"A' books look richt bonnie to me, leddy, but I'm no fit to read none o'
them."
Blanche felt considerable astonishment at this disclosure. But, noticing
her companion's embarrassment, she tried to receive it unmoved, and
said, rather patronizingly--
"Ah! well, Morag, but you can do so many useful things besides."
Morag smiled. Her quick perceptions detected Blanche's kindly attempt to
cover her embarrassment with a compliment. For now that the critical
eyes of the smart maid were withdrawn, she began to feel more at ease,
and at last ventured to ask a question, to which she had been very
anxious to get an answer since that morning when she stood listening to
Blanche's warblings among the pines.
"Yon was a richt bonnie sang ye were singin' i' the fir-wood, leddy.
Will the Lord that died on the hill be ane o' the chieftains that used
to bide lang syne i' the castle?"
"I'm sure I quite forget what song I was singing, I know so many. But I
don't think I do know one about a chieftain, though," said Blanche,
shaking her curls in perplexity.
"It tellt aboot a good Lord that deed upo' a green hill, and suffered
terrible, I'm thinkin'. I heard a' the words ye were singin' richt plain
like among the firs."
"Oh! I know now! Why, that isn't a song, Morag--it's a hymn. It was
Jesus Christ, of course, 'who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was
crucified, dead, and buried,' the Creed says, you know."
This statement did not seem in any degree to diminish Morag's
perplexity, and presently she said--
"Maybe ye would jist say ower the bonnie words til me?" Blanche repeated
the hymn in her clear, silvery tones, and after she had finished, Morag
gave a little sigh as she said--"It's richt bonnie. I like weel to hear
ye tell't ower. Is't a real true story, leddy?"
"Of course it's true, Morag. Jesus Christ died on the cross, you know.
But it's a very long time ago, in the Holy Land. You can find all about
it in the Bible. Ah! but I quite forgot," said Blanche, flushing in her
turn; and then, after a minute, she continued--
"Morag, I have thought of something. Would you like Miss Prosser to
teach you to read? I think I'll ask her. But she _is_ rather particular
about some things," added Blanche, sighing despondently, as if she
began to doubt the pleasantness of that arrangement; and presently she
exclaimed eagerly--"O Morag! I wonder if I could teach you to read? It
would be such fun! I would bring all my lesson-books to the pine forest,
and we would spread them on the flat grey rock, and I would teach you
everything that I know. Wouldn't it be nice?" and Blanche clapped her
hands with delight at the thought.
Morag's face glowed with brightness as she listened to this proposal,
and she was about to make some reply when Ellis entered the room. She
came to say that Miss Prosser was already in the drawing-room, and that
she wondered very much what had become of Miss Blanche, and Ellis
insisted that she should come and get dressed without a moment's further
delay. Mrs. Worthy entered at that moment with a trayful of good things
for Morag; and Blanche, after giving strict injunctions to her little
friend not to go home till she had seen her again, followed Ellis to get
arrayed for the evening.
The storm had quite vanished now, and the evening was bright and calm.
All the weird noises were silent, and a delicious breeze came stealing
across the moorland balmy with the breath of pine and birch, and all
manner of delightful, thymy fragrance.
Mr. Clifford and his guests were sauntering up and down the birch-walk
near the castle, talking and smoking their cigars, when Blanche joined
them.
"Well, pussy, so I hear you had already made the acquaintance of my
protegée? Mrs. Worthy tells me that you gave her quite a gushing
reception. How in the world did you foregather? Till this afternoon, I
certainly was not well enough versed in Dingwall's family history to
know that he had a daughter," said Mr. Clifford.
"Yes, Blanche, dear, where did you meet the creature?" chimed in Miss
Prosser, coming, but not to the rescue. "It can only have been on that
morning when I allowed you to go out alone. And you know you promised
not to get into mischief of any kind. I wonder when you will gain the
desirable self-respect which will save you from making friends of the
most unsuitable persons, Blanche, dear!" added the governess, looking
rather severely at the little girl, who stood pondering whether she
should reveal the circumstances of her acquaintance with Morag, but she
had a vague fear lest the window-scene might compromise the
respectability of her little friend, in some minds, so she resolved to
hold her peace. Her father noticed her distressed face, and stroking her
curls, said, laughingly--
"Don't be ashamed of your new acquaintance, Blanchie. I assure you, Miss
Prosser, she is a most exemplary little savage. You should have seen her
at work in her hut to-day! I wonder if she is still in old worthy's
keeping. You might run and see, Blanche, and bring her here if she is. I
should like you to have a look of the odd little atom, Miss Prosser."
"Is that the urchin you found sticking in the mud-floor, Clifford?"
asked one of the gentlemen, joining them. "She must be quite a natural
curiosity--a sort of fungus, I should imagine. Do let's have a look at
her."
So Blanche was dispatched, rather unwillingly, to fetch Morag. She was
very glad to be allowed to go back to her again, but she could not help
feeling that it was rather a doubtful mission on which she had been
sent, and she wondered whether it was quite kind to bring the shy little
mountain maiden into the presence of so many strangers.
Mr. Clifford and his party were standing together looking at a gorgeous
rainbow which had suddenly spanned the Glen when the children appeared
in sight. They came slowly along, through the feathery birk-trees, which
were all flooded by the delicate rainbow tints. A pretty picture they
made, Mr. Clifford thought, as he went forward to meet them among the
white stems. The fair, high-born child in her white shimmering dress,
with her graceful movements, her delicate, finely-cut features, her calm
white brow, and deep dreamy, blue eyes, and at her side the little dark,
keen Celt, with her black matted locks, her bright dark eyes, and her
short firmly-knit limbs. Blanche's arm was thrown lovingly around Morag,
and one of her long fair curls rested on the little brown neck of the
mountain maiden, who timidly surveyed the formidable group in front.
Blanche ran to her papa to whisper that Morag wanted to go home very
much now, to make supper ready for her father, so that she must not be
kept much longer, and might she ask her to come back to-morrow! Deprived
of her bonnie wee leddy's protecting arm, Morag felt very forlorn. The
whole party were now in view, and a very terrible array they seemed to
the little mountaineer.
There stood Miss Prosser in gay flowing attire; and there were the
gentlemen whom she had watched from afar on their way to the moors; but
they seemed doubly formidable now in evening dress, as they stood
talking and laughing together. Even the bonnie wee leddy, since she has
glided to her papa's side, appeared again to have taken her place in an
exalted fairy region, and poor Morag felt alone, without prop or stay.
She seemed seized by a sudden panic, and, casting a bewildered glance
round about her, she turned and darted away at full speed through the
gleaming birch stems, and in a moment she was out of sight.
"Bless my soul, what a droll little monkey!" exclaimed the old Major,
dropping his eyeglass. "I expect to see her climb a tree directly and
take to cracking nuts--eh! Blanche?"
"Poor little Morag! she is so shy and frightened: that's just how she
did before. I'll tell you all about it afterwards, papa," whispered
Blanche, as she was about to dart off in vain pursuit of her scared
friend.
"No, Blanchie, you must not follow her," said Mr. Clifford, calling her
back. "She did look very frightened, poor little atom! It's best to let
her go home. Take counsel from your sage nursery-rhyme, 'Leave her alone
and she'll come back, and bring her tails behind her.' Little Bo-peep
must have patience, you know. Besides, it's quite time for you to go
indoors, child," he added, as Blanche shivered. "Good night, darling!
Don't distress yourself about your little elfish friend; she will
doubtless turn up to-morrow."
Morag did not halt in her sudden flight till she had got beyond the
castle grounds, and found herself once more on her solitary familiar
heath. Then she began to slacken her pace a little; and now that she had
time to ponder the matter over, she thought that perhaps, after all, it
was very foolish to run away as she had done. These grand ladies and
gentlemen did not mean to do her any harm; and surely she might have
trusted the bonnie leddy who had been so kind. Perhaps she might be
angry now, and would never come to the fir-wood, as she had promised to
do, thought Morag, ruefully. Still, she resolved that she would go every
morning after her work at the hut was done, and watch by the
lichen-spotted rock in the fir-wood, and perhaps one day she might see
her coming through the trees again; and though it seemed too good to be
true, perhaps she might be carrying some of those beautiful books, of
which Morag had caught a glimpse through the school-room window of the
old castle.
Blanche's promise that she would teach her to read was the greatest
event of that eventful day, and the thought of it had kept singing at
Morag's heart; for a long time it had been the dearest wish of her heart
that she might understand the hitherto mysterious contents of the musty
old collection of books which lay buried in the depths of her mother's
big _kist_, and now at last there seemed a chance of that hope being
realized if she had not thrown it away by her foolish flight; and the
little girl sighed as she thought of the sad possibility.
Morag had been sauntering on, lost in her own meditations, since she
felt herself at a safe distance from the castle. She had climbed halfway
up the steep hill which led to her home among the crags, when she turned
to see if she could discover any trace of her father on his homeward
way.
The sky was cold and grey in the direction of the hut where Morag's
steps had been bent, but as she turned westward all was bright and
glowing, and Morag wondered that she had not thought of looking before,
for she loved cloud-land scenes, and had watched many a sunset and
sunrise from her home among the crags. It was one of those intensely
golden sunsets that come after storms. The clouds were clustering
gorgeous in their coloring, and changeful in their hues, and at every
moment they seemed to open vistas with brighter colors and intenser
lights within. And as Morag sat and watched the sky, she remembered the
picture which she had seen in the beautiful book at the castle. The
bright expanse round which the gold and crimson clouds were clustering
reminded her of the city lying in the light, in the picture. She thought
of the dark rippling water, and the two men who were struggling through
it, and looked as if they would be drowned. They must have been trying
to reach the shining city surely, and Morag hoped they got there all
safe, for the water looked dark and cold.
At last the amber clouds slowly closed on the inner sunset glories, like
ponderous gates shutting out the dark night from a bright scene, Morag
thought, as she rose from the bank, and began to take her solitary way
to her rocky home. Presently she heard her father's whistle, and turning
round, she saw him climbing the hill behind her. She ran back to meet
him, and began eagerly to narrate her chronicle of this eventful
afternoon.
The keeper had never heard his daughter so eloquent before, and he
listened with his most well-pleased smile to all that she had to tell
about her visit to the castle. How the gentleman had come to the hut,
and had taken her away; and how he carried a beautiful umbrella, and
held a bit of it over her head--the first time in her life she had been
under a canopy of the kind. And then the beautiful room she sat in was
duly described, and how the bonnie wee leddy had come to her, and been
so kind. When she came to that part of her story, in which truth
compelled her to tell that she had finished those delightful proceedings
by running away when she was brought before the dazzling company, she
was relieved to find that her father was not angry, as she feared he
would be. He only smiled, and said, "Ye needna hae been sae feert,
Morag, my lass. They wouldna be meanin' to tak' a bite o' ye; but maybe
they'll no think the waur o' ye for the like o' that;" and glancing
round, as they entered the dreary soaking dwelling, the keeper said,
smiling grimly, "Ye didna speir if he would tak' a seat, I'm thinkin',
lass? What said he aboot the hoose, Morag?" But Morag could not remember
that Mr. Clifford had made any remark on that sore subject; and
presently father and daughter relapsed into their usual state of dumb
silence, as they went about their evening occupations.
At last Morag crept away to bed, and fell asleep, wondering whether she
should really see the wee leddy coming to meet her next morning at the
grey rock in the fir-wood, where she resolved she would daily keep her
tryst. During the night she kept dreaming that she was with the bonnie
wee leddy in dark, cold water somewhere, and that her arm was around
her, and the beautiful curls were all drenched with wet. She looked for
the golden city lying in the sun, but she could not see it anywhere, and
she began to feel very frightened in the dark, rippling water, when she
awoke to find the bright morning light streaming in at the little
blindless window of the hut, lighting up everything, and sending its
kind, warm rays on the damp earthen floor.
Morag sprang out of bed, and was soon at her morning's work with a will.
She smoothed her tangled locks as well as the well-nigh toothless comb
would make them, and after mending a few of the rents in her tattered
garment, she looked anxiously down, in the hope that she did not look
like a tramp any more. Her father had told her that she was a foolish
lassie to have refused the "gran' goon" that had been offered to her;
but Morag did not think so, and felt perfectly satisfied with her own
garment, if only the critical eyes of the smart maid would not stare at
her so minutely again.
The keeper had gone to the moors for the day, and Morag's morning duties
being over, she began to think of starting to keep her tryst in the
fir-wood, when she saw her father hurrying up the hill again.
"Eh, Morag, lass! but I hae a gran' bit o' news for ye. The maister
wants ye to go outby wi' the wee leddy this afternoon; and whiles, to
tak' her by canny roads when she's ridin' on her sheltie. I'm thinkin'
you'll like that job, my lass. Ye may awa' til the castle as fast's ye
can rin; he said 'The sooner the better; my daughter is an impatient
little person.'" And, after this quotation from Mr. Clifford, Dingwall
hurried down the hill again, surrounded by the scrambling pointers and
setters, leaving Morag dumb with astonishment and delight.