V.

_A DISCOVERY._

THE day after Blanche's ride was very stormy. The peaceful Glen seemed

suddenly thrown into a wild tumult. Now and then a long low rattle of

thunder sounded along the mountains, and the great fir-trees creaked and

swung, making all manner of weird choruses among the aisles of pine. The

rain had fallen in torrents during the night, and there seemed still an

inexhaustible supply in the gray sheets of mist that hovered over the

nearer hills. The little mountain rills hurried white and foaming to the

river, which moaned and raged along the valley, carrying with it on its

wild way to the sea more than one wooden bridge which had been wrenched

from its frail moorings by the _spate_. It was a true Highland storm,

the first Blanche had ever seen, and she stood watching it with mingled

feelings of interest and disappointment. She knew well what she meant to

do with this holiday, if only the sun had kept its golden promises of

last night. But this storm had upset all her plans, and she was filled

with remorse at the thought of the neglected tryst in the fir-wood, and

felt out of sorts with herself and all the world. Her last hope of any

fun that afternoon departed as she stood in the old hall, and watched

her father and his guests get into their waterproofs and prepare to

start on an expedition to see the swollen river. She would gladly have

accepted an invitation, laughingly given by the old Major, that she

should join the party, but Miss Prosser had been quite shocked by the

suggestion. "It was improper at any time for a young lady to go out in

rain, and in a deluge like the present, quite out of the question," she

replied, from the side of the school-room fire, where she sat shivering.

Nothing was to be seen from the window, except the rain, which came

plash, plash on the soaking turf in a dreary monotone of dulness, and

Blanche contrived to make her escape while Miss Prosser had fallen into

brief, though sound slumbers. She took refuge in Ellis's society, whom

she found sewing busily in her room. But here things did not go to her

mind any more than in the school-room, for Ellis had taken the

opportunity of warning her little mistress that if she were ever found

'addressin' of that tramp' again, she would feel in duty bound to

inform Miss Prosser, nor could any coaxing of Blanche's persuade her to

promise silence.

"No, missie; I'll not hold my tongue for nobody. My very heart came to

my mouth when I saw you talkin' to that creature, just as friendly and

unsuspectin' as if she'd been your very sister, and all alone in that

dismal wood, too. Depend upon't there's a whole gang o' them lurkin'

yonder. Have you never heard of them as kidnaps children, missie? Why,

they'd take you for the sake of your pretty curls, if for nothing else.

A nice endin' that would be for you, Miss Clifford!" and Ellis stitched

away in high indignation, as she dwelt on the alarming picture that she

had conjured up, while Blanche called to mind some of the stories which

she had read of gypsies who had run off with children. It seemed to her,

however, that any excitement would be preferable to a time of dulness

like the present; and she came to the conclusion that the kidnapped

children must have, on the whole, rather a nice time of it in the

greenwood, and feel sorry when they are recaptured by their anxious

relatives, and sent back to their school-rooms.

Ellis went on stitching in dumb silence, feeling displeased that her

warnings seemed to be treated so lightly, and Blanche, finding these

circumstances far from lively, glided away. After roaming through the

winding passages and turret stairs, in the hope of finding some variety,

she lighted at last on a quaint, little room, which had evidently been

unmolested by charwoman or housemaid for many a day. Its dusty

desolation, however, quite suited Blanche's present disconsolate frame

of mind. She managed to undo the rusty fastenings of the narrow window,

and coiling herself into the deep stone embrasure, she looked dreamily

out on the moorland. The storm seemed at last to have almost spent

itself. Blanche could catch glimpses of the river, which still lashed

itself into wild white foam as it hurried along; but the sunlight was

shimmering upon it now. The wind had fallen, the great pine-trees

creaked and swung no longer, and the gray sheets of mist, which seemed

so stagnant a few hours before, were now slowly creeping from the hills,

and making way for the clear shining after rain.

Blanche sat watching the changing landscape from her dusty nook, with

the pale sunlight glinting in upon her; and as she gazed, all the

discontented, restless thoughts seemed to vanish from her heart,

disappearing like the gloomy mists which had been shrouding the

pleasant hillsides. At last, after she had sat perched in her

watch-tower for several hours, she fancied she heard her father's voice

in the court-yard below, and she ran to meet him. Mr. Clifford was

standing with all his wet wrappings when she reached the hall. "O papa!

how very funny you do look! You are just as wet as Chance when he comes

out of the water."

"Well, I'm wet enough, to be sure. But you should see what a wonderful

little specimen of the aborigines I've fished up, Blanchie. Come along,

and I'll tell you the tale while I warm myself."

Blanche followed into the library with some curiosity. She had rather

hazy ideas of what the "aborigines" might mean, but she concluded that

it must be some sort of trout taken from the river during the storm.

The Major had returned home some time ago, and was comfortably seated in

his arm-chair by the library fire, so Blanche had to wait, with as much

patience as she could muster, till Mr. Clifford explained what had

detained him. The other gentlemen had gone on to see the _Linn_, he

said, but as he wanted to have some fishing next day, he thought it

would be well to see the keeper, and arrange the matter before returning

home.

"I had been to the kennels once before," continued Mr. Clifford, "and

knew that the keeper lived not far from them. But I had no end of bother

in finding the place, though there it was suspended above me all the

while. I set out to go down the hill again, giving up the search in

despair, when I noticed that smoke came from a wretched shell of a hut,

perched on the corner of a crag. And this turned out to be Dingwall's

abode. I really wonder his Grace doesn't house his tenants better."

"But what about the creature you fished up, papa?" asked Blanche,

fearing that the conversation was going take too abstract a turn. "You

promised to tell me, you know."

"Ah! Blanche, I see you're all eyes and ears. Well, I'm just coming to

that now. I knocked at the door of this miserable erection, but no

answer came; and, as it was pouring rain, I did not feel inclined to

wait long, so I lifted the latch and looked in. Dingwall evidently was

not at home. Indeed, I should say he was quite as comfortable among the

heather as at his own fireside, in the circumstances. The rain was

dropping in from the roof in all directions, and it was evidently its

habit to do so, for it seemed to have excavated reservoirs for itself

along the earthen floor. The only soul in the hut was a wretched atom of

a girl, who, nothing daunted by this damp state of matters, was

splashing contentedly through the wet floor with her little bare feet,

trying to spoon away the water in the pools. Such a funny little thing

it was. You should have seen her, Blanchie, as she stood looking at me,

with her great eyes that peeped out from a tangled mass of black locks.

But I daresay I looked rather an alarming apparition in my waterproof

and umbrella, which I had the prudence to keep over my head. She looked

terrified for a moment, but she did not forget to make her rags touch

the soaking floor in a low curtsey, and offered in the sweetest voice to

run for her father, who was 'watchin' the _spate_,' she said. You should

have seen her, Blanchie; it would have quite suited your love for the

sensational."

The portrait was photographic; Blanche's heart began to beat, for she

felt certain that she had seen her.

"O papa! do tell me, did she really go away to the river to look for her

father? Do tell me, please," said Blanche, in eager tones.

"Well, seeing that she didn't seem to mind the weather, and wasn't

likely to catch cold, I thought I might as well bring her here for a

little, since her father was not at home, and put her under old Worthy's

care, to be warmed and fed and generally comforted. I couldn't get her

to open her mouth again, but she followed me down the hill on my

invitation."

"O papa! you don't mean to say that she is with Mrs. Worthy now?" and

without waiting for a reply, off Blanche bounded in search of the

housekeeper's room. And there, in front of a bright fire, seated in a

comfortable arm-chair, looking serenely happy in the midst of such

unwonted comforts, sat Morag.

"It is really you! Of course I knew it was," exclaimed Blanche, rather

incoherently, as she sprang forward with a cry of delight.

Morag rose with an eager bewildered look on her face, but she did not

speak, while the impulsive little Blanche threw her arms round the

tangled locks, and kissed the brown cheek.

"O Morag! I'm so very glad to see you again. I've been so sorry all day

that I did not go to meet you in the pine forest yesterday. So, you are

the keeper's daughter," and a shadow of vexation stole across Blanche's

sunny face, for the remembrance of the dark, sinister-looking man whom

she had disliked rose before her, and she felt a pang of regret that he

should be connected with Morag.

"I'm so glad papa brought you here, Morag. What a horrid house you must

have to live in! Papa says that it's a great shame of somebody--I forget

who. I do wish that the sun might always shine, and then you could sit

among those delicious pine-trees, instead of in-doors," and Blanche went

on in a silvery torrent of words, while Morag gazed at her, eagerly

listening in glad silence.

Mrs. Worthy, who was seated opposite in her arm-chair, reading the

newspaper, viewed this scene through her spectacles with unfeigned

astonishment.

"Bless my soul, Miss Clifford, you seem quite intimate like already! The

like of you for 'aving a warm 'art to all critters, I never did see,"

said that worthy personage rubbing her spectacles, as if her old eyes

had deceived her. She was a kindly woman, and had been delighted to show

all hospitality to the poor little drenched vagrant; but to see Miss

Clifford on terms of seemingly old and intimate friendship was more than

she could comprehend.

"Oh! it's all right, Mrs. Worthy. I know Morag quite well; we met in

the pine forest. But where is Ellis? has she been here?" And Blanche

bounded off in triumph to tell her maid that the dangerous little gypsy

of the greenwood was seated in the housekeeper's own private sanctum,

having tea and buttered toast, by her papa's special invitation too.

Ellis did not seem so much impressed by this wonderful piece of news as

Blanche expected, and loudly disapproved of the proposal which followed,

namely, that one of Blanche's dresses should be given to the little

damsel to replace the tattered tartan.

"'Deed, missie, I'll not listen to such a thing for nobody. Your frocks

are all much too good for the likes of her, what I've brought here. If

you'd told me you were agoin' to clothe all the poor of the parish, I

might have brought something from your boxes of old clothes at home."

"I'm sure you might find something, if you only wanted," pleaded

Blanche.

At that moment Miss Prosser's voice was heard calling Ellis, and Blanche

overheard her governess say to the maid presently, "Oh, by the by,

Ellis, the master wants you to find a frock of Miss Clifford's for a

little urchin who has been picked up in the Glen somewhere, and appears

to be in a very destitute condition, from all accounts. You had better

select something suitable. I believe she is in the housekeeper's room

now; so you can go and see what she looks like. Have you anything that

will suit the creature, I wonder?"

"Yes, ma'am. There's the crimson dress, that will do. Missie will never

wear it again."

"Well, I dare say not, though certainly it does seem much too good for a

child of the description. Where is Miss Clifford? Have you seen her?

I've been looking for her for the last half hour, but I can't find her

anywhere."

"She's just going to get dressed for the evening, ma'am," replied Ellis,

evasively, not indicating that she was within call, nor hinting at her

little mistress' previous knowledge of Mr. Clifford's protegée; and

finally Miss Prosser retreated to perform her own toilette. Blanche was

hovering about in a great glee, having heard the result of the

conversation.

"Oh! you dear good Ellis! So you are going to find a dress for Morag

after all? I knew you would. Do let me take it to her."

The crimson garment was at length forthcoming, in the midst of many

grumblings on Ellis's part; and Blanche, accompanied by her maid, set

out in procession towards the housekeeper's room. They found Morag

alone; she had risen from her seat in the big arm-chair, and was now

standing at a small table on which the housekeeper's books lay. An

illustrated edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress" was lying open, and when

Blanche walked in, Morag was looking intently at one of the pictures.

She started and closed the book with an almost guilty look, and when she

caught a glimpse of Ellis, her little brown cheek flushed all over, for

she had not forgotten her loud-spoken suspicions regarding her. Gliding

up to Blanche, she said softly--

"I'll need to be goin' hame, noo, leddy. Father will be back, and his

supper maun be ready; and there's a heap to do forby."

"But you don't really mean to say, Morag, that you get supper ready, and

do everything? Why! where's your mother, or the servant?"

Morag's eyes twinkled, and she laughed her rare merry laugh at Blanche's

look of astonishment.

"We havena got no servant. I'm thinkin' they're no but for gentry. My

mother deid lang syne. I never min' upo' seein' her. There's no jist

terrible muckle work, except whiles, when the weet comes in, like the

nicht."

"I should like so to go and see you, Morag. Do you think I may some

time?" asked Blanche, filled with admiration at the thought of the

usefulness of a little girl smaller than herself.

"The floor is some weet the nicht, I'm thinkin'," replied Morag,

glancing doubtfully at Ellis.

"Oh! but I didn't mean to-night. Perhaps one day soon, when the sun

shines, and your father is at the moors with papa," added Blanche, for

she had not forgotten the dark-looking keeper; and she did not think

that she should like to find him at home.

Meanwhile, Ellis had been standing with the dress in her hand, listening

to the conversation. Her closer inspection of Morag rather softened her

towards the little native, with regard to whom she had been harboring

such dark suspicions. She began to make sundry signs, to the effect that

her little mistress should now proceed to present the dress. But

somehow, at this juncture Blanche seemed suddenly seized with a fit of

shyness. Morag certainly appeared to stand greatly in need of a new

garment, but still Blanche felt in doubt whether she would care to

receive one. She was so unlike any poor person she had ever seen--so

useful, so brave, so complete in herself. At last Ellis got tired of

waiting for Blanche, and unfolding the dress, she held it up with a

flourish and a toss of her head, saying--

"Now, little girl, Miss Clifford is kind enough to give you this

beautiful frock. See you say 'Thank you' for it, and take good care of

it too. I declare it looks as good as the day it was bought!" added

Ellis, casting regretful glances on the garment, as she laid it on the

table beside Morag. The little girl stood looking at the gift with

extreme astonishment for several minutes, and then, glancing at Blanche,

she went slowly up to her, and said in a low tone--

"Thank you kindly, leddy. But I would jist be spoilin' a braw goon like

that. It's no for the like o' me."

"Oh! but indeed, Morag, dear, you must wear it. I don't think it a bit

too good for you to wear on week-days; but if you like you can keep it

for Sunday, you know. It used to be my church-frock, wasn't it, Ellis?"

"Ay, maybe. But it's no for the like o' me. I dinna never gang to the

kirk forby,' added Morag, in a low, melancholy tone, as Ellis left the

room to discuss with Mrs. Worthy the strange little native who did not

seem to care for the grand frock, although she was in such rags.

"I would like richt weel to ken what this bit bonnie picter is," said

Morag, as she turned towards the little table, on which the open

"Pilgrim's Progress" was still lying, and pointed to one of the

illustrations towards the end of the first part. Blanche had not read

the "Pilgrim's Progress," and she did not know what the picture meant at

the first glance. There was an expanse of dark rippling water, and

struggling through it were two men. One of them looked on the point of

sinking, while the other seemed to be trying to hold him up, and pointed

to a shining city, which was lying far away in the sun. Seeing how eager

Morag was to know what it all meant, Blanche began to feel interested;

after turning some pages, she said--"Oh! I see now. That town in the

light, far off, is heaven, and those men must be trying to get there, I

suppose. But I'll ask Mrs. Worthy to lend me this book, and shall try

and find out all about it before I come to the pine-forest next time,

Morag."

"Ye'll be able to read a' books, I'm thinkin', leddy," said Morag,

looking wistfully at Blanche, as she glanced at the pages.

"Oh, yes, of course, I can read any book that I care to read. But,

indeed, Morag, I'm not very fond of reading," added Blanche, in a

confidential whisper, as if the fact were a very shocking revelation.

"To be sure, I do like a few story-books very much, indeed; but then

Miss Prosser does not allow me to read many. I've got some delicious

story-books at home, in London. I wish I had them here, and I should

lend them to you, if you are fond of reading. I don't think I have

anything except those lesson-books here. The 'History of England' is

rather interesting sometimes, by the by. Perhaps you might like it.

There are lots of nice stories here and there. Miss Prosser says I like

to read them because they are stories, and not for the sake of the facts

and the dates, and I suppose that is very wrong," sighed Blanche,

penitently.

Morag stood listening in silent wonder. The conversation had gone far

beyond her depth, poor little woman! and she was about to explain that

it was so, when Blanche continued--

"What books do you like best, Morag? I like fairy-stories much

best--something about dragons, and giants, and all that kind of thing,

you know."