"Do thy duty, that is best,
Leave unto the Lord the rest."
That year there was through all the North an open winter, and the "green
yule," which is said to make "a full kirkyard." The weather was mild
and moist, with heavy fogs in the morning, which sometimes stayed all
day, and all night as well. There was serious illness in many houses,
and much discomfort in others, even where there was not danger.
Poor old folk who had sat by the door, or "daundered" about the streets
and lanes in comfort during the summertime, now sat coughing and
wheezing in the chimney-corner, or went, bowed and stiff, about the work
which must not be neglected, though pain made movement difficult. Some
who had lingered beyond the usual term of life "dropped away," and their
place knew them no more. And death, the Reaper, not content with the
"bearded grain," gathered a flower or two as well.
Measles came first among the bairns, and whooping-cough followed, and
Mrs Hume would have liked to wrap up her little daughter and carry her
away from the danger which threatened her. For, that the child should
escape these troubles, or live through them, the mother, usually
cheerful and hopeful in such times, could not believe. "And her
father!" thought she, with a sinking heart, while the father was saying
to himself, "Alas for her poor mother;" and out of all their anxious
thoughts, nothing better could come than this; "We must submit to God's
will, whatever it may be."
As for wrapping her up and carrying her away, that was out of the
question. If it had been summertime they might have sent her to a
friend of theirs, who would have cared for the child tenderly and
faithfully. But on the whole it seemed wiser to keep her at home.
"We must just leave her in God's hand," they said to one another, and
they did so entirely. Mrs Hume was kept away from no sick or suffering
household by the thought of possible danger to her little daughter.
Many needed both help and comfort who could not come to the manse to
find them, and to them the minister and his wife went gladly. But the
strain of all she had to do told on Mrs Hume. She also had her turn of
illness, which kept her in the house for a while, and then a part of her
duties to the sick poor in the neighbourhood fell to Allison.
"It is not always that the Lord lets us see at once the good which He
has promised to bring out of what seems to be evil to us; but He has
done so this time," said Mrs Hume, after a little.
For what she had lost in being laid aside from helping others, Allison
had gained in taking her place. It was at some cost to herself, because
of her shyness, and because of other folk's curiosity, not always kept
within bounds when a chance to gratify it came in the way. But on the
whole she held her own among the neighbours, whom she had kept at
arm's-length so long, and won the good opinion of many, and their good
words also, which were, however, oftener spoken behind her back than
before her face, because she would not stay to listen. Her way was to
bring the medicine, or the broth, or the jug of tea, and set it down
without a word, and then go at once, if there was no more needed from
her. But occasionally she put her strong, expert hands to the doing of
some good turn--the firm and gentle lifting of some weary, pain-worn
creature, while the bed was put right, or to the setting in order of the
confusion which soon befalls in a sickroom, where nurses are
unaccustomed, and have besides other cares to fill their time.
Whatever she did was done in silence. No one in telling of the help she
gave, could tell a word that she had uttered beyond the message which
her mistress had sent. But though she had few words for any one, she
had many thoughts about other people's troubles, which helped her to
turn from the constant brooding over her own. So she got more good than
she gave, which is oftener the case with the doers of kindly deeds than
is always known.
It was in this way that her acquaintance began with Mrs Beaton, who
lived in a house at the end of the street, close by the green. Allison
had sometimes seen her in the kirk, and had noticed her at first for no
better reason than that she wore a bonnet. Of course there were other
bonnets in the kirk--many of them. The times were changing for the
worse, it was thought, and even the servant-lassies were getting to wear
bonnets. But of the elderly women who came there, not many had so far
changed the fashion of their youth as to cover the white "mutch" with
anything but a handkerchief in the summertime, or with a shawl, or with
the hood of the mantle of scarlet or grey duffel, when the weather was
cold.
Mrs Beaton wore a bonnet always at the kirk, and when she went to other
places, also, as if she had been used with it all her life. And she had
some other fashions, as well, which made her seem different from her
neighbours in Allison's eyes. She was small and fair, and over her grey
hair she wore a widow's cap which was not at all like the thick mutches
of the other women, and her shawls and gowns were of a texture and form
which told of better days long past. She "kept herself to herself," the
neighbours said, which meant that her door did not always stand open for
all comers, though she was neighbourly enough in other ways when there
was occasion. But though Allison had seen her, she had never spoken
with her till the night when the minister, hearing from one of the
neighbours that Mrs Beaton was but poorly, sent her over to inquire
about her.
"Just go down and see if you can do anything for her. I cannot have
your mistress disturbed to-night. You will know what to do. Mrs
Beaton is not just like the rest of them, as you will see yourself."
So, Allison went down the dark street, thinking a little about the sick
woman, but quite indifferent as to the welcome she might receive. The
house stood by itself, a little back from the road, and a wooden paling
enclosed a piece of garden ground before it. The gate yielded to her
hand, and so did the door. Allison felt her way to the inner door in
the dim light, and then she spoke:
"I'm the minister's lass. Mistress Hume is no' weel, or she would have
come herself. Will I licht your lamp?"
"Ay, might ye, if there is fire enough left," said a voice from the
darkness.
The lamp was lighted, and holding it high above her head, Allison turned
toward the bed. Mrs Beaton raised herself up, and regarded her for a
moment.
"And so you are wee Marjorie's bonny Allie! I am glad to see you."
"You're not weel. The minister said I was to do what ye needed done."
"It was kind of him to send you, and it is kind in you to come. I'm not
just very well. I was trying to settle myself for the night, since
there seemed nothing better to be done. Maybe ye might make my bed a
wee bit easier for me, if ye were to try."
"I'll do that," said Allison.
"Mrs Coats would have come in, I suppose; but her bairns are not well,
and she has enough to do. And Annie, the lassie that comes in to make
my fire and do other things, has gone to see her brother, who has just
come home from a long voyage. I'm more than glad to see you. It's
eerie being quite alone."
"I'm glad I came. Will I make you some gruel or a cup of tea? When had
you your dinner?"
"If you have the time to spare--"
There was time enough. In a minute or two the fire was burning
brightly. Allison knew what to do, and where to find what was needed
without a question; and Mrs Beaton lay, following her movements with
great interest.
"I was once young and strong like you," said she, with a sigh.
Allison said nothing, but went on with the making of the gruel.
"You have done that before," said Mrs Beaton.
"Ay, many a time."
She left the gruel to simmer by the fire, and taking the coverlid from
the bed, spread it over the arm-chair, then she lifted the sick woman as
if she had been a child, and placed her in it. Then she put a pillow
behind her, and wrapped her warmly round.
"And you have done this before."
Allison answered nothing.
"Was it your mother, my dear?" said Mrs Beaton, laying her small,
wrinkled hand on hers.
Allison turned toward her with startled eyes.
"Yes, it was my mother," said she.
"Ah! what a thing it must be to have a daughter!" went on Mrs Beaton;
and it was on her lips to ask if her mother were living still, but the
look on Allison's face arrested the words. There was silence between
them till Mrs Beaton was laid in her bed again. Allison washed the
dishes she had used, and put the room in order. Then she swept the
hearth and covered the fire, and then she said good-night. After she
had shut the door, she opened it again and said:
"I might look in on you in the morning, but it would need to be early,
and I might disturb you."
"You wouldna disturb me. But I doubt you would have ill leaving."
"Oh! I can come, but I canna bide long."
She went next day and for several days, and their friendship grew in a
silent way. And then Mrs Beaton was better, and the little lass who
came in the mornings to make the fire and do what else was to be done
returned, and Allison's visits ceased for a while.
Indeed she had little time for anything but the work of the house, and
the care of the bairns as the winter wore on. The little boys and
Marjorie had their turn of the cough, but happily much less severely
than had been feared for them. Still there was enough to do for them,
and as their mother was not very strong, Allison took Marjorie in charge
by night as well as by day, and the child got bravely through it all.
Allison made a couch of her high kitchen-dresser, when it could be done
without interfering with the work of the moment, and Marjorie lay there
for hours among her pillows, as content as if she had been with her
mother in the parlour.
It was good for the child to have such constant and loving care, and it
was good for Allison to give it. For many a word of childish wisdom did
she get to think about, and sometimes foolish words to smile at, and in
listening to Marjorie, and caring for her comfort at all times, she
forgot for a while to think of her own cares.
In the long evenings, when the rain or the darkness prevented the usual
run, after the next day's lessons had been prepared, the elder boys used
to betake themselves to the kitchen fireside, and on most such nights
some of their companions found their way there also. Then there was
story-telling, or the singing of songs and ballads, or endless
discussions about all things under the sun. Now and then there was a
turn of rather rough play, but it never went very far, for the sound of
their father's step, or a glimpse of their mother's face at the door,
made all quiet again, at least for a time.
They were rather rough lads some of those who came, but they were mostly
"laddies weel brocht up," and rarely was there a word uttered among them
which it would have harmed the youngest child to hear. There was Scotch
of the broadest in their songs and in their talk, and the manse boys,
who were expected to speak English in the presence of their father and
mother, among their companions made the most of their opportunities for
the use of their own more expressive tongue. But there was no vulgarity
or coarseness in their talk.
As silent here as elsewhere, the presence of "the new lass," as the
visitors, long accustomed to old Kirstin, called her, did not interfere
in the least with the order of things. She might have been blind or
deaf for all the difference it made to them, and, except on the rare
occasions when little Marjorie was permitted to be there, for all the
difference their coming made to her. When Marjorie was there, Allison's
wheel, or the stocking she was knitting, was put aside, and the child
rested at ease and content in her arms. No one of them all took more
pleasure at such times than Marjorie. She liked the stories and the
songs and the quaint old ballads, of which Robin and some of the others
had a store, and she was a sympathetic little creature, and could not be
happy unless Allie enjoyed them also, so her attention was never allowed
to wander when the child's hand could touch her cheek.
But better than either song or story, Marjorie liked to hear about all
that was going on in the town. Nothing came amiss to her that any one
had to tell. She liked to hear about their neighbours, and the bairns,
their goings and comings, their sickness and recovery. Even their new
gowns and their visits to one another interested the friendly little
child, who could not visit herself, nor wear new gowns, and the lad who
had the most to say about them all was the one who pleased her best.
All they used to tell her made her a little sad sometimes, for she could
not come and go, or run and play, as those happy children could, and her
chief desire was to be strong and well and "to go about on her own feet
like other folk."
January was nearly over before there came any frost to speak of, and the
first bright, sharp weather, it was said, did much good to the sick folk
in the town. Then they had snow--not just a shower to excite first
expectation and then disappointment among the lads and lassies who
rejoiced in its coming, as they mostly delighted in any change that
came--but a heavy fall, and then a high wind which drifted it here and
there between the hills and made some of the roads impassable for the
time. Many of the lanes were filled full, and some of the folk had to
be dug out, because the snow had covered their doors.
There was no end to the great balls which were rolled along the streets.
A strong fort was built on the square beside the pump, which was
fiercely attacked and bravely defended, and battles were fought through
all the streets before the snow was trodden into black slush beneath the
feet of the combatants. Even the dreaded "kink-hoast" (whooping-cough)
failed to keep some of the bolder spirits out of the fray, and those of
them who took the fun in moderation were none the worse, but rather the
better for the rally.
But Marjorie saw none of this, and she longed to see it all; and though
she had been less ill with the cough than some of the others had been,
she lost ground now, refused her food, and grew fretful and listless as
Allison had never seen her before.
It was hard for the eager little creature to listen quietly to all her
brothers had to tell of what was going on among the young folk of the
town. They boasted of Robin's strength and skill, and of Jack's
unequalled prowess when "snawba'ing" was the order of the day, and she
wanted to see it all. And she longed to see the rush of the full burn
and the whiteness of all the hills. Allison looked at her with a great
longing to comfort her, but what could she say? Even the mother thought
it wisest to listen in silence to the child's murmurs.
"But it's no' just the snawba'ing and the white hills I am thinking
about, mother. This is the way it will ay be, all my life long. I must
just sit still and hear the sound of things, and never be in the midst
of them like other folk. All my life, mother! Think of it!"
"My dear," said her mother gravely, "all your life may not be a very
long time."
"But, mother, I would like it to be long. There is Robin going to be a
great scholar and astonish the whole world; and Jack is going in search
of adventures; and Davie's going to America to have a farm of a thousand
acres, all his own. And why should I have to stay here, and not even
see the snawba'ing, nor the full burn, nor the castle that the boys
made?"
As a general thing Mrs Hume left her little daughter's "why"
unanswered, only trying to beguile her from such thoughts to the
enjoyment of what was left to her in her quiet life. To-day her heart
was sore for the child, knowing well that her lot would not seem more
easy to bear as the years went on.
"My darling," said she, "it is God's will."
"Yes, mother; but why should it be God's will just with me? Surely when
He can do _anything_, He might give me a chance with the rest. Or else
He should just make me content as I am."
"And so He will, dear, in time. You must ask Him, and leave all in His
hand."
"Oh! yes. I must just leave it. There is nothing else to do. As to
asking--I ay ask to be made strong, and to walk about on my ain feet.
And then--wouldna I just serve Him!"
The last words were spoken to Allison, whose kind, sad eyes had been
resting on her all the time. And Allison answered:
"But surely it may be His will that you should see the full burn and the
snawy braes, if it be your mother's will! A' the bairns are better
since the frost came, and I might carry wee Marjorie as far as the fit
o' the Wind Hill for a change."
"Oh! mother! mother! Let me go. Allie carries me so strong and easy.
And I might have Mrs Esselmont's warm shawl round me, and the soft
little hat, and I would never feel the cold. Oh! mother! mother!"
"I might at least take her to the end o' the lane; and if she should be
cauld, or weary, or if the cough came on, I could be hame with her in a
minute."
Though only half convinced of the wisdom of such a plan, her mother
consented; and by and by the happy child, wrapped warmly, her pale face
looking very bright and sweet in the soft little hat, laid herself back
in Allison's arms with a sigh of content.
"Yes, I'm going to heed what Robin says, and fall into raptures and
weary myself. I'm just going to be quiet and see it all, and then I
will have it all to think about afterward."
The snow was all trodden down in the street through which they passed
first, to see the snow castle which the boys had made, and the castle
itself was a disappointment. It was "past its best," Allison said. It
was battered and bulging, and the walls had lost their whiteness; and
the snow about it was trampled and soiled, and little pools of dirty
water had collected at its base. But even "at its best," it must have
fallen far short of the beauty of the castle which the child's
imagination had built, as she lay in the dark, wishing so eagerly to be
like the rest.
But the rush of the full burn did not disappoint her, nor the long level
fields, nor the hills beyond. The only blink of sunshine which came
that day rested on them as they crossed the foot-bridge and came into
the broken path which led to the farm of Wind Hill. A hedge bordered
the near fields, and a few trees rose up bare and black on the hillside;
and all the rest of the land, as far as they could see, lay in unsullied
whiteness.
"A clean, clean world!" said Marjorie. "It looks like a strange
country. It's bonny; but I think I like the green grass best, and the
gowans."
"Weel, ye may take a good look o' it this day, for it winna lie long
clean and white like this," said Allison, as a soft warm wind met them
as they turned. They went up and down where the snow lay lightest, and
then crossed the burn at the end of the green.
"Are you sure ye're nae cauld?" said Allison.
"That I am not. And, Allie, I havena given a cough since I came out."
"But we'll need to gae hame now. If we dinna make your mother anxious
this time, she will be the readier to let us take another turn some fine
day."
Marjorie's face fell for an instant.
"No, Allie, I'm no' going to be fractious. But we might just look in
and ask for Mrs Beaton, as we are so near. And Robin says John is
coming home, and we might ask about it."
But Allison shook her head.
"We got no leave to go and see anybody. And if we take the street we'll
hae twa or three idle folk glowerin' an' speerin' this and that at us.
I like the bonny quiet lane best."
Marjorie's shrill laugh rang out at that.
"Are ye feared at the folk, Allie? They ay mean it for kindness. But I
like the lane, too. And maybe my mother will let us come and see Mrs
Beaton next time."
The end of Mrs Beaton's house skirted the green, and so did the narrow
strip of garden which was behind it. The road home was as short the one
way as the other. If they crossed the green toward the right it took
them to the street, and if they turned the other way they took the path
behind the gardens, or rather the kail-yards of the houses on the
street. Before they entered this path they turned to take a last look
of the long, snowy slope of the hills with the sunshine on them.
"The snow is pleasanter just to look at than to wade about in," said
Allison.
"But, Allison, that is because ye dinna ken. O! I would like weel to
wade about in it, as the other bairns do."
"O! I ken fine what it is like. I have been in far deeper snaw whiles,
following the sheep--"
"Have ye, Allie? But ye dinna ken what it would be like never to have
put your foot in the snaw all your life. Think of that, Allie. But
never mind. Tell me about following the sheep through the drifts."
But the shadow, which the child had learned to know, had fallen on
Allison's face, and she answered nothing.
"Never mind, Allie dear, I'll tell you something. Do ye ken what that
little housie is? It has neither door nor window. There is a hole on
this side that is shut with a board. But it is a nice place. I have
been in it whiles. That is the place where John Beaton makes headstones
when he's no' away building houses on the other side of Aberdeen."
"Do ye mean stanes for the kirkyard?"
"Just that. He's a clever lad, John. He can do many things, Robin
says. He's Robin's friend."
"It maun be dreary wark."
"But that wouldna trouble John. He's strong and cheerful, and I like
him weel. He's wise, and he's kind. He tells me about folk that he has
seen, and places and things. And whiles he sings to me, and I like him
best after my father and mother and my brothers--and you," added
Marjorie, glancing up at Allison. "I'm no' sure which o' the two I like
best. I'll ken better when I see you together. Ye're the bonniest
far!" said the child, fondly patting the cheek, to which the soft wind
blowing upon it had brought a splendid colour. "Did Mrs Beaton never
tell you about `My John'?"
"Oh! ay. But I dinna mind about it. I wasna heedin'."
"But ye'll like him when ye see him," said Marjorie.
The mother was watching for them when they reached home, and Robin was
there too. It was Robin who took the child from Allison and carried her
in.
"Oh, mother! I have been over the burn, and I've seen the hills all
covered with snow and the sun shining on them, and it was beautiful.
And I'm not just so very tired. Are ye tired, Allie?"
"What would tire me? I would like to carry ye ilka (every) day to the
top o' Win'hill. It might do ye good."
Robin had never heard Allison say so many words at a time before.
"It has done Allie good, at any rate," said he as he seated himself by
the parlour fire and began to take off his little sister's wraps. Then
he took off her shoes and stockings "to warm her bonny wee footies," as
he said.
"Has it done her good? I'm glad o' that," said Marjorie, "for Allie has
had sore trouble, I'm nearly sure. She forgets me whiles, even when she
has me in her arms, and her face changes, and her een look as if she
were seein' things no' there."
"My dear!" said her mother. "It might vex Allie for you to be watching
her face, and speaking about it, since she has never said a word about
her troubles to you."
"Oh, mother! It is only to you and Robin. Do you think I would speak
about my Allie to other folk?" and the tears came into the child's eyes.
"Now, Maysie," said her brother, "when ye begin to look like that, I ay
ken that ye're tired and likely to grow fractious and ill to do with.
So you must just lie still in my arms, and I'll sing ye to sleep. What
shall I sing? The _Lass o' Glenshee_? or _The Lord's my Shepherd_?"
It was not long before the child was sleeping sweetly on her little
couch, nor did the flush which her mother so dreaded to see, and which
too often followed any unusual excitement, come to her cheeks as she
slept. She slept well at night also, and nothing could be clearer than
that the long walk had done her no harm, but good.
So, a precedent being established, Marjorie had many a walk after that.
Sometimes she was allowed to spend an hour with Mrs Beaton, or auld
Maggie, or some other friend, and at such times Allison would leave her
and return for her again. It cannot be said that her limbs grew much
stronger, or that the dull pain in the weary little back troubled her no
more. But the change gave her new thoughts and new interests, and
rested her when she grew weary of her doll, and her books, and of the
quiet of the parlour, and sometimes even of her mother's company.
But when the days grew long and warm, there were even better things in
store for her, and for Allison also, through her tender care of the
child.