THE MANSE AT ROWAN-GLEN.
Weary I am, and all so fair,
Longing to clasp a hand;
For thou art very far, sweet love,
From my mountain land.
Dear are the clouds yon giant bens
Fold o'er their rugged breasts,
Grandly their straggling skirts lift up
Over the snow-flecked crests.
Dear are the hill-side glooms and gleams,
Their varied purple hue,
This opal sky, with distant peak
Catching its tender blue.
Dear are the thousand streams that sing
Down to the sunny sea,
But dearer to my longing heart
Were one bright hour with thee.
HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
It was toward evening, at the close of a lovely September day, that a
rough equipage laden with luggage, with a black retriever gamboling
joyously beside it, crept rather slowly down the long lovely road by
the Deeside leading to Rowan-Glen, one of those rare gems of Highland
scenery that are set so ruggedly in the Cairngorm Mountains.
Fay had just sheltered her sleeping baby from the rays of the setting
sun; and sat wearily in the jolting carriage, trying to recall all the
familiar landmarks that greeted her eyes.
There were the grounds and preserves of Moncrieff, with their lovely
fringes of dark pine-trees and silvery birches, and a little further
on the wicket gate that led down to the falls or linn of Rowan-Glen.
By and by came a few low cottages built of graystone, and thatched
with heather fastened down with a rough network of ropes. One or two
of them were covered with honeysuckle and clematis, and had tiny
gardens filled with vegetables and flowers, pinks and roses mingling
in friendly confusion with gooseberry bushes and cabbages.
A narrow planked passage ran through the cottages, with a door at the
other end opening on to a small field, with the usual cow-house, peat
and straw stacks, and a little shed inhabited by a few scraggy cocks
and hens which, with "ta coo" herself, are the household property of
all, even the poorest, of the Highland peasants.
Fay looked eagerly past them, and for a moment forgot her trouble and
weariness; for there, in the distance, as they turned the corner,
stretched the long irregular range of the Cairngorm Mountains, with
the dark shadow of the Forest of Mar at their base; while to the
right, far above the lesser and more fertile hills, rose the snowy
heads of those stately patriarchs--Ben-muich-dhui and Ben-na-bourd.
Oh, those glorious Highland mountains, with their rugged peaks,
against which the fretted clouds "get wrecked and go to pieces." What
a glory, what a miracle they are! On sunny mornings with their
infinity of wondrous color so softly, so harmoniously blended; now
changing like an opal with every cloud that sails over them, and now
with deep violet shadows haunting their hollows, sunny breaks and
necks, and long glowing stretches of heather. Well has Jean Ingelow
sung of them:
"... White raiment, the ghostly capes that screen them,
Of the storm winds that beat them, their thunder rents and scars,
And the paradise of purple, and the golden slopes atween them;"
for surely there could not be a grander or fairer scene on God's earth
than this.
A moment later the vehicle stopped before a white gate set in a hedge
of tall laurels and arbutus, and the driver got down and came round to
the window. "Yonder's t' Manse. Will I carry in the boxes for the
leddy?"
"No, no, wait a moment," replied Fay, hurriedly. "I must see if Mrs.
Duncan be at home. Will you help me out?" for her limbs were trembling
under her, and the weight of the baby was too much for her exhausted
strength. She felt as though she could never get to the end of the
steep little garden, or reach the stone porch. Yes; it was the same
old gray house she remembered, with the small diamond-paned windows
twinkling in the sunshine; and as she toiled up the narrow path, with
Nero barking delightedly round her, the door opened, and a little old
lady with a white hood drawn over her white curls, and a gardening
basket on her arm, stepped out into the porch.
Fay gave a little cry when she saw her. "Oh, Mrs. Duncan," she said;
and she and the baby together seemed to totter and collapse in the
little old lady's arms.
"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed the startled woman; then, as her basket
and scissors rolled to the ground, "Jean, lass, where are you? here
are two bairns, and one of them looks fit to faint--ay, why, it is
never our dear little Miss Mordaunt? Why, my bairn--" But at this
moment a red-haired, freckled woman, with a pleasant, weather-beaten
face, quietly lifted the mother and child, and carried them into a
dusky little parlor; and in another minute Fay found herself lying on
a couch, and her baby crying lustily in Jean's arms, while the little
old lady was bathing her face with some cold, fragrant water, with the
tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Ay, my bonnie woman," she said, "you have given Jean and me a turn;
and there's the big doggie, too, that would be after licking your
face--and for all he knows you are better now--like a Christian. Run
away, Jean, and warm a sup of milk for the bairn, and may be his
mother would like a cup of tea and a freshly baked scone. There give
me the baby, and I'll hold him while you are gone."
"There's Andrew bringing in a heap of boxes," observed Jean, stolidly;
"will he be setting them down in the porch? for we must not wake the
minister."
"Ay, ay," returned Mrs. Duncan, in a bewildered tone; but she hardly
took in the sense of Jean's speech--she was rocking the baby in her
old arms and looking at the pretty, white, sunken face that lay on the
chintz cushion. Of course it was little Miss Mordaunt, but what did it
mean--what could it all mean?
"Mrs. Duncan," whispered Fay, as she raised herself on her pillow, "I
have come to you because I am so unhappy, and I have no other friend.
I am married, and this is my baby, and my husband does not want me,
and indeed it would have killed me to stop with him, and I have come
to you, and he must not find me, and you must take care of baby and
me," and here her tears burst out, and she clung round the old lady's
neck. "I have money, and I can pay the minister; and I am so fond of
you both--do let me stay."
"Whisht, whisht, my dearie," returned Mrs. Duncan, wiping her own eyes
and Fay's. "Of course you shall bide with me; would either Donald or I
turn out the shorn lamb to face the tempest? Married, my bairn; why,
you look only fit for a cot yourself; and with a bairn of your own,
too. And to think that any man could ill-use a creature like that,"
half to herself; but Fay drooped her head as she heard her. Mrs.
Duncan thought Hugh was cruel to her, and that she had fled from his
ill-treatment, and she dare not contradict this notion.
"You must never speak to me of my husband," continued Fay, with an
agitation that still further misled Mrs. Duncan. "I should have died
if I had stopped with him; but I ran away, and I knew he would never
find me here. I have money enough--ah, plenty--so you will not be put
to expense. You may take care of my purse; and I have more--a great
deal more;" and Fay held out to the dazzled eyes of the old lady a
purse full of bank-notes and glittering gold pieces, which seemed
riches itself to her Highland simplicity.
"Ay, and just look at the diamonds and emeralds on your fingers, my
dearie; your man must have plenty of this world's goods. What do they
call him, my bairn, and where does he live?" But Fay skillfully fenced
these questions. She called herself Mrs. St. Clair, she said, and her
husband was a landed proprietor, and lived in one of the midland
counties in England; and then she turned Mrs. Duncan's attention by
asking if she and baby might have the room her father slept in. Then
Jean brought in the tea and buttered scones, and the milk for the
baby; and while Mrs. Duncan fed him, she told Fay about her own
trouble.
For the kind, white-headed minister, whom Fay remembered, was lying
now in his last illness; he had had two strokes of paralysis, and the
third would carry him off, the doctor said.
"One blessing is, my Donald does not suffer," continued Mrs. Duncan,
with a quiver of her lip; "he is quite helpless, poor man, and can not
stir himself, and Jean lifts him up as though he were a baby; but he
sleeps most of his time, and when he is awake he never troubles--he
just talks about the old time, when he brought me first to the Manse;
and sometimes he fancies Robbie and Elsie are pulling flowers in the
garden--and no doubt they are, the darlings, only it is in the garden
of Paradise; and may be there are plenty of roses and lilies there,
such as Solomon talked about in the Canticles."
"And who takes the duty for Mr. Duncan?" asked Fay, who was much
distressed to hear this account of her kind old friend.
"Well, our nephew, Fergus, rides over from Corrie to take the services
for the Sabbath. He is to be wedded to Lilian Graham, down at the farm
yonder, and sometimes he puts up at the Manse and sometimes at the
farm; and they do say, when my Donald has gone to the land of the
leal, that Fergus will come to the Manse; for though he is young he is
a powerful preacher, and even Saint Paul bids Timothy to 'let no one
despise his youth;' but I am wearying you, my bairn, and Jean has
kindled a fire in the pink room, for the nights are chilly, and you
and me will be going up, and leaving the big doggie to take care of
himself."
But "the big doggie" was of a different opinion; he quite approved of
his hostess, but it was against his principles to allow his mistress
to go out of his sight. Things were on a different footing now; and,
ever since they had left Redmond Hall, Nero considered himself
responsible for the safety of his two charges; so he quietly followed
them into the pleasant low-ceiled bedroom, with its window looking
over the old-fashioned garden and orchard, and laid himself down with
his nose between his paws, watching Jean fill the baby's bath, to the
edification of the two women.
Jean helped Fay unpack a few necessary articles, and then she went
down to warm the porridge for her master's supper; but Mrs. Duncan
pinned up her gray stuff gown, and sat down by the fire to undress the
baby, while Fay languidly got ready for bed.
It was well that the mother and child had fallen into the hands of
these good Samaritans. In spite of her wretchedness and the strange
weight that lay so heavy on her young heart, a sort of hazy comfort
stole over Fay as she lay between the coarse lavender-scented sheets,
and listened to her baby's cooes as he stretched his little limbs in
the warm fire-light.
"Ay, he is as fine and hearty as our Robbie was," observed Mrs.
Duncan, with a sigh; and so she prattled on, now praising the baby's
beauty, and now commenting on the fineness of his cambric shirts, and
the value of the lace that trimmed his night-dress, until Fay fell
asleep, and thought she was listening to a little brook that had
overflowed its banks, and was running down a stony hill-side.
She hardly woke up when Mrs. Duncan placed the baby in her arms, and
left them with a murmured benediction, and went down for a gossip with
Jean. "And a lovelier sight my old eyes never saw," she said, "than
that young creature, who looks only a child herself, with the bonnie
boy in her arms, and her golden-brown hair covering them both. 'Deed,
Jean, the man must have an evil spirit in him to ill-treat a little
angel like that. But we will keep her safe, my woman, as sure as my
name is Jeanie Duncan;" and to this Jean agreed. They were both
innocent unsophisticated women who knew nothing of the world's ways,
and as Mrs. Duncan had said, "they would as soon have turned a shorn
lamb away, and left it exposed to the tempest," as shut their door
against Fay and her child.
Fay was not able to rise from the bed the next day; indeed for more
than a week she was almost as helpless as a baby, and had to submit to
a great deal of nursing.
Mrs. Duncan was quite in her element--petting her guest, and ordering
Jean about; for she was a brisk, bustling little woman, and far more
active than her three-score and ten years warranted.
It was a delight to her motherly nature to dress and undress Fay's
bonny boy. She would prose for hours about Robbie and Elsie as she sat
beside the homely cradle that had once held her own children, while
Fay listened languidly. It was all she could do to lie there and sleep
and eat. Perhaps it was bodily exhaustion, but a sort of lull had come
to her. She ceased to fret, and only wondered dreamily if Hugh were
very pleased to get rid of her, and what he was doing, and who dusted
and arranged his papers for him now she was no longer there. But of
course Mrs. Heron would see to that.
Jean had plenty of work on her hands, but she never grumbled. There
was the baby's washing and extra cooking, and the care of her old
master. But in spite of her hard work, she often contrived to find her
way to the pink room; for Jean worshiped babies, and it was a proud
moment when she could get the boy in her arms and carry him out for a
breath of air.
Mrs. Duncan told Fay that she had had great difficulty in making her
husband understand the facts of the case. "His brain was just a wee
bit clouded to every-day matters," she said; but he knew that he had
guests at the Manse, and had charged his wife to show every
hospitality.
"There is a deal said about the virtue of hospitality in the Bible,"
he continued. "There was Abraham and the fatted calf; and the good
widows in the apostles' time who washed the feet of strangers; and
some have entertained angels unaware; and it shall never be said of
us, Jeanie woman, that we turned anybody from the Manse."
Fay went to see the old man when she was strong enough to leave her
room, which was not for a fortnight after her arrival.
She found him lying on one side of the big bed with brown moreen
hangings that she remembered so well, with his white head pillowed
high, and his fine old face turned to the setting sun.
He looked at her with a placid smile as she stood beside him--a small
girlish figure, now sadly frail and drooping, with her boy in her
arms--and held out his left hand--the right arm was helpless.
"Mother and child," he murmured; "it is always before our eyes, the
Divine picture; and old and young, it touches the manhood within us.
So you have come to bide a wee with Jeanie and me in the old Manse, my
dear young lady; ay, and you are kindly welcome. And folks do say that
there is no air so fine as ours, and no milk so pure as our brindled
cow gives, and may be it will give you a little color into your
cheeks."
"Don't you remember me, Mr. Duncan?" asked Fay, somewhat disappointed
to find herself treated like an ordinary visitor. "Don't you remember
Fay Mordaunt, the little girl who used to play with you in the
orchard? but I am afraid I was older than I looked."
"Elsie used to play with me in the orchard," replied the old man,
wistfully; "but Jeanie says she has gone to Heaven with wee Robbie.
Nay, I never remember names, except Jeanie--and may be Jean comes
handy. And there is one I never forget--the name of my Lord Jesus;"
and he bowed his old head reverently.
"Come away, my bairn; Donald will have plenty to say to you another
time," said Mrs. Duncan, kindly. "He is a bit drowsy now, and he is
apt to wander at such times." But the minister heard her, and a sort
of holy smile lit up his rugged face.
"Ay, but He'll not let me wander far; I have always got a grip of His
hand, and if my old feet stumble a bit I'm just lifted up. No, I could
not forget His name, which is just Love, and nothing else. But perhaps
you are right, Jennie, lass, and I am a bit sleepy. Take both the
bairns away, and watch over them as though they were lambs of the
fold--and so they are lambs of His fold," finished the old man. "And
may be the Shepherd found them straying, poor bit creatures, and sent
them here for you and me to mind, my woman."