"Quite safe with me, depend upon it; the master is quite right there!"
said the servant, smiling blandly at the confidence reposed in him.
"Well, little girl, what do you say to it? You will come, I suppose? The
master has set his 'art on it, sure enough--or he would not have been
sendin' me to the hends of the earth on such a night as this. I have a
trap hired at the village, all ready to start in the morning. What do
you say to it, keeper?--rather sudden, for such quiet folks as you,
ain't it?" continued the man, smilingly glancing at the silent, offended
keeper.
Morag sat thinking in dumb silence for a little, but presently she
sprang up, and taking hold of her father's arm, she said in her low,
eager tone, "O father! ye mustna hinner me; the bonnie wee leddy is ill,
and wantin' me--and I maun gang!"
Then turning to the messenger, Morag asked imploringly, "She's no jist
sae verra ill, is she?"
"Bad enough, I guess. 'Tis a pity--such a pretty little miss she was
getting to be. Master so bound up in her, too!"
"Well, keeper, how is it to be?--for I've got to go down that shockin'
precipice again--and it's getting late. I'll take good care of the young
'un, you may be sure. And, depend upon it, you won't be the loser,
noways, by fallin' in with master's views," added the servant, with a
nod of meaning which made the proud keeper resolve instantly that his
daughter should not obey the summons.
But never before had Morag been so wildly wilful on any matter. Her
father felt quite taken by storm as he listened to her pleadings, though
he could not yet be persuaded to give his consent.
The servant stood waiting with evident impatience, and at last a
compromise was arranged, to the effect that if Morag was to accompany
him, she would be brought to the village inn by her father next morning,
before the hour of starting.
It was almost midnight when Dingwall might be seen toiling across the
moorland, through the snow, in the direction of Kirsty's cottage. The
old woman and he were fast friends now, and he wanted to ask her advice
on the startling proposal concerning the little girl who was so precious
to them both.
He found Kirsty sitting quietly reading her Bible beside the dying peat
embers. Taking off her spectacles, she listened placidly to the story,
and presently she replied in low, emphatic tones, "Dinna hinner the
bairn, keeper. Lat her gang, by a' means. 'Deed, I'm near awears o' gaen
mysel'. The bonnie lambie--an' sae He's til tak' her hame til Himsel?
Weel, weel, I thocht as muckle, whiles, when she was comin' aboot us wi'
a' her winsome ways. May she hae been early seekin' the face she will
maybe see gin lang!"
So Morag gained her point. Her travelling preparations were not long in
being made; and, though she had not many hours of sleep that night, she
was all ready to go down the hill with her father in the morning.
Just before she started, Kenneth came running up to the shieling in
breathless haste. He carried with him the old tartan plaid which had
done such sad duty in the fir-wood. Wrapping it carefully round Morag,
he stood watching her wistfully, as she started in the grey dawn of a
December morning on this first journey into the world beyond the
mountains!
* * * * *
It was Christmas Eve. A fresh fall of snow lay spotless and shining on
the ground. The moon was giving a clear, plentiful light, and as it
shimmered on the snow-covered streets and squares, it seemed suddenly to
transform them into groups of stately marble palaces.
A pleasant crimson glow came from the close-curtained windows of Mr.
Clifford's London mansion, shedding a warm, rosy light on the white
crisp pavement in front, where stood a group of German lads singing a
fine rolling Christmas carol.
Little did they guess how dreary and tenantless those rooms were
to-night, which seemed to them to enclose such a paradise of delights as
they kept gazing up to the windows, in the hope of an appreciative
audience from within the crimson glow.
They did not know that the sorrowful interest of the household was
centred in one darkened room, where the only child of the house lay,
with life ebbing slowly away; nor that the largess which seemed so
munificent came from a little hand that was soon to take farewell of all
earthly treasures.
They were still singing, by way of gracious acknowledgment of so
handsome a gift, when a cab drove up to the door of the house, and out
of it stepped our little friend, Morag. The tall footman, her escort,
ran up the broad steps, while the little mountaineer stood on the
pavement gazing round, bewildered in the midst of a scene so new and
strange.
And this was her bonnie wee leddy's home. Did people always stand there
and sing beautifully, she wondered, as she glanced at the German
band--and then at the many bright-curtained windows of Blanche
Clifford's London home.
At length the great hall door was opened, and a blaze of light fell on
the snowy steps. Within were vistas of gilded pillars and corridors, and
glimpses of bright soft hangings. To Morag's dazzled eyes, it seemed
like the entrance to an enchanted palace. She tremblingly followed her
guide, and the door was closed behind her, as the singing boys were
watching with interest the little girl who looked so eagerly at
everything; and somehow seemed to remind them of their sisters and their
homes in the Black Forest.
Another tall footman, the fac-simile of Morag's guide, had opened the
door, and now he stood gazing, more curiously than kindly, at the
stranger.
"Law, Thomas! what 'ave we got here? Well, I never. Where did you catch
that 'un," he said, with a rude laugh as he stood staring at the little
girl.
Poor Morag certainly presented a grotesque enough appearance as she
stood there in the brightly-lighted hall, wrapped in the great tartan
plaid, which was fastened behind, while the ends fell on the ground. And
on her head she wore a little scarlet hood, a relic of her infancy,
which she had taken from the depths of the old _kist_--feeling certain
that Ellis would look on her more favorably if she wore a bonnet. But,
unfortunately, the hood was of such small dimensions that it had a
constant tendency towards the back of her neck, leaving her black
elf-like locks streaming around.
"Come now, Sparks, none of your cheek. She's the nicest little shaver
possible--an uncommon decent little thing; wasn't no trouble on the
way, neither; always turned up all right when a fellow wanted to go and
smoke a pipe, or get a drop of somethink. My word, I'd go back with her
to-morrow, I would."
"Where's Ellis?--ring for her, will you? I must get this little girl off
my hands now. How is missie, by the way?"
"Better again, to-day, they say. Master is looking brisker, too.
Dreadful dull Christmas-time for a fellow, though. There's Ellis
wouldn't laugh for a sovereign."
Meanwhile, Morag stood looking eagerly round. She felt sure that she
would see her bonnie wee leddy emerge from some of those vistas of
brightness; but when she did not come, the little girl began to feel
very forlorn as she stood there in the hall. She could not understand
what the servants were saying, and she began to wonder what was going to
happen next, and longed for a sight of her gracious little friend, who
never had failed her before.
Morag had no idea how seriously ill Blanche was, and she had been hoping
during her journey that perhaps her bonnie wee leddy might be quite well
again by the time she arrived. She had got so quickly well after the
loch adventure; and Morag could not conceive of her looking more
fragile that she did on that evening when she saw her last, in the old
castle of Glen Eagle, lying on the sofa, wrapped in her blue flannel
dressing-gown.
At length Ellis came bustling along; and even she was a welcome sight to
poor Morag in her forlornness.
"Well, little girl; how d'ye do. Very glad to see you--never thought I
should feel so glad to see you. I thought you would come to see missie.
Miss Prosser told me the master had sent for you. Miss Clifford does
know not yet. She's so weak, you see; any hagitation is bad, but I
daresay you will see her in the morning. It's a good step from the
'ighlands--ain't it? I expect you are tired--poor thing," said Ellis,
glancing rather pityingly at Morag's wistful face.
"I'm no that tired. But she's no jist verra ill, is she? I thocht maybe
she would hae been weel gin noo," said Morag, ruefully returning to the
subject that lay nearest her heart, as Ellis led her along what seemed
to her a maze of brightly-lighted passages.
"It wasna fallin' intil the loch that hurtit her, think ye?" she asked
presently.
"Well, now, I shouldn't wonder though that chill had something to do
with it," replied Ellis, as if she had received a new idea. "Poor dear
missie, she is so sweet--almost too good to live, as the sayin' is.
She's much better to-day. I daresay she'll be able to have a look at you
to-morrow."
Morag's heart sank. The thought of seeing her bonnie wee leddy at the
end of her journey had kept her brave through its fears and discomforts;
but now she heard that another night must elapse before they could meet,
and she would be left alone among all those strangers. It seemed so
cruel and hard; and Morag felt sure that if her wee leddy knew she was
here, she would not ask her to wait till to-morrow.
Meanwhile, Ellis led the way to the housekeeper's room, leaving Morag to
be warmed and fed and generally comforted by Mrs. Worthy. The old
housekeeper welcomed the forlorn little maiden kindly, and after
divesting her of the tartan plaid, and providing a comfortable supper,
she made her sit down in a big arm-chair by the fire,--and, taking a
similar one for herself, she began to recall reminiscences of Glen
Eagle, and to make inquiries about the dwellers in the Glen whose
aquaintance she had made during these autumn months.
Presently, Blanche's illness became the topic of conversation, and
Morag listened eagerly to all Mrs. Worthy had to say about it. Her heart
sank when she heard how very ill her bonnie wee leddy had been. After
looking meditatively into the fire for some time, she looked up and said
eagerly, "I'm thinkin', Mistress Worthy, gin they wad jist bring her til
the auld castle o' Glen Eagle to bide, and lat her rin aboot wi' Shag
and Chance and me, when the snaw gaes awa, and the bit flooers begin to
creep up, she wad get braw and strong again."
"Well, there's no sayin', little girl. I likes to see young folks take a
cheerin' view of things. 'While there's life, there's 'ope,' I always
say. There's my Sarah Jane was once a-spittin' up--and there ain't a
stronger woman to be found nowhere, now; and there's"--
Here Mrs. Worthy's family chronicle of illnesses was interrupted by a
bell ringing violently within the room. It sounded so startling, that
Morag jumped to her feet, and even Mrs. Worthy looked somewhat alarmed
as she rose to answer it.
"Bless me, it ain't often that bell is a ringin'--so shockin' loud, too!
What's the hurry, I wonder?" and the old woman bustled away, leaving her
companion alone.
Morag thought she could guess why the bell had just rung; and hoped
that it might prove a summons for her to go to the bonnie wee leddy. She
sat listening eagerly for the sound of returning footsteps, but no
messenger appeared; so Morag's hope died away at last, and she began to
feel very forlorn indeed.
As she sat, looking dreamily into the flickering fire, she remembered
another evening when she found herself seated in Mrs. Worthy's
arm-chair, in the midst of unwonted comforts, and how very frightened
and uncomfortable she was till the wee leddy had suddenly appeared and
made her feel so safe and happy.
And as she gazed among the glowing coals, she realized, as she never had
before, what an eventful evening that had been, and how much had
happened during these never-to-be-forgotten autumn days. All at once,
her lonely child-life seemed to be filled with love and brightness, and
the very hills and glens of her mountain home to be glorified, as she
strayed among them with her bonnie wee leddy. And then the friendship
with Kirsty Macpherson had grown out of these days too, and what happy
changes it had brought to the little shieling among the crags! Her
father's brow was cleared of its perpetual gloom; he never said bitter
things about his neighbors in the Glen now, and when Morag and he went
together to the kirk, so many people seemed glad to see him there.
And as Morag Dingwall's thoughts went slipping back to these golden
autumn days, that had been so full of blessing for her, she lifted up
her heart in thankfulness to God for the best thing among all the many
good things which they had brought to her--the knowledge of the Lord
Jesus Christ, her Saviour. Had the wee leddy learnt to love Him too, she
wondered, as she remembered the last talk in Glen Eagle; and then she
thought, joyfully, how much there would be to hear and tell to-morrow,
when Ellis had promised she should see her friend.
As she sat gazing into the fire, Morag fell asleep in the big arm-chair;
and in her dreams she thought she was again with Blanche, struggling
through the rippling water, like the Pilgrims in the picture. But
neither of them appeared to feel frightened, as they had when they were
almost drowned in the loch. At first the water seemed smooth and
shining, and Morag could hear the bonnie wee leddy's silvery voice
calling to her to come away, for she saw the Golden City quite clearly
now--and that the gates were really wide open still, though it was so
late at night. Then Morag, all at once, began to feel afraid, for she
could see no city lying in the sun; but only a great leaden-looking
wave, which came creeping towards her, throwing its gray shadow on the
shining water; then she lost sight of her bonnie wee leddy, and could
only hear her voice calling her to come. But Morag thought she could not
cross the dark wave, and the silvery voice began to sound very far away;
and at last she awoke, trembling,--feeling so glad to think that after
all it was only a dream.
The fire, which had been so bright and warm when she fell asleep, was
now cold and black. The candles, too, were almost burnt to their
sockets; and Morag saw that she must have slept for a long time. She
began to wonder where Mrs. Worthy was, and whether they meant to leave
her there, till they came to take her to see the bonnie wee leddy in the
morning.
She would not have treated her so, thought Morag, with quivering lip, as
she looked blankly round the solitary room, where everything seemed so
gray and cheerless, and she shivered as she remembered the leaden wave
of her dream, and began to feel very frightened and homesick, besides
being cold and wearied.
Presently she heard the sound of footsteps re-echoing along the silent
corridor, and Mrs. Worthy walked slowly into the room with her nightcap
on. In her hand she carried a candle, which she almost dropped in her
astonishment at seeing Morag seated there.
"Bless my soul, child! are you here still? I was just on my way to bed.
I declare I had quite forgotten all about you. Dear, dear, my 'ead's
quite confused--and no wonder! Poor dear, you must be sadly tired. Too
bad of Ellis not to have taken you to bed. She promised to see after you
when she was sent along to you. I've just only now come from missie's
room--dear angel: she does look so sweet. You'll see her to-morrow, my
poor dear!"
And then, noticing Morag's wistful look as she murmured, "No the nicht,"
the old woman pondered for a while, and taking the candle again, she
said, "Well, well, there can't be no 'arm: they are all cleared away
now! Come, I'll take you, poor dear. You haven't been well treated
noways among us all, and I heard the master tell Ellis that she was to
look to you, and he would see you himself to-morrow."
Morag's heart leapt for joy. If she could only see her bonnie wee leddy
even for a minute, and feel her protecting touch again, she would
forget all her past troubles and be quite safe and happy in this strange
land.
She followed Mrs. Worthy with joyful steps as she led her along the
passages, which were cold and dark now. She smiled as she thought how
astonished the wee leddy would be to see her mountain friend, for she
remembered Ellis had said that she was not to be told of her arrival
till next morning; but it was so good and kind of Mrs. Worthy to take
her now. And then she tried to picture to herself how Blanche would be
looking. Would she find her lying on a sofa, dressed in her pretty blue
dressing-gown, which she wore on the evening she saw her last at the old
castle of Glen Eagle? And would she seem much paler than she did then?
Morag feared she might, when she remembered what a long time she had
laid in bed; but summer days would soon come again, and the sunshine,
which the bonnie leddy loved so well, would be sure to make her strong
again.
Indeed, in her secret heart, Morag cherished the hope that her own
presence might act as a talisman, and she smiled to think of the
pleasant voice that would soon bid her welcome; for, since the dark hour
in the fir-wood, when she thought Blanche had left the Glen without
remembering to say farewell, Morag had never doubted the love and
friendship of her gracious little friend.
At last Mrs. Worthy stopped at a closed door, and as she lowered the
candle which she held in her hand, Morag caught sight of a familiar
friend lying on the mat.
Chance was waiting there in a listening posture, with his nose against
the door. Morag stooped down and patted him, but, instead of jumping up
at her in outrageous welcome, as he used to do, he merely gave a faint
wag of his tail, and looking wistfully into her face, raised a low,
whining cry, and put his nose close to the door again.
"I'm thinkin' Chance will be wantin' in--to get a sicht o' her too,"
said Morag, smiling.
"Yes, poor brute; hanimals has a deal of feelin'. He's been in a
dreadful way; indeed I thought they locked him up for the night, but he
seems to have got loose again," replied Mrs. Worthy, as she opened the
door and stepped softly in, followed by Morag and Chance.
The little girl looked eagerly round among the mirrors and pictures and
pretty statuettes for the face which had never failed before to smile a
sunny welcome upon her, but her bonnie wee leddy was nowhere to be
seen, and a terrible stillness seemed to pervade the room.
Drawing aside the rose-colored curtains of a little bed, which Morag had
not noticed in her eager glance round the room, Mrs. Worthy beckoned for
the little girl to come near, and Morag looked at last on the face of
her bonnie wee leddy. She seemed sleeping peacefully; the golden curls
lay in rich masses on the pillow, and the fluttering fingers were at
rest on the white coverlet. The room was dimly lighted, and a shadow
fell from the curtain on her face; so Morag drew closer that she might
see her more clearly--feeling a pang of disappointment that she was
asleep. But had not Ellis said that to-morrow morning she would speak to
her? and she could wait.
"She's sleepin' richt soun' the noo, I'm thinkin'," she whispered softly
to Mrs. Worthy, who was holding back the curtain.
"Sleeping! yes, my little dear, you are right. Children does put things
nice at times. Dear angel--not dead, but sleeping: a long, long sleep,
till the resurrection morn!"
With a long, low cry of anguish, Morag knelt beside the dead body of her
bonnie wee leddy, and kissed her cold, dead hand!
She understood it all now. Blanche Clifford had passed away on this
Christmas Eve from our lower world--with all its lights and shadows, all
its wealth and all its woe--to that other, where the pure in heart are
perfectly blessed, for they see God!
* * * * *
Perhaps here we should take farewell of our mountain maiden; for, with
the passing away from earth of her bonnie wee leddy, ended the childhood
of Morag Dingwall, never again to visit her, save in dreams of the night
and memories of the past!
We shall but cast a glance across the vista of years, when these autumn
days lay far away in the calm, clear distance, and seem like a tale that
is told;--when Kirsty has laid down her frail body to sleep in the
little graveyard on the hillside, to await the coming of the Lord she
loved so well;--when the keen eyes of the keeper Dingwall no longer scan
the hills and moors of Glen Eagle, nor his steady hand takes unerring
aim; for his stalwart form lies mouldering in the shadow of the hills he
has so often trod!
The keeper's earthly life had closed in the midst of less vivid hopes,
perhaps, and shadowed by more bitter memories, than Kirsty's blameless
years had wrought. But he, too, had learnt to live in the faith and hope
of the words which welcomed him to the table of the Lord below, and to
know it to be a "faithful saying, that 'Jesus Christ came into the world
to save sinners.'"
The shieling among the crags, which had been his home so long, was a
roofless ruin now. And long dank grass and nettles grew on the earthen
floor, which had proved, of old, such a sea of trouble to the little
Morag.
Kenneth Macpherson, Kirsty's grandson, reigned over the realms of deer
and moor-fowl in the Glen now; and the keeper's daughter had become the
keeper's wife.
Their home was the loveliest spot in all the strath--a pleasant, light,
airy, well-built cottage, placed at a sunny angle of the pine forest,
which protected it from the cold north winds when they swept along the
Glen.
Firwood Neuk, for so it had been called by its owners, possessed every
pretty and useful accessory, within and without, which peasant life
could require. It was quite a model homestead, with its wealthy
barn-yard and farmstead, and its pretty productive garden--the last
earthly gift of a little vanished hand, which had dropped its earthly
treasures as she used to do her wild flowers in these woods long ago,
when anything more precious came in sight.
Mr. Clifford never came to shoot in Glen Eagle again; but, nevertheless,
he was more than faithful to the wishes of his child, and Blanche's
friends lacked for nothing which money could supply--humbly and
gratefully accepted by these proud Highland spirits as the benefaction
of the gracious child who had loved them all so well.
Often, indeed, Mr. Clifford had been tempted, during the earlier years,
to go beyond his daughter's wishes when he noticed Morag's insatiable
thirst for knowledge: to take her from her quiet haunts, and bring art
and culture to aid in her training. But he called to mind Blanche's wise
decision, and left the child of the mountains to her "lowlier, more
unlettered fate."
Still, Morag's intellectual cravings were not unprovided for. In one of
the rooms of her pleasant home there stood a pretty book-case filled
with rows of shining books--another memorial of Blanche's love. And,
among the handsome bindings, there were interspersed certain old, worn
books, which were very dear to Morag's heart, for had they not been
taken from the depths of the old _kist?_--and stood there, among the
newer volumes, like ancient historical monuments surrounded by pretty
modern villas.
* * * * *
It was the twelfth of August, and the keeper's wife stood waiting in the
gloaming for her husband, who had not yet returned from the moors.
The work of the day was done, and the children safely folded for the
night,--for there were young voices again re-echoing through the forest,
and little feet toddling among the brown fir-needles.
Her husband was not yet in sight, so presently Morag wandered into the
fir-wood, where the great aisles of pine reared themselves calm and
stately as of old.
Leaning against one of the old red firs, which seemed written over with
many memories to her, she called to mind one August day long ago. And as
she stood gazing dreamily there, she seemed to see again the lovely,
singing child, coming like a happy fate towards the desolate little
maiden who leant there on that bright morning, to hear again the "glad
tidings of great joy" borne unconsciously by the silvery voice to a
listening ear and waiting soul, and to feel the soft, sisterly touch of
the little fluttering hand that sent glow and warmth to a heart which,
but for that touch of human sympathy, might have turned to stone.
Morag had seen many gentle ladies, old and young, since these autumn
days long ago. The solitary Glen had got into guide-books now, and every
year brought many strangers to roam among its woods and hills; but never
could any other dwell in her memory as Blanche Clifford did--never, she
thought, could she see "her like again!"
Many a year had come and gone since that memorable twelfth of August,
when the southern guests came to seek their pleasure among the moors of
Glen Eagle. Silver lines were visible on Morag's once raven black locks,
and her step was slower than it used to be, as she sauntered through the
old red fir-trees, which were all aglow in the sunset.
With a sigh of weariness she at last seated herself on a gray,
lichen-spotted dyke which skirted the forest.
"Ay! and she'll aye be young, though I'm growin' auld," she murmured,
for she still retained her ancient habit of speaking her thoughts aloud,
acquired in her solitary childhood.
Leaning her head upon her hand, she sat watching the sun as it sank
behind the old castle of Glen Eagle.
* * * * *
The amber clouds were hovering round the dying sun, like ponderous gates
ready to close on the inner vistas of gold and crimson. Morag sat gazing
with glistening eyes at the cloud-land scene; she well knew that
"richest tenderest glow" which lingers round the autumnal sun, and
always loved to watch it.
"But there sight fails; no heart may know
_The bliss when life is done._"
"It's growin' cauld and mirk, and I maun be goin' home," murmured Morag,
as she rose to go down the hill, when all had faded into grey twilight.
Then she added, softly: "She liket weel to see the sun gae doun amang
oor hills; an' it aye min's me upo' her. Bonnie wee leddy! 'Thy sun
shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw its shining, for
the Lord is thine everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.'"
Stereotyped by MCCREA & Co., Newburgh, N. Y.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Variable or unusal spelling and hyphenation have been retained apart
from minor punctuation inconsistencies, which have been silently
corrected. The changes made are shown below. The first line indicates
the original, the second the correction.
p. 29:
He was tall and spare and agile-look-looking
He was tall and spare and agile-looking
p. 163:
A tarpauling was thrown over them
A tarpaulin was thrown over them
p. 213:
in the direc- of
in the direction of
p. 269:
the things I want him too look at
the things I want him to look at
p. 230:
Kirsty's calm, wopshipping face
Kirsty's calm, worshipping face
p 309:
as the most delightful optunity
as the most delightful opportunity
p. 372:
acquired n her solitary childhood
acquired in her solitary childhood