It was about five months after the departure of Mary, when Marjory, hearing one day a gentle tap at the door, went to open it. It was Mary who knocked; but oh! how changed from her who once was the boast of the country side! She was pale and emaciated, her eye had lost its lustre, and she seemed to be worse than the shadow of her former loveliness. Her dress was ragged and torn, and in her arms she bore a child—the ill-fated offspring of her illicit amour. Her mother held the door for some minutes, while she surveyed with melancholy eyes the woeworn condition of her daughter. “Mary,” she said—and her manner was composed—“Mary, you did not need formerly to knock at the door of your father’s house.” Mary stepped over the threshold, and staggering, rather than walking, forward into the kitchen, threw herself on the dais. “Mary,” said her mother again, “where have you been? Are you a married woman? Better be the wife of the poorest man than——.” Here her daughter buried her face in the bosom of her child, and sobbed aloud. “Mary,” again said her mother, “I reproach you not. God will grant you His forgiveness, as I do mine; I feel I cannot live long after this stroke, and we must all meet with trials on this side the grave; but Mary, oh, my darling Mary,” and she threw her arms around her daughter’s neck and kissed her, “your father! how will you bear the look of your father?” Her words were scarce finished when Joseph entered. He laid his hat on the table, he shaded back his gray hairs, and clasped his hands, and, from his hard-knitted brows, he seemed about to pray the vengeance of God on her who had so dishonoured his old age. He looked at his daughter; her eyes were on him, and her once lovely arm was extended as if to avoid the threatened curse; his brows relaxed, he unclasped his hands, and placing them on his face, wept aloud. She laid her child on the seat, she was at his feet on her knees, and her arms grasped him by the waist. He felt her, he placed one hand in hers, and raised the other as he said, “May God forgive thee, my daughter! Ah, Mary, Mary, thou art still my offspring, though thou art a defiled vessel in the eyes of God and man!”
On the second Sunday after her return to her father’s, she prepared to attend her purification in the kirk. She had gone through all preliminary forms, and was now once more to take her seat in the house of God. She went muffled up and attended by her father and mother, and was not recognised. During the singing of the first and second psalms she was silent; but at the third, her father desired her to sing to the praise of that God who had brought her back as a lost sheep into His fold. In the second line she joined the tune; but weakly and feebly compared to that voice which used to lead the whole kirk. It was, however, recognised; there was a more than momentary stop while all eyes were turned towards her; and her old master, turning towards the seat of his old favourite, strove, while the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and his voice faltered, to bear her through the tune. The minister again rose to prayer: he stretched his hands to heaven, and prayed for all mankind; he prayed for the sinner that had gone astray, and that the Father of mercies would have compassion on the wretched, and again take her into his bosom. There was not a dry eye in the kirk. Humanity for once prevailed, and human selfishness forgot itself in the woes of a fellow-mortal. She, for whom they were supplicating, stood with her hands firmly clasped, her eyes closed, and her head bowed to the earth; and though her father and mother sobbed and wept, she moved not, but, when service was over, she walked with a firm step, and uncovered face and head, through all the parishioners, to her father’s dwelling. She laid herself down on her bed, and in three weeks the grave yawned and closed on the unfortunate Mary Wilson.
A few weeks ago, I made it in my way to pass through D——. Many revolutions of a tropical sun had passed over my head since I had left my native land, and, on my return, I was anxious to visit that spot where I passed many of my happiest days, even though I knew that all my relatives were long since in the cold grave. As I turned round the hill, the well-known cottage of Joseph Wilson came in view, and the story of his daughter flashed vividly on my mind. I approached a countryman, who was standing with his plough and horses at the end of a furrow, wiping the sweat from his brow, and inquired, if Joseph Wilson was still living.
“Na,” replied he, “nor ane o’ his kith or kindred. The poor wean that suckled frae an unfortunate breast died soon after his mother, like a young shoot or sapling that has been rashly cut down. Then Marjory soon followed, and Joseph became a heart-broken man; a’thing gaed to wreck, and he died on the parish. There are sad ups and downs in life, and nae the lightest thing to disturb our balance is the waywardness of a child.”
“Poor Mary Wilson!” said I. She became as visible to my mind’s eye as when I saw her winding in the mazes of a dance in all her maiden beauty and innocence; and the lines of my favourite poet came to my lips:—
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,