Honest Wullie; and Effie Patterson's Story

by Lydia L. Rouse

The heather had bloomed but seven years on the grave of honest Wullie when the children were again assembled around the bed of death: their aged mother was about to leave them. Jamie had been summoned from Edinburgh, and he with the others silently awaited the inevitable parting.

In looking into the room where the sick mother lay one would notice few changes. The invalid lay just where her husband had lain. The same small stand stood beside the bed; over the sufferer were bending the same forms, or nearly the same, for some changes were noticeable in them. Time had left traces on the once smooth brows of youth, and lines of silver had crept alike into dark or auburn hair. Jamie, already past fifty, was still in his prime. His long residence in the capital had polished his manners, and he appeared the refined cultured gentleman that he was. His fine intellectual brow was furrowed by thought rather than by years. Isabel and Annie had passed the meridian of life, and their afternoon was crowded with duties, and sometimes shadowed by disappointments. They had reached that time when the parental heart knows scarcely more of hope than of fear; when the children, eager to begin the battle of life, rush out into the world, or, staying, are as likely to be vexed as pleased with home restraints. Davie was less changed in appearance than the others. His step, never light nor swift, was neither heavier nor slower than formerly; his broad shoulders showed no inclination to stoop; no shade of disappointment rested on his face; he had merely grown seven years older. Davie's wife moved quietly about, mindful of the comfort of all. Her sensible face, overcast with sadness, gave evidence that she felt the approaching separation no less than the sons and daughters: for this family was one of the few in which mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived in harmony and succeeded in pleasing each other. Now this beautiful relationship and companionship was to be dissolved. Jeannie had ever been most careful of the comfort of the aged woman, and now in the last sad days her hand most tenderly ministered to her wants.

But the time came when no human hand could help, when life was fast ebbing, and the shadow of death darkened the household and filled every heart with solemn sadness. For several hours the dying woman had lain in a stupor, and no one expected her to speak again; but she opened her eyes, recovered consciousness, and, seeing the sorrowful faces around her, she spoke.

"Dinna grieve that I maun leave you. I hae stayed with you till ye can a' care for yoursels better than I can care for you: ye s'ould ask nae mair. Ye are aye in the hands of God; and he will guide you safely through this warld, and bring you to me in the better warld above. I shall greet my bairns on the other shore."

These were her last words. She fell asleep, and waked no more.

They buried her beside her husband and returned to their homes, feeling, as never before, that one generation had passed away and that theirs was the next to follow.

There is, perhaps, no relation in life the dissolution of which sunders so tender a tie as that of child and mother. Memory is so stirred that long-forgotten scenes pass before our mind's eye like a broad panorama. In the foreground stand acts of disobedience and our lack of filial affection, or rather our failure to manifest it as we should have done. Beside these stand the many proofs of maternal love, patience, and self-sacrifice. Happy the children who can recall other and pleasanter memories of their conduct when in the presence of the dead, cold clay of her who has done and suffered so much for them! And such was the case in this family. On the evening after their mother's burial the tone of their conversation was not wholly sad and regretful. Each son and daughter knew that the mother had indeed exercised much forbearance towards them all; but there came to them the assurance that they had in many ways, both in early and later years, given proofs of their love and respect. Annie, whose waywardness had perhaps given more trouble than all the rest, sincerely repented her faults, and grieved that she had ever been undutiful to so kind a mother.

"Nane o' the children," said she, speaking to her sister, "hae gien mother the trouble that I hae gien her. Alas, why doesna a bairn ken there is nae pleasure in wrang-doing!"

"O Annie," replied Isabel, "ye needna reproach yoursel; ye werena a troublesome bairn, only a little heidstrang; and I am sure naebody could hae been mair kind or respectful than yoursel these mony years past."

"I ken that," said Annie, "but I canna forget that I grieved her mony times when I kenned weel eneuch I was doing wrang; that isna pleasant to remember."