_VANITY FAIR._
IT was nearly the end of September now, the air of Glen Eagle began to
feel chilly, and the purple bloom was fading from the hills, but the
interior of Kirsty's cottage looked as warm and bright as ever, when one
afternoon Blanche Clifford came bounding in with glowing cheeks, after a
race across the heather, followed by Morag, to pay a visit to their old
friend.
Kenneth had just been piling one or two sturdy birk logs on the
peat-fire, in preparation for their arrival. His grandmother's cottage
was his home now; the cheery fire which he had just made was quite a
fitting emblem of the brightness which he had brought into the lonely
dwelling. His mother had been laid in the quiet grave-yard on the
hillside, and the boy often stole out in the gloaming to hover round the
fresh-laid turf. He seldom, however, spoke of the past, and already
began to lose his careworn expression, which had so touched the hearts
of the little girls in the fir-wood. Indeed he appeared daily to gain
strength and manliness; while Kirsty watched the change with mingled
feelings, remembering a Kenneth of other days, whose strength had once
been her pride.
"How nice and cosy you do always look here!" exclaimed Blanche, glancing
round the room, as she seated herself on Thrummy at Kirsty's feet. "When
I'm an old woman, I mean to have a room exactly like this. I couldn't
endure to live in a house with so many rooms as papa's, or as Aunt
Matilda's. One never knows in which room they may be sitting, and can
never picture them to one's self if you are away, and want to think of
them. Now, Kirsty, when I go back to London, I shall always be able to
think of you just as you are now," said the little girl, as she laid her
hands on the lap of her old peasant friend. Kirsty was seated in the
ingleneuk in her high-elbowed chair, knitting placidly. Her fingers
moved rapidly round the rough blue stocking which she had in progress,
but her eyes rested kindly on Blanche, and she smiled as she listened to
her pleasant prattle. She, too, as well as Morag, had learnt to love
this little English maiden, with her pretty, gracious ways, who had
made herself so happy in the Highland glen, and showed such warm
friendship for them all. Since the weather became colder, the scene of
the reading lessons had been transferred from the fir-wood to the _ben
end_ of the cottage, and the old woman was always an interested
listener, often unravelling knotty points by her shrewd remarks and wise
decisions.
Sometimes, too, Blanche would entertain her Highland friends with
descriptions of the world beyond the mountains, and expatiate on the
many marvels of the great city she lived in. Morag's eye would dilate
with wonder and awe as she described the grand old Abbey, filled with
the dust of kings and statesmen, soldiers and poets, or dwelt on the
varied delights of a day at the Crystal Palace or the Kensington Museum.
After Morag's fingers had laboriously travelled over a few pages of the
"Pilgrim's Progress," she begged that Blanche would read a little. The
little mountain maiden's reading capacities did not at all keep pace
with her desire to know; and now she sat, coiled up at Kirsty's feet,
listening with eager interest, as the wee leddy's clear voice flowed
pathetically on, concerning the cruel treatment which the Pilgrims
received from the people of Vanity Fair.
"Vanity Fair!--how funny!" exclaimed Blanche, as she tossed back her
curls and looked up. "Do you know, Kirsty, there is a place in London,
called Hyde Park, where I sometimes go to drive and ride with papa,
though not nearly so often as I should like. Well, Kirsty, I remember
one afternoon when we were there, papa met an old, very old
gentleman--rather queer looking--whom he hadn't seen for ever so long.
He held out his hand to papa, and I remember he said, 'Well, Arthur, you
didn't expect to meet me in Vanity Fair, I daresay?' and then he
laughed; and I wanted to ask papa afterwards what he meant, but I
suppose I forgot. But, Kirsty, it surely can't be the same place where
they were so unkind to the poor pilgrims, and called them names, could
it?"
"'Deed, bairn, but I'm nae sae sure o' that noo. The Apostle Paul says
that the carnal hert is enmity agin' God. And dinna ye min' how the
Maister says Himsel', 'Marvel not though the warl' hate ye. Ye know that
it hated me afore it hated you.' But forbid that I should say He hasna a
remnant o' His ain intilt, bairn," said Kirsty, as she noticed Blanche's
troubled face. "It's His ain prayer til His Father, ye ken, no to tak'
them oot o' the warl', but to keep them frae the evil," she added
solemnly.
"Oh! but indeed, Kirsty, I am sure that none of the people in the Park
could possibly be cruel to the poor pilgrims," replied Blanche, rather
on the defensive. "There are such pretty ladies and gentlemen, riding
and driving about; I'm sure they wouldn't hurt anybody. I like so much
to go to the Park! and papa says, when I'm grown up and have quite
finished lessons, that I may go there to ride or drive every day, if I
like. I'm sure I wish the time were come!" and the prospect seemed so
inspiring that Blanche jumped up, upsetting Thrummy in her progress
round the earthen floor in a gleeful waltz.
Morag's eyes followed her bonnie wee leddy wistfully. Somehow her heart
sank at the vista which seemed to stretch out, so fair and pleasant, in
Blanche's eyes. They were play-fellows now, but how would it be in these
days to come, when her little friend merged into one of these grand
ladies whom she had been describing?
Presently Blanche picked up her stool, and came to seat herself at
Kirsty's feet again.
"Eh, my bonny lambie!" murmured the old woman, as she stroked the
little girl's golden crown. "May the Guid Shepherd Himsel' gather ye in
His ain arms, and carry ye intil His bosom a' thro' the slippy places,
and keep ye a bonnie white lambie, til he tak's ye safe hame til the
fauld!"
Morag did not say "Amen" audibly, for she had not yet learnt that
conventional ending to a petition. But none the less did she join Kirsty
in fervent asking, that the Lord Jesus Christ would preserve their
bonnie wee leddy amid all the dangers of this terrible Vanity Fair,
which had proved so full of perils for the pilgrims in the story.
A shade of seriousness stole across Blanche's face as Kirsty's long thin
fingers played among her hair, while she uttered this blessing-prayer;
but the shadow did not linger long there. The little girl had never
thought of life as being difficult and dangerous, and did not feel the
need of a friend and guide. Moreover, she did not like anything that
made her feel serious, so she quickly closed the book, and, restoring it
to its place on the shelf, ran away to the cottage door, warbling a gay
song, as she plucked some berries from one of the old rowan trees to
make a wreath for Morag, and crown her queen of gypsies.
Presently the old woman came and seated herself on the door-step. Her
knitting was in her hand, but it lay idly on her lap, and she sat
watching the little girl with tear-dimmed eyes. She trembled for the
many snares and dangers which the days to come would be sure to bring to
the beautiful high-born child. But Kirsty forgot that there were
shorter, safer, smoother paths to the golden city than through the many
windings of Vanity Fair.
"I have just been to old Neil's, grandmother," said Kenneth, as he
walked in at the little gate on his return from a message to the carrier
of the Glen. "He says he'll be happy to oblige you with the cart on
Sunday for the kirk. He'll not be able to go himself, because of his
rheumatism; but he is to lend the cart if I'll yoke the horse."
"I'm richt glaid to hear't, laddie," replied Kirsty. "It's mony a
Sawbbath day sin' I ha' been i' the kirk. 'Deed I thocht never to sit at
His table upon the earth anither time."
"Morag, hae ye speird gin yer father be gaein' to lat ye gang wi' me til
the kirk?"
"Ay, Kirsty, I've been askin' him, but he hasna said yet. I'm no
thinkin' he'll do't, though. But he said he would see yersel' afore
that time. Maybe he'll be up the nicht."
"Oh, Kirsty, are you really going to that pretty little church in the
village on Sunday? Do let me go with you; I want so to see the inside of
it," chimed in Blanche, eagerly. "It will be so much nicer than reading
prayers with Miss Prosser in that dreadful school-room."
"Weel, I'se be richt glaid to tak' ye wi' me, bairn, gin yer folk doesna
objec'; but I'm no thinkin' they would lat ye gang ava. It's a lang
road, and, ye see, we'll jist hae Neil's cartie, wi' a puckle strae
intilt, and that'll maybe no be fit for the like o' you."
"Oh, yes, of course it would--perfectly delicious," cried Blanche,
clapping her hands. "I must really go with you, Kirsty. I shall ask papa
to-night, if I have a chance; it would be such fun, wouldn't it, Morag?"
"Sawbbath'll be a gran' day. It's the Sacrament wi' us, ye ken," said
Kirsty looking up from her knitting. "But I'm thinkin' it wad be ower
langsome like for you bairns,--though I'se houp there's a day comin'
when ye'll be sittin' doon til the table yersels, and meetin' wi'
Himsel' there," continued the old woman, as she gazed kindly at the
little group.
"Oh, is it really the Holy Communion; and may we children stay? I should
like above all things to see it; shouldn't you, Morag? Miss Prosser
always sends me home with Ellis when she stays to Communion. But then it
doesn't last very long at all. For by the time that I've spoken to
Chance and my birds, she has always come home again. But, perhaps, it is
something quite different here, is it not, Kirsty?"
"Weel, I'm thinkin' there will be some differ from what I hae heerd
tell. But eh, bairn, I mak' nae doobt that He feeds His ain folk the
richt gait, in ilka part o' His warl'."
"Here's yer father comin' inby, Morag!" said Kirsty, as she rose to
welcome the keeper, whom she saw leaning against the garden gate,
looking at the group round the cottage door.
The keeper had become a frequent visitor at Kirsty's cottage since that
eventful evening in the fir-wood. Often, when the work of the day was
done, he might be seen wandering across the moor in the gloaming, in the
direction of the abode which he had viewed for so many years with
mingled feelings of dislike and fear.
Many a pleasant talk the old woman and he seemed to have together, and
the keeper appeared more at ease and happy in Kirsty's society than he
had been with any mortal for many a day. His face already began to lose
the sinister expression which had made Blanche distrust him on that
first day when she saw him. He did not say the bitter things which he
used to do about his neighbors in the Glen, and no longer prided himself
in looking dark and mysterious and self-contained, but seemed more happy
with himself, and, consequently, with the rest of the world.
Morag felt, with a daily, hourly, silent gladness, that a change for the
better had come to her father. To her he had never been positively
unkind, but now he was more gentle and genial than she had ever known
him. Already the little shieling among the crags began to show traces of
the brighter days which were dawning. The evenings were no longer dreary
and monotonous as they used to be. For the company of books had been
summoned from the old _kist_, where they had been buried so long, and
they proved very pleasant companions to both father and daughter.
Dingwall would occasionally read aloud to Morag as she worked; and thus
finally proved that his former dislike to reading had not arisen from an
ignorance of the art, as Morag had sometimes suspected.
Occasionally, a bundle of old newspapers from the castle found their
way to the hut, and were eagerly scanned by the keeper as he smoked his
pipe; and his remarks to his little daughter showed her that he knew
more about the world beyond the mountains than she ever guessed.
And now he seemed to notice favorably Morag's efforts after domestic
reform, which he had sneered at, or completely ignored before. He
commended her on her attempts to improve the interior of the hut, and
occasionally teased her laughingly about her imitation of Kirsty's
domestic arrangements, which was everywhere visible.
It seemed suddenly to occur to him that since the laird would not have
the hut mended, he possibly might make some effort towards its
restoration himself, and he began to make plans for the repairing of the
porous roof, after the shooting party should have taken their departure.
Morag could date this happy change in her life from that eventful
evening in the fir-wood, and she often thought that, whatever the old
quarrel had been, the healing of it had proved a very blessed thing for
all of them.
Sometimes Morag overheard Kirsty talking to her father in low, earnest
tones, as he stood beside her, listening quietly, and more than once she
caught the name of Kirsty's Lord and Master mingling with their talk;
and then the little girl's heart was filled with gladness. She never yet
had the courage to tell her father about that new Life which she had
been finding during these autumn days; but she often longed to do so,
and was only prevented by her extreme shyness and reserve. She felt very
anxious that her father should come to know and love that unseen, but
real Friend, who had been the light of Kirsty's lonely home for so many
years, and whom she was now learning to know and love.
Occasionally, when her father and Kirsty were engaged in these
conversations, Morag would start with Kenneth on an expedition to some
of their moorland haunts, to introduce them to the stranger lad. They
often wandered into the little graveyard on the hillside, and stood
silently beside the fresh-laid turf, while Morag tried to recall the
face of the quiet sleeper below; and Kenneth's thoughts went slipping
back to the time when he played at his mother's knee, a merry little
boy.
It was rather a grief of mind to Kirsty that she never could induce her
grandson to talk of the past, nor to give any chronicle of his former
life, which she fain would have heard; but she was both wise and kind,
and did not seek to elicit confidences which were not freely bestowed,
hoping that the time would come when they might be voluntarily given.
But, sometimes, on the way home from these visits to the little
graveyard, Kenneth would talk to the quiet Morag as he never had done to
Kirsty. And as he told of his past chequered life, the eyes of the
little maiden were filled with wonder and pity at the strange
experiences through which her boy-friend had passed in the world beyond
the mountains.
Kenneth was daily gaining in vigor and manliness. The bracing mountain
air seemed to put new life and strength into him; and in Kirsty's
comfortable dwelling he had parted with those wearing anxieties which
had so long darkened his young life,--though with a darkening that had
not been evil.
Kirsty was very anxious that her grandson should at once choose a trade
and begin to work. She dreaded idleness for him, above all things, and
was somewhat dismayed to find his love for mountain roamings, and to
notice his intense enjoyment in a day with the keeper at the moors. The
boy little knew what pain it gave to his grandmother when one day that
they were talking about his future work in life he frankly acknowledged
that he should like nothing half so well as to be a gamekeeper like
Dingwall.
But seventeen years of growing trust in the wise love and gracious
leading of her Heavenly Father enabled her to commit the boy to His
care, and to bid him go and prosper in the path of life which he had
chosen.