; while scattered far around were the huts in which the larger part of the pastor’s flock abode. As he gazed forth on the scene he prayed—he knew it might be for the last time—that his successor might be more honoured than he feared he had been in bringing home those wandering sheep to the true fold.
Once more his thoughts turned to his little ones. “Janet,” he whispered, as a woman of middle age, of spare form, with strongly marked features, betokening firmness and good sense, and clothed in the humblest style of attire, glided noiselessly into the room. “I feel that I am going.” He lifted up his pale and shrivelled hand, and pointed to his children. “What is to become of them, it is hard to leave them destitute, utterly destitute, not a friend in the world from whom they may claim assistance.”
“Dinna talk so, minister,” said the woman, approaching him, and placing his arm beneath the bed-clothes. “Ye yoursel have often told us to put faith in God, that He is the Father of the fatherless, and the husband of the widow. The dear bairns will nay want while He looks after them. I hanna dwelt forty years or more with the mistress that’s gone, and her sainted mother before her, to desert those she has left behind, while I ha’ finger to work with, and eyes to see. I’ll never forget either to impress on their minds all the lessons you have taught me. It would have been little worth ganging to kirk if I had not remembered them too. I am a poor weak body mysel, it will not be me but He who watches over us will do it, let that comfort you, minister. The bairns will never be so badly off as ye are thinking, now that fever has made body and soul weak, but the soul will soon recover, and ye will rejoice with joy unspeakable. I repeat but your ain words, minister, and I ken they are true.”
“Ye are right, Janet. My soul is reviving,” whispered the dying man. “Call in the bairns. I would have them round me once more. The end is near.”
Janet knew that her master spoke too truly; though it grieved her loving heart to put a stop to the play of the happy young creatures, and to bring them to a scene of sorrow and death. “But it maun be,” she said to herself, as she went to the door of the manse. “He who kens all things kens what is best, and the minister is ganging away from his toils and troubles here to that happy home up there, where he will meet the dear mistress, and, better still, be with Him who loved him, and shed His blood to redeem him, as he himsel has often and often told us from the pulpit.”
She went some way down the hill, unwilling to utter her usual shrill call to the young ones. “Ye maun come in now, bairns,” she said, in a gentle tone; when the children came running up on seeing her beckoning. “The minister is sair ill, and ye’ll be good and quiet, and listen to what he says to you, he is ganging awa on a long long journey, and ye’ll promise to do what he’ll tell you till ye are called to the same place he’ll reach ere lang.”
Something in her tone struck Margaret, who took her hand, and looking up into her face burst into tears. She already knew what death was. Donald, the eldest boy, had lingered a short distance behind.
David, seeing Margaret’s tears, with a startled, anxious look, took Janet’s other hand. “Is father ganging to heaven?” he asked, as they got close to the house, showing how his mind had been occupied as they came along.
“I am sure of it, and it is a happy, happy place,” was the answer. “Ye’ll speak gently, Donald,” she said, turning round to the eldest boy, who, ignorant of his father’s state, might not, she feared, restrain his exuberant spirits.
There was no need of the caution, for the minister’s altered look struck even Donald with awe. Janet led the children up to the bedside. The dying father stretched out his hands, and placed them on their heads, as they clustered up to him, while his already dim eyes turned a fond glance at their young fresh faces. “You will listen to Janet when I am away, and pray God to help you to meet me in heaven. Make His word your guide, and you cannot mistake the road.”
“I will try to mind that, and tell Donald and David, too,” was all that Margaret could answer.
“Canna ye stay longer with us, father?” asked Donald, touching the minister’s hand, as he was wont to do when speaking to him.
“He we should all obey has called me,” said Mr Morrison. “May He bless you, and guard and keep you. Bless you! bless you!” His voice was becoming fainter and fainter, and so he died, with his hands on his children’s heads, his loving eyes on their cherub faces.
“Blessed are they who die in the Lord,” said Janet, as she observed the smile which seemed to rest on the minister’s features. Taking the children, scarcely yet conscious of what had occurred, she led them from the room, and then stepped back to close the eyes of the dead.
Having put the sobbing orphans to bed, she hastened out to obtain the assistance of a neighbour in preparing the body for burial. She insisted on paying the woman for the office she had performed, remarking, as she did so, “I have the charge of the manse and the bairns till the minister’s friends come to take them awa’, and they would na’ wish to be beholden to any one, or to leave any of his lawful debts unpaid.” In the same way she took upon herself the arrangement and expense of the funeral. She sold the goods and chattels, as her master had directed her to do, for the benefit of his children; but they were old and worn, and the purchasers were few and poor, so that the proceeds placed but a very limited sum in Janet’s hands for the maintenance of the little ones. As she received them she observed, “It’s as muckle as I could ha’ hoped for; but yet those who had benefited by his ministrations might have shown their gratitude by geeing a trifle above the value for the chattels.” Human nature is much the same in an Highland glen as it is in other parts of the world.
The day arrived when Janet and her charges must quit the manse. She had sent up to Jock McIntyre, the carrier, to call for the kist which contained her’s and the children’s clothing, as he passed down the glen. The most weighty article was the minister’s Bible, with which, although it might have brought more than anything else, she would not part. She had reserved also a few other books for the children’s instruction.
Taking Margaret and David by the hand, Donald leading the way with a bundle of small valuables over his shoulder, she set forth from the house which had sheltered her for many long years, into the cold world. Margaret’s eyes were filled with tears, and David cast many a longing glance behind him, while Donald, with his bundle, trudged steadily on with his gaze ahead, as if he was eager to overtake something in the distance. Whatever thoughts were passing in his mind he did not make them known.
Janet’s head was bent slightly forward, her countenance calm, almost stern. A difficult task was before her, and she meant, with God’s grace, to perform it. She had not told the children where she was going, though she had made up her own mind on the subject. Several of the cottagers came out to bid them farewell; but as she had made cronies of none of them, there was little exhibition of feeling, and she had taken good care that no one should be aware of the destitute condition in which the orphans were left. Humble presents and offers of assistance would undoubtedly have been made, but Janet shrunk from the feeling that her charges should be commiserated by those among whom their parents had lived, and she returned but brief thanks to the farewells offered her. She would far rather have been left to pursue her way without interruption. “Fare-ye-weel, neighbours, just tack Miss Margaret’s, and the laddies, and my ain thanks, but we canna delay, for Jock will be spearing for us, and we ha’ a lang journey to make before nightfall,” she said, bending her head towards one and the other as she wended her way among them down the hill side.
Janet had a horror of cities and towns, having been bred and lived all her life in the Highlands, with the exception of a brief visit she once paid, with Mrs Morrison’s mother, to beautiful —, on the east coast. It being the only town with which she was acquainted, she had made up her mind to go there.
She had heard also that there was a school in the place, and to that school Donald and David must forthwith be sent. Without learning, she was well aware, she could not expect them to get on in the world as she wished. With regard to Margaret, the consideration of how she was to be brought up in a way befitting a young lady, caused her more anxiety than anything else. She might, indeed, teach her many useful things, but she was herself incompetent, she felt, to train the little damsel’s manners, or to give her instruction from books. Still, “where there’s a will there’s a way,” she said to herself, “and I ha’ a tongue in my head, and that tongue I can wag whene’er it can do the bairns good.”
The journey was a long one, and though honest Jock charged but little for their conveyance, a large hole was made in Janet’s means before they arrived at the end of it.
The gaunt grave woman, with her three fresh blooming children, caused some curiosity, as she went about looking for lodgings. A single upper room was all she could venture to engage. Here she took up her quarters with her young charges, and thanking her merciful Father who had brought her thus far in safety, she felt like a hen which had safely gathered her brood under her wings. She furnished her abode with two truckle-beds, one for the boys, the other for Margaret and herself. She procured also a small table and four three-legged stools, a similar number of mugs and plates, and a few other inexpensive articles.
That same evening, determined not to lose a moment of time, with well used spinning-wheel set up, she began to spin away as if she had been long settled, while the children played around her, glad once more to find themselves alone, and free from the gaze of strangers. She waited till they were asleep, and then set to work, to manufacture out of the minister’s best suit some fresh garments for the boys, such as she considered befitting their condition. Her busy needle was going the greater part of the night, still she was up betimes, and again at work. She, however, allowed the children to sleep on as long as they would. “They will weary up here in this sma’ room, the poor bairns, instead of running about on their aine free heathery hills, and I must na’ spare the time to take them out on the links just now till their clays are ready, and I can send them to school.”
One of those admirable institutions in Scotland for the education of all classes enabled Janet to carry out her project without difficulty. Mr and Mrs Morrison had carefully taught their children, and the two boys were well advanced for their age. The master of the school, on hearing who they were, at once received the orphans, and promised, as far as he could, to befriend them. “If you will be obedient boys, and try and say your lessons well, you will get on,” he observed.
Donald looked him full in the face, and at once said he would try, and he always meant what he said. David made no answer, but clung to Janet’s gown, as if unwilling to be left behind among so many strange people.
“Ye will be back in the afternoon, and we will be spearing for you, bairns,” she said. “They are precious, sir, very precious,” she added, turning to the master. “If they are shown the right way, as their father showed it them, they will walk in it; but the deil’s a cunning deceiver, and ever ganging about to get hold of young souls as weel as old ones. Ye’ll doubtless warn them, and keep them out of bad company.”
“I’ll do my best, my good woman,” answered the master, struck at Janet’s earnestness for the interests of her charges; and having bid her farewell, he led off Donald and David, while Janet, taking Margaret by the hand, returned to her lodging to resume her daily labour, well satisfied with the arrangements she had made for the education of the two boys.
Donald and David returned safe home in the evening from their first day at school. Donald was full of all he had seen and done, and was especially delighted at finding that he was superior to many boys of his own age. Having made several friends, he said he thought school a very fine place. He might have gone out to play a game of golf on the links, and he would have done so had he not promised Janet to return at once, but he hoped that she would let him go another day. David had not been behind hand with his brother in his class, but he had not been so happy, and the boys had asked him questions to which he had been unable to frame replies, without betraying the truth, which Janet had especially charged them not to do.
“They wanted to ken all about us,” exclaimed Donald, “and I told them that they must just mind their ain business; my home might be a castle in the Highlands some day, and whatever it might now be, I was contented with it.”
“A very proper answer,” exclaimed Janet, smiling for the first time for many a long day. “Ye maunna be ashamed of your home, or those in it, laddie; just gang on doing your duty, but dinna mind what young or old, or rich or poor, think of ye.”
“But I said nothing, I would na answer them,” said David, sobbing.
“Ye did weel, too, laddie,” observed Janet. “The wise man knows where his strength lies, the weakest may thus come off the conqueror.”
She had now to make arrangements for Margaret’s education. This was more difficult than for that of the boys. She could not trust her sweet, gentle, blue-eyed maid among girls who might be rough or unmannerly, and yet she could not possibly afford to send her to one of the upper class of schools. Margaret already read much better than she did, for her own attainments extended no further than a limited amount of reading and writing. The few books, besides the Bible, she had brought away from the minister’s library, were mostly on theological subjects, somewhat, she felt sure, beyond Margaret’s comprehension. She lived on dry crusts for many a day to sanction her extravagance in purchasing several books, one after the other, suited to the little maiden’s taste. Margaret was delighted to receive them, and while Janet sat and span she read them aloud to her, and amply rewarded was the kind nurse for her self-denial. Not dreaming that Margaret could possibly educate herself, she still continued turning in her mind how that desirable object should be accomplished.
“Dinna ye think that if we ask God He will show us the way,” said Margaret, one day, looking up into the face of her nurse, who had made some remark on the subject.
“We will do as ye propose, my sweet bairn,” answered Janet. “He is sure to hear us,” and, accordingly, when the chapter from the Bible had been read, which Janet never omitted doing, she, with her young flock around her, knelt in prayer, as had been the custom at the manse, and she did not fail to ask for guidance and direction in the matter which had so sorely perplexed her mind.
Chapter Two.
The boys obtain prizes.—Janet declines receiving visits from Alec Galbraith, or any of their school-mates.—Margaret’s illness.—Is ordered fresh air and sea-bathing.—Carried off by a wave, and saved by Alec Galbraith.—Margaret and her brothers are introduced to his mother.
It gave joy to the loving heart of Janet, when one day her two bairns came home, each with a prize under his arm.
“But mine is only the second in my form; David got the first prize in his,” said Donald, as they exhibited their books to the eager eyes of their nurse and sister.
“Weel, they are bonny—they are bonny,” exclaimed Janet, as still mechanically spinning away, she bent over the books which Margaret, with sisterly eagerness, was examining.
“I thought I should have had the first, but another fellow ran me hard and gained it,” said Donald.
“Who was he?” asked Margaret, looking up, inclined to quarrel with the boy who had deprived her brother of the honour which she thought ought to have been his.
“A very fine fellow—one Alec Galbraith—he beat me fairly; and there’s as much in him as any boy at school.” Margaret felt that she had been too hasty in her conclusions. “I intended to bring him here for you to see, Margaret,” continued Donald. “Though he lives in a fine house, and has a father and mother, and several big brothers away in foreign parts, I am not going to let him suppose that I am ashamed of my home. He has often asked me, and I am determined to be able to say, ‘That’s where I live, and now what do you think of me?’”
“Nay, nay, my bairn, dinna ye bring him here,” exclaimed Janet. She thought she knew more of the world than her young charge, and scarcely comprehended his independent spirit, though her own in reality was very similar. “He will just be laughing at you afterwards, and tell others that ye live in an attic with a poor old woman.”
“He had better not,” exclaimed Donald, in an angry tone. “But I ken he will na do ony sic thing—he is an honest fellow, and if he likes me it is for what I am, and not for where I live.”
“Dinna ask Galbraith to come here,” put in David. “Though he may be the same to you, he may be letting out to others, and maybe they will ne’er he so kind in their remarks, and will be asking to come here themselves.”
This last observation of David’s decided Janet. “We will ne’er have Alec Galbraith, nor any other of your school-mates, coming here, Donald, so just tell them that Janet McLaren does not wish to receive visitors,” she exclaimed, in a more authoritative tone than she usually employed. Donald promised to act as she desired, and Alec Galbraith continued to be known only by name to her and Margaret.
Although the two boys, in consequence of the active life they led going to and from school, and playing on the open links, retained their health, Margaret, unaccustomed to the confinement to which she was subjected, began to grow thin and pale. Her cheeks lost their bloom, her spirit, and the joyous elasticity of her step, were gone. Janet at length perceived the change in the sweet child, and saw that something must be done for her. She took her to a doctor, who advised fresh air, with a romp every day on the links, and sea-bathing. The remedies were cheap; but Janet could not think of allowing Margaret to go out without her, and she could not afford the time unless she took out her knitting-needles, which usually employed her fingers when her spinning-wheel was laid aside.
The next morning the old Highland woman was to be seen pacing the links, knitting as she walked, while Margaret, delighted with her
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