_THE EMPTY HUT._
IT had been arranged that the journey southward should be postponed for
a few days on account of the loch accident; but the next morning was so
bright and pleasant, and Blanche looked so fresh and well, that there
seemed no reason for departing from the original plan, and it was
hastily decided that she and her governess should start for London,
travelling by easy stages.
Great was Blanche's dismay when she heard of this arrangement. She had
been rejoicing over another pleasant day in the Glen, and began to think
that the loch adventure had some advantages after all, seeing it was
going to secure a few more days in the Highlands.
"It can't possibly be true, Ellis. You had better not go on with that
packing till you get further orders," said the little girl, in a tone
more imperious than she almost ever used, as she found her maid in a
state of pleasurable bustle and excitement over boxes that were being
quickly filled.
"Yes, missie; it's quite true, I assure you," replied her maid, without
looking up from the box over which she was stooping. "Miss Prosser says
it's a hexcellent arrangement, and, for my part, I agree with her
'eartily. It quite sets one up to think of gettin' back to civilized
existence. There's cook quite a henvyin' of me, because I'm going three
days sooner."
"I wish I were cook, I'm sure," burst in Blanche. "But, Ellis, I'm sure
papa can't mean me to go to-day. He can't, indeed! I shall go and ask
him this minute. You'd better stop putting in those things, Ellis," she
added, impatiently.
But Ellis smiled confidently, and went on with her work, while Blanche
ran away down the great staircase, feeling rather faint-hearted,
however, as she thought of the possibility of Ellis's tidings being
true. Below, she found everybody in a state of the most unpleasant
pre-occupation. Miss Prosser was in the midst of elaborate packings, and
smilingly assured her little pupil that they were really going. The
carriage was to be at the door exactly at twelve o'clock, so she must
make haste to be ready in time; and was it not pleasant they were going
to have such a fine day to leave Glen Eagle?--and should they not be
thankful that she was well enough to travel so soon after so serious an
accident?
Blanche fled from Miss Prosser, along the winding passages towards the
library, in the hope of finding her papa. There was still one last
resource; she would beg him to allow her to remain, even one day,
longer. There he was, seated in the library, to be sure; but surrounded
by such piles of letters and papers, and with his most business-like
expression on his face. Several people were waiting to speak to him and
there seemed no hope of Blanche gaining an audience, unless she went
boldly up to him, and made her petition before them all. She lingered
about for a little time, trying to summon up courage, but at last glided
away without uttering a word.
Then she wandered into the entrance-hall, and stood leaning on the old
stuffed fox, watching the pile of boxes and portmanteaus in the
court-yard, which increased in size every minute. The servants were
hurrying to and fro in a state of bustle and excitement. Evidently, to
Blanche alone these signs of departure brought a pang of regret. The
thought of those pleasant vanished afternoons was too much to be borne.
She had known that she must leave the Highland glen before long: but she
did not dream it would be such a cruel tearing away as this.
After wandering aimlessly about for some time, she remembered that she
must see Morag before the dreaded hour arrived. She could not surely
have heard that they were really going to-day, or else she would have
come, and there was no sign of her anywhere. Blanche wandered round the
castle, among the grove of ash-trees, and into the old garden, but she
did not find her friend at any of the usual trysting-places.
At last she made up her mind what she would do. Hurrying swiftly along
the birk-walk, where the drooping boughs were quite golden now, she
clambered up the steep ascent which led to the little shieling among the
crags.
Blanche's spirits began to rise again. It would be so pleasant to give
Morag a surprise. Probably she would find her at work inside the
cottage. Perhaps she would be paring potatoes, as she had been on a
previous occasion, which Blanche remembered well--for had she not sat
down on a little stool beside her, and, being provided with a knife, had
pared away delightedly. She thought it the most charming of amusements;
but when she was dressing for the drawing-room that evening, Ellis had
looked suspiciously at the stained fingers, which resisted ordinary
ablutions, and Blanche, having been obliged to divulge to what culinary
uses they had been devoted that day, had been forbidden by her governess
to visit Morag again. It was therefore many weeks since she had been
within the hut; but she felt sure that Miss Prosser could not be angry
at her going on a farewell visit like this.
The door stood open, and Blanche walked in on tiptoe, smiling to think
how astonished her little friend would be to see her. She glanced
eagerly round the room, but no Morag was to be seen anywhere. The peat
fire was burning brightly, and the potatoes lay among water in a nice
wooden dish, all ready pared. But these traces of the absent inmate only
made the disappointment keener. Blanche stood looking round, with a very
dreary feeling. It was so hard not to find Morag, and she had evidently
not been gone for long; if she had only thought of coming earlier, it
would have been all right. The dreaded hour fixed for leaving the castle
must be very near now, and what if she could not be found before then?
Blanche's heart sank as she contemplated the possibility. Before she
turned to go, she cast a lingering glance round the empty dwelling, and
she could not help remarking how much nicer it looked than when she saw
it first.
The roof was still far from being rainproof certainly, and the earthen
floor was more undulating than was quite pleasant to walk upon; but the
most had been made of everything that was capable of improvement. There
was a sort of imitation of Kirsty's household arrangements which was
very observable to Blanche, and she smiled through her tears as she
noted it. On the shelf was ranged quite an imposing row of shining delf,
where there used only to stand a stray broken dish or two. Everything
was spotlessly clean and neat; and, in the little window, there
flourished some of the old woman's favorite flowers, of which she had
given slips to Morag. All this, and more, Blanche's quick eye took in at
a glance; and the thought of its being the work of a pair of little,
eager hands she knew well, brought quite a glow of pleasure, in the
midst of her disappointment.
Blanche stood gazing at Morag's home till it was photographed in her
memory. And as she turned away to go down the hill, she thought that
surely Morag must have sought and found help from her unseen Friend for
all those home duties, which it must be so difficult for a little girl
no bigger than herself to have to do; and she longed to hear more about
that friendship, from the little mountain maiden.
Gazing wistfully in the direction of the fir-wood, she wondered if she
would have time to go to see whether Morag was to be found at their old
trysting-place, the flat grey rock; but she dreaded that she would not,
so she hurried tearfully towards the castle, and only reached home as
the carriage drove to the door. She found Ellis setting out to look for
her in a state of great indignation and perplexity, having, in the midst
of the bustle, only that minute missed her charge. Some luncheon had to
be swallowed in great haste; and then, while Miss Prosser was seating
herself in the carriage, Blanche took the opportunity of darting off on
a farewell journey round the grey old keep, where she had spent so many
happy days. Only at the last minute did her papa emerge from the library
to say good-bye to his little daughter. He meant to go south by a
different route, and would not rejoin her in London for several weeks.
Blanche felt as if all the waves and billows of trouble had gone over
her head when she accidentally heard this piece of news, as she was at
last compelled to seat herself in the carriage by Miss Prosser's side.
She could not make any response to her father's cheerful waving to her
as they were driven swiftly away. She felt the knot in her throat
getting bigger every minute as they were whirled past the pleasant
birk-walk and along the winding avenue, getting occasional glimpses
through the boughs of the spruce fir-trees of the old grey turrets, or
the moorland beyond.
At last they got upon the high road, and drove swiftly on between the
sharply outlined mountains that reared themselves high and solemn all
round--like sentinels keeping eternal watch over the Glen, amid all the
changes that went on below.
Miss Prosser was busied with the index to "Bradshaw," so that,
fortunately, or the reverse, Blanche was left to her own reflections.
She kept an eager watch, as they drove swiftly on in the forlorn hope of
catching a glimpse of Morag. But the familiar spots were quickly being
left behind, and there was no trace of her anywhere; and Blanche's hope
died quite away when they got into the wider range of the strath,--away
in the direction of her southern home.
If only Blanche had not buried her face for a moment among the furs as
she was passing the larch plantation, which at a certain point skirted
the high road, her quick eye might have discovered the person she so
longed to see.
Morag stood among the larch trees, bending under a heavy bundle of
faggots, which she had been gathering, and which she had just managed to
strap on her back. Hearing the sound of wheels on the road, she turned
to look, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of the carriage, as it
passed swiftly along by the old winding dyke. Some traces of luggage
were visible, and Ellis was seated on the box. Morag's heart sank. Was
it possible they were leaving the Glen, to-day, after all? And she had
been going cheerily on with her work that morning, in the hope of
another afternoon with Blanche. For had not Ellis told her, when she
went to inquire at the castle the day before, that the southward journey
had been postponed for several days. Only a short time ago she had been
smiling as she gathered her fire-wood, thinking how pleased Kirsty would
look when the wee leddy walked into the cottage that afternoon. But
now, the more she thought of it, the more sure she felt that those
cruel, swift wheels were carrying her away beyond their reach, to a land
that seemed terrible and unknown indeed to the little mountain maiden.
She ran to the edge of the wood, and climbing on the lichen-spotted
dyke, she gazed wistfully along the winding road, where the shining
carriage was rolling swiftly along. And after she had watched it till it
could be seen no longer, the little girl sat down and wept bitterly. Her
bonnie wee leddy had gone without one parting word. Surely she must have
utterly forgotten her, or else she could not have acted thus. Gladly
would she have walked miles across pathless hills to touch her wee
leddy's hand, and now she had gone without ever sending to ask her to
come. And, as she sat weeping on the old grey dyke, the friendship of
these autumn days seemed to grow dreamlike all of a sudden. Had she ever
really walked by Shag's side with the little lady of the castle among
the moors, or sat with her in the _ben-end_ of Kirsty Macpherson's
cottage?--or, had she been in fairyland all these weeks? The past seemed
to grow so shadowy; and the bundle of dead sticks was so real and heavy,
as she wearily rose, at last, to take her solitary way to the hut among
the crags.
She had only gone a few steps in the direction of home, when she saw
coming towards her through the larch trees Kenneth Macpherson.
"Who would have thought of meeting you here, Morag?" he cheerily
accosted her. "And with such a heavy bundle of sticks, too. Let me carry
it for you--do! Why it's bigger than yourself!" he added, with a
pleasant smile, as he unfastened it and threw it across his own broad
shoulders.
"You're going home, I suppose, Morag; ar'nt you?" he asked as he walked
by her side. "I didn't know you ever came here. I often do. I can hardly
ever pass the place without crossing the dyke. You mind the tartan
folds, Morag?" said the boy, smiling sadly, as he glanced at the lonely
spot from whence his mother's soul had gone home to God.
"Ay do I! I mind upon't weel," replied Morag, with quivering lip. The
remembrance brought such a rush of mingled recollections that she could
not say more just then.
"Oh, by the by, Morag, I wish I had known a few minutes ago that you
were to be found here. I saw somebody who was very anxious to get a
sight of you. Who do you think? The bonnie wee leddy, as you call her,
on her way back to London!"
Morag stood still to listen, and as she looked earnestly into Kenneth's
face, he noticed that she had been crying. "I never kent she was awa
till I got a blink o' the cairage no lang syne. She never telt me she
was goin' the day," and the little girl struggled vainly to keep back
the tears.
"But I'm sure it wasn't her fault that you did not know she was leaving
the Glen to-day, Morag. She seemed very sorry-like herself, and sent a
message to you. When she noticed me on the road she jumped up from among
a lot of furs, and stopped the carriage. The lady beside her was reading
a book, and she looked up some angry like, and said something sharp. I
think the wee leddy wanted to get out of the carriage to come and speak
to me, but she wouldn't let her. Then she stretched her hand down and
smiled very pleasantly, though I think she had been crying, too," added
the kind-hearted Kenneth rather pathetically, as he glanced at Morag.
"Then she began to thank me for what I did at the loch. I'm sure it
wasn't anything to thank a body so much for. Such a pretty voice she
has. It just sounded like the chimes of silver bells, Morag. And after
she had thanked me, she stooped down quite low, and whispered as if she
were afraid that the lady would hear, 'Oh, Kenneth, do you think you
could find Morag anywhere? I'm sure she can't know I've gone, or else
she would surely have come to see me.' But just then the lady rose very
angry like, and said, sharply, 'Come now, Blanche, I cannot permit this.
Drive on, Lucas!' she called out to the coachman; and then she sat down
to her book again. The wee lady seemed very vexed, and when the horses
started, she stretched down once again, and her curls came falling about
her face and she cried, 'Give Morag my dearest love!'"
When Kenneth had finished his narration, Morag began to sob again, and
he felt greatly at a loss to know how to comfort her. But they were
tears of joy now. The feeling of bitterness was all gone. Her bonnie wee
leddy had not forgotten her, and the friendship of those autumn days was
no bit of fairyland after all.
Kenneth did not leave her till the bundle of firewood was deposited in
the hut, and Morag had promised to come and pay them a visit at the
cottage that afternoon.
And as he went sauntering down the hill with his hands in his pockets,
whistling a tune, he thought what a very nice girl Morag was; and how
glad he felt that it was not she who had gone away from the Glen. And he
further decided that such a great bundle of sticks was much too heavy
for a girl to carry, and resolved that, in future, he should always be
in attendance to carry home the firewood.
As Morag re-entered the cottage, and glanced round the empty room, she
saw something lying on the earthen floor which she had not dropped
there; and stooping down, she picked up a little, half-worn glove, which
told a tale. She looked eagerly round, as if some lingering presence of
its owner must still pervade. Her bonnie wee leddy was leal and true
after all, and she felt remorseful that she had doubted her for a
moment. Kissing the token reverently, she opened the old _kist_, and
slipped it between the folds of her most precious book, where it
remained a sacred relic of that morning's visitor for many a long year.