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 constitution; 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 incumbent 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 passages across the Atlantic were paid for. In Alan Roscoe's last letter, he had entered into many details about his circumstances, 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 amassed 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 shipping 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 pass 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 passed 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 passed 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 passionate 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 passed 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 fashionable 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!"