_MORAG'S VISIT TO KIRSTY, AND HOW IT CAME ABOUT._
IT was the Sabbath-day. Glen Eagle was, if possible, stiller than its
wont--no shepherd shouted upon the mountains; no reapers stood among the
upland, half-shorn fields; the moor-fowl had peace that day among the
heather, unmolested by dog or gun. The white, motionless clouds on the
deep blue sky, as well as the lower landscape, seemed pervaded by that
peculiar stillness which Morag always noticed belonged to this day,
though it brought to her no sound of church bells, inviting her to
mingle her worship with the congregation. Sunday was always a very
lonely day in the little eyrie among the mountains, and during these
past weeks they had seemed specially empty and solitary to the little
Morag. For then there were no rambles with the bonnie wee leddy--indeed
she seldom saw her on these days, except she chanced to catch a glimpse
of her from afar, as she was driven past in an open carriage, embedded
in furs and dazzling with bright colors. But the little gloved hand
would always emerge from the furs in friendly salute if Morag was in
view, and the blue eyes look kindly, and often longingly, down on the
little mountain maiden, who would stand watching the shining carriage as
it swept swiftly along the winding road, and listening to Blanche's
silvery laugh as it echoed among the silent hills.
But on this Sunday morning Morag did not wander down the hill, as usual,
when her work was done, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the people
from the castle. She sat very disconsolately on the turf in front of the
hut, watching her father as he went down the hill toward the kennels.
The keeper had gone to loose the dogs, to take them for a long walk,
which he always did on Sunday. He was not a frequenter of the little
kirk in the village, and somewhat disliked the cessation from his
ordinary work which the day of rest imposed. This morning he had gone
off in one of his darkest moods. Morag was used to his periods of grim
silence; but, of this one, she thought that she could trace the cause,
and she pondered ruefully over the utter failure of the wee leddy's
sanguine plan for softening the keeper's heart towards Kirsty. The story
of the visit to the cottage, and her share in it, had been narrated on
the previous evening to her father without any other result than a
bitter sneer, as he said, "Ye did weel, Morag, my lass, no to darken
Kirsty Macpherson's door; and gin ye be yer ain frien', ye'll jist
better keep that chatterin' bit leddy outby."
Morag felt as if she had received a blow, but there still remained one
other arrow in her quiver, and she drew it at a venture. "But, father,
though I didna speak wi' Kirsty, I couldna shut my ears when she was
speakin', ye see. I hae a bit o' a message for ye frae her--I'm thinkin'
I min' upon ilka word that she said--this was it: 'Will ye tell Alaster
Dingwall that auld Kirsty is willin' to forgie him?' There was some more
I'm thinkin', but I didna hear right," she added in low, troubled tones,
lowering her eyelashes, and not daring to look into her father's face.
He was smoking his pipe at the time, and he sat gazing gloomily into the
red embers on the hearth till he had finished. Morag knew that he had
come in for the night, so she was not a little surprised to see him
refill his pipe again and prepare to go out; but he gave no explanation,
so she did not venture to ask any questions. It was a fine moonlight
night; Morag came to the door of the hut, and stood watching him as he
sauntered slowly down the hill, and went in the direction of a larch
plantation, some distance off, which looked pale and shadowy in the
clear shimmering light, with its background of dark fir-trees that
stretched beyond.
These larches were young seventeen years ago, when Dingwall had known
the place well; and a crowd of strange memories, conjured up by Morag's
random shot, drew him towards it to-night. The little girl had sat
watching and waiting by the whitening peat embers till she grew very
sleepy; and before her father returned from his night walk, she crept
away to bed.
So this bright Sunday morning opened very gloomily for the inmates of
the hut among the crags. Morag had taken the old Bible from the depths
of the _kist_, and it lay open before her on the turf, but somehow
to-day she felt disinclined for the slow spelling of the words, and
rather disheartened with her progress generally. She began to fear that
her eye would never be able to go swiftly down the pages, understanding
every word like her little teacher, or as Blanche had said, Kirsty was
able to do; and then her thoughts went back to the events of yesterday.
How sorry the wee leddy would be to hear of the plan for melting the
keeper's prejudice, and perhaps she might be angry and call her rude
again the next time she refused to go into the cottage. It all seemed
very hard, Morag thought; and, as she sat gazing up into the calm sky
with its motionless clouds, she could not help thinking how very far
away it seemed from her and her troubled ways. Presently these sad
meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of her father, who, to
her great surprise, seemed to be coming up the hill again, with the dogs
all scrambling round him. He had only been gone a few minutes, and it
was his custom to take a long walk, so Morag wondered what could have
brought him back, but she did not venture to ask any questions. He
seated himself on the turf beside her, and after playing with the dogs
for a little, he glanced at her with a half smile, and said, hurriedly--
"Weel, Morag, lass, is yer heid as sair turned as iver aboot that auld
Kirsty Macpherson?"
"She looks a real nice old woman, father. I canna think why ye'll no
let me speak wi' the like o' her. She surely canna be an ill woman, as
ye think," returned Morag, emboldened by the smile on her father's face.
"Wha ever said she was an ill woman?" said the keeper, looking dark
again, and ignoring all the bitter things which Morag had often heard
him say concerning Kirsty. "We did ance quarrel, but I'll no say I wasna
maist to blame. Gin Kirsty Macpherson speaks a ceevil word to ye agin,
ye needna jist athegither haud yer tongue, lass. D'ye understand,
Morag?" asked the keeper, getting up from the turf as if he had said
what was on his mind.
Morag could hardly believe her ears. She sat watching her father go down
the hill again, as if she were in a dream. Presently an idea seemed to
seize her, and she bounded off after him, and all trembling with
eagerness, she said--
"Father, I'm feert Kirsty will be thinkin' me terrible rude for no
speakin' yestreen. Would it anger ye if I jist ran past the cottage to
see if she was outby? I needna speak gin she doesna, ye ken."
"Oh ay; ye can gang if ye like, lass. I'm thinkin' that Kirsty is atween
ye and yer wits, Morag," he added, smiling at the earnest face. "Jist
tak a brace or twa o' the grouse hangin' there wi' ye. The auld wife
will think mair o' them than us."
Morag was bounding back to the hut in wild delight, when her father
called again, "Bide a wee, lass. Ye mustna tak' the birds. I dinna think
she would athegither like sic a present frae me."
Morag stood rather discomfited. The idea of a peace-offering had been
very pleasant, and it was disappointing to be obliged to abandon it. She
suddenly remembered the purple cluster of grapes which Mr. Clifford gave
to her the day before. She had hidden it away as a delightful surprise
for her father, during some period of to-day, and she said, doubtfully--
"I was keepin' some bonnie berries for ye that the maister gied me
yestreen; but maybe ye wouldna min' if I gied them to Kirsty?"
"That'll do fine, my lass," cried Dingwall, in his most good-humored
tone, as he disappeared down the hill, surrounded by the scrambling
pointers and setters.
In a very short time after, Morag might have been seen hovering near the
little gate of Kirsty's cottage, with her peace-offering carefully
balanced in her little brown hands. A few of the precious moments
previous to setting out had been spent in performing a most careful
toilette, and the opinion of a broken corner of the looking-glass was
that the black locks had never looked so smooth and sleek before. Having
scampered down the hill in a state of breathless excitement, she did not
at first contemplate the bold step of entering the sacred precincts and
knocking at Kirsty's door, as the wee leddy had done. She quite counted
on seeing her "outby" somewhere, and she hung about on the roadside in
that hope, but no Kirsty appeared. Then Morag remembered that it was
Sunday, and she began to fear that the old woman might have gone to the
kirk. The little girl felt bitterly disappointed; for she felt sure that
this must be the case, since Kirsty was not visible anywhere, and no
smoke came from the tiny chimney of the cottage. If she lost this
opportunity, she might never have such another. What if her father
changed his mind again? she thought. Indeed it seemed hardly possible to
believe that she was here with his permission when she remembered his
stern command on the previous evenings that she was never to darken
Kirsty's door. At last, with exhausted patience, she resolved to take
the bold step of entering the little gate and tapping at the door, for
had she not a peace-offering?--and it was just possible that Kirsty
might not have gone to the kirk after all.
Many a time in after years Morag Dingwall remembered that first knocking
at Kirsty's door on the still Sunday morning, and smiled a quiet,
thankful smile as the vision of the eager, breathless little girl,
standing on the threshold of Life, rose before her in the shadowy
distance of the Past.
The outer door stood open, but nobody answered the knock, though Morag
fancied that she heard some movement within. The doors of both _but_ and
_ben_ were closed, but she ventured to knock again, and this time a
voice, which seemed to sound feebler than the old woman's did on the
previous day, called "Come ben."
Morag obeyed the call, and at last stood inside the pretty cottage which
she had so longed to see. The room looked as pretty as the wee leddy had
described it, but the arm-chair at the ingle-neuk was empty, and there
was not the faintest glow among the white peat embers on the hearth. The
little girl looked round in dumb surprise, but presently a voice came
from the bed in the dark-panelled wall, "Eh, lassie, but is this you?
Ye're the keeper Dingwall's bairn 'at I saw yestreen--arna ye?" and
Kirsty raised herself in bed, and holding out her hand, smiled kindly on
the little Morag.
"Are ye no weel, Kirsty?" she asked, in low, sympathizing tones, as she
drew near the bed.
"I'm nae jist verra weel the day. I had a bit blastie i' the nicht.
'Deed, bairn, I some thocht He was ga'en to tak' me hame til Himsel. An'
fat's brocht ye here the day, my lassie?" said Kirsty, turning kindly to
the shy little Morag, as she held her hand in her long thin fingers.
"I brought ye some bonnie berries the castle folk gied me yestreen.
Maybe ye'll tak' some," said the little girl, as she lifted the grapes
from the table where she had laid them, and put them on the bed.
"Eh, bairn! but that was terrible mindfu' o' ye. They're richt bonnie
graps, and will cool my mou'. 'Deed, they'll be the first thing I hae
tasted the day." Morag felt immensely gratified when Kirsty plucked a
grape from the purple cluster and put it into her parched mouth. She was
now seated at Kirsty's bedside, by her invitation, and began, already,
to feel quite happy and at home in this enchanted interior of her
dreams.
"I'm richt glaid to see ye, Morag," said the old woman, smiling kindly
on her. "The sicht o' a blythe young face does a body guid--and it's a
rare ane to me, sin' mony a lang year," she said, sadly; and then,
brightening, she added, "But we canna say we're unca lonesome, when we
can hae a sicht o' His ain face, gin we lat Him in. Eh, bairn; but He's
aye keepit His word wi' me. 'I'll no leave ye comfortless, I will come
to ye,'" said Kirsty, as she closed her eyes and laid her head on her
pillow again.
"Ye'll be meanin' the Lord Jesus, arna ye, Kirsty?" asked Morag, her
face all quivering with eagerness. "Then He does come, efter a'?" she
added, triumphantly. "The wee leddy o' the castle said how it wasna
possible. I would like richt weel to see Him, mysel. He maun aye come i'
the nicht, surely, for I'll whiles be passin' o' this road, and I never
saw Him goin' inby."
Kirsty looked at the eager, young face, with a shade of perplexity in
her calm, gray eyes. Morag noticed it, and felt a chill, but she would
not give it up yet. "It will be the Lord Jesus who comes cheerin' ye
when ye're feelin' some lonesome like, isna it, Kirsty?"
"Ay is't, my bairn. And He's willin' to come til ye, just the same.
It's ane o' His ain sweetest words, 'Suffer the children to come.'"
"But Miss Blanche says naebody iver saw Him, and that He doesna go aboot
healin' and comfortin' folk, as He did lang syne. I dinna understan' it
richt; for just the ither day she read til me i' the fir-wood that He
cam' oot o' His grave efter wicked folk killed Him deid on the green
hill, and was speakin' real kind to the woman that was cryin' inby
there. I would like weel to see Him, Kirsty. I dinna think I would be
feert."
"Eh, my bairn, but I see fat ye would be at, noo. But ye're jist for a'
the earth like the onbelievin' Thamas, that wouldna rest satisfeid till
he pit his fingers intil His maister's verra side. We mauna forget that
He says Himsel, 'Blessed are they who dinna see, and yet believe.'"
Kirsty's Biblical illustration was too much advanced to suit the little
untaught maiden, but she gathered enough from it to begin to fear that
the wee leddy must be right after all, and presently she said, in a
mournful tone--
"Then, Kirsty, it's true that we canna see His face nor hear Him
speakin' no more at all?"
"No wi' the eye o' sense, my bairn. 'The warl seeth me nae mair; but ye
see me,' He says Himsel', and He aye keeps His word. Jist ye get a sight
o' Him wi' the eye o' faith, bairn, and it will mak' ye rejoice and be
glaid a' yer days;" and the old woman turned with a radiant smile to the
little girl, who sat gazing wistfully, with folded hands.
It was evident that this good Lord was a real present person to Kirsty,
however shadowy might be the conception which Morag could at present
form of Him. But to understand in any degree that He was a real, present
friend, though unseen, was more than Morag could know, just then.
The yellow autumn sun came streaming in at the little window, and shone
on Kirsty's face, showing how wan and wearied it was after her sleepless
night. Morag was full of motherly, ministering instincts, and it made
her little heart ache to see the kind old woman look so ill and feeble.
Glancing at the cold hearth, she remembered, wondering how she could
have been so long of thinking about it, that Kirsty could not have had
any breakfast yet, and must be cold and faint for want of it.
"Wouldna ye be better wi' a cup o' tea, Kirsty? I'll jist licht a bit
fire, and be puttin' the kettle on," said Morag, as she rose and began
to break some dead branches which Kirsty's careful fingers had gathered
in the gloaming on the evening before.
"'Deed, bairn, I would tak' it richt kin' o' ye," replied Kirsty, who
had always the good grace to receive a favor simply.
The branches soon began to crackle merrily, the peats caught the glow,
and the kettle commenced to sing in the midst of the cheerful blaze.
Morag moved quietly about, filled with contentment that she was able to
be of use to Kirsty. She had shut her eyes, and was lying quietly, so
Morag did not trouble her with questions, but seemed to know by instinct
where all the component parts of a cup of tea were to be gathered. When
Kirsty opened her eyes again, it was to see the little maiden standing
by her bedside with the restoring beverage all ready, and a bit of
beautiful toasted bread into the bargain.
"Eh, but it's unca kin' to be comin' ministerin' til an auld body like
me," said the old woman, as she sat up in bed. "But winna yer faither be
wonderin' what's come ower ye? ye mauna anger him, ye ken."
"Wha wad hae thocht that Alaster Dingwall's bairn would be makin' a cup
o' tay til auld Kirsty?" continued the old woman in a soliloquy, as
Morag washed the cup and plate when she had finished her breakfast, and
replaced them among the rows of shining delf. How very clean and pretty
they looked, Morag thought; and she resolved that she would immediately
arrange the slender stock of unbroken dishes belonging to the hut after
the same fashion, and make them look bright and shining too. Then she
proceeded to build up the fire with skilful fingers, and surveyed the
room, with a thoughtful air, to see what the possible wants for the day
might be. The pitcher which held the supply of water was almost empty,
so Morag ran quickly down to the spring under the tree, and brought it
back refilled, and then she poured some into a cup and set it by
Kirsty's bed. "Thank ye kindly, bairn. The Lord reward ye for yer
helpin' o' an auld frail craeter. Afore ye gang, wad ye jist rax me that
Bible, an' maybe ye wad read a bittie til me; my eyes are some dim the
day?"
"I would be richt glaid to read to ye, Kirsty, but I canna read ony,"
replied Morag, sadly, with an ashamed look; and then she added, "the wee
leddy's been tryin' to learn me, though, and maybe I'll be fit to read
to ye some day, but it'll no be for a lang time yet, I'm thinkin'."
"Eh, my puir bairn, I never thocht but ye could read. 'Deed it was ill
dune o' the keeper nae to sen' ye til the schule," remarked Kirsty, in a
more severe tone than she generally used.
"How could he sen' me til the schule, and it such a lang road frae
this,--and him aye needin' me forby," replied Morag, kindling up in her
absent parent's defence.
"Weel, weel, bairn; maybe I shouldna hae been judgin'. We're a' ready
eneuf at that. But gin ye'll come to see me, whiles, when I'm a bit
stronger like, I'll gie ye a' the help wi' the reading 'at I can. I've a
gey curran buiks there."
"I'll be real glaid to come back and see ye, and I'm thinkin' father
will no hinder me, noo. I maun be goin' hame, but I'll try and get back
the morn, to speir how ye're keepin'. I'm real sorry to leave ye yer
lone, Kirsty," said Morag, pityingly, as she glanced at the lonely,
frail old woman. Then she remembered what Kirsty said about not being
lonesome when the Lord Jesus was with her, and she added, "I'm thinkin'
when I'm awa, ye'll jist be speakin' til Him--the good Lord, ye ken."
"Aye, that will I my bairn; an' I houp ye'll learn to speak wi' Him
yersel. It's His ain blessed Word, that them that hungers efter Him will
be filled. 'Deed but I'm richt glad ye're ta'en up aboot Him, Morag.
There's whiles He stands at the door o' bairns' hairts and knocks, and
they winna lat Him in; but tak' their ain foolish, sorrowfu' gait. Keep
on seekin' Him, and ye'll surely get a sicht o' His face or lang. It's
jist as plain as gin ye saw Himsel' i' the body, like the woman at His
grave. Now, bairn, ye mauna bide a minute langer. Yer faither will be
wonderin' what's come ower ye," said Kirsty, looking uneasily at Morag,
who had seated herself again, and seemed inclined to linger. "Tak' this
bonnie word wi' ye oot o' His ain Beuk," she added, smiling on the
little, grave, perplexed face that looked into hers. "'Them 'at seek me
early shall fin' me.' Good-day, Morag, and haste ye back."
Morag was soon crossing the breezy heather road on her way home, with a
very happy heart, only disturbed by a slight feeling of anxiety lest her
father should have relapsed into his old state of feeling towards
Kirsty, and she should be hindered from another visit to the cottage.